I went down to San Diego last weekend weekend before last; just a quick overnight trip.

I’ve only been there a few times in my life, which is kind of strange considering that both a) I like San Diego and b) it’s really not that far away from L.A.  On this trip, too, I realized that San Diego (in the downtown section at least) actually reminded me a little bit of Portland.  Plus, both cities seem so much more at ease with themselves than L.A., which always seems to want to be all things to all people.

That subject, though, is probably deserving of a post of its own.

Still, I always feel a little mixed, feelings-wise, when it comes to the city of San Diego.

Prior to this weekend (which was fun and which I’ll blog about as soon as I look over the pictures; maybe over Thanksgiving), my last trips break down like this:

• A trip a number of years ago with The Ex Girlfriend.  It was right at the beginning of our relationship and, although fun, was only “okay” as trips go.  In fact, had I any clue when it came to relationships, I probably would have realized right on that trip that she wasn’t the girl for me.  Instead, I ended up spending over four years with her.

• Before that was a three day weekend with The Co-Worker.  It was, and remains, one of my happiest and best memories.  One of those rare periods of time where everything just clicks.  Of course, that makes thinking about it now rather painful, so the less I write of it, the better.

Prior to that, the only other time I’d been to San Diego was as a kid.  That trip, though, has perhaps the strongest memories, if not the most clear ones.  Allow me to explain.

I was pretty young, maybe 7 or 8 at the time.  We did all the typical tourist things, like the Reuben H. Fleet Science Center and the San Diego Zoo of course.  But the memory that has really stuck through the years was what happened one evening while heading back to our hotel.

At some point my Dad, unfamiliar with the San Diego streets, accidentally cut off someone in traffic.

We’ve all done it, right?  You make the turn at the wrong time, against the red when you shouldn’t have, whatever.  The other driver gets angry, gives you the finger, honks the horn.

Or you’ve had it done to you.  You get angry, give the other driver the finger, honk your horn.

In either case, it’s all over and done with within a few minutes, an everyone goes about their lives.

Not this guy.  No, he took it to a whole new level.

He proceeded to follow us.

Around San Diego.

For the next hour and a half.

Down one way streets.  Up hills.  On the freeway.  Back on city streets.

At one point, Dad turned town a dead end street and wasn’t followed.  When Dad made the u-turn to come back out, the guy was waiting there.

Clearly this guy knew the streets in a way the Parentage did not.

Finally, my Dad decided to head back to the police station we had passed earlier in the evening.  The logic was, and I remember this clearly, was that if he was going to get beaten up, it might as well be in front of a bunch of police officers.

Before we found the station, though, the guy vanished into the night.

It’s one of the few times I remember my Father actually being scared.  Not so much for himself, I think, as for the fact that his Wife and kid were in the car.

I wonder if this event, seared into my memory as a young kid, subconsciously colors my feelings about San Diego.  I like the city, but when I’m there I always feel slightly out-of-sorts.  Not in an obvious way, just a feeling in the back of my mind.

Driving back towards Balboa Park on Sunday, in fact, I kept feeling like the traffic on the freeway was particularly aggressive.  But was it really?  I mean, I drive in L.A., so I know aggressive traffic. Perhaps it was all in my head?

Sometimes, I think, those strong memories from when we were young tend to always have some influence.  After all, I didn’t have the understanding of the way the world works that I do now.  All I knew was that we were driving around, being chased by a crazy person, and that Dad was scared.  And if Dad was scared, so was I.

So maybe San Diego and I will always have this odd relationship: a city that I like, that I enjoy being in and doing things in.

But one that I’ll never feel quite “comfortable” around.

Saturday morning, with winter (such as it is for Los Angeles) settling in, I headed out to The Secret Spot.  I didn’t arrive as early as I’d hoped, owing to an accident on the freeway, then road construction, but nevertheless felt an immediate sense of calmness as I turned off the road to the parking area.

I disparaged as I pulled into the parking lot at first, as it appeared to be completely packed.  Rounding a corner, though, I spotted a single, solitary open space left.  Apparently just for me.

It’s not the first time that’s happened, and I while hesitate to anthropomorphize too much, it’s dammed hard not to feel like the place knows I’m coming sometimes.

I grabbed my pack, put my Tilley hat on, and headed out.  The day was clear, with a slight crispness to the air.  It was one of those days where the temperature depended on where you stood: standing in the sun was warm enough to break a sweat, while standing in the shade brought on goosebumps.

I meandered up the canyon, heading off trail to a favorite spot of mine.  I settled in, munching on a Clif Bar and reading through an old photography magazine that’s destined for the recycling pile.

The sun, already low on the horizon as the winter solstice rapidly approaches (where has the year gone?), shifted behind the chaparral.  I pulled out my book, and moved to a sunny location as the cool breeze picked up.

For the next couple of hours, I read and moved: into the shade as I grew too hot, back into the sun when I got chilled.  All the time, reading.

All was going fine until, at one point, I read a chapter in the book that hit me like a proverbial ton of bricks.

It was a wonderfully written passage, describing events and emotions of beauty and passion.

Yet, I found myself struck deeply, my eyes slightly watery because what I was reading also made me reflect on my own life; reminding me of things, feelings, events… so many things that I sometimes doubt I will ever know or experience.

I reached the end of the chapter, closed the book, threw it in my pack.  I felt deeply moved, and deeply disquieted.

I needed to move, physically.

So many times, I go to the Secret Spot to read, to think, to spend quiet time by the lazy creek.  The area, though, is full of other possibilities: boulder strewn sections, trails up the canyon walls, open vistas from ridgetops.

I threw my pack on, and started moving up the canyon bottom.  Hopping from rock to rock, climbing over boulders, ducking and weaving around sycamore trees, their leaves tinged with late-autumn color.

Boulder hopping is one of the few physical activities that I find truly distracting.  It’s not like the gym, where the exercises are all about repetition: time spent on the cardio equipment, multiple sets of lifting weights, etc.

Boulder hopping combines the two: moving quickly through the environment, which changes ever year as storms move things around, so it’s always different.  Lifting yourself up and over obstacles.  Figuring out the best path through the underbrush.  In the end, it’s one of the few exercise forms that seems to occupy my mind and body fully, my concentration truly focused and everything else falling away.

My path soon crossed a trail, and I veered onto it, climbing my way up the canyon wall.  With no camera or gps or need to take notes for a hiking post, I moved along at a brisk pace, panting, sweating, breathing in the crisp, wintery air.

I reached the top of the ridge, looking back down on the territory I had just come from, my spirits lifting a bit along with the gain in altitude.

In many ways, the Secret Spot had worked its magic again.  I wondered if there wasn’t a bit of serendipity involved.  That I happened to read that passage, in that book, in the one place that I could immediately turn to to relieve my troubled mind.

I wondered, too, as I returned to my car, if my troubled mind was relieved, or if I’d simply pushed off what I’d felt to another day.

I shrugged it off.  For better or worse, I decided not to ponder that question on that particular evening.  After all, whatever the case, I certainly won’t be re-reading that chapter again…

Ever have one of those weeks where the writing bug disappears entirely?

This is one of those weeks.  Apparently.

I keep finding myself starting a post, getting about halfway through a draft, then just staring at the screen feeling “meh” about it.

I have lots of things I want to write about, but for some reason the motivation to finish the post I’ve started just goes right out the window.

In fact, just after I typed that last sentence, I yawned.  Not kidding.

Oh, well.  I’m saving all these partial drafts and half-assed ideas.  And just as soon as the motivation comes back, y’all just might see a flood of posts.

For the moment, though, I’m gonna shut down the computer, read for a while, then turn on the TV, and watch some PBS (“Frontline” and “American Experience”).  Maybe “V”, too, just to keep my geek-quotient up.

If I’m not going to write, I may as well be educated and entertained, eh?

Talking with The Parentage the other night, one of the many topics we touched on was the H1N1 flu.  We chatted about whether or not they had gotten the shots, whether or not I would, etc.

One one point they made a very generous offer: should I come down with the flu, and should it be one of the strains that lays-you-out-for-a-week, they would be perfectly willing to drive south and help me out.

When you think about it, that’s pretty cool of them.  It’s not everyone who can say that their parents would be willing to come and help them out in times of illness.  It means a lot that they extended the offer.

At the same time, and not to detract from what I said above in the least, hearing the offer was a bit of a downer.  Why?  Because there’s a part of me that can’t help but think “Geez, I’m thirty-six years old, and for a thirty-six year-old guy to potentially need his parents to care for him during a severe illness (vs., say, a sibling, girlfriend, wife, etc.) just screams patheticness!  Geek-living-in-the-basement-playing-D&D level patheticness!  Comic Book Guy level of patheticness!”

I don’t know if it’s wrong to think that.  Maybe so, maybe not.  Maybe it’s just a reflection of the pressures society puts on us, or maybe it’s something deeper.

Whatever the case, I thanked them, of course.  Inside, though, I couldn’t help but lament my singledom.

Just a little bit.

Yesterday, Sunday, I hauled the bike out and drove down to ride the beach trail.  The day was warm(ish), but pretty hazy.  Breezes were light, thankfully, which made for pretty comfortable riding.

By about noon, the high tide was coming in, with pretty large waves crashing against the shore.  It looked and sounded like a winter surf, and reminded me of the wave activity I used to see against the Northern California coast: high-energy, violent, dangerous.

Of course, the surfers were out there in their wetsuits, the water temperature somewhere in the 60’s according to the board on the side of one of the lifeguard towers.  Its part of the reason that I’ve never done much swimming in the ocean off Southern California: for the most part, the ocean is damn cold.

It was the second weekend I’ve been down at the beach.  Although my Halloween was a dull and somewhat depressing experience (okay, fine, it was a total bust), I’d been invited to attend a bonfire on the beach Sunday night for a friend’s birthday.

The evening was fun (especially after your resident GeekHiker applied his camping skills to get the fire lit when no one else could) and, remarkably, I didn’t feel entirely out of place surrounded by strangers.

* * *

Two weeks in a row at the beach is, shall we say, pretty unusual for me.

I’m almost afraid to admit it, as it will make me a pariah in Southern California, but, truth is… I don’t really like the beach all that much.

I doubt I’ll ever be a beach bum.  The idea of spending an entire day at the beach, just laying out, is boring.  I suck at volleyball.  And while there’s some interest in trying surfing at least once in my life, I think I’d rather try some place where the water is warm.  Like, say, Hawaii.

Then there’s the sand.

The sand that gets into your clothes, your shoes, your car, your house.

The sand you find yourself vacuuming up weeks later.

Keep in mind, this is coming from a guy who hikes in the rain.  In the mud.  But at least mud dries, and the clothing can be put to the side.  Sand is insidious, worming its way into everything you own.

Don’t even get me started on what it’ll do to a camera.

The rocky shores of the Redwood Coast, though?  Where the cold ocean pounds the rocks and sprays of water leap high in the air?

This I like.

Or a warm tropical isle, with a warm languid sea and a gentle breeze, a cold drink in one hand and a good book in the other?

This I like.

Or, rather, I suspect I would like, having never actually been to such a locale.

So perhaps it’s simply a matter of location.

Until I get back to the Redwood Coast or win the lottery and jet off to that tropical isle, though, I think I’d prefer a muddy, grassy riverbank on a warm summer day.

Without a grain of sand in sight.

(Not to be confused with Red Rock Canyon State Park.)

Driving to the trailhead is, most of the time, a relatively straightforward thing.  The parking areas are usually well marked or easily definable (like a wide roadway shoulder).  Such is not the case with Red Rock Canyon Park.

Located off Old Topanga Road, the turn-off on Red Rock Road has no sign indicating the park at its end.  Driving down the road, one passes by numerous “no trespassing” and “no parking” signs.  The road turns into a single lane.  The asphalt ends and the road becomes gravel.  It’s not hard to wonder after a half-mile if you’re really on the right road or headed into the middle of nowhere.

Then, boom, there you are.

I’ve passed by Red Rock Canyon Park numerous times over the years without knowing it.  Heck, I’ve looked down on the park on previous hikes along the Calabasas Peak Motorway.  Last weekend I found an old newspaper clipping at home and figured I’d check it out.

(FYI: The park has a $5 entrance fee as of this writing, payable to the iron ranger at the park entrance.  Personally, I think anything over $3 is a bit steep, especially given that most of the NPS lands have no entrance fee, but it is what it is.)

The hike here is relatively short, but the geology is quite amazing.  The best display of the namesake red rock is near the park entrance.

Red rock formations near the park entrance

Most of the park consists of a mixture of sandstone and conglomerate rocks, uplifted and tilted.  Here and there you can find the remains of sea creatures from long ago captured in the rock.  This fossils below are found in a boulder, conveniently located near the trailhead:

Fossilized seashells

From the parking area (picnic tables, restrooms and water available), head up the wide fire road, which starts under the shade of chaparral and sycamore trees.

Starting up the main road/trail

Be sure to examine the large outcropping that appears on the left about .3 mile in.  There, you’ll find numerous weathered caves carved by wind and water.

Eroded sandstone formations and caves

At about .4 mile from the trailhead, an optional spur trail (marked on the park map as the Red Rock Trail) crosses the creek and heads uphill to a ridgeline, then continues to climb through low chaparral and rocky outcrops.

Heading up the Red Rock Trail

The geology here is amazing, with huge slabs of what was once flat river or seabed solidified, raised above sea level, and turned 90 degrees.

Uplifted and tilted sandstone formation

Detailed view of the layers of sandstone and conglomerate rocks

The trail reaches the park boundary about .8 mile from the turn-off.  A use trail appears to continue beyond, but becomes brushy.  After picking off two ticks already, I decided to pass on going through thick brush on a trail that didn’t exist on my topo.

Returning to the main fire road, turn right and continue climbing.  The trail gains altitude and views north towards the San Fernando Valley.  At 1.2 miles from the trailhead parking area, the trail reaches a T-junction with Calabasas Peak Motorway.

A small bench will allow you to stop, rest, and take in the view.  Looking south, the view takes in Stunt Road and the Stunt High Ranch (where you can hike the Stunt High Trail), with a small sliver of Santa Monica Bay visible on the other side of the ridge.

Turning left from the junction will take you down .7 mile to Stunt Road (an alternative starting point for Calabasas Peak).  Our trail turns right on the fire road, crossing though a large white sandstone outcropping and climbing 1.2 miles from the junction to Calabasas Peak.

Crossing the white sandstone formation along Calabasas Peak Motorway

After a couple of turns, the trail passes a high point and the rounded top of Calabasas Peak comes into view.

Calabasas Peak

A short spur trail to the left takes you to the top of the peak.  While not the highest peak in the neighborhood, it does sport good views on a clear day, particularly of the San Fernando Valley and the chain of the Santa Monica Mountains stretching off to the west

Panoramic view of the San Fernando Valley on a clear day

Return by the same route.

The gym is hardly one of those places that I expect to be silent.  I mean, you’ve got a lot of people there, in a fairly enclosed space.

Machines are humming, weights are banging around, resistance equipment weight stacks are being dropped.  People are in various stages of panting, gruning, groaning.  Some, like me, are relatively quiet when they lift weights; others make an announcement to the whole gym that they are.

But that’s what a gym is all about.

On top of that, though, you’ve got the music that they play over the speaker system.  There are TV’s running, but their sound is sent through FM channels.  Which would be okay, except that some nights it all turns into an all-out sound competition.

Those nights tend to be when there’s more people.  More people equals more noise, so whoever controls the gym’s sound system decides to compensate by turning the volume up.

This can be exceptionally annoying, not just for the higher volume, but also since the channel is inevitably some XM “hits of the 90’s and today!” (exclamation point included) every night.  Apparently over the course of those nearly 20 years exactly 9 songs were produced, eight of them in the last two years.  All nine of them, and only those nine, must, by some unwritten law, must be played in endless rotation.  I have grown to hate those nine songs.  Heck it wasn’t even a matter of liking the nine songs beforehand.  No, I didn’t like them before, and now I actually loathe them.  But I digress.

Of course, with my luck, my preferred cardo machines happen to sit directly under the speakers.  Not wishing to listen to the loathed songs, I tune in the TV, and crank the volume up in a vain attempt to compensate.  At which point someone cranks up the volume on the XM crap.

You can see where this is going, don’t you?

Some nights I feel like I’m drowning in noise.  It all becomes just one big grunting-clanging-panting-banging-OhMyGodIt’sThatFuckingSongAgain-humming cascade of noise that I can’t seem to get away from.  All of which seems to increase in volume and sheer cacophony as the night goes on.  I don’t expect silence at the gym, but does it have to be an all-out war on my eardrums?

Maybe I should just wear earplugs.

At least it’s not that way every night.  Some nights are blissful.  The stereo is low, there aren’t many people there, and I can keep the volume on my earplugs reasonable.  If I’m lucky, one of the TV’s is even tuned to something interesting, like a news story that I find fascinating.  I can stay on the cardio machine and be pleasantly distracted from my exertions by that.

Tonight was one of those nights.

At least until someone had the channel changed to football.

Just can’t win.

I just realized something tonight.  Halloween is next weekend.

On a Saturday night.  With an extra hour because of the time change.

And me?  I’ve asked around.  Friends seem to have no plans.  No party invites have come my way.  In fact, no plans whatsoever.

On the one hand, I’m an adult, and so it doesn’t matter all that much.

On the other, it’s just kind of a wee bit sad, know what I mean?