Attack Dogs, Cover Bands, and a Reason to Avoid "Short Cuts"

Edit - Not sure why everyone is thinking that this is fiction, but it is not.  This was a story that happened when I was living in China, Spring 2007

I had taken to doing my drinking at the Holiday Inn.  Unlike Bar Street, with its Christmas-style decorations, music play-lists of which half were Chinese Pop and half were the most obnoxious of American Rap, the Holiday Inn was a place apart, a taxi ride away, and it boasted an impressive cover band made up of two beautiful Filipino singers.  There were typically a few expats at the bar, sipping Remy Martin and flirting comfortably with both the singers and the half-dozen or so working girls who would stake out their respective territories.  It was easy for a newcomer to mistake the girls as normal bar patrons (friendly ones), until one would notice that they were always in the same place every night.  It was unclear if there was a professional alliance that they would follow, each responsible for a certain area of the bar, or if the geography was hard-fought battleground, with the more ruthless earning her position as the industry's representative at the pool tables, while a less aggressive younger sister might be relegated to plying her trade among the back section closest to the singers.

In any case, it was a nice change from the noise and chaos of the more central party areas in Zhuhai, China, and you were almost assured of not getting food poisoning there.  The music was quite good actually, both female vocalists had excellent voices, and the guitar player would go on impressive solo riffs now and again, even on American songs who's original did not call for them.

One particular night, capacity for objective thought impaired by an unknown quantity of San Miguel beer and the short skirts of the Filipino singers, I considered my available cash.  I could reward myself for a week well-done with a massage at the upstairs parlor, or I could be driven safely home by a waiting taxi.  This would ensure that I not become the latest drunken expat mugged and beaten in an abandoned alley as I staggered home.

Fifteen minutes later, I was being rubbed down by an exotic beauty in a short skirt.  As I had paid for a 30 minute session, I used the time to rifle through my 15 word lexicon of Cantonese to determine if I knew how to say either "happy" or "ending," or any similar variation.  I did not, and I grumbled bitterly that classrooms never teach you anything "practical."  I was loathe to use any hand gestures to indicate what was required here, so I just thanked her for her time, and wandered into the dark Zhuhai night.  It was probably 3am.

I considered my options, and concluded that they were quite limited.  Home was approximately three miles away.  As the car drives, I would need to follow the main road straight to the coast, and then turn right (south), to get to my apartment.  At least three miles.  Still half-stupid from strong drink, I decided on blazing a new path, taking side streets and alleys in a diagonal fashion, cutting off what I expected would be significant amounts of time.  I had forgotten that unknown short cuts are never short cuts.

The city was mostly quiet, save for small groups of men huddled around dice games on porches and stairways, surrounded by bottles of cheap liquor.  Usually the conversation would stop as I walked by, continuing only after I had passed.  I pulled the hoody up over my head to avoid the instant recognition as a foreigner, but it took away my peripheral vision, and probably drew even more attention to myself.  I pulled it back down as I entered yet another dark alley, and was immediately conscious of a dozen dark and silent shapes streaking towards me.

Dogs defending their territory in the U.S. will usually bark ferociously, warning the intruder back and away from the geography that they consider "theirs."  This pack had apparently decided that my intrusion was too significant  to forgive, and launched a surprise attack where no mercy or mere "lesson" would suffice.  The utter silence of the mangy dogs was far more terrifying than a snarl or loud bark would have been.  I turned to face them, roaring English obscenities which surely meant nothing to them.  Surprised by my aggression, the lead dogs faltered, turned back a few steps, and then remembered that they held a huge advantage in numbers.  They immediately turned back to attack, rushing towards me.  Not ten feet away, a loud command was yelled from somewhere in the darkness of the alley that they had come from, and they immediately halted their onslaught, retreating back the way they came.

I realized that I had been holding my breath, and let it out in a violent expulsion of air.  Turning quickly, I walked on.

An hour later, I was realizing that my short cut was not one, and I was turned around in the maze of dilapidated buildings.  Somewhere up ahead of me, I heard a loud and mournful baying, like some massive hound of the baskervilles.  "More dogs," I thought sadly.  Not trusting my ability to find my way back, I continued on towards the sound.  Sitting on a stoop, a middle-aged man howled at the moon.  He looked at me, and I looked at him, and he turned back to the sky to resume his wailing.  I took a deep breath.  It was time to get home.

Eventually, I found a major street, which I recognized as one a good mile further south than I should have been, and followed it to my apartment.  It was 5am when I walked in the door and collapsed on my unmade bed.

You Are Not Your Bucket List

You may have noticed the "50 in 500" tab on my homepage.  I am certainly not the first to come up with a thing. These days everyone has a bucket list of things they want to do and see.  It seems to be a symptom of our generation that we want to make sure that we are getting a lot of things "done" in our limited time on this earth.  A noble sentiment.

Lately, I wonder if this mindset is appropriate for the type of activities that one typically finds on these lists.  For example, some of my "goals" include a backpacking trip with friends and family in the Sierra back-country, and a wine-tasting tour with my mom.  The point of these activities is to enjoy the time spent with people that I care about, engaged in activities that I enjoy doing.  I'm not sure that would qualify them as goals.

When Kalvin and I completed the C2C, one of the most difficult day-treks in the world, it wasn't "having done it" that was important so much as the "doing it."  It was the camaraderie, the effort and willpower that was required for every step, the shitty motivational songs that we made up, and it was the triumphant beer-guzzling at the bar afterward that made it worth doing.  The point is, the photographic summit moments are almost always anti-climactic.  The last steps were no more significant than any of the hundreds of thousands before it.  At the end of the day, it was both less and more than an item to be checked off a list.  Less, because an activity done for no purpose other than "fun" is not properly a goal, and more, because the time spent in exertion and challenge, and in the company of good people cannot be defined so easily as with a check mark.

I am too ignorant of the interwebz to figure out how to change the title on my "50 on 500" tab, but I am going to start thinking about it simply as a Someday/Maybe list of things that I would like to do.  There are no time limits, and there are no penalties for anything left undone.  I will simply resolve to live an adventurous life and trust that this will lead me naturally to spend my time among good friends and good times. 

* Thanks to Juliana and Linda who helped me fix the title of the tab

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A Misguided Ascent & Summit of Pyramid Peak

 As per usual, we agreed on this particular adventure with the understanding that a fair amount of training and preparation would be required.  Also as per usual, we did absolutely none of that.

  Ted was driving, as he needed to break in his new car for the many adventures and abuses that he is sure to put it through.  I was shotgun, toying with the seat warmers, and Clara was in back, making her way steadily through the constant intake of junk food that sustains her.

  Somehow, in the delirium that only occurs during long road trips, we convinced ourselves that the single lottery ticket that we had split 3 ways held the winning combination.  Made half-stupid with excitement, our conversation turned to everything that we would buy, everywhere we would go, and all of the people who we would instruct to kiss our respective asses.  Somehow, we became so engrossed that we drove 20 miles past our exit, and crossed into the state of Nevada.

  Slightly, but only slightly embarrassed, we turned around and resolved to pay better attention of just what the hell was going on around us.  We arrived at Hanley and Jen's cabin, dropped our shit, and made for another friend's cabin nearby.  After a restorative session at Michelle's, involving cooked meat, cold beers and a hot jacuzzi in the frigid mountain air, we did the mature and responsible thing, and retired early.  There would be an all-out frontal assault on the highest peak in the Tahoe Sierra region first thing in the morning.

  Our intentions of an early go were stymied by stops for water, McDonald's AND Subway, as well as a foiled attempt at obtaining a wilderness permit at the Ranger Station.  We were not worried.  Optimistic estimates, made while indoors and under the influence of whiskey and ego, had us completing the expedition inside of 7 hours, with snow, ice, a near-vertical ascent, and a lack of a defined trail be damned. 

  We found the "trail" alongside of a creek, assembled our gear, and stepped the fuck UP.  Literally.  We spent the next 30 minutes scrambling with hands, feet, and ski poles over rocks, branches, a rushing creek, and the constant, never-ending vertical climb.  Finally, our course came to a halt when we reached deeper snow, and we paused to put on our snow shoes, wipe sweat from our brow, and collectively wonder just what the hell we had gotten ourselves into this time.

   We started up again, and it got worse.  Higher, steeper.  We would fall every 4th or 5th step.  This misery continued for the next several hours, before we finally ascended above the timber line.  There, we were awarded with our first glimpse of our nemesis.  It looked impossibly far away.  We stared at it while feasting on beef jerky and Ted's peanut butter M&M's.  After making sad faces at each other, we pushed on.  There was no respite.  Every time that we though the course could not get more difficult, it got steeper, more exposed and/or in less stable snow.

   At this point, even Ted was hurting.  And when your Search & Rescue teammate is sucking wind, you know you're in trouble.  All talk had ceased, each of us wrapped up in our own personal miseries.  By the time we reached the final push to the summit, we were taking only 3-4 steps at a time before having to rest.  This is where it got a little hairy.  The ridgeline leading to the summit was completely exposed, far above where any trees could grow to block the strong wind.  Meanwhile, the cliff was as close to purely vertical as anything that I have ever seen, and we were in desperate need of crampons.  The wind was blowing so hard that we were forced to brace ourselves against it to avoid being swept off.  When the gust would suddenly stop, one would almost fall back in that direction from pushing so hard as a counter-balance.  The transition from agonizingly difficult to dangerous had been crossed.

   30 feet above me, I saw Ted raise both hands over his head in triumph.  Clara and I summited shortly after.  I wouldn't have thought that any view could be worth that journey, but I would have been wrong.  

 

After we took the obligatory "Victorious" pictures, we huddled beneath a slightly sheltered ridge and took stock.  I set a land speed record for the fastest devouring of a Subway sandwich, and we sipped on Basil Hayden Bourbon and Coors.  

  The effort on the way up had forced us to remove layers, but on the top, sitting and resting, the icy cold temperatures got to us fast.  Fingers numbed despite gloves, warmers and pockets, and we were forced to start the descent quickly.  While less strenuous than moving uphill, descending created a new set of problems.  The sharp angles forced us to cut deep switchbacks whenever possible.  In other places, we had to lower ourselves with an awkward sideways stepping motion.  When it was an option, we would simply slide down.

   Exhausted, we arrived at Ted's car nearly 10 hours after we started.  Pyramid Peak was conquered, although it's death throes beat the ever-loving shit out of each of us.  

   Ted soldiered up and drove us back to San Francisco, with a few stops made for vast amounts of candy, water, gatorade and carne asada burritos.  As a final adventure before leaving the Bay Area for good, I could not have left on a better note.  A successful adventure with some of my best friends, and having been challenged both mentally and physically.  As Clara said, the next time we embark on a serious adventure involving physical prowess, we will actually train for it...or at least seriously think about it.

East Peak of Mt. Tam - No Cigar

Inspired by Lorien's New Year's Hike and Cigar festivities, I set out early (moderately) to hike the east peak of Mt. Tamapais.  I brought a dominican cigarillo and, lacking a normal lighter, a blue-flame torch.  With the lack of planning that is fairly typical of my life, I remembered to buy some water at the last stop before heading up to the national park.  I parked up by the ranger station and picked up the trail at the Pantoll trailhead. 
    Compared to some recent hikes and expeditions, the trail to the summit was very relaxed, sloping gently upwards, and allowing for some spectacular views of the Pacific Coast.  On clear days, you can see all the way to the Sierra Nevada mountains, but this was not a clear day.  It was still pretty though, and the cloud layer looked like the ocean, with taller hills breaking through the fog and resembling dark islands.

    Like a jackass, I packed the lighter at the bottom of my day pack, allowing it's tip to get broken off by the water bottle.  So, no cigar at the top.  My flask, typically reserved for Irish Whiskey or Bourbon, was contaminated with vodka...a favor for a friend, don't ask.  
    I emerged from the trail to find that a road and parking lot was present from the other side, so there were actually quite a few people huddled around the scenic area a few hundred feet from the top.  Of this large group of people who had driven all the way there, few folks pushed up the last 0.2 miles to the actual peak.  It always surprises me how short a distance people venture away from the parking lots of beautiful places...it's almost like they want to say they have gone somewhere, without actually having the experience of doing it.  "Been there, done that, got a T-shirt" comes to mind.  It's even more disturbing in a section like Mt. Tam, which is a very mild uphill route.


*steps off soapbox*

The view from the top was pretty sweet, and even on this cloudy day, the Pacific stretched far past the capability of my vision.  I tried to take a picture of myself with the view as a backdrop, but the short arms that hinder my boxing also makes these self-portraits difficult. 

    There wasn't a whole lot of wildlife that I could see, probably because of all the people, but I did see a large hawk, quite a few squirrels, and I surprised a large bobcat on the way back.  Typically, they are very skittish and avoid people, and he was only the 2nd that I have ever seen outside of captivity.
    Overall, this was a nice hike that I would do again, and it was good to be able to find some degree of wilderness so close to the Bay Cities.


East Peak Elevation: 2,572 feet
Out & Back Mileage: 7.96 miles

Cactus to Clouds

"The view from San Jacinto is the most sublime spectacle to be found anywhere on this earth!" - John Muir

I was being driven to the airport by my Mom after a nice visit in Palm Springs when I noticed the mountain for the first time. Fueled by a weekend of reading "Backpacker" magazine and possibly too much caffeine, I said to myself, "I should climb that." I almost immediately let everyone know that I was going to do just that.

After basking in the glow and warmth of everyone's praises, I decided it would be a good idea to look into the logistics of the expedition. I was greeted with the following:

Missing Hiker
Outdoor Guide Killed
Mountain rescue unit helps dehydrated Marines

Disheartening. To make sure that I didn't die alone, I enlisted the company of my friends, Will and Kalvin. I made sure to tell them about the beautiful views and pleasant scenery that were sure to await us. As far as the dangers, why worry them needlessly?

Unfortunately, Will was unable to make this particular adventure, so I picked up Kalvin around noon on Friday. We employed full use of the carpool lane and mocked the commuters stuck on the 91 freeway.

My Mom, Grandmas, and Aunt Dory welcomed us with steak, salad and other goodies. Other goodies like beer.

The Cactus to Clouds trail begins in Palm Springs on the desert floor. The main problem that befalls many people aiming for the summit is the punishing heat of the Palm Springs desert. To avoid this, one needs to hit the trail early enough to climb several thousand feet of elevation before the sun comes up. Kal and I woke at 2am on Saturday morning. My Grandma Bev had prepared the coffee for us, and it turned out to be the equivalent of rocket fuel. Tasted like it too. With approximately 18 times the caffeine content of a mere mortal's coffee, Grandma's concoction had Kal and I babbling like school girls on the ride to the trail head.

The first step was near vertical, and the trend continued like that for the rest of the day. We had close to 3 hours of hiking in almost complete darkness. Fortunately, we were armed with head-lamps and a near-full moon. The little light that we had made the cliffs and peaks seem like we were on another planet.



The sun rose over the horizon around 5:30am. It was stunning.



It was pretty, but it also increased the sweat factor considerably. We were lucky that it wasn't one of the 100+ degree days that Palm Springs was famous for, but it was definitely hot enough. That reminded me to be on the look out for rattle snakes. Several had been spotted on the trail in the last few weeks, another detail I didn't share with Kalvin. (I later found out that Kalvin used to trap and play with rattle snakes as a kid in Texas, so it wouldn't have mattered anyway.)

Up, Up, and Up. The vertical climb of the Skyline Trail is one of the steepest in the United States, and we, well, we noticed that.



The thing about mountains is that every time you get to the top of a ledge or peak, there is another one just beyond that. Several times, we thought we were staring at the peak that would mark 8,000 feet and the end of the Skyline trail. We were wrong about this a lot. Actually, we took several wrong turns, scrambling up loose rocks and shale, and generally doing quite a bit of backtracking. Kal injured his knee on one such occasion, and basically toughed out the rest of the trip with a makeshift walking stick and a large dose of testicular fortitude.



Whenever I got tired and wanted to rest, I would tell Kal that I wanted to take a picture. We got some good shots in this way.



The lack of oxygen at high elevations affects different people differently. It obviously affected the two of us with delirium and idiocy. We decided that marine-style chants would make us feel better.

Martin: "When I say 'aint no, you say THANG, 'aint NO!"
Kal: "THANG!"
Martin: "AINT NO!"
Kal: "Thaaaannnng!"

This continued on for far longer than I would like to admit.

After 11 miles and 8,000 feet of elevation gain, we completed the Skyline Trail of the desert to the Aerial Tram Station. Exhausted, we feasted on beef jerky, a granola bar and water, staring enviously at everyone else's superior rations. I considered murdering two friendly guys who we met on the trail for their burritos.

After about a half hour of procrastination, we continued on. Another 5.5 miles would take us to the summit. We met some really nice folks on this part of the trail, including Dave G, Florian and Hikin' Jim from the Mt. San Jacinto message board.

After one last hard push, we scrambled up the last cliff to get to the summit. The view was amazing, and lived up to Muir's praises.




The 5.5 miles back to the tram station sucked. No other comments really necessary on that. The beers and buffalo wings at the tram restaurant restored our good humor. After a good 14 hours on the trail, we arrived back at our car, and I managed to get us home without running into anything solid enough to cause damage.

Asleep by 8pm, we both slept like the dead.

I'll do this again...maybe.

We left the next day, making sure to give a final salute to the mountain on the way out.