9/5/04
LAKE PIRU
8 PAGES

Well it's 1:30 in the morning and I absolutely cannot sleep, so I figured I'd sit down and try and write about a few things that have been on my mind for awhile.

First of all, I actually meant to write about this back in like February. I meant to finish writing down my thoughts about my trip to LA. That journal entry ended up turning into a tangent on my LA epiphanies and all that. But one thing I never got to talk about was my trip out to Lake Piru.

When I lived in LA, Lake Piru was one of my favorite places to go. It was only 20 miles or so from my place in Van Nuys, maybe 40 miles from downtown LA. And yet, you'd swear you were in another state when you were there. It's a big lake nestled in the mountains of Simi Valley, north of the San Fernando Valley. It's absolutely gorgeous and idyllic and such a world away from the bustling city less than an hour to the south.

I went hiking there twice. The first time was in November of 1999 and it was seriously the most awesome hike of my life. I headed up on a Saturday afternoon, figuring I'd camp out the night before and then hike into a place called "The Pothole" the next morning. It was a hike I'd read about in a hiking book and it sounded cool.

Even just driving into Lake Piru was awesome. You're driving through all these trademark Southern California mountains, along winding roads, through cow country, again, forgetting that less than an hour ago you were in Los Angeles. And then you come around a bend in the road and there it is. A big beautiful lake completely surrounded by mountains rising up all around you. I remember the first time I drove in, I was listening to Styx, "Come Sail Away" on the radio. I just remember it felt so fitting. Such an uplifting song to sing along to as I entered into this place.

Anyway, the hike was just awesome. I woke up at sunrise, knowing that the hike was something like 12-15 miles roundtrip, and just started walking. It was a three-mile hike up a paved road just to get to the trailhead. As you're going along, you come across plenty of cows in the road. They're all scared to death of any humans so the second they realize you're there, they run. I remember at one point I actually wound up "sneaking up" on a bull. I mean an actual bull with horns and a ring in its nose and everything. He was still scared of me, so he ran down the road away from me but was quickly impeded by a cattle guard installed in the road. A cattle guard is basically a metal grate in the pavement that cows can't walk across because their legs would slip down between the cracks. On one side of the road at this point is a sheer mountain wall. On the other side is a sheer drop-off into the lake. So there was this bull, trapped between me and the cattle guard. I was like, "Oh crap, he's going to freak out and charge me." So I made a big show of walking to the far right of the road and saying, "Okay, I'm going over here, you walk over THERE." He obliged, running as fast as he could past me.

A little farther up the road, you pass a gravesite. It's off the road a little bit down a little dirt path. The grave actually looks like a small stone tabletop or altar. I think, if I remember right, the grave is for the last member of the Piru Indians. What a place to be buried. Right here on the shores of this awesome lake. Of course there were a few token piles of cow crap scattered about, but what can you do. I remember realizing at that moment that I really had to pee, but I had the decency to walk a little farther up the road to do my business and not desecrate this man's resting place.

After about an hour, I reached the trailhead. From there the trail goes up. I mean UP. It's not like mountain climbing or anything. I wasn't scaling cliff faces. Actually if you looked around, it all looks like gentle rolling hills where cows are grazing. But you don't realize just how tall these hills are until you start walking up them. There were no switchbacks or anything. Really there wasn't even a well-defined trail. I just knew that I needed to head toward the highest point and from there head over the other side into "The Pothole." It probably took me the better part of the morning climbing this "hill" before I finally made it over onto the other side. But the view the entire way up was amazing. Besides the lake itself, I could see over the mountains enclosing it to the far side. Again, you'd never know you were ANYWHERE NEAR LA. I kicked myself for not bringing a camera.

The trail brings you into the other side of the mountain into this large sunken depression called The Pothole. And from there you basically just follow the river through a canyon until you get back to the main road. The most awesome part was following the river, for one reason only: The Devil's Gateway.

Basically, for most of the river walk, you're going alongside the river on the rocky banks. Here and there you have to cross over to one side or the other due to tricky footing and whatnot. But there is only one place where you can't walk alongside the river. And that's at the Devil's Gateway. That's the point where you enter the canyon. The canyon walls rise right up out of the water on both sides and shoot into the air about a hundred feet high. And the only way to keep going in the direction you're going it to climb up and around the gateway ahead of time, or just wade in the river THROUGH the gateway. Well of course that's what I did.

It was amazing. It really does look like a gateway. The water was a little chilly, but it only came up to my thighs and wasn't too fast, so I had no problems. I just gawked up at these walls rising above me as though keeping guard over the river. As I passed through the gateway, my mind flashed to images of Atreyu in "The Neverending Story" passing through the first gate, guarded by two stone sphinxes that shot laser beams out of their eyes. A few years later when I saw the first "Lord of the Rings" movie my thoughts flashed back to Lake Piru during the scene where they're on the river and they pass between the two statues of the kings with their hands out as if to say "Halt."

After the gateway, it was probably another 5 hours following the river and then back to base camp. I had left just after sunrise and got back just as the sun was setting. It had been a long hard day and I still had to drive home and get up for work in the morning. But it was worth it. And on my way out, I turned on the radio and Styx, "Come Sail Away" came on again and ushered me out. It was perfect.

I tried hiking that trail one more time, that next Memorial Day weekend. But the heat and humidity were just too much and I ended up dehydrating and getting stuck in a thicket where I spent the night.

But hiking aside, Lake Piru was a place that I went to often just to get away. It was the closest place I knew that was this beautiful. I loved driving out to Joshua Tree, out to the desert, but that's a three hour drive in each direction. I could be at Lake Piru in 40 minutes. Whenever I needed to get out of LA for a couple hours I would drive up there. I probably made half-a-dozen trips up to the lake over the course of that year. I would drive out, sit on the high banks of the lake and just listen to the quiet. If the moon was out, the whole area would be bathed in an eerie blue light that made the mountains glow and the lake shimmer. Sometimes I would try to write, but usually I just sat there and looked and listened.

When Lauren came out to visit me in LA in September, I took her up to Lake Piru on our last night. We swapped life stories and that's the place where we told each other "I love you" for the first time.

So for several reasons, Lake Piru has always held a special place in my heart and I think of it often.

When I was out in LA in February, I made a special trip. I had been in town working the NBA All-Star game. After the job was done, I had an extra day to myself before I had to leave. I think I actually booked my own airfare and intentionally made sure I left the next evening rather than the morning to give me a free day in LA. After running the few job-related errands I needed to run in the morning I hopped on the 405 freeway and headed north.

I drove about ten miles before I realized, "Oh crap, I don't know if I remember how to get there." It had been over three years after all since I'd been out this way. I didn't have an atlas with me. I had a Thomas Guide but Lake Piru was too far out of LA to be covered by that. I knew that the road to the town of Piru was off of the 5 freeway, somewhere past Six Flags. But beyond that, I wasn't sure. I couldn't remember the road number. I just trusted that I would know where to go when I got there.

And I didn't disappoint. I was actually quite impressed. As soon as I saw the exit, I recognized it. It was actually the very next after Six Flags. I got off and turned left. That part I remembered. After that, I was pretty sure I was clear. I thought I remembered there being signs for Lake Piru as you got closer on this road. I drove for about 15 minutes and slowed down the instant I saw a brown sign in the distance. I knew that was it.

I drove through the winding mountain roads, looking around at the agriculture going on all around me. That's something else that my mind was never able to reconcile about this area of the world. For as glitzy and glamorous as LA tries to be, and as fake and plastic and cravenly white collar as it is, as incongruous as it is to anything that provides any social good beyond entertainment, this area is also home to some of the best produce in the country. Cheese, fruits vegetables. This is farm country. And all you have to do is drive 10 miles outside the city limits to be reminded of that.

It's pretty much all Mexicans working the fields. Very few white people would work that hard for the pay that they make. But you'd swear you were in Kansas or Iowa (except for the mountains all around you) when you look out at fields and fields of crops, irrigation setups and farm equipment.

I rounded that bend in the road and saw the lake and I just smiled. I was here. I pulled off the road at a turn out and parked the car. I actually pulled off at the same place Lauren and I had sat over 3 years earlier. I got out and just stood there listening to the quiet. Off in the distance I could still hear cars, the sound of a boat's outboard motor and just breeze.

After a few minutes I decided I wanted to get a better look at the lake below. I decided to climb. There was a dirt road about a hundred feet back that looked like it went up the side of the mountain. It was gated so you couldn't actually drive up it. But that was just fine. This was my domain.

I really hadn't intended on hiking that afternoon. I was just going to walk up a little bit to get a higher view of the lake. In fact I realized after I got back that I had left all the windows open on my car with my wallet and bags sitting inside. I hadn't planned on taking more than five or ten minutes. The car was never going to leave my sight. I didn't even bring my water bottle with me. I didn't plan on being gone long enough to work up a thirst. I did actually pack my hiking boots, but I never put them on. I was wearing jeans for crying out loud. But as I climbed higher and looked out at the lake, old instincts started tingling. And suddenly, I just had to see what was at the top of this road. It was obviously here for a reason. What was at the end of it? So I kept walking. And I walked some more. Higher and higher I climbed.

There is a smell that you come to recognize when you hike in Southern California. I'm not sure what it is exactly, though if I had to guess I'd say it's sagebrush. It's got that sage kind of smell. It's a sharp fragrant aroma that is pleasant at first, but is so strong it can get to you after awhile. You start to feel as though your nose is saturated with it and it becomes very overpowering. It actually used to give me a sore throat after awhile. That smell is ever-present pretty much anywhere you hike around here.

Smelling it now brought back all sorts of memories. I went over in my head all the places I used to hike when I lived out here. I thought of the Hollywood mountain. That was a trail I hiked often. The trailhead was only 15 minutes from my house. It wasn't an official or well-known trail. It actually started from within an apartment complex where I used to live. And it's a tough trail. I mean it kicked MY ass, and I always considered myself to be in pretty good cardiovascular shape. But it goes up the side of the Los Angeles mountains and then you actually walk along the ridges of several mountains until you get to the Hollywood sign. You actually come at it from behind and ABOVE.

If you wanted to, you could actually walk down another steep section right up to the sign and touch it. Usually I just walked to the ridge where you can see the sign and then turned back. The hike took about an hour to get there and another 40 minutes back. I would hike it if I didn't have time to actually go somewhere new and hike. All told I probably hiked that trail a couple dozen times in my time in LA.

I thought of Joshua Tree. That smell was out there too. I thought of the other dozen or so miscellaneous places I'd found on maps or just discovered on my own in my hiking boots.

After a half-hour I made it to the top of the mountain. The wind was really whipping up here. It was on the verge of being cold, but never quite made me shiver. I looked out over the lake on one side of the summit and at the farming fields over the other side. I had a corner view of the whole area. Behind me were more mountains. Glorious beautiful mountains all the way to the horizon.

Something that I initially hated about Southern California was the fact that there are no trees. Here and there, there is a short tree, but you don't see the hills full of evergreens like you do back east. I hated that it was all just grass and shrubbery. After being back east for a few years and hiking in areas where there are lots of trees, I must say, I now prefer the SoCal look better. Because you can actually see. What's the good of climbing a tall mountain if all you'll be able to see are the trees that surround you? With no trees to block my view, I could see forever up here. Beyond that, I've found that thousands of evergreen trees have a "softening" effect on the landscape. It's impossible to gauge or appreciate the subtle and sheer changes in elevation and geological formations when there are trees covering it, making everything seem to rise in smooth, uniform elevation. Here in Southern California, with no trees masking anything, you can see every little ridge and crack and indentation in the landscape, giving everything more of a three-dimensional look.

I followed the road a little farther. It led to some kind of big industrial water tank. I just kept stopping to listen to the quiet and just take in the panorama around me.

There is a look I get on my face that I get when I'm hiking. Of course, I've never actually seen this look myself. And nobody else has seen it either because I've always hiked alone. But the look is one I can only describe (and imagine) as pure childlike wonder. The thing is, the look of wonder is only a byproduct of the "function" of the look. Allow me to explain. As I'm hiking, I obviously start breathing heavier. As you hike, often the loudest sound is the sound of your own breath in your ears. But when I stop and look around, I also love listening to the quiet. And too often the sound of my own heavy breathing interrupts that. So when I stop, I try to slow down my breathing so it's not so loud. That does half the trick. To make it even quieter, I open my mouth wider so the breath goes out of it quieter. So I'm basically standing there, eyes wide, mouth wide with this perpetual look of "Oh wow."

I had the face on several times on this hike. I stopped often just to listen. At one point I was looking out at the crop fields I had driven past on the way in. The wind was blowing, sounding like a bustling highway somewhere off in the distance. Perched on a telephone pole fifty feet to my right was a solitary crow. Here and there he would "Caw." It was the only clear and crisp sound amidst the sound of breeze and muffled sounds from far away. I just looked up at the crow and smiled, listening to his occasional caw. At one point in my best crow imitation I called out, "Raak, Nevermore!"

The sound of my own voice always sounds strange and out of place when I'm hiking. Not that there's ever anybody to talk to, but there are times when I get frustrated that I can't find where I am on a map and I swear at myself, or I'm trying to encourage myself, "Just a little a bit further." In those instances, I'll talk out loud to myself. But, some instinct… or some learned habit causes me to all but whisper everything. I guess it's more learned than instinct. The only time most humans ever experience pure quiet like this is in somebody's home, or in a classroom or in a library where if you make a loud noise, somebody will shush you. Out here, with nobody around for miles, I could shout and scream at the top of my lungs without bothering another soul… but I don't. I can't. It feels too weird to talk above a whisper. Even when I called out to the crow, it didn't rise above that. Hardly loud enough for him to hear me even fifty feet away.

The road ended around that water tank, but the utility poles continued, carrying power lines to somewhere over the next bump in the hill. I decided I wanted to see where they went. What else could possibly be up here, beyond the reach of the road, that they would need power for? I walked. I knew I was running out of time. I was meeting a friend for dinner in a couple hours. I told myself. I'll just see where these lines go, then I'll head back.

As I walked, the utility poles became less and less "formal." At first they were your typical, everyday utility poles like you'd see on the side of the road. They were about 30 feet tall, stood up straight like a large crucifix with the lines pulled taught between one and the next. As I went further on, they became less so. I was heading closer and closer into "wild country." I was beyond where the road went. Beyond where most normal people would (or should) be. There was no need for formality out here. They just needed to get their lines safely to the next place. However they could. However was easiest. So the poles at times were only ten or so feet high. They were stuck into the ground at all angles. The crossbars weren't perfectly perpendicular to the main pole. They were spaced irregularly and the power lines often dangled low to the ground. At one point I had to cross from one side of the line to the other and, even though I wasn't in any real danger of touching the line (I would have had to reach up and jump to touch it), I still bent down as I went underneath.

I eventually came to a ridge and from there the lines went down. They went down into a valley and towards the next mountain about a half-mile away, providing power for maybe three or so buildings on the other side. I couldn't tell if they were businesses or residences. I saw the lines descending through fairly rugged terrain and sheer drops and wondered how anybody ran this line from here to there. And why? Couldn't there have been an easier way to get electricity to those buildings? Wouldn't it have been easier to run a line from the main road on the other side?

An eagle or a hawk, I'm not sure which, was perched on that last pole as I approached it. It was kind of an eerie sight as I came up from behind it. The last pole was actually TWO poles connected by a crossbar providing extra support before the cables descended the mountain. The hawk was perched up on that crossbar facing into the valley. Perched at a vantage point that allowed him to scan for prey. It was the stuff out of scary story books. The bird of prey, the buzzard on his perch looking for fresh kill. As I approached, it turned it's head around and looked at me. Then it took off before I got too close. I guess he wasn't as bold as the crow.

I stood and looked and listened some more. I knew I should start heading back. But then I saw something else. Scanning to my right, I saw the ridge of the mountains that surrounded the lake. I decided that I wanted to walk that ridge. It's impossible to judge distances in places like this. The closest part of the ridge could have been three hundred feet across the chasm, or it could have been a mile. In spite of time restraints, I started walking. I wanted to walk that ridge. It seemed as though the mountain I was on would eventually wrap around until it connected with that ridge. I just had to find the right way. I walked from the utility pole toward the gap. It was about a hundred yards to where the mountain started to drop off on that side. From there, I had a better vantage of the ridge and the path to get there. It was probably fortunate for me that the route to the ridge wasn't as easy as I'd thought it would be. I could immediately see that to get there would actually require climbing down this mountain and going over several others before I finally scaled the one that led to the ridge. The ridge was obviously farther than I had first thought. I looked out at the mountains in the distance for a few more seconds, logic of time gradually overcoming my wanderlust. With the smallest of sighs, I turned and headed back to the road and down the mountain.

The last time I had come to LA, in May of 2003, it had reminded me of why I had moved away. It was nothing specific that happened. Just an overall feeling that permeated me the second I touched ground. This trip had been different. The feel and smell of the air had been different this time. And now on this last day, hiking in Lake Piru, I felt the tug pulling me back to this area of the world.

And I missed it. I missed the natural beauty of the west coast. The kind of landscape you just can't see on the east coast. A landscape shaped by millions of years of seismic activity, and a climate that allows one to experience it any time of year. A climate that doesn't accommodate millions of evergreen trees that choke out and soften the scenery. It's really the only tangible thing I've missed about the west coast. But it was a big thing. I missed the desert. I missed going out there. I missed all the places there were to hike. I was sad that I would never again be able to seek those places out on a regular basis. I missed them being essentially right outside my front door.

I've tried to make myself feel better about the whole thing by saying, "Well really, for as much as you say you liked the desert, as much as you say you liked hiking and camping, you really didn't do it ALL that much." And that's true. I only went to the desert less than half a dozen times in my entire time in LA. And with the exception of the Hollywood mountain, I wasn't hiking more than once a month on average.

But as I was walking down the mountain at Lake Piru and heading for my car, I remembered something I had read a few years ago. It was in a book called "Desert Solitaire" by Edward Abbey. Abbey is a well-known naturalist and outdoorsman. He's actually one of the really militant ones too. He's the kind of person who thinks there should be no paved roads at all through our national parks. He thinks that if you don't walk or bike in, you don't deserve to see the beauty of it all.

Anyway, I remember Abbey in this book talking about the desert in Utah where he was spending a year as a park ranger. There was this really beautiful but difficult trail the he knew about. I'm not sure if he'd hiked it once or not. But he always said he would love to just pick up and go walk that trail. Deep down, he admitted that mostly likely, he would probably never actually do it. But just knowing it was there was enough. Just knowing that it was there to be walked, there to be discovered, there to be enjoyed… there just waiting for him whenever he wanted it was enough.

I think that is where my real sadness comes in. I know I didn't take full advantage of the Southern California landscape as I could have. But it was always there for me. Even though I only went up there a handful of times, Lake Piru was always there whenever I needed to get out of the city for awhile. It wasn't going anywhere. Neither was the desert. It would always be there just over the horizon if I ever needed it.

Now it's not.

The east coast, or more specifically this particular section of the east coast doesn't have quite a front row seat to nature. And it certainly can't hold a candle to the kind of landscape most people in the west take for granted. To go anywhere like Lake Piru where I can be the only person, the only sign of human intervention for several miles, you'd have to drive pretty far. And even then, anywhere worth going is generally along well-marked trails which have access points every couple miles, giving anybody equal opportunity to go where you're going. You don't have to work very hard to get access to nature out here. And it seems that no matter how hard you work, you can't get away from it all. Maybe I just haven't been to the right places, but I don't know anywhere out here that can offer you the kind of temporary isolation you can get just about anywhere west of the Rocky Mountains.

I got back down to my car, refreshed and glad I'd made the trip, but sad that it had to end so soon. I drove back down the road out of the mountains and back to the freeway. They didn't play Styx this time around. I grabbed myself a burger an In-n-Out on the way back into LA and went to meet up with my friend before hopping on a plane back to Pennsylvania.