I don't always recommend following the advice of one's dentist (because, trust me, I've had some pretty bad ones), but my current guy (Scott Parker in Calimesa) is really good at what he does, and he's also an avid hiker, bicyclist and mountain climber. After we chatted one day about hiking, he whipped out his phone and showed me pictures of Painted Canyon in Mecca, California (south of Indio, for you SoCal locals who are now searching Google Maps for it).
"You have to go," he said.
Well, then. I had to.
So last Saturday I made the trip (I-10 east to CA 86 south, then a couple of turns to finally hit Painted Canyon Road, which is five miles of rutted sand and gravel, so if you're going, be prepared). I kept thinking I would find a parking area with a Jeep or two in it. Not so. When I finally arrived at the trailhead, there were at least twenty cars there already, more when I left two hours later.
Back home, it was 55 degrees and drizzling. At the canyon, it was 71, clear and sunny. I left my jacket in the car, and off I went to wander. The photo above was taken near the mouth of the canyon. It's a broad expanse, steep sandstone on either side. But as you walk further, the canyon narrows. The type of rock changes. Deep holes have been carved simply by the wind swirling small rocks around for decades.
Those caves must be really cool inside, but there's no way to get up there unless you're a rock climber.
As I walked, I went in and out of sun and shadow, too warm one minute, a bit chilly the next. Then I came around a corner and saw this:
It may be hard to make out, but that's an aluminum ladder leading up a rock face... to another aluminum ladder leading up another rock face. Here's a more close-up view to the first:
Intriguing, no? I mean, I couldn't turn back. Look at that, my wanderers, adventurers, and dreamers. Would you turn back? Or climb the ladders? Exactly. But... here's the photo I didn't share on Instagram. (Please don't tell my niece, an ER nurse who was concerned about me climbing the ladder in the first place.)
The ladder has been used so many times, the bottom rungs are broken. Not such a bad thing going up. A bit dicey coming back down for those of us with hip and back issues. Oh well. Up I went. And look at the view from above looking back:
Cool, huh? I walked on. And... I'd love to share many more photos with you, except about 20 minutes later, I did have to turn back. It's hard to tell from the photos, but when you're hiking this trail, it's slightly uphill and in sand. Neither are good if you occasionally fight with sciatica, which I do. When the nerve in my leg started reminding me of my age, I decided to deny my heart's longing (sorry, heart!) and listen to my extremity. I turned around and went back, saving the rest of the hike (which leads into a narrower section of the canyon) for another day. I can't wait to return. When I do, you can be sure I'll post up about it here.
A year ago, when I adopted Jenny, I wrote a blog post about her (find it here). The last line is: "Because I don't want another cat." Please understand, I've been saying that since 1992. I'm a dog person. I am. I really am. But... cats have been in my life continuously since 1972. No kidding. No break from cleaning litter boxes or being the victim of periodic maulings if I petted incorrectly. Sheesh.
I have to say, though, Jenny has turned out to be quite the sweet little buddy. (In most cases, she is kind enough to retract her claws before batting my hand away because she doesn't like the way I'm touching her. Sheesh! Cats!) She generally hangs out wherever I am working--on the yoga mat if I'm doing yoga (or under it), on the table or my desk if I'm writing, on the bed, diving under the covers if I'm trying to make it. You get the picture. She's just a zany girl.
She is still very kitten-ish in her behavior, zooming around the house with her tail crooked and her fur puffy when she's excited--which is usually about the time I'm getting in bed, so I can hear her galloping around the house, jumping on and off furniture (and sharpening her claws on it--garrrr! Cats! Sheesh!!), and knocking things over.
Her favorite activity, though, is finding a new place to curl up and sleep, one I am wholly unaware of, so that when I realize I haven't seen her in a while, and I start looking, I can't find her. I can remain pretty calm for the first ten minutes as I walk through the house, calling her name. (Of course she never responds when she's hiding. Because she's a cat. Sheesh!) After twenty minutes, I get concerned. After thirty minutes I am worried, backtracking in my mind, wondering how she might have gotten out or whether she somehow climbed in before I started the dishwasher. Panic rises slowly in me, but I do get there eventually. One day I finally found her sitting in the driver's seat of the truck in the garage. I'd left the windows down in it earlier, and somehow she'd climbed in and gone to sleep. Another time, after I'd searched every hidden corner in the house and under all beds and inside every cupboard three times, I happened to walk through the living room and I saw the fringe on a throw blanket move, almost imperceptibly. I lifted it. Yep, sleeping cat underneath. Several nights ago I couldn't find her, so I headed out to the garage to see if she'd climbed into the truck again. Didn't have to look that far. She was asleep on the hood, up on the vent. I'd driven the truck to pick up the mail earlier, and the engine was still warm.
See, this is the difference between a dog and a cat. If you call a dog, he jumps up and runs to you, wagging his tail and lifting his ears and eyebrows because he wants to know
Are there treats?
Are we going for a ride?
Are we going for a walk?
Is it dinner time?
Do you want to pet me??
And he's sincere about all that. He's excited to accommodate his human because he is one hundred percent loving and devoted. That's why we love our dogs so much. Because... so much love is given to us.
Jenny will come when I call her
If she thinks I have treats
If she's not sleeping
If she's not hiding
If she's not mad at me because I refused her some service or petted her incorrectly.
CATS! SHEESH!!
But... she makes me laugh every day. When I talk to her, she talks back, and not in a snotty way. She just likes to make conversation. And when I nap, all I have to do is call through the house, "Jenny! Blankie!" and she will come--eventually. When she's ready. In her own good time. Then she jumps on the bed, marches on the blanket for an inordinate amount of time, curls against my side, and purrs me to sleep.
A year ago, when I brought her home, I crossed my fingers that she and Purrl would get along. I have to say, this little girl is persistent. Purrl hated her. Chased her, growled at her, hissed at her, and scratched her. Jenny just tried to stay out of her way, occasionally checking--"Do you still hate me?"--then jumping away when the Claws of Death were unsheathed. After several months, though, I found them hiding under the bed together when a loud person came to visit. And then, just a few nights ago--a year and a week to the day after Jenny came home--I watched as Jen climbed onto the couch and curled up next to Purrl. Purrl sat up and glared at her, unmoving, for a full five minutes. Jenny ignored her. Purrl gave up and curled around again. And they slept like that for hours.
Cats. Sheesh.
I've been working on a post about Jenny Anydots, my $25 cat, to celebrate her one-year mark with my crew. But this happened today, and I want to post my thoughts instead. (So stay tuned, cat lovers; photos and updates on Jenny are in the making.)
But first:
The guy who drives the big truck that picks up recyclable materials on trash day is well-known in our park to be a grumpy, destructive dude. He's big and burly, and he's so rough with the recycle bins that he leaves destruction in his wake as he makes his way down the street. Two weeks after I moved here, I put some plastic poles in the recycle bin that had been left behind in the garage. They were about five feet in length, and stuck out the top of the bin so I couldn't close it. I assumed they'd been used for gardening or something. My garage door was open the day he came by in the truck, and I was in there puttering around, so I heard his truck idling out front. I'd listened long enough to get curious and peeked around the corner just in time to see him pick up all the poles out of the bin in one handful and fling them down in my driveway, then get back in his truck, slamming the door and driving off.
I thought about calling his supervisor that day, but I didn't. Maybe he was having a bad day. Maybe he felt I should know better than to have something sticking out of the bin. Maybe.... Doesn't matter. I didn't tattle on him.
In recent weeks, I've been keeping track of his sins here in the park. Of course he's in a truck that uses a mechanical arm to pick up the bins--it's not the olden days where some guy always had to walk alongside the truck, picking up cans and emptying them. This guy just drives along, operating the arm. So why is he always so grumpy? Why does he release the bins when they're still several feet off the ground, causing them to drop hard on the pavement, cracking wheels or knocking them over so that some elderly person has to bend down and pick the awkward, heavy thing back up? Last week he released a bin so quickly it fell into his truck with the rest of the recycling. He simply drove on, not bothering to remove it. The resident had to order a new recycle bin.
Today was trash day. At 4:00, I put Thomas in the truck for our afternoon drive to pick up mail. While the truck was warming up in the driveway, I dragged in the empty trash bin, and as I did, I saw Recycle Guy coming down the street, so I waited patiently at the end of the driveway, ready to roll the recycle bin back in after he'd dumped it. I watched as my neighbors' bins were flung to the ground, lids flying, their now-empty cavernous plastic shells booming as they hit the pavement. It had been raining all day, so I was bundled up in knit cap and rain jacket with hood, but the fresh air was wonderful, and as Recycle Guy rolled past my driveway to where my bin was sitting in front of the house, I smiled and waved. He looked surprised. Then the corners of his mouth twitched, but he didn't actually smile back.
The arm came out, grabbed my recycle bin in its clutches, lifted it, dumped it, and lowered it--almost to the ground. When it was a foot off the ground, the arm stopped. I thought for a moment there was a mechanical problem. Then I heard the back-up bell ringing. Recycle Guy had put the truck in reverse. Slowly he rolled backward to where I was standing in the driveway. The mechanical arm came down ever so gently and deposited my recycle bin just two feet from where I stood. "Thank you!" I called, smiling again and waving. This time he smiled back. And off he went to finish his route.
Robin Williams spoke such eloquent truth when he said,
"Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always."
This incident with Recycle Guy was a great reminder of how much power to comfort there is in simply being kind, even in the smallest ways. I'm going to try to carry that reminder over into tomorrow... and into the days that come, when many people are not at their best because of the holidays. If you see me, please smile and be kind. Chances are, I'm going to need it.
