Back to Baldy

Last week The Grandson (Ben) asked if I would take him and his girlfriend hiking in Mt Baldy, something we hadn't done in a year or so. Ben is twenty now, will be twenty-one in October, and yes, he still hikes with me (aka "Nana"). How blessed am I? Miraculously.

Yesterday the stars aligned so that we could take that hike. Unfortunately, The Goddess Diana (Ben's girlfriend) was off on a family trip to Northern California, so she was unable to accompany us (though the two exchanged text messages and photos throughout the day as she explored the Monterey Bay Aquarium and he the mountain, so they shared each other's experiences in a lovely 21st Century way).

I had some reservations about this hike. With work, writing, an ankle injury and the past spring's pneumonia, I haven't been able to hike since last summer when I enjoyed long walks in Baldy with Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. My exercise lately has consisted of walking him, doing yoga a few times a week, and constant weeding in the garden. I didn't know how my legs would hold up, so I didn't know how far I'd be able to go. I told Ben as much, but he was game for anything, mostly because he can find adventure anywhere, and partly because he'd been promised lunch afterward at Mt Baldy Lodge.

If you've read this far, dear reader, you may be wondering how that hike went, and I must say I'm eager to show you. (Teaser: I'll share a link to a very short video later in the post.) But... will you indulge me for just a moment while I reflect upon the words of William Wordsworth in his classic poem, "Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey"? These are the opening lines:

Five years have passed; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmur. --Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

Certainly it has not been five years, but the poet's excitement at revisiting a place which has carried significant meaning for him is something with which I can identify. I had deeply missed hearing the waters of San Antonio Creek "rolling from their mountain springs" and the serenity of that connection of "the landscape with the quiet of the sky." And I love that mountain because it has been, for twenty years now, one of my favorite places of "deep seclusion."

One of the themes which runs through Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey" poem is that Nature is immutable. In other words, you can leave a mountain for a year or five years or twenty and return to find everything--trees, boulders, streams--in place where you left them so long ago. It's one of the magical aspects about hiking in the forest (although there is the potential for that aspect to inflict profound boredom on others if you keep repeating, "Oh my gosh! I love this tree! I've been passing this same tree on the trail for twenty years now!" and other such statements of joy and familiarity with those who haven't shared the same experience).

But back to that glorious hike in sun-dappled shade along the still-running (despite the drought) creek: Yes, we had a lovely time. We walked farther than I had anticipated I'd be able to go, Ben patiently waiting for me each time I stopped to catch my breath or greet an old tree-friend. Ever the explorer, he found multiple treasures in beautiful stones and sturdy walking sticks, and along the way we had those great moments of spontaneous conversation one can only indulge in when one passes into a mystical realm which holds no cell phone service. We took copious photos and videos, with Ben continuing my education in How to Use an iPhone 6. Later, when I had returned to the luxury of home wi-fi, I deftly uploaded pictures to Facebook and videos to YouTube. (To see and hear the "waters, rolling from their mountain springs," click here and here.)

If I can leave you with any parting thought, dear reader, it is this one: Get yourself up to the mountains or into the woods or the forest. Find a place in which you are surrounded by Nature (so much so that there is no cell service, preferably) and just breathe in the cool air and the soft breeze, and let the music of birdsong replace every other sound in your head, even if it is just for a few brief moments of tranquility.

A lot of good, a little bad, and one ugly moment: Amgen TOC Stage 7 Mt. Baldy

Photo by S. Kay Murphy.  Yes, the sky really is that blue up here.

If you've ever watched a marathon on television, you've witnessed the excitement as runners head toward the finish line, friends, fans and family cheering, sometimes running alongside to offer encouragement and support.  That's a little bit like what a mountain stage of a bike tour is like--only with a lot of insanity thrown in for entertainment value.

Yesterday by 8:30a.m. most of the parking turnouts along the switchbacks in Mt. Baldy were filled in with vehicles and small tents by folks who had driven up the mountain in the early hours of the morning to get a spot to watch the riders struggle up Baldy Rd. later in the day.  The weather was clear, bright and warm, and there was a great spirit of comaraderie among the fans.  I could feel it as I walked down to my buddy Vince's house to watch the race at 2:00.  By then, people were riding up the mountain in huge packs, creating a long, slow moving river of cyclists in the northbound lane (and only a few bombing the downhill in the southbound lane).  What I found endearing and a whole lot of fun was the enthusiasm of the fans for the courageous riders who had struggled their way up from the valley below.  The ascent of Baldy is absolutely grueling, and the switchbacks comprise the steepest, most difficult section.  So as folks came up around those hairpins sweating and rocking on their bike seats, fans would cheer and shake their cowbells and shout out words of encouragement:
"You got this!"
"Don't slow down!"
"Good job, kid!"
"Allez!  Allez!"

Occasionally, an individual would garner a particularly strong response from the crowd, such as the male rider wearing an American flag body suit chanting "T-O-C!" as he came around the corner, or the pretty young female rider sporting lovely butterfly wings affixed to her torso.  Yeah, she got a lot of cheers....

A great deal of cheering was being done by some young men from a cycling group who had taken up residence against some rocks by Vince's house.  They were nice enough young fellows--except for the trash they had spread on the ground, which included six empty beer bottles.  I asked them twice to pick them up before they left... but by then they had opened a bottle of champagne and were passing it around, so both times they blew me off.  For as much as they'd had to drink, it was truly amazing how lively they were, especially when the race finally made its way up to our spot.

TOC fans know by now how the drama played out:
Chris Horner, last year's winner of the TOC and my favorite to get it again this year, went out in an early breakaway and hung tough for all the miles up Baldy Rd., across Glendora Ridge to Azusa, around Sierra Madre Blvd. and back out Glenora Ridge to Baldy, then through the village of Mt. Baldy to start up the switchbacks with only one rider from the Colombian team, Jhon Atapuma, alongside.  From time to time in races, Horner will step up and become a machine.  He did so yesterday, a look of sheer willpower on his face, his legs pumping like pistons.  Dave Zabriskie, who, in winning the time trial on Thursday had taken the overall lead, fought to catch up, to maintain his overall lead with thoughts of winning this year's TOC.

But Robert Gesink, who survived a year from hell, losing his father and breaking his leg in a bad crash, decided today was his day.  And having ridden most of the day in the midst of the peloton, he still had some gas in the tank when he got to the switchbacks.  When he made his decision to go, there was no holding him back.  He pedaled away from the main group and began reeling in poor Chris Horner who was moving forward on nothing but courage.  By that time, the rider from Colombia had sped ahead of Horner, hoping to win the stage, but Gesink had other plans.  He caught and dropped Horner, then sped ahead with only a few meters to spare, finally sprinting (where do these guys find the strength?!?) to overtake Atapuma and roll across the finish line first, giving him the win of the stage plus allowing him to take the yellow jersey from Zabriskie.

And I would have been a tad disappointed at that last bit, had it not been for an ugly incident that occurred before the race was over.  Last year, after the stage ended, we were thrilled to see, a short time later, all the Big Boys riding back down Baldy Rd., flying down the descent for the sheer joy of it.  The Amgen folks provide shuttle buses should the riders want a lift down the mountain, but most of them came down the way they went up--that is to say, by the same route, only this time all they had to do was hold on for dear life.  Many of the pleasure cyclists accompanied them, so you had this great migration which came in waves as hundreds of cyclists flowed down the mountain in the southbound lane of Baldy Rd.  What happened yesterday was that a few pleasure cyclists, having watched the leaders finish, wanted to head down early, while many of the pros were still racing to the top.  Mike Sullivan, the personable Amgen volunteer stationed at our corner to keep the riders safe, kept having to ask riders not in the race to stop and wait until the remainder of the pros had gone around the corner toward the finish.  When he stopped one rider and asked him to wait, the rider responded with a four-letter expletive.  At that moment, we all recognized Dave Zabriskie.  (Yes, it was him; several people in the crowd confirmed it, and there was his race tag, #18, still clipped to his bike.  And yes, he said, "Fuck," either "Fuck off" or "Fuck that."  We all heard him loud and clear.)  Over the years, I've written about Zabriskie, followed him in the Tour de France and on Twitter.  I know he was frustrated, exhausted, dehydrated, whatever.  In my book, that still doesn't excuse him for disrespecting someone who volunteers his time to keep riders safe during a dangerous event like the TOC.  After his nasty response, he just kept riding downhill.  Oof.  It made me sad.  My heroes are nice guys, not sore losers, so Zabriskie has lost my respect... unless, of course, he'd like to offer an apology to Mr. Sullivan, in which case I might be able to forgive him.  Eventually.

At any rate, cheers to Robert Gesink!  And a hearty bravo! to all those folks who rode up Mt. Baldy yesterday to watch the race and cheer on their favorites.  We've still one more stage to go today, so I'm going to be cheering (from a comfortable spot on my sofa, Phil Liggett) for Gesink.  The Universe has a way of reimbursing us; there is no gain without some loss, but there is no loss without a gain of some kind.  Ride like the wind, Robert.

Vive la breakaway!

Photo from official Amgen Tour of California website: Sylvain Georges finishing Stage 6 ahead of the pack

It is not unusual in a stage race to see, shortly after the start of a stage, a single rider or small group take off in a breakaway and try to maintain their momentum until the end of the day.  Rarely are these riders successful, as the power of the peloton is simply too strong.  (Many riders pedaling in a group, taking turns in the front so that others can ride in the slipstream, can ride faster overall than a single rider or small group.)  But every once in a great while, a breakaway will get far enough away fast enough so as to make the gap between them and the peloton too long to close before the finish line is reached.

Such was the case today with French rider Sylvain Georges.  He rode out early on a breakaway that began as seven riders, then became six, then five, then three, then one.  Georges refused to fold, pushing himself to the absolute limit of his strength.  Keep in mind, today's stage was 150 miles long.  Sylvain Georges et al broke away from the pack after the first mile.  So for 149 miles, Georges rode as if the devil was nipping at his heels.  This, after riding over one hundred miles a day for the five days previous.  Strength?  Courage?  The words seem inadequate to describe such a performance.

Within the last 3/4 of a mile, Georges could see the peloton's advance behind him like a locomotive bearing down on him.  His support crew in the AG2R team car drove along beside him, shouting to him over and over in French to ride faster.  His pace never faltered until he rolled across the line.  At that point, he looked ready to collapse.  But he'd pulled off an amazing upset, out-riding some of the best climbers in the world to take the stage win in Big Bear.

Yes, Phil Liggett, I did stand and cheer in my living room and applaud for him.

What will happen tomorrow when all these same riders undertake the grueling climb up the mountain where I live?  I don't know.  But I'll be watching from my buddy Vince's house, right there on the final hairpin turn of the switchbacks.

True story

Yesterday morning I dropped the truck off to get her winter boots on. My son picked me up and we headed out to Oak Glen to have breakfast at Apple Annie’s, walk off our potatoes and apple pie along the nature trails at Los Rios Rancho, and pick up some Honey Crisp apples and apple cider. As he drove, I told him how well I’d slept the night before, a conversation which progressed into the not-fond memories of waking up to shots being fired in our old Rancho Cucamonga neighborhood. Such things were a regular occurrence back then. Since I’ve lived here on the mountain, I’ve never experienced that sort of rude awakening. Friday night was no different; I read until I was sleepy, then pulled the covers up, cat snuggled lovingly along my side, and fell into a deliciously deep sleep.


Which is why, I suppose, I never heard the shouting or the commotion or the fire engine siren right outside my cabin.

When I returned yesterday, Neighbor Eric came out to apologize if I’d been disturbed the night before.
“No, no,” I assured him. “I had the best sleep—“
“We had a chimney fire,” he said. “Baldy Fire was here, lights and sirens. They parked between our cabins. You really didn’t hear anything?”

I really didn’t hear anything.

Maybe it has to do with the double-paned windows in the loft. More likely, it has to do with how safe I feel, tucked away in this canyon, away from all the predators in the flatland.

Ordinary miracles

My chariot awaits (to take me to dreamland)!

(Note trusty cat companion in left foreground.  Sugie loves the swing, too.)

I saw a fish yesterday. A speckled trout, to be precise. No, it wasn’t online or in a fish tank. He was a wild fish. Well, I guess I mean, he was swimming “in the wild.” He looked rather placid, a happy guy, if you want to know the truth, floating languidly at the bottom of a marshy pond, his tail fins slowly oscillating, much like my cat’s tail. To see him was to see a miracle.
There is no lake in Mt. Baldy where I live. The mountain is filled with aquifers, though, and during the winter, it stores up snow and ice, then spends the spring and summer leaking as all that frozen water melts. We have waterfalls and rivulets, tiny streams and larger creeks (nothing big enough to be called a river).

When I first moved to the mountain four years ago, we’d been plagued by years of drought in Southern California. The mountain streams were no more than trickles. There were no fish to speak of. But in the past several years we’ve had a few good winters, and now we have water aplenty. And fish! It’s a miracle!

Mr. Speckled Trout was just one of several miracles I’ve seen lately. I understand they may not be classified as “miracles” to everyone. Call them blessings, then.

Out for my morning walk several days ago, I saw two deer just down the road, camouflaged in a small oak grove near the firehouse. Word on the street is that they’ve been hanging around Bob and Jean Walker’s cabin. (I would, too; there’s a great wild-life-loving aura there.) We rarely get deer in this area, so it was nice to see them.

In the backyard a few days ago, getting a drink from the small dish of water I leave out for whoever wants it, I had a lazuli bunting. I’ve got a hanging feeder, so I get chickadees, nuthatches, black-headed grosbeaks (all dressed up for Halloween), acorn woodpeckers, one lone titmouse and our ever-present Stellar’s jays. But in four years, I’ve never had a lazuli bunting. If you click on the link, you will see a gorgeous photo by photographer Larry Thompson. These birds are a beautiful shade of blue, much like the lapis lazuli that is found in only two places in the U.S.—Colorado and here in Mt. Baldy. Another miracle! Mr. Bunting didn’t stay long, but he did come back the next day for a drink, so I’ve got my eye out for him.

My days lately have been spent alternately working on the dog book and watching the Tour de France before dawn, then taking long walks in the forest mid-morning, then coming home to my beloved porch swing, where I read, write or simply curl up and sleep, my face on one side nestled against the soft cotton blanket, on the other warmed by sunrays filtering through the branches overhead. Yesterday’s walk took me down into San Antonio Canyon, along a trail that follows old, washed out Mt. Baldy Road. It’s a great hike, with steep canyon walls to the east, the stream gushing along beside them, and an oak lined path… which eventually led to the marsh where I sat among the cattails watching the fish and the tiny rufous hummingbirds (which periodically employed strafing missions to try to get me to leave their nesting area). They are feisty and beautiful and yes, to my mind, miraculous.

All of this walking made me quite sleepy, of course, so upon my return, I had to spend some moments dozing on the swing. The only sound outside for hours was birdsong. As I drifted in and out of sleep, I found myself picking out the individual calls, matching song with bird, sheltered above by the green canopy of oak leaves, crystal blue sky beyond. As one bird call became more and more persistent, I slowly drifted back up to wakefulness, realizing it was the red-shafted flicker. Mr. Flicker is extremely reclusive. A type of woodpecker, he stays high in the treetops, dressed in his polka-dot pajamas, and I rarely get a glimpse of him. In fact, it took me two years to match call to bird when I first moved to the cabin. But yesterday I heard him clearly, shouting away for some reason. And when I did eventually wake fully and open my eyes, there he was, sitting in the branches directly above me. Call it what you will. I’m calling it a miracle.

Two Heroes: 2011 Amgen Tour of California Mt Baldy

Photo courtesy of the Amgen Tour of California website

My friend Matt Davis once told me that I was doomed to live single. His contention was that I would never find a man who would sit and watch the Tour de France with me but also go to poetry readings. So far, he’s been right….

Of course when Billy Collins deigned to make a rare California appearance, it had to be on the same date as the most exciting day of the year for me, the day a stage of the Tour of California came to Mt. Baldy. Of course. Murphy’s Law strikes again. When I declined the ticket my daughter bought for me, I felt as if I were choosing between two heroes—Billy Collins or Levi Leipheimer. And yes, I realize how unique that makes me in the world, and no, it does not console me.

I say all this as prelude to my description of sitting yesterday with a group of warm, funny, cheerful Mt. Baldy folk who knew nothing of bicycle stage racing before our adventurous afternoon began, but who tried excitedly to educate themselves as the hours wore on and we watched the race progress online (via live coverage on Radio Shack’s Race Tracker). From time to time during the day, as we shared communal chips, guacamole and apple pie and chatted about water rights on the mountain and how much snow was still up top, my mind would be distracted as I envisioned my daughter—who will begin a Master of Fine Arts program in the fall because she is a fine poet in her own right—standing and chatting with Billy Collins after that evening’s reading. At some point, I wished I’d thrown one of Billy’s books in my bag. Two years ago when the same group of people invited me to join them for a Leonard Cohen concert in L.A., Tamara had brought along a book of Cohen’s musings, reading them aloud to us on the car ride into the city. Yesterday, in quieter moments, I imagined myself reading to my neighbors “Shoveling Snow with Buddha.” These are the fantasies that swirl in the mind of a writer. We learn early in life to keep them to ourselves.

For months prior to yesterday’s stage, on my drives to and from work, I would scan the race route, trying to figure out where the Best Spot would be to watch Stage 7. I finally decided on my buddy Vince’s driveway, as it fronts the highway at nearly the top of The Dreaded Switchbacks, and also because I enjoy Vince’s company. (When I’d asked if I could watch the race from his place, he casually remarked that he’d probably be playing tennis that day, but he’d leave me a key to his cabin in case I needed anything. I had to convince him that this bike race might be kind of a big thing.)

So there we were at Vince’s, seated comfortably in lawn chairs, watching hundreds of spectators and recreational cyclists mill around. Our normally quiet and peaceful mountain was abuzz with commotion. It was a gorgeous spring day with warm sun and clean mountain air. When stage coverage began online, Vince brought out his laptop and began to give us updates. “They’re on Glendora Mountain Road!” There was a break-away of eight riders trying desperately to stay ahead of the peloton, but they only had two minutes on the rest of the pack, and eventually most of them would fall away.

When the riders were on the return route along Glendora Ridge Road, we began to get excited. By now Tamara was holding the laptop, and she gave us updates based on locations we knew. “They’re passing Cow Canyon Saddle!” Since our location was so strategic, we’d amassed a small group of cycling fans and professional photographers who were waiting to make noise or shoot pictures as the cyclists came into view. We kept them apprised of the riders’ progress and in turn they exchanged insider information with us. One of the photographers was on staff for Team HTC and used to ride with Chris Horner. And yes, he replied to my question, he really is as great a guy in “real life” as he seems to be when interviewed on TV.

The riders sailed through Mt. Baldy Village in a matter of seconds, and then we knew they were just minutes away. CHP vehicles rolled up the switchbacks in advance, lights flashing, loudspeakers squawking, warning fans to stay off the road, the riders were coming. I know I asked Tamara to the point of being annoying if she could see (in the glare of the computer screen) if a rider in yellow was near the front of the pack. I wanted to know that Chris Horner and Levi Leipheimer would be the first riders we’d see. They weren’t. They were third and fourth, so consequently, I snapped photos of the first two guys (hangers on from the break-away), and just started cheering along with everyone else when Chris and Levi rode by ten feet away. They were together, with Chris drafting off Levi, and they rode the final two miles of the grueling ascent that way, Levi leading his teammate and friend up the last steep incline. The minute they were past us, Tamara continued to call out updates as the crowd—bless their hearts—cheered for every single rider in the same way they’d cheered for the leaders.

By the time they reached the ski lift parking lot, Chris and Levi were alone on the road, the next rider many seconds behind. As they pulled up to the finish, Chris reached out and patted Levi on the back as a gesture of thanks. Levi reached back and they touched hands. This, in cycling, is a universal signal. It meant that Chris would “give” Levi the stage. He would allow him to roll ahead unchallenged to take the win and all the glory that came with it, because they’d ridden together all day, Levi helping Chris to keep his overall standing of race leader. It was a tremendous and heroic ending to an incredible day.

As it turns out, my kid did end up chatting with Billy Collins, just as I'd imagined it. Yep, that's her.  Wow...

Aah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes

And leaning for a moment on his shovel

before he drives the thin blade again

deep into the glittering white snow.

From "Shoveling Snow with Buddha," by Billy Collins



2011 ToC Stage 6: One for the record books

Photo courtesy of the Amgen Tour of California official  website.

It only took me a few minutes this morning to find my journal from 2005 and hunt up the July 4th entry on David Zabriskie. Two days prior, Zabriskie had won a time trial in the prologue stage of the Tour de France, thus having the honor of beginning the Tour wearing the yellow jersey. Back then, he was only the third American to have worn the maillot jaune, after Greg Lemond and Lance Armstrong. (George Hincapie would wear it the following year, making him the fourth.) Here’s how my entry for July 4, 2005 reads:

“Today a young man from Utah, David Zabriskie, wears the yellow jersey. He is only 22… and beat Lance by 2 seconds in the prologue time trial… so Lance—bless his heart—gave him a tip for yesterday’s stage: 'Don’t get any further back than 20 guys.' So Zabriskie made that his goal, and kept the yellow jersey, and he wears it again today!”

Of course, it was Lance Armstrong who went on to win the TdF that year—for the 7th time. But for awhile, the soft-spoken man who has now made California his home was proud to wear the yellow jersey for a few days.

I recalled all of this yesterday as I watched David Zabriskie push himself across the line in Stage 6 of the Tour of California. For those unfamiliar with stage particulars, in a time trial, riders compete against the clock, leaving a start house at one-minute intervals, riding as fast as they can to a finishing point (but having no one to ‘help’ in terms of drafting). The man with the fastest time wins. Yesterday, for Stage 6, it was David Zabriskie. Though Levi Leipheimer holds the record for that particular time trial, he could not beat Zabriskie’s time. Neither could Chris Horner. And while Horner still has the fastest time overall, Zabriskie can take away a stage win in the ToC—and a new course record in the time trial.

And now, my friends, the day has come. As I write this, it is 4:30a.m. I can still feel the electricity that was in the air last night on Mt Baldy. Of course, part of that electricity was bristling tension from Baldy cabin owners who lost all water pressure at 7:00 last night. Seems the work crew setting up tents uses water in 55-gallon drums for ballast. They turned off our main water supply so they could use their hoses to fill the drums. So I was happy to speed off on an adventure with neighbor Rob in which I impersonated—not for the first time—a member of the water board up here. Well, I actually was a member of the board up until last fall, so it wasn’t that big of a truth-stretch. And the crew members were cheerfully compliant. Rob turned the big valve and water was restored. Whew. It’s nice to be able to shower and make tea.

Meanwhile, there are crazy people camped in odd spots all over the mountain. Rob and I laughed about some people who had a camper set up and lawn chairs situated inches from the highway and were just sitting there, watching—as if the arrival of the peloton was imminent. And on the way home yesterday, I saw a big pick-up truck dragging a boat up the mountain. Apparently no one told those fans that Baldy doesn’t have a lake.

I’m sure the morning will hold more opportunities for adventure as I wander among those who spent last night down at Snowcrest Inn or over in the campground.

Most exciting, though, is that Chris Horner still holds first place, so he’ll be wearing the golden-colored leader’s jersey—easy to spot if he is the first rider pushing his way up the switchbacks a few hours from now.  I can already hear Phil Liggett saying, "Well, the wildflowers are blooming in Mt Baldy as we prepare for Stage 7 of the Amgen Tour of California!"

Snow daze

A week ago Friday, knowing another storm was coming in, my goal was to reach home ahead of it. When I stopped at the post office to collect my mail, I spoke with Maria (our beloved and efficient postmistress who ships off my books with great patience and good nature) about the inclement weather. It was raining as we discussed the beauty of quiet snowfall, and the comfort of living in a community with neighbors who will help out if there’s a problem.

“Oh,” she said happily, “it’s starting to snow.”

That was my cue.

I made it up our winding, steep road, unloaded groceries from the truck, drove back down and parked close to the highway, then walked back up in a light snowfall. Later that evening, Neighbor Rob came down to borrow a can of black beans. We stood on my porch and watched TJ, his golden retriever, dash around in the falling snow, expressing the giddiness we all felt in anticipation of deep drifts of soft powder.

I woke to a two-foot blanket outside, which looked beautiful even in the darkness of 4:00a.m. When it was light, I donned my snowshoes—yes, snowshoes—to trek around outside for awhile, tamping down a path around the cabins. I intended to relax when I came in, but Rob called and said he was going to walk down to the highway to head up to the ski lifts, and that Eric, who had been staying down the mountain due to illness, would be coming up. So I clipped back into the snowshoes and stomped down to the highway, creating the semblance of a path so that my neighbors wouldn’t have to ‘post hole’ it up and down the road. And, because Eric has rescued me on numerous occasions, restoring hot water, repairing my security light both times the raccoons broke it, etc., etc., I shoveled a path to his cabin door so he wouldn’t have that as his first chore upon arriving home.

In the late afternoon, the storm had blown out, leaving mostly clear skies. My phone rang just as the sun was setting. Rob and Neighbor Glen were walking up to the falls and wanted to know if I cared to join them. I felt honored… and tried to keep up… but slogging through deep snow is hard enough on a flat surface; on a steep incline it’s almost more than this aging asthmatic can do. But the guys were in great spirits, waiting for me from time to time, remarking on the sound of the stream or the beauty of the snow-covered trees. We walked all the way to the falls. It was misty and semi-dark, frosty and quiet. We found a snow angel, poorly executed, which prompted me to fall backward in the snow and flap my arms. When the guys hauled me up, the impression left behind was that of a pristine snow angel.

On Sunday, I woke to no water. My pipes had frozen in the night. I emailed David Siriani, president of our water board, who called Eric, who called me to let me know it had gotten down to 9 degrees the night before. Who knew? I’d been snug in my loft, sound asleep. Eric—in yet another rescue, albeit this one by phone—suggested I get some heat going in my garage where the water main is. I threw some damp towels in the dryer down there, turned it on, and twenty minutes later I had running water again. Those of us who are here a lot—ahem—keep large containers of bottled water in storage just in case, so I was content with water for tea and washing my hands. But I really do look forward to that daily soak in my spa tub, so I was glad to have tap water again.

After the sun came up over the eastern ridge, the snow was dazzling. I waited until things had sufficiently warmed to walk down and begin the task of uncovering my snow-bound vehicle. Neighbor Jimmy, I found, had already cleared much of the snow off the truck for me. I began to shovel out the wheels and clear a path so that I’d be able to drive out easily in the morning to get to work. As I did, Eric and his fiancé, Brenda, showed up, and Brenda grabbed a shovel, digging in to help clear my truck. Moments later, Teresa and Glen showed up, then Neighbor Rich. Brenda and I handed off our shovels to the guys as they dug out a place for Eric to park, then a spot for Teresa. As we worked, we talked and laughed, while the sun made tiny crystals of the snowmelt on the trees. In a short time, five vehicles had been settled in safe spots just off the highway, ready for all of us to hit the road the next day.

Coming home on Monday, I thought I had it made; I would just drive fifty feet up our road and settle back into my spot from the night before. The road, of course, was still covered with snow and ice. Sliding out downhill in the morning had been a breeze. Finding purchase in the wet snow to get up and into my spot was challenging. On my first attempt, I got stuck sideways. When I began to shovel myself out, Rob showed up and helped get me out. On the second attempt, I found myself mired again. This time, Chris Walker and Richard Wingate—who live miles away in the village and beyond—suddenly showed up out of nowhere and started helping Rob as he shoveled the snow from around the truck.

“Don’t bother getting out,” they told me, and I suddenly felt like I had my own pit crew as they worked quickly to get me out. Free at last, I backed up across the highway, put the emergency flashers on, and walked back to ask for advice. That’s when Rich showed up. Rich works for the Forest Service and is one of our favorite neighbors. He loves the mountain and was instrumental in finding a safe haven for “Boo Boo,” the little black bear that became too friendly last summer.

“You can make it up,” Rich encouraged me. “You just need speed.”

“I think I need testosterone,” I confessed. “I’m not gutsy enough to get going that fast.”

“I’ll drive it in for you!” he offered. And so it was that a moment later my little truck was speeding up the road, snow flying in all directions. Just to be kind, I suspect, Rich bogged down right where I did the first time, but the guys had him out in seconds. He made a second run, landing it exactly where it needed to be.

“That was fun!” he grinned as he unfolded his large frame from my little truck. His dancing eyes took me back to memories of my brother when we were kids. Kevin could always find some slightly dangerous but thrilling activity to engage in while I stood by wringing my hands, hoping for the best.

With the truck nestled in, I grabbed my backpack and headed home.

Yes, the snow requires us to work harder than usual, but the joy it brings with its fresh beauty far outweighs the inconvenience.

The Town Where I Live

When I left the mountain to head to my brother’s house for a family dinner last Sunday, it had already been raining since Friday. Other than water draining over the highway, road conditions weren’t too bad. There’s a drainage—“the dip”—across the road about a half mile from my cabin, and when I drove through it, my thought was, ‘That’s gonna be deep when I get home.’ Indeed it was.

When I returned at 6:00p.m., there was a bulldozer down in the dip, pushing rocks and debris over the side and into the canyon. Several cars were waiting to cross. I watched a Honda Passport make it across, so I knew the Tacoma would easily. I wasn’t expecting the water to splash all the way up and over the cab. Whoa. Deep. I planned to stay home for a few days, until the rain stopped falling or turned to snow. Good thing.

The next, day, Monday, it continued to rain, and by the end of the day the water flowing near the dip had undermined, then broken, a water main. We were without running water.

By the next morning, the highway just below the cabin was a riverbed. I walked down early in the morning, only to find that the entire road in both directions had become the run-off for the higher elevations, and it wasn’t just water—the pavement was covered over with aggregate, rocks, branches, chunks of trees and a few boulders. The dip had filled with dirt and debris and the water was now diverted in front of it, creating a huge gash in the top of the canyon over which the water was falling.

The residents of Mt Baldy keep in touch via a Google email group entitled Baldy Bear Telegraph. On Tuesday around noon, word came via email that the highway lower down the mountain, north of the village, near Icehouse Canyon, was washed out in one spot. Friends who were below the dip and above Icehouse couldn’t go up or down. Or so I thought.

My phone started ringing Monday night and didn’t stop until the rain did. I averaged one call every 30 minutes during that time—people on the mountain were calling to make sure I had food and water, people down the mountain who couldn’t get home were wondering if I could accomplish one small chore or another, turning off heaters, checking on pets. At one point, I had the keys to three different cabins. No way could I run out of food or water.

In the meantime, stories began to be exchanged. While I was sitting before a roaring fire, catching up on my reading or watching my recorded NCIS marathon, brave Baldyites were out in the pouring rain, cutting dead trees to divert the flow of water back into the streambed, bringing in heavy equipment to start work on the washed out road—and repairing the water system. (By Tuesday afternoon, our water was completely restored. I had expected to be without running water for days. Fourteen hours didn’t seem long at all—but man, was I glad to take a hot bath.) Others did what they could; two of my neighbors are nurses. On Tuesday, as I brought in firewood, they stopped to chat—in the pouring rain. They were soaked to the skin, and had hiked in from their cabin a mile or so away. They were making the rounds of the cabins in my neighborhood, checking to make sure everyone was OK, asking if anyone needed food or water.

When I found out last month that the, er, gentlemen who were going to buy my cabin had changed their minds, someone said they were “sorry” and hoped I wasn’t “too disappointed.” No. Eventually, when the cabin sells for real, I will cry when I leave this community. People wonder why I ‘put up with’ the challenges of living on a mountain. It’s more beautiful here than I can say. Beyond that, I love these people who are willing to experience inconvenience and to sacrifice personal comfort in order to make the lives of those in their community better. In a world that becomes increasingly more selfish with every passing day, I cherish that quality.