hiking

My first day back from Nashville started off in an…interesting way.
Starting with my daily hike. 

You know, the one that kills me, like doornail dead, and then I come back to life, griping the sink in front of the bathroom mirror saying wtf— like an episode of Russian Dolls?
Yeah, that hike.

Anyhow, I forced myself to do the hike on account of my dog who was whining like the little bitch she is, complaining about a week without exercise (my dream week), and my ever-expanding writer’s ass, who, if it could talk would ask for pie and then laugh diabolically while putting out a cigarette in the whipped cream. 

So picture this, me and Ruby, all bundled up because it’s below seventy degrees in LA (positively arctic) dragging ourselves huffing and puffing (ok, just me) up the hill only to be passed by a guy in his pajamas wearing slippers no less. 

Frat prank?
Bad Ambian trip?

Your guess is as good as mine.

He seemed oblivious, stomping down the hill, his spindly frame covered only in faded, red flannel and a matching bathrobe. Maybe it was a grunge flashback gone wrong. Only his therapist knows for sure. With the little evidence I had, all I could ascertain for certain was that all his fucks had been given. 

Good for him.

A few heart attacks later, I saw a tween wearing a plastic, blow up crown, (which I vote should be mandatory hiking wear). Perhaps it was her birthday? I couldn’t tell because there were no balloons…or cake…which if you think about it should also be mandatory.

Who do I talk to about that?

Perhaps she was queen for a day. If I were queen for a day my first wish would NEVER be to go on that hike, (I’m thinking a front row seat at the most decadent breakfast buffet planet earth has to offer)—but to each her own.  

Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Bill Murray? Yep, about two years ago I saw Bill Murray on the hike, down by the drinking fountain, looking as disheveled as you’d imagine he would look on a dirt path—on the side of a mountain—in the Valley. As if that weren’t Alice-down-the-rabbit-hole enough, he was wearing a Bill Murray t-shirt circa 1980, that by the looks of it he’d found in the trash.

That was some next level, random coolness on the cool meter. Like finding Waldo in real life, or the extra-large can of Pringles in the minibar.

Anyway, yesterday wasn’t in the same league as a Bill Murray sighting, but I have to tell you—it was a bit of a mind fuck. 

I was still reeling from pajama guy and the blow up tween queen, when I was passed coming down the hill by two kids dressed in full rabbit costumes. And not your bullshit Target variety. These were full-on, head-to-toe rabbit get ups like the kind you’d see at Disneyland or Easterbunnyville or wherever people with an uncomfortable amount of commitment to dressing for holidays would get their costumes.

“Only in Hollywood,” a woman remarked as she ran by us, coughing up a lung.

Did I ever tell you about the time I saw a guy chain smoke his way around this hike? It was inspiring in a dark and twisted kind of way. But I digress…

Anyhow, that was my first day back in Lala Land from Normalsville. I alway take for granted how wonderfully weird we all are out here, until I’m reminded. 

Damn, it’s good to be back.

Carry on,
xox

“Nature is efficient, it doesn’t waste time.”

As I huffed and puffed my way up the hill, hoodie up protecting my ears from the freezing (58 degrees) winds, shoes caked with mud from the recent rains, all I could do was question my sanity—demonstrated by the fact that I’d decided to “switch things up” and go the opposite way that I usually do—which is markedly harder—and freakishly longer—and that I don’t have time for this shit, I’ve got things to do!

Don’t argue with me. I understand when you tell me that it shouldn’t be harder OR longer, that it is physically impossible for that to be true, blah, blah, blah…

HEY, GO TO HELL! I have one of those step counting thingies which said I climbed 31 flights of steps today as opposed to 17 flights on a regular day, and we all know those things don’t lie.

Feeling every. single. extra. step. I was called to sit on a bench at the apex of one of the hills. I have to mention that the view of the San Fernando Valley from that bench is spectacular.

Yet, in the fifteen plus years that I’ve hiked that hill, I have NEVER been called to cop a squat on that bench.
Not when the ninety plus degree weather was making me nauseous.
Not when I’ve been caught in the rain.
Not when my plantar fasciitis had me limping like Quasimodo in yoga pants up the entire hill.
Not even when it was the best seat in the house for some of our recent brush fires.

Nope. I blast past that bench as I silently judge anyone who sits there.

Must be nice to just be able to sit and waste time, I think in that judgy tone of voice that inhabits your head when you see someone doing something which never occurred to you to do, or you feel unworthy of attempting.

So when the bench called me I was surprised. Taken aback.

Wha…what? I stammered back. Are you talking to me?
My face laughed a little. My head turned right as I looked in its direction but the rest of my body continued full steam ahead straight up the hill.

Why don’t you come sit for a while? It said again.

Listen, I have a heart-rate to maintain…

That’s when I observed my body in full speed-walking mode, make a very impressive u-turn in one sweeping motion and end up planting my ass on that bench.

Huh.

I sat there self-consciously for a minute or two staring straight ahead, catching my breath.

That’s when I saw him enter. Like a highly choreographed actor, he came gliding into view from stage left, out above the trees, but right at eye level. A stunning red-tailed hawk hovering in one place, artfully surfing the wind currents.

I sat mesmerized. So enthralled I neglected to take his picture. It was that wonderful and I would have missed his graceful dance had I not heeded The Calling of the Bench.
Or was it the hawk calling me from the wings to sit and witness his perfectly timed entrance and beautiful dance?

Huh.

He seemed to be having a ball; maintaining his altitude, wings majestically out stretched, big smile on his face (I’m just assuming that last one). He didn’t seem worried about the rest of his day, about how the hunting would be and catching his dinner. He seemed unaware of the occasional smaller birds that tried to join him and couldn’t.

He was having fun wasting time. Actually, he seemed unaware of time at all.

Huh.

I was reminded of that quote I once heard, “We have twenty-four hours in a day. Eight hours to work, eight hours to sleep, and eight hours to do whatever else makes us happy.”

I sat there and watched him for about ten minutes which is a really long time to sit on a random bench—on the top of a hill—in the middle of a hike. It felt suspiciously like time-wasting but it made me happy so I put it in that eight-hour category.

Hey, leave it to nature to school me. If that gorgeous hawk who must hunt and catch his prey if he wants to eat, has the wherewithal to just enjoy life and waste a little time, then me with my refrigerator full of food (and some trail mix in my car), can follow his example.

So…who do you think called me to sit? The bench or the hawk?

Carry on,
xox

So…I’m back on the killer hill. Hiking. Or otherwise known as putting my life in jeopardy (maybe a touch melodramatic), to walk on dirt, uphill—in black stretch pants—with the camel toe to end all camel toes—at 8 am—for no good reason.

I’m still fucking around with my little WiFi experiment, but interestingly enough, the signal has been uncooperative since those two miraculous days last week when all the stars aligned to give me my NPR.

But I’m still at it. My middle name is tenacious. Janet Tenacious Bertolus.

There may have been some begging even though I know that begging is the surest way to silence.

Through the years, I’ve been told by pretty reliable sources that The Universe doesn’t keep score, or prioritize, and I know for a fact that The Universe can’t be bothered with begging.

Asking? Sure.

Prayers? Absolutely!

Begging? Not so much.

Especially begging for something as ridiculous as WiFi to distract from the excruciating “discomfort” I put myself through trudging up that freakin’ hill every morning.

It sticks its fingers into its ears and LA, LA, La’s until I stop.

Anyway…no begging this morning, just resigned acceptance when the signal cuts out.
Shitfuck.
Then I laughed because it’s starting to get funny.
Not really.

Have I mentioned what an opportunist the Universe can be? Oh, yeah.
Just at the point where I am at my most vulnerable; hands on my hips, bent into the hill, drenched in sweat and gasping for air like a sherpa about to summit Everest; the WiFi kicks in and Abraham on YouTube comes back on.

The Universe decides that this is the perfect time for a teaching moment.

I am elated.
This will help me summit my own humiliating, Studio City version of Everest. Except for one thing. I’ve already listened to this part. It didn’t pick up where it left off, it went all the way back to the beginning. Back to what I’ve already heard for the last forty minutes.
Shitfuck.

A not-so-mild wave of disappointment washes over me as the smile leaves my face.

Immediately the signal cuts out. Silence returns.

Awwww, come on! I actually shout out loud. What the hell?!

I stop and fiddle with my phone for a minute. Nope. Nothing. It’s no use. Resignation sets back in as I pull up my big girl stretch pants and soldier on.

It’s then that the Universe decides to give a lecture series entitled: Split Energy (Will Fuck You Every Time).

“You split your energy. You do it all the time and you needed to see an example of how it can stop the momentum of a desire faster than a concrete wall stops a speeding bullet.”

Nice visual.

“Thank you.”

But I need you to clarify, please. I barely have enough oxygen to keep me upright let alone fire the synapses’ in my brain that are needed for me to understand what the hell you’re trying to tell me.

“You desired WiFi. We gave you WiFi. And may we point out, in a place where WiFi doesn’t exist, so there’s that…”

I know! And I was so happy about that!

“For a minute. Not even. Then you were disappointed by the specifics. That’s split energy and it will stall a desire faster than anything else.”

So what should I have done?

“Really? You can’t stay grateful for a miracle for like, five minutes?…What do we always say?”

I don’t know…be kind to others and don’t say fuck so much?

“Besides that. We remind you that disappointment is taking score too soon. When you ask for something and it arrives don’t say, Oh, not THAT! it seems ungrateful and a tad rude. Wait awhile before you take score.”

I suppose you’re right.

“We’re always right! We’re the Universe! Whatever we deliver to you is ALWAYS perfect.”

Always?

“Always.”

What if…

“Always.”

What about that…

“Always.”

But…

“What part of ALWAYS are you not understanding?”

Point taken.
I’m at the parking lot and I have to pee so arrivederci and thanks for the chat.

Listen you guys, who among us hasn’t questioned a wish fulfilled because it didn’t look exactly like we expected it to look?
We’ve gotta cut that shit out. I’ll go first!

Carry on,
xox

In 1994 I traveled with a friend to the Big Island of Hawaii and the trip turned out to be magical.
No really. Magic happened.

I hadn’t thought about it for many years, but on my walk today I started remembering all the amazing things that took place, especially on one particular afternoon, and that usually means I should write about it.
So here goes:

We were guests of a friend who was working on a movie being shot on the Big Island. The studio was springing for her condo up in the hills overlooking the deep, blue Pacific, so she invited us to spend some time in her pre-paid paradise.

Pretty magical already, right? Just wait.

I can’t exactly remember how, but we met a really wonderful woman who worked at The Four Seasons, with the dolphins.
Best. Job. Ever.
She was around our age, easy to laugh, spiritual, toned and tan. Her connections allowed us to use the facilities and more importantly, go out on a lava rock jetty with the waves just below us, trade winds billowing through our beachy hair…and meditate. It was ridiculously spiritual, just like you imagine it would be.

Does it get more magical than that? You betcha.

While our one friend worked all day on her movie, my other girlfriend and I rented a convertible and decided to explore the island.

Someone had told us about a magical black sand beach at the end of a five-mile hike, so that was the focus of our journey.
We started that day like we did most, bathing in a tranquil cove, where the water was as calm and warm as a bathtub. We spent about an hour floating and soaking the sleep out of our eyes, rinsed off at an outside shower, threw shorts and t-shirts over our bathing suits – and took off. Well, not before stopping at the local gas station/market to fill up, get a diet coke, a Yahoo, a kit kat and a peppermint patty.

You know, key components for creating magic.

I remember following someone’s directions and finally arriving at an unmarked, gravel pull off on the side of the road. Besides a few cars parked nearby, there were no signs of life. Was this the way to the black sand beach? We sure hoped so.
My friend and I decided to head down and take our chances and ask the first person we came across.

The temperature was perfect, with a breeze and lots of shade, so the hike started off easy.
God was a show off that day, as we were surrounded by dense, lush greenery, and every kind of flora and fauna Hawaii had to offer. We started down; admiring, well, everything, until we came to a fork in the dirt path where we stopped, looking around for a sign of some kind, or a clue as to which direction we should go.

I remember this as clearly as if it happened yesterday:
We were in a clearing with a path veering to the left, and another one on the right, wondering which to take, when out of nowhere, a small scruffy dog with tufts of hair all askew appeared.

My friend called him Gremmie since he resembled a gremlin, and he answered to it. He interacted with us for a minute or two, seeming friendly but preoccupied.  Clearly he was on his way somewhere special and we were keeping him. He seemed familiar with the area so we asked Gremmie the way to the beach.

Without hesitation he gave us a look of great conviction, as dogs do, and started down the path to the right – so we followed.

We walked for a long time with him running ahead of us, turning around occasionally to check our progress.
It was evident he was a pro, weaving in and out of vines and narrowing paths, sure-footed, with the confidence of a dog twice his size. Toward the bottom, the path got steep with deep ruts in the cliff side. Little Gremmie seemed to know the way, jumping and traversing obstacles, stopping to make sure we made it to the bottom. I think I saw him give me stink-eye on a particularly tricky part, eyeing my lame “hiking boots” with their worn out soles as I slid on some loose dirt. Seems he had opinions about my poor choice of hiking attire.

All in all, it took us just under two hours to make our way down, but it was worth it because there we were standing on an endless stretch of uninhabited beach.

A beach of black sand.

Gremmie didn’t stop for long. He obviously had an agenda as he ran ahead to a river of fresh water that had cut a swath through the rain forest, down from the mountains, dissecting the beach, making its way to the sea. It must have been raining at the top of the mountain because the water was moving pretty fast and it was too wide to jump across.

My friend and I were assessing the situation, figuring out if we could make it across when we turned to see Gremmie running way up-stream. I mean like where we could barely see him. Then, just like that, he jumped in and swam for all he was worth, traversing the current as it swiftly carried him down river toward us.

Keeping his head bobbing above the water, his legs going a mile a minute, his small, scruffy face a study in concentration, he zoomed past us toward the open ocean.

“Go Gremmie, go!” we screamed over the sound of the crashing waves, “Swim!” and just at what seemed like the last possible second…he made it across.

“Yeah! good boy! Way to go!” He shook off, not even out of breath, and looked across at us, jumping and screaming like crazy women. He looked bemused, head cocked to the side. This was no accident. This dog knew exactly where to enter the water in order to make it across before being swept out to sea.

Standing on the opposite side he barked. “Okay, now it’s your turn” said the dare on his face.

We entered the water about half the distance from where Gremmie started, and I was surprised by the strength of the current. It was determined to make its way to the waves and if you were stupid enough to go in you were going with it. It was about waist-deep, with a current that swept us both off our feet, so we swam like hell, carried downstream toward the sea. After several harrowing minutes, we both made it across where we flopped down on the coarse black sand, laughing and gulping in giant lungsful of the warm, thick, humid air.

Gremmie looked on exasperated. “Come on! There’s more! and he took off running. We just wanted to take in the grandeur of this incredible place so we sat down, watching him turn into a tiny, scruffy, speck in the distance.

After a few minutes of listening to the roaring waves, looking out at the whitecaps, I turned back toward the hillside in the direction we’d just come. “That’s going to be a hell of an uphill hike” I laughed, but it wasn’t funny.
The thought of it was killing my black sand buzz.

My friend was ignoring me. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if dolphins started jumping, right out there?”  she mused, pointing straight ahead toward the open ocean. Before I could reply the sea started boiling as a pod of dolphins began leaping out of the air one after the other, right in front of us!
We jumped to our feet, screaming!

“What the hell?”, “Oh my God!” We were literally dancing as they jumped and played.

“Wish for something else!” I yelled. “This place is frickin’ magic! Wish for a man! A handsome man! “

But my friend wasn’t going to waste a wish on such nonsense.

“I’ve heard there are wild horses all over this island. Wouldn’t it be great to see one?”
We started looking around. I half expected a Unicorn to go prancing by, when I noticed my friend was walking behind us, into the rainforest type greenery that met the sand at the bottom of the cliffs rising above us into the clouds.

She seemed to be walking with purpose, so I followed her into the cool shade of vine-covered trees, ferns, and tall grass. I can’t tell you how long we were there, fifteen minutes, half an hour? I was just enjoying the pleasant change in temperature, when my friend stopped, grabbed my arm, stooped down low, and whispered – you guessed it – “horse!”

Not fifteen feet away was a wild horse, I kid you not. It let my friend approach it and pet it. I’m not kidding. The whole scene was surreal, like something from a movie. When the magic horse finally decided to leave, we were downright giddy as we made our way back onto the black sand.

“What is this place?”

We laid on our backs laughing, looking up at the crystal blue sky. Just so you know, there is NO sky as blue as a Hawaiian sky.

After about an hour, I was starting to feel a little light-headed, and my friend had developed a splitting headache. It soon became evident she was in no condition for the hike back up the hill.

Shit. What to do?

I could see Gremmie in the distance running back our way, but unless I could strap my friend to his back, or he could run and get assistance, like Lassie, he was going to be of little help.

We were in full brainstorming mode, when I started to hear the rumble of an engine over the sound of the waves. It seemed to be coming from the hill we’d hiked down earlier that day.

And just like something out of Indiana Jones, a beat up pickup truck broke through the trees, splashed across the freshwater river, and came straight for us. My friend could barely stand up, so I talked to the guy who happened to be a very nice, local mountain hippie. Think Matthew McConaughey in his naked bongo playing days.

And maybe just the best miracle of the day.

I explained our situation, and he agreed to give us a lift back up the hill to our car.
My friend laid down in the flatbed, while Gremmie and I kept her company. The guy explained that Gremmie didn’t belong to anyone really, he was just a local dog that everyone looked after. That explained his devil-may-care attitude.

The ride was rough but it was a blessing, delivering us to our car in under 20 minutes compared to the several hour hike in the heat, uphill, that would have most certainly killed us.

Hey, my friend was sick and I was hungry!

We still marvel, to this day, about all the magic on that beach.

Did that really happen? 

I wonder about Gremmie sometimes. That scrappy little guy. He’s gotta be about 150 yrs old by now.

Is he still guiding unsuspecting seekers down that hill on a magical mystery tour to those sands of black? What do you think?

Xox

*yep, that’s me on that beach, right after the hike down the hill, feeling exuberant, and I think denim, overall shorts need to make a come-back! HA!