Stay for a night

Chico is about a 3.5 hour drive north of the San Francisco Bay Area, taking you past Sacramento, Yuba City, home to the largest dried fruit processing plant in the world, and Oroville, with its Table Mountain included in the Wildcat 100 and 125 routes of the cycling event.

Planned as a weekend trip, we arrived Saturday afternoon to sunny skies and sweltering 92 degrees. With the more upscale places already sold out, we opted to go for cheap and checked into the Budget Inn Of Chico for $65 a night. In short, you get what you pay for. The Inn comprises of several one story buildings each holding about five rooms with car parking right in front of each front door. Staying somewhere for a single night, you look past shortcomings of the respective establishment like power outlets not working, bedside lights burned out or a certain, unidentifiable bathroom smell. On the plus side, we had a fridge and, considering the date this establishment must have been built, a pretty modern, albeit noisy, air condition. It did the job for one night. And we had to get up at 5am anyways in order to start riding at 7am.

Wildflower 65

The Wildflower Century was instituted as an organized ride in 1981. Ridership has grown steadily over the years, up to 4,000 participants in 2013, each one of them setting out to conquer one of the seven routes offered, from a short 12 mile route for children to the Wildcat 125 with 8,500 feet of elevation gain. All rides start from the Silver Dollar Fairgrounds, a spacious areal donated to the Third District Agricultural Association by the City of Chico in 1938, and the site of a fair event of the same name, held annually over six days at the end of May. Quite possibly the only area in town big enough to accommodate the amount of riders, most of them arriving by car at the starting line.

I had opted for the 65 mile route, which took us out east on Honey Run Road through Butte Creek Canyon and the 5.5 mile ascent up to Paradise. The rough pavement of the road, climbing upwards at an average grade of 5.2%, was decorated with messages, written with crayons in mostly white and pastel colors. Sweating and breathing heavily, the scene reminded me of the messages of fans at the Tour de France on the road up L’Alpe d’Huez. Despite that I was thousands of miles away from this iconic milestone of Le Tour, and lightyears from the athleticism of the pros, those messages had a motivating impact on me to conquer this hill. Looking at the folks beside me, I found it inspiring to see so many people taking on this challenge. No matter how slow, they would eventually make it to the top.

What goes up, must come down. Every uphill warrior eventually gets rewarded with a downhill, which on that day was a whopping 11% descent down Pentz Road. The 38 miles per hour that I topped out at felt like a hundred.

The remainder of the ride turned into a very flat experience, while passing over Hwy 149 and through Durham and Dayton before making a right turn onto River Road, cruising by orchards lined with row upon row of almond trees.

Durham Elementary, the site of my last rest stop, in addition to providing food and drinks, also hosted a small bike acrobatics show, where the crowd cheered for a young two-wheel artist eventually jumping over the bodies of six anxious volunteers from the crowd.

Ride companions

With quite a few route options to choose from, the event attracts all different kinds of cyclist. There was the dad with his kids that I met at the lunch rest stop at mile 27, who, being from the area, was quite familiar with the route. “I actually live close to the first rest stop”, he told me while we were both enjoying some shade from a tree, sitting on a picnic table. There was also the guy sporting a beer belly, revealed underneath his spandex second skin, lifting his body from an expensive looking Scott Aero bike, at the first rest stop. “Upgrade your body before you upgrade your bike“, I thought.

Just as it was about to get really hot out there, I found myself back in downtown Chico, stopped at an intersection and engaging in a conversation with a fellow cyclist with grey hair and mustache, slim and showing national pride by wearing a jersey with a “Stars and Stripes” design. He had done this ride a few times, but had gotten more into running recently, aiming for completing the Rock ‘n’ Roll San Diego Half Marathon in June. “It’s good you didn’t do the 100 miles. That one has Table Mountain in there. The pavement on that road is really bad, which makes the climb even harder. And my god, it gets so hot, by the time you are done you think you did 200″, he approved of my route choice.

A ride to come back to

The ride was very well organized and as long as you remembered what ride you had signed up for (and the color of the waypoint arrows glued to the asphalt at important intersections), chances were low you got off-course. The rest stops were very well stocked with plenty of different options to replenish on nutrients lost. The friendly volunteers gave out nuts, fruits and even cake as well as electrolyte drinks in different flavors. The lunch rest stop offered five different types of sandwiches as well as mouthwatering chocolate chip cookies. All these options rendered my attempts of frantically stuffing as many bars and GU gels into my jersey pockets in the early morning quite pointless. You could have ridden this ride with only your filled water bottles and still pick up plenty of calories at the stops along the way. Above all, the waste management was spot on, with guides at every rest stop (and at the lunch/dinner venue after the ride) making sure that everything got put into the right bins.

Driving for hours to a cycling event seems a bit much if you think about it. But this ride in Chico is well worth the effort and lives up to its history and reputation, thanks to the sophisticated organization. The fact that it is hosted in a college town will transform one or the other rider back to his or her own college days which might release some extra enthusiasm and motivation to give a little more on these climbs. Careful though, because nothing can bring you back to the reality of your own physical limits like exercising in 90+ pre summer heat.

I told him that I had already planned on keeping my shoes inside my tent overnight to avoid any bugs or even scorpions or snakes crawling into them. For this I earned a nod of approval and a “I would suggest that” from the park official.. With that I picked up the guide book I had bought about a month earlier, pages bookmarked with neon-colored stickers as well as copies and a sheet with itinerary notes from the counter, wished the chubby ranger with his square, horn-rimmed glasses and grey hair a good day and headed back outside into the eighty-five degree weather to begin my extended weekend in Joshua Tree National Park.

“Quite hot for a big ride”, I mentioned to the older gentlemen in a tight yellow bike jersey and black bike shorts who was taking a breather in the shadow of a tree. His road bike leaned on the tree trunk, I assumed he had just taken a quick rest stop by the Visitor Center to fill up his water bottles.

“This? Or this is nothing. You should see this place in the summer. We get 100, 110″, he explained.

Road Tripping

If you don’t like driving, then “road trip” most likely does not quite exist in your vocabulary either. Yet to realize the vastness of the United States of America, driving a car through it is still the best way. I left the San Francisco Bay Area around 5am on a Thursday to make it to the main entrance of Joshua Tree by 1:30 in the afternoon. Driving through central California for eight hours, down I-5 past sheer endless farmland (further north) and sandy desert (south) is as exciting as it sounds. I knew that I was getting close to my destination when, about two hours out, I drove through the small town of Tehachapi when a bush of tumbleweed was blown across the road by the wind, a scene I had previously only encountered in Westerns.

After the session with the ranger, I set out to do a short three mile roundtrip hike to the Fortynine Palms Oasis, where I would encounter first hand what it meant to hike in the desert. I was met by an arid landscape, dominated by mountains and hills that looked like massive piles of brown and red-hued boulders. Barrel Cacti dotted the slopes, with their numerous spikes pointing defensively in each direction as if to say: “There is no water and the little that we have we won’t give to you!”. I did encounter about a dozen people during my hike to the group of huge palm trees, a somewhat surreal scene considering the dry surroundings.

A one hour drive on Covington Flats Road later, which thoroughly tested my car’s suspension, I found the backcountry board at the head of the California Riding and Hiking Trail. I registered, unloaded the car and found a camping spot just over the next mound, surrounded by Joshua Trees. And yes, I snuggled with my hiking boots for the night for good measure.

Quail Mountain

Hiking to the highest point in a National Park sounds like a major achievement, but only if you neglect to mention that it is desert terrain you are talking about and that said mountain is a mere 5,800 feet high. Not high by any means, but high enough to be able to overlook a good portion of the entire park.

I hiked for close to six hours and did not encounter a single soul, on or off the trail. Even wildlife sightings were kept to a minimum, the most dangerous animal I encountered was a black-tailed jackrabbit, dashing away from me as soon as he sensed my footsteps. What the hike lacked in fauna, blooming flora made up for it. I sighted blossoming beavertail pricklypear, cushion foxtail as well as Mojave mound cacti. Seeing these plants flowering gave this barren landscape, that, on first look, can be mistaken to be void of life, a much friendlier demeanor.

Bill and Polly Cunningham, whose instructions I followed while making it to the summit, and I did not become best friends during this hike. The main reason for this was simply that either one of them had gotten their details wrong about when one is supposed to leave said California Riding and Hiking Trail and turn north towards the rocky slope of Quail Mountain. I dutifully made it to mile marker twenty-three, the alleged turn off point, however on the approach to it I had already noticed that I was moving away from the mountain, not towards it. Looking at it later, it seemed I had gone half a mile too far. In any case, no harm no foul, I turned north and made my way cross country, first to the base and eventually to the top of Quail Mountain. The dry as dust desert landscape of Joshua Tree National Park was spread out beneath me, with visibility decent enough to make out San Jacinto Peak and San Gorgonio Mountain in the distance.

My initial plan was to turn the hike into an out-and-back adventure. From my elevated vantage point on the summit I figured why not take a shortcut back to the main trail by simply heading west along the ridge and then down to the desert floor, eventually reconnecting with the main trail. My limited desert hiking experience notwithstanding, I headed along the ridge, which eventually turned into a descent into a valley, followed by another ascent back up to 5,600 feet and, eventually, after a few more ups and downs in between, to a rock scramble down to the familiar sandy bottom. After six hours, I was back at the car and ready to head deeper into the park, on four wheels for now.

A night at Juniper Flats

Coachella, the music festival, plus the fact that the park was still “in the thick of spring break”, as one ranger put it, forced me to stay another night in the backcountry. All the campgrounds were filled to capacity in the northern part of the park on Friday. Not that I hadn’t planned on doing that anyways.

Juniper Flats, about twelve miles south east of the main park entrance on Salton View Road, with zero hills as the name indicates, provided more exposure than my previous camping area, but not enough for it to be an issue. From the parking lot, I walked about five minutes and found a spot off the trail, right next to two dead tree trunks, arranged in an “L” shape. Before going to bed, I kicked the rotten trunks a view times and waited for crawling sounds of insects hiding in its innards, but nothing. The wind noise would have kept me awake at night, had I not brought a pair of earplugs for exactly this reason. I still woke up from time to time, unaccustomed to the lack of comfort compared to my IKEA bed at home.

Keys View and a lost horse

On Saturday, it was time to put the mountain bike I had brought on my bike rack to some good use. I kept south on Salton View Road, enjoying the fact that I did not, for once, have a windshield between me and the environment around me while moving forward. The sides of the road were lined with the iconic Joshua Trees left and right, with mountain ranges reaching up to 5,500 feet in the distance. After about 4.5 miles, I reached Keys View, an overlook easily accessible by car, that gives a westwards view into the Coachella Valley. Besides the familiar peaks of San Jacinto and San Gorgonio, I could see Palms Springs as well as a part of the San Andreas Fault.

I enjoyed the view for about twenty minutes before heading down and making a right from Salton View Road onto the Lost Horse Mine dirt road. While I had been riding on a regular paved road before, this was much more fun on the mountain bike with the sand so deep at times that it made progress and steering difficult. The road eventually dead-ended in a small parking lot at the head of the Lost Horse Mine Trail. Legend has it that cowboy Johnny Lang discovered the mine when he went looking for his lost horse. In operation from 1893 to 1908, it eventually closed down in 1936 with the establishment of Joshua Tree National Park.

Since mountain bikes are not allowed on the trail, I temporarily stored it at the trailhead behind some bushes and started hiking up the trail, which turned into a trail run because I wanted to get some additional exercise. The sight of the mine instantly transported me back in time, imagining how dozens of workers in the unforgiving heat try to wrestle a few ounzes of gold from the desert dirt. I was not planning on staying too long for the mine was fenced in anyways and a big group of about twentyfive hikers were just about to arrive at the site. It was time to head back to the bike and explore more of what the park had to offer.

Stop and stare

I followed the parks main roads towards its Cottonwood Springs entrance in the south east. Along the way, I stopped where I felt there was something noteworthy to explore. Given the fact that short hikes and overviews are easily accessible, I had to throw the idea of ongoing solitude like on my first day out the window. Barker Dam Nature Trail, a 1.3 mile loop with interpretive markers giving information about vegetation and plants as well as local animals, was well visited, indicated by a full parking lot of about thirty cars. It’s natural highlight, Barker Dam itself, however, was marked off limits to the public because of vandalism that had damaged the 113 year old structure.

Would you stop at a sign that says “Skull Rock”? I thought so. And naturally did a lot of others. Part of the 1.7 mile Skull Rock Nature Trail, the distinct looking, about ten feet tall rock resembling a human skull, is a magnet for visitors to take group pictures with it from all angles. Not the biggest fan of crowds when in the wilderness, I took a look around for half an hour and then decided to continue and leave it to others to find resemblance to something familiar in a rock and get excited about it.

The further along I went on now Pinto Basin Road, the more unsatisfying it got. The construction work along this main thoroughfare contributed a big piece to that. Long sections of pure gravel road and people in Lincoln Navigators that find the idea of adhering to the speed limit foreign (as well as keeping a minimum distance) started to stress me out. One spot I was curious about and wanted to stop at was the Cholla Cactus Garden, about 20 miles north of Cottonwood Visitor Center. A literal garden, occupying about the size of half a soccer field, that gives the visitor an opportunity to walk amidst human-sized cacti, examining their bright spikes and cucumber-shaped branches that protrude from their trunks up close. A short .25 mile loop that, depending on your love for cacti and taking pictures, can take you between five to thirty minutes. It took me about four.

Exit through the visitor center

The last thing to check out was the Cottonwood Visitor Center at the park’s south east entrance. Unfortunately, the name promises more than the structure can really deliver. About the size of a bigger shipping container, the place was packed with visitors, inquiring about hiking options and campgrounds. Outside, a couple of camping tables covered by a roof to provide shade were occupied by families with young kids, seeking refuge from the ninety plus degrees temperatures. I took a quick look around the visitor center and then spontaneously decided that I had seen enough of the desert. Backcountry camping would have again been possible by registering at another backcountry board, but the terrain made it somewhat impractical to do so given the park’s rules (1 mile from the road and 500 feet from any trail or water source) in this quite hilly and rocky terrain in this corner of the park.

It was time to head back to the Bay Area, but not doing the drive all at once. I explored the trails of Red Rock Canyon State Park, about eighty miles east of Bakersfield, on the way back. While Joshua Tree seemed dry, the vistas at Red Rock reminded me more of Mars than any other landscape I had seen on Earth. Soaring, jagged cliffs with layers of rock in different shades of red provided plenty of reasons to stop and take pictures. Unable to procure a proper map and the fact that many of the “roads” in the park are not really worth the term, I found myself eventually lost while looking for an overlook point. It was then that I finally decided that the point had come to head home.

Little known fact about The Joshua Tree, the album

I did not listen to a single U2 song throughout the weekend, but I did inquire about the joshua tree depicted on the Irish rock band’s fifth album. Quite surprised I found out from a ranger that said picture was actually not taken in Joshua Tree National Park, but rather more than 250 miles north off of Route 190, just west of Death Valley National Park.

The NYC Half was the first big running event after the cancellation of the 2012 New York City Marathon last year thanks to Hurricane Sandy. The New York Road Runners (NYRR), organizers of both events, tried to redeem themselves for the fact that they had initially insisted to go through with the marathon all the while people in New Jersey were suffering the dire consequences from the devastation. Labelled as “More than a run“, NYRR created initiatives where runners and spectators alike could “give back” to the community, either by making use of special deals and discounts at shops and restaurants in the city as well as easily donating money online to Mayor Bloomberg’s Hurricane Sandy Recovery Fund.

Why fly 2,586 miles to run 13.1?

Why fly all the way to the East Coast just to partake in a running event? “There are plenty of half marathons around here, you know”, the slender built guy at the gym at work, who runs to the office every day, remarked. While this is obviously true, the prospect of running through the island of Manhattan, together with 15,000 others, had its own special appeal. When can you ever roam that freely through the streets of the Big Apple, including Times Square? Or run through a tunnel (which, ahem, is actually an underpass) at the southern tip of the island without getting hit by a car? You get to run along streets where cars and taxis battle for every inch on any given day and tourists are abound with little room to move. Sounded like good enough reasons to me.

Early start

Getting up at 3:45 in the morning is never fun. But with a 7:30 start, I tried to get my breakfast in at the right time without it bothering me during the race. I made my way down to the lobby a few minutes past five, only to find at least a dozen other runners waiting there, stretching, chatting. “We just got here for the marathon,” a German guy informed me, wearing a Berliner Halbmarathon race shirt. “We have done Berlin four times, me and my daughter, but we really wanted to do this one together”.

At 5:30, right on time, we boarded multi-axle buses to shuttle us to the start area in Central Park. “I have done this one in 2011 and I really liked it. I love New York, there is just so much to do”, the Minnesota woman next to me on the bus replied. Thirty minutes later, we got unloaded at 72nd and 5th Avenue, where hundreds of runners already lined the sidewalk, stretching, warming up, discussing race strategies and complaining about the freezing temperatures.

Making my way to the gear check for my corral, I spotted a guy wearing a wool hat with the Scottish flag on it and that read “Scotland” at the back. “Are you from Scotland?”, I asked, in a tone indicating surprise, bordering on mocking him for the idea that someone would come that far to run in NYC. “No, I am neither Scottish…nor Irish”, pointing to the front of his green t-shirt that said something about St Patrick’s Day. “I am actually Swiss, but I have been living here for quite a while. I just got that hat from the Scotland Run.” “But that is confusing, people would assume you’re from there”, I argued. Right at that moment, two women passed us, pointing at the Swiss guy and said “Scotland!”. “It’s just the hat…”, the guy yelled after them, as if to apologize.

Corral small talk

My plan of running a PR could have been massively foiled by the weather, which had graced participants and spectators of the St Patricks Day Parade with snow and wind on Saturday. By Sunday morning, conditions had unexpectedly improved by a lot with clear blue skies, but still sub freezing temperatures at the start of twenty nine degrees Fahrenheit. It was just pure luck that the weather gods decided to punish the Irish, not the Runners.

As with the whole race, the starting area was well organized, the corrals clearly marked and each corral even had their own dozen of Porta Johns. “This race is much more fun than the actual marathon”, the athletic but small built woman, in her late 30s with curly dark hair held in place by a headband, behind me in line for the toilets remarked. “This one goes through Times Square and stays in Manhattan. I mean, it is kinda nice that you run through all the five boroughs, but getting out to Staten Island is such a pain. And it is f***ing freezing there.”

Off we go

Starting on Central Park West Drive around 65th street, we spent the first six miles of the race doing a counter-clockwise loop through Central Park. Olmsted clearly had put some thought into not making it a flat landscape, which we, the runners, learned well enough with us having to conquer little hills and speeding down descents of a few hundred feet throughout this section of the run. Not ideal for getting into a good running rhythm, but not bad enough either to leave you completely gasping for air at the crests.

“Wait, this is not the parade?”, was to be read on a sign held up by a girl in her teens, all bundled up in winter jacket, wool hat and mittens. At mile two, that put a smile on my face and on everyone’s around me.

We exited the park on Seventh Avenue and headed straight through Times Square, where the biggest amount of spectators along the course congregated, fending off the freezing temperatures. Hollering people on the sidelines, massive billboards wherever you look—my personal goosebump-moment of the race. From there, we turned right onto 42nd Street, heading west to the West Side Hwy/12th Ave. Only on that stretch a few wind gusts from the northwesterly wind blowing in between the skyscrapers provided a bit of an obstacle. Once we were on our way down the western side of Manhattan, it was, however, all sunny again with the wind in our backs. Unfortunately that part turned out to also be the more monotonous section of the course, very straight and flat with very few spectators.

Light at the end of the underpass

Eventually, after we made it past the Meatpacking District, Tribeca and the WTC Site, we reached home stretch, which consisted of 800 meters through the Battery Park Underpass and then a left & right bend combination to the finish line on Front Street. Running through an underpass, where the shouting of the other runners is amplified by the tunnel walls, is an experience by itself, however the incline bringing us out of the underpass proved to be quite demanding after close to thirteen miles behind us. All was left to do after that was taking in the endorphins rushing through my body, triggered by seeing the finish area and crossing the line for another Half Marathon completed.

Whether you like New York City or not, the exhilaration of running through the streets of the Big Apple has the effect of taking your mind off your burning muscles. Seeking redemption for the unlucky chain of events and PR failures around the marathon last year, I feel that the organizers have won back the trust of at least some of the runners and New York residents. The organization was spotless and the efficiency of getting people through the recovery area after crossing the finish line was the highest I have seen in a half marathon event. Bottom line is if you can’t get into the marathon, the NYC Half is the next best thing you can sign up for to satisfy your craving for a run in the city that never stops running.

The Valley in the Winter

This Presidents Day weekend however was different in many ways. The winter has not brought the expected amount of precipitation. With snow coverage at a relative low and a warm front moving in just in time for the weekend, many folks took advantage of the three day weekend to head to Yosemite. And so did a friend of mine, Stephanie, and I.

Yosemite Park is a place of rest, a refuge from the roar and dust and weary, nervous, wasting work of the lowlands, in which one gains the advantages of both solitude and society.

John of the Mountains: The Unpublished Journals of John Muir, (1938) page 350.

I was taken aback by how busy everything was. While traffic on Saturday was not too bad, the accommodations in the Valley certainly were. It turned out that even Curry Village had to put the “sold out” sign up and ditto Upper Pines Campground turned out to be full. Surprised we were indeed, but had planned to stay at Camp 4 all along. A bare bones campground, usually frequented by climbers, but with bear lockers, drinking water faucets and flush toilets, it still provides enough for a two night stay in Yosemite.

After “checking in” and finding a reasonable spot to pitch our tent, we unloaded the car and, first things first, had a little lunch before hitting the nearby Lower Yosemite Falls Trail. Passing climbers trying their luck on nearby faces, with their gear and bear cans securely parked on their crash-pads, we reached the falls viewing area. Myriads of people frequented the area and the paved path leading up to it, some folks venturing even closer to the base of the falls and onto the rocks to get a better view and, presumably, they enjoyed getting wet.

Columbia Rock

Not a fan of huge crowds, we ventured back and decided to head up Yosemite Falls Trail, which we had some serious trouble finding, to Columbia Rock for an elevated view of the Valley. Naturally, with our late ascent up the switchbacks around 4pm, we were met by more than a dozen people heading down the trail, already done with their hike. “You guys have headlamps?”, one passer-by asked. While I was initially grateful for his seeming interest in our safety, on second thought, his mindfulness could also have been mistaken for rubbing in his knowledge superiority before his friends. “No, we have night vision!”, was what we should have answered, we joked later.

The forty minute ascent, covering around 1000 vertical feet, left me more exhausted than I would have liked. Running for miles on mostly flat surface at sea level is, after all, not the same as hiking up switchbacks at around 4000 feet of elevation. That is, at least, what I told myself.

Reaching Columbus Rock way before sundown, it gave us a grandiose overview of the Valley, with Half Dome to the east and Sentinel Rock and the Valley floor with the meandering Merced River right in front of us. Heading down and back to our campsite concluded the day. Almost. After two unsuccessful attempts, I managed to get a campfire going with firewood we had purchased earlier at the Yosemite Village Store (and almost got stuck in the mostly unplowed parking lot, but escaped thanks to the four wheel drive). That proved to be popular with other folks we shared the campsite with which turned out to be exclusively climbers and, feeding the cliche, Subaru owners. I almost felt inferior, not being able to join their conversations about “5.10 climbs”, “anchor building” and “multi pitch climbing”.

Snowshoeing to Dewey Point

On Sunday, we retraced back our steps for a bit and headed out of the Valley to the ski area of Badger Pass, about a 40 minute drive. We managed to get there fairly early, around 10am, as the parking lots were filling up quickly. We put on our snowshoes and together with other folks, using either skis, snowshoes or plain boots, headed along snow-covered Glacier Point Rd. After about .8 miles, we turned off to the left and followed the snow trail to Dewey Point via the ridge. Despite the full snow coverage, trail #14 was clearly visible at all times. 95 minutes after we had left the parking lot, we got to the Dewey Point overlook, admiring in awe the beauty of the Yosemite Valley below us. Water came flowing down Ribbon Fall to our left, the Valley opening up in the center, and Half Dome and Sentinel Dome just off center to the right.

We were in good company, with about two dozen people at the overlook when we arrived. This being as good as it gets for a lunch spot with a view, we decided to grab a spot on a rock that had just been vacated by a couple, and made that our lunch spot. After about an hour, we put our snowshoes back on and headed back to the parking lot via the easier Meadow Trail, with less elevation change than the path via the Ridge Trail. On our way back to Yosemite Valley, we stopped at the Tunnel View Vista Point, where in the summer the parking lot fills up quickly for the magnificent view opens up just ahead with El Cap towering on the left, Bridalveil Fall on the right and, anchored between the rock faces left and right, Half Dome in the center of the view.

At the campfire that night, while drinking beer with names like “Hops of Wrath“, we talked some more with our fellow campmates. Ngan, a climber for seven years from San Jose, comes to the Valley regularly. She undertook a “self-finding” trip, lasting several months, with her car towards the end of of 2012, after drifting more or less aimlessly through life. Her trip, which she did by herself and took her north from the San Francisco Area, through parts of western Canada and Yellowstone, was meant to give her clarity on what she wanted out of life. She reached her turning point when once driving alone in her Subaru, fumbling around with her phone which eventually fell out the window and with it all, she lost several photos and contact info of friends and acquaintances. For Ngan, it was a sign to turn back home and say goodbye to a life of uncertainty and temporary jobs, like working in a climbing gym. Today, she works at an accounting software firm in San Jose.

A trail that once was

Monday marked our final day in the Valley for the weekend and after Dewey Point, we picked an even harder to reach lookout spot: Sierra Point. Possibly the best short scramble in Yosemite Valley, according to summitpost.org, we left the car at the parking lot between Lower and Upper Pines, walked past the Nature Center at Happy Isle and onto the Mist Trail. Without any guidance from trail markers, since there is no official trail any more, we scrambled up the slope over boulders easily the size of an SUV. However, after about 50 minutes of scrambling, we noticed that we had veered too much to the left and were too high up already, having missed the remnants of the old trail. So we backtracked down and headed south until we finally encountered trail carets, marking the way until the trail finally became clearly visible. After a total of 2 hrs and 10 minutes, we reached Sierra Point, the steel railings still solidly in place. Heated up from the ascent, we took a half hour break, snacking and soaking in the amazing view of four waterfalls at once under sunny Yosemite skies.

From up there is was already apparent, but on the way down and back to the car, we noticed clouds rolling in and foreboding a winter storm coming. Perfect timing, since we had packed up everything already in the morning so it was only a matter of getting the mud-covered boots off, hopping in the car, leaving the serene Yosemite landscape behind and heading back to civilization.

Mind you, this was not supposed to be a regular winter hiking trip. We were on a mission to find one of the secret and secluded Yosemite cabins and stay there for the night. The one we had in mind was called Willow Creek Cabin^[1], a rustic accommodation off the beaten trail we hoped to find on Saturday. If unsuccessful, we would face a cold night at high elevation, cause we did not bring a tent. If that wasn’t motivation enough, I don’t know what is.

Camp Curry

I navigated my trusty SUV through thick fog beyond Oakdale on 120, congratulating me for picking a model with fog lights, pushed the V6 (why else would you buy one) up Old Priest Grade Road, a two mile stretch with points reaching a 20 percent grade, passing Conrad Anker co-owned Priest Station Cafe and finally making it to Yosemite Valley around 10:30pm. A heated tent at Curry Village, a tented camp offering accommodations for people who don’t want to shell out $100+ for a night stay in the valley, but not quite desperate enough to pitch a tent in one of the campgrounds in sub-freezing temperatures, gave us shelter for the night.

Breakfast was consumed the next day in the parking lot in the back of my car, since a camp stove fire seemed like a bad idea inside a canvas tent. Well nourished we shouldered our packs and took the Yosemite Shuttle to stop 17 for the Mirror Lake trailhead. The sun was just about to come up and a sunny day with few clouds announced itself. Ice and snow, covering the valley floor up to two to three inches, made progress along the trail slippery, but manageable. In the shadow of Half Dome we followed the trail, which hugged the west-facing edge of the Lower Pool and Mirror Lake itself, until it connected to the Snow Creek trail.

Switchbacks

After a mellow start, Snow Creek trail brought us up in elevation, thanks to a total of 107 switchbacks, luckily mostly snow free due to its southward orientation. Shedding layers was necessary very early in the ascent, but seeing Half Dome, Clouds Rest and the Quarter Domes from our elevated viewpoint made us, at least temporarily, forget our burning quads and calves. On top of the switchbacks, at an elevation of 6,700 feet, we finally encountered conditions that warranted putting on the snow shoes we had strapped to our packs. From here on, we faced deep wintery conditions and the additional footwear made progress a whole lot easier.

Despite the snow cover of two to three feet at this point, we had no trouble following the route. We alighted upon tracks in the snow left by skis, snow shoes and even boots, sunk about one foot deep into the soft surface with each step. Beyond a trail junction pointing out distances to Tenaya Lake and Tuolumne Meadows, we were left confused for a moment. We had to leave the trail eventually, since the cabin, that we much knew, was located off-trail on the eastern edge of a clearing. Off we went into uncharted (at least as we were concerned) wilderness, crossing back over the creek by means of a sketchy snow bridge and made it to a clearing in the forest. Not long after walking along the side of the clearing on pristine snow, Ethan spotted the back wall of the cabin through the trees to our right.

Shelter

Amazed by the sight of civilization in the wilderness, we snapped a few pictures of the cabin from the outside. It was bigger than I had imagined with floor space of around 400 square feet, measuring about 15 feet from the ground to the gable of the saddle roof, whose north facing side almost reaching all the way to the ground. The shingles covering the facade were darkened by the wet conditions and the constant exposure to the elements. The window shutters, painted in a green and white zigzag pattern and reminding me of alpine harborages in Europe, were all properly shut.

We hesitated a bit before opening the main door, which was locked, if you can call it that, with a carabiner. What were we expecting to find? Dead bodies? A bear rummaging through whatever previous visitors might have left out carelessly? It turned out, there was nothing of the sort. The main entrance led to some sort of work room, with a work bench in the near right corner, with all sorts of tools and equipment piled up on top of it, and a stack of firewood in the far corner, which could probably last for at least a month. A door to the left led to the actual living quarters, with a living room to the right next to a little vestibule. A staircase in the center of the building directed to the attic, which presented two equally sized sleeping rooms with two fold-down bed frames each. Additional sleeping quarters with two bunk beds were located on the ground floor opposite the living room. In the far left corner, a kitchen completed the setup, with a gas powered grill, a sink, cupboards, utensils and two big pots for melting snow.

Cabin Life

We inspected the premises thoroughly and after setting down our packs, we set out to collect snow and start a fire in the wood-burning stove in the living room to warm ourselves up and make the place even cozier. Not too familiar with the physics of a wood-burning stove, we struggled a bit at the beginning, attending to the fire constantly, but eventually we discovered how to use the setup to our advantage. Happy to be inside, close to a stove that provided us with warmth, we settled down at the wooden table, glad not having to suffer outside in a tent in the snow during what would become a freezing night with temperatures in the single digits. After dark we helped ourselves to one of the kerosene lanterns, of which there were four in the cabin, to provide us with a light source while we were making dinner and enjoyed a game of chess (at which I suck by the way). We retired to our upstairs sleeping quarters early, but only after locking the front door to keep out any unwanted visitors. You never know who comes knockin’ on the door of your own private cabin at night in the Yosemite Wilderness.

Notes

[1] The name of the cabin isn’t actually Willow Creek. The Yosemite cabins, even though most of them are marked on topographical maps of the park, are unknown to the regular visitor and even most avid backpackers who come to the park regularly have not heard of them. Since they can’t be reserved (unlike the High Sierra Camps) those who know about them want to keep them out of the public eye as much as possible, for overcrowding and everything that comes with it can ruin such locations and premises. So I changed the name of the cabin for this story and not reveal more than you need to know.

A common start and ending point of a journey to Australia is Sydney, the cleaner, more sterile eternal rival of the dirtier, edgier Melbourne. But it is hard to really find any arguments when Sydneysiders speak in greatest tones of their city. The harbor view with the world-renown Opera House and the Harbor Bridge is, frankly, hard to beat.

Heading here from Europe or the United States, the trek will be one of the longest ones you will likely ever undertake, with flights from the US West Coast lasting around 14 hours and, depending from where you depart, you will land at Sydney Kingsford Smith Airport after anywhere between 20 and 30 hours in the confined space of a metal tube, or, to be more specific, the ever so small pitch of an economy class seat. Upon arrival and making it through customs (an experience which seems oh so much nicer when compared to the ordeal when pleading for entry into the United States) you can make your way to the city using the Airport Train (which is part of the public rail system).

No matter where you are staying in Sydney, probably one of the first targets of your hunt for attractions is an obvious one: recognizable around the world by it’s distinctive shaped roof (the “shells”), the Sydney Opera House certainly does not have to do much to get your attention. Especially on a nice day, the building acts like a magnet for visitors. And who can blame them. Stunning to look at from the outside, with the glossy Swedish-made tiles reflecting the sunlight, it sits right on the water at Sydney Harbor. To however learn about the rather uncomfortable details surrounding the construction of the building and the resignation of architect Jørn Utzon in the process, one should take the Essential Tour and with some luck, the tour guide will take off his or her PR tainted glasses and also mention that the acoustics in the Opera House are actually pretty bad.

Right across from the Opera House, another landmark: The Sydney Harbor Bridge, which connects the CBD and the North Shore. Dazzling to look at, especially once it gets lit up at night, it nicely complements and balances the Harbor View and the Opera House to the east of “The Coathanger”, the nickname of the bridge due to it’s arch-based design. A special 3.5 hour experience awaits you if you dare to sign up for the Bridge Climb, however I am not sure your wallet will approve considering the price tag starts at about AUD 200 (depending on when you go and what time of tour you undertake). Keep in mind that, for safety reasons, you also need to leave your camera behind.

In a city so expensive as Sydney, it is especially gratifying to almost any traveler (on a tight budget or not) when he receives good and honest service for free. One example for this is the Free Walking Tour, offered by a group of students, but very well and nicely done. Since they do not work for the city (and do not have to report to anyone about what they tell visitors about it), they are also not holding back on some uncomfortable accounts about their home town (see bad acoustics in the Opera House above). You will be asked to give an appropriate tip at the end, but considering the quality of the tour, you should reward them accordingly for their service.

A visit to Sydney would, by no means, be complete without a visit to what is undoubtedly its most well known beach: Bondi Beach. There is no direct way to get to this sacred place, worshiped by surfers every day, so you need to take the train to Bondi Junction, and then board a bus to reach the sandy enclave. On a sunny day, which is naturally the best condition to enjoy a day at the beach, one can easily acknowledge why so many people not only love the beach, but also pay ridiculous real estate prices to stay as close to it as possible.

Crescent shaped, it is, especially on weekends, lined with myriads of people, either baking in the sun or riding the waves. Beautiful and very fit folks, I must add and, to a high percentage, members of the gay community. Interestingly enough, their concentration seems to increase towards the outdoor fitness facilities at the northern end of the beach. But no matter whereabouts on the beach they are spotted, they usually earn looks from both sexes passing by, with men usually having to suppress a secret jealousy, given the beautifully sculptured bodies of their gay counterparts.

Don’t expect to do much swimming at Bondi by the way. The surf is usually pretty rough, hence the popularity with all the surfer dudes. The ones fortunate enough (or cheap) to stay at a close by hostel usually just leisurely carry their surfboard to the beach for an ‘after work surf’. After you have soaked up enough sun (or felt early indicators of a sun burn), a stroll towards the south on the Coast Walk might be exactly what you need. A fully paved walkway takes you south, past the Bondi Icebergs, Tamarama Park (and Beach) and to Bronte Park and Beach and some astonishing cliff views. Cooling down in the Bronte Baths (where you can even do lap swims), you might wanna consider going even further to Waverly Cemetery for more scenic views.

So is Sydney living up to the hype? Is its constant #1 spot amongst the cities with the best quality of life justified? That depends on who you ask, obviously. Just don’t ask any Melbournians. Sydney does have it’s perks, with it’s ocean front location, giving it a spacious feel with the vibe of a busy city, but possibilities to find solitude and rest in one of the many green spaces. The city not only is literally clean (in the sense of efficient disposal of garbage) but also feels that way, very mature, international, driven and a sense for architectural and biological beauty. But between the lines you can sense a touch of arrogance, supported by the conviction that in Oz, there is only Sydney with a long way down to #2. And that #2 is certainly not Melbourne. Heaven forbid.

Lauda Air eventually became a subsidiary of the bigger, national rival Austrian Airlines, or AUA, as she is colloquially called. While Austrian always had a solid reputation for it’s service, Lauda Air made customer focus it’s trademark. “Service is our success”, driven by Lauda and lived by his staff (which earned less money working for the known to be frugal former race-car driver than their colleagues at Austrian), was what differentiated it from many other airlines.

In any case, Austrian’s reputation was solid, with friendly service and great food. The books however did not paint such a rosy picture and so, after a lot of years of mismanagement and suffering the consequences of too much political influence (since it was majority-owned by the state) partner Lufthansa eventually acquired majority shareholder rights and, consequentially, the airline at the end of 2008.

The question was: What would become of Austrian after being brought into the Lufthansa Group? The Germans promised to keep the name, but what else? Would Austrian nationals be served their “Schnitzel” on board by flight attendants from Leipzig? Would their slogan change to “Austrian Airlines – operated by Germans (because Austrians are incapable of doing so)”?

None of that has happened. Yet. But patriotic as I am, I am still looking forward to flying Austrian, since it does invoke some homelike emotions, some sort of connection with where I am from.

And so I found myself on flight OS087 (OS being the IATA airline designator for Austrian) from Vienna International Airport to JFK on a chilly winter morning at the end of December. I had spent Christmas with my parents before heading back to California to resume work in the New Year. For the first time, I had opted to shell out a bit more money into the experience of a long-haul flight and went for business class for the approximately 13 to 14 hours of flight time.

A few hours into the flight on the quite dated Boeing 767-300ER, I decided to stretch my legs. I was tired of reading my book and not in the mood for watching the latest Ice Age installment on the overhead TV, so I started chatting with one of the flight attendants. They did not seem to be busy at the moment anyways, lunch was served and apart from the occasional calls for more water or a blanket, there weren’t many other duties (as far as I could tell) for them to attend to.

Robert S., about 6-1, short blonde hair, sporting the standard red/white uniform with silver tie, would certainly qualify for the desired-son-in-law category. Personally I thought he presented a slightly gay-ish demeanor, which might only be a testament to me being jealous of his, frankly, good looks. “I am flying on what’s left of AUA”, he responded to my question whether he serves on this route frequently. An attendant for 15 years, the Styria-native still, despite cuts of long-distance destinations like Melbourne, Tokyo and Bangkok, projected a love-for-the-job attitude, genuinely liking what he does.

The interior of the plane could have been installed when he had started working. The seats in business class sported fake wooden panels and purple covers, which only would have looked futuristic if I had suddenly found myself in 1970. Mine also had an add-on—namely a chewing gum someone had disposed off and stuck underneath the tray in the middle console. “We had to switch planes in the morning because the other one, with the newer, upgraded seat configuration, wasn’t ready in time”, Robert noted apologetic.

“How long do you get to stay in New York?”, I asked, trying to get a glimpse into the daily routine of a flight attendant.

“Oh, we are heading back tomorrow. Gone are the good old days where the crew got to stay longer. I am not sure that is good or bad. There is always stuff to do in New York, but with other destinations, once you have been there fifty times, you are kinda glad to get back sooner.”

Just as I had expected it, the in-flight service as impeccable. And from my experience on other Austrian flights when I was flying coach, that wasn’t just because I flew in the more expensive class. They were friendly, attentive and, what I liked most, genuinely so. They had their own chef on board and offered local specialties like Tafelspitz on the menu. It was details like an personal care-kit, which many airlines provide you with in business class on long distance flights, reminiscent of the Austrian Tracht and a chance to order a particular style of Viennese coffee (like a Melange or a Grosser Brauner) made to order, that emphasized the airlines effort to make the service a true example of Austrian culture and hospitality. Luckily, that hasn’t changed over the years.

So what lies ahead for Austrian? Will it be relegated to serving Eastern European destinations exclusively from their hub in Vienna (which they had done quite successfully in the past)? Recent news do paint a different picture with the reinstatement of Chicago O’Hare as a destination with a direct route from Vienna scheduled to commence in May 2013. Rumors are circulating that Los Angeles and Newark are to be added to the list, pending acquisition of additional Boeing 777 aircraft by mother Lufthansa.

The landing in JFK was a little rougher than expected, but after a lengthy search for our parking spot, I finally stepped off the aircraft and, by doing so, symbolically bid farewell to my home country for the next few months.

“Have a good onward journey!”, Robert wished me as I made my way to the front exit. “Thanks!”, I responded, wholeheartedly wishing the same for his employer.

What eventually drew me to it was probably the prospect of running along the Strip in the dark, since the race gun would be fired at the unusual 4:30pm start time. Thinking about it a little, it actually makes total sense to have an event like this in Sin City, in the middle of the desert. After all, that is the town that has a replica of the Eiffel Tower, a Venice-themed hotel including the Rialto Bridge, a pirate ship and a gamblers’ den in the shape of a pyramid. Vegas sees moderate temperatures in December, so at least from that perspective, it deems to be perfect for running. That, and the mostly flat course. What else would you expect in the desert.

Viva Las Vegas

I arrived on Saturday afternoon, making my way to the hotel and to the unexpectedly busy Marathon Health and Fitness Expo. 30,000 participants were there to pick up their race packet and try out and buy the latest in sports and running equipment, clothing and nutrition from one of the many vendors. I had a chance to exchange a few words with Patrick from The Stick (which I can totally recommend), who is also Austrian (from beautiful Tyrol to be exact), while he was demonstrating the tool on interested passers-by. Later on I went for a stroll along the Strip, i.e. examining the course, listening to Christmas songs blasting out of loudspeakers, watched people skate on an ice rink in front of the Venetian and enjoyed The Fountains of Bellagio choreographed to Elvis’ Viva Las Vegas.

Race Day

The diversity of the crowd was proven to me at the pre-race brunch on Sunday, race day. People at my table came from Pennsylvania, Oregon, Washington, Georgia (Atlanta) and Colorado (Denver). There were the first time half-marathoners and the multiple marathon finisher veteran. The event was accompanied by motivational words from Frank Shorter, winner of the 1972 Olympic Marathon event in Munich, and writer and deliberate slow-runner John “The Penguin” Bingham. Bingham, in all seriousness, claimed that everybody lies about his/her finisher time, which I don’t agree with, but I leave The Penguin to his opinion.

Having to check out from my hotel at noon left me with about 3.5 hours to kill. For performance enhancing reasons I opted for…Starbucks (not steroids). While sipping my latte and walking towards the starting area at the south side of the Strip across from the Luxor, I hoped to not face a repeat of the unfortunate events of 2011, when people disapproved of the overcrowding and dozens complained about nausea, vomiting and stomach pain, allegedly due to contaminated water, which however was later denied by officials as a possible cause.

Warm up at the Sphinx

Apparently much better thought through this time, I arrived at the warm-up/gear check are way beforehand, with enough time to stretch, use the bathroom, check my gear and even watch the fastest of the marathon runners zoom by, since their start was a full 1.5 hours before ours. Presumably another lesson learned from last year’s event. As I made my way to my assigned corral, I noticed that the wind had picked up substantially after the sun had gone down, blowing intermittently from a southwesterly direction. “Don’t worry, the wind is all in your back!”, the announcer claimed over the PA. “Yeah, only until we turn around and head back down the strip”, I thought to myself.

The start went quite smoothly with not too much overcrowding happening (at least for my start block), however the wind, it was apparent, would become most likely the major issue. After heading south for about one mile, we turned around and continued north on Las Vegas Blvd all the way to downtown where we took a couple of turns and eventually found ourselves heading back down the Strip via 4th street. The wind, which started to push us in heavy gusts for parts of the way north, also had the not noticeable effect of not cooling you down enough, making you sweat more and proper hydration even more important. The last four miles to the finish line were filled with agony, as we were not only running slightly uphill but also had to fight against heavy wind gusts at times.

Finish at The Mirage

In the end I managed a new personal record, but missed my goal by about 1 minute 20 seconds. Battling the last couple of miles along the strip I already knew it was going to be tight to meet my target and seriously thought about giving up 2 or 3 times, but eventually I crossed the finish line at the Mirage, exhausted, but blissful it was over. I picked up my medal and some nutrition items, headed back to my hotel, grabbed my luggage and got into a cab to head straight to the airport.

The cab ride was probably the most entertaining I have ever had, when the driver, of asian descent, told me how other cabbies have their certain strategies of ripping off their customers by taking detours around the Strip to rack up more miles and bump up the price. “I had colleagues who were fined $200 the first time, $400 second time, third time they lose job”, he disclosed in his heavy accent. He was also eager to report that customers had sexual intercourse in the back of his cab twice and that numerous suggestive hints from clients to either follow him into the hotel or to tell them where to find the best hookers. However it had gotten increasingly more difficult for these sort of adventures since many of the cabs are now equipped with onboard surveillance cameras, audio recording and GPS (as was the one I was in) to make sure cabbies do not get involved into any illegal activities while on duty.

I advised him to write a book about his tales. “Confessions of a Las Vegas cabbie”, I suggested for a book title. A short 15 minutes from the hotel I was at the airport, tipped my driver well and was at my gate well before my flight at 9.30pm. I also didn’t hold back in showing my pride, still wearing my running clothes and sporting my medal. Would I do it again? What lunatic would have a running event in Vegas!

Further Reading and Resources

• Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon Series: Las Vegas
• Las Vegas marathon brings wind, weddings, more than 30,000 runners (Las Vegas Sun, Dec. 3 2012)
• Rock ‘n’ Roll Las Vegas Marathon & 1/2 Marathon on Facebook

Junipero Serra Peak

We decided to head down to Big Sur over Thanksgiving weekend in order to not feel too bad about all the food we had consumed on this very american foodfest holiday. Embarking on the 3 hour drive Friday afternoon, and navigating to the Memorial Park Campground while passing through the Fort Hunter Liggett US Army Garrison and making it through two river crossings, we got to our resting spot for the night around 8pm. Apart from pitching our tents and playing a round of cards, there was nothing else left to do except going to bed.

After a chilly night (it got down to the high 30s), we started our journey up towards Junipero Serra Peak at 7am on the Santa Lucia Trail, which originated right where we camped. It was still fairly cold in the morning, which suited us well since we were on the move up the mountain and warming up fairly quickly. The area at the start of our hike was dominated by about knee-high grass/bushland, colored in yellow and giving a distinct sense of autumn. The further up we went, the grasses gave way to trees at first and to brush later on, but the trail was well maintained and used so not much fighting against mother nature was necessary. Not today, at least.

Getting out of the treeline, we were greeted by the first stunning views of the area, including the valley we came up from. The sun was now distinctly up in the sky while we headed up the ridge west of the summit. Interestingly, the trail ended up circling around the summit and we eventually approached the peak from north and northeast. The views were outstanding, the visibility so far that we were able to see the snow-covered mountains of the Sierra in the far east. After a break for lunch at the top, we made our way back down the way we came from.

Throughout the hike, we encountered a few items that were giving a window into past events. For instance, a very old tractor, or rather what was left of it, we bumped into very early into the hike. The building we could make out from the approach was on closer examination an observation tower that only had the actual steel structure to it. The wooden planks that made out the platform were piled up at the bottom. Close to the top, we found the remains what probably used to be some sort of shelter building that must have burnt down a while ago–only the metal bed frame was still distinctly recognizable. At last, at the actual summit, we stumbled upon the summit register, sheltered in an opening made of cinder blocks, which had presumably belonged to some sort of summit structure as well. But apart from a few of those columns, nothing what resembled a structure was to be seen. All remains of events and intentions that some had deemed important in the past, but were clearly abandoned at some point, yet they still pose the questions of “What?”, “When?” and “Why?” at the few hikers encountering them every year.

Cone Peak

Juniperro Serra was a great hike, but not challenging. The next day, we decided to step it up a bit and try to reach Cone Peak, the highest coastal mountain in the continuous United States. For that, we moved closer to the Carrizon Trail trailhead, camped in the wilderness and were up to an even earlier start than the day before. We headed up the trail and encountered low grassland at first and getting nice views of Juniperro Serra from the day before, covered in reddish early morning sunlight. Soon enough, the vegetation got thicker and more hostile to the hiker which led us to eventually lose the trail and struggle for about an hour to find it again. A precursor, it turned out, of things to come. After going up and down across multiple ridges we eventually made it to the final approach, with the trail significantly better marked and maintained at this point.

Instead of then descending down and back up again to the summit, we were hoping for a more direct approach along the ridge we were already on. It turned out to be a bit more perilous than we had wished for, with multiple class 3 scrambles up a few bumps on quite lose rock along the ridgeline before we were finally at the summit and enjoying the absolutely stunning views of the coastline and the ocean.

After a little lunch break, we plotted which way to take back and made the critical mistake that would bite us badly later on. We decided to take the Cone Peak Trail down to Cone Peak Road and then take the San Antonio Trail back to the trailhead. Longer, but nice and consistent downhill. Piece of cake. Getting down to the San Antonio trailhead proved to be easy, however the partly overgrown distance marker should have given us an indication that this trail had not been in proper use in years. Nevertheless, we headed down. Pretty soon we encountered logs on the trail (we stopped counting at 30), the thickest probably 3 feet in diameter, heavy vegetation and the trail being more and more overgrown. In some cases, the trail was completely covered in brush, forcing us to make our way around and praying to find a distinct trail after the obstacle. After progressing at only 2 miles per hour, we eventually made it to Fresno Camp, realizing for the first time that we probably did not stand a chance of making it back in daylight. Luckily we had a GPS and a map, however the map suggested a route that clearly had not been there in years.

“I brought 2 firestarters”, I said in an attempt at humor to cover up my slight fear of not making it out of this jungle.

After Fresno Camp, our progress slowed even more. The trail was essentially nonexistent and at this point we were just trying to figure out the path of least resistance through the underwood. We also encountered various colored plastic ribbons along the way, giving us confidence that someone was here at least at some point not too long ago. We also had to cross the river multiple times, since there was no way around it in this valley. We did ascend up to the flanks of the canyon we were in a couple of times, only to find out that there wasn’t any trail there either and that we had to eventually go back down because the terrain proved to be too treacherous.

Eventually the inevitable happened: it got dark and temperatures dropped. We could see our breath in the beam of our headlamps, that we, luckily, had brought along. With the sun as a light source gone, navigating through thick shrubbery was even more difficult now, despite our artificial light helpers. The map showed the trail finally reaching and passing through the Salsipuedes Ranch land. When knew we had reached the boundary of the private property when we encountered a maybe 5 feet high gate, which we decided to climb, since there was really no other way to go for us at this point. The continuation of the trail on the other side proved to be even more difficult. Immensely overgrown, we had to push ourselves forcefully through and branches aside a couple of times. Needless to say, trying to find hints of a trail now seemed futile.

Encountering a creek gave us a rough idea of our definitive position and we bumped into a faint old type of vehicle/forest road that we followed up a hill, but lost immediately. We decided to head straight up the cliff before us and then recheck our position. The GPS told us that the trail (what trail, really?) should be straight south of where we were, so we descended down and, finally, we found ourselves standing on a forest road. We breathed a sigh of relief. We knew that following the road would eventually lead us back to the trailhead.

We continued on the road for quite a while, illuminating the path in front of us with our headlamps. We passed some structures and even cars along the way, but it was totally dark, no light visible in the houses. We had to climb two more gates with signs on them in faint letters clearly discouraging trespassing and that violators would be ejected, but we really couldn’t care less at this point. Almost 13 hours after we had started out in the morning, we made it back to the trailhead. Rarely was I happier to get back to a campsite.

Bushwhacking down history lane

It was only until the next day when I found some time to find out more about whether other people had similar experiences with this trail. Most of the posts on the Ventana Wilderness area forum suggested similar conditions to what we had encountered. On there, Mike Blanksma points out that San Antonio trail was actually a road built by the Army during WWII.

The Salsipuedes (span. “Get Out If You Can”) Ranch, that we essentially trespassed without permission, belongs to Timothy Bottoms, a 61 year old actor and film producer. Bottoms now trains wild horses on the ranch, which explains the “horse camp” arch sign we had encountered on the ranch road in the dark. What is interesting is that the ranch and the land it is on is the area that the great American writer John Steinbeck based one of his novels on, titled “To A God Unknown“. A distinct item in the novel is a giant oak tree that seems to still exist on ranch property today.

Resources and further reading

• Photo set on Flickr
• Junipero Serra Peak at summitpost.org
• Cone Peak at summitpost.org
• San Antonio Trail forum on ventanawild.org
• Roger Powers’ Stories of Steinbeck Country
• To A God Unknown on abebooks.com
• To A God Unknown Wikipedia article

12,000 runners turned out, many of them in costumes. I spotted 2 guys disguised as superman, several wonderwomen, a guy in a tuxedo running costume and lots of people wearing props here and there. They conquered the course in downtown LA that took the runners from the start line at Staples Center down south around the Coliseum back up to the starting area.

Through the 111 year old 3rd Street Tunnel, which turned out to be the highlight of the course for me, the course turned west with the turnaround point on top of the Sixth Street Viaduct and making its way back to the start line.

The concept of having any sort of running event in LA is especially peculiar, since LA is probably the most car-dominated city in the US, where public transport exists (no really, it does, but inadequately so) but people just go everywhere by car. Despite this car-craziness, one must not forget though the fitness culture, or rather the quest for visual beauty, in the City of Angels. And it does provide indeed quite some options to satisfy one’s outdoors/runners needs, like the LA State Historic Park or San Vicente Boulevard.

Warm weather, hilly course, questionable medal design

The RnR series has been around since 1998 and is steadily growing year over year, recently expanding to international events in places like Nice, Dublin and Madrid. Coming off the absolutely amazing experience of my first marathon in Chicago earlier this month, my point of reference was probably out of the league of a Rock n’ Roll event.

The weather was far too warm and the course a bit too hilly (because of some significant uphills towards the end) to aim for a new PR and spectators were mostly only gathered at some key locations (around the start and finish area) along the course. Nevertheless the little kids in costumes, cheering on the runners guaranteed for some memorable moments. Finally the medal, as much as I loved having it around my neck after crossing that finish line, was also a little too halloween-ish for my liking.

A themed running event series: good or bad?

This being my first RnR event, my thought on the series itself is that its cleverly marketed towards the masses and to people that don’t necessarily want to aspire to run a marathon some day, who want to dabble into longer distance running for the first time or beginner runners, having picked up the sport recently. According to the Competitor Group website, 65% of participants are women.

Like the music it got its name from, it does appeal to a broader spectrum of people, the casual runner, than more elitist (for a lack of a better word) events like full marathon-only events like Chicago or Boston. Don’t get me wrong, a race is a race and completing the distance of 13.1 or 26.2 miles, at a RnR event or not, is an extraordinary achievement. But by creating a series out of it, I wonder if that robs each particular event of its unique, locality-specific character. I fear that something gets lost when every event is put together in the same way (rock bands along the way, albeit local ones). Carrying the ‘Rock’ theme through all the way at every event in the same way, it seems that the location becomes a bit interchangeable. In the end it might not matter whether the event is in LA or Tuscon or New Orleans. On the plus side however, if having a running event with mass appeal leads to more people getting off their couches and into running shoes, it might not be a bad idea after all.

All is good after the finish line

In any case, the warm weather, the lack of spectators (which the bands along the route couldn’t really fully compensate for) and the uphill parts that I mentioned earlier all did not really help in the fight against the suffering along the course.

If you manage, however, to fight through the moments when you question your sanity, when your heart is beating so fast that you think it will jump right out of your chest and every muscle in your legs is burning, you get rewarded eventually. In the case of this half marathon, the home stretch was pretty much a straight line from the last turn after coming back through the 3rd Street Tunnel. You could see all the way down along Figueroa Street to the finish line. And the moment when you get in reach of that finish line and finally cross it is always something exciting and memorable. No matter if there are thousands of people behind the barricades or just a handful, this is the moment you forget all your pain and you give into the elation of finishing. You beat the course, but more importantly, you beat that voice on your shoulder that said “You can’t. Stop.” way too many times. You bet I can!