Fleeing LA

You would think we would have made it a little further into the trip before our first confrontation with the police, but here we are getting rousted out of our campsite by the local sheriff.  Never mind that we had paid the $10 camping fee and were at a state campground surrounded by at least 50 unoccupied sites.  Our sin was that we were in a “group” campground, reserved for large groups.  The fact that none had chosen to stay there that night was irrelevant, as was my argument that the Babe and I were a group, albeit a small one.  Ah, the bureaucratic mind at work; I know it well after a career working with the FDA and Military.  God forbid that one of them might have to weigh all of the facts and make a decision in the best interest of all parties, versus mindlessly going down the list and checking the box.

It was 9:58 PM and we really didn’t want to break down our tent and move, but when I asked him how much the fine was to stay I knew we were leaving: $400.  The cop informed us that there was another campground for small parties, but it closed at 10:00 and was a 20 minute drive away.  Thanks for that tip.  At least in Mexico we could have bribed him.  Here in Southern California the cop politely refused my offer.

That took us to the nearest hotel in Perris.  The seediness of the place started to sink in when the older East Indian woman with a foul temper told me they only took cash, and that I also needed to leave a $5 key deposit.  A key deposit?  During the 5 minutes I spent unloading the car after paying for the room, two couples came up to get their deposits before walking off in the distance.  You got it, local office park for the area’s prostitutes.  After seeing Babe, and watching me unload the car, the old woman decided to “upgrade” us to a different room and had me pull my car into a spot right in front of the office.  Comforting.  We slept with a loaded .44 next to the bed.

Babe and I had left LA that morning after spending two nights with Jon.  He had needed the company of an old friend to help heal from the pain of his brother, and we enjoyed getting to spend time with him and his teenage son and daughter, Christian and Naomi.  They proved that it is still possible to raise two wonderful, talented kids in the middle of LA despite an extremely nasty divorce.  The Catholic schools they both attend must have helped, along with at least one very involved parent.

Babe had passed the ground school test for her private pilot’s license the day before after studying for months.  She was relieved and quite pleased despite her test score of 72 (70 is the minimum passing score).  Of course, given the competitive nature of our relationship, she is going to have to live forever with the knowledge that I scored 98 after a 2 ½ day crash course 20 years earlier.  Please remind her of that when you see her.

We were both very happy to get out of LA.  Even though I travel there constantly for business and happen to like the place, I was seeing it through different eyes this time.  The crushing, omnipresent traffic is dehumanizing.  There is no way either of us could live with that on a daily basis.  Beyond that is a ubiquitous lack of civility and patience.  People were honking constantly at the slightest offense (turning right into a parking lot when the person behind you was in a hurry).  Whatever you think of Rudy Giuliani, he helped make New York a more humane place when he started issuing tickets for honking.  Although I might be able to live downtown in a city like Barcelona, one thing I have already confirmed on this trip is that we both prefer small towns.

Jon convinced us to go with him to his “local” crag, Big Rock at Lake Perris state park, instead of traveling directly to Joshua Tree.  That turned out to be a good choice.  It is a small but wonderful granite crag in an idyllic desert setting that features bolted sport routes on excellent rock.  Jon steered me toward one of his favorite climbs, a 5.7 face climb with a 5.9 start that I found somewhat desperate; a tough warm-up for sure.  Babe went second and was getting nowhere on it.  Climbing is all about footwork, and unlike gym climbing where there is always a decent handhold available, this climb didn’t have any.  What handholds existed weren’t much good for anything but helping with your balance, and the footholds consisted of nothing more than surface irregularities.  In order to make progress you had to smear up on to the ball of your foot, keeping all of your weight loaded on about one square inch of rubber.  That requires you to keep your heels low, which requires you to keep your knees and butt away from the rock when instinct is beckoning you to hug the rock.  After trying and failing repeatedly to make any progress, resulting in cursing that I had never heard from her before, Babe started to listen to the coaching from Jon and a local hard man named Craig.  Once she got it, up she went.  By the end of the day, several pitches later, she was dancing up the thin faces.   

After warming up on the first pitch I managed to send (climber term for climb in good style), a very thin 5.11B pitch with a runout (no protection available) upper section.  The crux was working my way up the thinnest of smears on vertical rock with no positive handholds to a small seam about ½” wide and 1 ½” long, just big enough for two fingertips.  It felt like a bucket (great handhold) at the time.  The trick was matching my right foot to my hand on the hold and standing up to clip the next bolt. 

This was a surprise.  I hoped to be leading at this level by the end of the trip, not the beginning.  But I have lost 10 pounds since leaving work, and developed good hand strength and calluses after a week of climbing at Red Rocks outside of Vegas with my youngest (18) son Kevin during Spring break in late March.  I would have not even attempted the climb if Jon hadn’t pointed me to it and neglected to tell me the rating.  He flew up it, and climbed fluidly all day (that's him below).  Babe resorted to French free climbing this pitch (using the slings clipped to the bolts for handholds) after being instructed to do so by Jon.  It turned out to be an important first day on the rock, as Babe learned some critical lessons that she will need for the rest of the trip. 

 

The best part about the day was meeting and sharing a beer with some local climbers in their early 20’s, relatively new to the sport but very enthusiastic.  I was psyched by their youthful exuberance, and they were inspired by an old guy climbing the local test piece; a fair trade.  That is one of the great things about climbing, whitewater boating and every other adventure sport.  The community of people participating in them is typically intelligent, interesting, friendly and social.  A far cry from the fat, sallow smokers sitting on a stool pulling a slot machine lever for hours in Vegas.  Red state, blue state? 

Onward to Joshua Tree, passing the wind farms along the way.  Their symmetry and Terminator like presence have always fascinated me.  Oh, did I mention the weather?  Cloudless, 83 degrees, no humidity, gentle breeze.