THE HIKE
So, the Santa Ana winds started blowing last week.
Here's the way it works: the winds hang out off shore, in the mountains, or up in the Heavens, until all of the Christmas trees finally get delivered from green, moist, dewy, gorgeous and forresty Oregon. Then, once they have arrived, the winds sweep in with gusto, with enough strength to send palm fronds flying like torpedos, and attempt to dry out those trees until they lay dry and dying, sucking for water/wine/weather/winter, and then we Anglenos go out and spend $125 on a poor dry disoriented tree. Yippee! It's Christmas in L.A.!!
Back to the subject line: The Hike. The only thing that I will possibly go outside to do during the siege of the Santa Anas is to hike up Will Rogers trail to Inspiration Point to see the clear, sparkling vast basin holding Los Angeles like a birdling in it's nest. Ahh, to see the blue sea to the right of me, and the greenish brown mountains to the left always allows me to feel into the magic of this place.
Mr. B does not like to hike. In fact, he doesn't much like to exert any more energy than what naturally bubbles up at random moments throughout each day (and sometimes the night). But, I got him to put on shoes (miracle), and off we went over to Will Rogers Park, wind in our faces and a look of consternation on B's face.
Now, Mr. B takes on the uphill portion in any of three ways:
1) Walk alongside Bluebelly, holding hands.
2) Lean on Bluebelly, using her as a walking stick, trudging up the hill.
3) Hang onto Bluebelly by the shoulder, both shoulders, an arm or whatever else is available, and let her drag Mr. B up the hill, like Nepalese Sherpa Tenzing Norga dragging rich Americans up Mount Everest.
Of the three styles, Mr. B prefers them in opposite order. It's a good workout for Bluebelly.
Of course, Mr. B takes the downhill portion in one of two ways:
1) Run awkwardly down the hill fast enough that Bluebelly has no idea where he has gone.
2) Hang onto Bluebelly for dear life, wearing dark polariod sunglasses, so that everyone we meet on the trail thinks that Mr. B is competely blind, and being led down the trial by his faithful assistant. Many compassionate stares on this one.
Fortunately, seeing the vast expanse of the green grass of the polo fields beckons Mr. B on home, and at last we arrive back to the Behemoth, who holds all of Mr. B's treasures and miscellaneous trash from Jack In the Box.
We Live On.
