How to reach the wreck of the Dominator: Ranchos Palos Verdes, California

All roads lead to the sea...

I stepped off the slick rock I was standing on, and hopped onto a large rusted panel that was wedged between rocks and tidepools. After steadying myself, I took a cautious second step, and then a third step to satisfy myself that it wasn’t going to collapse under my weight; which, if it occurred, would no doubt drive shards of rusty metal into my lower legs and ankles in a painful tetanus inducing manner. Only then, after watching my feet for the last forty-five minutes, did I look up and survey the wreckage around this portion of the shoreline. In the sudden low tide silence that followed my stop, I heard the clear clattering of a myriad of crustacean legs running over other pieces of metal. At that point, I allowed myself a rueful grin and wondered for the first time if heading out to the wreck of the Dominator had been a good idea.

I had not been phased by getting mildly lost on the streets of Rancho Palos Verdes, nor by the difficulties I had experienced in finding the trail down to the wreck, nor the cobblestone covered beach, rogue waves, rotting seaweed, squatters shacks, or the aforementioned rusty bits that could poke and jab exposed flesh and deliver all sorts of disease. But, the idea of being attacked by a horde of angry crabs made me pause for a split second before I started laughing at the ridiculousness of the idea. I took two more steps, and found myself at the base of the main remaining section of the wreck, which was now broken up into three large components. In 1961, the then SS Dominator, a Greek freighter ran aground in heavy fog, and since that point in time, the remains of the ship have been slowly disappearing into the sea. (http://laist.com/2008/07/05/laistory_the_wreck_of_the_dominator.php).

Captain Hook would be proud!

After hearing about the wreck from a friend of mine, I was curious to see how much of the ship was left; and was curious to see if I could even find the wreck. From what I had read prior to leaving on my weekend adventure, either some or none of the ship was left, after fifty years of weathering from the Pacific Ocean and scavenging from various tourists, and that it was near impossible to traverse the beach to get to the wreck. However, like a lot of urban legends, I quickly found that both assertions were incorrect. While I had technically been seeing portions of the wreck from the moment I made it down to the beach in small bits and pieces, broken gears and rusted beams; I had found three large sections of the wreck clumped together about a mile from where I had descended.

The first section, which I was standing beneath after my brush with the potential crab army, appeared to be the ruined section of a tractor, or large hoisting device for the ship. As I circled around the rusted and partially seaweed covered remains, I marveled at how the gears of the device had swollen into place, but still retained their distinctive forms and markings in many circumstances. After examining the gears and a large hook, I moved a short ways down to what were clearly two former sections of the hull which had turned a burnished orange over the last decade. As I looked around at the different pieces of the wreck which remained around these sections, up at the base of the cliff, and down at the tideline accompanied by only the silence of the tiny low tide waves and the wind, I thought of the fleeting nature of the works of man as compared to the timelessness of the planet, and universe. Then, on a less serious note, I thought about how the wreck reminded me of the end scene of the original version of the Planet of the Apes. But, before I could spend much more time thinking about serious or non-serious thoughts, I saw a group of thirty hikers heading up the shore toward me, and I decided to take my thoughts elsewhere while they explored the wreck on their own.

How to Get There: The best directions I found to the wreck (which I used) were as follows: park at the intersection of Cloyden and Paseo Del Mar. There is ample street parking. Immediately to the West of Cloyden, a foot trail exists between two houses. The trail descends down a large drainage pipe toward the beach. The area around the pipe is paved and gradually sloping, which is easily traversable, and in my opinion, substantially easier and safer than attempting to descend down any other area of the surrounding sandstone cliffs. From the base of the pipe, it is approximately a mile walk South to the main portion of the wreckage described and pictured above.

I went at low tide, and I would recommend that if you are to attempt this hike, you do the same, because the beach is very narrow and full of large cobbled stones. It is my opinion that at high tide, there would be no beach, and you would be forced to navigate the base of the cliffs, which would be a tricky proposition. Prior to attempting this hike, I read many accounts about how the beach was too difficult to traverse. The truth regarding the beach is as follows: the beach is chock full of cobbled stones to boulders. Yes, you will have to watch your footing. No, it is not impossible, or untraverseable. It’s an adventure!

There also may be large swathes of seaweed at low tide that you may have to cross, which is a little gross, but again, it’s nothing that can’t be handled easily. Sadly, there is a fair amount of new trash along the beach (cans, and other items that have washed up), but if you feel inspired to fix this problem, you can pick up a couple pieces on your return trip to throw away later. In terms of time, it took me two and one half hours to explore the wreck leisurely and return to my car. I’d imagine the hike could be done in an hour to an hour and a half, if people were in a rush, but take your time, have some fun exploring, and enjoy the remains of the wreck while it lasts.

Even on San Gorgonio, nothing is the same.

Had I seen these shrubs before?

Nothing is the same. If I was to teach a class about mountaineering, that would be one of my first precepts. No matter how many times you go to a location, it is still the wild, and there is always something different about it: it may be hotter, it may be colder, the rocks may be a little more loose, the route may be harder to find, there may be animals, or that tree that was half fallen may be all the way fallen, or the grass slightly greener, but nothing, nothing is ever exactly the same. It may seem the same, but it is not. Everything is different. Nothing is the same. This is a mantra that helps to keep you alive out in the wild as well. It allows one not to take anything for granted; not to shortcut a spot, use an old hold, or use old protection that should be pulled. Nothing is ever the same.

Aside from keeping one alive, it is the best mantra for the wild, and life, in my opinion that one can have. Nothing is the same. Everything is unique. (http://lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/3/1/interregnum-the-past-is-the-past-the-future-the-future-and-t.html). Sure, it’s hard to appreciate the uniqueness of the third Wednesday of the month at work, in the same way that one approaches an old growth forest that is dusted with dew, but in my book, it’s a universal truth. Nothing is the same. Every unique and different moment of life should be enjoyed, whether it’s pushing paper, or discovering something in a far-far-off land. Unfortunately, it’s too easy to sleepwalk through life. Sometimes, too many irreplaceable things are lost, like remembering a good 7/8’s moon with good company or long lost friends, or who you are as a person. That is why I always try and tell myself every day, that phrase – “nothing is the same”, because even though life may be ghastly and difficult at times, it’s still beautiful – and I wouldn’t want to miss that beauty for anything.

Despite having this as one of my personal mottos, with all of the complicated practical and personal baggage that it brings, when I was on Gorgonio on July 31, 2010, I found myself repeating the phrase in the shadows cast by the gloaming light as the day ended. I could feel the rough rasp of the bark of the tree my hand was resting upon. Nothing is the same, I told myself. I could see the pale blue sky fading behind the black branches and needles above me. Nothing is the same, I told myself. I could smell the musty odor of long decayed plants, the dust of the valley below, and the sweet tang of summer growth. Nothing is the same, I told myself. I could hear the low, almost inaudible babbling of Vivian Creek next to me, speaking of frozen winters, falling rain, and melting snow. Nothing is the same, I wondered.

 

At this point, I was no longer sure if my eyes were open, shut, or if some cataclysm had struck the planet, and my mind had passed on from my body. The last time I had been on Gorgonio, in 2002, I had stood in this almost exact spot on my descent, and marveled at the timelessness of the forest. I had stopped to pull out my camera, felt my legs complaining tiredly, fixed the aperture, and shot a photograph that still hung on my wall. If I had been in black and white, I would have known that somehow, I had been transported into that picture. I shifted uneasily. I was hesitant to reach for my bag – what if I reached for it, and instead of a digital camera, my old film version fell out? What if, despite what I thought I knew, I was still there in 2002, and had fallen asleep, and the last eight years had been nothing but a detailed dream. Suddenly, I was stock still. All I could hear was my calm breathing. All I could feel was my heart beginning to cycle faster. Was it really 2010? As far as I knew, it could have been any time where I stood.

Then, I heard it: Hi Fi Killers rumbling away into the distance under Rude Boy’s tired legs. (http://lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/8/19/san-gorgonio-july-31-2010-vivian-creek-to-summit-156-miles-r.html). The spell was broken. I felt foolish, laughed at myself, and started moving quickly down the trail after him. Nothing was the same. I told myself as I whipped through the familiar trees. Even though sometimes, it sure as hell feels that way.  

San Gorgonio – July 31, 2010, Vivian Creek to Summit – 15.6 Miles Roundtrip, or Greater?

Summer wildflowers near High Camp, Vivian Creek Trail, San Gorgonio

Just ahead of me, I could hear the muffled dub beats of the Hi Fi Killers (http://www.amazon.com/Hi-Fi-Killers/e/B000AQ4NLG) coming out of Rude Boy’s backpack pocket interspersed with his tired but now vocal cursing. A half-mile back, he had cranked the volume on his iPhone, set it to shuffle, and hit play in an effort to inspire himself to get down the last bit of San Gorgonio. While he had been occupied with that, I had been ransacking my gear to find my last liter of water, while my brain again had crankily noted for the third or fourth time that the Vivian Creek trail felt a lot longer than 15.6 miles on the descent; and this, according to my brain, was something that I had already known, and not forgotten, but ignored, which it, and my body were not happy about. Five minutes after hearing the Hi Fi Killers, I was about to experience one of the more surreal moments of my life, but at that moment, fifteen minutes before the Hi Fi Killers, and ten minutes before an intangible loss of reality, all I was thinking about was about how damn long that Vivian Creek Trail felt. That, and how much I hated giving blood to mosquitoes on a voluntary, or involuntary basis.

We had left that morning from San Diego for San Gorgonio, getting an early start at 5 a.m. Back in San Diego, there was no orange glow of the reflected late night onshore flow. What there had been was a heavy drizzle that soaked the pavement and chilled my bones with its soupy moisture. As I flipped the wipers on that morning, I had shaken my head for the 1,012^th time at the strange San Diego weather of 2010. After Whitney (http://lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/6/24/mt-whitney-portal-to-summit-june-21-2010-part-one.html), San Gorgonio was the next peak I had interested the group in climbing. Gorgonio, as you may or may not know, is the tallest peak in Southern California at 11,503 feet, rising up out of the smog and foothills of Los Angeles, to tower over the City of Angels and the surrounding mountains and desert. Based on my past experience, I had suggested to the group that we would take the Vivian Creek route, which, according to my information – and memories, was 7.8 miles one way. I had climbed “Old Greyback” as San Gorgonio is also known several times, and twice by that route, so I knew that it was definitely do-able, although, I also knew it would be a long day.

From San Diego, it’s an easy drive up to Gorgonio – you follow the I-15 North, to the I-215 (also North), to the I-10 (East), to the Highway 38 exit in Redlands. Up to that point, my passengers – Rude Boy and Pratt - had been pretty quiet, but once we hit Redlands, they began to stir, and note that we could finally see the sun – and that there were a lot of tattoo parlors in Redlands. (Maybe it was just the exit we got off at). In any case, I had plenty of eyes to help me find the Forest Falls Road intersection, which one makes a right turn at, toward the Falls Recreation Area. Once we had arrived at the end of the road at the Falls Recreation Area we found...people! Tons of people! Whether it was the lack of sleep or my own personal naiveté, I had not expected nearly the amount of hikers out and about on the Vivian Creek trail. As we circled the lot, I realized that I had based my assumptions about the trail’s popularity on my experiences climbing the peak eight years ago on a Wednesday in May. Fortunately, Pratt and Rude Boy were nonplussed about the amount of people, and accepted my sheepish explanations about trail usage. (However: do not pull a LA! Be sure to get your permit in advance for this trail, as it is now quite popular!).

I parked the car, and in a matter of minutes we met up with Brother Bear and Tan and set off up the wash after Cash and his friend, who had left an hour earlier in order to beat the purported “90 degree temperatures”. As we traversed the wash, the air had the cool crispness of a fall day, not July 31^st – a fact that made us all realize that we had lucked out with another great hiking day. One of the other things I had remembered about the Vivian Creek Trail was that the first segment of the trail after the wash was a brutal, steep climb. Unlike the amount of traffic the trail received, this fact had not changed. By the time we arrived up in the hanging valley next to the Creek, all of us were sweating and panting in the cold tree shadows at 7100 feet.

 Summit approach on Gorgonio - too high for trees!

Once we had our breath back, we kept trekking through the late growing valley, and up into Halfway Camp and then up into High Camp, where there were some great summer blooms. Just after High Camp, we ran into Cash and his friend at the ridgeline, resting up for the summit ascent. From the ridgeline, which is also roughly treeline and is at roughly 10,000 feet, it is easy to see why San Gorgonio is known as “Old Greyback”, as the top of the mountain is covered with a rolling grey boulder-and-talus filled slope. After cracking a few jokes, there was nothing to do but suck heaping breaths of the now thin air, and push up through the dusty, exposed slope one boot at a time.

 I’d say that we reached the summit quickly, but the summit approach and the first section of the trail are the steepest – and toughest in my opinion. Since it was cooler, we didn’t get cooked to a crisp like ants under a magnifying glass on the approach, and were in great spirits by the time we reached the summit. After lounging with the herd of other hikers who had made it that day on the summit blocks, and making friends with our Angel Share, and marveling at the remaining snowfields, we turned back down, and were making record pace until people began to tire just after Halfway Camp and into the hanging valley, which was when the aforementioned Hi Fi Killers were turned on, which, among other things, powered us back to the cars in a tired but accomplished fashion.

After we had returned home, I received an e-mail from Cash, telling me in his own sardonic way, that I had misled the group into thinking it was a 15.6 mile hike roundtrip, when in reality, his friend had measured the hike at 18.0 miles roundtrip on his GPS watch. I was puzzled. After all, when I had started mountaineering, all we had to measure distance was maps, compasses, sextants, and pieces of string and no one ever allowed us to question things like distance, and all hikes were uphill both ways. Placing such thoughts about how times had changed from my mind, I focused on the memory of how damn long the trail had felt.  Moreover, I was sure I had told everyone the correct distance – hadn’t I?!?!?

Summit crew and Angel's Share on Gorgonio. He's not dead, just napping. At this point, it was now a question of mountaineering honor for me, the LA! I began to research it, and I found out some interesting things: Most sites, including my old resources list is as 7.8 miles one way (At this, I felt better – my honor was safe – I had not intentionally misled anyone!); however, some sites list it as 8.4 miles one way (http://www.summitpost.org/mountain/rock/150533/san-gorgonio.html); and even more interestingly, the most recent USFS handout lists that trail as 8.6 one way (http://www.sgwa.org/trails2.htm). Now, you are probably wondering: how long is the Vivian Creek to summit trail? My answer: honestly, I now have to admit I have no idea! I think, based on having climbed the peak on that trail a number of times and reviewing my maps, I’d have to admit that it’s probably longer than 15.6 roundtrip. Is it 18-19 miles roundtrip? Probably not. Is it 17.2 miles roundtrip? I’m not sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was. In the end, all I can say is that it’s a great hike and a great time – but if you’re going to do it, be prepared for the extra mileage, and be sure to have fun doing it.

This year, the Beardpocalypse will be halved.

In between two rocks, I paused my squirming for a second. I had thought I heard someone saying “Helloooooo”, but it had been hard to tell due to the scraping sounds and my muttered curses. For a good thirty seconds, I hung between the two massive rocks and listened, but all I could hear was the blood pounding in my head, and my forearms screaming at me to move or fall. Once I had edged through the gap, I shook out my shoulders, and checked my gear that had rasped between the boulders. After looking at everything quickly, I confirmed what I already knew: everything I carried was a garden variety inanimate item that could not talk. That meant that I had either heard a rock, shrub, or hidden animal talking to me, or that I was hearing things again. “Freakin’ Mt. Lawson”, I muttered, as I stomped up to a nearby outcropping and looked around, while I sipped some water and stroked my beard idly. It was as I had suspected – no one else was around as far as I could see. I stepped back onto the thin trail that led through leaves and branches and began to climb again, when I heard it again: “Hellloooooooooo?!?!”

I stopped. That I had heard clearly. Or at least I had thought I had heard it clearly. I paused, sipped some water for good measure, in case I was actually dehydrated and clomped back down toward the rocks I had just climbed through. Then, I heard the voice again, except this time, it asked something strange: “You there – are you a mountain lion?!?” The absurdity of the question prevented me from immediately answering. I had visions of Mountain Lions dressed up in hiking garb, like Little Red Riding Hood’s Grandmother, saying things like, “No dearie, I’m just another hiker, do you have any human jerky?” before pouncing, or better yet, responding in Mountain Lion: “Growl Growl Snarl Snaarl Growl Snarl”. (Translation: “No, my good fellow, clearly I’m a lion, and I can’t see why you’d insult my feline grace in such a matter. You humans, such cards!”). I wondered how someone could confuse me, homo sapiens, with a puma concolor. I even was tempted to make lion sounds. Instead, I played it safe – and said – somewhat lamely as I bent down to peer through the crack, “No…I’m a human”.

 Do mountain lions help people in need?

“Oh!” the voice came back, relieved, “I thought you might have been because all I could see was your hair and beard, so I…” I stopped listening and stood up abruptly and took a step back. So that was how it was: since I had a beard, clearly, I was a mountain lion. That was great. Just great. That was freakin’ fantastic. Day Eighteen of the Beardpocalypse had picked up right where Day Seventeen had left off. I tried to remember why I hadn’t shaved before I had come on the hike, and then I remembered. I hadn’t shaved because I was having a lazy Saturday. I sighed, and then stooped back down to proffer directions to the clearly lost – and confused hikers below me.

Once I had given the directions, I stomped through the brush in a very two-legged manner, panting and sweating the whole way towards the summit. As a matter of fact, I made extra noise not only to dissuade anyone else from thinking I was a lion, but to scare any potential lions from making a similar identification mistake. After searching around the summit block for several minutes (http://lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/7/13/mt-lawson-july-3-2010-there-is-no-ladder.html), I decided to free hand the final bit, which was fine, except that mid-way up, my face began to itch. It started innocently enough in one spot, near my left ear, and then began to cascade down my jaw, burning as it went over to the right side. I tried ignoring it, but that made the sensation creep deeper into my skin. I gnashed my teeth, and wiggled my nose to no avail. What I needed to do was just give it a quick scratch with my hand, just a quick scratch, thirty seconds, and everything would be fine.

This was the worst idea ever. While the summit block wasn’t the most extreme thing I had climbed, it was still a vertical wall, and there was quite a drop that would certainly maim. I resisted the impulse with all of my attention, which made it itch more. “Great,” I thought, “my beard is trying to kill me”. Once I had started thinking about it, it was all I could focus on, other than the climbing. By the time I reached the top, my right eye was twitching from the stress like I was demonically possessed. As soon as it was safe, I scratched frantically at it with both hands, and ignored the climbing chalk that was probably streaking my face. At this point, style points didn’t matter, because after all, I had already been identified as a mountain lion. 

After thoroughly performing my ladder check, I began to head back down. Not surprisingly, on the decent, my beard didn’t itch one bit. I didn’t care. It had been hot. It had been itchy. And, apparently, it had made me look like a mountain lion, among other things. I had fulfilled my beard vow and then some, and if I didn’t like it, it was time to shave it off. As I reached the cave where I had been mistaken for another animal, I saw the same guy again off in the distance. After a long – and puzzling conversation, I found out that neither he, nor his girlfriend had made it over to the actual trail despite my directions. Correspondingly, I decided to wait for a moment or two to shout directions through the bushes so that they could actually make it to the trail and back down. It wasn’t the most helpful thing I had ever done, but since I hadn’t brought my chainsaw to cut a new trail, it was all that I could do.

Eventually, they crashed through the last foot or so of branches above me, and fell onto the trail, looking sore, bedraggled, and utterly cranky with each other. After finding out that they were indeed, fine, and not in any sort of imminent danger, I took pity on them, and led them down the “tricky” portion of the trail to where the road ended, whereupon the girl said to me, “Thank you so much, mystery bearded mountain man”. Since it was the best compliment I had received in a while with the beard, I blinked, laughed, and wished them luck as I headed back to my car.

The next day, as we jogged down a misty and cloudy beach, the Slovak listened to my tale of woe, and in response said, “So that’s why you still have the beard?” I waited thirty seconds to gather enough air to answer, since he was setting a bruising barefoot pace, and gasped out that I was shaving it off that day. “Dude.” He said, pausing to pant as well, “You. Should. Do something epic with that. Like Fu Manchu style for the party.” I laughed – briefly – since I didn’t have much air to spare. Later, when we were at our post-run food-fest, I looked at him and said, “Why not, I’ll do it”, which led him to stare at me with a confused look until I explained that I was finishing a conversation we had started about an hour before. Several hours later, I found myself with my trusty razor in hand, staring at my unfamiliar bearded face in the mirror, wondering how to approach carving it into something unusual. Since it was usually several quick strokes of removing everything, I wasn’t sure I had the finesse technique to dance around corners without drawing blood or sabotaging any styles that I might come up with. I spent a moment wondering whether my hairstylist had been serious about carving stars into my beard, but in the end decided that it was ridiculous to call and ask her to do so on the Fourth of July.

This year's hot style: the LA Half-Beard Prince look

After considering all of my options for a massive thirty seconds, I decided that I was going to shave half of my face, while leaving the other half intact. Such a project seemed to be within my feeble skill set, so I took a good look, and relaxed, knowing that if anything went wrong, I was at least going to be completely clean shaven. In a matter of minutes, I had reached my goal – and insofar as it could look good, it looked good. The lines were even and clean, and it was almost exactly half and half. At this point, I noticed that I was running late, so I dressed, and hopped into my car, and headed off to the grocery store to pick up the items that I had promised to bring. The store was packed with people grabbing their last minute Fourth of July meats and drinks, and everyone was too distracted to notice me for the most part. Sure, there were a few strange looks, but for the most part, people one saw one side of my face – the bearded side – or the non-bearded side, so I appeared completely normal. Placing random strangers aside, I had forgotten about the half-beard while I looked at my grocery list, answered texts, and thought about other things. So, when the checker asked me what was going on, I stupidly stared blankly at her for a second. A second or two later, I remembered – “OH, the BEARD!” I said inanely, “It’s for the party I’m going to”. Then, I proceeded to blather on for a number of minutes telling her some of my tribulations of the last three weeks, until I realized that I sounded either like an idiot or drunk. At this point, I was glad that I wasn’t buying any liquor, and hastily wrapped the story up, grabbed my bags, and headed out.

Once I was at the party, everyone found the half-beard amusing – except for one person. She kept staring at me: “Dude!” she kept saying, “Dude, you’re freaking me out! You need to shave that off!” to which I – and everyone else laughed at her in our silly Fourth of July party inebriated way. Aside from her atypical reaction, everyone else loved it – and kept saying things like, “You need to wear that to work!”, or “The beard’s growing in really….what the…..wait….” All in all, it was good times: such good times, that I along with many others, elected to spent the night, once the sweet sounds of Bulletproof by LaRoux had finally been turned off. In the morning, I opened my eyes, looked around, and shook my head at the shenanigans of the night before, and decided that I needed coffee. I headed down the street to the nearest coffeehouse and lined up with everyone else, too tired to notice any random stares.

When half my order had been completed, and was sitting in cups in front of me, the barista looked at me and said, “I dig it. I’ve been trying to get my boyfriend to grow one of those for a long time, but for some reason he won’t.” I stared at her, and I for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about for about a half minute. Then, like a hammer smashing into my head, I got it. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, the half beard! Right...” At this point, the look she gave me was half scathing, and half condescending. I picked up my coffee carrier, mumbled my thanks, and elected not to tell her any rambling stories. Back at the ranch, once everyone had had their coffee, and watched their fill of “Mega Octopus Versus Mega Mega Shark”, they wanted breakfast, which was also something I wanted. Finally, after an hour of staggering around, lazing around, and doing nothing, the group was ready to leave. When I got back to my car, I noticed the fuel light was on for the tenth time, and decided that I’d better do something about that, so on the way to breakfast, I stopped for gas.

While gallons of refined dead dinosaurs were being pumped into my car, I zoned out, because I was tired, hung-over, and tired. I snapped out of it when someone approached me from the pump opposite mine. “Hey man”, he said, “Can I get my picture with you?” This was the last sentence I expected to hear mid-morning on a cloudy July Fifth, and, since I was tired, my brain locked up again. Eventually, I got the wheels turning again, and said, “What? Why? I’m not famous or anything.” He looked at me, laughed, and replied, “Famous?!? Who said you were famous? I just dig the beard, man! That’s epic! So – how about that picture?” Once I had stopped laughing at myself, I posed with him for a picture, and then burned rubber from that gas station, because the whole incident had kind of creeped me out. After breakfast, a couple of other incidents happened, including one where I had a random run in with a friend of mine who had shaved his head into a Mohawk (That incident can be best summarized in this exchange; “What happened to your face!/What happened to your hair!”), but eventually, I made it home, and shaved off the rest of my beard before taking a nap. Several days later, I had some time to reflect on the beardpocalypse, and the half-beardpocalypse, and I decided that I had learned quite a bit.

In particular, I learned that if you grow a whole beard, people may think you are a mountain lion, which is better than being told that you don’t fit in with a beard. Being told you are a mountain lion is also better than dealing with skeptical clerks who won’t sell you liquor because you don’t have a beard in your ID. Also, having a beard may annoy your boss, which is both a good and a bad thing. However, overall, having a beard is bad, because hot girls mistake you for the brother you don’t have, and when rock climbing, your beard may try to kill you. Also, there are lots of beard racists in this world. The most important lesson that I learned overall though was that having a half-beard is pure awesome. People want your picture. People want to talk to you, and girls will fall asleep in your lap. There is no downside whatsoever. So, if you are considering a beard – or other facial hair, I, the LA am here to tell you: the half-beard is the way to go. Really. And if it doesn’t work out for you, you didn’t hear it here, and you won’t be able to find me, because I am now clean shaven, so I blend in like a chameleon. And for all of you with beards out there, I say, keep fighting the good, hot, itchy fight, because I cannot. With that, those were my experiences from Beardpocalypse 2010.

Project Grizzly a/k/a Beardpocalypse 2010

It was another mundane Wednesday morning at Starbucks. At least, that was what I thought as I waited patiently in the same line filled with the mostly same people, waiting to get my coffee before heading to work. That was when I felt the tap on my shoulder from the middle-aged woman behind me. I turned around, and groggily asked what I could do for her. “Oh” she said hesitating for a moment, “I thought I could help you, since you looked lost.” I wanted to laugh at her; and tell her that it was impossible to be lost at any Starbucks on Planet Earth, as each one always had a straight line that went from front door to coffee, but that seemed rude, so I said nothing. While I searched for my early morning words, she helpfully told me that I looked like I was from out of town. This comment puzzled me even further. Despite my confusion, I managed to get out that I was not lost, and that I was not from out of town. This caused her to narrow her eyes at me, and look at me searchingly with a “I-know-you’re-lying-gaze”. She then told me that she knew my car had out of state plates, because she had seen it. I denied this assertion, since it was patently false, and also, somewhat creepy. She then commented on my appearance, and noted that I was potentially paler than the average Southern Californian.

Looking "bad" on Day Seven.

At this point, the line had moved two inches, and I was annoyed. Not awake. Annoyed. I categorically told her that I was not lost, that I came to this Starbucks once, if not twice a week, that I lived in the area, that I worked in the area, and I just wanted my coffee, and a side order of enlightenment. I wanted to know why she was badgering me out of all the customers in the line. After I had finished my exhausted – but firm list of residency qualifications, her gaze had shifted from “I-know-you’re-lying” to flat out awkward. It was only then that she cleared her throat and said somewhat defiantly, “Well, it’s your beard. Most men around here would know not to grow something like that, because, well, it just doesn’t look good.” At that moment, 8:41 a.m. on a Wednesday, I had no words to speak whatsoever. Then, they came. I wanted quip to her, “Ah, I get it. You’re a beard racist.” I wanted to let loose a diatribe about how her wrinkles were showing, or snidely remark that she should be embarrassed to go out in public dressed in last season’s trendy clothes, or just be flat out mean. Instead, I took a deep breath, and took the high road. “Thank you for letting me know”, I forced out through my clenched unsmiling smile, and stepped forward to order my coffee. At the end of the transaction, the barista gave me a wink and said, “Nice beard”. That was Day Eight of Project Grizzly, and my beard wasn’t even that long. 

I couldn’t tell you, exactly how Project Grizzly a/k/a. “the Beardpocalypse” had come about. Perhaps it was because I had subconscious, burning beard envy, because the One OG had been sporting a quality “Gordon’s Fisherman” beard for a while; or that Lumonox had rambled about with a good “Charlie Whitehurst” with his flowing locks to accompany him afterwards. Maybe it was because I wanted to live up to my radio name of “Grizzly”; or maybe it was to win a bet with my group of Whitney climbers; or maybe it was to draw attention away from the effects of global warming on the deforested areas of my scalp. Or maybe, just maybe, it was for the ladies, because one night, at the local, one of them had said to me, “I’ve never seen you with a beard; have you ever had a beard?”. The answer to that question was a firm yes, but I didn’t have pictures of it, because the last time I had had a beard was when I had come out of the wilderness after nearly three weeks, looking, and smelling like Sasquatch, and the last thing I wanted was photographic proof of that stench.  Based on all, some, or none of those reasons, I set out to grow a beard. Also, I didn’t really want to have a reason, because having a reason implies that I didn’t really have anything going on except being focused on my facial hair, which is a total lie. I had some things going on over those weeks. Really. I swear.

Can you believe it? Five o'clock shadow at three o'clock!

On the first day, I resolved that I would take a picture every day in total obsessive compulsive style, because that would prove that I totally had a lot of other things going on, and that I was not narcissistic whatsoever, because other people would totally want to look at documentary style proof of this project because it was that interesting. Other than shaving that morning, nothing of note happened. Slightly around 3 p.m., my five o’clock shadow appeared, which was not noteworthy at all. By Days Two and Three, the beard had grown out to my normal, comfortable everyday adventure sandpaper stubble length. No one batted an eye or made any comments about this, as they had seen it before. On Day Four, atop Mt. Rodgers, Cash caught me taking a picture of myself and asked what the bloody hell I was doing. When I explained, he roundly mocked me, and told me that he could grow a longer beard than me by the end of the trip, and that we could measure our beards together at the end. This made me slightly uncomfortable, so I sidled away from him, and told him that we would not be measuring anything together whatsoever, and made a mental note to lock my tent that night when I slept.

On Day Five, the beard was itchy. I wanted to shave. Fortunately, while mountaineering, that was not an option. As the sun was setting on Day Six, and I was lurching around the parking lot at the Whitney Portal after summiting, looking for Chef Jaime, I ran into some total strangers, who told me that I was the first mountaineer they had seen with a champion beard, to which I thanked them, and then sat down and wheezed in exhaustion, which probably took away some of my manly points. On Day Eight – well, you know what happened on Day Eight. After that, I went to work, where nearly everyone was enthused to see my beard. The one person who was not so enthused to see my beard: my boss. After pithily looking at me when I came in, and noting “you have a beard” with mild regret, he came in my office on two separate times to note that “you have a beard”, and on the second time he said, “So, how long do you think that’ll last?”. It was at this point that I knew that the Beardpocalypse in full effect and it was good.

Not much happened over the next week – after all, I wasn’t sitting at the mirror staring at myself watching the beard grow. But, as the days went by, I noticed that the beard was wreaking subtle changes on my persona. I found myself sitting in my office, stroking my beard thoughtfully as I talked to clients, which made me feel completely absurd. My response to this was to concentrate on keeping my hands on my desk, which made me lose my train of thought at times regarding what I was supposed to be talking about. But at least I wasn’t stroking my beard. There also was all the beard maintenance time, which was a serious pain. I had thought growing a beard would be easier on my appearance, since I could just roll with it. This was not the case, as the beard required trimming to prevent the dreaded appearance of “neck beard” or “high face” beard which would make me look like a Yeti. After a while I just wanted to shave the whole thing off rather than fool around like some ridiculous manscaper, but I dug deep and exercised some mental toughness, and ultimately perservered.

Then, on Day Thirteen things became interesting again. While jogging at my usual spot at the beach, one of the girls who ran at the same time flagged me down as I passed her car. I tried to act suave, and spontaneously stop sweating and gasping for air, but failed at all three. After the pleasantries about the weather, running, and the day were out of the way, she asked me where my brother was – my brother who was younger, who ran at the same time usually, and wore almost the same clothes and looked almost exactly like me, except that he was clean shaven. I then spent the next ten minutes trying to convince her that I didn’t have a brother, and that there was a 99% chance that she was talking about clean shaven me. Just when I was about to get exasperated about her not being able to differentiate clean shaven me from bearded me, I realized that the last girl I had met while running had thought there were sixty-three states, not fifty. With that in mind, I told her my brother would be back sometime, and that I’d pass along the message to him for when he returned. As I jogged off, I made a mental note to run in a different area when I did shave.

On Day Fifteen, I looked at my old 3G iPhone, and saw that for some inexplicable reason, the OS Four Update had taken out five days of beard pictures. For a split second, I was really bothered by this, because that had totally ruined my documentary. I was mad. I was going to e-mail Steve Jobs, and complain vigorously about this blatant and harsh injustice. Then, I took a deep breath, and realized that the beard had made me go something-something crazy. I didn’t need that many days of beard pictures; indeed, the idea of taking daily pictures seemed totally out of control ridiculous. Even scarier, I realized that that kind of e-mail was probably exactly the type of e-mail Jobs would respond to. I could hear it now: “Dear LA. Have you tried syncing your phone, you bearded maniac? Also, do note that iTunes, the iPhone, and Apple do not discriminate against beards, because I have a beard. I also like to say beard. Don’t you? Beard, beard, beard! Also, do not go Unabomber on our company. Steve Jobs”. I almost shaved right then and there, even though I was at work, and even though I would have had to use plastic forks, hand soap, and used coffee grounds to complete the mission.

Hello moto, beards that are in this picture may or may not have been in other pictures!

Then, on Day Sixteen, I went back to my local to meet my friends. The girl who bartended took one look at me, and said, “You look like an idiot”, which was how small talk sometimes went with her, so even though I had a beard, I thought that not much had changed. On Day Seventeen, I was picking up champaign for my friend’s birthday at the grocery story, when I was asked for identification from the checker. I handed over my driver’s license. He looked at the license. He looked at me. He looked at my beard. He looked back at the license. Then, he looked back at me and said, “You don’t have a beard in this picture”. I commended him on his powers of observation, and tried to laugh it off, and asked for my license back. He held on to it, and kept staring at me, and repeating, “You don’t have a beard in this picture”. At a certain point,  I wanted to rage on him and say, “Look here, you don’t have to be goddam Sherlock Holmes to realize that people can grow beards that do not retroactively travel through time and appear in their photos on their driver’s licenses”, but again, I took the high road, and said something lame like, “Yeah, well, I have a beard now”, which, after five more minutes of staring, seemed to do the trick, because he let me complete my purchase. I should have called him a beard racist too. While driving back from the party, I realized that I was ready to be done with the beard. All that I had promised was that I would grow a beard. I hadn’t promised to maintain, cherish, love it, and keep it for the rest of my days. I was going to shave it off first thing on Day Eighteen. At least that was what I thought, but that’s the thing about the Beardpocalypse – it doesn’t end that easily.

The Best of the 2010 Whitney Excursion - the FOOD!

You know you're on an expedition when the stove says so.

Every expedition has at least one moment that stands out from the faded memories of the actual adventure with color enhanced clarity. It’s that point where a day later, you laugh, go “I can’t believe that happened/you did that/we survived/oh my god you wouldn’t believe”, and then when you think about the trip twenty years later, the same memory creeps into your mind. It’s that story you try to relate to your friends with the disclaimer of, “you had to have been there, but, let me tell you…”, and then when they don’t laugh at your story, you pause, and go lamely, “well, you had to have been there”. Then, even worse, when your friends make the mistake about asking about the main, exciting part of the trip – for example, where you summitted the peak in gale force winds in snow both ways and found the lost Ark of the Covenant; you brighten and, before telling the story about how you made the summit and lost your nose in the process, you say, “but first, let me tell you a side story about the frozen macaroni squirrel incident”, which causes them to roll their eyes, groan, and regret talking to you in the first place. At the same time though, the thing that no one realizes about these stories is that without the frozen macaroni squirrel incidents, climbs are by and large similar. After all, mountains are the same in many ways – they are made of rocks and they are tall. Some have snow. Some do not. Some have climbers on them, some do not. But what differs on each climb is the experience and the stories that follow from the experiences – whether people want to hear them or not.

There were so many things that happened on this last trip to Whitney that made the experience an epic adventure. In general, one would think that since it was my seventh time on the summit, I’d have some insightful observations about the peak, or the conditions, but I’ve covered that already. All that I’m left with is that Whitney is a big mountain. Really really big. Biggest in the lower forty-eight states, I’ve been told, and if Wikipedia says it, it must be true. Also, having been up it a fair few times, I can attest that it is large. There are so many little things from the planning, and the drama that entailed, and the bookkeeping that followed it. Roughly, I can count over 234 separate e-mails between myself, group members, and prospective group members about the trip.  In this respect, Whitney seemed less like an adventure, and more like bookkeeping. Or, I could talk about the training hikes, and using lots of mountaineering technique, while being told by group members, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but it just seems like we could go this way, with no problems, and not get lost whatsoever, but I don’t know what I’m talking about.” (Readers: note that “that way” was a random undefined direction. Also note that if someone tells you that you should go in a random undefined direction, contrary to what anyone tells you, you will get lost – at least for the short term. Long term, you might find your way back – eventually.)

Practically, I could also talk about the terror of watching people traverse in strange ways, or wondering at times where people were and what they were doing, or how they got lost when all they were supposed to be doing was following a silver car. Or I could cite to the numerous moments of comic relief, where people insisted on saying, “that’s what she said”, at every opportunity even though it wasn’t funny, and had never really been funny in the first place, and even though they weren’t drunk. But – and I say this with great difficulty (insert: “that’s what she said here” line to get a sampling of how it works), what really sticks out in my mind is the food.

That's right: food. I'm still eating cookies for breakfast, though!

That’s right, I said food. And not because it was bad. Too often on mountaineering, climbing, or any sort of expedition, the food is god-awful. It’s one of those things that ends up going by the wayside, in a, “I have too many things to do type of way, so I’ll just grab some nutrition bars”. Then, on mile thirty of the trip, you say to yourself, “for the love of all that is holy in the universe, why did I pack so many goddam nutrition bars!??!”. Placing aside Powerbars, Clif Bars, Luna Bars, Bar Bars, and whatever else comes in bar form, the other options aren’t usually good either. Although there’s been massive developments in freeze dried food technology in the last fifteen years (don’t ask me to name them), freeze dried food still tastes like, well, freeze dried food. Which is not good. It’ll keep you alive, but then again, so will paint chips, I hear – at least for the short term.

On this trip, the food was good because we had Chef Jaime and his miraculous grill. Miraculous is not too strong of a word in this respect. The grill took up a fair portion of the back of his truck, and had its own apparatus that you had to assemble to get it together, including its own supporting legs, side infrastructure, and propane tank. Someday, when I am old and wizened, I hope to have something as fancy as Jaime’s traveling grill installed in my house. It was that impressive. But, equipment is nothing without the right personnel to operate it (insert: “that’s what she said” again). Chef Jaime, for many reasons was an invaluable asset of the group, because he knew to bring and make the good food. On Saturday night, he brought fresh homemade salsa for the group for the carne asada, and then made fresh Pico de Gallo on the spot. (Honorable mention here to Rude Boy for trying to cook beans in a can over an open fire with nothing but a wooden spoon, but then rallying to make fresh guacamole that same night.)

Most people would take a break at that point – after all, we were camping and fresh salsa and fresh Pico de Gallo is hard to beat, but the next morning, Chef Jaime was back at it, brewing fresh coffee in his percolator, cooking free and non-free range eggs into omelets, cooking bacon, and grilling some champion non-cajun style flapjacks. As Pratt put it, “this is the one trip I’m going to gain weight on”. More than the fifty pounds we packed on before climbing the mountain, what I’ll remember about that trip to Whitney is that morning before at eight thousand feet, watching the sun rise, feeling full and content, and ready to take on the world, as I read lazily from the Kodiak Cakes Box to the group, while listening to the frequent “that’s what she said” comments. Even though my box reading skills are quite dramatic, none of that would have happened without the great food – so, thanks Chef Jaime, I’ll always remember that – and I’ll be dragging you along on whatever trips I can from now on. (“That’s what she said!”).