Equipped with the necessities for perhaps the most enduring walking session I have taken in quite some time, I set off under the amaranthine beam of the the Earth's desk lamp. There was a balmy breeze patrolling the avenues here in Santa Monica and the Pacific Ocean, despite the intermittent surges and swells, looked almost concrete blue. I took a stroll along the bluffs, on a sinuous promenade, eyeballed by the lanky yet stately Palms. The trail wasn't busy by any means which made for a fluent journey, and whilst there were passing joggers and cyclists making an extra lap or two in order to burn off the superflous turkey and chipolatas, the atmosphere of quietude wasn't tarnished.
The path eventually parted from the coast, and I was being led on a contorted mosey around small detached complexes; the kind of route that makes the innocent traveller seek out their map on every turn. I was negotiated up a small grade, onto another long stretch of road, lacking in pavement, but welcoming nonetheless with open gates and an aesthetically congenial arrangement of outdoor furnishings. The one aspect I truly adore about America, is that a house is not just a house but a home. The streets and avenues are not aligned with a montony, designed in a small darkened office hundreds of miles away, but instead, each house is individualised to depict something about its inhabitants; their passions and beliefs, which simply warms the heart. I happened upon many trees still stomaching the autumnal effect; it's sights like these that make this trip so hard to place a chronology to.
I crossed a rather active boulevard, and began to trek off-road on a dusty track which would serve as a fitting prologue before the hiking lined up at Will Rogers Historic Park. Here, I saw Cacti and other Broad Leaf plants I couldn't attribute identity to. (Incidentally, why is it that what botanists regard as 'common names' are seldom common at all. Take 'Lambsquarters' for example, or 'Kangaroo Paws'; both of which are legitimate, yet hardly colloquial.)
I didn't expect the Will Rogers Historic Park, (named thus after the famous American humorist of that name) to be equipped so adequately, so I was delighted to see a modest gift shop with the necesseties for people like me to rehydrate with. The shop also doubled up as a museum, and further along, a children's playground found residence under a shady canopy of foliage. There was more than enough space for parking your car, to the extent that families could afford to bring out all of their autmobiles, together with lawn mower and wheelbarrow and still find a comfortable spot for each one. Deeper into the park, private stables provided a reasonable home for horses, most of which were ferrying jockeys out and around upon my arrival. A spacious turf offered room for a casual game of football, and yet still enough license for a spot of reading and, if the mind wanders enough through the forests of inspiration, a spell of creative writing.
I proceeded along 'Inspiration Trail'; a most commodious title for such a trek if ever there was one. A short period of invigorating acclivity led me to a wonderfully placed wooden bench; a point worthy to stop and savor my lunch at. As I lacerated, mutilated and grinded each chocolate chip cookie into a fine yet flavoursome flour, I gazed at the vista before me. I was well aware of course, from peeking at the map I picked up from the giftshop, that 'Inspiration Trail' would eventually lead me to Inspiration Point, and that I shouldn't take it all in here, for the slight chance of an anticlimax when I reach the summit. So despite my comfortably sundrenched position, I rose and hiked further along the arenose.
Surrounding me were the interlocking spurs of this undulating landscape. It was as if the hillside had fingers, which had decided to enact a clasping pose; each fingertip on one side confederated with two others from the opposite side; the kind of clasp a businessman would bear to portray calmness in a long and arduous interview. I paused still on my voyage. How delectable it is to hear nothing but the tweeting of birds ringing through the air and the occasional scampering of a nearby squirrel, and less than four miles from the scuttle and whisk of a typical weekday afternoon in Santa Monica. The hum of traffic, the fuss and the flutter of our very own species making their way around a world of brick and mortar, seemed a lightyear away, though all that partitioned myself from it, was a mere congregation of flora and fauna. That's the bewitching thing about Mother Nature, and long may she reign.
I made considerable progress, but felt I was turning into a mixed grill, under the sear of the Sun. My ears began to brown like cookies do in bakery ovens; my perspiring brow was almost sizzling, my weary feet would at any moment shrivel in dessication. I thought I might either dematerialize in an act of evaporation or wither like a weed to the ground, wizening to join an already dusty track. All of this on the 28th December was particularly befuddling, especially because it's been less than two months since the austere bitterness of Alaska, and it's less than a week until I voyage back North, to Toronto. I pondered over this until I finally reached Inspiration Point; the summit of my journey and a showcase of the finest views I've captured thus far, here in my spell at Los Angeles.
Uncannily, from this vantage point, Los Angeles County seems to be nothing but eloquent verdure. Along the horizon, emerging from this bubbling stew of foliage, a party of skyscrapers celebrate freedom in the open air. Small dashes erupt out of the horizon, ascenting to pinnacle heights and slowly but surely cruise to land afar. There's a faint resonating mumur of city life, but it also seems to have been smothered by a web of vegetation. And yet, I stood there admiring such greenery, but engraved into my mind are memories of great expanses of cement; endless stretches not of roots and shoots but of human constructed edifices. I suppose the reason why they call it 'Inspiration Point' is because the view does, in a certain way, allow you to dream of what this area could have turned out like; a diverse oasis of natural life with very little space for humans.
I meandered my way back along the trails, towards the entrance of the park, embarking on a four mile trek back to Santa Moncia. On this stretch of the journey, I couldn't help but stare at the enchanting spectacle above; a collaboration between cloud and light; two forces of nature creating one magical display.
My southward amble was punctuated once again with incident; I had missed one of my turnings and had continued walking into an unploughed area of woodland. It was here that I found good fortune in this mishap; three deer were enjoying the last hour of light amongst the trees. To my surprise, they didn't gallop off out of view, but remained still as if they liked their photo taken. I obliged, they got their moment of fame, I turned back and directed myself onto the correct route.
By the time I had reached Santa Monica, the Sun was planning another afternoon paddle in the Pacific Ocean, and rush hour traffic became apparent as soon as I hit the coastal avenue. So suddenly, I had plunged myself back into civilisation, and I took a moment to consider which I preferred. An orange glow glossed over the city, and made for an attractive walk, yet this was no 'Inspiration Point'. It was reality, in all of its precision and certainty.
i love you dan!
ReplyDelete