I grew up in a town called Upland. Nestled in the cradle of San Gabriel foothills, it nurtured me in many ways: peaceful suburbs, great high school, an “L.A. Hour” from the beach, the desert, the city.
From my bed, I would look to the mountains every morning for a signal on the day. Clear or smog alert air? Rich, rainy colors and smells (those were my favorite) or dry California heatwaves?
In early attempts to express deep thoughts, I used to say that I could reach out my hands and almost feel those mountains, understand them as though I were a blind woman reading a face. I traced the wrinkles, the pockmarks, the scraggly pine whiskers of old Mount Baldy innumerable times. Those mountains were the listening ears of distant, dreaming thoughts through every phase of my growing up.
We did go up into the arms of Mount Baldy from time to time. My favorite childhood spot was the trout farm, where I could put gooey, fishy-smelling stuff on a hook, stick it in the stocked pond and pull out a 15-inch rainbow in minutes. There was a steep ridge where, after a rare heavy snowfall, my brother and I took cookie trays and camping pads to go sledding in our jeans. On one of our first dates, Chris tried to woo me by skillfully slaloming the switchbacks up to Mount Baldy Lodge on his motorcycle; I clung to him and cried with fright. We never did that again!
Ahh, Mount Baldy Lodge. (Here, we come to the muse behind all this nostalgia). A week ago, not having any other plans in place, we decided to stay there for the night. With quaintness that knows no bounds, Baldy Village and the lodge that acts as its epicenter is charming and welcoming. If you ever get the chance, go for it! We met some locals at the drinking hole and gave a toast to mountain people, who seem to be just a bit tougher than the rest of us. The seasoned climbers swapped scar stories, beat us in arm wrestling, then invited us to a short hike in the morning. A fabulous idea!
Our new friend didn’t show up the next day, however, and we paced a bit, wondering what to do with ourselves. We could climb to the summit…
The last time I tried to hike in these mountains was almost twenty years ago with my parents and brother. We made it part-way before my mother broke her ankle and we turned back to go for help.
Chris summitted the mountain many times as a younger man, why not all of us now? Stocked only with a couple of oranges, a bag of dates, and a box of Cheez-Its, that suddenly seemed like a great idea. (We may not be the best of parents, but we’re the only ones they’ve got folks!)
It is a seven-mile round trip with 4000 feet of elevation gain to 10,064 ft. So steep! We met some people coming back down after having gotten an early morning start. We met others as they rested and we trudged on by. We overheard one friend tease another that young children were passing them; he rebutted that the young children had Cheez-Its and he didn’t!
There was a cabin halfway along the trail, used by the Sierra Club and supported by a healthy spring wreathed in lush wildflowers. The pines that looked so tiny from my bedroom window have massive root systems that grip with an iron will to the rocky slopes. Who knew my mountain was so cool?
We invented a new phrase on this climb—“Summit or Submit?” Many times we thought the summit was just over the next rise. Many times we were wrong. Finally, it was really there. You know you have reached a peak when there is no more ‘up’ you can go to, where you can turn in place and look down on the world all around you. The pastel layers of smog o’er spreading the Inland Empire of Los Angeles, when appearing like ocean waves lapping at towering slopes, is surprisingly beautiful.
At the top, seeing what lay beyond that mountain, breathless, so grateful to my family for the effort they exerted to be there, I was suddenly weeping. For years, this mountain, beautiful and beloved as it is, was like a wall, a looming, benevolent giant looking after a little girl named Holly. I was always in his shadow. Was it a feeling of freedom from oppression, then? Maybe. But, the oppression was of my own making—I never thought a little thing like me could climb so high. Now, for the first time, I was seeing the world from the giant’s shoulders, and it was like I could fly!
#StrongerThanEver
#PoweredByCheez-Its
Looks like fun and great for the kids to see some of the folks’ childhood digs!
So happy for you, Holly. I am glad you summited and that your family was there to help you connect your past to your future in this way.
cheez-itz and a bit of crazy! lucky kiddos! and some how i guess every mountain top visited makes the heart more open and closer to the stars. xoxo
Do you remember the time that you Dad decided we should all hike the fire road along a ridge on the mountain – nearly killed the lot of us! But the two families had a great time anyway! And yes, good memories while you, Kevin and Arthur were growing up.
I am enjoying reading your posts & am so proud of your family. I met you a few weeks ago as you came through my gate at the San Diego Padre’s game. I’m so glad that you chose to spend the day with us on this big adventure. I hope you & your boys had a good time and hopefully the Padre’s won. Probably not since they haven’t been doing a lot of that recently. I will continue to follow your blog and look forward to seeing where the road takes you.
I always suspected that cheez-its are a super food. Continued happy trails 🙂
This made my heart so happy. Those mountains really were foundational part of our childhood! Well said.