PLAYING WITH FIRE

It’s 6 a.m. on Wednesday October 24, 2007. Still dark. The firemen from Atascadero just left. They lined up their 5 truck armada across the street and drove to the next fire in San Diego. They’ll pick up their gimped engine which has been stalled without an injection pump along the way in Long Beach.

My house is a mess. Everything I own is pushed into piles in the middle of the floor. The kitchen table is heaped with stuff. I’ve just opened the windows and for the first time can smell the smoke. My dog and cat are looking at me. Though I just woke up, I am feeling of breed of tiredness that is very new to me. It’s a combination of anxiety, deep gratefulness, surrealism. The feeling today, however, is much calmer than the past 3 days, my brain is functioning in a bit more linear manner and the adrenaline high has subsided. Tears are finally coming; I didn’t have time for them the past few days.

Where to start? The beautiful men who stayed with us for two nights sleeping on the lawn and in the garage? The stories they told us about the 100 foot flames just over the hill and how they kept the smoke from the horses in the coral? The fear that made my dog go limp and required two firemen to carry him to my packed car to evacuate? The New Yorker magazine reporter we found wandering around our neighborhood yesterday looking for a story? The dinners we cooked for the firemen? The care they took to put our blinds down in the houses when we left? Standing on the hill with our neighbors, dogs, kids, some crying, some screaming, watching the flames licking at the edge of our homes? Five men in yellow suits sweeping my driveway in boredom hoping the fire would come over the hill for them to spring into action? The humanity of 8 firemen carrying boxes from our cars when we came home?

As we stood in the hot sun on a road above the mayhem Monday, we gave each other encouragement and water. Some of the conversation was banal, some chest bashing amongst the men and others told war stories of fires past. Who had stayed to fight for their homes? Who had left? What did they bring? One panicked young mother squeezed her 5 month old in her arms while telling of her dog’s ash urns she chose to put in the car. Her young buck agent-esqe husband thought it a waste of space. Another woman passed out squirts of sunscreen. As I looked behind me, the street was lined up with an inordinate number of stuffed Porsches and Escalades; panting dog heads hanging out from every car. My dog sat in the dirt next to me and my pussycat meowed while perched on my jewelry box inside my stuffed little car. I had a little carved jade cat, a childhood trinket, in my pocket. Why I grabbed that along with my cowboy boots and down jacket I am not sure. I wasn’t even sure if I’d brought any underwear, but I knew I had my insurance papers, old photos and computers.
I remember looking at the cadre of shiny, expensive cars and saying to myself, “wow, Mother Nature, the great Equalizer.” As I looked ahead: billows of black and white smoke blasted skyward and were interspersed with huge, raging flames. The fires broke out in a dance of ferocity all over the mountains below. Superscooper planes growled over us to pickup water from the ocean. Biplanes zoomed overhead and dipped their wings so close to the earth, it felt we could touch them before they bombed the flames with loads of bright red flame retardant. We cheered. Those pilots were in their element and enjoying this more than Christmas morning. You could just tell. More than 4 helicopters with long dangling mono arms with giant bags of fire retardant buzzed up and down from the fire camp, just below, loading and dropping, loading and dropping. The sea was outstretched beyond it all, but it too was stirred up from the 60 mile per hour hot winds. The whole thing was surreal and frightful. I can hardly believe my home is still here and I am sitting in it writing this.

The fires are out. More than 1400 firefighters left between last night and this morning to go to San Diego and Arrowhead to help others who are still in the thick of it. The road is quiet except for a parade of police cars, power and phone trucks and departing fire engines (all who we learned respond in a group of five) from as far away as Arizona, Mount Shasta and beyond.

One of the most comforting things about this experience was the access we had to information which no one else had – not even the firemen staged here. My neighbors, my heartfelt friends, Rory and Shannon, are Arson Watch volunteers. This allowed us access anytime and anywhere we wanted to go. They stuck magnetic signs on their red Jaguar, a radio antennae on the roof, credentials on fluorescent bibs and off we went. We nervously laughed about the irony our “Arson Watch Jaguar” and drove through live fires, hung out with firemen directing helicopters from a walkie talkie, watched giant trees explode into flames and personally witnessed our Emergency Medical System just kick it. And, most had been up for more than 3 days at a time.

The precision with which the fire, police, air and ground crews worked was awe-inspiring. The minute the fires went cold, the army of telephone and power trucks marched in and began to repair the phone and power lines. Everyone was in place, knew what to do. Said the right thing…………..there’s so much swimming around in my mind and heart about this experience, my fingers can’t catch up to describe it all.

The sun is coming up. Today, we’ll put our lives back together, reconnect our computers, put our things back in place, unpack, wait for the phone service to return. My mailbox has signs on it saying “Food Drink, Ice Here, Thank you Firefighters, You Rock!”

Thank you to all of my friends, ski patrol buddies, business associates, clients and family who have constantly been calling and emailing to check in and offer help; even from far away. I cannot tell you how much comfort that has given me. The roads might open today. Our phone service will return soon. Uh, and my oak trees are getting a haircut.

With much love,

Alyson

DOUBLE RAINBOWS OVER LA

Photo by TJ Sullivan of the magnificent LA double rainbow over Century City:

"It never rains in LA," but for two glorious days in this month of September; one of our hottest months, it torentially poured. As I looked out the window of a Brentwood party Friday night, thick sheets of water pounded the ground and I wondered how I'd get back to my car without being drenched (Angelenos don't own umbrellas). The next evening, as we barrelled down the 101 toward the legendary Rose Bowl for a football game, I saw this city in a light my native Angeleno eyes have never witnessed: dramatic violet light thrown on the mountains, huge puffy Hawaii style clouds and a super saturated double rainbow over the freeway!!! Every car that passed by was looking out the window pointing to the incredible phenonmena; it's a wonder there wasn't a pile up, but it seemed that the magical sight kept us all under divine protection.

A native Angeleno, I've never thought this city to be very attractive, but this experience changed my mind completely. My friends, Seattle types, weren't as non plussed as I stating, "oh we see this kind of light all the time." Puff, puff.

There are many legends of double rainbows: leprecans find pots of gold and the symbol shows up in shamanic teachings. A San Francisco based ice cream shop took the name (hmmmm, I wonder if they saw their double rainbow over a Grateful Dead show?). My favorite 60's star, Jimi Hendrix sang of the Rainbow Bridge.

"Warriors of the 1990s! RAINBOW NATION WITHOUT BORDERS" recounts the spiritual search of the post-war generation, which has tried to bring about a new balance and harmony to a world in turmoil.

Jesse Jackson's Rainbow Coalition attempts to cross cultural borders.

Christians and New Agers give it deep meaning: according to the Bible, the rainbow is symbolic of God's everlasting covenant that he (It) would never again destroy the earth by a flood.

The New Age Movement uses rainbows to signify their building of the Rainbow Bridge (antahkarana) between man and Lucifer who, they say, is the over-soul.

Of course Judy Garland sang about a world "Over the Rainbow" in the classic film "The Wizard of Oz"

However, according to The National Center for Atmospheric Research:

Sometimes we see two rainbows at once, what causes this? We have followed the path of a ray of sunlight as it enters and is reflected inside the raindrop. But not all of the energy of the ray escapes the raindrop after it is reflected once. A part of the ray is reflected again and travels along inside the drop to emerge from the drop. The rainbow we normally see is called the primary rainbow and is produced by one internal reflection; the secondary rainbow arises from two internal reflections and the rays exit the drop at an angle of 50 degrees° rather than the 42°degrees for the red primary bow. Blue light emerges at an even larger angle of 53 degrees°. his effect produces a secondary rainbow that has its colors reversed compared to the primary.It is possible for light to be reflected more than twice within a raindrop, and one can calculate where the higher order rainbows might be seen; but these are never seen in normal circumstances.

Whatever. It was beautiful and restored my faith in this crazy city.

Dear Daddy

Remember the time you took me up to Mammoth for the first time? You and Mom got stuck in a snowstorm and were rescued by sheriffs who gave you a bed in the local jail. Remember the story you told me about how being a tiny baby I almost blew away in the basket? Remember you and Mom's matching gold down jackets and teaching Paul and I how ski when I was 5? I'll never forget your cavalier attitude about the mountain and you bringing us up a random chairlift for the very first time, getting to the top and you saying in your thick Hungarian accent, "OK, ski down now." We had no idea what to do, but we sure tried. We figured out how to snowplow as best we could to keep from going straight down the hill. I'll never forget getting to the bottom, seeing flat below and letting my skis go straight and feeling what seemed like bone shattering speed, mixed with a sinful thrill that ended in a spectacular crash at Mom's feet . I"ll never forget my first Sears "Schuss Jr." wooden skis with bear trap bindings and leather latch boots that I somehow split and you fixed with a drill, screws and a flat metal brace. I wish I still had them -- who knew they'd be little trophies of my grownup sickness for skiing; alas they were probably sold at one of our 1970's Valley garage sales.

Daddy, long after you've gone to the ski slopes in the sky, I've finally tasted foreign snow. Although I'd hoped it would be in the Alps where your legendary stories still haunt me, it was in Chile. I skied my little heart out on some of the softest, most legendary snow I've ever witnessed. How my heart swelled with joy that is beyond words. I thought of you often this past week, as I heard languages from all over the world and whoops of happiness of others finding their virgin lines in the powder over the hill from me. Though I've experienced the "champagne powder" of the US West many times, there was something about this place that marked my brain in an indelible way. I laughed uncontrollably as I floated through the snow with every turn shooting puffs of snow into my face! There were times that the snow actually choked me as I skied. I had to stop to get a breath and then fall down into the fluff giggling at myself and this unbelievable occasion.

I want to thank you for introducing me to this incredible experience Daddy; because, truly, I cannot tell you of one thing on this earth that makes me happier, more whole, more joyous. How strange it is that your little Southern California girl became such a skier; I am sure that you never dreamed it.

With much love,

Your Daughter

The Holy Grail of Skiing...

Is on the back bowls of Valle Nevado in Chile at 3670 meters high (12,000 feet) in the Valley of the Incas. There you will find three pomas, vertical drops of 1600+, virgin dry snow and NO ONE. While I rode the poma for an unGodly 10 minute yank up the hill, opal clouds hovered around the sun and the wind blew. When I got to the top, I kicked over the edge into the softest, most heavenly steep making my own tracks and racing as fast as I could to cover the massive mounds of snow without so much as a rock, tree or anything to stop me. Arriving at the bottom, I found a few Chilean snowboarders who summoned me to go ahead onto the poma, but all I could do was stick out my tongue from my panting to let them know I needed a few seconds to recover from all-out barrel down the hill. I went up again and found another run, a bit gentler with even better snow.....4 inches of perfectly dry champagne powder and couldn't contain my joy, whooping at the top of my lungs all the way down. I found another poma, this time, another perfect hill called Cascade with no one in sight. I skied 10 runs up and down those valleys until I couldn't stand up anymore and finally headed to midchalet on the populated front of the mountain. I met a ski patroller from New York, Elk Mountain, who was having as much fun as I was. Great to meet someone with as much passion for ski adventures; he came by his lone self all the way here.

I"m sorry to sound like the valley girl I am, but OH MY GOD.

CHILEAN SKI DREAM

The sun just came over the Andes; I've been watching a cloud parade of pink lit Chilean phiffs float across the jagged top edge. The Andes. Wow. This has always been a place that felt daunting, something out of National Geographic that you gawk at in amazement, never thinking you'd actually BE there. But alas, I am.



I came here to ski. I can't help it. I love it more than anything and my insatiable drive to make turns on any hill is now bringing me beyond the Rockies and Sierras. The snow is really, really soft. Even though we have warm weather and big blue skies it stays perfectly soft, no ice, no hard pack. Yesterday I found my way to one of the top ridges and traversed it alone, finding tracks to get to a hill that looked particularily tasty. Little downhills in perfect non crusted fluff. Little hikes. I was the ONLY one around. I followed a few tracks and finally got to this hill that just blew my mind. Huge, bald mountain without a tree, gully or cliff in sight. I couldn't make a wrong turn. I got to the bottom, breathless and got in line for the t-bar up the hill I was looking for. I listened to all the guys carrying on in Spanish. I got to the front and was turned away. This hill goes to Colorado; another ski resort over the hill for which I didn't have a ticket.

I moped my way out of line through a single track, around a rock and voila, there below me was virgin snow as far as I could see. I so badly wanted to just barrel down it, but the only thing below was the road and a hitchhike back up to Valle Nevado. Instead I transversed back to the groomed, exceedingly worried about an avalanche. My tracks were cutting a new line in virgin, which must be 30 feet deep here. It's been hot and cold, hot and cold the past few days. I made it back and skied for the rest of the day on the groomed. Tomorrow, I get a ticket for the OTHER hills around us and will go on an adventure over the hill.

PACKAGING OVERLOAD

Recently my bill for my trash pickup has surpassed 100 a month. Instead of two trash bins and one recycler, now I have two recycler and one trash bin....and it's more expensive. I can't help but notice that even though I am not a shopper, that my recycling bin is busting at the seems before the end of the week; and more so than ever before. What the heck is going on? I watched how it happened last weekend: on Saturday I ran some errands, needing groceries for a dinner I was hosting and some drinking glasses to replace the ones that had broken. As I began to put my things away, I unwrapped a piece of paper around each glass, at least 10 plastic bags, a box, the salad was in a plastic box, the wine in another box; by the time dinner was ready my little in home recylcing box was completely full again. It's unbelievable. People are packaging nuts these days. It's out of control. All I can hope for is that the recycling is really being recylced and I am giving something back. I hate this consumerism, but it's the world we live in today.

Mother Nature at Her Best: Yosemite for the First Time

My first a.m. in Mammoth. Yosemite was incredible. I wish I had better
words to describe the awe, emotion, beauty. Never seen anything like it.
Yesterday, I started the day having a very civilized (and expensive) brunch
at the legendary Awahnee Hotel in Yosemite with one of my ski patrol buddies. Attended a ski patrol seminar at Curry Village where I met an incredible woman/author who has an MA in snow, is an international avalanche specialist and rows for months and 1000's of miles along Alaska and Norway for fun. Wow. And, she's eloquent, smart and her fascinating stories go on forever.

The Awahnee: I"ve always wanted to go to this place. Told my husband 11 years ago I wanted to go there for our 5th anniversary. We never made 5 years, but here I am today, finally. It was built in 1927, it's majestic, stone and wood lodge Frank Lloyd Wright-ish built right up against sheer granite cliffs that soar 2000 feet straight up... magical translucent red and yellow oaks, scattered amongst redwoods outside the 3 story high windows with panes of mission styled stained glass at the top. The fireplaces could fit a Volkswagon inside; they are the size they should be.

Yosemite valley is a very crowded place filled with tourists in cotton clothing, city coats and dress shoes under sweat pants. This is my first time here. Surprising… I expected it to be filled with climbing aficionados with “real” gear, folks who knew a thing or two about the elements and the force of nature. But alas, there are a lot of ya-yas and RV’s milling about this stupendous place. Despite this, my mouth was constantly open, literally gaping at the beauty of the these yellow, pink and red leafed trees between the thick forests of redwoods and evergreens. I’ve come at EXACTLY the perfect time when the trees have turned and before they shed their leaves to bare bark for the winter. The valley is tight and surrounded by sheer, granite walls with stains of water falls and glacial tears, dotted with trees at the tops. The valley is only 4000 feet, the tops: 8000. I took photos that upon review were famous shots I’ve seen thousands of times before in posters and experienced for the first time in person…... El Capitan through the 3 story high lodgepole pines…... I didn’t even realize. what I was shooting until later. This place is pure contrast. Yellow leaves with black trunks. Valley filled with humanity and poetic forests, shuttered by rude granite walls, where many famous climbers have fallen to their deaths; some very recently.

When I first drove from the Fresno gate into the park, I had an interesting
reaction: there is a long tunnel that opens up to the gaping walls of Yosemite that is so stunning and shocking a sight, that I pulled over and just cried. As I drove closer to the valley, I couldn’t stop tears from streaming down my face. It was wild. I was bowled over by emotions to what I was seeing…

After brunch yesterday, Sully and I then drove up out of the valley and east across Yosemite through the Tioga Pass to Mammoth. We stopped at the pristine high Sierra Tenaya lake. Sully trundled through the edge of other lakes, cracking the ice at the edges under his curious little paws. His ears were as pricked as could be sticking his nose into marmot holes. I thought about how I would make myself “big” with my coat if we were fortunate enough to come nose to nose with a bear. I hoped I wouldn’t get caught with Sully off leash by some of the nazi rangers that so adamantly patrol this park. We stopped at rivers, passed by glaciers. We walked out into Tuolame Meadows………..wow. Vast sheaths of yellow tundra grasslands; rivers through it that tinkled over the rocks, backed by forests and surprising, smooth rock formations topped with big blue skies and puffy clouds. We went back to Saddlebag Lake, an 11,000 foot high lake I was introduced to only a month ago. It was the wildness and purity of this place that whet my appetite for this trip. The little fishing place there is all shuttered up for the winter and the lake is now brown, readying for the winter. A bit of snow on the ground from last week’s storm. What should have been a 1 ½ hour ride took all day, whilst listening to Neil Young, Zero 7, Thievery Corporation, Shelby Lynne, Pete Yorn, Allman Brothers, Robbie Robertson, Stevie Ray Vaughn, CSN, Al Green, Hem, Golden Palaminos, Peter Gabriel, Btribe, Smashing Pumpkins, Snow Patrol…...

Exiting the Yosemite gate and heading down to the big 395 highway at Mono Lake was like coming down off of hallucinogens.

We went down to the hot springs tubs in the Owens Valley in the afternoon
for a soak. What a great day. So much in a few hours.

Now we're in the comfort of the little condo. Sully is curled up on the couch, nose to tail, happy to be still and in a familiar place. Coffee and a book…...making a list of things I want to do today: run, hike, read, find schedule of yoga classes. Simple. It's cold this a.m., about 40, but is up to 60/70 in the daytime. No snow. They are blowing a strip of manmade on one hill for opening day on Thursday. I’ll ski here for the first time on my new knee. Can’t wait.