Shoehorn

Shoehorn

We left work at the usual time on Friday afternoon, just about 5:00. It was a beautiful Southern California day, and what made it even more special was the fact that this Friday was the start of a holiday; it was Labor Day weekend in 1993.
 
We drove down the street to the large Mexican bar and restaurant that was near the Los Alamitos racetrack on Katella Avenue. There, the usual suspects were gathered for the Friday night happy hour and free appetizers. We were good customers and the management of the establishment liked us, we were loud but spent money, and we took care of the servers who took care of us. After a while, my friend Carl appeared at my shoulder. He told me that some people would be coming over to his house that evening, and that I should join them there. I nodded my assent, and soon left the Mexican bar for my apartment in Huntington Beach. There I changed clothes and, after grabbing a bottle of wine, went over to the house that Carl and his wife Ellen lived in with their kids.
 
There were already about six cars in front of the house when I arrived, and more were coming. It was a good group that was enjoying themselves at Carl’s, on a beautiful and pleasant night. Carl had a couple long picnic tables outside on his patio, and we sat outside, talked, and listened to music. There was a small fire pit in the back yard, and Carl lit a fire within it for light and atmosphere. We ordered pizza, and after they arrived, we spread the boxes out on the picnic tables for people to help themselves. The kids suddenly appeared for the pizza, and disappeared just as suddenly. Carl and his wife sat down on a bench near me, and we began to firm up our plans for the long weekend.
 
I enjoyed Carl and his wife very much, and they had become good and fast friends. Carl and I both worked for the same firm, and I met his wife for the first time at a holiday party organized by work. When he introduced her to me for the first time, I started by reciting the first stanza of the poem ‘Helen’, written by Edgar Allen Poe.
 
“Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
to his own native shore.”
 
I stood there basking in the moment, proud of my performance. They looked at me awkwardly. Carl finally spoke, “That was real nice, but her name is Ellen.” After blowing some wine through my nose, I gathered myself, and we all shared a good long laugh.
 
Tomorrow, Saturday, I was making a large batch of spaghetti sauce, and a group, including Carl and Ellen, would join me for dinner at my apartment. On Sunday, we were planning to climb Mt Baden-Powell in the San Gabriel Mountains. Sunday night, we would visit my friend Frank in Marina del Rey for dinner and drinks on his boat. Ellen’s mom would handle the kids. Now we were all agreed, and the weekend plans were set.
 
Saturday came, and I slept in late. I made a delicious sauce during the afternoon, and had some good bakery bread and salad ready as well. In the evening, six of us enjoyed cocktails and a fine Italian dinner. After dinner, there were cigars and music. The hours slid by, everyone enjoyed themselves.
 
Sunday required an early start, so the alarm seemed a shock when it rang in the early dimness of pre-dawn. I got up and put the coffee on, made a sandwich for lunch, and got my daypack ready for the hike. I put my toilet bag and change of clothes in a small overnight duffel. I made a thermos of dark Italian roast to take with me.
 
Carl and Ellen arrived with a toot of their horn, and I grabbed my bags and headed down the stairs to meet them. We left Huntington Beach and headed up the 405 freeway, then worked our way north until we were on the 5 driving up toward Los Angeles. The highway curled past downtown Los Angeles proper, going up the east side and curling around it on the north. We exited on the Glendale freeway and followed it north to where it ended at the 210, and then followed route 2, now the Angeles Crest, up the steep southern face of the San Gabriel Mountains.
 
The Angeles Crest road became more level around 5000’ in elevation, and it twisted and turned its way to the east. We went past the road to Mt Wilson, past Chilao, and finally put Mt Waterman in our rearview mirror. The trip was a lot longer than a casual glance at the map would indicate, we traveled on the 2 in the mountains for almost fifty miles before reaching the trailhead at Vincent Gap, just under 6600’ of elevation. With stops, it took about 3 hours to get there from the beach in Orange County.
 
We embarked on the four-mile hike on a dry and dusty trail, set on switchbacks amid the well-spaced pines. We worked our way up the hill, and eventually the Mojave Desert came into view to our north. Slow and steady, the air growing thinner, we worked our way up the flank of the mountain named for the founder of the Boy Scouts. Less than a mile from the summit, we came across a large big horn sheep. He was very close and we could see him clearly. He came down the hill on our left and crossed the trail no more than twenty feet right in front of me, and quickly disappeared below. What an exciting sight! It was rare to see them, let alone a big one like this up close and personal. Up near the summit we hiked through the misshapen limber pines, and finally emerged on the open top some three and a half hours after starting. The view towards Mt Baldy, or Mt San Antonio if you will, was the most spectacular sight. The summit was almost 9400’ in elevation, we had climbed 2800’.
 
We had lunch sitting on a fallen log. It was pleasant, almost cool, even in the sun. We ate sandwiches and potato chips, drank water and rested. I let the eyelids droop a little, enjoying that ‘verge of sleep’ feeling, and letting my head bob a bit. I may have actually nodded off for a while. People came and went. We shared some chocolate and snacks, and then it was time to leave. We all felt a little stiff as we got started, and my thighs felt the pull as it was particularly steep leaving the top. We reached the broad switchbacks on the flank of Baden-Powell and continued down. In a little more than two hours, we came out of the woods and onto the dirt parking area and made our way to the car. It was just before 5:00pm.
 
I took off my hiking boots and treated myself to some clean dry underwear, and followed that with dry shorts and a T-shirt. Carl and Ellen changed as well.
 
“We got any other options than going back the way we came?” asked Carl. “That’s a slow twisty road, and I’m tired to boot.”
 
“I here ya,” I said. “Let’s go east and pick up the highway, the 15. We’ll take that down to the 10, and the 10 will take us to the beach. After we get to the highway, the driving should be faster and easier.”
 
Carl agreed; we all piled into the car and followed the Angeles Crest east past Wrightwood to its terminus at rte 138. We followed that down to the 15, passing through some rock formations that reminded me of watching the Lone Ranger when I was a child. We made good time on the interstate, and we were soon on the 10, heading west for the Pacific. I pulled out the Thermos of Italian roast, and the three of us gingerly sipped from the half-filled thermos top; it was delicious, and it gave everyone a well-appreciated jolt after the efforts of the day. The sun was getting low and setting right in our eyes, but there was not a lot of traffic on this Sunday evening in the middle of a holiday.
 
Driving west towards the ocean on the 10, the highway comes toward LA a bit north of the city. East of the Los Angeles River, the 10 turns and follows the 5 south. Past the city, it turns west again, and heads for the ocean. The skyline was impressive in the setting sun. We reached the 405 and headed south to the 90, the Marina Freeway, and in a few minutes, we were within the Marina and making our way around to Frank’s boat. We had been on the road almost three hours.
 
Frank had his boat, the 'Mojave', moored off Tahiti Way, down towards the end. We found our allotted parking place, grabbed our things and walked over to the gate at Frank’s dock. We went through the gate, down a few steps, and followed the wooden walkway to Frank’s boat. His boat was in the last slip on the left hand side at the end of the dock. The very end served as a tie-up for large crafts, but there was none here tonight. Frank stood on deck at the ladder.
 
“Permission to come aboard, sir,” I asked with mock seriousness.
 
“Hey, guys. Come on aboard, I been waitin’ on ya,” came the friendly reply from the figure standing up on the deck. Frank and I had known each other for many years. We were friends back in the east when I lived in Connecticut and New Hampshire. Frank had been on my first winter overnight hike up into Carter Notch in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and over the years we had shared many other adventures together. Fate now found us here, living in Southern California at the same time.
 
We apologized for our late arrival by explaining the itinerary of our day. After hugs and handshakes, Frank showed us where to drop our things. Now we could look around and relax; we were finally here and had nowhere else to go.
 
Frank’s boat was a 36’ Trawler. It had a master bedroom below decks in the rear, a small cabin up front below decks, and a large galley that had a fold out bed and chairs as well. In the stern was a large area with seats and benches, and a ladder went up to the controls on the fly bridge. The ship had two small heads, but access to a large bathroom and shower facility on shore came with the slip rental. Frank ushered us to seats on the stern, where he poured out martinis and margaritas, and served up a variety of appetizers.
 
There was always something so magical about enjoying a finely made cocktail at the end of a day such as ours, especially when served by an affable and gregarious host on the stern of his boat in Marina del Rey. After such a long drive and the physical effort, it was pure heaven to feel the chilled English dry gin slide down my throat and into the very core of my being, releasing the weariness therein, and accentuating the pleasures of the day. Now it was almost dark, and we could see the lights of the many ships glittering all around the Marina. We had good views off to the side and into the main channel as well, because no large ship had tied up at the end of the dock. We could see and hear that many boats were manned like ours this holiday weekend, and many people like us were out on deck, cocktails in hand, enjoying the pleasant night in the marina. We were ready to add to the holiday buzz.
 
Frank then sprang the surprise; he had been out on a fishing trip with some others when he had landed a shortfin Mako shark. He showed us pictures, along with the teeth the jawbone of the deceased. Dinner tonight would be fresh Mako shark prepared three different ways: Cajun blackened, lemon and butter, and teriyaki.
 
Dinner was amazing. Frank is an avid hunter and fisherman, and is as good cooking what he kills as he is killing what he cooks. We slowly ate our fish and potatoes, salad and bread, and had some fine wine as well. We enjoyed ourselves thoroughly, and talked into the night. It was not a late night, the drive and hiking had seen to that, and when I put my head down on my pillow, I was quickly gone, away and adrift on some mystical ocean.
 
We slept in late that Monday morning, and when we arose, we enjoyed good coffee and pastries. The sun was soon warm, so Frank threw off the lines and we cruised around the Marina, sitting atop the fly bridge, saying hello to other boaters and enjoying the sights and sounds of the day. There was no shortage of topless women, either those that were sunning themselves or those engaging in some other kind of important and necessary maritime repair. Ah, soaking up the rays in the marina on a sunny Southern California day, it’s a beautiful thing.
 
Later, we said our goodbyes to Frank and left the marina, slowly making our way back home through the holiday traffic to Huntington Beach. I unloaded my gear at my apartment and went upstairs; it felt like we had been gone for three days. Besides that, there had been a lot of enjoyment squeezed out of Friday and Saturday nights. Including all the time we spent driving, we had seen a good portion of the LA Basin and the San Gabriel Mountains as well. When I saw Carl and Ellen again, we all talked about what a great day Sunday had been, and how fine the entire holiday weekend had turned out. Laughing, we called it our shoehorn weekend, because you needed a shoehorn to squeeze it all in.

Shoehorn weekend indeed, we still call it that, today.