On the Trail

Puddle Perils. A few days after a heavy rain, the local utility road we like to hike seemed dried out enough to re-visit. The soft earth bore deeply etched imprints of a variety of wild passersby—deer, quail, coyote, raccoon.

At the base of a steep slope was a chocolate-colored puddle that may have rivaled the Salton Sea in size. One human skirted it, but one dog decided it would be such sport to leap across it. And so she did, misjudging the puddle’s vastness and oblivious to what lurked beneath the surface until it was too late.

She fell inches short of clearing it and not only landed in the middle of the puddle—she was completely swallowed by it. Gone, out of sight, with nary a ripple remaining to mark her abrupt exit. I screamed her name.

She reappeared like a dolphin leaping from the sea, bolting headlong out of the brown murk, then flailing her way out of the puddle’s clutches.

A bottomless pit? Quicksand? Home to the Loch Ness monster’s cousin? The dog isn’t talking, but she’s become one puddle-wary pooch.

Seeing Red Ahead. Only recently we learned that trail horses that kick should wear red flags on their tails. This is extremely helpful—only if you are, of course, coming up on said happy hoofer from the rear.

We’ve noticed an alarming tendency for women in particular to ride SUV-sized horses, heavy-boned, heavy-bodied, shaggy-maned, shaggy-tailed massive sweaty animals that leave hoofprints (and mounds of droppings) the size of a wooly mammoth’s.

A kick from one of these babies could send a hiker tail-over-teacups to Timbuktu—if not to a hospital bed in traction.

With the exception of Cheeseboro Canyon, we’ve never encountered recklessly galloping horses on any of the many trails we ply.

While some equestrians seem to have airs—as if those of us whose feet actually touch the ground are perceived as inferior beings—the majority are friendly, polite and considerate. Even if their mounts do have red flags on their tails.

Mylar Madness. Mylar balloons, the kind supermarkets and florists peddle, have a purpose, but we’re just not sure what that purpose is. To cheer the sick with a happy/sappy greeting? Oh, all right.

To celebrate your Little Princess’s birthday? Okay, Barbie’s bloated face on a balloon might appeal to some. But an open car window or front door is to an unfettered Mylar balloon what leaving the jailer’s keys within easy reach is to a condemned man.

With one swift sprint into the atmosphere, the balloon has masterminded a helium-powered Great Escape.

Don’t tell me these balloons don’t just wanna have fun and be free to tour the world on their own terms. Some people, perhaps idiots but perhaps well-intentioned oppressed balloon sympathizers, deliberately liberate these balloons. And where do you suppose all the Mylar minions hurry off to? Ridiculously inappropriate sites throughout the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area.

On the most remote trails I’ve collected birthday greetings, get- well wishes, congratulations on my new job and good luck on my retirement. In the most isolated canyons I’ve been wished Bon Voyage and Happy Valentine’s Day, Lover and been told in no uncertain terms "The Baby Shower’s Here!"

These message-bearing Mylars have been entangled in otherwise picturesque groves of trees or snagged on handsome native lilac shrubs.

Hikers aren’t alone in their aggravation. The folks who bring us power lines gnash their teeth at sight of a Mylar heading up, up and away.

The Mylar escapees defy deflating no matter what sharp instrument invented by humankind is applied to them. They yo-yo defiantly against capture and are known to bop you a good one upside the head if you yank hard on their deceptively pretty trailing ribbons. So one must resort to a secret weapon:

"Here, Fang! Wanna play ball?" Dogs are not sentimental about these inflated eyesores. Pounce! Grr! Pow! Whoosh! Aw, bye-bye, Barbie!

Bad Apples and Good Eggs. Only recently we also learned that if you call ahead to alert an oncoming bicyclist to "People and dog on trail!" he will grudgingly slow down and squeeze by you shouting like a drill sergeant, "Any more behind you? There’s three more behind me!" Each of whom just as grudgingly slows down and squeezes by while we’re forced into the eager, sinister embrace of poison oak in an attempt to avoid getting ourselves or our dog run over.

This is not my interpretation of the edict—prominently posted on a canary yellow official sign at multi-use trailheads—imploring bicyclists to "ride courteously and yield to hikers."

CORBA (Concerned Off Road Bicyclists Association) officials admit to beleaguered hikers bearing near-miss bicycle collision war stories that there are "a couple of bad apples" out there. In 17 years on multi-use trails we’ve encountered a whole lotta power-pedaling rogue fruits, and just a very few good (two-wheelin’) eggs.