The work force of an oil refinery consists of equipment operators, trades people, engineers, chemists, and supporting technical staff whose mission in life can be summed up in two words: boil oil. Crude oil comes in from all parts of the world transported by super tankers the size of three football fields laid end to end. The tankers are moored nearly a mile offshore and pump their millions of barrels of precious cargo into the refinery through submersible lines. Through an endless system of pipes, valves, and pumps, the crude makes its way to storage tanks where, depending on the particular type of crude, the oil is stored until required for the particular blend recipe to create diesel, jet fuel, or gasoline.

The process of transforming crude oil into finished product is quite the complicated task, requiring numerous steps of heating, cooling, and blending components to achieve the desired on-test fuel. The efficient process of creating sellable commodities depends greatly upon reliable equipment operation. For 34 years, I worked as an instrumentation electrician helping to ensure that the measuring devices used in process-control systems—including those monitoring flow, level, pressure, and temperature—were in proper working order.

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On this particular work day, two coworkers and myself are presented with an opportunity. One of the crude oil storage tanks in the tank farm requires replacement of its corroding instrumentation. Tank 640 is a huge tank measuring nearly 400 feet in diameter and 60 feet high with a capacity of 500,000 barrels of crude oil. Because the El Segundo refinery is located on the shoreline of the Santa Monica Bay, everything that exists within the confines of the plant is prone to salt corrosion from the ocean breezes. Salt is bad for everything, especially delicate instrumentation. Despite the fact that the measuring and data collection devices are housed in a large weatherproof housing mounted on the side of the tank, the salt air has a way of deteriorating everything over time. The instrumentation box is situated at the 50 foot level above a metal grated platform which is at the end of a long, curving metal stairway extending from ground level to nearly the top of the tank. The box, hung on the side of Tank 640, is corroded beyond repair and needs to be replaced. Our job for the day is to remove the old box and hang a new PVC enclosure in its place. Replacing the instrumentation would be done at a later time but today we are tasked with just replacing the housing.

The box is nearly four feet high, three feet long, and two feet wide making it too heavy and impossibly awkward to carry up the steps. So, in order to complete our task, a crane equipped with a man basket will be employed in order to hoist us, the tools we need, the new box and hardware needed to replace the old enclosure, up to the 50-foot level platform. Not only will there be the crane and its operator, but also several riggers who will attach a guy wire to the man basket to keep it from spinning and swaying. This seems pretty straightforward and I’m pretty excited to be involved in this job, especially since I have never ridden in a man basket before.

Don, another journeyman like myself, and an apprentice, Greg, will also be involved in this task. Before heading out to the job site, the three of us gather in our shop, going over the details of the job one more time. We’ll disconnect and remove the old wiring and instrumentation first, then unbolt the old box from the side of the tank. The enclosure is hung on bolts threaded into spring nuts that are under tension attached to two lengths of unistrut which are welded to the side of the tank and acting as laterals for the box attachment. We’ll replace the old spring nuts then hang the new box with new bolts. It all sounds very straightforward and simple.

In our truck on the way to Tank 640, I’m driving, Greg is in the middle and Don is riding shotgun. He’s got the window rolled down all the way, despite the chilliness of the early morning. Greg is pretty excited to be going up in the man basket also, but I’m not so sure about Don.

“This will be just like going to Disneyland!” Greg chuckles.

“Especially if the crane driver hits the gas on the way up!” I laugh in return.

Don is not laughing and is not matching the same level of excitement that Greg and I have. In fact, Don stares out the open window, not saying a word. Don is normally a bit of a jokester and a storyteller, but as we ride, he’s silent, unmoving, and basically ignoring us.

When we get to the job site, we all hop out of the truck and as Greg and Don unload the back of the truck, I go over to talk with the riggers on the ground. The huge crane is already set up with its outriggers extended and firmly planted on the sand and gravel surface. The boom is extended and the man basket sits on the ground attached by a massive hook to the payload cable.

I talk with Jose, one of the riggers, who informs me that he will ride in the basket with us so that he can secure the man basket to the railing of the 50 foot platform. I laugh a little at this bit of information. We are all union workers and each of us stays in our respective craft lanes when it comes to doing tasks that overlap into another craft’s realm of work. Even though we instrument electricians are capable of tying a line to the railing, that’s a rigger’s responsibility and therefore, he alone can tie the knot.

Before getting into the man basket, OSHA requirements mandate that all four of us need to be wearing safety harnesses while we are on the platform performing work. As I thread my legs through my harness and cinch all the necessary buckles, I glance over at Don and Greg. Greg, as an apprentice, is a little slow getting his secured because of his lack of experience. Don is also taking some time although for a different, more alarming, reason. I can see that Don’s hands are shaking, almost imperceptibly, and he is trying very hard to keep this fact to himself.

The refining process requires crude oil heated to high temperatures, pumping at high flow rates, creating high pressure, all of which create a dynamic potential for disaster. But whether you work as an equipment operator, a maintenance craftsman, or an engineering technician, all of us are constantly being trained in the safe execution of our roles so that the potential for mayhem stays under our control within the myriad of pipes. The outward persona that everyone in the field displays is that of supreme confidence. The unspoken assurance you must silently broadcast is, “I know what I’m doing.”

Veteran workers, like myself and Don, can sense fear and doubt in someone else; our own self-preservation radar sounds the alarm to be on alert for anyone we think is not up to the present task. As I watch my coworker Don, no one has to tell me that my fear alarm is sounding.

“Look, you and I will hold the box in place while the newbie tries to thread the bolts into the spring nuts and we’ll give him shit the whole time.” I laugh as I try to reassure Don. “Let’s make sure we wobble it so he has a moving target.” Again I laugh and Don nods slightly as he tries to crack a little smile. “We’ll be out of here by break time,” I add. Don’s stoic face amplifies the hollowness of my words. Even I am having a hard time believing them….

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

On an early summer morning, I run the downhill mile from my place to Grand Beach. I’ve been living here in El Segundo, CA since my divorce in 2012 and the cool breeze picks up as I approach the shoreline. I’m going to play my running game with the waves. The arc of the tide’s reach changes with each onshore push by the waves. The challenge for me is to run on the just-right sand - wet enough to let me run on the surface but not too wet where I’m plodding through droopy quicksand.

Unlike running on the sidewalk, running on wet sand is not predictable, not consistent, not a straight line. So I weave and sway trying to maintain speed but still trying to run on the just-right sand. I sometimes misjudge the curvy line the whitewater has created and I plop in too-wet sand. Or I veer too far away from the wet sand and my ankles want to splay out as my foot falls on dry sand.

Like a running back veering and swerving to avoid tacklers, I try to match the curved line of foam the ocean creates each time the whitewater reaches the sand. Despite the hint of summer warmth in the air, the breeze coming off the relentless surf is keeping me cool. When the ocean inhales, the water, the sand, the mosaic of broken shell fragments are sucked back into the water by the tide and on each exhale, the waves spill it all back onto the shore with loud claps. As the whitewater extends to its sizzling, crackling length, I hear the ocean speaking to me, “We see you, we see you, we see you.”

I’m approaching the jetty at El Porto and it’s almost time for me to head back up to the strand where I’ll continue my run to the Manhattan Beach pier. No matter how hard I try to lift my feet as I run in the dry sand, I still fill my shoes, so I have to empty them as I reach the concrete foot path. As I sit on the rocks, watching the sand pour out from my shoes, I have this thought: “I can do this forever.” And when I look past the shoreline, past the expanse of swirling, churning green and blue, to an endless horizon beyond the promise of bottomless depths, I say to the ocean, “I see you.”

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In 2014, I meet my future wife, Andrea, who lives in Altadena. It’s about 35 miles from El Segundo, but it might as well be on another planet. The Angeles National Forest cuts through the San Gabriel Mountains, Altadena’s backyard. Andrea lives less than a quarter mile from the steep climb up Chaney Trail to enter a forest world that is so different from my beach world.

The mountains are an ever present looming backdrop. They are majestic, formidable, stoic, ancient, and powerful. The landscape here is forged from granite and sandstone. Wind, rain, and time continue to plane the surface of the mountains so that even the asphalt fire roads are dusted with sand.

Over the past dozen years now I climb the fire roads, the mountain trails in order to get higher and higher, drawn by the magnetic pull of the mountains to reach their summits. The mountains teach me to run without fatiguing my legs, without expending all the air in my lungs, to keep my head high, to see the sky ahead of me. When I reach the halfway point to the top of Mt. Lowe Road, the fragrance of the invasives, the Spanish Broom and the wild mustard, overcomes the mild scent of the natives - the wild oats, the buckwheat, the wild sage, and the other wild blooms.

The higher I go, the mountains compel the chasms, the caverns, the valleys below to channel the breeze upward creating a tailwind pushing me skyward. The steepness of the mountain trails forces me to mince my steps, pushing and launching off the balls of my feet. I move on steady, even-paced as the mountain urges me forward saying, “Go higher, go higher, go higher.” The wild oats, the fountain grass, begin to thin out, and even the agave give way to the pine trees and oaks.

As I scuff along, mincing my steps upward, I listen to my crunching cadence as pebbles, sand, and misshapen rocks grind and compress underneath each step. And as I approach the summit, the mountain reveals the secret it has been showing me in plain sight. I left the canyon wrens, the finches, sparrows, and ravens down below, and now only the raptors find their way above the tree line.

It is quiet. I am alone. The solitude, the silence, is the best the mountain has to offer. Sometimes it takes an hour or longer to reach 3000 feet of elevation gain, but as I become part of the true to life painted landscape I make a full circle with my body, eyes focusing outward then upward, taking in the surrounding peaks. My eyes fill with tears as I contemplate the denseness of the pines above me and below me.

I have forgotten about the many important thoughts that only exist in my life below because for eons the mountain has wanted to show me my real life. I listen to nothing and I hear everything in my heart, no thoughts, no words, just feelings. I feel privilege, I feel gratitude, I feel oneness, I feel love.

For years the ocean extended the waves to me, filling my ears with the affirmation, “I see you.” But now I am compelled to follow the voice, the mountain calling me, the mountain pulling me upward drawing me closer and closer soothing me saying, “I will hold you.”

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

I dig around in my closet looking for my running shoes. Boots, basketball shoes, repurposed worn out shoes relegated to yard work, are all tossed aside as the search continues. The shock of the number I read on the scale isn’t motivating this frenzied closet search. It’s the end of 2011 and my father passed away at the end of 2000. My father had chosen a sedentary lifestyle over an active one and his body reflected his choices. After he passed, I asked his doctor what he thought caused my father’s death.

“Your father was a ticking time bomb,” Dr. Hawkins said rather clinically. He continued, “He had a quadruple bypass, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and was in the latter stages of adult onset diabetes causing his circulation problems. His sedentary lifestyle and lack of physical activity only exacerbated these issues. Your dad told me he was a gourmet cook. I told him he looked like one.” We both chuckled wryly. My father’s portly stature silently proclaimed the passion for food that foretold his demise.

Running around the perimeter of my suburban Hollyglen neighborhood in the South Bay of LA wouldn’t take long since it was probably less than two miles to make the loop. With only a couple of entrances off of major highways, Hollyglen is a quiet haven for young families as well as retirees, making it ideal for renewing running intentions.

There is so little traffic mid-morning, I can run uninterrupted in the street safely. It’s a bright, sunny, but cool December morning when I start my run. My breathing is not very controlled and my stride is way too fast. As I try to get my running mechanics under control, more memories of my father come to mind….

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When my father was not at work, either he was in the kitchen cooking, or sitting on the couch watching TV eating peanuts. Cooking was my father’s first love. He loved experimenting in the kitchen and despite his doctor’s warnings to cut down on his salt intake, my dad thought he was complying by substituting table salt with onion salt, garlic salt, celery salt and other salt derivatives. My dad’s logic was that these were not pure salts but rather diluted by flavorings. I pointed out the flaw in that line of reasoning, since all of these spice concoctions had the word salt in their title. My dad continued to deny the obvious.

While my dad busied himself honing his culinary skills, my brother and I did all of the housework, dividing the chores between us. On one particular morning, it’s my turn to do the vacuuming. I’m in high school, my brother and I are still living at home. As I manipulate the long, hollow, metal suction bar, hose, and wheeled canister about the house, my father is sitting in his familiar corner of the couch. There is a hollow in the seat cushion from many hours of his sitting in the same spot. Peanuts, newspapers, magazines, advertising mailers, rosary beads, and other assorted items made their home in that corner of the couch. That corner also gives him the best vantage point for watching his console TV.

Since the noise from the vacuum preempts any TV watching, my father turns his attention to micromanaging my vacuuming thoroughness. Every single time I vacuum near him, inevitably he points out that I am missing a spot. Yes, it is annoying to have him point out the obvious untouched areas that I will eventually get to, but it’s the way he points out my shortcomings that makes the situation both annoying and comical at the same time.

“You missed a spot over there,” my father bellows above the droning vacuum cleaner. At the same time he is yelling, he points to the bothersome spot. Not with his arm extended, fist curled, index finger poised, but with his leg extended coming up from the couch using his big toe at the end of his fully pointed foot as my guide.

This seems so ridiculous to me to see my father’s toe pointing that I immediately have negative judgments running through my head. “He’s so friggin lazy that he’s got to use his toe to point. Why can’t he get up and show me? Look! He’s doing everything he can to keep his ass on that couch.” And every time the toe comes out, I deftly move the business end of the vacuum bar back and forth, purposely missing the spot.

“No! Not there! There!” My father shouts, straining to stay on the couch and extending his leg, foot, and toe to maximum capacity. I hide my laughing face as I continue to vacuum everywhere but the assigned target. This feigned incompetence on my part continues for a while as I vacuum over clean spots, distant spots, everywhere but the right spot.

I’m sick of this game so I finally say, “Oh here?,” as I vacuum over the offending spot.

My father finally relaxes, leg, foot and toe returning to their resting positions, as he sinks back into the couch, reaching for his bag of peanuts.

I’m actually laughing-while-running as I remember this once forgotten scene. This little run is taking longer than I had expected, but I’m doing it and that’s all that matters right now. I have nearly completed a loop around the neighborhood and I have come to a realization.

It’s not the weight gain that’s motivating me; I’m running because I’m afraid. Fear has never motivated me before. I saw the tragic end to my father’s movie and I don’t want the same outcome for me.

I am afraid of becoming my father.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

For every running race, no matter the distance, every participant is grouped according to age. Age categories are divided chronologically starting with less than 20 years old and incrementally increasing by decade after that up to 70 plus. When I was still in my 20s, I couldn’t imagine who would be running into their 70s, let alone even their 50s or 60s. How could anyone that old still be running? It’s me, I’m still running in my 60s on the verge of running into the previously unimaginable final category of 70 plus.

I named this current series of posts, “Two In A Million” because that’s the ratio of over 60s still running ultramarathons. When I was in my 20s and managed to run 100-mile weeks, I didn’t know then that I was setting up my life with a muscle memory that I have carried through my 60s. Yes, running a lot of miles in a week is a goal, but the real skill is knowing that I can do hard things.

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No one told me that when I started running big miles that I was training myself in the art of longevity through perseverance, dedication, and consistency. I never thought about the need to put in a great effort, to actually persevere. My motivation to be a good teammate to my fellow cross-country participants fueled my dedication. Just running, just doing the training miles, just getting it done, constituted my dedication. But after graduation and as I got older, I learned the hard way that there is no accidental or haphazard road to long distance success. Lacking the discipline to put all the mental and physical elements together for long distance training derailed all of my comeback attempts. Somehow the blending of mental and physical qualities that are needed to successfully run 100-mile weeks was achieved at the beginning of my running journey, but I was unable to repeat my early success for decades until I reached the latter days of my running story.

As life unfolded, responsibilities increased and running decreased. Running was definitely a backburner activity as I soon found myself working full time, married, with a baby on the way. I would run sporadically, long enough and fast enough to see if I still had it. Ironically, it was the memory of my early success that derailed my endless comeback attempts. I remembered what it was like to run 10 or more miles at a time. I remembered that I could string together 10-plus-mile days effortlessly, seemingly endlessly. I remembered the level of fitness I was in that all that running required. Going all-in on that memory bolstered my denial that I lacked that prior fitness.

I found out rather quickly that memory is not the present, that consistency is not a one-time deal. And consistency was the only path back to running. When I was on the cross-country team, I had a difficult time keeping my weight north of 120 pounds. After 10 to 20 years removed from school, it was difficult keeping my weight south of 150. I remembered those 100-mile weeks and I ate like I was still running them. Simple math became the bearer of truth. Calories consumed far outweighed the number of calories being burned. The added weight put more stress on my bones, muscles, and joints to the point where my body could not operate at the level my deluded self-image thought I was still in.

The rigors of a full-time job coupled with the responsibilities of being a husband and father left little time for proper training and recovery. Running was an effort, it wore my body down physically, but I would have flashes of the familiar runner’s high. Every run, despite the increased effort, would bring about peace, the familiar euphoria, but the elusive consistency that I needed was never achieved.

The inconsistency in my training kept me in a self-defeating cycle. I wouldn’t run for a while, I would gain weight, I would try running again, I would suffer joint and muscle pain from trying to increase my mileage and speed too quickly for my out-of-shape body to catch up with my intentions. Sometimes the soreness would be too painful to keep training, so I would stop running and find myself back at ground zero. Even in my healing periods, I never stopped eating as if I were still training.

In December of 2011, I looked forward to starting the New Year off with a renewed resolve to run consistently. I was on vacation from work for the last three weeks of the year so I decided to get a jump on my resolution by working out sooner. As with previous attempts at a running comeback, I wanted to get a baseline starting point so I decided to weigh myself.

I stepped on the scale and could not believe what the digital display was telling me. As I processed the numbers before me, I had a flashback of stepping on the scale after a summer of 100-mile weeks back in my college days. The number on the scale over 30 years later, was nearly 50 pounds more than my college weight. I don’t know how long I stood on the scale staring at the number blaring the truth back at me. I had a realization then that would change the arc of my life going forward.

“Today I am in the best shape of my life for today. The shape I was in the past is just a memory and that doesn’t do me any good today.”

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

The three seniors on the team take charge of our training schedule. Russ, is the fastest finisher of the trio, famous for his finishing kick. He has a penchant for four minute final miles. Bernard, long and lanky, is probably the most natural runner of the three. He’s loud, brash, and competitive, usually placing in the top three of every race. Jose, the most consistent and most experienced of the three, looks almost super hero-like, his off-season weight program has expanded his chest to almost double its size, to the point where it looks like someone has inflated his chest with a balloon. He’s expecting to do well at the conference championships at the end of the season.

This year, a pair of freshman, identical twins, join the team. They seem a bit gangly but their legs are solid, muscular, more Clydesdale than human. We’re a small school, too small for a separate women’s team, so our team is co-ed and joining my friend, T, is a freshman female also named T. We playfully call them Thing 1 and Thing 2 and thankfully, they go along with it. There are other walk-ons joining me. We have an informal introduction team meeting and Russ makes a prediction.

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“Over the next three weeks, we’re going to run 75 this week, 100 the following week, and 75 the week after that. We should be ready by the start of the season.”

My friend, Thing 1, whispers to me, “He left the part out about how some of you won’t be here in three weeks.” I give her a surprised look. She continues, “The newbies can’t take it so they quit.”

“Uhhh…” I begin, but T looks at me assuredly, “You’re a good runner, you’ll make it.”

The plan is pretty straight forward. Everyone is on their own in the morning, meaning we should be running five to six miles for our first run. After work, before dinner, we meet at the athletic field, stretch, warm-up together, then head out for a group run of eight, ten, even up to twelve miles. I don’t know if it’s youthful energy or the fact that I’m in the presence of school legends, but I dutifully stick it out. The morning runs on my own aren’t too bad. Thing 1 and Thing 2 often join me so our conversation makes the time go quickly.

Because the afternoon runs are much longer, we all meet up early to stretch out leisurely, to set our minds collectively on the task ahead of us. Bernard is just naturally gregarious. He’s always in a good mood, laughing it up, and hyping up the run to where we’re all excited to go another 10 miles. On this particular afternoon, we’re going to head south on Pershing Drive. The out-and-back route is closer to 11 or 12 miles, but the extra mileage will do us good.

Pershing Drive intersects one of the west facing runways of LAX airport. It’s long and flat making it ideal to run steady miles on. It’s a rolling one and a half miles from the campus to Pershing and the whole way, Bernard is still yukking it up, being loud and funny. We find out that the twins had a very successful four year high school career. Thing 2 set distance records at her high school. Listening to these accomplishments and fighting for my life to maintain pace with everyone else, I’m suffering from impostor syndrome, ashamed to admit I just started running over five miles at a time a couple of months ago.

By the time we reach Pershing, a magical thing happens. The three seniors are leading the pack, followed by the twins, Thing 1 and Thing 2, and myself. A third group, made up of mostly newbies, brings up the rear. We are four or five miles into the run and Bernard is quiet. In fact, no one is talking. We are all finding our individual stride and settling into a comfortable pace and I begin to notice something.

It’s only footsteps and breathing that are making sound. I look at the faces around me and I see eyes focused forward, even breathing, arms barely swinging, an economy of bodily movement, yet we’re keeping around an eight minute per mile pace. I notice my own breathing, my own effortless stride, and I feel like I can keep this pace forever. I know nothing about movement meditation, being in the zone, or even in a flow state. But I have heard about a runner’s high and I figure that we must all be experiencing a group high.

There’s a restroom and drinking fountain at our turnaround point at Imperial Highway. There is barely any conversation as we wait for everyone to make it to the meeting spot. When all are accounted for, Bernard announces, “Let’s go home.” He and the other seniors lead the way as the rest of us quickly regain our stride and follow along.

Even though we’ve gone over six miles by this time, I don’t notice any fatigue or muscle soreness, but there’s something else going on. I’m happy, almost euphoric, and I don’t understand why. Some of the others are starting to chat it up, laughing, as the vibe turns to joy.

Despite the miles ahead of us, the euphoria continues. Eventually, we all fall silent again, all of us mindlessly caught within our own rhythm of legs, arms, and breathing.

The sun sets on the Santa Monica Bay as the approaching twilight casts a purple haze over all of us. As I ease my way forward matching strides with my friend, T, we both look to the left, toward the ocean. It’s a scene we almost take for granted now. Shades of orange, layered with yellow and red, constantly morphing toward deeper blue and purple, paint the horizon on the ever lapping ocean. T smiles at me as if to say, “Yes, we get to do this.” I could care less about the scientific explanations for this collective upbeat mood, but I do know, I hope I never get enough of it.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

A few weeks ago, I did some research into my running habits and learned a few facts that I was unaware of. With the help of AI, I asked the question, how many people over the age of 60 run ultramarathons? AI returned a miniscule percentage answer in the context of the world population, so I had difficulty envisioning that. When I asked the question in terms of a smaller sampling, AI returned this answer: for every million people, two fit the over-60 ultramarathoning profile.

I shared this result in a Substack post and shortly thereafter, a friend who aspires to run a half marathon called me wanting preparation tips and to talk more about my ultramarathoning life.

“How long have you been running?,” she started. This is the question everyone starts with.

“On and off for about 45 years,” I answered.

She followed up with the second-most asked question. “Well, how did you get started?”

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…..It’s the summer of 1976 and while the rest of the country is preparing for Bicentennial celebrations, I am about to enter the world of long distance running. The student on-campus apartments are filled with summer school students and student workers like myself, working full-time hours trying to earn as much money as possible before the fall sessions start.

A friend of mine, who lives on the same floor of my apartment building, is making a name for herself on campus as a standout athlete on both the rowing and cross country teams. Her roommates and mine are quite chummy with each other, caught between ambivalent feelings of maybe romance and maybe not. My friend, T, is very lithe and supple, and her athletic frame is very attractive. In the early days of our friendship when I wasn’t sure which way our chemistry was moving us, we went out for dinner and afterward I gave her a friendly hug. Feeling her muscular shoulders and back, my body had a visceral reaction before my brain had time to ponder this situation. My testosterone-fueled body screamed, “She feels like a man!” and that conclusion destined our relationship to never leave the friend zone.

T and I both have full-time jobs on campus. I’m in the library all day and she has an admin job with student services. Despite the fact that she puts in a full day at the office, T works out everyday after work. If it’s not weight training, then she’s on her bike or running. She invites me to join her but I decline the weight room sessions. I’ve felt those muscles and my emerging male ego can’t stand the thought of embarrassment and I don’t own a bike, but I do join her on her runs. She runs at an easy pace and soon we’re going on runs of five to six miles. My stamina improves to the point where we are running eight to ten miles on weekends. We don’t run everyday but we do build up to 20 to 25 miles per week.

By the end of July, T joins her cross country teammates and I happily tag along. Because we’re enrolled at a small college of no more than 1200 full-time students, cross country is not a big-time sport. If you have the desire and the endurance for running a lot of miles you could pretty much join the team as a walk-on. It’s not my intention to join the team, but T and her teammates give me their stamp of approval.

”Hey, you’re already doing the miles, might as well just do it,” they shrug. I shrug right along with them and my college stint as a cross country runner is born. The other guys on the team are very encouraging, but also not holding back at all on the bodily sacrifice that is required. My first week with them, they tell me that we need to “build our base” so we are going to do a lot of long runs. Even though I have been running with my friend, I am ill-prepared for that first 70-mile week.

I know that if I have to run those miles by myself, my cross country career will be over before it begins. We run as a group, every run mapped out by one of the upperclass teammates. I have never been on an organized team before so I guess this is part of the motivation to stick it out.

Russ, one of my teammates, also works in the library and after one of our long runs, he gives me a word of encouragement. “Glad to see you’re hanging in there.”

Before I finish feigning humility saying, “Ah, no big deal,” he follows up with an ominous pronouncement.

“Next week, I want to step it up. We need to be doing 100,” he proclaimed.

His eyes narrow as he looks away from me, staring off toward the horizon. I can tell he’s not kidding. I don’t doubt him and the thought of running 100 miles in a week sounds absurdly reasonable. Absurd. Reasonable?

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

My sister is five years older and my brother is three years younger than I. I am the middle child, and as the middle child I felt compelled to do the offbeat thing, the more negative attention-seeking thing. It was never my intent to inflict physical pain or permanent damage, but pranking my sister and my brother was my most rewarding form of entertainment. Simple pranks like dousing someone with a cup of water balanced on top of a door, waiting for the unsuspecting victim to open the door and end up wet from the falling water, or revealing myself from a closed shower curtain once the victim was incapacitated, scaring them off the toilet seat, those were all fun, but I lived for the more intricate pranks.

When we were young, my parents tried to tame my hell-bent curious mind with a subscription to the National Geographic magazine. In an age devoid of electronic stimuli of any kind, the National Geographic proved to be a wealth of entertainment. Strange people coming from strange lands, with strange food and strange customs, exposed my siblings and me to a world outside of 1960s Americana.

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When my brother was around eight years old, he was particularly fascinated with an issue that focused on Japan. Full color photos of temples, sushi, Mt. Fuji, cherry trees in full blossom, busy post-WWII urban life, all of this fascinated both my brother and me. But what really caught his attention were the pictures of geishas. Coiffed jet black hair, pearlescent white skin accented with contrasting makeup, colored silk robes with wide sashed belts, all of this made for one big question mark for my Japan-obsessed brother.

Our neighbor, Rick, was a year older than me, and he and I often partnered in torturing my brother with our slightly more mature pranks. Rick would thumb through the National Geographics with us and he, too, noticed my brother’s fascination with the geishas. While perusing pictures in the magazines one day, my brother, wide-eyed focused on his favorite Japanese dancers, asked an innocent question.

”How do they get their skin so white?’, he asked.

To this day I don’t know how I devised this so quickly but I gave Rick a side eye and answered, “Because they drink soy sauce.’

Rick gave a single snort as he tried desperately to suppress his laughter.

“What? No way,” my brother remarked disgustedly.

”They live in Japan and that’s where soy sauce was invented,” I insisted, as straight-faced and matter-of-factly as possible.

“Soy sauce is really salty, and salt takes the moisture out of things. If you drink enough soy sauce, the salt will remove the moisture from your skin making it whiter.” I said this with great authority and unapproachable conviction.

“Yeah, think how thirsty you get when you eat popcorn at the movies,” Rick added with equal conviction. I smiled at Rick, knowing that his added testimony would surely reel my brother into our scam.

Rick and I could see how perplexed my brother’s brain had become since he was caught between two truths and a lie and he wasn’t really convinced which statement was the lie. While my brother went back to staring at the picture of the geisha, I quickly formulated phase two of this scheme.

”You know, we’ve got soy sauce here,’ I offered.

Rick, dialed in with my deviousness said, “Hey, your dad has a bar, he’s got shot glasses.’

I couldn’t have said it any better. Before my brother knew what was happening, Rick helped himself to the bar and retrieved a shot glass. Being a Filipino family, we had soy sauce in the big Kikkoman can with the red spout. I brought that big can into the mix and with the shot glass, we were ready to prove a point. Everything laid out on display on the kitchen counter.

Rick somehow knew to get the mixing shot glass with the painted white stripe near the rim. I poured the soy sauce carefully, filling the glass to the line without spilling a drop. The smell of soy sauce permeated the air. I could see the reticence on my brother’s face.

”If it doesn’t work, I’ll give you my Kennedy Half Dollar,’ I said reassuringly.

My brother’s eyes widened with excitement. The thought of adding my prized half dollar to his piggy bank sealed the deal. He grabbed the shot glass, staring into the dark brown savory liquid. When he raised the glass to his lips we assumed he would give it a taste test, maybe even a safety sip. He did neither, as he slammed the shot down like he heard someone yell, “Last call!”

Rick and I became spelling test words; dumbfounded and aghast. We stared at each other open mouthed and wide eyed. My brother’s face became a scene from a cartoon turning red, then purple, seemingly in an instant. The shock of saltiness caused his mouth to open wide but horizontally, not vertically. But he made no sound as he looked at both of us as if to say, ‘“What have I done?!”

Sensing an inevitable meltdown, I interjected this painful scene with, “If you cry, someone will hear us and we’ll all get into trouble.” The tears flowed silently, as he breathlessly said, “My chest is burning.”

Rick and I tried, we really tried not to laugh but we couldn’t control ourselves. Rick picked the right moment to leave, mumbling something about having to go home, laughing as he let himself out. My brother put his arm up next to mine and saw that we were both the same color of a tarnished penny. He was nowhere near the color of a Snow White geisha.

My brother’s silence had a price, but my sister, who witnessed the whole scene from another doorway, could not be bought. She had a babysitting gig so my measly half dollars meant nothing to her. When my father came home from work, she dutifully told him what happened. My father, of course, was compelled to confront me.

As was his custom, he pulled me into my bedroom, closed the door and started the interrogation. ‘What happened?,’ he inquired.

I told him the whole story and when I explained how I convinced my brother he would turn white drinking soy sauce, my father just stared at me. His eyes riveted to mine and his head began to quake, literally vibrating at the speed of boiling rage.

”What goes on in your head?”, he quaked rhetorically.

I stood silently, choosing not to tell him that I had convinced my brother to try it again stating that our copper colored skin needed more dosing to turn white. My brother bought it, but I was thinking how I was going to keep my sister’s big mouth shut.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

One Saturday morning, Chuck, Dane, Frank, and I climb our way to the top of the Brand Motorway, the junction with the Verdugo Motorway. Instinctively, all four of us reach into our hydration vests pulling out our nutrition of choice. I retrieve a two-chew package, one lemon ginger, the other mint, made by Precision Fuel. The two cubes together promise to deliver 30 grams of carbohydrates. Chuck’s eyes light up as he spots the brand’s familiar black wrapper with orange and yellow striping. Being a bit of a nutrition nerd, Chuck verifies the positives of my choice.

“Their formulation of carb to energy ratio is one of the best around,” Chuck declares. “I’ve seen a graph showing how quickly the sugar enters your bloodstream instead of sitting in your stomach. So fast…” He shakes his head and grins, accentuating Precision Fuel’s ingenuity.

“Yeah, they work great,” I answer inanely. I had no idea of the superiority of this product. I don’t tell Chuck that I was given a stash of these chews by Precision Fuel when they found out all of my running amenities had gone up in smoke. I’m eating these, not out of choice, but out of generosity.

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As the heat of the day fades into late afternoon here on the Paramount Ranch course, the miles seem to be noticeably growing in length as fatigue is the dominant vibe. Of the more than 150 runners who started in the morning, only 20 remain on the course. Glycogen depletion is at an epidemic level as more runners, including myself, are doing more walking, especially uphill. Everyone left running is well past the initial glycogen stores we have in our bodies and now we’re hoping the nutrition we’re putting in can be converted quickly into more energy. I pull out a Precision Fuel chew package and immediately think of my scientific friend, Chuck.

“Chuck, this really needs to get into my bloodstream fast,” I speak into the universe.

I’m distracting pain by savoring Miss Tiara’s happy victory. I chased Mrs. Claus for the better part of six hours but now her day has ended. D and L are still ahead of me, out in the future and Frank, who joined me on this test of mind over matter, is battling his way forward, somewhere behind me. We who are still left on the course are in the fight of our lives and for now, we are winning that battle.

It’s L who I see first ahead of me. I don’t remember passing D so I assume that L’s stomach issues are behind her as her fluid stride is returning to its effortless flow. As I make my way through the shadows of the oaks, I see a familiar figure stretching against the trunk of a convenient tree. It’s D and without saying anything, I know her hamstring has caused her to relinquish the lead to L. Both of these women are ultimate competitors and despite their individual setbacks, they’re no-quit mindset is helping them overcome fatigue and pain to continue racing the clock which is rapidly approaching the 12-hour time limit.

As the sun begins to set, I make it over the 40 mile mark and try to calculate if I have enough time to make it to 50 miles considering my now diminished pace. From my hydration vest I pull out my FitBelt which is equipped with a waist light. After 10 hours of continuous running, it’s torture trying to insert my ankles, bend my knees, and squeeze my thighs into the shape I need to stretch the elastic belt around my waist but I manage. As the rapidly approaching darkness settles in, my visible world is reduced to the 20 foot wide square that I see in front of me, illuminated by my waist light.

I pick out trees, bushes, rocks, anything that is in front of me, at the end of my light’s range forcing my legs to run to the landmark, then walking a few feet. I tell myself not to doubt, not to think of Miss Tiara’s exhaustion, keep moving, keep moving. In the midst of my own walk, run, walk, run fight, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s my wife, Andrea, who had promised me earlier that she would pace me in. I’m relieved to have her by me, but I am also fighting the urge to just quit and have her take me home.

“I’m really having a hard time out here,” I tell her.

“I know. I can tell,” she says calmly. “You’re walking on flat ground. You only do that when you’re really tired.”

We run together at a slower pace for an entire loop and I realize that the steady pace we kept seems to have given me renewed energy. I look at my watch and do some quick calculations and realize that I do have time to make it if I can muster a 12-minute per mile pace. I have no emotional filter at this point so I mouth the hardest words I can imagine saying to her.

“I’m sorry, honey, but I have to do this if I have any chance of getting over 50 miles. I’m going to have to drop you.”

She nods silently. I would love to continue running with her, but she can’t maintain the increased pace that I need to run. A quick hug and even quicker kiss sends me on my final push. Just two more laps I tell myself, six more miles and I’m there. As I finish lap 16, I have 48 miles logged and I’m heading into the straightaway to start my final lap.

The race director sees me coming and holds her hand up to me. “Wait,” she orders as she looks toward the timers. I slow down to walk. The timer looks up at her and says, “He’s at mile 48.”

KH looks at me, knows me from the dozens of races that I’ve participated in that she’s put on. I’ve volunteered for her, swept a race for her before, and all that history brings her to this decision.

“You are the last one that I’m going to allow to start this loop but you must promise me that you will run your ass off because my permit for this race is about to expire.”

I don’t answer. I wave and take off. The final technical section in the dark is taxing my body and my brain as I fend off thoughts of tripping. As I approach the oaks, I see two figures by the side of the road. It’s KH’s husband and my wife Andrea. They took a shortcut to urge me on.

JH was the overall winner of a 250 mile race in the Arizona desert just a week before and now, even in the dark, I can feel his eyes riveted to mine. “Get it!” When an elite runner growls at you, you say nothing, you just go. I ignore the knives stabbing my thighs, my calves, my hamstrings. My breath is out of control, heaving with every inhale and exhale. As I approach the finish line a volunteer holds an open medal out to the side like a target for my neck which I happily spear with my head as I cross the line. Another volunteer hands me a cup full of lentil chili and I look at my watch. I ran 51 miles, 17 laps total in 11 hours and 55 minutes.

KH laughs, “Thanks for running your ass off.” Andrea gives me a big hug and lets me lean on her for support. L and D are both standing at the finish area, bundled with coats and blankets. The two friends have nearly recovered, enjoying their chili. They both completed 19 laps for 57 miles; L is the overall winner and D finishes second. L wanted to finish together, but D insisted that she earned the victory. I found out later that I finished eighth overall, the last to make it over 50 miles.

“I ran out of time for 60 miles,” L tells me. “But I’ll take the win.”

“My leg,” D laments.

“I know,” I say softly.

I hug them both, lean on Andrea, and make my way back to my car, caressing the medal dangling from my neck.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

My friend C is an ultramarathoner who has successfully completed at least one 100-mile event. C takes a very scientific approach to training, always looking for the nutritional edge that will help him with his stamina, his strength, and his speed in honing his long distance running skills. C told me that once human beings reach 18 to 20 miles of continuous running, the physical line defining the body’s stored glycogen energy limit could be breached, making further running impossible. I have verified this statement myself by running well over 20 miles numerous times. Skill, born out of experience, is employed in order to replenish glycogen before the physical limit is reached. Experience from training runs tells me when I should be eating, but more importantly, having that knowledge creates a winning mindset because in order to successfully complete an ultramarathon, I must believe I can go past my own physical limit.

Today, D, L, and every other runner out here believes we have the physical and mental know-how to successfully complete our personal goal distance. Every time we go 30, 50, 100, or more miles, we rely upon our physical preparation as well as, the mental fortitude we have hopefully built through all the miles upon miles of training before we toe the start line. No matter the chosen goal distance, we all have the same internal doubts we must overcome in order to run to the finish line. Every runner from elite to novice will tell you that the race they are running right now is the hardest thing they must overcome at this moment.

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At the start line, I’m looking around the sea of hydration vests, arm warmers, trekking poles, hats, caps, and bandanas. It all looks like a scene I’ve seen over a hundred times. But a young woman catches my attention. The Kelly green tank top with the pink arm warmers, the yellow tutu over the pink spandex shorts, that’s all normal fare. But she’s wearing a tiara. The plastic tiara sits high on her dark brown hair because it’s tall, almost a crown, and it has faux diamond script writing on the apex of the head gear. I can’t get a good look at the writing so I can’t read it. And before I can maneuver myself into a position to get a better look, we’re off.

Ultramarathoners come in all shapes and sizes. Some fit the quintessential Kenyan slim body archetype, but others, like the woman in the tiara, do not. Ultramarathoners know you don’t get extra points for having the best looking body, the prize is in the journey and the challenge is the reward.

30K runners, 50K runners, and those getting the most pain for their dollar, who like myself are running the 12-hour event, are all starting together. I’m hoping to get 50 miles in. I can tell by her bib number color that Miss Tiara is running a 30K so her pain endurance will be significantly less challenged than mine. It’s a 3-mile looped course and everyone sees each other again and again and again. I pass her early and I notice that the tiara is no longer sitting above her forehead but is now setback at the top of her head, almost like a headband, making it impossible to read the script on the crown.

Regardless of goal distance, we all have to run the same course, the same uphill and downhill sections, the same pock marked grassy meadows, the same rocky, slippery, gravel trails. Even though I had already passed her earlier, I’m coming up fast to Miss Tiara again. We are about 12 miles into the race and I can tell that Miss Tiara has reached the point that all ultramarathoners fear; she’s bonking. Bonking is that horrible condition you find yourself in when your stamina crashes, your legs feel like they’re stuck in concrete, and you wonder if the next step you take will be your last. C would diagnose her condition as a lack of glycogen, caused by insufficient nutrition, leading to feelings of helplessness and despair. I’m wondering if she’s starting to doubt. The pink arm warmers are gone. Salt and sweat outline the backside of her hydration vest on her green tank top. The yellow tutu and pink shorts are dusty as if she’s been sitting on the trail. She’s doing the long distance survival technique of run a little, walk a little, run a little, walk a little, repeating that pattern until you start to believe that you can make it again. I notice that even on the slight uphill, it’s all walking. I catch up to her and match her pace. We tackle the uphill together and I try to encourage her. “You’re doing great. You’re killing it.”

A smile broadens on her very flushed cheeks. “Thanks. I need all the help I can get.” As much as we encourage one another out here, exhorting, encouraging, smiling, cheering, in the end it’s survival of the fittest and the bottom line is, no one else is going to run these miles for you. As we reach the top of the incline, I leave her with a “Hang tough!” and she returns the favor with, “Go get it!” I pick up the pace again, wondering if I’ll see her again.

More rocky road, more trippy meadow, more shady oaks, more of the asphalt straightaway and the heat of the day continues to increase. I’ve long lost count of how many laps I’ve done without checking the mileage I’ve accumulated on my watch and doing the division to figure out what lap I’m on. I’m keeping myself sufficiently fed and hydrated and more math tells me that I’m still on schedule to hit my goal of 50 miles. I haven’t quite reached the halfway point and I start to wonder how Miss Tiara is doing. I haven’t passed her and haven’t seen her at the straightaway either. I’m on mile 24 and I figure that she’s running only 18 miles so she must have finished by now.

As I reach the end of the straightaway before entering the south loop, I finally see her walking and trotting toward her finish line. She’s not moving well, but she’s moving and as she comes into view of the volunteers at the finish, cowbells are clanging, big cheers are filling the air because she’s in the home stretch and everyone gets cheered in. I feel relief as a big smile stretches across my face.

I complete the south loop and enter the transition area for the straightaway. I slow my pace down in order to carefully scan the finish area to see if Miss Tiara is still there. I see her sitting in a folding camp chair, munching on a sandwich still wrapped in its Subway wrapper. The tiara is back on her forehead and I can finally read the diamond script.

`“Queen.”

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

I have run numerous events here at Paramount Ranch. I know the rocky technical parts of the course with their steep, gravel inclines and descents. I know the shaded, soft, almost sodden parts of the course, hidden underneath the canopy of the Coast Live Oaks. I know the grassy meadow with its invisible holes that grab unsuspecting ankles. I know the asphalt straightaway that can lift spirits, encourage tired legs, give the impression of speed when only exhaustion and despair are there. Despite my familiarity with this course, every race is different and how each event plays out is unique to each race.

It’s the second week of December and a number of runners are showing off their holiday spirit. I’m seeing quite a few Santa hats, along with red and green tights, shorts, and tops. There is a woman, looking to be in her 40s or 50s, wearing a Mrs. Claus dress. The short dress appears to be made of Santa-red velvet and lined with faux white fur around the neckline and around the short hemline that falls at thigh level. She’s wearing red spandex shorts under the dress and to add panache to the ensemble, she has on white formal gloves, the kind Cinderella wore to the ball. Placed neatly on her head is a red Santa hat, white fur lined with a white pom pom at the tip of the point. When I first notice her, she is about 100 yards in front of me. I glance at my watch to check my pace and I’m going about 12 minutes per mile. I check her progress and notice the distance between us is staying consistent so I’m going to gauge my pace by monitoring the distance between me and Mrs. Claus.

By mile 20, I notice that my two very fast friends, L and D, are way ahead of me. L is keeping her sub-11-minute pace and D is closing the distance between them. I had been seeing them at the straightaway going the opposite direction of me but now I no longer see them so I know that they will be passing me soon. I don’t have to wait long for my prediction to come true.

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I hear a female voice behind me, as if the person is having a one-way conversation. The voice closes the gap between us and I realize it’s L. L loves to post videos and photos of her running adventures with companions on Instagram and Facebook Stories and she’s about to pass me. I realize that she’s filming herself, talking into her phone despite the fact that the section we’re on has numerous tripping hazards, and she still has the wherewithal to overtake me.

”Hey there’s, Steve! Looking strong, Steve!” L shouts into the phone.

Not only is L a fit athlete, but she’s a daredevil, often going on unmarked mountain trails, or bushwhacking, making her own trail up cliffs impassable to the rest of us. The highlights of her videos display her penchant for conquering various peaks here in the greater SoCal area and she always has pictures of running companions who look like they got talked into the adventure with her.

“Yeah it’s kind of technical here, got to be careful in this section,” she remarks, still looking into her phone. She’s being very kind but I feel like telling her, “No, I’m just old and slow, which is why you’re passing me.” She giggles quietly as we fist bump and she’s on her way moving quickly ahead of me.

The south loop is a bit technical, with more gravel, and more tripping-sized rocks than the north loop, but it is also dotted with Coast Live Oaks, making it the much more cool, shady, and scenic of the two loops. As I make my way around the loop, heading toward the straightaway, I hear a familiar rustling of leaves and footsteps that I know I’ve heard before. Coming alongside me is D. Her gait is quite unique in that she takes long halting strides and her footfall sounds more like lurching than running.

“You’re looking pretty strong,” D offers as encouragement.

“Did you know that L is maybe 10 - 15 minutes ahead of you?” I informed her.

Her eyes widen but I can’t tell if she’s excited or discouraged.

“Really? I don’t know if I can catch her, I’m recovering from a hamstring issue.” By the sound of her voice and the way she said that statement, has me guessing as to whether she’s going to go after L or not. D and I reach the aid station together. I’m nearing 30 miles finished and I know D has logged more than that. I peruse the food offerings settling on some boiled baby potatoes and a handful of Sour Patch Kids as the time keepers check our bib numbers.

“Hey, did you know that you’re in second place overall right now?” one of the timers informs D, never looking up at her, eyes focused on her computer screen. “Yeah LC is leading right now. Do you know who she is?”

D turns to me and gives me a side-eyed glance. “Yes, we’re friends and we’ve run together before.” I laugh to myself because I realize what D wanted to say is, “It’s on!”

Runners always talk about the race within the race. Every race, no matter the distance, is a question of how your thoughts are going to affect your body. While I’m enjoying more baby potatoes and stuffing more candy into my pockets, D is off with renewed vigor and a quicker stride. Her hamstring issues have miraculously disappeared.

As we start the north loop, D pulls away from me and in less than a quarter of a mile, I’ve lost sight of her. Despite stopping at the aid station, I find myself catching up to Mrs. Claus who has ditched the formal white gloves. The rest of her holiday ensemble is still intact but she is slowing down. As we exit the meadow portion of the loop and onto the dirt trail, I’m now passing Mrs. Claus.

“Good work,” I offer as I pass her. Mrs. Claus is feeling the effects of running 30 plus miles and she quietly answers, “Thanks. You’re doing great.” She’s unable to keep pace with me and falls behind over the latter part of the north loop. That’s the last time I’ll see Mrs. Claus.

The asphalt straightaway is not only a chance to make up time, but it’s adjacent to the parking lot. One of the unique aspects of this course is that you pass your car multiple times during the event. I’ve left some Uncrustables in the car so I figure this is a good time to stop and grab one. As I approach my car, which is parked maybe a row off the straightaway, I look down the asphalt and I notice L is sitting in a portable chair by the edge of the road.

I replenish my hydration vest with goodies from the car and I quickly continue the race. L sees me approaching and she jumps out of her chair. Her hydration vest is quickly in place on her back. “My stomach wasn’t feeling good, so I had to rest for a while. D passed by here already. I think she’s in the lead now.”

I don’t answer her directly so I ask, “How are you feeling now?”

She too, has an indirect answer, “I think I can still make 60 miles if I get on it now,” and just like that, she’s off. Unlike D who has long lurching strides, L has very short, fluid strides and her cadence, the cycle of each step turning over, is increasing in speed. She enters the south loop and soon disappears into the oaks.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

There are over 621 million people in this world who consistently use running as their exercise of choice. Of those 621 million people, 611,000 have run ultramarathons – running events that extend longer than 26.2 miles. Of the 611,000, less than 3% or approximately 18,000 are over the age of 65. I am 68 years old and I participate in only ultramarathons. According to AI, I belong to an exclusive group of people who make up 2.17 millionths of the world population. I have no real concept of what that number means or even looks like, so AI helped me with a contextual comparison that gave me a better picture. For every million people on earth, I belong to a group of two that are over the age 65 and run ultramarathons.

For further comparison we senior ultramarathoners may be considered a rare, or even an endangered species, but we are definitely not extinct. My usual custom is to run three to four ultramarathon events every year. Because of the rarity of us runners over 65 even participating in ultramarathons, I normally “podium” these runs. This means I usually place in the top three finishers in my age group every event, but contrary to popular belief, to “podium” is not my motivation in running these distances.

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It’s a crisp SoCal morning here at Paramount Ranch in Calabasas, California. The once working ranch comprises 2700 acres sprawled over four square miles. Paramount Studios built a replica back lot western town here, and there have been over 500 productions filmed here since the 1920s. The National Park Service now owns the location and every year, KH, one of California’s favorite race directors, hosts a running event here.

Today I am participating in the inaugural 12-hour event for this location. Usually, the course is mapped out over a six mile loop, but due to a recent fire, only three miles are available to run on. The course itself is shaped like a figure eight consisting of two one-mile loops with a half mile straightaway connecting the two loops. The rules of the event are pretty straightforward; run as many loops as you can within the 12-hour limit. Running 50 miles in 12 hours seems daunting enough but what’s making it more difficult to imagine is running 50 miles over a 3 mile course. Without AI’s help, I determined that I need to run 17 laps to accomplish my goal. Fair enough.

It’s the middle of December and the temperature at the start line at 6 AM is just under 40 degrees Fahrenheit. The high today is projected to be in the low 70s so the cold start is perfect for the 12-hour event. While standing on the start line with my fellow pain-seekers, I adjust my arm warmers, pulling them as far up my biceps as I possibly can to prevent slippage. I also adjust my calf sleeves. In the latter stages of the race once I go over 20 miles, the sleeves supposedly squeeze my legs to increase blood flow preventing cramping from a build up of lactic acid in my muscles. Whether or not that actually happens is beside the point. The bottom line is I believe that it helps and that’s all that matters. I can’t help but chuckle at the thought that these sleeves are the evolutionary descendants of the orthopedic stockings prescribed for improved circulation in elderly or sedentary patients. What were once eschewed because of their association with age and lack of mobility are now seen as de rigueur for ultrarunners.

As a general rule, ultramarathoners are seen as the contrarians to the rest of the running community. Most track athletes and road runners do not run with one tenth the paraphernalia that trail runners do. As I look around the starting area, I see both men and women running in tights, brightly colored tutus, button up shirts, bandanas, floppy hats, wide-brimmed hats, sombreros, cowboy hats, trucker hats, beanies, visors, and feather boas. My outfit of choice is a bit toned down. Along with the arm sleeves and calf sleeves, I’m wearing a multipurpose, slightly elastic, buff. The buff is a cross between a headband, bandana, and ball cap. The buff is sold as a neck gaiter, which I have never used for that purpose. Today, my buff is tight around my forehead stretching over my scalp above my ears. The slight elasticity of the tube-shaped buff keeps it securely on my head. It’s just breaking dawn at start time so my Goodr sunglasses are being worn by my buff - just above my forehead.

What truly sets trail runners apart from road runners is the fact that the majority of those hoping to go beyond the marathon distance of 26.2 miles are all wearing hydration vests, including myself. I doubt that you will ever see the winner of a marathon or shorter distance wearing a hydration vest, but at some point in an ultramarathon, nearly all runners including the elites will be wearing a vest equipped with a bladder or flasks filled with a liquid of choice and an assortment of chews, gels, and anything else that will sustain a runner for the entire distance. Have I ever used everything that I carry? Never. But the security of knowing that I have my curated list of essentials on my back at the ready is mentally more important than the thing itself. Because I know that I will be running in the dark at the end of 12 hours, I carry a running belt equipped with a waist light for later, in my vest, along with a lightweight windbreaker just in case.

I’ve taken selfies in the past at starting lines and non-runners have remarked on more than one occasion while looking at the photos, “There are people running that event who look like they have no business running that distance.” Mistake. Grave mistake. Ultramarathoners, including the elites, do not all look like quintessential Kenyan distance runners. Ultramarathoners come in literally, all shapes, sizes, and ages and I have been run into the ground by runners who did not fit the stereotypical ideal of the distance runner physique.

“3…2…1…GO!”, and we’re off. I check my watch to make sure it’s running and recording. My friend F is joining me on the 12-hour journey and my friend, C, is running a half marathon; the three of us match pace for the first loop. Paramount Ranch is an actual ranch, so we run through a livestock trail for the first loop. The north loop is soft, grassy, and treacherous. Years of cattle and horse hooves have created numerous unseen holes and I watch runners ahead of me half stumble, recover, and continue as we make our way through the pasture area. After we leave the grass section we run on a dirt road for the remainder of the loop until we reach the asphalt connecting road.

While all of us runners were bunched together at the beginning, we are starting to string out as those running the longer distances like myself slow the pace down, preserving our energy for the long haul. I look ahead and see that the elite runners are using the asphalt straightaway as a drag strip as they accelerate and quickly cover the half mile distance to the south loop. My friends and I automatically pick up the pace on the asphalt but when we come to the end, entering the south loop, the dirt road is now covered with rocks and there is an incline slowing our pace down considerably.

I had estimated before the event that I needed to average a pace of just over 14 minutes per mile in order to make 50 miles in 12 hours. F and I keep pace with our half marathon friend who is running a 12-minute-per-mile pace. After a couple of hours running together, C finishes her half and F and I find ourselves way ahead of schedule. I’m optimistic but I know the time I’m banking now might well be used up when I’m trying to finish, not knowing how exhausted I’ll be.

As the day wears on I find I don’t need my arm warmers and I’m starting to separate myself from F. There is an aid station at the junction of the south loop and the straightaway but I’ve passed it every time without stopping. F has been taking advantage of getting hydration and nutrition from the station every few loops which has put him behind. I see a couple of friends ahead of me and their strong strides tell me that they’re both feeling good. One of my friends, L, wants to run 60 miles under the 12-hour limit. She told me ahead of time she has to average better than 11 minutes per mile, significantly faster than my pace. I’ve been seeing her as we pass each other going opposite directions at the straightaway but the math tells me that at her accelerated pace, eventually she will be passing me.

As we approach the 15-mile-mark in the event, I’m still moving along at a comfortable 12- to 13-minute-per-mile pace. It feels comfortable now, but for how long?

I don’t know...

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

It’s Saturday and I’m preparing to run at least 12 miles today. As I pack my hydration vest, I go through the mental checklist I’ve done thousands of times before. My hydration flasks are full, I have four Precision Labs carbohydrate cubes, and I stuff an Uncrustable sandwich in the outer pocket of the vest. There is a definite chance of rain today so I secure my rolled up rain jacket in the back pouch. But this is not going to be one of my typical long trail runs. I’m not running in my trail shoes but in my road running shoes. It’s all streets today, no trails.

Today is the day for the Altadena Forever 5K and 10K Runs. It has been nearly a year since the fire swept through Altadena and a volunteer community group spearheaded by the local firefighters association is sponsoring the runs as a charity fund drive for victims of the fire. I have signed up to run the 10K and I cannot remember the last time I actually paid to run a 10K. Since the pandemic, I have not run in a race under 50K. All the proceeds go to a victims fund so I know my money is going to help someone in need. My plan for the day is to run to the race, about two miles from my house, run the race, then run a few more miles after the 10K to get my goal mileage.

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Both the 5K and 10K are set to start at 7 so I leave the house giving myself plenty of time running at an easy pace to get to the start line. The sky does look threatening and I can see in the distance that downtown Los Angeles may already be getting rain. Grey streaked sheets diagonally cut across the sky partially blurring the downtown view. I’m breathing easily because I tucked my running raincoat into the hydration vest.

The storefronts on Mariposa Street, near Lake Avenue, are now just empty brick shells, skeletons hinting at the past. The big arch marking the start line is set up in front of the burnt out Ace Hardware store. It was the go-to store in town, having an endless supply of everything a homeowner could possibly want and more. Although the big box hardware store is a few miles away, everyone in town preferred to come here. Every employee treated you like a friend, answering every kind of question you could come up with and always had solutions for every imaginable predicament. There were various sizes, grades, gauge, thicknesses, shades, and viscosity of paint, PVC pipe, screws, nails, fasteners, adhesives, and wire, plus many more categories of hardware stuff that every do-it-yourself, weekend warrior could ever dream of needing. But now, everyone has to go to the big box store, where they’re not as friendly, not as helpful, and not as local.

When I first met Andrea, we both joined the Pasadena Pacers, a free to join running club with over two thousand members. For a number of years, we were very involved with the club running with the trail running or half marathon groups nearly every Saturday morning. But the pandemic prevented big group meetups on Saturday and after the quarantine was over, I continued running big miles by myself and never really returned to the Pacers. Since all of my races are run on trails, I rarely see my road racing friends.

I recognize two Pacer friends who come to greet me, K and G. I’ve known both of them for over a dozen years. We’ve run weekends together, trained for the LA Marathon for weeks on end, together for years, until I reached the point where I did not want to run road races anymore.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” K asks while laughing.

“I know, I feel kind of lost out here.” I smirk back at him.

I feel a soft hand on my shoulder, turn, then a warm hug encircles me. It’s G. Here is the world we live in. I met them both in real life, running with the Pacers and became more acquainted with their real lives over time. But since I haven’t run with them in years, we only know each other from social media, catching only snapshots, glimpses of revealed lives, seeing only what we show on screen.

“I bet you ran over here,” G says with a broad smile.

“Of course! It’s only a couple of miles,” I chuckle.

Her quizzical look lets me know that she doesn’t know the latest going on in my real life.

“Wait. A couple of miles? Where do you live now?” she asks.

“Oh I’ll tell you both. I’m back in Altadena.”

As if they rehearsed this scene before, they simultaneously give a shocked, “What?”

G has that kind of smile that when her mouth and cheeks broaden, turning upward, her eyes can’t help but squint and follow her smile’s lead. And as I explain the story of my former neighbors selling their home to us, my eyes focus onto G’s eyes. Above the happy cheek stretches, her eyes do squint, but this time they turn red, and as if the saline release creates emotion, tears flow freely, mysteriously constricting my throat causing my own eyes to water.

“Oh my God, I’m so happy for you guys.” she says breathlessly, barely saying the words. She reaches over and gives me another warm hug. My body betrays my public persona and I feel a heave within me matching her sighing sob. I look over at K, watching the whole scene unfold. Compelled by the tears, he comes over and joins in the emotion, holding us both in a wide embrace.

I can barely eek out, “Thank you.” And for a moment, the friends I’ve known only through recent Facebook posts and Instagram stories become real to me again as we become human beings in this shared moment of just being present in real life as it should always be.

In the 12 years that I have run with the Pasadena Pacers, K has been in charge of setting up water stations for the club’s weekend group runs. Over the years, K has seen Pacers come and go but he somehow knows almost everyone who has ever run with the Pacers. Today, K doesn’t have to worry about making sure gallons of water are set up in designated spots, but that doesn’t stop him from spreading the love.

K and I run together nearly the entire way and of the hundreds of people running the course, K seems to know at least half of them. For over six miles, K shouts and waves to runners and runners shout and wave back to him. Not only does K know all these people, he even knows if they live in Altadena or even Pasadena. As we catch up to every local that K knows, he greets them with the same question.

“Have you heard Steve’s story? Go ahead, Steve, tell them the story.”

So for six miles, I repeat my story of fortune, how the universe opened its arms and gave Andrea and me the gift of a miracle. Everyone, every single person, shakes their head in disbelief, smiling and shouting, “That’s unbelievable!” Or, “Wow!” Or “I’m so happy for you.”

But if we run into someone that we both know well, someone who also lost their home, we get a different response.

“I really needed to hear that today. You’ve given me so much hope.” I can see it in their eyes, I can see it on their face. Fire is not the final word. The universe gave K and I the opportunity today to spread the truth that joy, through love shared, can become hope.

I don’t know how many times I repeated the story today, but I can honestly say I’ve never run a 10K with a smile on my face the entire time. As we finish, K gives me a big hug, and with a parting remark says, “Man, that’s the greatest story of the year.”

I tell the story a few more times in the finishing area and as I do, it begins to rain. I don my rain jacket to continue my run through the streets of empty lots. In the early moments of the rain, a mixture of wet, soil, and fresh cut spruce, fir, and pine permeate the air with a delicious blend of something I can’t identify. I don’t think the fragrant mixture has a particular name, but I’m going with my own conclusion.

It’s the smell of hope.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

No matter where you live, there are tell-tale signs that someone you encounter is a local. When someone asks me where I live I respond with, “Off of Chaney Trail”. Locals will turn their eyes upward toward a corner of their memory. “Where the blinky yellow light is at?” With a smile I’ll respond, “Yup, that’s it,” and in my mind I’ll hand the passport back to the friend I never knew I had.

Chaney Trail is one of the more popular local gateways into the Angeles National Forest. Approaching Chaney Trail from the west, there is a nine percent grade over a half mile from Lincoln Avenue heading up Loma Alta Drive to the flashing overhead yellow light that marks the street. It’s difficult to see the street sign for Chaney from Loma Alta so the flashing yellow light is the iconic landmark ingrained into every local’s imaginary map.

Mountain bikers, hikers, and runners frequent the Chaney Trail challenge. It is nearly a mile from the bottom of Loma Alta to the yellow traffic gate marking the entry into the National Forest and it is another mile of climbing to get to the transition where Chaney Trail becomes the Mt. Lowe Fire Road. Overall, it is nearly 1000 feet of elevation gain over a two mile stretch making this quite the fitness test from bottom to top.

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My dog, Miso, and I often make the walk from the halfway point of the yellow traffic gate to the transition to Mt. Lowe Fire Road. We’ll even go further up the mountain road for another half mile to the junction of the Sunset Ridge Trailhead making our round trip walk about three miles. Before the fire, if we went up Chaney Trail in the early morning, we would pass by an old wooden utility pole on the west side of the road.

Woodpeckers nested at the top of the pole and we would hear the rhythmic tapping of their beaks. Each time the rapping started, Miso would stop, cock his head at that angle that says, “WTF?” I’d point to the woodpeckers and Miso would give his soft bark, as if to say, “I’m watching you!”

A young man, no older than 30, appears underneath the woodpecker pole one morning. He comes equipped with binoculars, a clipboard and pen, and his eyes are focused on the nest at the top of the pole.

“SCE wants to replace this pole,” Carlos informs me. Dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans, and hiking boots, and squinting through his binoculars while talking with me, Carlos is living his role as the electric company’s in-house environmental biologist.

“I’ve been monitoring the activity in that nest for nearly a year now,” he adds. He checks his notes and states, “There are two adults and at least two younger birds in that nest.”

“Wow,” is the only response I can muster. I think of something better to say, “So what are you planning on doing with the woodpeckers?”

“They’re protected by the Migratory Bird Act so my team and I will relocate the nest in the forest.”

Again, I answer, “Wow,” but this time I really mean it. As promised, his team of fellow environmentalists came out and carefully extracted the nest to be relocated deeper into the forest. The old wooden pole was replaced with a shiny new fiberglass one. But the fiberglass pole was no match for the fire so it, too, became a statistic.

Before the fire, Miso and I would sometimes walk down Mt. Lowe Road at dusk. We would walk past a gorge, tucked between the curves of the mountain. Because of its hidden location, the mini-valley appeared to be always green, lush, dense with small trees and bushes. We would sometimes see an owl sitting on a utility cable strung across the expanse. He would be perched motionless, scanning the expanse below him. Below, we could only see dense green, oaks, sumacs, manzanitas, scrub brush. If we saw him, I would instinctively slow down or even stop for a moment. Sometimes our silent patience would be rewarded and he would spread his massive wings and with one majestic flap, he would soar swiftly, silently, plunging into the encroaching darkness of the gorge below. I would hold my breath, as he never flew above us, but always diving below, extending but not flapping his broad wings, willing his body to careen so close to the ground, seeing what we could not, targeting invisible prey. Since returning to Altadena, Miso and I have gone on a few sunset walks but we have yet to see the owl again. We’ll continue our walking vigil anticipating his return.

In the morning when I run, the silence is broken once again by rhythmic tapping. But it’s not woodpeckers. Gangs of carpenters are making quick work of putting up two by fours and plywood panels creating brand new framework structures. Fascia boards, soffits, and now even roofing substrates are being framed up by the fast working craftsmen. The bursts of pop, pop, pop from their nailguns have replaced the organic sounds we are more accustomed to hearing. It may not be the knocking of woodpeckers, but it is a welcome sound.

Heading down Loma Alta Drive, on a coffee walk, Miso and I pass by a busy lot early in the rebuild process. The foundation is solid and now the carpenters are securing the uprights and are framing the supports for the plywood sidings. Miso points his snout straight up into the air. He’s used to the smell of rosemary, wild sage, aloe, with a background of citrus, but now there’s a new smell. Craftsmen use Skilsaws to cut real-time adjustments to planed spruce, pine, and fir trying to closely follow blueprints. The smell of cut wood permeates the air overpowering the natural scents in the area. Miso’s highly sensitive nose breathes in the new construction aroma. I marvel at the speed the workers are achieving progress but Miso, he would rather smell their progress.

Even though the number of empty lots still outweighs the number of lots under construction, the population in the neighborhood is steadily growing. During the day, my eyes can’t help but see the overwhelm of blankness compared to the structures starting to appear. But at night, my eyes see a different story.

Entrepreneurs are taking advantage of the opportunities for business in the area. Rented Airstreams, Winnebagos, Jaycos, and other Class A RVs are becoming more prevalent on empty lots. In talking with one of my neighbors, I found out that she is renting a luxury trailer to live in while she rebuilds and that the company delivered and hooked up the utilities for her. Green wired fencing is starting to delineate yards and properties now, encircling the lone RV on the lot, giving definition to the emptiness. At night, the RV dwellers have put up strings of LED lights forming light bulb triangles and parallelograms. Their permanent structures are still months away from completion, but these people and their party lights are celebrating hope every night.

At night, before the fire, I would drive up once well-lit streets. But now the municipal street lights are gone and the few RV light strings are too sparse to make much difference. It feels like I am driving on isolated rural roads surrounded by pitch blackness. There’s a lot of muscle memory involved as I maneuver through the neighborhood at night devoid of familiar landmarks. Every empty street corner looks like the one I just passed, every empty lot does not jog any directional memories. I wind my way through the streets, creating an updated neighborhood map in my mind. Eventually, I see it. Like an anxious sailor adrift at night, I search for the ever-present, blinking, yellow beacon marking Chaney Trail, my welcomed lighthouse in this sea of hope.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

In the opening scenes of the 2007 film, “I Am Legend”, Dr. Robert Neville, played by Will Smith, finds himself as the last human living in New York City after a virus has wiped out nearly the entire global population. Neville, an Army virologist, accompanied by his dog, Sam, scavenges the empty streets of New York, for food and anything that can help him on his quest for creating a cure for the virus. Empty streets, crumbling buildings, unkempt public places, wild animal herds, weeds, and overgrowth constitute his reality as nature begins to reclaim the land.

It’s early December, and my wife and I find ourselves back in Altadena after nearly a year-long absence. As is our habit, my dog, Miso and I take a walk down to the local coffee shop that survived the fire. We’re finding our walks to be familiar and not so familiar. The street names on our route are the same, but the streets are far from the same. There are no houses, no cars, no people. We used to walk on one side or the other, but now, with no sign of life around, we walk right down the middle of the asphalt.

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Our route, Olive Avenue to Palm Street to Lincoln Avenue, used to be marked by a variety of homes, some Craftsman style, California bungalows, Spanish style with tiled roofs, all with tidy front lawns and gardens. There were roses, orchids, lilies, fruit trees, oaks, pines, firs all adding to the lushness of the area. If we walked in the latter part of the day, we could smell jasmine mixed with the scent of the various citrus trees and other blooms. This is Southern California at its quintessential best.

But it’s all gone now. After recent rains, the empty lots are sprouting grass and weeds and the mix of floral scent is now replaced by the distinctive greenness of the grass sprouts. Miso walks with his head up, nose sniffing the air, as if he’s trying to catch a familiar scent. I look outward, surveying the starkness of it all. We notice the emptiness, we notice the vastness, we notice the lack of lushness, we notice the row of half-burned oaks that survived and are now sprouting green leaves. I can hear Miso’s soft panting as we walk in silence down the middle of what used to be such busy streets.

After our short time at the coffee shop, we resume our walk heading up Loma Alta, walking adjacent to Loma Alta Park. The dirt surface of the horse corral is flat, well-groomed, show ready. But there are no horses, no riders, no trainers. The grassy main part of the park is just as empty. Like Olive and Palm that we walked down, the prevalence of empty lots is too much to ignore. Loma Alta used to be the main thoroughfare, the busiest street on our side of town. Like all the other streets, it too, is quiet, nearly devoid of cars or pedestrians. For weeks, the dead silence suggests that Miso and I are the only living beings walking on this part of town.

But after the New Year, Miso and I realized we were no longer alone.

The most prevalent wildlife in our area are coyotes, deer, bobcats, red-tail hawks, and bears. The previous owners of our house used to have a trampoline in the back yard and there is video of a mother bobcat guarding her young with wide-eyed vigilance as the cubs bounced on the trampoline. On our walks, Miso and I are seeing more bobcats, but not the mammal type.

Government statistics reveal that nearly 6000 dwellings were burned in the fire. At the beginning of 2026, there are over 700 residences beginning rebuilds. Bobcats can be seen in numerous lots on our walks now, clearing debris, pushing, smoothing, reshaping dirt, mud, into some semblance of an architect’s hardscape vision. As we pass lots occupied by a bobcat and its operator, Miso peers with interest because of the noise, because of the voices yelling to be heard over the machines, because there is something new to smell in the air.

The bobcats are soon joined by concrete trucks and crews to pour and shape new foundations. And shortly after the concrete is poured, framers are beginning to swarm the revitalized lots. Flatbed trucks loaded down with timber and plywood are joined by forklifts to unload the building blocks of dreams. Miso and I take in the rapid progress everyday as we head down Olive and Palm, making our way back up Loma Alta.

One day, Miso and I, while walking down Palm nearing the south side of Loma Alta Park, a man approaches me.

”Friend, do you live near here?”, he asks.

Miso sniffs the man, while I speak with him. “Yes, I do.”

”I don’t know if you know anyone who is interested in rebuilding, but I’m building a metal home here.”

”A what?”, I ask.

”Metal. Everything is metal, framing, siding, the roof, everything.”

He hands me a business card which I quickly lose in my back pocket.

There’s nothing on the lot at the moment, just a couple of bobcats digging, pushing, shaping, preparing the land to be adorned in metal. Over the next couple of weeks, workers prepare a maze of forms and Miso and I happen to walk by when a concrete truck shoots the goopy grey mixture into the wooden labyrinth. I’ve never seen such a complex foundation for a home before.

Soon after the foundation cures, a crane truck parks in front of the lot and offloads steel beams, girders, sidings, all metal with a galvanized sheen. Workers on the ground secure the metal pieces to the concrete foundation and a metallic framing structure begins to take shape. Fire hardening is the buzz phrase these days around those who are rebuilding, but this metallic structure is taking hardening to a new level.

On our future walks, Miso and I notice even more activity as the bobcats have moved on. Gangs of craftsmen now fill the streets with their vehicles and Loma Alta Drive is once again the main thoroughfare. We don’t walk in the middle of the street anymore as flatbeds and utility vehicles are constantly transporting men and material to the now busy lots. Miso points his snout upward and his sense of smell which is many times more powerful than mine, is picking up new scents. I think he realizes that what he’s smelling, is the smell of hope.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

On August 8, 2024, at the Olympic Games in Paris, Sydney McLaughlin-Levrone broke her own world record in the women’s 400-meter hurdles. In doing so, she successfully defended the Olympic gold medal she had won four years earlier.

On the West Los Angeles College campus in Culver City, California, on a partially cloudy day in June, 2025, a few months before the World Championships, McLaughlin-Levrone stepped onto the track of the multisports complex to share the field with football players, soccer players, ultramarathon runners, track athletes, and a few curious locals out for a jog.

A personal trainer, a massage therapist, two coaches, one equipped with a stopwatch, the other carrying orange soccer cones, made up her entourage for the day. The massage therapist and the personal trainer set up their equipment on the southeast end of the complex under the shade of a few trees growing in that corner of the off-track area. The massage table was set up first, the distinctive padded face hole pointing toward the track. The trainer set up a card table just behind the massage table as well as a few folding chairs, water canisters, buckets, and towels. The masseuse and the trainer rubbed oil into their palms as they stood laughing and talking in the corner.

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After a brief stop in the restroom, McLaughlin-Levrone makes her way to the massage table. She lies face down on the table as the massage therapist works on her legs, her back, her shoulders, as part of her preworkout routine. I don’t know how many laps we’ve run, passing that area, constantly glancing over at the world record-holder getting a massage. Her coaches didn’t seem to be in a hurry as they made use of the folding chairs, talking, laughing, as if this is all part of the routine, kicking back on make-shift chaise lounges, living large on their back porch for the day.

On one of our loops though, I noticed that her trainer is now working on her legs, bending them out at angles I’ve only seen ballerinas achieve. As these experts work on her body, McLaughlin-Levrone is unfazed by the whole experience. She peers through the massage table face hole, scrolling through her phone, no emotion on her face, as if this is something she’s done hundreds of times. While the flexing and folding of joints and muscles continues, the coach with the cones gets up from his chaise lounge and slowly walks toward the north end of the track, dropping cones in measured intervals in Lane 1, the closest to the infield. He paces like one who has done this for decades for he never looks down, just drops a cone and moves on. Starting at the beginning of the curve he continues all the way around exiting the curve, moving down the backstretch toward the south end of the track. He must have dropped at least a dozen orange cones precisely 20 feet apart.

The stopwatch coach makes his way toward us. He smiles as he gives us some friendly instruction. “You’ll want to stay clear of Lanes 1 and 2.” I don’t tell anyone, but if she’s on the track I won’t be running. I’ll be taking a front row seat on that infield. And after the last cone is in place, the Gold Medalist takes a warmup lap around the infield. Without saying a word, without acknowledgement of any kind, the footballers and soccer players give her a wide berth as she jogs around the infield, just to the inside of Lane 1. Each stride is long, effortless, and silent.

I’m not the only one who is staking claim to a spectating spot on the infield. All of us long distance runners have decided to take an extended break at the same time. How convenient. Joggers who had joined us on the track, as well as sprinters and other short distance runners working out, also decide to take a break.

I can only guess at what prompts this collective group behavior, but somehow everyone on that track realizes that when the universe says, “I want to show you something,” you listen and pay attention. The world record-holder is alone on the track as she starts her step-ups. First 100 meters, then 200, and finally a full lap around the track. Each interval is run effortlessly, not at full speed, followed by a slightly slower jog as she catches her breath. The football players and the soccer players are the only ones moving along with McLaughlin-Levrone, but they appear to be very distracted as their coaches bark out commands, trying to reclaim their focus.

The world record-holder completes a full lap around the track. The stopwatch coach is stationed at the beginning of the cones and the other coach is on the other side of the oval at the end of the marked out course.

And then the universe as we know it began to rip open.

The coach with the cones bellows, “She’s on your ass, Sydney, you have to go now!”

The stopwatch coach shouts out the time, “30…31…32…33…34…35…”

One day I ran down a mountain road, heard the clattering of hooves behind me, turned around to look, and in my peripheral vision realized that the deer behind me are now beside me running on the rocks and shrubs at an impossible angle of slope, giving me the side eye as if to say, “Do you even know how to run?”

Another day while running down Mt. Lowe Road, falcons in formation above me, hurtled straight downward at a speed that caused the wind to whistle through their wings at an unimaginable tone. The closest sound to the whistle they created is that of the whistling firework known as “Piccolo Pete.” The speed at which they passed me did not seem possible in the natural world of birds.

Everything in the universe is made up of all the same atoms and molecules, the stuff of stars is the stuff of us, man and animals. But through some strange, unknown, cosmic alchemy, this woman is displaying behavior more like comets, more like meteors, not a mere mortal human being. I stand with my fellow ultramarathoners on the edge of the infield as the world record-holder blasts out of the turn.

“Get on the gas now, Sydney!” the coach desperately urges. With brows furrowed and her eyes focused on the track ahead of her, feeling the heat of her imagined pursuer, McLaughlin-Levrone unleashes her unreal, elite speed, legs bounding forward touching ground for a fraction of an instant, no pounding of feet, no labored strain, just the lightest of toe taps as the woman achieves the closest thing to flying yet.

“Holy she it!” I yell to my fellow runners. We laugh, staring open-mouthed at each other. The football and soccer ball lay motionless on the field. No one. Not one person on that field has moved. Athletes, coaches, the curious, the mere humans dare to breathe only when the world record-holder starts her cool down with a slow jog.

The cone coach retrieves the cones and the stopwatch coach joins him, smiling, both men pointing at the stopwatch, nodding, acknowledging that the potential for something superhuman exists. The universe closes up the rip in the fabric of the ordinary. The balls find flight again and we ultramarathoners are still giggling in the aftermath of the cosmic show.

“What the hell was that?” one of our long distance runners asks with a wide grin. She continues, “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to cry, to laugh, to cheer!”

I nod in agreement with her. Exactly. “Let’s go,” I suggest. So we continue on at our less than superhuman speed, our very comfortable, our very human conversational pace.

A few months later in September, at the 2025 World Athletics Championships, in Tokyo, McLaughlin-Levrone competed in the flat 400 meters, without hurdles. She won the competition, setting the meet record in the event. Her winning time in Tokyo was the second-fastest time ever run by a woman, setting the American record at that distance.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

An ultrarunning friend has invited other runners to join him today for an endurance adventure. This same friend once ran a marathon a day for 100 days in a row. That’s over 2600 miles in 100 days. To put that in perspective, I run over 60 miles a week in order to achieve the modest goal of 3000 miles in a year. In addition to being a long distance beast, our friend is also a hopeful entrepreneur, creating, manufacturing, and selling his own proprietary coffee-alternative drink powder. This totally organic cacao-based product is appropriately named “Earthy”. His online marketing pitch is that he will start running and continue to run nonstop until he sells 5000 bags of Earthy. There are about a half dozen of us joining him today on the inaugural day of his Earthy campaign.

My friend has chosen to run around a track in order to make it easier for his support crew to lend aid when he needs it. His initial goal is to run without stopping until 5000 bags are sold. By the time I join him, he has already been running for at least four hours. Less than 50 bags have been sold. Unless there is a serious uptick in the rate of sales, his lofty goal is going to require a Herculean effort in order to keep going. My personal goal is more modest as I intend to run just 15 miles with him today.

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As an ultramarathoner, running laps around a track is not normal for me. Mountain trails are more to my liking. Yesterday, I ran up Mt Lowe to the Granite Gate, a 10-mile out-and-back excursion. The trail bends, curves, and winds its way around the mountain following the natural line carved out for it. Dirt, rocks, gravel map out the meandering path that’s never straight but always winding, twisting, bending. The trail starts as the wide path of a fire road, wide enough for heavy equipment to make a way up the mountain, but then narrows in places where the trail is only wide enough for a pair of feet. The single track is tricky, with little margin for error, and a high probability for calamity. The smart runner knows to keep their eyes open because everything will trip you.

This trail can be cruel, so steep it feels like you are running straight uphill. The angle of ascent can be so severe that the apex of the uphill section you’re negotiating is pointing directly into the blue of the sky. As you climb toward the top of the world, your calves, your thighs, your hamstrings, sometimes even your tendons and arches begin to burn, to ache, and you search for the reason “Why?” Then you reach the top and before you can breathe a sigh of relief your muscles instantly relax, rejoicing at the end of the torture.

When I reach the top, the trail plateaus and I can’t believe how good it feels to not be climbing. It’s perfect up there. The rocks are poking my soles, the gravel is slippery, but it’s fine, I’m not climbing. Then I breathe in, filling my lungs with relief, the scent of wild sage, rosemary, wild mustard mix with the scent of pine, eucalyptus, and fir. Groups of pines, oaks, and manzanitas carpet the tableau below. This thought always comes to me. No one else is on top of the world right now.

But today the trail we’re on does not stretch on from sunrise to sunset. There are no slopes, no plateaus, no dips, no curves, no undulations. The running surface is perfect–no rocks, gravel, mud, or roots to challenge your sense of proprioception. The path does curve, a perfectly manufactured and precisely measured half circle on both ends of the oval-shaped trail. Man-made tracks like this are not designed for blissful union with nature, but for a confrontation with the nemesis within. We call this type of trail a track, but the definition of a track is a beaten down trail. Doubt, fear, anxiety are met head-on as one dares to battle the undefeated unbeatable opponent: time.

The track itself is part of a local junior college’s multisport complex. Like most school tracks, the track encircles an artificial turf infield, large enough to accommodate multiple sports teams simultaneously. Today, the men’s football team practices on the north end of the field and the women’s soccer team goes through their drills on the south end. Knowing that he will be out here for quite a while, my friend sets a 12-minute per mile pace, which translates to about three minutes per lap on the quarter mile track.

The football players clash pads, grunting, straining against each other in one-on-one combat. The soccer players on the other end are cutting, slashing, deftly dribbling, rarely looking at the ball as they shoot precise passes to one another. The infield energy bursts with speed, power, and strength, the very definition of athleticism.

But we’re on the outside looking in. Our 12-minute-per-mile pace is known as “conversational pace” and it is exactly that. We talk about everything and anything while moving our feet rhythmically, steadily, taking note of our personal state of affairs. Breathless talking means you’re moving too fast so slowing down is an easy redirect. The hardest part of this endeavor is the very reason most long distance runners stay away from running on a track. Every quarter mile, every lap is defined by this truth: you end where you start and you start where you end. Every. Single. Lap. At our conversational pace that means we’re restarting every three minutes. This is the human version of a hamster on its wheel. Mentally persevering is the goal.

After a while, I’ve long lost count of how many laps we’ve done so I depend upon my GPS watch to track my progress. We’ve gone nearly eight miles. One of the football coaches barks at his players.

“Keep that helmet on! Do you think this is hard? Look at those people. They were running before we got here and they’ll be running long after we’ve gone.”

We sheepishly look at each other trying not to laugh and trying to avoid making eye contact with the players whose sweat soaked jerseys are now plastered to their grimy bodies. As we pass their end of the field we run silently, staring straight ahead, giggling under our breath. One of the players can’t help himself.

“That’s cuz they’re fuckin crazy,” he mutters as we pass. He says it just loud enough for us to hear.

Still looking straight ahead and now out of earshot of the footballers, our leader gives his own commentary. “He’s not wrong.” For a brief moment, our pace picks up ever so slightly.

At the south end of the complex, the soccer players are still drilling. The women are exhorting each other loudly, pointing, giving commands to one another, all while controlling the flight of the ball. Amazing. But now my attention is directed to the parking lot just beyond them. A black Tesla, followed by a black RAV-4, and finally a black Camry, slowly turn into the lot.

I’m running stride for stride with our leader and I notice a smile broadening on his face. “Wow! She’s here!”

He has that look on his face when someone is anticipating something they’ve already experienced but they know it’ll blow your mind when you see it. He smiles at me.

“You may recognize her when you see her.”

Two older men and two younger ones exit the cars. A woman exits the Tesla and all of them are wearing all black athletic wear. One of the older men has an orange lanyard wrapped around his right wrist tied to a stop watch, an old school, non-digital stop watch. The other man is carrying a handful of small orange cones, the type you see at kids’ soccer practices. From the back of the RAV4 the two younger men remove what appears to be a massage table recognized by its padded face opening on one end. A smaller card table, towels, water bottles, and a couple of plastic buckets follow.

And for a moment, the soccer players, the football players, and the long distance runners pause their brains because all of us recognize the young woman. Anticipation is palpable because an Olympic gold medalist and world record holder is about to step onto the track.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

As I run down the road from my new house, I follow in the footprints of the flames. I pass an oak, a fire victim, revealing its burn scars. The leaves on the side not facing the street are green and healthy, safe, but on the other side the blackened limbs cling to charred leaves, withered and dead. The trunk of this tree is marked with a heavy black line. The street side is blackened, cracked, scarred, even scab-like, while the other side is mottled brown-beige, having the trunk of a healthy, but aged warrior.

The wind whispers softly, calmly, freely through the green, leafy top of this tree. But the other side of the tree lacks suppleness, does not speak through black leaves, but cracks and creaks, as if wounded limbs, branches, and twigs require more time to recuperate, to let healing happen.

But after a year since the fire, hope is sprouting at the very top of this tree. The leaves appear brighter, vibrant, richer, luminescent against the stark contrast of the blackened background from which they grow. When they were first sprouting, I could count the new leaves, but now the leaves are becoming so numerous they are blending in with the healthier side’s growth.

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When I reach the bridge connecting our street with the cross street on the other side of the concrete drainage culvert, there are more fire casualties. All of our neighborhood mailboxes were mounted on a double two-by-six wooden railing supported by four-by-four posts. The railing is gone and what was left behind are the hacked off remains of the post supports. During the melee of the fire, there is evidence that the mailboxes fell to the concrete road once the burning railing could no longer support their weight. In the mopping up activity post active flames, firefighters rescued the burned, battered, boxes, laying them respectfully in one neat row on a neighbor’s adjoining side lawn next to his house, one of the very few standing.

Because they are made out of metal, the mailboxes survived, but not without damage. The red plastic flags are either burned off or knurled into knots. Some of the doors are welded shut to the sides of the box, their contents a burnt mystery. Others, the doors are wide open displaying scorched letters, burnt flyers, or indecipherable ashes. When we learned that we would be moving back into the neighborhood, my wife wrestled our huge heavy mailbox out of the deep mud pile. The taupe metal box survived the flames, but it was battered from the fall it took from its perch. As the wooden railing and the wooden plywood square it was mounted on burned, the flames burnt a three inch diameter black tattoo in the shape of a sunrise onto the side of the mailbox. I reached into the box to remove the scorched junk mail inside and the fragile, wispy edges of the paper vanished into the air once I touched them.

The door on our mailbox had been bent out of shape from the fall it took and was not squaring up with the opening. With gentle persuasion from slip-lock pliers, I was able to bend the door back into its original shape and with a new lock, the mailbox was made operable again. With a Scotch Brite scouring pad and some waterless car wash spray, I was able to clean up the surface dirt and some of the charring that marred its surface and after a good cleaning, the mailbox looked almost new. But the burnt-on black tattoo on the side and a similar burn mark on the inner floor of the box could not be removed despite the scrubbing. I considered giving the mailbox a fresh coat of paint.

“No, I think it looks pretty cool with that burn mark on the side,” my wife offered.

I had to agree with her. Like a battle scar, a medal of honor, our mailbox was going to show the world that it was a survivor.

Our neighbors, whose homes survived, bought new mailboxes and christened them with new numbers. The new mailboxes moved to the other side of the bridge and are mounted on a similar wood railing which survived the burn for the most part. The far end of the surviving railing burned off, but the remaining piece is sturdy and is now the new home for the mailboxes.

So I mounted our original, refurbished mailbox, alongside the newer models. The original address numbers were peel and stick so those were pretty easy to remove with the edge of a credit card. Although the physical stickers are gone, the shadow numbers remain. New raised numbers have been mounted on top of the ghost numbers, but the original old numbers can be clearly read underneath the new ones.

There is a cycle in the lives of the mailboxes. As the owner of a mailbox replaces the original with a sleek, new model, with its shiny red flag, and mounts it on the railing, the old box is removed from the fire refuge, never to be seen again. I know that some of our neighbors, like us, are creating personal fire museums displaying rescued relics from the ashes. Maybe the old mailboxes are becoming curiosity pieces, or repurposed as planters. Perhaps.

Some of the owners in this neighborhood have lived here for 30 years or longer. J had an original 1960 Porsche that he did all the work on himself. He once told me that he tried to find a part for it but because of its rarity and scarcity of inventory, he was forced to manufacture the part himself. J’s wife, M, was a former marathoner, who, even though she was now in her 70s, still jogged around the neighborhood. She told me that she trained for the Los Angeles Marathon by running continuous laps up and down our streets, even though a single loop is less than a mile. B walked around the neighborhood and up and down the hills while reading complete books. Sometimes while Miso and I would be taking a walk, she would look up from her book, pat Miso’s head and we would talk about the book she was reading. Each spring, B’s husband, T, would write-up and print out local wildflower locations. He would hand deliver the homemade flyer to everyone’s mailbox on a weekly basis.

The Porsche became a victim of the fire and its metallic skeletal remains sat in the heap of ashes that used to be J’s garage for months until the Army Corps of Engineers hauled it away. The daunting task of replacing their home and beloved Porsche were not what they looked forward to in their advanced years, so J and M chose to move away to live with relatives. B and her husband T decided they were too overwhelmed by their losses for another round of dealing with Mother Nature, so they, too, moved away. They now live with acquaintances in Colorado.

They’re gone but their mailboxes remain. Untouched. Grass, weeds, and wildflowers grow around and above the remaining boxes. No one has touched these boxes and it appears that no one is in a big hurry to remove them. The owner of the mailbox memorial has yet to return to his home. I’m wondering if he’ll want these boxes removed. I’m pretty sure he’ll leave the boxes right where they are.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

Some of us donned goggles, respirators, white coveralls from head to toe, and braved the overwhelm to return to flattened once-was, to shovel, to rake, to sift, to find a hint of yesterday’s presence. Those days I remember the silence, so quiet, no humans, no birds, nothing.

One Sunday morning, protected from toxicity, I armed myself with tools to sift through ashes. Standing in what used to be my library, I recognized my neighbor’s Tesla slowly making its way down the road from his house. The window began to roll down as his smiling face saw me.

Removing the respirator from my face I greeted him. “Hey, your house is still standing! I’m happy for you!”

“Yeah, I was watching the video of our neighborhood and saw that it was still standing so I snuck in behind the sheriff’s lines. When I got here, the fence sections were burning and I was able to kick them into the ravine away from the house. There was no water pressure for the hoses, but there was enough water in the hot tub to fill up buckets. There was a post burning on Richard’s house but I was able to put out the flames.”

“Wow. It was good that you were able to get back. You saved your house and Richard’s.” I smiled at him, genuinely congratulating him.

His eyes glazed, then filled with tears. His voice wavered, halted, lost air. “Your house…it was already gone.” His voice trailed off to near nothing by the time he said, “...gone.”

I nodded and thought, “Too soon, too soon, you don’t have to relive the nightmare for us.”

Before I could say anything more, he said, “Sorry…so, so sorry for you and Andrea…” the window rolled back up and he was gone.

For weeks my wife and I systematically filled out spreadsheets, reimagining room by room, space by space, trying to recall exactly what was there. Bringing lost items to life exhausted our minds. I relived and reconstructed my life in our house, but still had a hard time defining each socket set, each screwdriver set, each drywall knife, blade, trough, hammer, chisel, level, square, each power tool, and everything else I couldn’t remember that I once used or owned.

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Often I held my wife in my arms as she relived the memories of the special clothing items, personal gifts, art, photos, videos, one-of-a-kind beloved antique furniture, necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings, each precious moment, each heartfelt story behind every gift, that was now reduced to ashes and tears. Numbered tears valued beyond what money could bring were held captive in an economic limbo.

The torturous inventory returned maximum insurance money, but the loss, the pain, the suffering remained incalculable. Having secured construction money, building permits already obtained could finally be acted upon. During bidding, the shock of certain big line item costs were staggering. The time needed for completion remained consistent with each bidder. Two to three years seemed to be the popular figure. Insurance was paying our rent as well as rebuilding costs, so the hope was that our new house would be ready before the rent money was spent. That was the hope and that was the plan we were going with.

But a question never asked, never considered, was pondered much later. What happens if it all turns out better beyond what we could ever imagine?

I didn’t keep up with my neighbor after he drove away that Sunday morning. Through a neighborhood email list, we found out that his family temporarily moved to a large garden estate in Echo Park, a community near downtown Los Angeles, about 10 miles away. While we had settled into our temporary home in Glendale, they were busy cleaning, repainting, resurfacing, their home in Altadena. It had remained standing but like so many other surviving homes, needed detailed toxic smoke and ash remediation to bring it back to living standards.

As we were preparing to celebrate Thanksgiving in Glendale with family, my wife reached out to our neighbors to see how they were doing.

“Oh, we love it here in Echo Park so much, we decided to buy the house we’re renting and to sell our house in Altadena.”

The news stunned my wife, but she bravely asked, “Would we be good buyers? I have no idea if we could afford it….”

“Oh my gosh, you two are the perfect candidates! We loved your house and you know of course both our houses were designed by Randell Makinson. We knew you were rebuilding, so we didn’t reach out to you sooner, but we were hoping someone in our neighborhood would be interested and would appreciate Randell’s work.”

Andrea looked up the listing. It was within reach if the bidding didn’t go wild. As their conversation ended, both women talked with their respective husbands, who were both stunned at this possible turn of events.

Even though our respective realtors had scheduled open house tours to swarming Angelenos looking for a mid-century modern gem, our friends gave us a private preview of the place.

It was really all just a formality. They turned down other offers and prevented the inevitable bidding war by accepting our offer immediately.

When the universe opens up its cornucopia of endless possibilities and decides to give you a gift beyond what you could ever imagine, you don’t ask questions. You just say, “Thank you.”

A few weeks later, after all the papers were signed, the money exchanged, all the rights and privileges were bestowed upon us as the new caretakers. We met our friends for the key exchange at our new house. Annie and Andrea embraced warmly for minutes on end. They showed us the highlights, all the details of years of restoring this gem, all the workings we needed to know. They lingered. They reminisced, they were in no hurry to leave. They had raised their little boy to become a young man in this mountain community they had called home, and they were finding it difficult to say goodbye.

“I just want a final look,” Annie said.

The universe had brought two couples together for this rare moment and we found ourselves participants in this never ending story. Andrea and I clutched keys while clutching each other.

We watched the other couple twirl slowly in opposing orbits, taking memory snapshots, slowing as if the melody coming from the music box only they could hear, began to fade.

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

The ancient ancestors of my dog, Miso, roamed the world of savannas, prairies, and wide open grasslands, as packs, as clans, evolving their craft of survival. They learned to hunt, not as individuals, but as a cooperative with deadly success. Their prey was not usually an able-bodied adult, but the immature, the weakest, the injured, or the sick.

The idea of a lone wolf may be the stuff of romanticized fantasy, but the pack was more likely to survive when all the individuals worked together systematically to bring down their prey. Scouts would search out targets, perhaps a newborn fawn, or a young antelope separated from the herd, or an old, dying, or sickly, adult. No matter the species of the prey, all of them were sized up by the scouts the same way. The prey must lack the stamina for a long, drawn out escape.

One pack member would start the chase, forcing the prey to run as fast as it could in the direction of the other canines. The initial chaser would give way to the next attacker who had fresh legs, continuing to force the prey in a deadly direction toward the next pack member in line. A rested hunter would continue on from the previous runner until the prey could no longer maintain escape pace. The refreshed predators would gather en masse for the final kill.

They had a plan, they worked their plan.

The 21st century iteration of these majestic predators is a hybrid canine, part shepherd, part poodle, manufactured by man’s choosing and not necessarily by natural selection. Like his recent predecessors, Miso has an adopted clan, a human family. These days, he no longer seeks prey with his canine pack, but his hunting instincts remain strong.

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Tonight, my brother and his wife are hosting dinner at their home and Miso is a welcomed guest. My brother and sister-in-law are serving prime rib of the highest quality, with all the fixings to go with it. There are a dozen human invitees to this dinner and it becomes clear that Miso has a plan to join in the feast.

We choose our seats around the dining room table and Miso has decided to use the space under the table as his hunting grounds. Like his ancestors of eons ago, Miso has a hunting plan and very similar to their thinking, he will choose the most likely prey. Unlike them though, Miso does not depend upon strength, endurance, or athleticism. This is also not a group activity but very much a solo affair. Like his predecessors of old he possesses patience and he will need patience combined with his modern day superpower, irresistible charm, to overcome his prey.

Our architect, Al, brings us a large, cylindrical tube containing Randell Mackinson’s original blueprint drawings of our house. The faded blue ink and wafer thin paper that the drawings were made on, appear to be too fragile, too delicate, to even be touched. Al verifies that indeed these are fragile relics, so through modern technology, electronic copies of the delicate originals have been made. The originals are archived in their protective tube and Al brings out the present day version of the blueprints.

Al spreads out the new paper drawings, fresh, sturdy and reeking of black printer ink. Unlike the originals whose progressively faded lines appear to be destined to be lost in the air, the new drawings feature dark, heavy lines, boldly stating the proposed design. Al traces the lines on the paper with his finger, putting his face inches from the pages. His smile broadens and he chuckles in admiration as he begins his running commentary.

“Look at this line here, look how Randell followed the slope of the hill.” He nods as his voice becomes louder, his smile broadening. “The line here, marking the boundary of the library, follows the property line and makes for this wonderful angle.”

Somehow, through his architect’s experience, and well-developed eye, Al can transform the two dimensional drawing into a three dimensional model that my wife and I can envision with him. He knows we have our own wishes and thoughts on modifications that we want to incorporate in the final design, so Al covers the drawings with sheets of thin vinyl, making additions, corrections, and modifications right there in real time with us.

We have a plan, but can we work this plan?

Miso has never had to chase down food, running as fast as he can until another pack member can relieve him. Instead, this is a solo affair, stealthily maneuvering around knees, shins, and shoes, gently rubbing against legs just to make his presence known. He shies away from my legs, my wife’s, my daughter’s and even her boyfriend’s legs. Miso knows his plan depends upon guile and lack of foreknowledge so he suspects that immediate family will not fall for his tricks.

He has chosen my sister-in-law, who is sitting beside me, as his intended prey. He gently, and ever so slowly, pokes his face up between her legs until he is just visible from underneath the tablecloth.

“Look how cute you are!” she coos at him. She cups his face in her palms and smooths his fur back from around his cheeks. This is all the encouragement he needs as he pushes his snout forward, closing his eyes until they are slits, as if he has morphed into a gentle lamb.

From my vantage point in the next seat over, I’m watching evolution at work in its present form. Miso doesn’t make eye contact with me, right now Lisa is the most important person in his life. I feel my face scrunching, reacting to my thoughts, “Look at this guy.”

“You are so sweet,” she lilts as she continues to stroke and caress the master at work. I wonder if she knows she’s being played, or even if she cares.

Then it happens.

She quickly returns to her knife and fork and cuts out a small portion from the middle of her slice of prime rib. Not the edge, not the fat, but the absolute middle, the most perfect part of the meat. She offers the slice to Miso, who gently sniffs and mouths the meat, deftly avoiding her fingers.

“That was so gentle, Miso! Here’s another piece.” Again, he plays his role perfectly and gently takes the meat from her fingers. The same dog who yanks our arms on walks when he wants to pee on the other side of the street. The same dog who, if he could climb that tree, would get that squirrel. The same dog, who sizes up other dogs, to see if he needs to attack, can pull off an award winning performance as the gentlest creature on earth.

He has a plan. He works his plan.

As we speak, Al draws more lines, transforming dreams to architectural symbols using multicolored Flair pens. The colors on the protective vinyl brighten the black and white pages. The multilevel floor plan is modified to accommodate two separate fully functional living spaces. My wife and I have an eye for the future, as we plan for the eventual passage of time.

Two dimensional blueprints are eventually transformed into styrofoam and paper models. Like a doll house, Al is able to remove the roof of our model home to reveal the miniature structures inside. Doors, windows, built-ins are all in place as we peer into the envisioned space. I look from the outside through the windows like a cartoon giant, remembering the past, dreaming of the future.

Like Miso, we must rely upon patience to see this plan through, but we are not as confident as he is. For now we have moved into the question phase of the plan. What building material modifications must we make to give ourselves a chance the next time fire comes? How much will these modifications cost? How long will this take to build? There are updated building codes to deal with. We don’t have a stick of furniture to call our own.

Do we even have a plan at this point?

Thanks for reading Tales From The Trails! Thank you to all of my subscribers and if you liked what you have read please consider subscribing for free to receive new posts every week and to support my work. I really want to hear your thoughts on my work so please consider leaving a like and comment. I greatly appreciate you being here and I’ll talk to you soon.

A familiar Saturday morning challenge for my running friends and me has often been to head up to the Granite Gate, a popular destination point up the Mt. Lowe Fire Road in Altadena, requiring a 2000-foot climb over five miles up this portion of the San Gabriel Mountains. The last three miles of trail was peppered with granite rocks of various sizes and shapes as if steepness needed help from pointed, sharp rocks to make this climb more of a challenge. Although the return trek down the trail was a welcome relief from straining uphill, the rocks, gravel, and dry sandstone made for a steep, slippery, cautious downhill. After a couple miles of patchy rock and gravel decline, my running friends and I would reach the Cape of Good Hope, an all-metal tool shed by the side of the road. As if someone had drawn a line in the sand, the dirt trail ended and the fire road became cracked asphalt in need of repair. But we would take our chances on the asphalt and increase our pace the rest of the way down. The Mt. Lowe Road ends at a small parking lot and continues on to the bottom of the climb. The road forks to the left, down a private road called Alzada leading into my old neighborhood. When we would approach Alzada, I wouldn’t turn in, but rather continue down Chaney Trail eventually leading to Lincoln Avenue, the street where Unincorporated Coffee resides.

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My love of running slightly exceeds my love of a cortado made with oat milk. A cortado, a shot of steamed milk poured on top of an equal shot of espresso, was the perfectly sized elixir for rejuvenating tired legs. “Unincorporated” was less than a mile and a half from home, so my thought was always that the caffeine break could only help, providing the energy needed to make the climb back up the hill to the end. My running friends would chuckle at the lengths I would go to, taking the most indirect route possible, always adding extra miles to get to Unincorporated. Every. Single. Time.

But January 2025’s events have changed my usual routine. Unincorporated is now miles away, but my desire for coffee near the end of a run remains strong. Today in Glendale, CA, I’ve gone eight miles on one of my new 10+-mile routes. First up the Fern Motorway, running to the south end of the Ridge Motorway, returning to the northern trailhead, and now I’m coming down the San Rafael Hill exiting from one of La Canada’s more popular attractions, Descanso Gardens, just three miles from my rented home in Glendale. The San Rafael Motorway trails are also dirt and sandstone, but nearly devoid of treacherous rocks making them much faster routes.

After a mile of mostly downhill running, I make a stop at a jewel discovered in my new neighborhood, Berolina Bakery. The display cases in the Swedish bakery are filled with a variety of sweet rolls, danishes, cookies, cakes adorned with fondant art, pies, and quiches, all fresh-baked that morning. The wall behind the display is overwhelmed by fresh baked sourdough, French, Italian, rye, whole wheat, and whole grain breads along with baguettes and other assorted whole loaves. But most importantly, they serve coffee.

Walt, the affable cashier, takes my order. I quickly peruse the espresso menu but don’t see cortados being offered. I ask anyway.

“No, we don’t serve cortados, but we do have cappuccinos,” Walt offers.

“Sure,” I smile, thinking it’s espresso and milk, what can go wrong?

“I haven’t seen you here before, is this a new route for you?” Walt spots my running gear. He must notice no one else in the store is sweating this profusely.

“Yeah it is, I just moved here not too long ago.” I acknowledge.

“Where’re you coming from?” Walt asks, still being friendly.

“Altadena,” I answered.

The happy face that Walt has been wearing now changes. The corners of his mouth flatten, his eyes turn almost downward and he briefly looks away from me, then returns to face me, looking directly into my eyes.

“Did..?” He pauses for awkward moments.

I finished his sentence, “Yes, my house burned to the ground.”

The woman behind me in line lets out a noticeable gasp. The room, moments before, alive and buzzing with excited conversation, becomes quieter until nearly silent, as if everyone is now trying not to hold their breath. Silence, overcomes voices, and whispered, hushed tones try to be not so obvious.

Walt grins in an embarrassed way because he knows he has just pulled the bandaid off a still fresh wound. He didn’t mean to do it but he has now exposed a gaping wound for everyone to gawk at, whether they wanted to or not.

I interrupt the silence. “A cappuccino. Don’t think I’ve ever had one of those before. Guess there’s always a first time.” That’s enough of Show and Tell as I try to reapply the bandaid, flattening and smoothing the edges again.

The gasping woman, now composed, says in a voice barely above a whisper, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

I smile, telling her, “Thank you, I appreciate that so much.”

The whispers become tentative sentences as everyone has decided they’ve seen enough and a vibe of normalcy returns as the volume of voices begins to fill the air.

“Your order will be right up,” Walt says cheerfully, his happy face returning.

I find my way to an open chair in the corner, all eyes averting any contact with mine. Moments later a woman, Claudia, the owner of the place I would learn later, carries a paper hot cup toward my table. She sits in the open chair across from me.

“This is a very nice community, everyone here is very friendly,” she says in a thick accent. I remember that Glendale is home to a large, close-knit Armenian community. I can place Claudia’s accent now.

I look around and return her smile.”I can see that.”

I sip the cappuccino and the blend of espresso and oat milk fills me with a familiar warmth and comfort.

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