Part 1
Kingfisher and a Hostel

     “You must go to Hampii.” She said with soft European accent, her boyfriend nodding eagerly.
     With that endorsement I was going to Hampii.
     I had never heard of Hampii, so it was not on my vague list of cities that I wanted to visit. But my newfound friends, these Europeans, were so enthusiastic, they talked of clean rivers, mountains of boulders, abandoned temples and a city that the world had forgotten.
     It sounded perfect, and as I was heading south, and Hampii was nearby and in a vaguely southerly direction I decided to follow their advice. They both smiled at my decision and we drank Kingfisher beer in the courtyard of the hostel.
     The three of us were in the town of Poona (Puna) and had met because the tables at most of the hostels were large, so random strangers sat at the same table and began talking.
     But I felt, in some pathetic way, a little guilty for sitting here and talking to these westerners.
     As I saw it, the reason to come to India was to meet Indians, not traveling westerners. But after a week and a half, it was good to speak to someone who I spoke English well enough to have a detailed conversation. All of the conversations thus far had been haltingly familiar.
     The people who approached me all had one purpose in mind, to sell something, be it milk, or rickshaw rides, or restaurants fare. Which is fine, but a little boring after a while.
     I’m not saying that there was a problem in finding Indians who spoke English. I was told before I left that there were more English speaking people in India than there are in the United States. As India has a billion, and the U.S. three hundred million, that would mean only 3 of 10 Indians needed to speak English to reach that goal. After spending time in India, I believe there are more Indians who speak English than Americans. The language of commerce is English, because the United Kingdom ruled over this place for so long.
     Traveling is a lonely business. A self-imposed lonely business. Which I like. I like wandering through markets where no one knows who I am. I like sitting in windows staring out at the street under my hotel or watching the countryside pass by from a bus or a train.
     But there is a limit to this. There is a time when the internal dialogue becomes monotonous, when outside interaction is necessary. There is a time to connect. It was, most of the time, the hostels that did this for me.
     There were two types of places where I stayed. The small hotel, with a tiny room and no social life and no other people. And the hostel where rooms were shared, where meals were shared and where drinks in the courtyard were an excuse to talk.
     The conversations in the courtyards of the hostels all seem to start out the same way and all were animated with Kingfisher beer.
     “Where are you from?”
     “Where have you been?”
     “Where are you going next?”
     and,
     “Should I go there?”
     Once the initial introductions were finished, the conversations continued on to an in-depth look at where to visit, where was the best place to visit next, and then usually a discussion of international politics, philosophy of life, and where to get a good curry.
     So I was sitting in a white plastic chair, in front of a white plastic table, drinking my Kingfisher beer when this couple joined me.
     I told them of my adventures to find Ajanta and Allora caves. Of the crescent moon hill sitting above a green valley. Of the hundreds of square rooms cut into the sides of the mountains, that went in three, four and even five rooms deep. Once these rooms had been filled with statues of gods and goddesses, but most of them had been taken away, or destroyed. That there were no lights in these rooms, so the further back into the darkness of the mountain, the only way to see if there was another room beyond was to flash the camera.
     They said they would take a look at the caves, and I said I would visit Hampii.
     The next day I booked my train south.

     The literature describes using pipes as bridges, climbing over boulders and other hair raising exploits to reach the waterfalls, but on the basic hike, I came across none of theses things. Once on the hike –past the warning sign for falling rocks- it’s an easy half mile trail along the edge of the mountain, following a metal four-inch pipe.
     The trail is even wide enough for someone to bring and deposit a small couch –although it’s missing the cushions- as a viewing platform out into the Los Angeles basin. In the foreground is Altadena, with Pasadena not far away, in the distance is the towers of downtown Los Angeles, and floating above the famous Los Angeles fog, like a dream city, the hills of Pacific Palasades.

     But once past this expansive view of the city, the trail heads north, further into the mountains, and the only view from then on is the canyon walls climbing up on each side.
     After the half mile along the edge of the mountain, the trail drops to the dry river bed, which is where the concrete foundations of the Rubio Pavilion and Hotel hold onto the side of the canyon walls.

     This is where Mr. Lowe built, in 1893, the 10-room hotel with dining room and dance hall. But it didn’t last long. In 1903 a storm tore away the floor of the building and it was relegated to a stepping stone up the mountain. In 1909 a rockslide dropped boulders on the already ruined building, finishing off what the storm had begun six years earlier.
     It seems Rubio Canyon has problems with falling rock.
     But the real reason for building on this site was for the funicular. In Mr. Lowe’s dream of building a hotel on the top of the mountain, there was one major problem, getting the people to the hotel. The mountain is too steep for a normal railway, so the only answer was to build a funicular, which is a railway of sorts. It has tracks, and two rail cars, but it is designed to travel up the side of a mountain. To get the trains up the steep hill the two cars are connected by a cable which is looped over the top of the mountain. As one car travels down, it helps pull the other car up.
     There is just a single track, except in the middle, when the cars pass each other.
     When the hotel at the top of the funicular was destroyed in 1938 by fire the whole project was abandoned, and everything was removed for scrap.
     Just 20 feet past the ruins of the Rubio Canyon Hotel, just before the waterfall hike drops down to the white stoned river, is the entrance to the funicular trail.

     [Photo Caption: The pipe delivering water to Altadena, at the bottom of the funicular trail, just round the corner from the remains of the Rubio Canyon Hotel.]

     I decided to deviate from the waterfall trail to take a wander up the funicular trail, to see what I could see. The trail is steep, and is really just a collection of switchbacks every ten steps. Back and forth, back and forth up a trail that obviously does not see many hikers. It was hard hot work on this 100 degree August day.
     But I found a good reason to climb this trail, because not very far up the mountain is the remains of a bridge. All the tracks and wooden trestles are gone, now just the concrete anchors remain on the edge of the chasm, with the concrete footings hidden down below.
     The view looks north, into Rubio Canyon, with its short sagebrush sticking to the hillside, and green trees beside the rivers edge. Standing on the ridge, I had to give the builders of this railway credit, using only hand tools and donkeys, they climbed this mountain, depositing a railway on the way, over 110 years ago.
     It was at the missing bridge that I turned around, because today I was heading for the falls, not the top of the mountain. But that was not the only reason to head back down, to continue up the side of this mountain a little rock climbing was necessary to bypass the gorge and although some kind previous hiker had left a –slightly frayed- rope hanging down to help in the ascent, I had the wrong shoes and decided to do this trail some other day, when I had a fellow hiker with me, to at least call the paramedics if I went tumbling down the 100 foot cliff if the rope broke.
     Back down at the bottom of the funicular path, is the stream. Right now in the August heat, the stream was completely dry. But in the right season this must be a happy little gurgling stream, or in the wrong season, a raging torrent that can tear out the bottom of a hotel.
     There is no trail beside the stream, the only way up is to follow where the water would normally flow. This is no problem now, but if there was water flowing it might become slippery and hazardous, or a hiker might even get his feet wet.

     Although there was no water in the sandy bed, there was, strangely, the occasional sound of running water. I eventually realized this came from a pipe, sometimes metal, sometimes white plastic, running down the edge of the canyon.
     The water rights to Rubio Canyon are owned by Rubio Cañon Land & Water Association, and have been for over 100 years. The water from that pipe runs down to their processing plant and flows enough to serve 200 nuclear families for a year.
     But it’s not always been easy to collect that water. The Northridge quake of 1994 damaged the water pipe. It wasn’t until 1998 when a check arrived from FEMA to repair the damage. With seemingly no oversight from the EPA, the company went about digging and moulding the mountain to install the new pipe. In this process they created an avalanche, and covered the main waterfall with loose stone and gravel.
     Suddenly there was no waterfall in Rubio Canyon, and this is why there was confusion on being able to hike this trail. It was closed when the pipe was being rebuilt, and then there was very little reason to hike here if there was no waterfall.
     Back when Mr. Lowe built the hotels and the funicular, he had also built wooden walkways to, and up and over, the waterfall. The walkways have long since disappeared, but now the waterfall itself had disappeared.
     At the time its seems like lawsuits had gone-a-flying, but nothing happened because of them. It wasn’t until 2004 when mother nature took matters into her own hands, throwing down a storm, and washing away the debris, to uncover the waterfall again.

     [Photo Caption: The uncovered by debris waterfall, but still lacking in water.]

     I guess I should mention now about the waterfalls. When I researched this hike, I came across numerous details of up to 10 different waterfalls in this canyon. I found only one.
     When the water is flowing there must be a couple small falls on the hike up, but it seems the main falls, the one I saw in black and white photographs with people standing on wooden boardwalks next to this rock face, is the first of the main falls.
     There are others above it, and supposedly a small pool to cool a hikers feet.
     I tried, by hiking to the right of the waterfall, then back to the left to reach these upper falls, but the path is thinner than a goats trail, runs along the edge of a sheer cliff, and the soil kept shifting under my feet.
     I decided, like at the top of the funicular trail, to turn around and come back with a friend. I also thought it would be better to see the upper falls and pond when there was actually water flowing.

     The hike to the Rubio Canyon Falls is relatively short, only about a mile each way, and despite a few rocks to climb over, an easy hike for those with a little need for adventure.
     After hiking the Mt. Lowe trail many times, the Rubio Canyon trail was wonderful in one respect, the lack of people. There are so many people hiking the Mt. Lowe trail, that sometimes it feels like tour busses have dropped them off.
     While in Rubio Canyon, on my two different weekday hikes, I saw not one other hiker. Which is a good thing, while living in a metropolis as large as Los Angeles.

Morris, because his horns are showing, does the four hoofed hop away from me, on a stroll near Rubio Canyon, Alta Dena, California.

Erick at work during the build out for the new art studios near downtown Los Angeles, California.

Ross at the opening of Michael Dressler’s photography exhibit -The Prolific Light- at Hands On 3erd Gallery near 3erd and La Cienega in Los Angeles, California.

Sherry relaxes in her usual place at Story Salon, Studio City, California.

Today’s installment is all about created faces; in a frame, on a billboard, with tile or maybe even eating some brains.

On Lake, in Pasadena, a women opens her mouth in invitation. The hollow invitation of advertising, with spikes to keep out intruders.

Next to the 110 freeway, beside a community garden, almost underneath the three tunnels heading north from downtown, a little green man flies in his space ship.

Hidden in the Rock City Railroad Yard, just off Hollywood Blvd., sits a room stuffed with model houses, and one random painting.

Are you still eating brains? Is the compulsion just too strong, there is help on Hollywood Blvd.

Hallie posing for the photograph to be placed on the front page of her website, she does facials, waxing and massages, Pasadena, California.

     Cabrillo died, most probably from an infection from a broken bone, as his ships continued north from San Diego, and eventually the little flotilla –after losing one of its ships in a storm, and without the captain- returned to Mexico in April of 1543.
     The bay has grown from those few Indian settlements along the harbor to -450 years later- a city of 3.5 million and one of the largest naval bases in the world.
     The view from the statue is panoramic, with California scrub brush falling away to the blue harbor, submarine births to the left, a military airfield sitting in the center, and the towers of San Diego and the Coronado bridge in the hazy afternoon sun.
     The navy is not just visible in the harbor, but out to sea as well. In the two hours I spent in the park I saw three large military ships, probably transport or cargos, a few fighter jets leaving with booming noise, and the top heavy V of an aircraft carrier in the distance.

     This spit of land that sticks out and guards the harbor is really one huge military base. On the drive out to the park the road is lined with barbed wire fence and military barracks. Just the tip is open to the public, from 9-5 with a $5 entry fee for my car and I.
     There are basically three things to do in the park:

     Old Point Loma Lighthouse:
     Just a short walk up from the visitor center is the Old Point Loma Lighthouse, restored to look like it did 150 years ago, where I met Robert, decked out in period costume.
     He worked in the park, as a historian, or greeter, to the tourists. We chatted a moment about the tide pools down below, and how sad it was that most of the sea creatures had disappeared over the last 50 years. It’s especially sad that the Black Abalone are gone, with their oil-slick-rainbow-colored inside that made them susceptible to the destruction of man.
     Robert was kind enough to pose for a photograph in the living room of the restored lighthouse, and smiled, despite probably having to pose for hundreds of these photographs every day.

     The lighthouse stopped being used in the 1890’s because it’s situated 400 feet above sea level. Therefore most of the time it was also above the level of the fog, and therefore no use to the sailors. Now there is a lighthouse at the very tip of the peninsula, at sea level, operated by the Coast Guard, but it’s not open to the public.
     On the way up to the lighthouse is a tiny cramped building that was once a WWII radio room. During the war years, the park was closed to the public and it was used as a military gunnery and listening station.
     In the little building are displays of letters and radios, maps of the range of the guns and a short video. The video shown is probably from the 1950’s and is a description of how to hit a ship 15 miles out to sea.
     It’s all about the geometry, trigonometry and triangulation. It’s simple, really.
     There are two viewing posts, probably half a mile apart, with the gun in between. To find a target -or to triangulate a target- three things must be known.
     The first is the distance between two corners of the triangle, or in this instance, the distance between the two viewing posts.
     The other two are the angles to the third point of the triangle, or the ship to be destroyed.
     The viewing post measures the number of degrees between the ship in the distance, and the other viewing post.
     With these three numbers (say half a mile, 60 degrees and 60 degrees) and a little help from trigonometry (view the equation here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triangulation ) a shell can be lobbed from up to 20 miles away and hit the target.
     Happily this instillation never needed to fire in anger in WWII, and therefore the letters on display talk mostly of the boredom of spending the war in San Diego.

     The Hike:
     Leading away from the lighthouse is the easy 1.25 mile hike (2.5 mile return journey). It’s not really a hike, but more like a gentle stroll along a smooth easy path, wide enough for a small car.
     Along the way are numerous signs, pointing out the old military installations, the local and the migratory birds, the different types of scrub brush and flowers, and the geology of the area.
     The hike leads down along the edge of the peninsula, with continuous views of San Diego harbor, and the numerous sailboats, motorboats and military ships entering and leaving.

     The Tide Pools:
     On the opposite side of the peninsula from the hike, exposed to the pacific waves, are the tide pools. It must have been high tide when I arrived, because there were no creatures on view, just the waves smashing on the jagged rocks.
     Or as I see it,where geology and beauty meet.
     One selection of rocks were standing at a 30 degree angle, like the ramp for an Evil Knievel rocket car jump over the Pacific Ocean.

     These rocks were once under the sea. The visible layers, which look like an infinite layer carrot cake, were created over millions of years on the sea bottom. Sand, silt and dead creatures fell to the flat bottom of the sea and created layers.
     Then along came volcanoes, continental drift, and uplift which pulled and twisted this land, eventually turning it 30 degrees from flat and depositing it not on the bottom of the sea, but on its edge.
     And this rock, that was once the sea bottom, is slowly being eroded way, so that the fine layers of sand are again deposited on the sea floor, for the whole million year process to begin again.

     There is also a perfect stone imitation of the deadly walk-the-plank of a pirate ship.

     The mass of stone sticking out is what is left of a molten lava flow. This rock once pushed its way to the surface from deep underground, and slowly cooled. As it cooled the rock shrunk, creating cracks in the solid stone. Weirdly symmetrical cracks.
     The sea came and eroded most of the rock away, leaving just this little stump left, with its sisters already broken away into the sea, as remnants of what was once here.

     Post Script:
     On the drive along the peninsula, in between the barbed wire fences and the barracks is a cemetery. A cemetery filled with symmetrical white headstones.
     It’s Fort Rosecrans Cemetery, and is filled with military personal, from those who died on the field of battle, to those who survived to a ripe old age, and even one who never had a chance to begin.

Margarat Ann
March 2, 1947
March 3, 1947

     It’s a reminder of all this military hardware crammed into this bay, is all useless without human beings.

Kelly fishes for talapia fingerlings at City Farmers Nursery in San Diego, California.