The alluring marble portrait of Costanza Bonarelli hypnotizes me, a capitulation to grace, to a sideways glance, a slight bemusement that promises much. And of course, there’s the informal breach of the ruffled shirt.If Costanza – she was married but our familiarity permits me to adopt an informal address – should want to drop by for coffee, I would be much obliged and endeavor to make the best of the interlude. The invitation comes nearly four hundred years too late, a regrettable delay. Allow me to stow away the cups and saucers, momentarily, and instead report to the Brentwood hills where delicious specimens of Gianlorenzo Bernini are on view at the Getty Museum.
Sculptor, architect and painter to a less significant degree, Bernini exemplifies the spontaneous energy of the baroque, the drive to speak to the senses more than to reason. Ebullient and realistic, his busts and portraits convey powerful emotions that transcend static mannerist depictions. Bernini received his first papal commission at 17, a great age to cozy up to men in robes and line up a lifetime of support.
And protection when the stone rendition of Costanza’s good looks angered her husband who realized his boss had more than an artistic interest in his wife. The Italian government, in turn, showed some mercy in lending the Getty, fresh from antique art thievery scandals, nearly 60 pieces for a first North American exhibition.
Bernini’s exuberance delineates the landscape of Rome. His colonnade warps around Piazza San Pietro in the Vatican with superb majesty. It manages to imbue an immense space with subtle grandeur. His Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi takes center stage in the splendor of Piazza Navona and splashes animated ribbons of water to the four corners of the elongated square.
When I read in April that Radiohead would play the Hollywood Bowl, I pounced on the chance to see them again. Armed with a presale code, I signed on to Ticketmaster’s web site a few minutes before the designated time with feverish anticipation. A few clicks and three minutes later I scored a decent seat a little less than halfway up the outdoor amphitheater. Decent but not up close. My inability to grab a front seat first puzzled me, and then irritated me when ticket resellers hawked prized seats for resale at inflated prices the next day.
With built-in ticket order limits, I wonder how these outfits are able to snap entire rows in less than 180 seconds. The game appears stacked in someone’s favor and it ain’t mine!
Two days later, I sat credit card in hand, eyes glued to the Ticketmaster site once again. I bought the Los Angeles ticket as insurance before Radiohead’s Santa Barbara date became available. Less than two kilometers away, the intimate County Bowl is a convenient location. But as fast as I typed, the best seat that was available stood a few rows from the top. Someone explains this.
As I finalized plans to get out of town on the heels of the housing search frustration four months later, I resolved to ditch the Santa Barbara ticket and instead attend the Hollywood Bowl show. Never quite able to seize on the capitalist urge to profit, I listed my ticket up on eBay for a few dollars more than its face value.
For my first online auction, I was dismayed that not a single person expressed interest in the ticket. Until the final two days when a flurry of bidding materialized, which pushed my ticket to $137.50. After deducting fees to eBay and PayPal, shipping and the cost of the original ticket, I am left with $60.46. Without much effort Ticketmaster did quite well, too. The Santa Barbara ticket came with a 46 percent markup for all sorts of fees!
The Hollywood Bowl hides in a fold of the Santa Monica Mountains a short distance from and above the fracas of the namesake neighborhood. Less seedy than in recent past, its appeal still gratifies mostly tourists who scour the Walk of Fame for sidewalk stars and congregate in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Tonight, the streets fill with the trepidation of the 17,376 souls who will file inside the pretty outdoor amphitheater.
“Fucking brilliant,” shouts an excited admirer after “15 Step” kicked off the concert.
Brilliant they are. Radiohead executes complex music often without a hook but supported by melodic riffs. From Pablo Honey to In Rainbows, the band has embarked on a remarkable sound journey that guarantees a wholesale abandon by fans who expect a repeat of past successes. The rhythmic rock lines have been displaced by more abstract arrangements, and yet the spell envelops and transports.
Since I have never quite put them away, I am willing to recycle Costanza’s coffee cups and saucers for the benefit of Colin Greenwood (bass), Jonny Greenwood (guitar, keyboard, piano), Ed O’Brien (guitar, vocals), Phil Selway (drums) and Thom Yorke (vocals, guitar, piano) with or without their instruments although a private concert would be well received…
A frank tête-à-tête is in order because I intend to use “Hunting Bears” and “Like Spinning Plates” as soundtrack for the opening credits of my movie. Not as background music but as an integral part of the visual and audio narrative. Before we negotiate the rights, would Jonny or Thom be ever so kind to teach me to play the piano?
That would be an altered reality. The songs already surround me and thrust me into the dreamscape of my life. Afraid and confident, certain and certainly confused, the haunting pianos, the exact drumbeat, the odd electronica and Thom’s trailing voice transport me above myself, intense and intimate. I slide into a public reverie, out of nowhere, within everyone at the concert.
The last Radiohead concert I attended at this same venue under the stars arrived at a pivotal time in the midst of the trouble. Barely afloat under the remnants of its force, my mind refuses to acknowledge the year and I won’t look it up. I left after witnessing an altered reality, and I returned tonight to retrieve it.
No sorrowful “Fake Plastic Tree” during the concert or the two encores. The video shot at the Toronto date will have to suffice.
Because it was their last North American show, the band webcasted segments of the Santa Barbara concert – the one a lucky bidder attended on my behalf. They also played “Paranoid Android” at the Hollywood Bowl, which Thom introduced with the caution: "This one was influenced by a certain bar in L.A. and a certain type of person you might meet there.”
“When I am king, you will be first against the wall
With your opinion, which is of no consequence at all
What's that, what's that?
Ambition makes you look pretty ugly
Kicking, squealing, Gucci little piggy.”
After a fruitless search for a decent breakfast in Bakersfield then Shafter, Elisabeth and I settled in a booth at Denny’s in Delano. We were hoping to replicate the previous day’s tasty organic goodies at Le Pain Quotidien, a breakfast/lunch eatery with restaurants in the safety of New York, Washington D.C. and Los Angeles food zones. Founder Alain Coumont aims to serve French style breads, pastries and cakes in a genial setting. Around a heavy wooden communal table, he succeeds even if the day’s specials advertised on the blackboard come without prices, a very un-French notion in a country (and continent) where all prices must be disclosed. All was delicious, and I regaled with the complimentary hazelnut spread, a personal favorite. Le Pain Quotidien expands on the basic tartine to turn it into an open-face sandwich. I like to dunk my tartines unadorned except for butter, preserve or spread in a bowl of coffee. What is a tartine? Elisabeth’s definition strikes me as perfect: “A toast without the toast.”
The positive angle of the morning quest is that I stumbled upon a discounted 12-pak of Newcastle beer. Provisions for the road, but not for now as the highway towards the groves of giant trees at Sequoia Kings Canyon National Park is as windy as it was last year when I visited with Nan. Elisabeth had forgotten the tortuous climb from the foothills. In little time, the curves upset her stomach and we had to pull over. The heat (around 35 degrees) did not help.
It was easy to locate our walk-in campsite at Lodgepole. Unlike the mini fiasco at Aravaipa Canyon where I had failed to realize that a two-kilometer walk through a flowing creek bed in 40-degreee heat stood between the car and the campsite. We set up on the banks of the Marble Fork of the Kaweah River, more of a trickle than a raging torrent in late summer. Per oft-stated and repeated instructions, we stored all our food, beverages and toiletries in a bear locker. The local lore preaches the story of a desperate bear that destroyed a car to get to a discarded gum wrapper. No bear came to borrow our toothpaste, but we spotted one trailside and another one roadside.
On the edge of a serene meadow and under a slanting sun, the picnic site shows much promise. The food (hamburger reduced to a dry and overcooked patty in a bun without lettuce, tomatoes or onions) disappointed much. Not worth the small ordeal to get here, I’m afraid. The twilight ranger walk that we joined afterwards, led by an engaging fellow who spends much time talking with owls, tipped the scale back, but food for thought is not food for the stomach.
I was hoping for better fare at the Wuksachi Lodge, an upscale resort minutes away from our Lodgepole campsite. We wanted to forget a night interrupted by periodic pumping of air back into a mattress that squeezed it back out with regularity. Every two hours our bodies would land on the ground. After internal debates that it didn’t matter, I’d get up to inflate it once more. Maybe one of us could have checked the air mattress for leaks.
The Delaware North Company operates Wuksachi Lodge, the only hotel within Sequoia. DNC runs all other concessions, like the restaurants, gift shops, showers, except for the campgrounds. In the mid 1990s, the national park removed the modest cabins at the Giant Forest out of concern for the impact on the roots of the sequoias. The park concessionaire was rewarded with a permit to replace them with a luxury hotel. One can question an arrangement that substitutes moderately priced lodging for far pricier units. One can debate the logic of protecting sequoias at the expanse of the trees that had to be cut to make room for the new digs. One can wonder whether the policy of the park service ought to be to help corporations maximize profits on public lands.
The approved development plan for the hotel, a diffident park ranger confided, calls for a new dining room and trails. They might want to upgrade the quality of the breakfast buffet at the same time. Acceptable it was, but very average. I am tempted to believe that more exciting fare ought to float up in the wake of room prices that top $300.
I climbed up to the Watchtower, a granite outcropping that hovers straight above the campground and the anemic Tokopah Falls. It was my fisthigh-altitude hike in a long while and I enjoyed the exercise. Near its summit, the views of the upper Marble Fork open up to a marvelous alpine panorama. This park, and the adjacent Kings Canyon with which it is managed, tease the visitor with gorgeous scenery of imposing groves and majestic rock formations. The backcountry peeks out here and there, inaccessible by car except for the amazing Mineral King basin at the end of an exhausting road in another part of the park but oh so worth it. The rest of this incomparable wilderness lies hidden, of easier reach from the canyons of the west side of US 395. The hike to Mt. Whitney, the mountain adventure that started this blog three years ago is technically in the park. A mere 37 km as the eagle flies, the path for humans by car involves a circuitous 416 km, not counting the 5½ km to get back to the trailhead, and the tough 18 or so kilometers of uphill travel to get to the top of Mount Whitney from road’s end!
I ran into a ranger headed out for a couple of nights at Pear Lake on the way down. Great surprise as the mainstay of the profession often seems to write parking citations. We chatted for a good 30 minutes and his thoughts on the wilderness experience left me charged up.
We walked the General Grant Grove in Kings Canyon, a separate but adjoining park, and marveled at the massive sequoias. Measurements offer no comparison until you stand before one, or inside a hollowed-out trunk as Elisabeth did.
Yosemite National Park occupies a nice chunk of the central Sierra Nevada, not far from Sequoia/Kings Canyon for the same eagles that favor shortcuts unavailable to the rest of us. To get there involves a return to the lowlands of the San Joaquin Valley and a journey through Fresno. Because it presented an opportunity to acquire a new air mattress, I did not resent the abrupt jolt back to man and his cities.We pitched our tent at Upper Pines in the last hour of daylight, happy in the midst of hundreds of other sites. Once more, we made certain bears could not access our shaving cream or make up, no matter how cuddly. ReserveAmerica handles campground reservations for Yosemite and Sequoia Kings Canyon – and many other parklands since they manage more than 100,000 sites. The “Date Range Availability” feature is the most useful to plan a trip.
Bridalveil and Yosemite Falls had run dry, but the lack of thundering water did not dampen the spirits of the hordes sightseeing, snacking, chatting and smoking. Yosemite Valley is a magnet for smokers, a fair number of whom I suspect are foreigners. I see far fewer people smoking in Santa Barbara than I ran across in this segment of the park. A few deer showed up, sans cigarettes.During dinner, I caught a few televised images of the Democratic National Convention in Denver. My excitement of the primaries has let up considerably while the spirit of the Democratic Party shifts towards the timidity and limitations of centrist policies that have failed repeatedly in the last quarter century.
Mount Hoffman dominates the Yosemite high country landscape by virtue of its location in the geographic center of the park. No established path to its 3,307-meter peak, but a “social trail,” as a helpful employee at the Yosemite Valley Wilderness Center called it. “Ask someone at the May Lake (High Sierra Camp) station to show you where it is,” he said.With unbridled excitement I set out to hoist myself into the thin air high above Tioga Road. “Is this today’s equivalent of prison labor?” I inquired with a work crew on the trail. “There’s no other place I’d rather be,” came the reply. “It’s an awesome day.”
And it was, with blue skies above and blue lakes below. After the first major ascent, the path entered a beautiful meadow and skirted another one, a mental note that I jotted for the return journey. As is often the case, the twin knobs that I observed above me and thought were the end of the journey were in fact two lesser summits. Across the tundra, I made my way to a col where snow still lingered. I attacked the Class III climb with perhaps too much enthusiasm for I failed to notice that I was nearing the mountain’s precipitous north face. Suddenly, I was faced with a large tarn 300 meters below my feet. The abrupt sight knocked the wind out of me. From the vantage point on the rocky ledge, I felt somewhat vulnerable to gusts of winds that I imagined would blow me over to the lake.
A minute later, my normal breathing under control, I resumed the ascent. Twice I had to backtrack after ascending to a point without easy egress. From a distance, Mount Hoffman appears made of solid earth. It is but a chaotic jumble of boulders and rocks, a challenge to reach its peak. I ventured where I had heard the voices of two women climbing down, figuring that they knew the way. It wasn’t long before it was my turn to stand tall atop Yosemite’s third tallest mountain. Two hikers were checking the sights and we chatted about prior hikes. Conness, Dana and Lyell guarded the eastern horizon. I could not help but think of Eric when I saw Half Dome’s unusual profile from this perspective. One of the first things he ever told me the first time we met in South Lake Tahoe is that he had climbed the massive granite landmark. I need not have been skeptical because our two trips (northern Arizona and southern Utah) demonstrated his hiking abilities. Good times!
We gathered around the communal table (yes, another one!) at the White Wolf Lodge where we were six of the diners who were French. Quite a remarkable happenstance, no? Two had internships in Canada and flew west for a whirlwind tour of California and Las Vegas in a convertible. The other pair drove from Chicago and hit every single national park on the way. We shared stories and laughed around a fine meal with a pistachio encrusted salmon as a centerpiece. Priced within three dollars of the Wolverton disappointing barbecue, it is a far superior choice, albeit four hours away in another park. White Wolf proposes tent cabins similar to the overpriced Tuolumne Lodge. It closed for the season 1 September and you’ll have to wait until next summer to see what sort of accommodation about $100 buys.After a quick scramble up Pothole Dome from where I admired the luscious Tuolumne Meadows bracketed by Lembert Dome (hello Peter) and surveyed by Mount Dana (hello myself), we crested Tioga Pass and made our way to Saddlebag Lake Resort, a few kilometers outside the park’s east entrance.
Last June, a freak snowstorm aborted the goal to reach the foot of Mount Conness’s glacier. After contouring Saddlebag Lake’s west shore and locating Greenstone Lake, Patricia and I doubled back under motivated flakes that obscured our view. Today the skies were bluebird blue once more and a couple more options teased me.I could traverse the Hoover Wilderness’s 20 Lake Basin and exit via Lundy Canyon. This requires banking on Elisabeth’s route finding skills and mountain driving abilities. Umm… Next option.
I could hike the traditional loop around them lakes. Either way, I was hoping to catch a ride aboard Saddlebag Lake Resort’s water taxi. (The resort is not a resort, name notwithstanding, so don’t picture a cozy high mountain getaway. There is, however, a forest service campground.)
A ranger at the main Yosemite Valley visitor center quickly dissuaded me from attempting to sail across the lake.
“They’re most likely sold-out the week before a major holiday,” she said. “To get to Lundy is an overnight. You need a permit.”
With that kind of encouragement I can also stay home. Nor did she appreciate my argument about a first-come, first-served shuttle that is sold out.
The water taxi operates every 30 minutes and costs $7 one way or $10 round trip. They guarantee a pick-up time but earlier returns may be possible depending on the load. On the outward trip, we were the only two on board …Elisabeth meandered around Saddlebag and Greenstone while I traipsed around a high country specked with lakes, 11 in total. I also caught a glimpse of Conness’s permanent snowfields and resolved to make it my destination when I return. Unless I trek over to Lundy, an easy eight-to-10-kilometer through-hike that requires no overnight permit.
The constricted entrance to Lundy Canyon is visible at Helen Lake’s outtake. Not wanting to circle around the lake, I opted for a cross-country jaunt using a map that is little more than a drawing and the surrounding landmarks for guidance. A hike over unstable slate and remnants of mining fails to inspire the necessary confidence that one is headed in the proper direction. Not a soul in sight either, but I did spook a rather large deer.After 20 minutes of exploration with fingers crossed, a view of Mount Dane rewarded my wishful thinking. Moments later, I spotted the trail on the north side of Hummingbird Lake and I knew I would be at the dock soon, a good hour and a half before my reservation time.
Time in hand, we plummeted 1,300 meters to the shores of mysterious Mono Lake and walked among its tufa towers. Since the 1994 Supreme Court ruling amending the water diversions licenses of the City of Los Angeles and its Department of Water and Power, the lake level has risen about eight feet, or 2m45. It needs to rise by another 8.4 feet (2m55) to reach the 6,391 feet (1,947 meters) target.If the last 14 years foreshadow the future, it might take another decade and a half to protect Mono Lake’s public trust values. By that time, many of the eerie, iconic tufa towers will be underwater, suffering from an ironic consequence. Time to make plans!
After a bite at the improbable Whoa Nellie Deli at the Lee Vining Mobil gas station, we drove up to Minaret Summit above Mammoth Lakes to watch the sun disappear behind the Mount Ritter and its craggy range.
A loud “How are you doing Frenchie?” greeted us when we entered the Looney Bean for morning coffee. To Elisabeth’s surprise, Lindsay, a former coworker from Santa Barbara, stood in the coffee house’s lobby, sporting a wide grin.
We headed for Lake George, one of the several lakes that dot the landscape at the foot of the mighty Sierra rampart. Not mammoth in size, but a pretty counterpart to the Great Basin desert at the doorstep. I picked the Mammoth Crest as a destination, intending to return the same way I hiked up. Atop the broad ridgeline of red cinders and above the tree line, I inspected the possibility of a cross country jaunt to Horseshoe Lake at the base of the Mammoth Mountain ski resort. You only live once was all the motivation I needed to plunge into the cirque. The descent was exhilarating, a cadenced run slowed by the impact of my weight into piles of cinders. I followed game trails until I found myself faced with a cliff band. Back up I went until I located a safe passage back. Venturing off trail always strikes me as a conditional invitation to disaster, one that I accept. Hoffman, the 20 Lake Basin and this little adventure offered little risk beyond a lot of extra work if I had to double back toward the original trail. But the first step off trail is to surrender the safety of the established path, to conquer freedom if that were possible. The awareness of my surroundings, already quite tuned up, shoots up because I must take every contour of the mountain into account. Cool stuff!
We broke the long ride home with a stop at Manzanar. Previous visits consisted of trying to absorb the impact of two sentry posts – not a particularly moving experience. Little remains of the WWII Japanese Internment Camp. The five-kilometer auto tour struggles to bring the weedy fields to life. Only the rock garden and cemetery provide a visual connection to these infamous times when fear dictated public policy. West Coast residents of Japanese ancestry, immigrants and American citizens alike, were forcibly relocated to camps like Manzanar, bringing with them what they could carry.As usual, the National Park Service does a great interpretive job. The displays inside an unattractive warehouse but of the period explain the relocation program of yesteryear. They also touch on contemporary notions of patriotism and nationalism that sometimes yank us dangerously in a similar direction.
The house needs to be a pu’uhonua, a place of refuge, free of contrivances, an ever-renewed exile from the present.
