An Excellent Running Adventure

I am a runner. Or perhaps, more accurately, a runner am I, for there can be no doubt that this organism that is me is a subcategory of runner, and not the other way around. The proof is in my sense of self, for unless I am running or have been running I am less than whole, I am diminished.
Yet to run as frequently as I must to retain wholeness is not easy, it requires motivation. Every runner knows that a sustained running regimen is more about the mind than the body, for to lace up and propel oneself out the door daily, each week of every month for years requires entertaining the mind with increasing imagination and creativity. And so I invent goals, targets that will pique my mind's curiosity to the degree that it will momentarily forget the drudgery and overlook the pain, increasingly difficult goals like finishing a half marathon, then a full marathon, then qualifying for the Boston Marathon, then trail running, running mountains, ultra running, and so on.
But sometimes increasing the level of difficulty is no longer sufficient stimulation to motivate me and then I look for an 'adventure' run, an environment for my run that is so novel or so pleasurable or unique that my jaded mind is rejuvenated at the very prospect. This pursuit of novelty has led me to run up mountains in Tennessee, through Indian reservations, along shoulder-less blind roads in Wales, at excessively high altitudes in Peru, up mist cloaked rhino infested hillsides in Kenya, along miles of sun scorched arrow straight treeless expanses in Kansas, and, well, you get the idea.
You will understand, then, why it was not so extraordinary to find myself running at six thousand feet in Sequoia National Forest last week. I had never seen a giant Sequoia. But my reason for being there was not to see one of nature's marvels, but to find sufficient trail elevation within one or two days travel from home to train toward my latest goal (a subject for another time and place).
Sequoia National Forest cloaks the range of mountains just north of the Mojave Desert, where the extreme tip of this upheaval is slashed apart by the dramatic Kern River Canyon and the basin that is now Lake Isabella. To the west simmers Bakersfield and the broad expanse of the San Joaquin Valley. That city, I decided, would be the hub for my exploratory incursions into the mountains in search of high elevation trails to run. Roads into the National Forest are limited, my choices were few.
Day one I selected route 155, a road that looks deceptively straight on the map, as my access to Greenhorn Summit, the road's high point at 6102 feet of altitude. There I found a ski mobile trail, snowless now, leading along the ridge then descending slightly to a fork. I chose the right side which curled back to the far side of the ridge and gradually ascended again, all through conifer and pine, straight and tall, sweet smelling and shady. The temperature for running here was perfect, while down below the citizens of Bakersfield scalded in triple digit heat. It was along this road, on the far side of the ridge, that I saw my first Sequoia. I knew it immediately, the reddish swirled bark, the column-like branchless trunk, a narrow obelisk pointed skyward. More came into view as I ran, scattered among the lesser pines. Dignified, statuesque. They presented an aura of antiquity, a sense of timelessness that I had read about but never experienced. I returned to my Jeep after a run of an hour, satisfying to me in terms of a test of my stamina at higher elevation and the pleasure of the experience.
That night in my hotel I plotted my next day's destination, searching for a trail that offered higher altitude and greater elevation gain. To find it, I had to look farther north, to Giant Sequoia National Monument. Far up the Tule River Valley within the monument I found Camp Nelson, a remote area of rustic cabins. And trails. One of those trails ascended Bear Creek, commencing at an altitude of 4600 feet and climbing to over 7000 feet over three plus miles. Steep, strenuous, sufficient altitude. Perfect. The trailhead was not well marked, but my guide sheet was accurate and after passing by it once on the narrow dirt track I returned to find it just across the creek. I parked, changed to running shorts and a light jacket (eat your heart out, Bakersfield) and set out at an easy pace.
The trail ascended immediately with several switchbacks up the forested slope then angled back into the creek canyon well up its steep side, the creek a few hundred feet below and well hidden by a tangle of red mazanitis alternating with chaparral. The path was narrow, treacherous underfoot, textures changing frequently to muddy, sandy, or rock protrusions. It ascended steeply following the creek gorge. As the elevation increased I found it necessary to stop to deepen and slow my breathing from time to time. To my satisfaction, I could bring my breath under control easily and continue after just a minute or two. Then came the onslaught of mosquitos, in clouds. They infiltrated my eyes and mouth, buzzed in my ears, enjoying the novelty of a barely clad, hide-less creature, so different from the thick carcass forest creatures upon which they normally feasted. It became much more laborious to run waving my hand in front of my face, and when I stopped now to recover my breath, it was difficult to resist the temptation to begin again before I was ready.
I climbed steadily and the path rose higher above the creek, the slope became steeper, in some places the trail slid away leaving just inches in width to run along. I  traversed one such tricky section and in the middle of the trail saw a mound of poop, tubular mazanitis seed infested, berry speckled, and very large. Fresh, although not steaming. Bear Creek. Oh, right, I should have thought of that. Now I ran watching my footing, waving off mosquitos, and studying every dark shadowed tree and bush along the way.
The path continued to climb along the creek valley, switchbacking occasionally at steeper sections. I came to a second pile of bear poo. In my mind there were three possibilities, that one bear was preceding me (and pooping frequently), that there were two bears and they both enjoyed pooping on the path, or there were a whole lot of bears along this creek. I wasn't particularly pleased with any of my conclusions. Then the path made a steep turn and left the creek valley, climbing steeply up the ridge slope. Steep enough now that in addition to increasingly labored breathing my leg muscles began to ache as I ran.  But the mosquitos were left behind. And hopefully the bears.
The forest opened up, giving way to taller trees and an open forest floor studded with pinecones and deadfall. There were large trees fallen across the path now, which demanded a circuitous route or a tiring climb over them. The trees became taller as I ascended toward the ridge line. I began to see Sequoia like those I had seen the day before.
Then I was on top of the ridge and running along it as it ascended more gradually. A sweet distinctive wood smell came to my nose, tinted with pine pitch. The forest air was thick and scent laden, like a nutritious soup. My footfalls were deadened in it, there was a deep stillness. The world was muffled. I felt better now, more vigorous. The trail climbed less steeply, I breathed easier. I began to see more Sequoias, larger ones and taller. These surpassed the ones I had seen before, some were two feet or more in diameter. Now the path steepened as the ridge line rose higher. I had been running nearly three quarters of an hour now and thoughts of turning back darted from amygdala to frontal lobe with recurring frequency.
Just over a rise I came to a metal sign affixed to a Sequoia. I stopped. It read, simply, Boundary of Belknap Grove. So, I thought, I have been running through a Sequoia grove. I had suspected as much. But looking forward I saw quite a few more Sequoia. I decided to run on just a bit further. The trail ascended gradually now, I could run easily now. Large trunks of trees obscured my view ahead. The trail looped around a stand of several trees and then a clearing was before me and a sight that took my breath away, forcing me to stop and gape.
Before me stood a mammoth tree, its red branchless column of a trunk fully fifteen feet in diameter, towering up, up, up. Over a hundred feet above me thick scaly branches reached out ornamented with massive pinecones and needles. It shaded the entire clearing in which I stood, indeed it must have created it. Now I understood that the metal sign had announced the beginning of the grove, not its terminus. I gaped at this tree, this overpowering presence, this surreal giant, its scale beyond any living thing I have known, Olympian.  I ran on and encountered more and more of these giants, some standing near one another, others residing within the dignity of their own solitary presence. I came upon even larger trees, massively trunked, twenty feet in diameter, sky scraping above me. I felt privileged, as if granted an audience with gods, permitted to enter their sanctuary and the sanctity of their presence. I ran on in awed silence.
And then a sacrilege, the sudden sound of a gunshot, a partially muffled shotgun blast, percussive, very near by. I was startled, upset. Even here, in this temple? Was nothing sacred to hunters? The path I ran was next to the base of a giant, circling its trunk. I slowed, now worried that this nearby hunter might mistake my movement, might shoot carelessly not expecting to find a runner here. And then I saw the pinecone upon the ground four feet away, still twitching. Had the shooter actually shot at me, actually hitting the forest floor so near to me?
All this came in a rush of anxious thought. And then came understanding. I realized that this pinecone, a foot long and ten inches in diameter, had just fallen. That the percussive report I had heard was its impact upon the forest floor, the sound made as it hit the ground after free falling hundreds of feet, to land just four feet from me.
Sobered, humbled, I ran on. Not long after, the grove appeared to thin. The trail angled away across the side of a new ridge, off to meet up with another trail deeper in the forest, farther than I wished to go today. I turned around and returned through the grove, feeling as awed and humbled as I had been on my way up. Running down hill was easy, my breathing controlled, my calves twitchy but sufficiently strong to negotiate the obstacles of the path I had ascended. Down into the Bear Creek valley, down among the mosquitoes, striding over additional bear scat that had not been there on my way up, conversing loudly with myself to alert  bears to my presence. And then the glint of my red jeep through the trees.
I jumped into Bear Creek, running shoes and all and bathed, then toweled off and changed into dry clothing. I faced a five hour drive, down the steep winding Tule River canyon, down, down into the heat of the San Joaquin Valley, through the exhaust filled streets of Bakersfield and on across the Sierra Madre to Santa Maria and then south along El Camino Real, and so home. My muscles were tired, but my addiction was assuaged and my soul fulfilled.    
It was a most excellent running adventure.

Dog Reflections

I have witnessed that pet dogs often reflect the characteristics of their owners.

A neighborhood where I lived is tightly constructed around a green upon which dogs and owners move about in high visibility. The percentage of dog owners to non-owners here is typical, as is the percentage of those who own only cats (or is it the other way around?), although no census taker would ever dare to attempt to quantify the latter. But cats are never an issue, because avoiding controversy goes to the very heart of that creature. Nor are they likely to take on any characteristics other than their own.

Not so dogs.  When you consider the wholesomeness of dogs, the guilelessness, loyalty, and cheerful obedience that is at the core of this animal, it seems strange that these pets are more often the center of controversy than are selfish, skittish, disobedient, untrainable, unleashable cats, but so it is.
A concern in our tight little neighborhood at the moment is the poo habits of some of the neighborhood dogs, of particular concern the neighbor who leaves the front door open to allow the dog to take itself out to poo at will where and when it pleases. To the regulated dog owner, who keeps the dog tight on the leash, then directs the placement of poo, bags it while still warm, and places it carefully in the proper receptacle, the unconcerned behavior of the freedom owner is a pure horror. Dogs reflect the feelings of their owners, and dogs on lead take exception to dogs cruising by unfettered and so animosity has a tendency to build, dog to dog, owner to owner.
 
I am convinced that the tendency to mirror the traits of the alpha dog is in the dogs' gene pool. The mimicry can be uncanny. One close neighbor was owned by cats (and children). These neighbors were warm, friendly people, and the entire family lived their lives happily and openly with a kind of barefoot exuberant freedom. When they wanted a dog to join the family they adopted one from a shelter. Within days, the dog had become indistinguishable from any other member of that family, trotting freely with head high, tail erect, ambling happily around the neighborhood, unleashable and irrepressible. I could have picked it out of a lineup as part of that family.

I provide this particular example because the dog was adopted as an adult, not raised within the family from puppyhood. What can explain the immediate, comprehensive manifestation of family traits by this dog?    

Dogs appear to approach strangers and strange environments in ways similar to their owners - timid dogs reflect timid owners, blustery dogs blustery owners, sneaky dogs sneaky owners, untrustworthy dogs untrustworthy owners, and so on. And dogs seem also to reflect the anxiety levels of their owners. One seldom sees a patient dog with an impatient owner, a calm dog with a restless owner, or a courageous dog with a fearful owner. The ultimate restless spirit is the dog whose owner is away from home days at a time, leaving the dog to its own devices. This canine, like its owner, is the dog about town, roaming the streets and exploring the scents of far reaching neighborhoods, streetwise, confident.

Taking this tendency to another level, I have observed that entire towns, like individual owners, may have characteristics that are illustrated by its citizen dogs. There are plenty of exceptions to the rule, of course, but the dog of choice in my town is the small dog. The human population in my town, like many American communities, is mixed, in this case divided generally between Caucasian and Hispanic families. A walk through the town reveals that some of these small dogs are a Chihuahua type, brown or black, generally off-lead, and others are a white or light colored dog, almost always on-lead. Thus the cultural composition of my town is evident to any observant stranger through its canine inhabitants.

Dogs and children have in common this tendency toward mimicry. Children, like dogs, tend to reflect the characteristic attitudes and behaviors of their parents. But dogs and children are guileless and will display these traits openly, while  parent/owners may conceal them beneath the surface. Thus dogs and children can be a window to the true nature of family culture and behavior.

It has occurred to me that these observations might be taken to yet another level, on a much larger scale, perhaps even to countries. It's not difficult to link certain dogs to certain nations. I automatically link the St. Bernard to Switzerland, for example, the English Bulldog with Great Britain, the Chihuahua to Mexico, and the Doberman Pinscher to Germany. And there are those breeds whose heritage is revealed by their breed name, such as the Russian Wolfhound, the Siberian Husky, the Rhodesian Ridgeback, the German Shepherd, and so on.

Can we use this insight on such a large scale? Might inference from predominant dog attitudes owned by certain nations lead to better understanding within the global community? Might the attitude and intent of nations be revealed by their dogs, despite a desire to conceal them? Could World War Two have been avoided by close observation of the attitudes of German dogs? Do the characteristics of the Russian Wolfhound offer insight into the true nature of the Russian people? What do the Bichon Frise or the Poodle suggest about France? In the wide spectrum of how nations treat their dogs all the way to the nations that eat their dogs, the nature of the master is revealed in his canine mirror, his dog, which, after all, desires nothing more than to please its master, enjoy a square meal, wag its tail, and live in peace.