Then there were the weekend camping trips. We'd drive up to Chilao or Charlton Flats in my cousin's 1964 Mustang playing cassettes of Boston and James Taylor. Back then we didn't need overnight camping passes. We'd just go whenever we wanted.
I still remember the condensation that would gather inside the nylon tent, making my little world soggy even on the clearest of evenings. There were the hikes we took to gather firewood and our feasts of Top Ramen, canned chili and hot dogs. When you're 14, you don't need much more.
Then came my senior year of high school and our regular after-school trips up to Switzer's. We'd hike all afternoon after school, pushing ourselves to climb over and around things I wouldn't even dream of attempting these days. Our ultimate reward for risking life and limb was a cold dip in the stream.
In my late 20s, I drove my own car up to Kratka Ridge and Mt. Waterman for a day of skiing. It was always such a beautiful drive, and I loved how I could go from home to mogul run in about an hour. I vividly remember the single-chair ski lift. The crazy little runs. Sometimes icy. Sometimes slushy. And always a blast.
Then came 1999, when I had kids of my own. I remember taking them up for their first day in the snow to the same spot where my dad had taken me 30 years prior. This time it was my turn to fill the thermoses with soup and cool it down with a tiny handful of snow. While they hurled snowballs at one another, I played my rummage-sale accordion.
And then there was last summer, when I was between jobs. I'd spend my mornings looking for work, and in the afternoon, I'd ride my motorcycle up to see you — the smell of wildflowers filling Little Tujunga Canyon. People in cars don't get to experience that with their windows up and air conditioners on. But on a bike, it's one of the bigger perks.