The first thought to enter my mind was that I had lost my mentor, who has been mentioned in a previous article. He was the one to initiate me into the exciting, the parallel dimension of treating one's surroundings as a playground of sorts. To go out into the night on quests, whether they be to climb buildings, bike until dawn, explore abandoned warehouses, and on one perhaps misguided but monumentally fun occasion extract all of the dough from a trash can behind a major soft pretzel maker and laden it onto passing vehicles, one another, and any object, animate or not, unfortunate enough to be in out way. But he was only my beginning. We had, for all intensive purposes, parted ways approximately a year before I left Philadelphia, and yet my adventures had not ceased, whether alone or with whichever brave soul I could drag along.
So was it that I felt safer in Philly? Though it is impossible at a later date to ever capture verbatim what one was thinking at some point in the past, I find it hard to believe that this was the case. By the time February 2008 had rolled around, Philly had already reached and passed its one hundredth homicide. That's not precisely the place that one might take a stroll in past the hour of, say, five pm, without an entourage and several lead pipes. Maybe it was just that I was young and immensely stupid, the two generally going hand in hand. But the thing is, I am still young and immensely stupid. Granted, at the time that I began my nighttime wanderings I was familiar with the city, in and out, and conveniently located in its midst (the safer region of the city - its really the North, South, and West that you have to worry about, though not the east as it does not really exist due to the fact the Delaware river cuts the city abruptly short). Though I grew up in L.A. I did not really. The beach cities are not "the city" such as it exists. Other than to sneak in a few smokes while still in high school away from the scrutiny of my parents, I never ventured far from the house after dark without two tons of metal encasing me. Outside of visits to museums or plays I never traversed much of the rest of the greater Los Angeles area, and never went there at night, other than a few misguided trips to underage clubs at the urging of friends (these almost always were a bust as I would find myself watching as greasy, cheap cologne drenched pubescent boys wishing to be men, scraggly hair poking forth from their cheeks, hit on my friends, leaving me to watch watch and chug red bulls, as I was always the designated driver). So Los Angeles, in the way that Philly was, has never been wholly familiar to me. And so I resolved that this must be part of the cause of my uneasiness to strap on a pack, toss in a bottle of water, and take off on my bike much in the way John Muir did with a nap sack, a loaf of bread, and a bit of cheese as he took off into the wilderness.
Separate, or stemming from this fact (I am not sure which) were a number of other factors which came to me as I chained my bike to a lamp post, walked a short distance out of the laser like beams of the lights, and expertly (if I may say so myself) jumped a fence landing on a closed off path next to a section of the L.A. river (such as it is). I had spotted, while passing in my car a few days earlier, a sign on a fence reading "No Trespassing". These words have, at least in recent years, had the obverse effect on me. They say, "There is something to be explored here" and "Before concurring with what is written here, take a look. If all does not go well, then you will know that the sign was indeed justified." It is, perhaps, a bit ironic that I am the person that I have become. It is as children that we are supposed to be wonderfully incognizant of rules, untroubled by limitations. Yet it was as a child, and not an adult, that I was so. On the walks that my father and I used to take around our neighborhood we would constantly pass new architectural erections, it was that kind of era and that kind of neighborhood - bigger, better, more expensive, if you can fill every last square inch of the entire lot with immense, expensive and unnecessary materials then no one can say you haven't lived up to the Jones'. My father would always entice me to join him in an exploration of the unfinished structure, collecting a few washers for souvenirs as we went. I would always hold back, point out that the sign said "Do Not Trespass", and worry that some busy body neighbor would call the police (it was that type of neighborhood as well) and that the police would then come and shoot us. At the ripe age of 7 I was not prepared to die and did not much want my father to die. After much coaxing he would get me to squeeze through the gap in the fence that was somehow always present, as if beckoning, and to ascend up into the structure. Without exception I would love it; the exposed piping and wiring, the washers like coins strewn about, chalk writing on the walls indicating measurements and placement, stairs without railings. It was in these adventures that my present urges reside, or so any shrink would most likely tell you. But it was wonderful. And so, in the spirit of my Dad, "No Trespassing" signs have become invites, though in a more diverse and intense way than they ever were to him. Thus it was that several days after seeing the signs, tonight in fact, I found myself landing on the darkened path that had been shut off to the public.
A dim and spooky scene spread out before me. To my left, over another fence, and a ten or so foot cement drop down lay the L.A. river, trickling in an ardent, but humble manner, such as a man who knows he will never reach great heights of success but knows that he must trudge on regardless, head held high. To my right, from the direction I had come were now shrouded lights, the fence I had recently showed did no good of keeping anyone out, and a semi steep embankment which I had just traversed, sustaining only one off kilter moment. Ahead lay a dim lit path. The thought crossed my mind that I probably should have brought my flashlight, but it was too late at this point. Onward. That is the only word appropriate for an adventure. It is hard to imagine a man ascending Everest, as he is on the brink of the destination saying, "Now if only I had my ...." It just ruins the flow. Adventure is about ad-libbing, about not having everything and making it anyways, stronger, prouder of your accomplishment. Besides, flashlights shut off the world around you. They force your eyes to adapt sight only to a small region of the greater picture. Yes, my gaze was dimmed, but it was not contained in a limited perimeter.
And so I took a walk. Slowly, lightly, in the nature of a man tracking an animal, I moved forward. Maintaining alertness I kept both the pit below and to the left of me, and the shrubby area to my right in periphery at all times. It was some relief that between me and either section stood a fence. Granted these were not fences of any magnitude as it had taken me virtually no effort to gracefully clamber over one of them, but they would at least buy me some time should anyone decide to come at me from the opposite side of either. It was the the hidden elements in the dark haze of the path before and now behind me that gave me the most worry. If I were suddenly to stumble upon someone, what would I do? Unlike in Philly, I am unfamiliar with the homeless population of L.A. Without doubt, the homeless of the city of our founders were deranged, odd, and not people you would wish to poke with a stick (I mean no offense here, I gave a good amount of money to the homeless in Philly, bought some of them sandwiches, and was always rewarded with ungratefulness), but I never felt that they would do me any harm. Here, I do not know. Squalor can drive men to inhuman acts. Several times I saw to my right, on the opposite side of the fence, bundled up tarps which seemed to be concealing rather sizable bulks. These sightings would send prickles up my spine, not so much of fear, but of readiness. What I would so in my ready state I was not sure. Based on the accessories I had brought, a backpack containing cigarettes, lighter, ID card should I die and need to be identified, bike lock (though not a u lock which is a weapon of some merit), and a bottle of water the most sensible course of action in the event that one of those tarps contained a well hidden and live body would be to run. But none of them seemed to move and dead bodies were of no real concern to me as any hazard they might have posed has been dealt with already, so I carried on. reaching the end of the path, as it inclined upwards towards a road I stopped, and, feeling fairly confident that this section was safe, turned my interests to how one might get down into the river section itself. Walking back towards my initial entrance at a more luxurious pace I considered busting out my climbing gear on my next visit and repelling into the "river". Perhaps a bit unnecessary, but hey, why should the action stars get to do all the cool shit? It was at about this point that I heard a faint, but definite cough to my now left (previous right). I saw nothing, squinting into the darkness, and did not take the time to remain for closer examination. Quickening my pace and attempting to make no noise I made more noise than I had made in the entirety of the walk so far, accidently kicking pine cones that had not previously been there, stepping on crunchy leaves that had apparently blown in since I had just passed this way, though there was no wind. After about one hundred yards and nothing glimpsed in my multiple backwards glances I concluded that the cough had most likely come from a sleeping man, blissfully unaware of my presence. Prickles subsided I returned to figuring out a way to get down to the sludgy, polluted, trickle below. Making the walk extraneous, it was at the place I had first entered that I found my path. Here the sludge passed under a cement bridge, creating a dirt archway overhead with a fence. The tunnel underneath took two paths, divided by a cement center (if any of you have ever seen Terminator Two you know what I'm talking about). This center tapered down from the overhead pass at a palatable angle. One had only to overcome the fence, brace, and then shimmy down the wedge divider. Excellent. Tonight, however, was not that night. This was a reconnaissance mission. When on a quest it is crucial to remember the purpose, and to remain true to that. In this was you avoid injury, mistakes, and danger, due to unpreparedness.
Goal achieved and plans already brewing in my mind for the following night, I hooked one foot into the dilapidated chain link fence and thrust my weight over. A sudden, sharp, and not altogether uninvited sting invaded the upper area of my right leg just bellow the buttocks. Upon landing I turned to examine the wound. It wasn't much. My pants had suffered more than anything else, now torn with a great gap. How early nineties. Underneath was a small scratch, but nothing to worry about. I wished it had been more. There is nothing better than an adventure wound. Lacking any blood to marvel at I tied the hole closed with the errant ends and proceeded back to my bike. Re-entering the lights I realized that all of the fear had gone. Or at most of it. There was still the threat of cops. Cops in L.A. freak the hell out of me. They are not Philly cops who understand that there are bigger fish to fry than a couple of people who feel constrained by society and need to have a little thrill now and then, achieving this by climbing buildings or clambering over fences to get a view of something most people like to ignore, the L.A. river. Philly cops are in fact wonderful this way. It is like one has transported back to the 1940s when people were much more forgiving and not every citizen was like to be a terrorist. In all of my climbs and trespasses I was only once stopped by the Philly cops. This was on the bridge that traverses the Delaware river, spanning from Philly to New Jersey (why anyone wants to fully cross this bridge I have never been sure). We were ascending the pillar-esque elements of the fantastic construction of the bridge. Before we had achieved quite 30 feet of height flashing light appeared below and a voice crackled over the loud speaker directing us to leave our elevated status and return to the earth. As the obliging citizens we were and are, we descended with no fuss. The cops did not frisk us, they did not pull guns or speak to us as subhumans as L.A. cops seem prone to do, but asked us politely to sit on the curb. Obligingly we did so. A few moments later a cop approached us, sympathetic in every way, almost apologetic. Sadly he said "You can't climb this. It's federal property. Climbing, or in any way subverting federal property is a federal offense. It's a precaution against terrorists, that sort of thing." He knew we weren't terrorists. We knew we weren't terrorists. The situation was ridiculous. Thankfully Philly employs the type of cops that can function outside of rote protocol and figure out situations for themselves. I am not sure if the Los Angeles police department has the same ability. Within minutes we were released with not so much a warning, as a request to never climb the bridge again and to steer clear of federal property. No problem. Plenty of other fish to fry.
So perhaps my greatest fear in my quest this night was not miscreants, but the police. And isn't that a sad story. Okay, that's not precisely true. The other fear which superceded cops and returned them to good guy status was that of gangs. I am sure that to some degree Philly has gangs, though I never chanced upon them or saw any coverage in the local press such as to cause any great worry. I know, from general knowledge and from the brilliant though depressing mock documentary Gang Tapes, that L.A. gangs often tag on the cement bounds of the L.A. river. The prospect of happening upon them in action was not a positive one. In all honesty I do not know what would happen to me in such a situation. I am a fellow bomber, though not tagger as most gang members are. For those who do not know the difference, there is not art to tagging, it is the ugly, unartistic scrawl that one sees on freeway overpasses, clearly nothing more than the spray paint equivalent of a male dog's piss. Bombing is the art. It's Banksy making political statements in Israel, not negative, just asking people to examine truth. It's leaves falling, stenciled on a city wall where no nature exists. It's murals. So I am, and am not, a compatriot. But I am not daunting, clearly engaged in an illegal activity myself, and unarmed. Would any of this make a difference, appeal to some semblance of humanity within? I don't know. And I would prefer not to find out, though the upshot would make a great indie film.
Pressing the pedal on my bike in a forward movement I re-engaged momentum, once again taking off into the night. Somehow identifying fears makes them subside. It is the old fairy tale or myth, as in Rumplestiltskin or the young prince who would become the Buddha meeting the sticky monster (this story was later adapted as Brair Rabbit). In these stories the hero or heroine must discover the name of the monster or midget, as it were, facing them. Once accomplished the creature holds no fear for them. This is "giving due recognition to the monster; dealing with it, and then giving it its place". (Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth). Indeed, in these stories the "monster" is a power within the hero heretofore unrecognized. It is one's own demon and, " our demons unrecognized are our own limitations which shut us off from the realization of the ubiquity of the spirit." (Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth) I had named my fears, long trapped within, and thrown them off. This is not to suggest that there are not real fears in taking off into the night in a place such as L.A., simply that the fears which plagued me were not the right ones. They were interior or over exaggerated. One needs to be cautious when going outside of the box, or in a not so metaphorical sense, the bounds of their apartment or home at dubious hours of the night, no doubt. But in order to achieve liberation, to live fully one must risk danger, not unwarranted danger, but danger none the less. The danger I go out into may not be of the kind that most people wish to deal with, which is fine. But I think that it is important to take risk, not just emotional, or business, but physical. This we are lacking in modern society. People take risks via computer simulation, not action. They sit on their sofas or in theaters popping food while watching Jason Stathom do awesome shit that they wish they could do but are unwilling to do the work to achieve. As outdoor activity among Americans declines, the number of action films skyrockets. This is not a coincidence. We want to be active. We want to do cool shit. We all can. So the next time you are watching an action film, turn it off and book a trip to go repelling, or better yet, join your local rock climbing gym, or, if you are a California resident join the Sierra Club, which is cheap and has a plentiful list of hikes, backpacking trips, climbs, training classes, and the like. Lets get that adventurous spirit that created this country back!
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