Sordid Tales of Runyon Canyon

23 june 2009

Sordid Tales of Runyon Canyon

Yes, it’s dirty, smells like dog shit, and spotting celebs is like shooting paparazzi in a barrel, but my love affair with Runyon Canyon never dies. I’ve fallen in love, fallen out of love, interrupted a porno shoot, and been pushed down the hill by unseen forces, which left me skidding down the mountain like a kid on a water slide—and still, when I leave LA, it’s one of the first things I miss. Why?

Because like so many angels from the film Wings of Desire, I get to overhear the lives of hikers, who leave you with a gem, then walk on by, never to be seen again. Over the course of my 25-year love affair with Runyon, I’ve come to learn that men talk about all sorts of men-things: cars, Kobe Bryant, where’s the NFL team in LA?, the latest action flick, and do you like my new tattoo? Whereas, women talk mainly of one thing: men; mostly of the He’s Just Not That Into You variety. “Why didn’t he call me back?“ “I finally had to text him, and say, Like, what’s up, I thought we had something?“

I find this disheartening. Maybe because we gals are all about the multitasking. We can refinance a home loan, lease a Porsche on our way to Target, potty train a toddler, AND text the jerk who loved us, then forgot to call us the next day. But we all know men and women think differently. Women tend to analyze, dissect, relive every moment verbatim, all in the hopes of uncovering a secret subtextual clue that unearths the truth we really want to hear: he really is that into you, after all. Men just want to build a bookcase and be done with it.

So, when my actor friend David hopped into town from Australia and said, “Show me what you real LA people do,” I took him up to Runyon Canyon for a hike. I chose the upper parking lot entrance off Mulholland Drive (where Runyon is oddly spelled "Runyan"; perhaps it’s the altitude that turns “o’s” into “a’s,” and where my friend Marshall had her purse stolen out of her car. Beware!). I told David my Wings of Desire theory of small but profound snippets of everyday lives that paint a larger portrait of our world, only to turn a corner and walk right into a porn shoot in the middle of the—how should we say—climactic scene.

Standing right in front of us, stood a director, a cameraman, the sound/boom guy, and the two male actors. One actor was leaning against the graffiti-strewn rock; the other actor was, well, servicing the one leaning against the graffiti-strewn rock. There was one long beat of Whisky Tango Foxtrot silence, then the director suddenly stepped forward, didn’t apologize, as one would expect, and YELLED at me for interrupting the shoot with my big fat mouth.

He then turned to the servicee actor and said, “You’d better be able to get it up—and fast. We’re losing the light.” He then turned back to us and said, “Are you satisfied? You ruined the shot. Now get out of here.”

It was such a shocking reversal (and I must admit, an admirable war tactic perhaps to be employed by me later) that it took me about 30 seconds to come out with a real zinger: “Do you have a permit? Because I like, work in the film business, and I’m pretty sure you need a permit to film here.”

Then I turned to David, and to further emphasize my point, slowly said, “In America, you have to have a permit to shoot on location.” I then pointed to the looming Hollywood sign, as if it proved my point, then grabbed David’s arm and escorted him away and up to the High Bench. To this day, David believes two things about the film capital of the world: porn shoots happen all the time at Runyon, and you need a permit. This particular path on the hike, I’ve now dubbed, “Porn Peak.”

Now, at Runyon, there’s the High Bench and the Magic Bench. The High Bench is a series of small white benches strung together at the highest point of the hike. Here, you can see Catalina Island, stand and scream, “I’m the King of the World,” or you can do your push-ups. The Magic Bench, however, that’s where the magic happens, and it is my favorite spot on the hike. It’s an oversized green bench that, legend has it, was used in Lily Tomlin’s The Incredible Shrinking Woman. I have no idea if that’s true and suspect it‘s probably not, but it‘s a good tale, nonetheless.

When you sit on the Magic Bench, your feet dangle off into the abyss, and that, my friends, is the stardust of golly great mojo. The Magic Bench has a little gold plaque on the lower right side, with the words: “Heaven’s Last Stop.“ The words are faded, but the promise is clear: Make your wish here. They’ll be sling-shotted straight up to the universe, and then baby, you just sit back and wait.

It's been said that life is not measured by the amount of breaths we take but the number of moments that take our breath away.  So, it was on my birthday last year that I sat on the Magic Bench and asked the gods to send me someone new.  I had been single too long.  Almost a year to the day, the gods answered my prayer, although the affair, much like the bench itself, was not fully on the ground.  But we’ll get to that sad tale soon enough.

After making your wish at the Magic Bench, you have two options: the winding main fire trail, mostly paved in asphalt, or the steeper dirt “proper shoes only” should dare to tread trail, which makes me wonder if Dante was so kind as to leave a similar reminder when one descended down his various levels of self-induced hell. A gentle, lady, before you dip into the well of self-flagellation and not good enoughs, remember to wear proper shoes!

So, using a pinch of common sense, I turn around and go back down the main fire trail, where I then run like a bat out of hell down the hill. Now, the Runners of Runyon are in their own little club; we tend to give each other a secret smile, a nod, a little bobble head of, You’re running. So am I. Nice.

Which brings me to Yeardley, a generous soul with cerulean blue eyes that always seem on the edge of spilling one pathos-seeking tear. Yeardley likes to run downhill. When we met, she was in the midst of a divorce and I was in the midst of a breakup, so we became instant friends, running as fast as we could, in the vain hope of staying one step ahead of sorrow, disillusionment, and change.

One morning, we were running downhill with the wind in our faces, a spray of mist from a hesitant rain coating our eyes, our feet mystically missing every rock and pile of dog pooh in our path, when Yeardley suddenly turned to me and screamed, “I love you, Katherine.”

Never missing a step, I turned and screamed back, “I love you, Yeardley.”  For in those 20 minutes before we reached the bottom and our endorphin high of an angel’s flight would slow down, our hearts were bursting kaleidoscopic colors because, as we know Marianne Williamson, when your heart breaks, it breaks wide open.

Indeed, there is something to being out in nature that trumps treadmills inside Boom Boom Pow pulsing calorie counting gyms. Nature taps your soul and reverts you back to your true animal form. You’ve left the Arclight black box, the Whole Foods recyclable bags, and the bikini wax that strips away your hairy self, and you’re one with your true animal spirit.

At Runyon, you are surrounded by signs telling you Caution: Rattle Snakes. You hike past horses and goats. There are more water bowls for dogs than water fountains for people, and blue-eyed wolves appear in the morning fog. When a car drives down the fire road, one stares at it with suspicion. What be you strange machine? And we glare as we reluctantly move to the side.

I have three pee spots at Runyon Canyon. Carefully chosen areas where I can pull out my Starbucks napkins and release my double tall skinny vanilla latte into the wild. I’ve introduced my pee spots to my jogging companions. One blithely suggested that I think ahead and actually go to the bathroom at my house before I leave. I quickly countered with I’m a spontaneous kind of person! I live in the moment! Carpe Diem is my motto, thank you, Tom Schulman. Another friend, however, was delighted that I showed her mine, and she quickly showed me hers. And it was at her pee spot that I saw my second act of nature in the wilderness.

Now, this event was not being filmed for later viewing. This event appeared to be a fun little romp of its own seize-the-day variety. As I clutched my little brown Starbucks napkin and skipped to the newly-introduced pee spot, I spied two very happy, smiling men having sex in the bushes. The one in the front was bent over at a 45 degree angle, in the catcher‘s position, if you will. The fellow behind him was standing tall, delivering the pitch. The pitcher and I made eye contact. He smiled. And I—well, I had a flashback.

I tend to have flashbacks in my daily life. In this one, I was taken back a decade or so to my first rafting experience down the Kern River. First came the image of our yellow boat careening down the river, completely out of control. This wasn’t Knott’s Berry Farm or California Adventure. This was the real deal, without tracks, guard rails, and stuffed owls looming overhead.

Several of the other boats had already wiped out on the rocks—and it wasn’t pretty. Rafters emerged from the water’s depths with blood pouring out of their foreheads. I wasn’t in the least bit interested in that. So, when I saw our two lead rowers, carefully chosen for their height and body strength, and because “they‘d been river rafting before,” constantly making out instead of actually rowing the boat in rhythm so we could all follow their lead, I (5’2”, 110 lbs) stood up and yelled to the couple, “I am not going to suck sludge so you two can suck face. Now get your asses into the back of this boat. Now!” You find out what you’re made of in the wild.

Shocked, the kissing couple stood up and got into the back. I took the lead seat and turned to my stunned crew—people I’d never met before and many, like me, who had never been on a river rafting trip before—and I said, “Who here has any rhythm, because I played the drums in high school and I sure as hell know how to keep a beat.”

Another rafter raised his hand and he sat opposite me, and so we resumed. We quickly came up to the biggest rapid and found ourselves thrown out and over a waterfall and hanging lifeless in space, much like feet dangling off the Magic Bench. It felt like we hung in mid-air for an eternity. I just kept yelling out the count and we kept furiously paddling the open air until, finally, we tilted down and went into a freefall, crashing onto the water below. We were the only boat not to capsize.

Later that night I was first introduced to peeing in the wild, singing and playing guitar by a campfire underneath the deepest darkest night, and my first threesome. Perhaps it was the coup de'raft, the high of simply being alive or the life and death epiphany of why the hell not because we only live once?, but that day led to a night of one of the most erotic, smelly, sweaty, wordless encounters I’ve ever had.

I don’t remember my rafters’ names or faces anymore, but in my flashback, they oddly resemble Keanu Reeves and Diablo Cody. Oh, who am I kidding?! In my flashbacks, they are Keanu Reeves and Diablo Cody. So, when I saw my two fellow Runyon hikers enjoying sexy times at my new pee spot, I got it.  I smiled and gave the pitcher the big thumbs up and I went on my merry way to my pee spot of old. That path I've now named, "Buttf**k Bypass."

At the bottom of Runyon (where the sign is spelled “Runyon” again), at the Fuller entrance, a Good Samaritan has filled an ice chest with bottled water, bananas, and protein bars. He or she has attached two black mailboxes to drop in dollar bills and has written the words “Honor System” on the ice chest lid. I figure he or she must live nearby, because each morning, the booty is restocked, along with a plastic box filled with free doggy biscuits. I often wonder how the honor system works out for the Good Samaritan. Does he get more or less than he gives? And, as in life, does it even matter?

Either way, when the box first appeared, I was so touched by the gesture that I just stood staring at it. So long that I saw a handful of multicolored artist’s grease pencils dropped on the ground. I picked one up, a deep brown oil paint, and I drew a big heart on the sidewalk and wrote the words “Love Deeply” inside it. That heart and those words stayed on the sidewalk below the ice chest for almost a month, until it faded away. I’ve always wondered, much like the angels from Wings of Desire, how many hikers stopped and looked down at their feet to see it.

There are a lot of miracles at Runyon. I’ve stumbled across a giant peace sign, resembling a crop circle, made out of rocks. I’ve seen a Caution Rattle Snake resting quietly on the side of the road in the late afternoon sun, giving not a care to the crowd staring at its exoticness. I’ve seen strangers band together and scream encouraging words down the canyon to a young woman who was stuck on the side of the hill, unable to get up or down, so in tears, she just clung to the cliff, waiting for help. I’ve seen entire cheerleading squads doing dance routines, track teams in uniform, mommies pushing strollers, and grandparents softly leaning into each other for support.

I’ve taken night walks, where the canyon takes on an other-worldly feel. Gone are the hardcore runners, the celebrities, the tourists with guide books, and the video cameras capturing the downtown LA skyline. At night, hikers carry flashlights, scanning the earth like Scully and Mulder, their disembodied voices filled with nervous energy.

But perhaps one of my most favorite memories of all is the lone musician who made a big circle out of rocks and was playing his instrument at the bottom of the canyon, his music floating to the top to soothe us all. It reminded me of the time I sat at Robert Thurman’s feet in India and we listened to a native Indian play a tale of love lost on a similar instrument, tears falling down his face.  Soon, our entire sangha were adding to his tears.  We all connected to this man then, and it is that sound that most links me to Runyon now.

For of all the sweat, the scrapes, the unexpected sex, and the wishes flung from a Magic Bench, what Runyon Canyon means most is love—Love of my friends, my family, my lovers, new and old.

So many emails: Hey, I need to talk. Can we do Runyon? Hey, I want to set you up with someone. Why don’t you do Runyon, see if you click? Hey, I really, really, really need to vent. Wanna do Runyon later? Above all things, Runyon has become the sharing spot. The place to pour the tea. Tell our tales. Because, on every hike, with hawks circling overhead, the leaves turning color, and the lizards skittering across the dirt floor, we are closer to nature, and thus, closer to ourselves.

Walking the winding road, we seem to find the courage to choose the path not taken and say out loud what we actually feel. We reveal our deepest thoughts and expose our hardest truths. Perhaps, because at Runyon, we have the time to tell a story beyond 140 characters. A chance to slowly spill its beginning, middle, and end. To really listen, to hold a hand, to run down a hill and scream, “I love you!”

In nature, we have found time again.

So last week, when I finally revealed my own truth—that the Magic Bench had granted my wish, and that I'd met someone new. My hiking companion was thrilled.  But I held up my hand and said, hold on to your joy, pretty miss.  It didn't last.  It wasn’t the Magic Bench’s fault, really. It was mine. I had forgotten to ask for a love that was, yes, a little magic, but also equal, sane and grounded.

My friend reached out her hand and held mine for instant. Then she said, “That sucks.” I said, “Yeah. It sucks.”  Then we hiked some more in silence. And I realized that at our age, nothing more needed to be said. The Who Was It didn’t matter, nor did the What Happened. We all know what it means to get our hopes up - only to find them go back down that hill. 

Because, truly, if you haven‘t experienced hurt and disappointment at least once in a lifetime, you haven‘t truly lived; although, I don‘t recommend it as a steady diet. And as much as it hurts now, at the end of the day, it’s just another chapter of another story of which a snippet will be overheard on a hike up Runyon Canyon.

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Comments

Runyon tales	- By Guest on Jul 17 2011
Brilliant. Coming to LA next month and hope to experience some of the magic of Runyon that you so poetically describe
	- By Guest on Feb 20 2012
I was born and raised here and hate most transplants. Except for you. Your take on LA makes me wish you'd come here more often and squeeze out the lame asses. Hurry back!
	- By Guest on Apr 18 2012
I absolutely loved reading this, I moved walking distance to Runyon a few months ago and now have my own love affair with my hikes there. It is such a raw, special place in the middle of a crazy plastic city. Every hike is different, even when you chose the same path as before, the people, the smiles, the dogs, the view, and at the end, a clear perspective, and a sense of accomplishment that you will never get at the gym.

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