Brushing off city boy, putting on nature boy

There was a time when hikes in the woods were nothing more than a forced family march.

"Why are walking through the forest, Dad?"

"Because it's there and we can ... plus it's on Indian land, so damnit, I bet your allowance there's a casino at the end of this trail."

So we traipsed through the pines and cedars and oak. When we squated, we hoped there wasn't poison ivy underneath our rump and when mosquitos came at us like we were giant, walking sugar sticks we screamed like little girls lined up to see the Beatles in '64.

Maybe that was the ol' man's plan, though. Force us into the woods to become one with nature (when you're caked in trail dust with pine needle stains streaking your shorts and shirt, you're more than just one with nature, you are nature). He helped start a Boy Scouts troop in Idyllwild (a hillbilly town of 3,000), which led to more hikes; and then, whenever we went on a family vacation, whether it be to the desert, mountains or touristy city, the ol' man made us hike. He was the drill instructor and my sister and I were the grunts marching with our My Little Pony and Dodgers backpacks (you guess who was whose) loaded down with essentials: boxes of Nerds (cherry, of course), half-melted Three Musketeers bars, and, because Dear Ol' Ma cared about nutrition, Fruit Punch Capri-Sun pouches.

And then the cadences would start.

"You don't know what you've been told..."

We'd repeat in our weary 9 and 7-year-old voices.

"Your old man should be pulled."

"That doesn't even rhyme dad," I'd say.

"Shut it, or we'll hike through Death Valley next week."

And sure enough, he'd have a red wagon and two ropes - one for Sis and I.

OK, maybe we didn't pull the Ol' Man along the trail, but if he really did have a wagon you can bet our allowance we'd be pulling him after there first mini-grade.

Despite all the mosquito bites and brushes with stinging nettle, a funny thing happened as I aged - I started enjoying the forced marches through the forest to obscure waterfalls that are nothing more than a stream with a prostate problem, sputtering and splashing into a two-foot deep puddle of water no bigger than our inflatable Scooby Doo play pool at home.

At a recent family reunion in Lake Tahoe, I made two hikes in a week's time. The total distance between the two? More than 16 miles. The first was a 9-miler, round trip, up Mount Tallac. It was the longest hike I'd ever done, and once we were back at the cabin sucking down beers, I couldn't wait to do another. Two days later, without hesitation, I jumped in when another group was heading up to another peak.

See that peak way, way, way off in the distance? Yeah, that's where we were heading.

And then there was this:

Yeah, near the top, at the tree line, there was snow. Friggin' snow. In August. AUGUST! I love hiking, but snow shouldn't be anywhere in August unless it's in the southern hemisphere. That's winter and snow in August would make sense.

After the reunion, once on Phoenix's charred earth, I found my left toe tingling to the point of numbness. That just drove me to hike more. What other body parts could I get numb? Inquiring minds wanted to know.

On the drive to the parental units' house, we pass through Palm Springs on Interstate 10. If you look real hard at the base of one mountain you'll see wires running through the canyon up to a lodge on a ridge. That's the Palm Springs Tram. I remember riding it once, as a kid, and thinking it was the neatest thing to travel by cable up a mountain, hanging by nothing more than a few strands of twisted steel. From there, you can hike until your legs fall off and there's enough dirt clogging your lungs that you'll be pooping pollen through winter. Great for the wild flowers, hell on the allergies.

On the other side of the tram is Idyllwild, where I grew up. As a kid, I remember reading hiking stories about folks doing the trek from the tram, up to San Jacinto Peak and then down into Idyllwild for a nice dinner at the Gastronome. I thought that was the slickest idea, even better than the iPhone or Wiis. What a great experience for those folks.

As we drove through Palm Springs on our way to San Clemente in May, I looked up that mountain and saw the cables. And then the idea blossomed in my head - believe me, I don't get to many blossoms, so when I do get one, I hold onto it like its the marijuana plant in a hippy's garden - I should hike make that hike before I turn 35 (that would be Sept. 30 ... 72 more shopping days left in case you're wondering ... I'm not picky, a 30-plus gig mp3 player or a video iPod would be great).

Hence our weekend trip this week. With Sports Geek and Photo Man in tow - Wife wouldn't let me hike it alone, so she threatened them to go along or no more pork chop dinners and coffee pudding deserts - we'll be making the 13-mile hike Saturday. A ranger on the phone said it was actually a 14-mile hike, but really, what the hell does he know? It was at the Idyllwild station, and since I know most of those folks and what they do in their spare time (hit the bong and down 12-packs at Inspiration Point). I figure it will take 8 to 10 hours, and while being with nature for a day will be a nice change of pace from the asphalt forest we all call home, the beers at the end of the trail, and then inside the American Legion hall in Idyllwild will be even better.

Wife and I went to the hiking store two weeks ago, and now I look like John Muir's shorter, clean shaven twin, but with a 100-ounce camelpack and hiking shoes that will help me scamper up a tree when a crazed pack of chimpmucks come at me (nevermind that they can climb up the tree too, at least up there I can break off a branch and beat them back with a stick) I'm more prepared than an anal retentive Boy Scout.

So, if I don't post anything in, say, forever, meaning if this is my last post, tell Wife she's the wind beneath my wings but she still can't have the unopen box of Red Vines in the cabinet. Not until I get home (that should guarantee a well-manned search party and buy us lost hikers an extra day or two).

Oh, and if my body is found, burn me in a funeral pyre in the back yard ala Luke Skywalker torching Anakin Skywalker in "Return of the Jedi" and then spread my ashes over home plate at Dodger Stadium.

But more than likely, I have a feeling we'll look as we did after conquering Mount Tallac: