Malibu: please hold for the money shot

I’m not going to lie: I felt all kinds of fancy when I was driving to Malibu. It didn’t even matter that I was doing so in a dusty Corolla for manual labor purposes.

We would be staying right off the Pacific Coastal Highway in the Point Dume home of Rob’s Aunt’s boyfriend. This gentleman is a small business owner who was putting the finishing touches on a warehouse nearby. He spent his days peddling herbal concoctions to the financially blessed West Coast health-conscious (like a brain stimulant that didn’t contain caffeine!, but that might have actually contained caffeine...), and business was good.

A surge in high-volume orders prompted an expansion of headquarters, which Rob had helped build in a previous trip. This time, he would be doing the electrical wiring. 

He was slightly put off when I asked him to swear that he knew how to do that legally.

***

I don’t know how to do that legally, so what was my task during this Malibu stint? To relax and rejuvenate. Granted, I would be relaxing with the rest of the working poor on public beach access, but this did not diminish my Malibu spirit.

When we got to Malibu, we drove over to Zuma Beach (think Baywatch) to witness the rest of the sunset. Before we could reach the point, however, two hefty black men flagged us down.

“Please stop where you are. You may proceed after they film this shot. 

The lighting is just right. Thanks.”

Rob, who would rather not devote an ounce of patience on the entitled, was displeased. We had just paid to park, but were told we could not park on account of the money shot. Luckily, the small window of money shot opportunity translated into a small wait.

They had a point. The lightning was indeed just right. 

The next day, Dodger and I made a trip to Solstice Canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains while Rob went to earn his keep. A hike through the valley culminated in the ruins of the Tropical Terrace Mansion, where an eccentric lived with his family (and his giraffes) until a fire swept through in the 80s.

The mansion, which was built into a waterfall and profound in its heyday,
is in there somewhere. 

The mountain staircase I only made him go halfway up, on account
of the 10,000 degree weather and him being a husky.

Dodger goes ignorant places when I'm tethered to him. 

Perched and beat. 

Dodger and I spent the rest of the day stalking through the Point Dume neighborhood like stealth paparazzi. Huge, tinted escalades whizzed around curbs and through stop signs. When I heard them coming, I hid my camera and stared straight ahead through my oversized sunglasses. Hopefully Dodger looked extra dangerous and refrained from peeing on some $10,000 landscape until the witness to my yard lurking had sped off.

A fine entrance. 

Also very pretty, but the effect was often ruined when they surrounded their homes with numerous
signs that promised an armed response to anyone breathing near their property. 

The next day, Rob had to take care of a spare tire issue in an affordable town about an hour’s drive away. Instead of going with, I had him drop me at a remote beach so I could have the 

Great West Coast Beach Experience. 

I’d take the Atlantic any day (as I’m all about a beach whose water temperature exceeds 35 degrees on most given days), but the Pacific tidal pools are fantastic.

Kelp, which is part of the Great West Coast Beach Experience

The smallest, most iridescent crab

Crusty purple urchin

When Rob returned, we headed back to Zuma with a 12-pack and watched a crazy Frenchman cliff jump, repeatedly, off a big rock.

After he fell down, he would climb the face back up and do it all over again. And again and again. 

I PASS ON THIS. 

An expensive bone that Dodger buried somewhere out there when we were
watching the jumping mad man. 

A staircase made of tires.

On the third, and supposedly final, day, Rob’s aunt (who had joined us in Malibu and would be driving seven hours with us to San Francisco to save on air fare), proclaimed that if we wanted to stay in Malibu for another day, she sure wouldn’t fight us! This was code for: we will be staying in Malibu for another day. You’re welcome.

We were ready for a change but hesitated to complain, as there are worse fates than being stuck in Malibu (as Iowa demonstrated). So, we found a beach that allowed fun on it (“fun” being dogs, booze, and grill fire), parked on the PCH to avoid a crappy $16 daily use fee, and spent the day harassing the dog.

Please meet Rob's parachute pants. They serve to complement this
poor treatment of Dodger. 

HAHAHA

Ears back. So pissed. 

And the disrespect continues. 

That night, we watched some designer's clothing photo shoot. Nothing looks more awkward than having to make out with an actor, fully dressed, in a cold ass ocean with a 25-person crew directing you. It was still intriguing, though. 

On account of their setting up shop in close proximity to the restroom (trailers, models, stylists, slave crew, snack bar), I got to scope out the operation every time I had to pee.

Scripted hanky-panky. 

Malibu was exotic, but in an odd way. There are no “everyday” stores. People don’t come here to grocery shop and buy office supplies. The community is isolated: each house is equipped with a security fence bigger than the next, and a mean dog will always greet you out front. Malibu is a symphony of pissed off barking dogs, and there isn’t a thing anyone can do about it. 

Buy some ear plugs. 

The town is alive with Hispanic labor during the day: they hop a bus in, walk to homes where they clean and landscape and construct, eat at the food carts for lunch, and then hop a bus back home at night. The Malibu rich didn't seem to do public mornings/afternoons/early-evenings unless it involved an SUV and a juice bar. 

As for celebrity sightings? None that we consciously acknowledged. Everyone looks like they could be someone around these parts. Stick around long enough, and you’re bound to scope one leaving a Starbucks or walking drunk and half naked up the street (or so residents assured us). We never saw our MacGuyver neighbor either, but his dog hated our dog something fierce.

Malibu may not welcome visitors with open arms, but one thing was clear: it was undeniably beautiful. 

The runner and the whale. 

Next stop: Fairfax, California. There was a rental treehouse that needed sprucing up.

Coyotes ate his dog, and they'll eat your baby: Oceanside, CA

The last leg of our pre-California road adventure was spectacularly crusty. Dust devils swarmed outside the car. The side of the highway was strewn with the remains of a million blown tires.

Heat. No trees. Well, a couple of trees:

Fine specimens. Also, note the official ditch recognition. Ditches in
Illinois could only dream of respect like this. 

Dodger tried to drown himself in his water bowl at a gas station.

When we arrived at the California border, there was no cheery welcome sign. Instead, we got to pass through a border patrol booth. Not receiving a nod from the heavily armed guard at your station meant questioning and inspection, but Rob and I were judged acceptable sketchy. 

Oceanside is a stone’s throw from Mexico, relatively speaking. An alternative route (that we avoided due to traffic concerns) would have taken us even closer and right through a “war zone” of “border agents” and “self-appointed militia.”

Also, lots of artillery.

We crept higher and higher up a neighborhood hillside and finally arrived in Oceanside. Rob has an aunt who owns and manages properties throughout the western half of the US. Most of these are in California, and most of them have tenants. Maintenance in a home you actually live in day-to-day can creep up on you, let alone maintenance on a home and surrounding property that you visit once in a blue moon.

That’s where Rob and I come in. We would work for a week or so at a time in one location, doing anything from curtain ironing to window scrubbing to tree removal to exterior wood replacement.

Crown moulding.

In Oceanside, there was landscaping galore. The sprinklers hadn’t worked for 6 months, so everything that hadn’t died in that time had proven itself worthy of true low-maintenance existence. The victims had to go, though.

TAME THE BEAST

Beast tamed. That fence also got painted green. 

The property backs up to open space: directly below the house, protected land is home to numerous birds, lizards, mice, and coyotes (listen closely at night and you can hear them put a grisly end to something small and furry. Hopefully it’s not something small and furry that you thought you owned).

Californians also seemed fairly convinced that coyotes would eat small children. I can't say a coyote has ever struck such fear in my soul.  

Rob weed-eats a fire break.

Down the hill and across the road is a modern cemetery. Directly to the left are ancient burial grounds (you can see them in the photo above). Two rocky fissures denote one space once used for ritual and another for the depositing bodies.

One night, Dodger, Rob and I went on a walk below the house. We reached a wooded forest opening, and Dodger sat down and refused to go farther. This was odd. We forced him on, only to discover piles and piles of broken tombstones (unclaimed or incorrectly labeled, we hoped). Then, we got lost. Then, hail started to pound on us. 

Dodger might have been on to something.

We took a couple days off to do some exploring, encountering as much gorgeous weather as we did torrential downpours.

THUNDER. LIGHTNING.
And numerous termite tents being lifted off buildings
and tossed around like Kleenex. 

Our bike ride to the beach. It might also be mentioned that Californians think a
husky pulling a bike is cruel and unusual. Offering wheat grass shakes on a menu is actually
what's cruel and unusual. 

Dodger hunts driftwood

Don't even think about bringing your dog beyond this point. 

Oceanside at night.

After some excellent Encinitas thrifting (because Californians are giving with their Northface gear and parachute pants), a frustrating search for coffee shops that the fool GPS kept lying about, and figuring out that California hates dogs and does not allow them to legally set foot anywhere on its privately owned soil, we headed home to relax.

At the end of the week, it was time to move on.

The yard looked much better.

The bathroom chandelier had been hung.

Rob and I had not met our maker via Africanized bees or black widows.

Next up, Malibu. It was rumored we would be MacGyver’s neighbors.  

Arizona: mountain climbing and Husky melting

By saying that our visit to the Arizona desert was going to be most excellent, I meant for human kind. Not canines. Specifically, not snow canines.

By now, you have probably noticed the dog in tow. For every photo there isn’t of me, you will find two of him (my existence is implied. I’m the photo taker.) His name is Dodger and Rob adopted him last November from a Siberian Husky Rescue in Illinois. 

Dodger:

1. Beautiful
2. Three-ish
3. Howls. Yodels. Doesn't bark. 
4. Affectionate before 10am
5. Enjoys our company, but consistently plotting escape
6. Ignorant to perils of traffic
7. Sheds a lot
8. Likes to eat field mice. Likes to eat all small creatures, actually. 
9. Has a self-imposed bedtime
10. The car is one of his favorite places (but we'll see if that changes after what we're about to subject him to)

Oh, just posing I'm sure.

Dodger got lucky. He started life in Southern Illinois, was probably beaten (he had some quirks at first that suggested such), and then escaped to live life as a street thug. He was picked up by the pound, and then snagged by the Husky Rescue (most likely from death row).

He was heartworm infected. After treatment, he did a brief stint in a foster home and then landed right back at the shelter. The foster family’s permanent dogs didn’t like him.

When we met Dodger, he was kenneled outside in the rain. His cellmate Dasha had just deposited a turd on their igloo home. He was the one for us.

Lisle, the day before we departed. Dodger's fourth-ish home. 

In Arizona, we were staying with Rob’s uncle, Ron, his wife Maria, and their 3 kids. Dodger would also have dog-company in the form of Copper, a female chocolate lab mix. Copper was a humbling (and sorely needed) experience for Dodger. When Dodger has the social upper hand, there’s relentless humping. Gender doesn’t even matter.

As she wasn’t going to let sexual harassment fly, they got along splendidly.

Our first excursion was to the Superstition Mountains with Ron and Little Ronnie. This was a hike off the beaten trail. We had to hop cactus, scale boulders, scramble steep grades, and battle heat. 

Luckily, it wasn’t quite warm enough for rattlesnakes and scorpions. The whole hillside looked like a snake nest, actually. 

Superstition Mountains, and the last time we had an actual trail to follow. 

I got bold and jumped down a ledge, only to land on a cactus. After yelling the F-word in front of youth, I yanked out 6 barbs and soldiered on.

Lesson learned. 

Dodger had to soldier on, too. 

In hindsight, it was perhaps a poor choice to bring him. This was no ordinary walk. Luckily, he only weighs 50 pounds and comes with a harness handle. Rob lifted him up many a boulder to freedom.

Dodger, not in husky paradise, receiving first aid
(in the form of Rob man-handling a thorn out of his paw).

The photo below is of a Jumping Choya. They are about the size of my fist, dropped to the ground by the mother choya, and all over the place. 

A hell seed. 

If they stick to your boots or pants, under no circumstances should you grab them off with bare hands: they are day-ruiners covered in fishhook barbs. 

Using two rocks to squish the Choya and yank it off is standard procedure. When you drop the nasty thing back on the ground, it tends to “jump” down the mountain in search of its next victim. 

This is why my mom stays indoors unless there is a beach involved.
She is willing to brave beach sand. 

...almost there. 

Being spring, the desert was all in bloom. 

Little Ronnie summits.

Now, we have to battle cactus going down. Rob has to battle his long, sweaty hockey mullet, too.
Mother choya on the bottom-right. 

We survived the cool (albeit treacherous) hike, did a little more exploring, and then headed back to town. An evening walk would conclude the night.

And by walk, I mean we had Dodger pulling Rob on a bike; Ron and Alison on roller blades; Matt on a long-board getting yanked off curbs by Copper and repeatedly eating it; Little Ronnie and Maria also on bikes; and me on a scooter. Scooting at speeds I've never scooted before. 

Most bad-ass looking family unit rolling through the HOA. 

The next day, Maria took us to Camelback Mountain for another uphill climb. We were told that this was “customary torture” for visitors, but “worth it.” Dodger was spared and left home with Copper.

Accurate Description. Locals use this mountain for laps. I was lapped by the elderly. It was a beautiful hike, though, and full of challenging sections.

It was understood that by undertaking the hike, you were responsible for any unfortunate circumstances that might befall you (dehydration due to poor planning; bee disturbances; steep slips; gila monsters; et cetera.).

A nice dose of personal responsibility.

Assistance rail, to decrease the likelihood you fall to your death. 

Bee hive that Alison spotted. Tread quietly. 

Another interesting thing I noticed on the mountain was the vast assortment of people. 

Muscly gym rats left the gyms to power their way up. Long distance runners sprinted off boulders. Day-hikers like us meandered up behind them. Tourists, tanned locals, idiots without water, old, young, really old, really young. 

Despite it being a weekday, there were crowds (spring break week, it turns out). I didn’t mind, though. People-watching is turbo-enhanced by perilous conditions.

Pilgrimage. 

Fine specimen. 

One of many breaks that Matt and Alison probably didn't even need. 

The view.

Our 3-night stay in Arizona was most excellent. I’m a stranger to desert conditions, but it has an appeal all its own. Driving by a mountainside dotted with huge Saguaro Cactus makes me grin like an idiot.

The Saguaro Cactus are native to Arizona.
They can get old: it takes up to 75 years for this cactus to create its first arm.
People landscape with them, but it costs a pretty penny. Like, $3,000 worth of pretty pennies. 

Rob and Dodger lead a pack of kids to school on our final day. 

Next, on to Oceanside, California. Because my greedy parents didn’t bestow upon me a prolific trust fund, Rob and I must work to obtain the gas money to finance our 4,500 mile+ adventure. 

This is acceptable, though. I can think of worse places to do hard labor.