I decided on a brief hike along the watershed of the Arroyo Seco, in the Angeles National Forest, northeast of LA – a brief socially-distanced escape. I took a day off from work. The morning's weather was cloudy and 65 degrees F. On my drive to the trailhead, I entered the freeway lane, passing a slower moving pickup truck. Suddenly from behind, the 4×4 (with raised tires) accelerated with a roar. It leapfrogged around my Corolla – passing on my left, and sharply swerving and cutting back into my lane; only to stop abruptly at the red stop light. I made a mental note of the “disabled person” license plate on the vehicle. Wondering what this was about, I sensed the negative vibe. I arrived at the trailhead around 8am where a sign warned of extreme fire danger. I carried a day pack with a quart of water, two granola bars, a minimal first aid kit, a pocket knife, a trekking pole, my smartphone, and a face mask. There were already other people here – mostly mountain bikers. I made my way down the Gabrielino Trail in an optimistic mood, and greeted surprised dog walkers with “hello” and “good morning” (even if they didn’t respond back). The starting trail was a flat asphalt road, tree-covered, and the walking was fast. After the first couple of miles, the trail became a real dirt path. The sweet scent of sagebrush permeated the canyon air, and one could hear the sounds of crickets and frogs. Occasional groups of mountain bikers zoomed past. The trickling sound of free-flowing water was relaxing, and the cadence of my footsteps became meditative. There were several stream crossings, and I calculated my steps over the various stones and logs. Occasionally, I took pause to watch the water flow. The sun finally emerged as the morning clouds lifted. And the trail opened into meadows lined with desert buckwheat, where one could now see the surrounding mountains. In other places, the trail was lined with the overhanging arches of oak trees. After two hours of hiking, I arrived at the Paul Little Picnic Area where I took a short water break. There was a broken picnic table. Other picnic tables were severely defaced with graffiti. My first reaction was a bit of outrage. “Why did someone come all the way here to graffiti these tables?!” However, I looked closer to read the graffiti which read “STOLEN LAND” and “TONGVA LAND”. Before the Spanish arrived in the 1770’s, this was once the land of the Hahamog’na, the native Tongva people who settled along the Arroyo Seco that flows through this area. I wouldn’t be surprised if the ancestral spirits of the Hahamog’na still roam these mountains.
The San Gabriel Valley is the land of the Tongva people (also known as the Gabrielino), and with the arrival of Spanish missionaries, the Tongva were exploited and enslaved. History and time moved on, and societies changed. However the nightmares of violence against our indigenous inhabitants is still remembered. I've read that our ancestral traumas and memories can be passed on for multiple generations. No human has true ownership over the land – as no human has ownership over the shared air or water. We're all temporary inhabitants, but I can understand the loss of “home” and a particular way of life – the sadness, grief, and anger in the loss. In a similar way, Japanese Americans in California lost homes and livelihoods when they were forcibly sent to remote concentration camps during WWII. Along with the human injustices, the cultural and spiritual loss from our indigenous ancestors could be our modern lifestyle of disconnection and ambivalence with nature and the land. On some days we may be hit with nature's severity – of fires, earthquakes, flooding, wind, and torrents of rain. But on a peaceful days, nature has transformative powers with its beauty to affect us all within. I stopped to sit on a rock by the stream, and listened carefully to the sound of the water, and watched the glimmers of sunlight through the trees. |
Writing on the WEb
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November 2021
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