Baywatch in L.A

Ah yes. The glitz and the glamour. The beautiful people. The glorious sun and the wonderful Hollywood life. Er.......no, not quite.

Leaving Phoenix, even just for a day, was difficult and gave me a little reminder that we would be leaving Arizona for good in only a week. At least I had California to look forward to, the home of Baywatch and my childhood hero.
No, not Pamela. The Hoff. I remember watching the program when I was younger and my mum turning the channel over because, in her words, it was stupid and not very believable. Even then I had the feeling that she had somewhat missed the point of it. She was right though, it was a little far fetched, I mean as if Pamela Anderson needed a buoyancy aid. I had no idea back then that it wasn't only the actresses' bodies that were fake: clearly the weather too had been created in a studio, somehow. As I stepped out of LAX airport I felt a cool breeze for the first time in centuries and rain which I hadn't felt for an eternity. One thing was clear, living in the desert can make one over-fond of hyperbole.
Whitney and I were here for two different reasons. For Whitney it was another medical exam and for myself, it
was the chance to see some famous sights and be a shameless tourist for the day. I only had a few hours to play with and so I had to make some choices: would I head straight for Hollywood or would I stay local and give myself more time in each spot? I decided to be sensible, and so I bit off more than I could chew and planned to do everything; Hollywood Boulevard, the Griffith Observatory, the Hollywood Sign, Venice
Beach and the Getty Museum. Out of
all of these I wanted to visit the Griffith Observatory the most for two reasons, firstly because of my interest in family
history and secondly because my Uncle Steve, who being an astronomer, got me interested in such things. I had heard about L.A's infamous traffic jams and was acutely aware that I must not get stranded, missing my flight and putting my marriage under considerable strain.Therefore I decided to visit Venice Beach first, which was on the way to Hollywood from our hotel, and arrived there fifteen minutes later. It was quite different from what I had expected, firstly the sky was a deep, dark, foreboding grey, not something I had seen on Bay Watch or any number of films set here, and secondly there was a pungent, nose wrinkling smell of fish. I know 'smellovision' has not yet been invented, but I am sure even the best actors would have had trouble keeping the look of disgust off their over-tanned faces. The source of the smell became apparent as I walked onto the pier and found the local fishermen casting their lines, using dead sardines and other fish as bait. I suddenly felt as though I were not in California at all, but some fishing village in Asia or Europe and I had a longing to join in the action. Time however was my enemy and I had to be swift, though not before taking some photographs of the fishermen and the local surfers down to the right of the pier. As I stepped off the pier I was delighted to see a 'Baywatch' style SUV equipped with red buoyancy aids, though sadly no lifeguards were accompanying it.

I left the beach and headed towards Hollywood. Five lane highways come as standard in L.A and there is a lot of chopping and changing, exiting this highway and onto that one, which all leaves you feeling a little disorientated. It took about 45 minutes to get there and I followed directions to the Hollywood Sign, expecting at any moment to see it ahead in all its glory. As the road started to climb and bend I caught glimpses of 'Hol' or 'ood', but there didn't seem to be anywhere I could stop and get a photograph of the whole sign. I entered Griffith Park and the road came to an end, and still I couldn't see it. There is a hiking trail that leads up to the sign itself, but this would take hours, and I didn't have that long. I got back in the car and tried to find another way to see it. I entered a private road (no doubt a celebrity neighbourhood) and wound my way up its narrow curves that would have been more at home in a small french mountain village. After 10 minutes I finally found a spot to take a picture, although it was most definitely an anticlimax, with the city smog obscuring the writing and the grey clouds providing the backdrop. This little expedition had taken rather longer than I had planned, an hour longer if I'm honest (and one should always try to be honest), and so I headed for the highway and the Griffith Observatory. I didn't get very far. The traffic jams were upon me and after half an hour with little progress I had to concede, heading back to the Hotel and Whitney without finishing my planned activities.

Perhaps some people might say that on another day with sunny weather and time on my hands, I might have enjoyed L.A considerably more, and so taking this into consideration, with fair and impartial judgment, I can say that L.A is completely lame and should be avoided at all costs.

Dawn in Phoenix

It began with a ludicrously early start to a Wednesday morning. It had the feeling of one of those cold autumn mornings where it is still dark as you leave the house for school. It was exactly like that only without the cold, or the miserable walk to the bus stop, and without school or even work for that matter. Basically it was just dark.

I dropped Whitney off at the Hospital for another monster shift (I just want to clarify that it was a long work day and that the Mayo Clinic hadn't become the first Hospital to treat creatures
from 70's B-movies),
 and went in search of subjects, having decided to take my camera with me so that I could make the most of one of the 'golden hours' (the hour during which the sun rises and the hour during which it sets) as the light is at its most mellow and helps to produce interesting and pleasing photographs.
I had a few ideas of where I might explore and turned off the highway not far from Talking Stick, another interesting name I remain woefully ignorant about. I began with a series of sunrise photos, but really just to get my light settings and then took a few shots of the long shadows draped over the fairway of a golf course. I was hoping to see some wildlife; a rattlesnake or a Curly Horned Sheep perhaps, but I had to settle for an array of birds and their lively song. Unsatisfied, I got back in the car and looked for somewhere else to inspire me and had the happy fortune to stumble across a road which had been barricaded some time ago and had become a wild and ragged looking place. There was a sign in front of the barricade displaying the warning 'Dead End', and I dearly hoped this wasn't a prophetic message informing me of my impending doom. There were others indicating that the road was closed, but these were obviously there to keep other people out and not me, and so with a spring in my step I clumsily straddled the wall and
almost dropped my camera.
Thankfully none of the laughing birds had seen this and so I was spared any more embarrassment.
It was one of the stranger experiences I have encountered, walking up a deserted road at dawn with the sound of birdsong in one ear and mosquito in the other, watching creatures scurry away at the sight of me. Funny little birds with
some kind
of protruding feather arrangement chose to run away from me up the road in a drift, instead of flying away and I also saw a Woodpecker making a hole in a cactus. I found fresh sheep droppings (not a sheep in sight) and heard the cry of a coyote (didn't see him either) and also heard a diverse selection of birds making a tremendous noise. Mostly though, I found joy in the sight of nature taking back a piece of land, whether through tufts of grass pushing their way through the tarmac, birds nesting on the street lights,rabbits burrowing in the verge or a sheep defecating on a 'STOP' sign. All simply marvelous.

N.B. The funny little birds with protruding head feathers are called Gambel's Quail after William Gambel, the American naturalist and collector. There are quite a few collective terms for quail, my favourites are; a battery, a flush, a rout and a shake.

Superstition & The Lost Dutchman Part I

Superstition Mountain and the Lost Dutchman is a National Park about a 25 min drive from Chandler where we are staying and it is somewhere I have wanted to go since the Air Conditioning guy recommended it to me. At this point a good writer would regale you with the history of the place, explaining the interesting name and so forth, but alas, I don't know it and haven't even bothered to find out (well come on, I have scorpions to scorpinate). My dear friend and guide Tom (Tom) took me there on a particularly out-of-the-way route ('root' and not 'r-out' people, sort it oot!) as is his wont, and dutifully I followed even though I could clearly see a better way, for fear of upsetting him. I already had a photograph in mind when I arrived, as I often do, and began to search for the spot from which to compose it. I wanted the mountain in the background, with a classic cactus standing tall to the left or right of shot.
When I say a 'classic' cactus I mean like in the cartoons, with only two arms pointing outwards and then upwards like a man in the 'bowing-down' position, preferably with the arms slightly out of line from each other, so that one is higher than the other. Surely in a host of thousands, perhaps millions, there must be one such cactus, after all it is the cactus used on numerous logos all around Arizona. Nope. Not a single one. I took my little SUV off-road in search of the thing and everywhere I went I had the distinct impression that the birds were laughing at me, with a shrill mocking laugh. Everywhere I looked there were cactuses (I am nothing if not stubborn) clearly giving me the middle finger, or standing side by side so that they could give me a more English insult. I soon realised that the desert is a dangerous place for ones' sanity, and I decided to move on and begin my hike up Superstition. I have three different lenses for my camera, a wide angled zoom for landscape, a 250mm zoom for wildlife and a 50mm for portraits and close up. Changing them is fairly easy when time is not an issue, but it can be fiddly when trying to keep dust out of the camera and the lenses whilst walking. I was desperate to see some of the wildlife, particularly lizards and snakes, even though the thought of stumbling across a sidewinder struck fear into my very soul. I will tell you now that I didn't see any snakes, to save you from becoming expectant and then having your hopes dashed, but I didn't have to wait long to see a lizard. Seeing a lizard and taking a picture of a lizard are two very different things, because these little guys are seriously quick. I saw two shoot out from underneath a shrub as I approached and disappear before I could even look at them properly. I caught sight of another running from shrub to shrub and I tried to follow him, although it was a bit like that game magicians do with the three cups, and I wasn't exactly sure which bush it was under. I crept around the one I thought, and it was there, standing on a rock. I held my breath and slowly took my camera out of my bag, desperately hoping it wouldn't run off, only to discover that I had left my 50mm lens on the camera body.

There was no way I would be able to get close enough to take a decent photo with that and I knew I'd have to change it. I tried to be as quick as I could without making any sudden movements, fitted the lens, removed the lens cap, checked the light settings and managed one shot, the sound of which sent the lizard into hyper drive and he was gone. When I got home later I discovered that it was in fact a Zebra-Tailed Lizard, the fastest lizard in the desert. My very own Speedy Gonzalez, though without the poncho and moustache.

Superstition & The Lost Dutchman Part II

I also saw the birds that were laughing at me and decided to shoot them. Relax, I meant photograph them. They were small birds with blue and red colourings and they were quite pretty, if only they would stand still for a moment. One eventually landed on a tree branch and I took a photo on maximum zoom and then moved closer hoping to get a better one.

The bird was having none of it and departed swiftly. When I got the picture home I discovered to my delight that the bird was in fact an American kestrel, the smallest of the American birds of prey, and this particular specimen had a dead frog in its
talons.
I hadn't planned to hike too far, the circular hike would have taken close to three hours and as I was wearing the wrong shoes, had no hat and no water, I thought it best to keep it quick. My plan was to get to the base of the cliff face and then turn and come back. It looked easy, but as is usually the case when I try to do something, it wasn't. Perhaps I am merely out of shape, in fact that is a given, but the dusty path strewn with rocks, intent on tripping me up was really taking its toll.

I passed two hikers on their way down; in fact I heard them long before I saw them as the sound was carrying a good 50 metres. I am sure they had no idea I could hear them, and it was only a shame they were talking about something so boring I have already forgotten it. I tell you this because about 15 minutes later as I was on my descent, having achieved my goal, I spotted a gnarled cactus with a face. I stepped off the path to take a photo when a snake bit me hard on the ankle. Well, okay it wasn't a snake, but it sure hurt like one and my shriek and spout of obscenities carried not only 50 metres, but I suspect 50 miles down into the valley. Why nobody came to help me I don't know, although I suspect they thought I was either a madman or suffering from an extreme form of Tourette's syndrome and wanted to keep their distance. It would seem that the offender was not a snake, but in fact a very sharp and painful ball of spikes. I couldn't actually believe the amount of pain it was causing, but I still had my wits about me and so I took a picture. The dubious wisdom of hiking through spiky, snake infested terrain wearing only Nike Air Max and ankle socks is now apparent and I shan't repeat the folly.

The Grand Canyon

When we were younger, my brother and I used to argue and fight so much that my dad used to say to us, "If you haven't got anything nice to say to each other, then don't say anything." Sadly when writing, this advice is useless, as in my experience being 'nice' is rarely entertaining. In fact, my Uncle Richard's advice to me the other day was, "if you haven't got anything funny or unpleasant to say, don't bother saying anything". A wise man, I think you'll agree.

The Grand Canyon is the exact opposite of unpleasant, and besides seeing a German man in very small, tight shorts slip in his own urine (let's not even go there), I have nothing funny to report either. I will therefore keep this travel note short and concise, leaving you to admire some of the Canyon's beauty. Driving from Chandler to the Grand Canyon takes about four and a half hours, although it is a stunning drive and I highly recommend it. The surprising thing is how varied the terrain is and how dramatically it changes as you pass from southern Arizona into the North. The south is a forest of cacti (what a ridiculous word, cactuses is so much better. I think that as I am in the U.S, I shall merely change the English language to suit my fancy and it shall be 'cactuses' from now on), whilst the mountainous north is pine forests and lakes.

When you arrive at the entrance

to the Grand Canyon national park, you pay your fee ($25 for a week or $25 for a few hours, as it was in our case) and then you have a choice of roads to follow. We decided to drive along the Desert View road which follows the southern rim of the gorge and then loops back down to Flagstaff, which means you never have to backtrack. Unfortunately for me it also meant a long drive, followed by more driving, and finishing with another long drive. Twelve hours of driving in total. Thankfully the views completely made up for it. No photograph or film could ever do it justice or prepare you for it. It is simply spectacular. Sunset is also well worth the wait.

I have already had one request for the rest of the story of our tight-shorted German friend and I suspect it won't be the last, so here it is.

Whitney had left me to take photos and gone to visit the little gift shop near the watchtower (when she heard there was a watchtower she was shocked Jehovah's Witnesses were at the Canyon, but I said that I thought it was more of a literal watchtower) and so I began to look for a

good vantage point

to take the shot of the Canyon with the tower in frame. As I scrambled over a fallen tree and round a spiky bush, I happened upon our German friend. He was standing on a dusty slope urinating behind another spiky bush (brave man), and appeared rather startled by my arrival. In his haste to finish the job at hand, put the tools away and retreat from the amber stream heading rapidly towards him he lost his footing, put his right hand into his little yellow river to break his fall and muttered 'schiesser' at the same time. All the while his penis was still hanging out the front of his shorts. I thought about offering him my hand to help him up, but then caught a glimpse of it and changed my mind quickly (though in hind sight, the urine on his hand should have been enough to put me off). I said an embarrassed 'sorry' and left, leaving the man wiping his hand on his denim hot-pants.

N.B. John has expressed his concern that I would have given the German 'a hand' had his gentleman's region been more to my taste, and I can assure you that this is not the case. It wasn't until I caught sight of 'it' that I realised it must have been hanging out of his shorts the whole time. Thank you for understanding.

Chandler AZ

We arrived at Phoenix airport late on a monday night and I wasn't prepared for the heat. It was night time and still the temperature couldn't have been below 35 ∘C, it was very strange. Before we had even collected the
rental car we received a phone call which was the first in a series of unfortunate events.

For speed,

and so that I don't have to re-live every last detail I will tell you briefly our troubles.

The neighbours had been asked to go into Whitney's Uncle's house and turn on the air-conditioning (a necessity in Arizona, not a luxury) only to find the key code lock had run out of batteries and with the key somewhere in Canada, this posed a problem. We stayed in a hotel that night and called a locksmith in the morning, who gained entry with worrying ease and then left. I replaced the battery in the lock, and with one job down proceeded to find out why the house was so unbearably hot even thought the A/C had been on for a good hour. I will spare you the details, but basically both conditioning units were broken, the gas boiler wouldn't turn on, cans of Pepsi had exploded leaving sticky goo all over the kitchen, there were dead insects all over the house due to it being empty for a couple of months, and it seems the only creatures not dead were the scorpions scuttling around the floor.

After dealing with each problem in turn we took a look around the house and for the first time realised just how wonderful it was. It is luxury. The swimming pool is my favourite piece of decadence, although some might argue that this too is an essential part of life in Phoenix. The scorpion problem however, was
one that continued a little while longer. The mere thought of a scorpion is an unpleasant experience for me, and so when my wife, before bed, during one of her lightning fast internet searches, informed me that the Bark Scorpion is the most

venomous in the U.S and are the only type that can climb walls, I was slightly concerned. To say I didn't sleep that night would have been a considerable understatement, as I spent the night searching the bed, my shoes, the floor, under beds and anywhere else I could think of for these hideous beasts. It wasn't until the next day that I came across a really nasty looking fiend, with its tail caught in the revolving brush of the vacuum. After giving a manly start, (those of you lucky enough to be there when I found a cockroach in my shoe in France a few years back will know the masculine scream I am referring to) I sucked the whole thing up with a satisfying crunch. Seeing the accompanying photograph of the large scorpion you may be wondering how I had the courage to get so close to it and I would be deceiving you if I didn't tell you that, like the cricket at Seneca, it was quite dead. Those of you calling for a publication of 'Dead Insects' by Mark Griffith, will not have to wait long, release date expected spring 2011.

Another scorpion fact (yes, I am obsessed) that Whitney uncovered is that they glow under ultraviolet light, and a few magical clicks and a delivery later, we were in possession of a rather strong UV torch called 'The Scorpinator'. I put on a long-sleeved shirt, jeans (which I tucked into my socks) and trainers, leaving me seriously over-dressed for our current climate, and perspiring like a waterfall (yes, I fitted another one in) I bravely went outside armed with my camera and 'The Scorpinator'. Focussing a camera in the dark with auto focus is not possible, well not with my camera anyway, and doing it manually with a torch in hand is also tricky, but the result was a quite splendid baby scorpion.

N.B. Scorpions are not insects, but are in the Arachnid group as they have 8 legs and not 6.