Published in the Glendale News-Press — Thurs., Oct. 1
Last Sunday, I rode my motorcycle into Big Tujunga Canyon for the first time since the Station fire. I knew going in that it would be a gut-wrenching experience.
The ride from Big Tujunga Canyon up into the Angeles National Forest is a ride coveted by motorcyclists all over Southern California. Even before the fire, I knew how lucky I was to have something so precious in my own backyard. I’ve been riding for only a couple of years, but it was long enough to relish Newcomb’s Ranch as a place to bond with other riders who shared my love of the twisting, turning Angeles Crest Highway.
I know that not everyone shares my love of motorcycles, but it’s safe to say that nearly all of us have a personal relationship with the mountains bordering us. Diesel-powered ski lifts. Hiking trails. Cool streams. Weekend camping at Charlton Flats and Chilao. I always thought they’d be there. Last week, as I looked into the canyon, reality glared back at me. Those things were gone.
I thought I could stomach it. I took my girlfriend on the back of my bike and packed a camera, hoping to document what I saw, but it was impossible for me. The nothingness and emptiness of the canyon is not something I desired to capture for posterity.
We got about a mile in. The road was closed and, frankly, I had no morbid curiosity to see what was around the corner. What I could already see broke my heart.
I’ve always had a disdain for people who, when asked by the press to describe a disaster, look into the camera and say, “It looked like a movie, man.” Seeing the canyon this way, I wished that it was a movie and that somehow, someway the prop guys and set designers would put it all back the way it was. But that’s not the way reality works.
Just beyond the roadblock, we could see helicopters loading their buckets and heading up over the ridge to continue working on the fire. Somewhere out there hot spots remained. Work continued. Hell was still expanding.
It was about seven weeks ago that I had pitched a story idea to the Glendale News-Press about the California Highway Patrol motorcycle officers who regularly patrolled the area. I had received permission from their press liaison to interview and observe the officers. Unlike many riders, I had an admiration for those who were charged with keeping one of the most dangerous highways in the country safe and us bikers alive. In anticipation, I had gone up in the middle of the week to ride a stretch of Angeles Crest Highway reopened in May after having been closed for more than three years. It was a glorious ride.
I breathed in every moment of that new stretch of highway up and beyond Dawson’s Saddle, stopping briefly to enjoy a sandwich. In that quiet moment, I felt so fortunate — the only audible sound was the wind rustling the trees. Pearblossom Highway and the desert were at my feet.
I had taken a camera, but never took it out of the case.
“I’ll come back. Next time,” I thought.
Now jarred back to reality by the throbbing sound of another helicopter, I realized that I didn’t know when that next time would be. I got off my bike and took out my cell phone. Last spring I had been in Big Tujunga Canyon, the yellow and purple wildflowers were blooming all along the sides of the road. In narrower portions of the canyon, it smelled as if Mother Nature herself had sprayed the entire mountainside with a perfume made in heaven.
I scanned the photos in my phone and found them. A few beautiful pictures of the wildflowers were in stark contrast to the charred hillsides surrounding me.
Another helicopter. And then the worst thought of all: Someone did this on purpose.
Times Community News
Gary Huerta
