As this is being published, the fires around Los Angeles have been burning for about a week. The areas that haven’t burned are being gently showered in the ashes of the areas that have. Travis lives in an area that hasn’t burned. And as he looked around his yard this weekend, he was thinking a lot about those ashes.

This used to be the last Jeffrey pine you’d pass before exiting the north-facing wooded section at the top of Middle Merrill trail. It marked the end of the flat, no-flow jank that sorta kills the vibe of the steep, wide-open traverses preceding it. The action doesn’t really pick up again until you finally pass the old iron “Sunset Point” sign below this final tree.

But that shaded section of Middle Merrill forced you to stay focused if you wanted to maintain your momentum. There’s one sketchy rock feature I don’t think I ever actually cleaned. That unique piece of deep front-country reminded me of the trails I used to ride in the forests of central Illinois. They were clumsy and loose, but you got a little better at them every single run.

This used to be the tall, crooked Douglas fir that you would fly past when you aired off this one perfectly angled rock on Idlehour trail. It’s in a straightaway about a mile down if you’re coming from Mt. Lowe Road. We didn’t even know it was possible to air that rock until we brushed back the section above it and started carrying more speed.

Then, we noticed there was a natural roller just a dozen feet further down the trail. If you really yanked it, you could catch the backside of that roller. The landing was so smooth, you barely knew you left the ground. Your speed would multiply, the chaparral would blur, and suddenly, that fir was 100 feet behind you, its branches still swaying in your wake.

This used to be the fallen oak where a mountain lion once sat and stared me down. I had startled her (for some reason, I think it was a “her”) when I carved the last switchback into Idlehour camp. I was coming in from Wilson Toll Road this time, not Mt. Lowe Road. She was tucked out of sight, probably expecting to just watch me pass by. But as I suddenly turned the corner back towards her, she lept out of the trail and onto the oak. I stopped and turned. She stopped and turned.

I was just dropping in for a quick solo overnighter. I did that a lot back in the early pandemic. But I often arrived well after dark, which was the case this particular night. I wore a helmet light, so, to her, I was probably just a blinding white orb. An orb with barely enough courage to clap and stomp and swear at her several times. She flinched once, but not again. And she never moved from that oak, right next to what would have been my preferred exit.

I inched away, and didn’t turn my back until I had rounded the corner into the camp. I swiftly pedaled through it, dismounting for a few creek crossings, and when the trail got too steep, I pushed my bike up three miles in the dark until I was out of the canyon. Somewhere along the way, I passed that Douglas fir.

This used to be Matt’s garage roof. It was just off Altadena Drive.  His garage was an absolute trove. He’s a contractor, so the tool collection is a tapestry of DeWalt yellow with a dash of Milwaukee red. That was next to artifacts of Matt’s storied surfing days and evidence of his girlfriend’s stellar kayaking and ultra-running prowess. Next to them was a diverse handful of bikes. There was also a rack of professional trail tools from Rogue Hoe and multiple saws from Stihl. Sharpened and yet-to-be-sharpened chains hung on the wall like Mardi Gras beads.

Matt co-founded the trail-care organization, The Lowelifes Respectable Citizens Club. They’re known for their high-quality work in remote areas, and the high-quality tacos they feed their volunteers. I had a real moment with Matt’s garage when I came to help chop onions and squash avocados after Matt got pulled away on an errand. I had to let myself out through the garage, but the door made it difficult.

It’s one of those “canopy-style” doors that swings down and inward. It took me three tries to successfully jump over the laser while avoiding the door’s jagged metal edge. I remember the adrenaline as I made it into the driveway and out from under that roof, which is now this piece of ash.

Or maybe I’m wrong… Maybe this used to be his native garden. Or Brad’s termite-ravaged porch. Or Ester’s wobbly bar stools. Or Gwen’s butcher block coffe table. Or Tim’s Goodwill pile. Or Pierre’s magazine collection. Or Peyton’s neglected photo albums. Or Dorothy’s silverware drawer. Or maybe not. Maybe those particular ashes are still floating weightless on the wind.

I hope that somebody recognizes them when they land.

If you’d like to help the victims of the Los Angeles-area fires, we made a post that showcases some of the organizations and GoFundMe accounts…