The Sign

7:55 am, and my mom, dad and I are applying sunblock. A slight breeze floats through, and the mountain looms high. My mom tests her newly bought walking sticks, decides they are useful enough, and nods. We begin.

The Hollyridge Trail begins at about 800 feet above sea level, but we have to gain about 900 feet ourselves before we will be level with the sign. The actual walk is 1.8 miles each way, on a dusty trail with scrub on each side, concealing spiders, rattlesnakes, and cute little lizards that dart in and out of the shallow patches of shade created by the bushes.

I cannot believe my mother wants to climb this thing.


A word about my mom: she is easily the most stubborn person I have ever met (and when she reads that, she'll take it as a compliment). However, her knees have been annoying to her for quite some time; a side effect of having naturally bad knees (which I think I've inherited), having arthritis (which I know I've inherited) and playing catcher for a softball team in her youth. When my mom said "I really want to do that hike", my first thought was "Seriously??" Then I remembered that I've never seen her back down from anything, and her reaction didn't shock me at all.

I hiked up to the Hollywood Sign for the first time in March, with R and the kids. We thought it was a pretty decent hike (enough to wear out R's 7 year old son, which is always a tough task) and when I got to the top I looked around and thought "My mom would love this." So I told her about it. Little did I know, the very next day she began upping the incline on her treadmill, in preparation for what she later called my challenge to her.





Now, 4 months later, mom uses her walking sticks like a pro, and her face is set in determination. Every so often my dad or I will crack a joke, and my mom lets out a laugh that rings through the hills as she sets her feet toward the top. The sun climbs with us, and the heat of a sunny SoCal day begins to build.

The climb is split into 3 parts in my mind, and I try to guage the distance for my mom, let her know how much further we have to climb. The easiest landmark is the one we're aiming for, but when it's out of sight I try to let her know what's left. We move up the steep first part, and into the mostly flat middle part of the hike. We stop at every patch of shade to breathe for a bit, and enjoy the view.

Near the top of the mountain, the trail winds around back and offers a spectacular view of the valley. I point out to my parents the freeway, the cemetary, Burbank, and we manage to pick out the school where I teach.





"Not much further!" I tell my parents.

"You keep saying that!" my mom laughs, and takes a mock swipe at me with one of her sticks.

"No, really, we're almost there" I say, and my mom turns and books it up the trail.

At the top of the mountain, the sign is about 20 feet below where you stand, and a chain link fence keeps people from defacing the sign or killing themselves. I turn and gesture spectacularly to my parents. My mom frowns.

"Your pictures didn't have a fence in them" she accuses. I point to the very peak of the mountain, and the small scramble it takes to get up there.

My mother-- the woman with the bad knees who just killed a whole mountain in one hour-- looks, hands me her purse, and hikes up to the tippy top.





We stayed up there for about 45 minutes, taking in the view, texting and calling people (mom wanted to call her mom and casually remark "yeah, I'm just sitting up on top of the Hollywood Sign, how are you?"). I pointed out what I could of the geography.

Mom sat back, drank water, and smiled; she was queen of Los Angeles for a day.