I was worried. An excessive thinker. A planner. But plans don’t always work. Then I closed my eyes and pointed to a map of Los Angeles. I lifted my finger to reveal Mount Wilson, a 5,710-foot peak in the Angeles National Forest northeast of the city and home to a 120-year-old astronomical observatory. I had never heard of this place (I was a newcomer to Los Angeles) nor did I know that it would later become a major destination for three brides-to-be. One of them used to work at the observatory cafe, her ex-boyfriend died in a motorcycle accident on those dangerous, winding roads, and I helped her face her fear of heights on a ledge overlooking the vast canyon. that was below.
I was hoping to celebrate my birthday with Taix steak and fries au poivre with my fiancée. Instead, after a final breakup just three days earlier, he was spending it alone. Our apartment was once a theater of hopes and dreams, full of life and laughter. It had become an abandoned shell, and anguish echoed in its deserted setting.
But the soaring white domes of Mount Wilson invited solitude and reflection, a halfway point between the city and the stars to help put problems in perspective. It became my place of silent refuge, as it was for thousands of people who climbed its sinuous face throughout the year.
My ex and I met three weeks after I moved from Ireland to Los Angeles. I went to Echo Park Lake to see a reading of Shakespeare in the Park performed by my new roommate’s acting class, but ended up participating. I amused them by wearing a flower crown and raising my voice to play Puck, a mischievous elf. I amused her more than anything.
Shortly after exiting Highway 2, the fog-shrouded peaks of the Angeles National Forest opened up before me. Sunlight glinted off the hood of my silver Mustang as it took dangerous curves and climbed higher and higher. The rich scent of pine trees brought me back to a snow-covered log cabin we shared on Lake Arrowhead. Back to the cold bliss of a white Christmas kiss. It would be some time before I learned to stop looking back in anger and regret, but at this moment the hairpin turns lurching over a hundred-foot ravine forced me to look forward.
The observatory’s open-air cafeteria looked out over canyons covered in thick fog. That spring Monday morning there was no one else around. Seeking adventure had led me to greater isolation. I chewed my sandwich and watched the fog approach. The flapping of wings broke the silence. Hummingbirds hovered around a feeder above me. After all, I wouldn’t eat my birthday lunch alone.
The drifting fog took me back to his birthday when I rented a cabin on the towering cliffs of Big Sur. At night we looked at the stars through the glass roof of the bathhouse and during the day we stood on the edge of the cliff and looked at the clouds below. I wrote him a story about that trip called “Above the Clouds.” That’s how I felt being with her. It was where I asked him to move in with me. A few weeks later, we moved into an apartment a few blocks from the park where we first met.
The dense fog prevented me from exploring the miles of trails that cut through the mountainside. So I explored the observatory museum. In 1904, founder George Ellery Hale’s team used dozens of mules to transport material and construction equipment to the observatory 5,710 feet up winding dirt roads. Later, astronomer Edward Hubble made discoveries here that led to the Big Bang theory. Wild imagination discovers wild things.
He had the wildest imagination I had ever known. Her harsh upbringing had forced her to escape into play and her imagination to survive. For most of my life I planned extensively before taking informed action. But at 40 years old and newly sober, I took a leap of faith by moving to Los Angeles without a visa, job, or place to live. With that spirit I met her and threw myself headlong into the wildest adventure of my life.
She encouraged me to get out of my comfort zone. She had unwavering trust in me, and when I got caught in a spiral of self-doubt, she would remind me of everything she had overcome before and gently reassure me.
“You’ll find out, my most handsome.”
At times her emotional ups and downs overwhelmed me, but soon I couldn’t imagine a life without her.
In this spirit I swore that the mist and the wild creatures would be damned. I would explore those mountain trails no matter what. As I descended through the trees, their leaves numbed by the creeping fog, I imagined the hordes of snakes, mountain lions, and bears lurking beyond my sight. There were corrugated aluminum intakes running down the mountainside to channel water, and I joked that they were water slides for predators to blow off steam between kills. But I descended deeper into the fog and let the unknown guide me.
The end for us had been coming for some time. But the final goodbye was fresh, still a baby of only 3 days. The full force of losing her would hit me eventually. But today was my day. And it had led me into a blinding fog.
I had been making as much noise as possible to alert any sleeping wild creatures, but when I came to some fallen trees blocking the path, I lay down, closed my eyes, and listened. I breathed in the fresh, humid air. I gave myself the freedom to release the dream I had of spending my life with her. Instead, I spent my birthday with the birds and the trees. And I let it go.
On what could have been the loneliest birthday of my life, I found a place of refuge to rediscover my purpose and strength. And like Hale and Hubble before me, if I kept faith in my vision, I was confident that one day I would discover more new worlds than I could have ever dreamed of. From a pit of despair, I climbed a mountain and found hope above a sea of fog.
The author is self-employed. Editor of film projects, publications and brands. He is an Irishman who lives in Echo Park. He is on Instagram: @kevin_lavelle_origins_copy
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here.
