THERE ARE FEW natural landscapes in the world more precious than Runyon Canyon National Park in Hollywood, writes John Butler
The lakes of Glendalough, the lunar surface of the Burren, the wild coast of Donegal - these are more beautiful in and of themselves, but how their value would skyrocket if they stood at the edge of a filthy, bleached megalopolis whose noisy streets were crawling with Yoda, Spiderman and Elvis impersonators, lumbering midwestern American families devouring Slurpees, and wild-eyed crack whores. Context is everything.
If Hollywood Boulevard is a kind of hell where the air tastes of fried chicken and exhaust fumes from rented Mustangs, five blocks above it stand the gates of heaven - the entrance to a series of switchback trails that carve their way up a mountain towards a bright blue sky latticed with jet trails and gliding eagles. The altitude gives relief in the form of a cool breeze, a place to think, and dogs - dogs are everywhere, starting in the meadow at the car park where a daily yoga class is periodically over-run with hounds disgorged from fleets of SUVs by resting actors and professional pet chaperones.
Once you get walking, the incline begins to burn your legs while the sun beats down from above - water is vital. Poodles and Springer spaniels overtake on every side and joggers do too, all youth, health and vigour disappearing around the corner, lungs sucking at the cool breeze. They've seen the view before, but this hike is more than literally uplifting. At every switch in the trail, the panoramic grid of LA begins to unfurl itself further, from the bluffs of Topanga Canyon across to the beaches of Santa Monica, Venice and Marina Del Rey, beyond the jets taking off from LAX and all the way down to the port of Long Beach.
It's so quiet up here that the memory of the guy in the Hummer five minutes ago who screamed "go back to Wisconsin, bitch!" begins to fade (I have never been to Wisconsin. Perhaps he was speaking metaphorically). After 15 minutes of hiking, a point of no return arrives in the form of an alternate route down, steps hewn from the far side of the canyon - the short side. If you continue upwards, the trail - and the air - gets thinner; a path flanked with scorched, dusty bushes winds around a small peak and finally ends, with you at the summit. A set of sun-baked wooden benches wait to reward you, as does the view on the far side of the canyon - the entire San Fernando Valley, flung out like a carpet. New York, Shannon, London, Dublin - that way.
Last time I was up there I happened to pass a panting Elvis Costello on my way down. And then I saw something which, in another context, would not have cost me a thought - there, lying on its side in the middle of the trail, was a young-looking chocolate brown Labrador, its rib cage heaving and subsiding, while above him stood a couple in their early forties in white running gear. It is an unusual sight, one dog lying down in the sunshine while all the other dogs lope uphill, sprint downhill, sniff around in the shrubbery, bark at birds and chase luminous playthings flung by exercising owners. It called to mind a story a friend once told me once about how, when he was jogging through London's Kensal Green cemetery, an old man shouted after him: "One living among so many dead!" In Runyon Canyon, inertia is the most striking thing of all.
The man was wearing a white headband above a forehead furrowed with concern. His partner was slim, athletic, wearing a visor and chalky grey leggings, and not jogging on the spot - a sure sign that something had gone awry. I walked over to ask them what was going on. He was at a loss. They had been making their way up the hill, as had been their morning routine for years, the dog running beside them. Then she stopped, lay down and turned over onto her side.
I gave him my water bottle and he poured a tiny trickle into the corner of the dog's mouth. She didn't seem to be able to drink, though, and as the man poured the remainder over the heaving pelt, the woman told me tearfully that her dying pet was three years old. Around them, people continued their ascent or descent, some red from exertion, others chatting as they jogged.
As the man gently pushed his arms under his damp underside and hoisted him up, the Labrador sighed, as if he knew this humiliation had to happen right before the end. Most of all, I remember the reddish-brown clay clinging to the panting dog's coat. The man held him with difficulty, the earth staining his white T-shirt and shorts. I moved to help him, but the dog emitted a low growl. As he steadied himself under the hot weight, the dog urinated, staining the man's shorts in rivulets which trickled down his clay-covered legs. Slowly and deliberately, the man began his descent down the stone steps to the right of where they had stopped, whispering softly to the sick dog. In ascent, those steps were steep and required a near-jump from one to the next. In descent, with a dying weight in your arms, they could hardly be easier.
Sometimes exercise makes you feel so alive, but other times as you stride up the hills above the streets towards the bright blue sky, you notice your heart pounding against the rib-cage, you feel cartilage rubbing against bone and you realise that although you thought you were running away from it, all of life must remain cheek-by-jowl with death. In fact, you may well have been propelling yourself towards it. Even in sunshine, death is clearly visible through the haze - it's down there, right below the car park. Context is everything.