Observatory
Exit the sprawl of Los Angeles. Higher elevations grander than downtown in the distance setup evaluations. Enter the dry pile peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains. God is my strong man among the dense and burning thickets of chaparral. Which demonstration are you following? Wheels go around here lap by lap. Behind. In front. You’re there and then you’re not.
Round the curves and bends the pendulum swings either to the right or left inside of the mile marked track: inside the care of double yellow and shoulder white. The pendulum is a chestnut brown Kukui necklace, and a black Ringside boxing glove clutching an Egyptian-made olive wood cross. The first I received from being a best man at a wedding, the second from an LA boxing commissioner and the third from a man from Cairo. Utter silence is broken by gusts of dry wind combing fir leaves and blowing dust plumes over the buzz cut hills of the Angeles National Forest. This was before the Angeles Crest closed due to the Bobcat fire.
In popular culture in Los Angeles and around the world exists a fascination with angels. Street artists use their sweeping paint strokes to create angel wings along popular streets like 3rd Street and Highland Avenue. Stand here to strap on the colorful feathers for a social media featured image. There were television shows like Highway to Heaven and Touched By An Angel and many others to demonstrate the interworking of the divine in human life. Many stop here. Some think this is good enough, but the Bible brings greater elucidation on such topics so we’re not carried off into thug halo heaven in music videos. Ok? The danger of relying upon creative constructs is seeing a distorted picture of who’s in charge. Scripture puts the angels in their proper place in the hierarchy of heaven. The supremacy of Christ is described in the first chapter of Hebrews verses one through fourteen. There is a summary of the supremacy of Christ in Psalm 87: “In the council of the holy ones God is greatly feared; he is more awesome than all who surround him.”
People love to drive. Here we are on the right side. The tinted front windshield displays a deep saturation of whatever comes into view through the moving frame. The thawing ice paddies inside of a four shot iced latte were nearly disappearing inside a clear 16 ounce plastic cup. Marked 4 L Kevin. The plastic red straw had a courtesy paper top from Jones Coffee Roasters off Raymond Avenue in Pasadena. The drink is held in the gray cupholder and the sun overhead cannot touch it. Distant ridges are sound waves of the creation chorus. Paved turnouts winding upward are permanently marked with sharp black figure eights by cooking and booking high performance tires. Overlapping expressions of the squeal and squiggle. Bits of rubber sketch the road by steering and swerving a language untold.
Big shoulders are decorated with full sleeves and the piled dirt edges are full of disposable drinks all finished. Littering is packaged for advertising stuck in the plants at various stages of growth. Sounds of cat-less exhausts speak to the plants with the sounds of corn kernels popping in hot oil over the blue flames of the stove. Do you hear the call of Jehovah in all the stimulation of the simulation? Slowly up hairpin turns measured at 25 miles per hour and back up to speed at 35. Get over the hill at 45. All of a sudden a beefy traffic truck trails an earthmover with the plow underneath its heavy frame to escort fallen rocks against the base of the peaks. The sharp angled steel scrapes the asphalt. Lining up the edges like a haircut. There are ample opportunities to turn out. Pull over to let others take their turn. Turn up on the turns to learn basic cornering maneuvers.
Up here here are teams of vehicles taking care of tragic accidents. One in particular I saw first hand involved a Ducati motorcycle turned over on its side miles past the Chantry Flats picnic area. The driver was absent. No where to be seen. The flatbed truck had reeled up the mechanical carcass from the rocky side slope with the assistance of a tow truck with the back end proudly displaying a large iron navy blue cross. Rise.
The California Highway Patrol was there documenting the facts of the accident. Another investigation team, the Montrose Search and Rescue in a lengthy truck led the coroner van cooled with a box on top down the winding roads passing drivers going the opposite way not knowing about the scene they cleaned. The blue “O” in coroner is split in two with the gap between the swing open doors. Life and death happen so close together. The Montrose work truck and cooler van winded down the descending altitudes like a pinball not getting trapped. Aerodynamics multiplied in rapid succession in the care of the double yellow and white lines outlining the boundaries, the path together. Each performed its function.
Climbing higher and higher in altitude by the thousands about a mile high. Slow down because you’ll reach the fork in the road. The Chantry Flats route continues to the left and to where the Mount Wilson Observatory veers to the right. Picnic tables and a small building with restrooms are there at the waypoint. The toilet seats look clean until you lift up the lid. Some people do not know how to get rid of their waste properly. Being here is a way to find out who you are when you’re far away from everybody else. Road bike cyclists diligently crank their way against gravity and sun exposure with quads and calves. They saddle their seats like horses and hold on to their rams head handle bars. Ram the forces to build momentum uphill and wait for the payoff descending down slope. Testing the limits at Angels Crest leans toward thrills or kills depending on how you’re shifting for the next eight miles.
The powerful sound of widespread wind combing the dense pines clothing Mount Wilson is a chorus to the one who directs their response to majesty. Jagged rock faces direct the road all to the collection of radio towers pointing upward to the sky, dwarfing their height. The observatory’s black rod iron gate was closed for public access. The glimpses of surrounding green peaks through the breaks in the canopy were formed long ago. Peaks and valleys hold the worthiness of its Creator by his will. There is a high road to the collection of radio towers and a low road to the general loop. It takes a couple of times around to discover which road went where. The more you look around at the vast landscape the more conscious reality shows you’re a branch in a tree decorating the slope to the valley. However, the rulership has measured out our likeness to be like him, a crown first given from the sound of his voice. The responsiveness of his messages toward us instantly adjusts to any window anywhere in the world because the glory cannot be closed or canceled.
Many dried out pine needles blanket the forest floor to make beds for beasts and slithering things. Spending time to search for the one who holds the seven spirits and to acknowledge the need for surrendering to the only immortal, invisible, eternal King means pulling off to the side of an ashy white dirt turnout. At certain times disorientating burnouts send it sideways from pity in the city. Blaring a song about Psalm 87 “all my springs are in you”. God fearing. Make tracks away from the Barcelona Red Prius toward the edge of the forest. A path appears and says come here. So I continued to step black Gortex Vault Vans into the ground. Waffles made from the mix with living water. The gust of wind picked up and covered where I walked. Nowhere to be found.
The winds pick up at a stronger pace to disrupt the scene. The dust kicks up. Move in the opposite direction of the exhaustion through thrust vectoring heading, miraculous aerodynamics splits and forms upsetting airwaves with a tongue of praise. Dry leaves chase each other down the ravine. Crouched downward my assembly line of words designated and consecrated to the King who invites me to sit next to him on his throne. Anyone not blown away by how the sinless and holy one shares his seat with a wretch like me would be lacking true understanding of the gospel. It’s not a cathedral sized room. It’s not a church service. It’s a scene to which nobody is able to grasp on a sensory level the preparations made for the theme park. A scripture, vision or dream has not seen the amusement for those who love him.
Freely, many are entering and exiting the Angeles National Forest. Some leave litter and others take pictures. Whether staying or going to another place or just getting away the only advantage of paradise is holding palm branches. Do you know who came? Long ago as stated in John during The Triumphal Entry “The next day the large crowd that had come to the feast heard that Jesus was coming to Jerusalem. So they took branches of palm trees and went out to meet him, crying out, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, even the King of Israel!” And Jesus found a young donkey and sat on it, just as it is written, “Fear not, daughter of Zion; behold, your king is coming, sitting on a donkey’s colt!”
Are you going to join the procession as seen in Revelation? The Triumphal Exit from this world. “After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, “Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!” Flutes, French horns and strings are unfurling to the credits forever scrolling.
A prompting is following directions and signs like driving. Once the words leave the abundance of beating through the tongue in a moment preaching in freedom I walked back to the path to continue the journey. A utility worker took the only shaded spot left underneath a spruce with his work truck windows rolled up and the air-conditioning turned low by the drop off’s edge. Further down past the fork in the road I noticed a Guatemalan man in a full FLX bicyclist suit which isn’t much and snap out shoes carrying his light bike around his shoulder. His dark brown thumb pointed upward toward the sloping downward road. Immediately I knew there was someone with a bicycle hitchhiking along the shoulder.
A hint to pick up a complete stranger in the hinterlands. A ranger called to love thy neighbor while cinders fall from gender reveal parties. It didn’t seem dangerous because he was a cyclist and one could logically figure out he diligently cranked and climbed his pedals nearly to the top of the Mount Wilson Observatory. I rolled down my window to ask what happened. Then I told him I’d pull down the road to the side where it is safe on the gravel shoulder.
His foot had become tangled inside of the back wheel and broke through several spokes before the damage completely stopped the fire engine red Fuiji fixed gear bike. He was all alone, miles from home. He used a flat silver compact wrench to undo his wheels from the frame so it would fit inside the back of my hatchback. His hands were covered with black oil and he kept talking about how he didn’t want to spread the gunk around my car. He asked me what my name is. When I told him he said, “Kevin from heaven came to pick me up.” His name was Moses so I responded by saying, “That makes two of us.”
Moses told me about how El Taurino on Hoover Avenue uses sandy tortillas as a wrap for their burritos. It’s like you can grip the deliciousness like black wrapped handle bars on his fix-gear road bike. He bought each of us two burritos each because he said they tend to make them small. The large horchata was sandy too inside the styrofoam cup when its contents settle down on the bottom like sentiment. We took the food to “The Row” side of 28th at USC. He opened the door and the Barcalona red door stuck to the cement sidewalk next to a sorority. Don’t worry about it. Sitting on the short brick wall there began a pop-up fellowship feast. He handed out the carne asada and al pastor burritos and green and red sauces. Charred bits of peppers soaked in the drips upon the wraps. We prayed together to give thanks. The Spirit sticked to the bones. Life in the divine nature is the one that cranks and coasts to the boast of Christ.