Wherein I Save Four Trail Betties From Unspeakable Peril, Pt I

I had only pondered the verticality of the Bulldog Road for a mere 19 minutes when I was stopped by an earnest young man heading down the mountain. His first query was in a dialect and demotic strange to me, but familiar. Upon a second request his plaint was made known to me, and was as follows:

"Where is Corral Canyon?"

Oh my young woodchuck, it is the better part of a league in the exact opposite direction you are heading.

He was revealed to be a sincere young man, an Indian native from New Delhi, and had ambitions to be a Sierra Club Group Leader. This was the preview to the provisional hike prior to ordination in the order. Inexplicably I thought of several recent openings in various chapters after outings on Mt Baldy. I held my counsel.

After guiding him safely back to Corral Canyon, I continued my gyre. It was a good day, a 21 mile trot "in the bag" so to speak, and my car awaited me 4.2 miles hence. The wind was at my back, and I was travelling at an average rate of .35Balto, in short, a stumpy-legged shuffle due in large part to my attenuated training regime. But, I was a legend in my own mind, which was a slow freight taking no passengers.

Less than a mile from the finish, I was making a descent before the last climb, and hit the Trail Betty Super Lotto. Not merely one, but four lithe and dewy young ladies out for a Sunday hike, daintily picking their way down the trail. Their sox were still sparkling white, their shorts were creased perfectly--a veritable schwing quartet of freshness. My cheery salutation effectively masked the sound of my eyeballs experiencing the latter stages of Avery-Jones Ocular Dislocation Syndrome [1951, 1952, 1954 et alia]. The final climb up to the patiently waiting car was defined by character-building high-knees and butt-kickers.

"But Mr Trail Safety...what did you do??? How did you save them???"

I gaze into the upturned expectant faces of my attentive audience. It breaks my heart to see such innocence, which Some Had Thought To Be Forever Lost. I have not forgotten you, nor will forsake the Horndog Story Line. So here goes...

...Once upon a time, when a tired and sweaty Mr Trail Safety finished a nice long run on 21 miles out in the Santa Monica Mountains, he had just finished showering at the car. He had just girded his loins with a bright and cheery towel, had put on a clean white shirt, the kind with buttons down the front, and no sponsor logos on the back. My people call it 'a dress shirt.
Mr Trail Safety had just started pulling on his trou, when four lithe and dewy young ladies stepped out of the bushes into the dusty parking lot. They were puzzled, and conferred amongst themselves. They were sorely troubled. They looked expectantly at Mr Trail Safety, who didnt tell them that his trousers only had 2 legs, and that there was an additional passenger.

Noting their perplexity, Mr TS asked them if they were lost.

"We are, we are!" was the soprano quartet in chorus. Oh, Lisa Loeb and Sheryl Crow could only wish to hear back up like this.

"And where did you start from?"

"We started from...a parking lot!" spoke the tall brunette, channelling her Inner Blonde.

"Uhm...that's nice, but can you tell me *where* this parking lot was located? It might help me answer the question.."

A chorus of sincere apologies, and it became clear that Corral Canyon had been their starting point also. Mr TS clarified matters by informing them that it was exactly 4.2 miles east of where they stood, and gave them precise directions on how to get back to their cars and so forth.

But you wonder--where was the peril?
Mr TS had not the heart to tell them that there was a libidinous and depraved White Rhino loose in the Santa Monicas, that was, in truth, a cross-species sexual predator. Reports have surfaced of hikers and pedestrians disappearing suddenly and without a trace. The last known disappearance was known only as "Dietrich".


Furthermore the White Rhino has a specific m/o, which includes shared Kool 100s, and enigmatic references to Pearl Necklaces. So yes, Mr TS saved these young ladies from certain peril, and we were later to hook up over organic Jello-shots [made with free-range artisanal vodka] down at Gladstones off Sunset. When they asked Mr TS what his name was, he replied in the affirmative.

Now that's cold chillin, and shizzle to the max.

--Bone Regards, Mr Trail Safety
"Tanned, rested and ready from his Secure, Undisclosed Location"


Listen up!

This message is being sent by or on behalf of Mr Trail Safety. It is intended exclusively for the individual or entity to which it is addressed, excluding non-specific incarnations and bardo-state entities. It contains concepts that may challenge you. You will adjust. This communication may contain information that is proprietary, privileged or confidential or otherwise legally exempt from disclosure, certain to cause cerebral flatulence and conceptual infarctions among the simple-minded and comedy-challenged. If you are not the named addressee, you are not authorized to read, print, retain, copy or disseminate this message or any part of it, including channelling the aforementioned to spirit-bodies, Taiwanese Dream-Catchers, Heritage Barbie Dolls or Dale Earnhardt Collector plates. But go ahead, live dangerously, drive left-of-center and give it your best shot. If you have received this message in error, you are SOL and deserve it--you'll have subsequent incarnations to work out the kinks.

Here, have some salt.


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