It's the merry month of May. Spring is well underway.

It was one of three major blazes in the L.A. area with the Palisades and Eton fires being first and bigger. Kenneth turned out to be a 1,000 acre fire but at the time there was no way to know how far the flames would reach so the threat was real, evacuation suggested. That very morning Rosie and I went walking at the top of Victory, in the Upper Las Virgenes Canyon Open Space Preserve. The trailhead is what you see in these screenshots from television local news. I grabbed them just 6 hours after we'd been there and a few hours before the Victory Trailhead area became a crime scene; arson suspected. That morning from the upper trail, as far as my eye could see, the only smoke plumes in the sky were leftovers from the Palisades. 

No words have the impact that photos do. BEFORE and AFTER says it all, 2019 vs. 2025.

The rainy time of year is here now and spring will come. Green will cover the ash and the black.
But the oaks, ravaged and wounded, survivors of drought after drought, some will not make it back.
​Time will heal as best it can.
To the way it was. Close, but not the same.

​Apart from Rosie, she was my pride and joy. Last January I planted Little Green. The beginning of a new year, she put her roots down bound up in my hopes that she might make it through the summer and keep going on and on. In August, to my amazement, she sported super green new sprouts up top. I took to Instagram (www.instagram.com/p/C-WcK6YvDIs/?img_index=1) bragging "Dang Nab It, She Might Just Make It" a la Walter Brennan of The Real McCoys. 

​Now in the Los Angeles area post wildfires, like so much that was treasured, she is gone.

​For several weeks I tried to drive up Old Topanga Canyon Road to bring Little Green water. No rain, I worried. But the canyon was closed down and there was no alternate, no sneaky way to get to Little Green. Summit to Summit could be seen at a distance from another trail that wasn’t shut off, Henry Ridge, so I had a preview of the massive change. Both had been scraped, bulldozed, widened for emergency vehicles and easier access for firefighters. I understand the need to clear brush and make way for firefighting equipment but it does something to my spirit to see what heavy machinery has done. Hard to explain the shock of seeing narrow one and two-person paths now two and three cars wide. Hillsides scooped, punched and rolled over into naked mounds of dirt, ridges flattened, green scrub and small trees laid waste to stop demon embers from igniting another hellscape. 

This morning old canyon was open for the first time in three or four weeks. Hold on Little Green, Rosie and I are coming! Getting out of the car, a woman across the road hollered over "she isn't there anymore". My jaw dropped. My heart dropped. I knew I’d cry. Seeing what was left of Little Green brought tears and pain. I cry again now as I type. I ached seeing someone had pulled her out of the ground, her roots were showing. As I reached down to touch her dry, browning needles to say goodbye, I saw a speck of shiney red and two tiny, silver metal pieces that attached two red Christmas balls when she was still standing.    

In the beginning, for a couple months, I loaded a backpack with water bottles and trudged down the trail. My back began saying please no. A dainty, slightly antique handcart that my dad may have used wayyyy back in the day became my back saver. With cardboard covering its bottom, my backpack sat for the bumpy ride ferrying water up every other day over the summer and every three days in the hot spells. Up the hill, over gravel stretches, rough spots, smooth spots, ruts in the dirt, week after week, month after month. I couldn’t have managed without that little handcart from the Steele Street garage. And Rosie’s part of the routine was slurping water from a bottle as soon as I got the backpack situated. We stood right next to the tree so no drop was wasted. Patient, she waited while I emptied six of them.

My heart hurts. I had the idea that if she could make it through that first summer, there would be other summers and winters. I was excited to think she might become a tall, beautiful tree. There were no other pines near, only a few off in the distance at the tail entrance. She got all the way to the next Christmas. Someone adorned her with small red ornaments and I dressed her up with a big, shiney red ribbon, like a crown, for my Christmas e-card.    

I hate saying goodbye. So much time, hopes and hard work, looking forward, a bright outlook, which is not easy for me, all laid to waste by big machines and men working to keep fires away. She could have been a beauty. Now, she will become dust and blend with the ashes of Bo, Misty, Pilot, Knox and Jimmie. She is part of Pilot’s Place of Peace.
​Part of everything.  ​

We are living through history. There's no mistaking that this week the greater Los Angeles area made history - for all the wrong reasons. Malevolent Santa Ana winds brought fire of historic dimensions. Winds unlike any other time, exceeding 80 - 100mph. Flames ignited and obliterated the Pacific Palisades, decimated Altadena and fueled other fires named Woodley and Hurst. 

By the time I got home, I only had enough energy to plop down and watch local news. And there it was, a reporter pointing out flames at the Victory Trailhead. The trail Rosie and I took that morning, just two miles up the road, was a possible crime scene, arson! At 8:00 a.m. I had a 360 degree view and the only plume of smoke in the sky was a Palisades fire tower of brown stacked on brown, too many miles away for shifting winds to have blown embers to the Victory trails.

Next morning's hike had its own small moment of drama. It was quiet, no one in sight, a soft breeze and then, an unmistakable flap-flap-flap preceded the dip and slow arc of a helicopter coming in to suck up fire fighting water. The whirlybird descended, hovered and lifted back into the blue. With the last flap-flap-flap, it was silent again. 

We are so fortunate to have not ​suffered destruction and the loss of treasures, keepsakes, all gone up in smoke purely as a consequence of whichever way the wind blows and whether helicopters or water dropping fixed-wing planes can fly and put out flare ups. ​Hurricane force winds and trees dripping fire have killed 11 people. So many have lost and are lost in this moment. ​And red flag warnings are not done. Hot winds will swoop through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes again this coming week. Wildfires, familiar history, just as Joan Didion wrote:
Los Angeles weather is the weather of catastrophe, of apocalypse, and, just as the reliably long and bitter winters of New England determine the way life is lived there, so the violence and the unpredictability of the Santa Ana affect the entire quality of life in Los Angeles, accentuate its impermanence, its unreliability. The winds shows us how close to the edge we are. ​-- Slouching Towards Bethlehem, 1968

2024 was my year’s worth of shout outs and calls to action for the endangered, the exotic, the exploited and victories as well. From the local LAAS shelter crisis to the streets of Korea, steppes of Kazakhstan, Sumatran rainforests, African planes, on and on and on. Twelve months of being a voyager and a voice. 2024 was my first year of delving into a writers world.  

My writing has meant researching, learning, exploring and sharing. Every article opened my eyes, made me ask questions and look for answers. Hunting for photos, watching videos, hoping that others would see what I was seeing, think about what made me think. Thanks to thearra.com I've been able to advocate for animals and our planet. Long morning walks with Rosie and long looks at meaningful issues the public would do well to consider - walks and writing, my happy place. Twelve months gave me thirteen opportunities to write, my lucky thirteen. ​
​
You can read what I discovered in worlds near and distant here, thearra.com

I came to volunteering late in life. ​My first volunteering experience was supporting Yes On Prop 2, a 2008 ballot initiative to help farm animals, and voters said 'yes'. Being part of something meaningful and bigger than me was new. I recommend volunteering for anyone looking to make a difference, to find kindred spirits or searching for a calling with moments of pure exhilaration potential.

There's more hard work than victories and celebration and it can be frustrating and exhausting but when you're dedicated to a cause, making an impact sends your spirits soaring sky high. Being hooked on making a difference, I'm on a new volunteering path. One of the most valuable gifts you can give is the gift of your time so I'm putting in a little time every week at a rescue with a brand new brick & mortar facility, Eastwood Ranch Foundation (https://eastwoodranch.org/). 

Acts of service, whether you're a lamp or a lifeboat or a ladder, each creates a ripple effect that strengthens the fabric of society. By dedicating time, energy, and heart to making the world a better place, we're part of creating hope and sometimes even sparking the kind of change that builds a brighter future. That's the exhilarating part on a macro level. On a personal level, for me, the power of giving is being involved in saving the life of a dog. Over and over, the thrill is the same.

Take a look at these guys. Shelter dogs come face to face with death through no fault of their own. No matter how young, how cute, how much they've been through, how adored by shelter volunteers, kennel space is more valuable than any life. And in Los Angeles, all shelters are high kill. 

These beauties made it out, they will live thanks to rescue. To be connected to the difference between life and death and be on Team Life, that's why I volunteer. My impact is minimal but the mission is profound and the best way to not feel hopeless in a seemingly hopeless situation, is to do something. ​

I'm with Mahatma:
​​“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others” - Mahatma Gandhi

There's something about nature.
Something about open space.

There's something about watching miles of sky on a rare overcast Southern California start of the day. The gray pushing the blue away. Clumps of thick gray and ragged edges, splotches of blue unveiled from underneath. The sun so covered it looks like the moon.

Nature gifts us with much to be in wonder of. Miles and miles of a cloud carpet covering the valley below, only the peaks of the tallest shapes peeking through. A tiny lizard clinging to lawn furniture, darting into the closest covered space., out of the reach of most danger. 

We just have to be present. Take notice of our world. We miss so much.

She's a kissy face girl. A pup who plants one on you before you see it coming.
A year's flown by since I clipped a leash onto her green collar and she walked away with a total stranger.
​Kissy-pooh is one of the many things I've learned about Rosie.
​​https://www.instagram.com/p/C3tUP7QvJuI/

October 5, 2023, that's when our adventure began.
She'd been pushed out of a car, picked up and stuck, for the most part, in a kennel at the Delano shelter.

To this day, 22 years since moving to the astral plane, a favorite old fashioned
mom saying is a lick and a promise. As in, dusting or straightening up, don't go all in, just give it
a lick and a promise. Being found in an 1860 dictionary, it's a verifiably old saying.

 Since last October, Rosie's made many a face lick and I made a promise. I couldn't let her be
at risk of finding the right family or the someone who understood that she needed time to learn to trust,
that she's not a confident girl, that she needed to soak up tons of affection and stability.

​She loves me unreservedly, with all her being. Devoted is not a strong enough word. 
​I could not let her move on from fostering knowing it's a gamble that her rescue would find
the kind of someone Rosie needed. So I promised to be that person.
​I promised to never abandon her, we would share the years, and our lives, together. 

Winner of the Cannes World Film Festival, Best Social Justice Short Documentary. Nominee for Best Short Documentary at the European Cinema Film Festival and selected at the Bali International Film Festival. Directed by award-winning photographer/filmmaker and co-founder of the Sumatran Wildlife Sanctuary Danielle Khan Da Silva in partnership with the National Geographic Society.

'Thanks to the Animal Rights and Rescue Advocate (the ARRA), I’m able to shine a light on issues that need a spotlight and I learn so much along the way. Research means combing through articles and posts and comments galore. Falling down rabbit holes is putting it lightly. But Kathleen in Wonderland is an adventure of the mind, and heart. I care about what I write about; care that others learn and share what I’ve learned. 

More articles to come as I chase an elusive rabbit, animals needing advocating - so many. I’m head over heels in a world of curiosity and discovering. As Alice said, "Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! 'I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. 'I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth." Unlike Alice I’m not looking for a safe landing. As the next idea unfolds, I’m an eager servant of championing the forgotten, no 'idea parking lot' for me.

Walter Brennan anyone? The Real McCoys? Colorful, cantankerous Gramps who you cared about because  Stumpy was full of rascally charm? I can imagine a scene where the woeful and concerned family stands around watching a wobbly, weak calf, and Gramp's reedy voice rings out with something like
"Well dang nab it, I think she's gonna make it." 
And so it is for my little Christmas Tree on a hill.