Concrete river channels get a bad rap, but the Army Corps of Engineers knew what they were doing. An entire El Nino storm can be whisked away in a matter of hours. Unfortunately, it’s going into the ocean.
The alternative is this.
(November 13, 2020) The City of Los Angeles celebrates this week the grand opening of the Valley Riverway, an inter-connected system of landscaped bike and walking paths along the tributaries of the LA River. The 60-mile network descends from the the Chatsworth reservoir along Browns Creek, from Porter Ranch on the Aliso Canyon Wash, from Granada Hills on Bull Creek, and from Sylmar along the Tujunga and Pacoima washes. An East-West corridor on the Metrolink right of way connects the northern tier of the Valley, completing what local bicyclists are referring to as “the hyper loop”.
“It is now possible to pedal continuously from pretty much anywhere to anywhere else in under an hour, without having to stop at a light,” said District 6 Councilperson Andrew Hurvitz, who secured the $100 million project using Measure M funding. “We thought it might be a nice linear park. We didn’t realize the extent to which it would be adopted as an alternative transportation network connecting neighborhoods.”
Construction of the East Valley light rail line has brought traffic to a standstill during commute hours, adding to the Riverway’s appeal. The troubled addition to the Metro system, originally budgeted at $2.7 billion, is now on its second contractor, with cost overruns expected to reach $4.6 billion when completed in 2024.
“At 2% of the rail budget, the Riverway was considered by the City to be exorbitantly priced. It was an orphan with birth defects. Until the MacLeod incident, that is,” said Hurvitz, referring to a now infamous cell phone recording of a conversation at a local pub between representatives of Sheila Kuehl’s office and Kiewet/Shea, the first contractor on the rail line: “A hundred million? That’s a rounding error for us. $300 million got misplaced during the Expo Line build no one has been able to find. We know it’s floating around somewhere, but the auditors got bored and stopped looking for it.”
The conversation, punctuated by cackling, went viral on Twitter, inspiring the hashtag campaign #RoundMeUp.
In the wake of the MacLeod revelation, the blogger known as UpintheValley staged an insurrection at City Hall “in the spirit of Yukio Mishima”. Taking command of a balcony, he unfurled a banner outlining the Riverway project, and made an impassioned speech to an audience of derelicts and office workers on lunch break, some of whom thought they were watching live theater and left tips for the ‘performer’. The blogger had repeatedly been ticketed by police for climbing fences into the Pacoima Wash and refused to pay the citations on principle, claiming all of the river watershed as a public right. Liens had been placed against his house by the City, which he also refused to pay, precipitating a personal and legal crisis.
“Let us rise from our stony sleep, brothers and take back the commons!”, he proclaimed, after a rambling preamble that referenced Beauty, freedom of movement, the Golden Ratio, and the perfidy of hack politicians. Exhortation to occupy the Mayor’s office was met with a bemused reaction from onlookers, who, sensing an absence of irony, returned to their cubicles.
He retreated to a hallway and committed a partial hari kari, in which the stomach wall is opened, but not fatally. He then began a two-day walk back to Van Nuys, holding his gut bag, smearing blood atop each gate denying river access.
When he reached MacLeod Ale, there are conflicting accounts as to his final words, which were interpreted as either: “the circle is closed”, or “I’ll have that beer, now.” A special IPA, the Dolorosa, was subsequently brewed in his memory.
The fallout from his martyrdom led to what locals now refer to as the Valley Spring. Hurvitz wrested control of Nury Martinez’s seat on the City Council in a special election, setting the stage for the Riverway approval.
Boys move to uncharted spaces by instinct. The first step to manhood is leaving your yard alone. We map the world beyond our parents command first by foot, then by bicycle.
What is this strange world, we ask ourselves. How far can I go? How high? How fast? Who am I? What is my nature?
The channels of the LA River are an imperfect playground for boys, yet irresistible for that very reason. There is communion with frogs and other strange fauna down in the wash, and the call to adventure along new pathways. The wash liberates one from the street grid. There is refuge from cars, and in the quiet, unique sounds. An alternative transportation corridor connecting neighborhoods, an in doing so a place of escape unto itself. A bridge to Terabithia in the middle of the Valley.
On Feb. 17, 14-year-old Elias Rodriguez disappeared on his way home from school. The local TV news took up his cause and the city posted a $50,000 reward for his return. A tipline was was established. Foul play theories were entertained.
Two weeks later his battered body was found 20 nautical miles away, on a sand spit in the Glendale Narrows, dragged there by storm waters. He tried to cross the Pacoima Wash on foot in a rainstorm and paid with his life. Glen Oaks Boulevard was three blocks away, civic minders were quick to point out, he could have safely crossed the wash there. Let this be a teachable moment.
Well, sure, if you enjoy GMC Yukons whipping past you at 50mph, three abreast, stray dogs and bicyclists be damned, that sort of advice makes sense. This is not how boys think. The straight line to Elias’ grandmother’s house takes him through the hole in the chain link fence behind the Cesar Chavez Learning Academy, across the wash and up onto 7th st. It was a route he had taken before. Kids from the school who lived in the neighborhood took it all the time, on the down low.
That we should have miles of pre-paved walking and bike trails off-limits to the public, is a failure of civic imagination. Fencing it off with chain link and putting up hazard signs and pretending this will save the life of a boy like Elias is insulting. The least we could do is build a pedestrian bridge from the school to the neighborhood it serves. But that would entail admitting the alternative to the street grid exists.
If storm water was rising a bit more rapidly than Elias was expecting, once he descended the embankment reversing course would feel like a kind of defeat. You do what makes sense in boyworld: draw from the well of courage, make a dash for it and hope your footing holds.
That’s would I have done. I look at Elias Rodriguez at 14 and think: that was me. (Was? You still do stupid manchild bulls*** all the time -Mrs. UpintheValley) This is true. I love climbing trees, bushwhacking, walking the railroad tracks and into the dark underbrush of the Favela. That it is forbidden only adds to the appeal.
In The Terminator trilogy, the savior of mankind turns out to be a boy from the San Fernando Valley. Savor that for a moment. Heroic efforts are undertaken in the Old Testament of the first film to save his mother, Sarah, merely so John Connor can be born. T2 begins with 14-year-old John fleeing a Herod-like death sentence carried out by the shape-shifting T1000.
What does John do? He gets on his bike, and eludes his executioner by pedaling down into the storm channels of the LA river. This is a world he understands because he’s been down there before. By design, a natural pathway of escape from a pursuing truck. A world where a boy might seek advantage.
John Connor had Arnold Schwarzenegger to rescue him. There was no such deus ex machina for Elias. Once he lost his grip, the stormwater would have been moving at a good clip. There is the possibility he was knocked unconscious early in his journey. This would be a mercy. For the first three miles, the slopes of the wash are at 45 degrees, and there would be hope even a poor swimmer could grab hold of something and climb out. Once it merges with the Tujunga Wash, the sides go completely vertical, twelve feet high, a true storm channel, a veritable freeway of water. The odds of escape under one’s own power would fall to zero. Down and down you would go, past Grace Community Church, and Judy Baca’s Great Wall of Los Angeles, past CBS and Warner Bros and past the Zoo you went to on school field trips. You would bob like a cork within a shouting distance of hundreds of houses, you would pass beneath street crossings with cars visible to you, windshield wipers flicking madly, deaf to your cries. You would skid and roll and bounce past the private riverfront esplanades of Studio City, and wish for the superpower of Reed Richards of the Fantastic Four, to elongate your arms like rubber, to grab hold of some kind of railing, and pull yourself free. To arrive soaking, bruised and bedraggled at the patio door of the nearest house and ask to use the phone to call your mother. But that only happens in comic books and movies.
Isn’t this an argument for higher fences and greater restrictions on ingress to the river system? No, the opposite. We lose one or two boys a year to the storm channel. We lose dozens to hit and run drivers on the boulevards of LA. The River should not be a place of danger, but of exploration. We’re dealing with human nature. If there is no boyhood to be had in the Valley now, there will be diminished manhood in ten years, even less in twenty. The answer isn’t more time in front of a screen.
At what point in the whirlpool of a breakup — collecting the clothes, returning books, clearing out the accounts, screaming on the phone– does one remember, “oh hell, the lock on the bridge. What did you do with the damn key?”
“What do you mean, me? You were supposed to take care of it.”
For how long does one rummage the detritus of a relationship before one reaches for the wire cutters? Is it a chore for the offended party alone? If you’re angry enough to commit the sacrilege of cutting the fence, don’t you still care? What if the the key really isn’t lost, and one party to the breakup is withholding its whereabouts? How many relationships have come back from the brink during the deeply symbolic search for the key?
Tearing a hole in the fence, that’s Full Bitter. If I can’t be happy no one else should be, either.
The living water of the LA River is unperturbed by the operatics on the bridge. Nature has a way of upstaging all of us.
As bicyclists, birders and New Urbanists have long been aware, there exists in digital space overlapping fever dreams of a Greenway along “51 miles of the LA River”. A Google search will retrieve dozens of mock-ups. This sublime alternative Los Angeles, we are given to expect, is due to arrive by 2020. Golden Road has already issued a commemorative IPA in celebration, sort of making it official.
Fifty-one miles would, by default, include the Valley. Except that it won’t. Unless one believes the western perimeter of the Valley is Universal City. Cause that’s as far as the Greenway is going to extend.
Sssh. Don’t tell anyone. People are too busy lining up for photo shoots with our money.
Besides, who bikes in the Valley? Who walks, for that matter?
Los Angeles is spending $600 million replacing the viaduct between the Arts District and Boyle Heights with a mixed-use architectural showcase. One block parallel to another bridge.
There are plans in motion to build a park atop the Hollywood Freeway. Price tag unknown.
The development of the Downtown to Elysian Valley segment of the Greenway, including parks, is going to run a billion dollars.
What are we getting in the Valley, west of the 170? This:
We’ve all seen Chinatown. We know the score.
To give the appearance of inclusion in the great Greenway, several short discontiguous pathways, a half mile in length, have been scattered here and there: Radford to Whitsett, Mason to De Soto, and now the most recent: along Valleyheart, between Sepulveda and Kester. One can’t complain as to the landscaping. It’s very nice. But disconnected from each other and from the rest of the system, they serve no practical purpose for the general public. One cannot pedal to the Zoo, and thence down the Glendale Narrows to Downtown, as I did yesterday.
They are, in effect, taxpayer-built private esplanades for the people who live nearby. No one else will be using them. One gets the feeling people in those neighborhoods wanted it that way.
This is our Angeleno moment: Dubai in Hollywood, Detroit in the Valley.
Speaking of Detroit, Andy Hurvitz has urban renewal schemes for parking lots up in Van Nuys:
As a failure of civic will, the Los Angeles River is a thing of wonder.
Fifty-one miles of contiguous watercourse snaking through the one of the world’s great cities…linking mountains, canyons, the Valley, the Narrows, the Basin, with the Port of Long Beach…and pretty much all of it, with some notable exceptions, off-limits to the public. For a progressive city, Los Angeles has few developed public spaces. No greater resource is more undeveloped than the River itself.
There are scattershot plans to redevelop industrial fields near downtown. Artist renderings have been on the books for decades. Should they come to fruition, there might be -yes, for half a mile!- a fully realized greenway, with enough eco-restoration and bio-swales to bring the New Urbanists to a state of ecstasy. Conveniently tucked away in the least populated, most inaccessible location, cut off from the surrounding city by both railroad tracks and San Fernando Road, an Omaha Beach-like kill zone for bicyclists. If the Taylor Yards Restoration happens it will, like most things which get done in Los Angeles, arrive through the pathway of least resistance. Meaning few people were opposed to it in the first place. Because we’re speaking of orphaned ground, permanently disconnected from any other part of the river or any path network.
Fortunately, up in the Valley, we have miles and miles of shaded, landscaped river frontage, lined on both banks with walking and bike paths. A suburban Champs Elysees where one communes with nature in the purple evening air….oh, wait.
We sort of, kind of, have something like that.
Except no one is allowed to go there.
We can take its measure through the chain link fence, as we drive past on the boulevard.
We can imagine it. Not difficult to do, when it’s 80% built already.
Or we can be scofflaws. In the name of civilization we can hop the fence (Giles and I have done this many times. Only in the interest of blogging of course) and prowl about and think: wouldn’t it be cool? And the corollary: what the hell is wrong with liberals in LA?
Somehow cities with far fewer resources than Los Angeles, and I’ll just say it aloud, conservative politics, have managed to not only develop their urban rivers and abandoned railways but put them front and center. Let’s take a tour:
This one really annoys me. Even the narco-state of Nuevo Leon, the Bagdad-on-the-Border, headless torsos stacked by the on-ramp, modern-day Dodge City that is Monterrey, Mexico, has managed to offer the Little People something which looks suspiciously like a pleasant place to walk.
Not for the first time, I feel obliged to say it doesn’t have to be this way. Particularly in a city as geographically blessed as LA. Few us know today in 1930 the sons of Frederick Law Olmstead drew up a master plan for Los Angeles County designed entirely around creeks, rivers and greenways, connecting neighborhoods from Palmdale to Palos Verdes.