100 people, 100 kilometers, 100th anniversary of Armenian Genocide
Monday, November 30, -1The members of the Armenian community in California paid tribute to the Armenian Genocide in a very special way this year. On November 27, 100 participants gathered together in Glendale in order to walk 100 kilometers. The walking route starts at Deukmejian Park in Glendale, with a brief sendoff program featuring local dignitaries. Here is an abstract from the “diary” of one of the participants Garen Yegparian who mentioned that this big event did not get any media coverage, which is truly sad, as in California, and Los Angeles in particular there are numerous Armenian newspapers and news web sites.
“Of course, we had practice (combined with re-scouting) hikes and rides, especially to the less familiar urban settings. Each leg of the mountainous part of the route was covered twice. All along, the route evolved. Finally we did it! While what you’re about to read may seem meaningless, it gives you a taste of what those who ultimately walked for four days covered. Starting in Glendale’s Deukmejian Park (named after California’s only Armenian governor), we hiked to Mt. Lukens, the highest point in the City of Los Angeles, and then took a rolling descent along fire roads to our first night’s camp, the Pines, near clear Creek Junction. Along the way, one of the hikers slipped and had a close call along a bad stretch of the route.
The “trail angels” had prepared food and a cozy setting. This crew of volunteers deftly supported and enabled the efforts of the walkers over the course of three nights. Each morning camp had to be taken down, cleaned up, and moved to the next night’s location and the tents repitched. Logistics had to be managed—food, supplies, and gear. Participants who were joining or leaving the hikers part way through the four days had to be ferried to the appropriate trails or back home. Portable toilets had to be “greeted” upon delivery. These and countless other nitty-gritty details were handled imperceptibly.
Day two had the hikers walking up the Josephine fire road; then to the north of Strawberry Peak and its Yosemite-like north face and on to Red Box, the start of the road to the famous Mt. Wilson Observatory, where astronomer Edwin Hubble conducted his research into the universe; finally, down into the San Gabriel River’s West Fork drainage to Valley Forge Campground. It was a cold night, 35°F, especially by Southern California standards, and in this way reminiscent of the Continental Army’s hard winter of 1777-78 at the “original” Valley Forge in Pennsylvania.
The second night was also the most emotional. Participants told stories of their families’ genocide experiences. Some had happy-ish endings, such as the Boston woman who discovers her long-lost brother, only to learn he is asking not to be outed since he has become the head imam in a major Turkish city, and revelation of his true identity would upend his whole family’s life. Naturally, there were lots of tears, sobs, and choked-back gasps. But what really struck me was my level of emotion. Not that I haven’t been increasingly lachrymose in such situations, but there was something else going on. I finally realized it: My age peers and I are now on the front lines of responsibility to pass on our awareness and struggle, since our parents’ generation is starting to fade. This was sobering.
Day three was relatively short. A hike up to Eaton Saddle on a trail much infested with buckthorn, poison oak, and poodle-dog bush, and then onto the Mt. Lowe road and to the Vaqueros del Desierto site. I think it was on this day that it hit me: We’re walking along roads, dirt roads, much like the passages of our ancestors in those pre-universal-asphalt days. That night, rain threatened.
On the morning of the fourth (and longest-distance) day, shortly after we started walking in the dark, rain jackets had to be donned for the first shower. Hikers then arrived at Farnsworth Park, where those walking only the urban part joined the group for a trip through Altadena, Pasadena, the San Marino/South Pasadena border, Alhambra, Monterey Park, and Montebello.
As the walkers and riders met, the skies opened up in a steady rain. Everyone was getting drenched but remained firm. Half the group started dancing a shoorch bar to the zoorna’s siren-song.
Finally, we all proceeded to the eternal flame, laying a flower and calling out one name in whose honor we had walked or ridden.”
ArmenianBD.com News