The faces of everyone in the car were tense and screwed into all manners of of contortions. White knuckles were visible in my peripheral vision as my passengers gripped the handles scattered throughout the cabin. Not a word was spoken as I danced the nose-heavy sedan down the twisty canyon road, deftly dodging small patches of slippery sand and oncoming cars to make it into the relative safety of the freeway where everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. It is hard to imagine that not three hours ago, we had been strolling down the few blocks that comprise the tiny town of Sierra Madre, set in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. As we pulled the car into a parking spot just outside of Pasadena city hall, the adrenaline having drained from my system, I reflected on the rather eclectic day that had just passed.
