Fifteen mph signs and speed bumps began to appear every few seconds. No problem for the van; it had been crawling at ten miles an hour, came to a full stop at each bump. I hung as far back as I could without losing visual contact, allowed a gardener’s truck to sandwich in. The new convoy continued for another mile before the van veered right and the truck stayed on Beverly Drive.

Now I knew our destination. Good clean fun for all ages.

Franklin Canyon Park is a hidden slice of wilderness minutes from the self-conscious posing and the hypertensive drive of the city. Six-hundred-plus acres of untamed chaparral, skyscraper cedars, pines, and California oaks surround miles of hiking trails and a central hub bejeweled by a sun-mirror lake. A smaller pond is chock full with ducks and turtles and sunfish and minnows.

I knew Franklin because I used to take my previous Frenchie there when he grew restless. A bully, black-brindle heathen named Spike, he loved to explore. Though his affinity for poultry made the duck pond a challenge.

Packs of feral dogs were rumored to prowl the park’s upper reaches but we’d never seen them. We did spot chipmunks, squirrels, the occasional late-rising skunk, lizards, and snakes, including a rattler or two that Spike dismissed as unworthy of his attention. A couple of times our presence provoked a chorus of ululation from distant coyotes. It was all I could do to restrain Spike from hunting down the uncouth intruders.

I’d never brought Blanche to Franklin Canyon, probably because she’s so content with short strolls, hanging with Robin, and consulting on clinical cases.

As I drove up the mile and a half of sinuous mountain road that led to the park’s entrance, she was sitting up, alert, head cocked quizzically.

“First time for everything, gorgeous.”

Space for cars was limited and once the van entered, I could afford to hang back. Pulling over at the next turnoff, I retrieved additional supplies from the Seville’s backseat, slipped them into my pack.

I rolled into the main lot, a rectangle of dirt bordered by post-and-beam fencing and surrounded by waist-high native grasses. No other vehicles in sight.

Leashing Blanche, I put my pack on and began walking down an oak-lined road. One curve and there was the van, right where I’d guessed.

Just above the fenced hollow that contained the lake. Several yards above the pond.

At this hour, not a lot of people around. Which, I supposed, was the point. An attendant helped an old woman trudge along the pathway. A few other dog-walkers strolled. Everyone smiled at Blanche and a woman with a longhaired dachshund stopped to chat, asking the usual canine-related questions.

Pleasant woman but the wiener dog wasn’t nearly as amiable and it began to growl and chuff. The woman said, “Easy, Hansel.”

Blanche looked up at me with what’s-his-problem curiosity.

Hansel lunged.