The hike was difficult, especially for the two of us who don't tend to exert ourselves outside of the gym. The trail is not particularly long, and the grade not particularly steep, but the incline is continuous with few breaks in between. Hikers are greeted by a consistent climb from the moment they begin until they reach the top, which then they face a consistent, slippery slope on their way down.
Throughout the hike, we saw cows grazing right alongside us, casually chewing and mooing as we huffed up the hill. Squirrels darted across the grass, ducking into tunnels and hiding behind boulders. Sam said that they seem to have a nice life out in this largely natural landscape:
From certain vantage points, like the one above, I couldn't see any of the man-made fences erected sporadically. The hum of the freeway faded. Even the bay was hidden. Nothing could indicate to me that I was still in the Bay Area, that Sam and I drove through several sleepy cities just to get to the park. We could have been further removed from civilization than we really were, further from reality. During one particularly rough section, where we had to navigate ourselves through steeper terrain and the trail was only vaguely defined, I said, before enough thought, "This feels like we're trekking through Middle Earth, on our way to Mordor." Sam said, "More like Mordork."
But it was really good to feel, or at least pretend, that I completely left all that was familiar to me, that I was seeing a spot of land that remains untouched, on our way to something much more epic than our usual lives afford us. I so rarely have the opportunity, nor the inclination, to leave the comforts of the City that, as unfortunate as my remark may have ended up sounding, to actually do so felt like an adventure, a tumble down a rabbit hole.
It got me thinking about the life I have fashioned for myself. My landscape is dominated by skyscrapers. I love them and envy them, work in them and feel intimidated and dizzy when I stare up at them. Yet, I can go days before realizing I have not seen or noticed a tree. If I don't check my e-mail for more than a few waking hours at a time, I begin to feel a separation anxiety, a break in my connection to the world, to technology, and to a facet of myself that seems to only exist through this technology. And money? I can't even begin to describe the complicated, love/hate relationship I have with money, to feel like I don't have enough to do the things I want to do, yet at the same time thankful that I have more than most, to feel simultaneously on pace and behind in the race to amass the most toys.
Walking up Mission Peak, feeling the ache in my lower back and the abrasions gently scraping into the tips of my toes, reminded me that there was a time, once, when there were no structures but stone, no communication but words and actions. A home may not have been anything more than an empty space beneath a boulder, a bundle of lumber tied together. Life definitely may not have been easier back then, nor was it any simpler, but to me, to this soft and complacent comfortphile, it feels more organic: the wind at your back is helpful, at your face is hard. Water quenches your thirst. Shade provides cover; night, rest. There was nothing more to "it" than to put one foot in front of the other, to move, grow.
(Still, it felt so good to take a shower later that evening, to sit on the couch with iPad in hand, patiently waiting for sleep.)
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