The View from the Top

Returning to the trail feels like a reunion with a dear friend. Excited for the moment, I rise long before dawn, seduced by a longing for unadulterated nature, to wander through the hills, from one trail to the next with no destination. My only intention to witness infinite moments of beauty and serendipity in a place yet untouched by those who will never know the magic of a world before the sun.

I step energized onto the steep, dimly lit trail as I have for years, decades, perhaps longer. Time is lost here.

I pass by trees laid down onto their own shadow, devastated by wildfires, the dark, bare branches of those remaining, rise silhouetted against a steel grey sky.

With daybreak only moments away, I know I am where I should be. I have found my freedom, detached from all but the glory of nature – the sensation of tiny pebbles rolling under my feet, the scent of summer evaporating into the early morning fog, the shift of colors from delicate yellow and dusty evergreen, to robust deep, passionate, blood red and maroon against the drab.

It’s a cycle I long to embrace and internalize. But I understand I am an interloper, trespassing across a land that can never truly be mine. I promise to be respectful, quiet as to not disturb, just to observe and cherish, wander and wonder.

I spot a deer, nothing more than a flick of an ear through the tall brush and in a moment it disappears back into the embrace of the wild place.

I search for images to capture, photographed to preserve so that others can experience what I do, knowing it’s hopeless. They could never feel the heartbeat of the jackrabbit just a few feet from me, sharing a moment in time that will never be again for either of us.

I choose a trail I seldom take, nearly straight up, hoping to become lost, to remain here, timeless as the place, forever a part of its peace.  It leads me under the canopy of majestic oaks their branches arched nearly to the earth below, littered with what they’ve cast off as no longer necessary for their existence. I watch their leaves fall, caress their rough bark, softened by damp velvety moss that clings to them for life, in envy of their resilience. They bend and yield to the breeze rather than stiffen in resistance. I take note as I travel on.

Perhaps it is nothing more than my anticipation of what is to come, based on what has been, that makes this pivotal moment so poignant. It is possible autumn could unfurl a gentle calling to rest, a time when the earth itself is allowed to retreat, as the plants wilt and collapse back to the soil, setting their burden of remaining fruit onto the earth to become once again part of its life sustaining richness. If I set down my worries and concerns and look to nature, I can share in the release, the collective sigh that signals a letting go and a welcoming into the calm.

Within the moment I understand the message, rebirth is possible and as natural as the seasons, but only after a rest.

I arrive at the edge of the redwoods, stately and strong above me. I stand at their feet, looking up to their place in the heavens, feeling the security and protection of a tenderly loved child.

But the rising light pushes me on. My pace accelerates, my desire to be at the top before sunrise exceeds my need to catch my breath. I find my way to a familiar spot, a clearing from which the world below flows from the redwoods, to the oaks, onto the vineyards beyond and arrives at sun dried hills at the edge of my world. From this perspective, my view is different, removed from the details, where the distance softens the imperfection, the brokenness, the burns and scars, all that has touched this canvas to bring it to what it is.

I sit among the call of the birds, my body exhausted but exhilarated. I let my mind drift, as time passes and my heart opens, losing myself in reverence, until the beauty below overwhelms me and I fall in love with this place once again.