The plan was to hit the MASH site, explore a little beyond, and swing by the rock pools on the return. An open itinerary: limited mileage, minimal elevation, some sightseeing and hope for a rewarding dip. And then I got the idea that it might be pleasant to get some ocean views. A refreshing breeze swept into the canyon, stirring the thick carpet of dried mustard, egging me on, c’mon, that ridge can’t be more than a couple of miles away. Hadn’t I just affirmed to the friendly Canadian gentleman who walk with me for a mile or so that I had the whole day and that I would go as far as I could? What’s a man’s word worth if he doesn’t at least try to live–and walk–by it?

Fourteen miles and three thousand feet of elevation later, I felt a long list of body parts that objected strongly to that logic. Thankfully, even in matters as trivial as my favorite pastime, the human soul has fortitude. How else is it fulfilled? I stood on a boulder with Castro peak shrouded in rolling fog, sipping a cup of warm tea, overlooking the ridge I then followed, the West Valley to my left, the Pacific to my right. I got my Ocean views alright, even through the thin layer of fog, I could see and smell the surf. Through fields of tiny yellow, honey-scented flowers, packs of dogs and wolves–not kidding, but they were very friendly husky/wolf mixes and they were accompanied–funky rock formations , rock art, and graffiti–sad face–I trudged, and loved every minute. Quoting another fellow hiker I lunched with: “A city of thirteen million people and just the two of us out here”. Even though I’d seen others, I get his point, it doesn’t get any better than this.