red stuff – Old Mt Wilson trail

I always hike with an alter ego, or two voices, an internal dialogue, a little devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, one clamoring it's half-empty while the other insists it's half-full, one asking why put yourself through this much effort today when you could wait 'til tomorrow as the other argues why wait?

Two fellows hiking
only two more miles, said one
what? came the reply
we're halfway there, piece of cake
we're s'far as I go, my legs ache

The voices are mostly silent, and no, I do not talk to myself, at least not out loud. Time on the trail is time to enjoy nature, and solitude, a time for méditation, and the occasional encounter.

Three mountain bikers
pedaling proud old fogeys
happy to see snow
leave tire tracks in the bright red 
fire retardant phosphate goo

There is a bench, somewhere above Jones Peak. I won’t divulge its exact location. You have to sweat a little–ok, a lot–to chance upon it, to discover it. It is well constructed in the middle of a small dirt clearing ringed with rocks, surrounded by yerba buena and chamise, and like its numerous cousins on the slopes of the San Gabriels, it serves the sitter with spectacular views of the Southland. The sunsets from here must be special, I thought, as I debated whether to sit and take advantage or forge on. I still had a good two hours walk to reach the trailhead. The sun was lazily diving towards the ocean, and clouds to the west predicted it would soon be obscured. I didn’t want to walk in the dark, but I took thirty seconds to read the small dedication plaque, then again I always read dedication plaques, thinking that, if I wrote one and went through this much effort to post it in a special place, I’d hope the passer-by would read it.

“Sit down, take a deep breath“, I’m paraphrasing, “and take in the views.” I did.

…

“Let your soul be still.“

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