Octavia Buttler once said, “habit will sustain you whether you are inspired or not.” She said that in relation to writing, but I think it applies to life in general. Establishing an exercise habit is key to the success of my self-imposed, endorphin-producing regime. Yoga twice a week, once-a-week-walk in the San Leandro Marina, and the occasional dance get me ready to beat the blues. Hiking for me lessens the side effects of medication, opens the senses to enjoy the present moment, and helps my brain produce the endorphins necessary to feel good naturally.
On a partially cloudy Sunday, the forest looks dark and mysterious. Second and third generation redwood trees stand as tall as the Statue of Liberty although far more majestic. Tiny pinecones crack under my boots as I exhale heavily on my way up on the French Trail in the Redwood Regional Park.
The dark, one-foot trail inside a dense and humid forest reminds of El Avila. Its proximity to the coast, small streams crossing the trail, the sound of nature around me, all bring back memories not of crowded fire route to Sabas Nieves on Sunday mornings, but the long hike inside the heart of the mountain, with my young son, so many years ago.
The few hikers I find today look focused in the challenge of the steep hill ahead, along the well-marked, one person path without views, midway between the base and the canopy of the redwoods, soft terrain under my boots.
I decide on a four-mile goal for return, hoping the return will add another four miles for a total of eight-mile weekend challenge. I reach my first objective at a clear in the woods, the crossroads between the French and the Starflower trails, a four-way intersection inside a circle that makes me lose my sense of direction. I know I’ve kept the stream deep down in the canyon on my right. I close my eyes with the map in front of me, absorbing the space. It feels like a cathedral, with tall columns around a circle, humid, dark, and cold. I hear the stream. It’s a well-travelled route. There is no reason to hesitate.
When I can’t figure any sign to guide me, I decide it’s time for lunch and sit down on a wet piece of wood to eat a hiker’s meal: Artisan bread, salami, münster cheese, half an orange, a piece of chocolate, a handful of almonds, and two long sips from my water bottle. I abandon to my senses, to the flavors of the simple food, to the cold piece of wood under my body, to the chill air. Relax.
Other hikers approach also momentarily lost in the ample space. I greet them as they make their decisions on which path to follow and continue eating slowly, then writing my notes. A woman I had trekked behind for a while comes back to the center of the circle. “That’s not the way out,” she says pointing at the trail she just came through. “I learned the hard way,” she says. I tell her I am going to go right, hoping to find the Stream Trail after a couple of miles. She goes left followed by her obedient dog while I pick up my belongings. The heat of the hike has dissipated in cool air of a midwinter afternoon inside a redwood forest in Northern California.
My decision proved right. I join the Bridge Trail and later the Stream Trail, approaching the parking lot after 5:00. It’s late and the lot is empty, but the days are getting longer and there doesn’t seem to be any apparent danger lurking around.
In the end, I completed 6.5 miles of a moderate solo hike. Turning right on the intersection made me loop on a shorter trail, and I lost 1.5 mile to my own challenge. However, I get back home energized and ready for the week ahead. Until next week.
