Hiking Iron Mountain in Running Shoes
It was barren and the trail curved left, offering an extended view of the giant oak tree, the courtyard’s main attraction. Charred black, it starkly haunted the scene, telling of the great conflagration. Tired from hiking, I took a seat on the picnic table to rest, with no other option than directly under the savage sun. I couldn’t help but note how this spot was once completely shaded by what was once a stately oak.
I sipped my water and took in the melodious buzzing of bees. They were beginning to sound more ominous with each passing second. Following the meanderings of one, my eye happened upon the hive and a hundred or more bees frantically buzzing at the base of the tree. They swarmed in and out of a dark rend, making larger circuits towards me with each stifled breathe I drew. Immediately, I escaped, detouring off the path. It was here that my hunches crystallized into the fine idea that I was not where I thought I would be.
I had been putting in double time with two jobs and was feeling the effect. I was exhausted. Over-stimulated by movies, unsatisfied by the bodiless abstractions of text, I wanted to be in my body, under the sun and treading across the dusty earth. I desired a quiet walk to collect my thoughts. I wanted peace, perhaps rejuvenation. I took the whole day off and in the early morning basked in its measureless possibility; the whole 12 open hours dawned on me.
A hike sounded perfect, and after a little research, I settled on a jaunt up 2,700-foot Iron Mountain in Poway, descriptions of which promised lush greenery and a smooth easy trail.
I pulled into the dirt lot at the head of the trail after a 30-minute drive. There were only two other cars there, fellow refugees from the workweek’s sovereign schedule. I took my time getting ready for the hike while I listened to the cars rushing past on the main road. I was ecstatic to be outside the hustle and bustle, particularly when I saw someone being pulled over for speeding, i.e. trying to keep pace with a system he or she might dislike.
The sign posted on the threshold of the trail warned of dangers. “Mountain Lion country,” it stated. “Never travel alone,” a party of four at least is recommended. “Make a lot of noise,” and remember, “they’ve seen you long before you’ll see them.” This threatened, along with my safety, my plans of a quiet meditative stroll, but I was determined to make this hike. Out of the two possible trails, I had chosen the “longer, tougher, and more rewarding” route, as the hiking guide described it.
I walked into this little piece of wilderness preserved within the suburban landscape. Within an hour, suburbia felt like a remote dream as I clambered along the narrow, jagged path and twisted through the giant boulders that dwarfed me. All the while, I was positive there was a mountain lion stalking me just outside my perception and waiting to pounce at every blind corner I took. I wondered where it was, how close, and how long had it been there. With every rustle I heard, my heart beat a little faster and my feet scampered a little more quickly. I was stumbling along in corduroys too tight for hiking and running shoes long worn past adequate use. I was definitely not clothed in foresight. Slipping at what seemed the critical moments, I trudged on, keeping my pace and resolution to see this hike through. I couldn’t help but keep picturing my lifeless legs vanishing into the bushes as the mountain lion dragged me off for a noon snack. My only protection was a charred branch, which I hoped could easily convert from a walking stick to a bludgeon. Despite my anticipations, nothing popped out to challenge me, and when the landscape leveled and my view expanded, I felt a little safer.
Although now attenuated, this anxiety officially introduced me to the nature of the hike. As the day wore on, I found myself wandering off the path or at least questioning it. Since the trail was wanting in signs, I walked with little sense of direction and few reassurances that I was stabbing forth along the right path. Wrongly, I had assumed this suburban hike would be as easily consumed as the subway sandwich I had in my backpack for lunch.
About two miles into the hike and halfway up a steep and barren ridge, I stopped to catch my breath and attempted to orient myself. I felt completely lost and all that I positively knew was that I had just crossed through the bottom of a ravine. Had I chosen the wrong path? Had I stumbled into the mountain lion’s den? I didn’t want to hang around to find out, so I started up the ridge again. It felt like I was confronting gravity itself. Being the tallest figure in the area, every rock and boulder seemed frozen in its downward tumble around me. My steps were dislodging the smaller rocks on the trail and sending them down into the ravine to settle amongst the dry and splintered trees long snapped from their roots and piled in past catastrophe.
I was getting thirstier and unfortunately, my bottle of water was getting emptier. The pictures in the guides had promised a lush, cool mountainside, but I found myself parched and melodramatic in the middle of a scorched landscape. There didn’t seem to be a bit of moisture in the atmosphere. The sun had bleached everything about me and the only green was the sparse chaparral mutely coloring the tanned earth. The only motion was the dust devils picking up their dervish waltz. The fine dirt path with its strewn rocks pitilessly resembled a dry creek bed. As thirsty as I was, I fantasized about a primeval flood coursing its way down these slopes, dramatically sweeping along the path cut into the ridge and rushing towards me, pushed on by its overwhelming plenitude. Yet, all was desolate and barren, long since left to the arid and erosive wind. The only sight of water was a desperate and incongruous vision borne of thirst.
I marched on, desperate to find my way out of this mountain lion’s labyrinth. I needed to get over this ridge soon. I pushed up and onwards and eventually reached the top. After finally cresting the saddleback, I immediately began my descent into what-to my renewed dismay-appeared to be yet another desert wasteland, but as I followed the gradual curve around the hill, I saw the main path ahead, meandering off into the distance like the trail of a lost comet. With great relief, I stepped onto it, joining my footprints with all the others. It didn’t matter that I was still alone; I was reassured simply because I was on the more traveled path.
Since it was a weekday, it was quiet and I was thankful. I could now relax and let my mind wander, as I initially planned. Everything here resembled my original expectations. The hills gradually rolled away from me in gentle slopes and the path was smooth and wide. I could now walk at an easy gait as I took in the larger and more comforting view. Amidst the greener landscape, Iron Mountain rose in the northern distance.
Soon I was making my way up the mountain, on a path that zigzags up its side like a thread stitched limply onto it. As I reached the summit, the two hikers whose jocularity I had been hearing for the past minute or so finally appeared as they passed me on their merry descent. We exchanged quick, friendly nods and then I had the whole peak to myself. I stood on a pinnacle in the middle of a tortoise humped crater and gazed out at the distant mountains which seemed deliberately pushed up against the sky and its great blue dispersion to shelter the little world beneath me. The mountains swept a magnificent curve from the north down to the south and the only outlet was the blue ocean to the west shimmering in the distance. I could see from Ramona to the bay. Diminutive cars coursed through the hills and neighborhoods below. Even the birds spiraled about beneath me. I was free to take it all in: the view, the sound of the wind rustling through the dry brush, the warmth of the evening sun waning and the physical and emotional reward set in by the long, tough hike crowning me at the summit.
I’d seen views like this before. I’d seen them in pictures, on the movie screen and through the windows of cars. Yet, as I realized, this was my first complete and solitary hike, and so the satisfaction of having strained and fought for the summit was entirely new. No wonder the terms “tougher and more rewarding” were so abstract and I was so unprepared. The reality of the hike undid my original expectations (even suburbia has its wilds), yet this made the journey that much more adventurous and dramatic. If we hike for the ups and downs a trail provides, the unexpected can only intensify those ascents and declines. And during my descent, in the copper light of dusk, with the earth sifting through my shoes, the fine dirt landscape no longer took on the semblance of the inhospitable desert but something more of the beach, and I basked in the hushed tranquility which touches everything after a day spent there, while I moseyed down the mountain.
