”
It isn’t fair,
”
I thought as I drove over Hecker Pass. I had just left my family
and perfect beach weather at Rio Del Mar in order to come home, get
respectably dressed, and spend Sunday afternoon in an
air-conditioned office.
“It isn’t fair,” I thought as I drove over Hecker Pass. I had just left my family and perfect beach weather at Rio Del Mar in order to come home, get respectably dressed, and spend Sunday afternoon in an air-conditioned office. When five o’clock came and my sentence was up, I resolved to salvage the rest of the day with a walk up El Toro.
I regularly tromp the lower reaches of the mountain, but it had been some time since I had visited the top. The remnants of a tropical storm had recently swept the dust from our air, so I hoped for clear views.
The two most trodden paths go very steeply up the mountain and my lungs were already reaching hard for air. But the subtle treats enjoyed by any observant walker paid back the effort. The bright red California Fuchsia I usually see in the fall was there. The aptly named, blue-blossomed vinegar weed was there too. How do they bloom with such delicate beauty four, five, six months after the last rain? With their spring friends long gone, they must get a lot of business from local pollinators.
A Western Tanager shot up over the brow of the hill, flapped his wings and glided, then did it again before disappearing into the oaks. Wow! A bright red head, a yellow body and black wings and tail – gaudy coloring we don’t often see in western birds. That was only the second one I had ever seen in Morgan Hill.
Boy, I forgot how steep this trail is. The pitch plus the loose soil makes each step tenuous. My breaths become deeper and quicker, but California sagebrush and minty Black Sage that lines the way up the mountain perfume each one. Nearing the top, my sweat-soaked face begins to attract those pesky little flies that love to buzz around toiling hikers. I pause to rest and watch a group of knife-winged violet-green swallows endlessly climb, swoop, and dive above the flank of the mountain, picking meals out of mid air.
The top. At 1,420 feet, I am more than 1,000 feet above the highest spot in Florida. The view. I can see downtown San Jose below the brown murk, and I can see Mt. Tamalpais in Marin County above it. San Francisco’s Financial District, the Bay Bridge, and Oakland’s skyline, visible on truly clear days, can’t be seen today. How is it, I have always wondered, that I can see so much from the top of El Toro, but I can never see El Toro from anywhere else?
I recalled Bayard Taylor’s description of this very view in 1850. I always pooh-poohed his grand description as the flowery hyperbolic style of the time. My mistake. I just forgot. It is every bit as grand as he describes it. I wondered what else he saw in the valley that evening that he didn’t include in his description – maybe grizzly bears, elk or pronghorn browsing below. In between the thousands of valley oaks that were there then, did he see a wetland crowded with geese, ducks and other bird life?
“Lean forward,” I reminded myself as I descended. Such advice seems counter-intuitive – like leaning into a Mike Tyson punch – when walking down a steep trail like this, but it is the only way to keep your feet beneath you. Lean back and your feet will shoot out from under you.
The rooftops below grew closer as I neared the bottom. I found a plastic grocery bag and began to fill it: eight plastic water bottles, a Carl’s Jr. cup, countless paper scraps, and a condom.
Back now, beer in hand, and reclining on the sofa. I was gone barely an hour, and I am more refreshed, energized and renewed than any therapist or gym could make me And my wallet is no lighter. A fine Sunday.
