For David

A New Trail


If you are seeking creative ideas, go out walking. Angels whisper to a man when he goes out for a walk. - Raymond Inman
I've not hiked this trail before. An overcast mid-August, mid-afternoon start at sea level begins in a cypress grove that quickly gives way to chaparral. Snowy white butterflies abound, their presence a lift to my spirit. The trail is surprisingly lined with wildflowers. It is late in the season for this display of whites, blushes, pinks, purples and golds, in a myriad of shapes and combinations. Black and yellow lumbering, bumbling bees service the beauty; their collective individual hums combining to the level of symphony with the nearby brook.

In waist-high chaparral a pair of doe raise their heads to eye me cautiously. I've never noticed before how their ears rotate as if on an axis, ever alert to sounds of danger while their eyes remain fixed. At about thirty feet distant they bound off. Birds of a type I have frequently seen before dart in and out of seed bearing shrubs.

Strolling up the gentle grade, sages and laurels are suddenly replaced by towering giants with burled bases. The carpet of sorrel spreads verdant before me. Lizards, ever present on the trail, scamper ahead, pausing to observe the threat I do not pose before darting into cover. The muted crunch of ground granite morphs into a delicate, powdery swish with my paces. The dense shade provided by the sky scraping redwoods cools and quiets everything, the delicate rustle overhead barely audible over the soothing watercourse I am following.

Bracken's, Chain and Sword ferns line my path, and a magenta berry I do not recognize. Several rustic footbridges take turns crossing the stream - I must learn its name - and I am buoyed deeper into this paradise. Far overhead blue sky is beating back the gray; I am moving inland and upland.

I follow the log across the stream again and as though stepping through a door I am outside the redwood grove. The trail climbs in earnest, now up steps of hewn and cut lumber; ancient steps often without earth contact, undercut by erosion, held suspended by steel rods.

Sage and laurel, warmed under clearing skies and stirred by the breeze assault my senses so thickly as to be palpable, mixed with the gritty taste of granite and dust. Climbing directly away from the riparian environs I am soon afforded a clear view to the west. The Pacific, still steely under clouds, is true to her name - peaceful.

Beginning to perspire with exertion I am grateful for the ocean breeze. The warming sun and cooling breeze are a kaleidoscope of sensations. This climb might be unbearable without that air.

Many, many steps pass before I look back again. I've not surrendered as much as a vertical inch in fourteen hundred feet or more. At one seeming crest the grade merely lessens, from precarious to heart stopping, and I must take rest at trail side. A squadron of vultures, great black wings and smaller red heads play follow-the-leader in seeking the thermal lift they need, passing mere feet from my seat.

A pair of young nurses are talking shop as they near my rock perch. My greeting to them is a chastisement: "Have you hiked all this way and found only work to discuss?" The male laughs and thanks me for the reality check. His partner mouths a silent, "Thank you." I think that's what she said.

Following a ridge upward to the next wall, well it was really steep, the stiffening breeze at my back is cooling and urging me on. Wooden steps had ceased to exist a number of rests ago. Their scattered remnants speak of a trail in disrepair. The path is often ambiguous, fanning into a mosaic of grasses and dirt and coming back together, repeatedly. As I cross a saddle at intersecting ridges the trail is worn into a gully by foot traffic and runoff so deep and sheer edged as to look cut into the decomposed granite by a backhoe.


Knowing full well that the trail will run out of up, more sooner than later, I press on toward the promise of the summit - a breathtaking view of the Big Sur coast northward. Nearing the top a rock cairn entices me; stop, rest, breathe, sip, write.


By now I know the summit will not bring the promised view. As I near, the fog is cascading over the peak and ridge before me and threatening to obscure the reason for this trek. But this day has not at all been a waste of time. Through all the wondrous sights, sounds, smells, tastes and textures of the day I have been praising the God who made me for His creations, and my having the ability to enjoy and record them.


What is the sound of the wind? The rustle of the leaves overhead, on a micro level is the physical interaction of entities, of beings in contact with others. God reveals His plan in odd ways at times. He designed us to live in relationship with each other and with Him. Today He is that wind, stirring my interaction with those around me; moving the branch I am attached to into proximity with others, individual interactions creating a rustling in my being.


I learned this morning of the passing of a friend, another soul called home earlier than I was ready to face. David, the rustle you created has been stilled. I am sad I was not there to see your leaf twirl to earth, to catch it and lay it gently to rest. You were a great comfort to me through the worst of my fears about the cancer that we shared. And I miss you dearly. I am jealous, too. You now know God's peace and I still seek it.