I have this thing with hiking where I can’t turn around. I prefer circles.
The other day I decided to go for a hike by myself on Mt. Tam. There are at least 150 hiking trails within a few miles of my house in Mill Valley, and I’ve hiked almost all of them. But sometimes I crave a new adventure. So on Sunday, I decided to leave my map (and my water) in the car and just see where my intuition might take me. I started at the Mt. Home Inn, which, for those of you unfamiliar with beautiful Mt. Tam, is a touristy spot along Panoramic Highway at which several trails converge.
I set out on foot heading north, first up Gravity Car fire road — so called because it used to be the tracks of the infamous Mt. Tam gravity car (just what it sounds like, yikes) — and eventually turning onto Vic Haun, a single-track trail that juts sharply upward from Double Bowknot. Although I’d passed the turnoff to Vic Haun many times over the years, I had only turned onto it once, at least ten years ago. It’s one of the steepest and most relentlessly unshaded ways to get the East Peak summit of Mt. Tam, and even when I hiked it in my prime yoga days, I took a beating. I’ve avoided it ever since.
So I’m not sure what compelled me to turn onto this trail on Sunday, except that, quite frankly, life is boring me to tears these days.
Once on Vic Haun I quickly regretted not bringing water, as the sun beat down and the Manzanitas and Madrones provided little shade. My heart was working hard and I was fantasizing about the watermelon sorbet I had made the night before, sitting at home in my freezer. I passed only a few people — all coming down the trail from the top, where they had either been dropped off or had probably summited an easier way.
I have to pause here and tell you that I am not by any means an athletic person.
I hike a lot, but I never seem to get in any better shape. As I’ve written about in this blog a few times, my exercise routine exists primarily to stave off the imminent obesity that is hardwired into my New England genes. My fat cells are always on alert for a cold Northeast winter after a long draught. Here in California, where 65 degrees is a chilly day, they aren’t so useful. I am constantly battling them and their destiny.
As I stubbornly march up Vic Haun, my heart was racing, my mouth was dry, and at one point I was pretty sure I was going to end up the subject of a Jon Krakauer book. “What was she thinking? Why didn’t she turn around? Tragically, we’ll never know.” But I didn’t turn around. Partly because of the circles thing, and partly because I knew that if I could just get to East Peak, I could get something to drink. There is a snack bar at the summit, you see. They have juice. I didn’t have any money with me (another thing I generally neglect to bring on my ill-advised solo hiking adventures, along with ID with which they would be able to identify my body), but I was prepared to panhandle from a stranger. As I forged ahead, I practiced how I would convince a total stranger to buy me juice. Mainly, I planned on lying and claiming I have diabetes.
I finally got to the top of the mountain and the snack bar was closed. Thanks a lot, state park budget cuts! But, luckily, there was a water fountain. So now I have diphtheria, but I lived. And I got to take this pretty shot:
And also this one:
Bonus, I took this one on a different hike this weekend:
