The Long Walk

A part of me wants to escape from everything going on. I try to do and say the right things -- to contribute my money, time, to be a good friend, to check in on my family, to do my day job. I want to be a good person. But things seem to be falling apart. Things were bad before. But now it feels like civil society is disintegrating. 

As the season for southbound PCT trips approaches, the Pacific Crest Trail Association issued yet another statement telling hikers to avoid multi-day trips. The season for northbound trips from the Mexico border had started in early spring, and despite strident warnings against it, people are out there anyways. I know because K, who regularly hikes in the San Gabriels where the trail runs above Los Angeles, has met small groups of them. He emails me with stories about them every so often. 

On Saturday, with police helicopters overhead, J and I decided to go on a long walk. We had discovered a few weeks back something called the Mokelumne Coast to Crest trail, a mostly suburban trail that links a highly engineered water system past reservoirs, day lighted creeks, and underground canals. (The Mokelumne is the river that supplies Berkeley's drinking water.) Ultimately, the noncontiguous trail ends at the river's headwaters in the Sierra. But the trail starts at Inspiration Point, just east of Berkeley.

I persuaded my friend W to join us. W and I have been on lots of trips together over the years. He joined me on my crazy idea to pull an all nighter hiking from rim to rim of the Grand Canyon for my birthday, and we've hiked in the hills above Berkeley in the pouring rain. This hike would be local, but it would be strenuous, and W was down. He persuaded his housemate, P to come along. P brought along his harmonica.

The walk felt like it took place over the course of many seasons. It was foggy in the morning, and what we at first thought was a stray dog in the distance turned out to be a coyote. We made our way past the San Pablo Reservoir and kept catching glimpses of Mt Diablo on ridges, and then we would dip for long stretches into valleys covered in manzanita and oak. By early afternoon, on a ridge no more than about three thousand feet high, we got caught in a lightning and thunder storm. We crouched low on the trail in the pouring rain, hoping that we had not escaped Covid-19 infection and police violence against demonstrators so far only to be struck by lightning in a Bay Area suburb. 

In the late afternoon after walking for about 16 miles, we stopped for burgers and sweet potato fries where the trail passes through the suburban downtown of Walnut Creek. (About two miles away from where we were there would be heavy looting the next day.) From that downtown shopping center we walked past segments of daylighted creek, past golf courses, and even behind the parking lot of a catholic church where a social distanced service was being conducted. The church goers probably did not know about the trail. They looked at us, slightly baffled. We looked at them, embarrassed to intrude.

We finally made it to the boundaries of Mt Diablo state park at dusk. On the hills above us there were packs of wild boars roaming free, probably enjoying the emptiness from the statewide park partial closure. A little afraid, we were tired but we sped toward our destination, chosen from the ArcGIS trail map because it looked like there would be a detour from the main trail to a suburban cul de sac. As we sat waiting for our housemates to pick us up on a picnic table in the dark, P played something on his harmonica. We were only a half an hour or so from home but we had covered almost 30 miles, walking for about 12 hours straight. For at least the day we had become a trail family.