Souls in the Rain

The soul needed a day in the rain. Low hanging clouds cruised past the granite boulders outside the windows from first light, beckoning. Who was I to argue?

A new trail was in order. New trails make me smile, for all the obvious reasons but also because if there’s a vague trail marker, or none at all, I will take the wrong fork. I calculate an extra 20 minutes for just that purpose. So if you ever hike with me, be prepared to laugh, as I channel consternation, moving in circles, chasing my tail in the red dirt like a puppy stung by a bee.

The beauty of low clouds is you can’t see how far to reach the summit. The mystery will keep you concentrating on the gifts right in front of you.

 I found myself confused in the first five minutes at an unmarked fork, followed the wider trail uphill, turned back, tried the other one with more footprints in the dirt, and saw other humans ahead, so kept on.Then had to laugh when the trail markers appeared but weren't much help either.

Below me, fishermen cast lines onto a windblown lake; I couldn’t help wonder where the cigarette dangling from one fisherman’s lips would end up. Because this was Poway, the trail was immaculate, with trashcans and outhouses. Too bad people couldn’t be compelled to use them. Piles of dog poop dotted the trail. I’ve always thought if you can’t care for a pet, you should have one. (I feel the same about humans, but I digress).

Rain was only light mist at first. A necessary cool during the climb. By the time there were no more forks to decipher, I’d hiked into a stronger rain. The trail narrowed, got steeper and a couple came down from the mist, laughing, enjoying the wet weather. I was the only one wearing a rain jacket, and felt embarrassingly overdressed. But after we passed each other, I heard the woman pointing out the duck’s back rain cover on my pack, so I felt less nerdy.

 Most of the next two miles were mine alone: me, chaparral, the sandstone boulders like Easter Island sentries appearing out of the clouds and fields of white sage.

Rain adds holiday ornaments to leaves, berries, the underbelly of spider webs. Colors and textures dance together: the spiky yucca leaves and the gentle sweeping angel hair grasses around the base of a burned Manzanita stalk. All were relishing the rinsing of dust from their shoulders.

At the famed potato chip rock I met two young women in hoodies, one popping candy in her mouth and letting the wrapper fall as she photographed the rock. She grabbed the wrapper back up when she saw me. At least the youth are hiking, getting some exercise, I thought. I met four more sopping wet young hikers half a mile further up the trail, and a few empty Clif bar wrappers, which I stuffed in my pocket, hoping to return them to their rightful owners.

  I stayed at the top long enough to grab some celery from my pack, and a scarf for my neck. The rain was serious now, and visibility was maybe 30 yards. The unsightly cell towers that adorn the summit were eery skeletons in the clouds. Not a pleasant place to rest.

  The few trees on this trail stand out, since there are virtually none. Most of it is wide open. Reviews I read warned of needing more than two liters of water, hats, sunscreen. Good choice to venture out in the rain.  A mile below the summit, the rain became a mist again. The whole world was a wide circle around me about 50-yards out: yucca, sage, sandstone.

 I would have liked to be around when they carved a trail through some of the massive boulder fields.

I passed another couple, he was ahead, she behind, clutching a thin sweatshirt around her waist, her cotton workout tights soaked. I wondered whether she was re-thinking the relationship at all. In another mile, I came across a drawing in the sand that wasn’t there on the way up: a big heart. Nah, she was gonna follow him into the clouds no matter where that led.

  Re-entry is a bitch after any soul-filling experience, but Lake Poway is not a bad buffer between lost-in-the-wilderness and bumper-to-bumper traffic leaving nearby Poway High. Rounding my last turn towards the lake, two teenagers nearly ran into me, laughing, and the third one, several steps behind, was concealed under a huge plume of fragrant smoke. He turned his back, put it out, we all laughed. At least they’re getting some exercise, I thought.

On the trail around the lake, the his and hers outhouses have spectacular views. Perhaps the City of San Diego can take a lesson… or not. Stopping to take lots of pictures along the way up and back, the hike was a gloriously well-spent three and a half hours that felt like a full day. Thankfully there’s a feast of leftover brussel sprouts and tofu in the truck. And at home: a hot shower and a glass of whiskey waiting. Perfect rainy day.