I walk a toward the fishing pier to a road I previously thought was a dead end. At a certain point there is a security guard and a sign for authorized vehicles only. This is the road for the workers that maintain the bridge. I notice a bike path and ask if I may walk here. I get an ok from the guard and head up the hill. 

I am pretty much alone for most of my walk, and I admire the bridge from underneath. It reminds me of the erector set my brother had when we were kids. All the parts seem purposeful but also precarious. It is an impressive structure and feels otherworldly from this perspective. 

The hills are dry and exude a certain scent, hot brush that waits for rainy season. Is it the end of summer headed into fall or fall headed into winter? I have lost track, and seasons vary only slightly in these parts.  

I stop before the hill meets the top of the bridge and the cars roll by. I'm enjoying the landscape below, this flipped perspective. It is unusually quiet here. The city sits in the distance waving hello. I miss freely walking on its city streets, ducking into art museums, galleries and local coffee shops. I miss the spontaneous encounters with strangers and friends. I miss losing time because I am actively filling it, not for all the reasons that burden us now. 

A scantily clad man rushes into the ocean waves, fists up, boxing with the water. While submerged, he loses his pants for a bit. He comes out smiling and still boxing. I have no idea what this is about, but everyone finds their inner peace somehow. 

Dolphins leap at a short distance. Such is the magic that the ocean provides. Ravens squawk and gather in the morning sun. Happy to find them here, I wish to attend their party. A lone shoe has lost its business casual human. Walls along the fenceline are exuberantly painted. 

Above this beach, wealth takes a heavy sigh. This remarkable place is not theirs but belongs to all who step foot here. The bridge casts a shadow on the headlands, beaming bright but also capable of darkness.

Sand always reaches between my toes, no matter the height of my boots. 

When I encounter animals on my walks or in the world at large, I like to imagine we have an understanding, a feeling of mutual respect. I know the world has leaned heavy toward the greed and unquenchable thirst of humans, so I am in a sense just appeasing my own desires. 

Walking down the street I spot a deer checking me out, waiting to see my next move. As always, I step slowly and push the on button on my camera. The deer makes its way to a front yard garden which is nicely curated. Spending little time there, the deer sneaks behind a fence to a neighboring backyard. I want to follow but don't. I don't know the house inhabitants, after all. 

Two other deer prance down the road in my direction. Like the other, they are cautious around me and watch to see what I will do. Like before, the camera gets wielded. I am sure this moment exists more purely without documentation, but I am compelled to keep clicking. 

I watch as the two young deer find their way around a low fence to accompany their companion. My time is done here and I walk on. I turn back for a moment just to see them again, to send them a mental thank you. I hope they find the food they are foraging for and make their way back up the hill, away from us two legged lunkheads. 

Out here the houses are close together and have great character. The lack of front yards either leads to sparseness or it results in an over zealous attempt to plant as much as possible in a tiny amount of dirt. I used to do the same when I lived in San Francisco years ago. 

A twenty something me excitedly planted flowers inside a square of concrete. I had planted them a few times before. Each time the small space got filled with trash and dog poop. My love of flowers kept me optimistic and I continued trying. My upstairs neighbor, who was fond of having parties and throwing cigarette butts on my backyard flowers, accused me of being a martyr. I resented his bitter critique and scowled as he walked past me on the sidewalk. The raccoons fought me on the other flowers I planted in the shade between houses. It was the beginnings of what would become a greenish and stubborn thumb. 

Now, on my walk, I notice several dilapidated old vehicles with an abundance of character. I imagine them new, tanned youngsters behind the wheel, following the sun that ends where the fog begins. Today they are held together with tape and rope, and dreams of what once was. They hold story upon story of where their wheels went and of the days they sat still. I admire their sun soaked and salted patina. 

Moving past memory and present day pondering, I cherish the blue sky. I seek and find a state of calm. When the shadows become too long, I seek the brightness that created them. My camera documents while I do this delicate dance. Time circles around itself and feet are firmly planted, except when they are not. Squint, click and step. 

I climb a set of narrow stairs to get  to the peak. From here I can see the city from above. If I zoom into each area, there is a memory of past steps, rolling around on two wheels, aiming different cameras at what strikes me. 

Colors are different here in California, more vibrant, and at times almost electric. I remember the first time I wielded a camera in this place and how elated I was at the vibrancy of the images I collected. In my home state, everything looks as if it has a dull brownish filter. On the east coast it is a slight hint of grey, the remnants of a winter sky. Here, cool blues mash up against golden light. All images can be doctored to have the same appearance, but standing here and now, my eyes don't lie. 

This day I feel anxious. Is it the height at which I stand? Is it the pandemic woes? Is it nothing at all? I am not sure. Beauty overtakes my bewilderment, and I am present in this place. I am happy to be here now in spite of all that is troubling in the world. Comfort is found in the the bluest of blue, eschewing meandering melancholia.  

During the pandemic it is more fun to walk where people are told not to, rather than on the designated paths. Of course everyone navigates toward the places that scream "walk here".  We have arrived with the intent of walking on this marked trail in the hopes that it is wide enough and sparse of people. It is pretty nice, but quickly I am distracted by painted structures up on the hill. 

We are on what was once military property and it is marked as such. It is not clear if the signs are new or just left behind out of laziness. No one pays them any mind. This area is now restored wetlands, hugging a new subdivision and cultural organizations that now occupy the base. It is a mash up of what was and what will become. It doesn't seem altogether comfortable in its current state of being. 

We find a gap in the fence that leads to the road up to where the painted structures are. This area is absent on the online map, just an unidentified blur. Graffiti covers every manmade surface here. Bunkers, dot the hill like small fortresses, apocalyptic homesteads. They are locked tightly, but I ponder if it is time to open them up again. In the US, we are in a surreal collective nightmare that we can't seem to shake ourselves out of. Insanity reigns free. Who knows what will happen next. 

But still, we voted early and with great hope, because small joys will become big ones one day soon. They have to. They need to. They will. Please vote!

On the way to my destination I blast the music in the car and sing along. This is one of the joys of driving. It doesn't matter if I know the words, if I sound totally off-key, or even if I truly love the song. What matters is the release.

Driving over the Golden Gate Bridge the morning fog engulfs the bridge itself. I can see enough to get across and make my way to Baker Beach. Once there, the fog remains thick. The atmosphere is ​mysterious and somewhat magical. The mist from the fog and the ocean mix to make a salty spritz. 

Fishermen dot the edge of the water, casting rods into raucous waves. One gentleman has built a low barrier wall and moat to protect him from the water. I compliment his set up and he grins at me, sans a few front teeth. He gestures to the sculptured sand and says something I can't quite decipher over the sound of the ocean. I smile back anyway, then realize he cannot see half my face covered in a mask. I give a friendly wave and walk on. 

A man waves a metal detector over the sand. He has a little basket to filter the earth from his treasures. He shakes the basket and then puts something in his pocket. This is a modern day gold digger. I hope his search proves fruitful. 

I wander to the edge of the beach where on a clear day, the view of the bridge is quite breathtaking. Today I like feeling like I am on another planet. I'm happy here where water fades into sky, and sand finds a home between my toes. 

I have everything and nothing to say. Some walks are needed to create an emptiness where new thoughts can emerge.