I have a couple different paths I normally follow when walking in the town where I live. These are not designated paths but repeated wanderings that are now routine. On this day, I veer off onto a hill that normally only gets a bit of side eye. I turn any direction that sends me further up. The landscape gets a bit more wild and the homes more hidden. My legs get that wobbly feeling they get when I am at great heights. To me, this is not a fear but an involuntary reaction, my mind just reminding me not to stumble into some great unknown crevasse. I imagine my legs like rubber bands when this happens and giggle quietly about it. 

Navigating these narrow, no shoulder, roads can be a bit tricky at times. Mostly it is just me and the trees, but when it is not, I am an awkward walker. To create distance, I trespass into strangers driveways to let other parties pass. Other times, I am trapped, too close to an oblivious unmasked individual. Then, I can be found, back turned, staring into some shrubbery, hiding my disgust and shielding my masked face. The higher I climb, the less people I encounter. Redwoods create a feeling of otherworldliness and calm that I welcome.

As always, I prefer to find my way without a map. This works until I want to attempt to get home. I do get out my phone and ask the map lady to send me down the hill a different way than I came. In the spot where I stand, there is a narrow hiking path, a driveway, a residential street and the seeming end of the street I am on. I do what the map lady tells me and the dot runs along the wrong street and shows me eventually back up the hill. I turn another direction and hit a dead end. I return to where I came from and look for what I might have missed. Ultimately, I backtrack, taking the long way home.

One thing that this pandemic has taught me is that the slow, long way may seem cumbersome, but in the end allows for greater reward. I've always been one to lose time due to wandering, but what I gain is invaluable. It's never dilly dallying if it is made of dreaming and delight.

Fires recently engulfed the area surrounding this beautiful beach. I watched the progress and air quality daily and expected to now see it charred and withered. Instead, there is evidence but not ultimate destruction. Nature finds a balance as long as we don't stand too headstrong in its way. 

As we walk, a raven is in lockstep with our movements. We say hello as he skips beside us. It is delightful and quite charming. As I reach for my camera, he doesn't exit the scene like most of the corvids usually do. Seeing my curious glance, he does a little dance and pauses for a snack or two. Every time I look for his wings to be outstretched, he is just strolling at a safe distance. 

The beach is sparsely populated, so we are able to breath freely at least part of the time. The salt air smells good and my lungs fill, crisp and clean. Various sea birds flit about feasting on what washes ashore. This is a good mid December morning, in the year 2020. 

The beach is beautiful as always, but it appears that the birds have been suffering a bit. There are more than a few carcasses in the sand. Perhaps these mark the end of well lived, flight filled days - but perhaps not. I'd like to ask the ravens, but they are busy feasting on the feathered dead (disturbing but true). They also dine on watermelon and french bread. 

Mist rises and falls, forming temporary clouds on the surface of the water. Surfers dive in and out of wide waves. One loses his board which finds its way to the sand, resulting in a passerby becoming a good samaritan. I lose my mind to salty daydreams. 

I don't put any rocks in my pocket today, but that doesn't mean I'm not looking for treasure. I recently read of an abandoned coal mine here. I count the gaps in the rock, guessing where the void falls deep. With my camera, I collect images of what shall be left undisturbed, the shared space of critters and man. I thank the winged ones for letting me walk among them, because it is we who have taken way too much.  

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. 

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!

The air was clean enough to go to the beach this morning. This is our constant cycle these days. Check the air quality, measure the covid risk, and decide the heatwave tolerance level. It is the 2020 disaster dance of west coast sanity seekers. We are mostly here for the environment after all. It is so strange to interact with it in this odd and dysfunctional way. Nevertheless, at the beach, contentment is found.  

The waves are raucous and surfers find solace in flowing with the push pull of the water. Salt drenches sun soaked skin of those who see the ocean as their second home, or maybe even their first. I grew up in the south near a river where, at the time, people dumped old refrigerators and used car parts. Sure, it was also pretty in certain areas, but it wasn't much more than a glorified creek. So, to me, the ocean has always seemed so grand. I realize I repeat this sentiment over and over again, but some things are well worth repeating.  

As the smoke clears for the morning, I head into San Francisco. I park on the end of California and venture up a hill that takes me to a golf course. In non-covid19 times I might have wandered deep in to explore what I could find on the carefully maintained grounds. Now, I follow the rules for reasons of safety and social distancing. The designated walking path takes me to the other side of the golf course where the land meets the water. The view is amazing and the depth of feeling it evokes could never be captured in pictures. Vividness of color (or lack of), beauty of composition, and luck of timing can never come close to expressing what happens in my gut when something touches me deeply. It can, however, be a reaction or retelling of what is seen, a new story that exists on a different plane of reality. 

Down the road are homes of great wealth. This is a unique world which is somewhat foreign to me. It is beautifully manicured, full of caretakers and builders. The facade needs constant maintenance. Walking through is free. I wonder who lives here and what their lives are like. A quick search reveals a few well known celebrities. I doubt I'll ever be their neighbor but no harm in pretending. And yes, this is a frivolous, empty kind of joy, but it is entertaining. 

Further in, I spot a sign that says "public beach". Of course, I have to follow it, and I land at China Beach. There is a road down which is wide enough for social distancing. There, I find a lone fisherman, a swimmer who obviously does not mind the cold water, and two young men enjoying the view from above. Beyond that, it is me and the birds. I feel gleeful, because in all my years living in the Bay Area, I had never been here. I had seen it from above, but just assumed it was inaccessible.

The Golden Gate Bridge stands tall in the distance, an icon of this joining of land and sea. Seagulls rest in the sand, only slightly hindered by my human presence. I hop over the water that reaches the rocks to see the other side of the cove. I am filled with delight and know this is exactly where I need to be at this second, on this day, in this very strange and difficult year. 

It takes all that I have to stay positive as California is burning, but it is nearly impossible to escape the inevitable at this point. Every time the wind blows, my heart jumps. When the heat rises, my stomach turns. When the electricity disappears I wilt in worry. These are the days of the apocalypse. Glimmers of hope filter in through the cracks. Watching the horrible that is the news creates an abyss that is hard to crawl out of. Photography will continue to be my refuge as long as I let it. A pandemic is one thing, but piling on raging fires is more than most have capacity to digest. Our "go bags" are ready and for now we are safe. Others are not so lucky. My heart breaks for them. My heart breaks for this beautiful state.