Hiking

It's a hot day, you've been hiking, and suddenly you feel the desire to urinate.

Those paths leading off the main roads and up steep slopes aren't "Indian trails". The Indians weren't so stupid as to make their life difficult. Those are Stupid American trails.

You cannot rush the ascent of a mountain and still love the mountain.

I am a marginal parent.

We can and will learn from this. My sincere condolences to the family of the victim, to the woman who was mauled, and the two survivors of the incidents.

I've observed that, when a hiking a steep grade, it is best that you do not look to the summit. Plant your steps evenly and at a rate you can sustain without becoming winded.

Yesterday afternoon, Lynn and I braved the partial cloud cover to hike along the lowest ridge on our skyline to a place called "Vulture Crags".

The trail runs through open meadows and a subdivision. I was in the midst of the subdivision when Nature called.

I took a walk today through the underlight of Sleepy Hollow, a dusky green vale that begins a seasonal run of water to the sea in Whiting Wilderness.

The only creature I saw other than tiny lizards at Whiting on my walk yesterday was a lone red-tailed hawk.

The scarlet toyon or "hollywood" berries had begun to show themselves along the fringes of Sleepy Hollow and I had stopped to look at them when I realized that my ankle stung slightly.

I came upon a park ranger who was deciding what to do with a dead rabbit. It had clearly been killed and chewed.

A sound like breaking tinsel as the body burst out of the grass along the road's edge. A face: white cheeks, black nose and eyes, tan fringes.

I could not check into the motels, ride in the motorboats, or afford to hire a biplane to drag the message I wanted the beach people to see which was "You're being screwed!"

Dreaded Hill rises like a great panther paw between two canyons.

"I've been telling him about 'the mountain lion'," he winked. "Tell him about the mountain lion."