THE HILLS
Some of my first memories are locked away in this patch of wilderness. With my family, I’d hike through the foothills of Mount Diablo, passing herds of cows, skipping over small streams, and playing with frogs in the ponds. Nearly two decades later, I still experience nature with the same childlike sense of adventure. The open spaces of Walnut Creek, California shaped who I am, and made me proud of where I grew up.
When I hear the word California, I picture rolling slopes and oak woodlands stretching for miles.
And because I love California and what it means to me, I walk once again into the hills behind my childhood house. A full moon, haloed by glowing ice crystals, lights my path through the night. The shadows heighten my senses, leaving me wonderfully aware and alive. I sit beneath the hollowed trunk of a tree, a thing that even in death can call these hills home. And then—an idea—I too could stay here until I expire. Every breath from this one to my last could have the same sweet earthy smell. What a wonderful thought.
The moon disappears over the ridge, and the next thing I know, it’s morning. Rusty orange leaves, barely clinging to their branches, brighten as the sun peers into the valley.
SHELL RIDGE
I continue through the open space. Shell Ridge, with its steep hills like vertebrae in a row, gives me a fine view of the mountain ahead. The southern side of the ridge is mostly grass, save for a lone oak tree every so often, while the northern side is a dense woodland. Following the line of knolls towards Mount Diablo, I amble along.
Just as it would take decades to know every corner, creaky stair, and drafty area of a house, so is knowing these hills a lifelong task. I’m glad to still be learning the landscape after all these years, and I delight in every surprise along the way.
Upon finding a beautiful oak tree with a hole in its trunk, I sit down to catch my breath where the sun shines through it.
CASTLE ROCK
As I approach the top of Shell Ridge’s easternmost hill, my pace quickens in anticipation of my favorite sight: the sandstone giants of Castle Rock. With a leap, I reach the highest point and look down on the geological masterpiece.
Jutting out of the earth like a stegosaurus’ plates, these monstrous rock formations are visible from miles away. They stand just before the mountain on a steep slope of chaparral. My eyes follow the curves of the path down to Castle Rock and beyond.
After taking in the view, I find myself hiking up Mount Diablo, determined to reach the summit.
MOUNT DIABLO
As a child, I was afraid of Mount Diablo. Given its sinister name, I assumed it was a volcano brewing with lava, ready to rain hell on our quiet suburban haven. I now know that the mountain isn’t a volcano, and it inspires no fear.
At the summit, nothing is concealed. To the west, I make out Sutro Tower and the Golden Gate Bridge, symbols of my adult life. To the east, beyond the central valley, are the snow-capped ridges of the Sierras. Within, I see all the way from my present self to my earliest years, a disjointed family of persons with mixed feelings about one another.
The sight of the city by the bay reminds me that I can’t actually stay here forever, and my heart drops in my chest. I descend, hop in a car, hop out, hop in a train, hop out, hop in a different train, hop out, walk, unlock, unlock, and blend back into a human habitat.
Every so often, from the high points of San Francisco, I catch a glimpse of Mount Diablo peaking over the Oakland hills, and I get the feeling that a part of me is still there, like a tree trunk in the hills behind my childhood house, lit by a full moon in the calm, quiet night.
