Lately I've been joining
some folks for an early evening ritual. We travel down to a coastal ridge in Big Sur, where we then hike to the summit. This past week, as I came through Carmel, the tops of the tree were lost in fog.
There was no wind; the fog was thick, then thin and it was quite cool in the still air.
I parked at the base of the trail, loaded my pack, and set off up to the ridge. The hike ascends 1400 feet in switchbacks
through grass, sticky monkeybush, poppies, and low brush. I immediately lost track of the highway; even the muffled sounds of the occasional traffic seemed far away. The cool air kept me traveling fast, almost as fast
as the ever-present lizards who crossed the trail in front of me.
After 20 minutes or so I started to see blue sky through wispy fog. I broke out into bright late afternoon sunshine and immediately had to stop to
take off my sweatshirt. It was no longer cool. To the west was a sea of fog with islands of trees on other ridges poking through. The fog presented a well-defined surface but all in billows and swirls that didn't seem
to move at all in the calm air.
When I reached the bench there were about a dozen people gathered, greeting and catching up on the doings of the previous week. The bench was used as a table for the wine, cheeses,
cracker, breads, and other things not on my diet. We each brought a wine glass and mine was quickly filled with a local product. We passed around a Swiss army knife to cut the cheeses and slice the French bread. I
munched on olives and chilies.
The group is a mix of ages but it's mostly an older crowd. All are in decent shape - getting to the bench is a non-trivial task - and are usually evenly matched, men and women. The
younger guys like to take the longer routes up the hill and usually show up thoroughly winded and grinning: we cheer them on.
As the sun starts to set some begin the trek down the hill. It's hard going in daylight
and a real adventure in the dark. We stalwarts grow quiet - we've run out of wine - and pay more attention to the setting sun and its effect on the hills around us. The grasses turn golden and a deer on the hillside
below us appears outlined in gold as it stares up our way before moving behind the swell of the ridge.
The sun is half gone into the cloud below us. All its light seems to squish out from it's sides and it isn't
round. It's like an egg yoke seen edgewise, almost flat in a frying pan. You can feel the heat as if radiating from a stove. Above us is Prussian blue......
John Whittenberger <jlwhitt@redshift.com>
