When Em had suggested backcountry camping I immediately said, “Yes! Awesome idea!” Images came to mind of starlit nights, sleeping in warm down sleeping bags, and cooking delicious meals (food always tastes better when you’re camping). I had forgotten the carrying the heavy pack part. The very, very heavy pack. The ridiculously, what-could-we-have-left-behind-to-make-our-packs-even-ounces-lighter, heavy packs. I’ve never felt such relief as the end of the first day. Why were we doing this again? Oh, yes, to relax.

We had been hiking for almost an hour, over a meadow, through the wood (though nowhere near Grandma’s house), through a very dark Hansel and Gretal, some witch is going to eat us wood, then through a semi-dark wood. We had passed an unusually high number of mounds of poop, considering we had yet to see any wildlife. I was leading, saying to Em, “I love walking through the woods. The pine needles are so soft, a spongey carpet of goodness, — oh crap.” Literally. “Watch out, Em, it looks super fresh, be careful.”

Grrrrrllll.

We looked at each other and it became louder, “GGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLLLLLL.” At once, with lightning speed, conflicting thoughts ran through my head: We’re in California – black, brown, or grizzly? Stay small or get big? Run or play dead? I then realized most of my knowledge of bears came from nursery rhymes and Bill Bryson.

Emily must have read my mind, “I think we’re supposed to make a lot of noise. Let’s sing.” As if by magic, we simultaneously burst into a very bad rendition of “Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It’s Off To Work We Go.” Sure thing to ward off any predator.

We had been walking along what seemed to be a jeep trail for hours. We couldn’t figure out where we were on the map. We rationalized, we compared finger lengths to miles, we calculated elevation and guessed whether we should be going up or down. Frustrated, Em offered that she didn’t think we were on the right trail and we really needed to get to a water source soon. She had a point – we had no idea where we were and we did need water. We scanned the terrain. There seemed to be a trail down one mountain, through a batch of trees, then up a hill. “What about over there? Maybe that’s the trail we should be on.”

So we did what every single guide tells you not to do — we left the trail. We thought we were heading towards another trail, which somehow justified this very not so prudent decision. The meadow was easy to cross, though steep. As we descended, Em said, “We’d better make this work, because there’s no way I’m climbing back up this.” Famous last words. As we descended into a wooded area, the sound of water encouraged us. We walked towards the babbling. Or more precisely, slid down the precipitous conglomeration of loose rocks, looser soil, decayed leaves and broken twigs. My first of many falls involved me sliding, trying to grab a branch for support, falling face first into the hill, sliding more, and wondering if my limbs were still attached. They were.

We lunched by the stream, pumping fresh water and munching on peanut butter and tortilla sandwiches. “Okay. So our goal is to get to the beach trail. We’ll just follow the water, because it flows to the ocean. We should be no more than an hour away.” Excellent idea in theory, not so excellent in execution. We were at the nadir of a gulch. There was no walking along the stream. After several failed attempts, we decided to attempt to traverse higher ground. Which involved a lot of time on hands and knees. A lot.

Seven hours later we were back on the jeep trail. About 25 feet from where we had left it earlier. Lesson learned: never leave the trail.

Our starting, and ending, point.

We soon pitched our tent and completely exhausted fell asleep before darkness fell. The last words I heard before falling asleep were, “Why do we think tents protect us? It’s really only two layers of nylon. A bear could probably take the tent with one swipe. Maybe two. Except there’s nothing in here to eat. Except us….”

Day 3 – backtracking along the jeep trail. Attempting to take another trail to the coast. Running into a ridiculous number of cows. Trying to remember if cows are attack animals. Apparently not. Just curious. A herd heard us coming, turned their heads, walked closer and closer, eventually stopped about 15 feet from us, and stared us down until we were out of sight.

Finally we made it back to the coast. We finally had an opportunity to consult our tide table. Perfect timing – it was just high tide. We noticed the water line and pitched our tent accordingly. During the night it seemed the roar of the waves was surprisingly loud. My last thoughts before falling asleep were, “Glad we pitched our tent at high tide. We’re safe.”

Safe? Technically yes. But it was a close call. In the morning we noticed the high tide line was inches from our tent. Guess the night high tide is higher than the day high tide. Good to know.

Day 4 – we woke early, packed up, and hiked several hours back to the parking lot, our legs heavy, our shoulders sore, and our backs stiff.

We were greeted in the parking lot by a group of school children and their teachers. One woman asked us if we had hiked the entire coastal trail. “No, we did a loop up on the ridge then came back along the coast.” She stared at us. “The ridge? Wow. I’ve never known anyone to do the ridge…”

The homeless man weaved in front of me at the Sunday morning Civic Center Farmer’s Market. Back and forth, back and forth. He stopped suddenly, reeled back, and shouted towards the heavens, “Eggs, eggs! Buy the eggs, people. Don’t forget about your protein!”

From The Killer Angels, by Michael Shaara:

“A little eccentricity is a help to a general. It helps with the newspapers. The women love it too. Southern women like their men religious and a little mad. That’s why they fall in love with preachers.”

He left our table to use the restroom at the chic French restaurant. A waiter appeared, picked up his white linen napkin, whipped it in the air, and gingerly folded it into quarters. I smiled as he placed the napkin beside the empty plate. A moment later another waiter came by, lifted the quartered napkin, snapped it in the air, folded it neatly in eighths, then placed it in the center of the empty plate, and left. Moments later the maitre d’ smirked at the napkin, raised it, waved it as a bullfighter waves his cape, then magically transformed it into a rose, delicately placing it in the center of the plate.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him returning from the restroom. As surreptitiously as possible, I motioned for him to return to the bathroom. He looked around, confused, and continued toward our table. I waved him back. Go. Go back. Now. Turn around. But he wouldn’t.

As he sat down, he asked what I was doing. “I wanted you to stay in the bathroom a while longer. I think the swan would have appeared next…”