Night Runs
Just before dusk, I headed out for a trail run. We've been staying in Pt. Reyes this week, and I've been starting many of my runs at the visitor center in Bear Valley. For some reason, I've never run here before--only hiked along the main, wide trail along the valley with Axel. So this week, all of my runs are along new-to-me trails. Can't think of a better way to transition from the end of an old to the beginning of a new year.
I lock the car at 4:30pm, figuring I have about an hour before dark. I'm going to run seven miles, so I know that the timing is close, but I also know that the trails are well-marked. Also, yesterday I started my run at 5pm and managed to find my way back to the trailhead in the gathering dusk. I carry along some candy, just in case, but leave my license in the car, since I don't have a big enough pocket for it. Nothing worse than carrying a lot of junk with you on a run.
I love running in the evening. In my twenties, I used to go for runs after my shift at the restaurant. After having wiped down the tables, stored all the saran-wrapped condiments, wrapped the silverware in napkins and counted the money. In the dark of 2 or 3 am, I would run along the edge of the street, scanning for pools of light from the street lamps above. I loved that time of night in Charlottesville, after the bars have all closed and the streets had emptied of drunken students. It's not that I wasn't a little scared; I knew how dumb it was for a twenty-one year old woman to run out alone that time of night. But the pleasure of those empty streets and my footfalls marking out a rhythm against the silence outweighed the fear. Anyway, a little bit of fear makes a run more fun.
After we moved to Oakland, I found a running buddy to run with at night. Oakland is no Charlottesville and, though the winter evenings are far more temperate than Charlottesville, I'd venture to say they're not quite as safe. She and I would meet in the dark and loop around the city streets. But the streets in Oakland are only empty early Sunday mornings, never after dark. More recently, I've been running trails in the evening with another friend, at dusk just as the sun disappears into the bay. It's harder to see at that time of day than in the pitch black of night, so my friend and I wear headlamps. Usually. I often forget mine. The familiar trails become unfamiliar; shapes loom indistinctly. Trees? Rocks? A mountain lion? The rocks and roots underfoot disappear into a murky quicksand and we have to skim our feet lightly, as if we're skating over the surface of the trail.
My run tonight climbs up to Mt. Wittenberg from the far side of the valley. The first mile and a half takes me along the gradually sloping, wide trail that borders the valley creek. Although it hasn't been a rainy winter, it has rained quite a bit for the last week. The trails are muddy underfoot and I dodge large puddles. Beside me, the creek rushes by loudly. We've started our hikes and walks on this section of the trail several times already this week and the curves and hills are familiar. The first juncture takes me up Old Pine trail, a steep, narrow path up to the Inverness ridge. The muddy trail is like chicken molé, nowhere stable to place a foot. I run along wet grass bordering the trail, but so has everyone before me: it too is muddy and slick, full of sinkholes. I head straight uphill in this manner for two and a half miles.
Finally, I reach the ridge and the trail levels out. In front of me, the sun has dipped into the pink ocean. Behind me, fog rises from the valley below. Within the tree-lined trail, I have trouble discerning the rocks and sinkholes. I run, happily, hoping that the second half of my run will be downhill and that I'll make it back before dark. Suddenly a form emerges out of the fog and dusk. A silver-haired woman walks toward me. She carries nothing and we pass one another in silence, quizzically catching each other's eye. I can't imagine where she is heading, at sunset, more than three miles from the nearest trailhead. I wonder if I should stop to talk to her, make sure she's not addled. But, remembering the flip-flop wearing Hawaiians flitting along the steep and rocky mountain trail of Kauai, I reason that perhaps she's a local and knows what she is doing.
For myself, I'm not so sure. It is now difficult to see and the trail is rising. Apparently, I am not done climbing. The trail rolls upward for another mile. The sun has disappeared entirely to the west and the ocean is now a dusky lavender under the fog. Below me to the east, the fog has crept up to the tree tops. Above, I see the marker for Mt. Wittenberg, a grassy hillock against the gray sky. There is enough light to see, but my relief disappears as soon as I begin my descent: the trail winds through a thick redwood forest. In the near-black, I cannot differentiate the trail from non-trail. I move forward, my heart beating and my thoughts racing, listening and feeling for the trail with my feet. According to the sign, I have two and a half miles of this. The panic rises and I realize that I hadn't told Mychal where I was headed. I wonder if he'll be able to figure out my route based on my offhand comment that I was going for seven miles and that it was "A new trail!"
Multiple cords of might-be trails criss-cross one another. As with most of the area, splinter trails created by scores of hikers lead to short-cuts or side-trips. In the dark, I can't tell which is the trail or which is the splinter. My feet slip on wet rocks, I slide down the hill. I force my thoughts into a calming litany, slow my breathing and steps down. Suddenly, I emerge from the forest into a meadow. Hallelujah! With the ambient light, the dirt trail separates itself easily from the grassy meadow. But my exuberance lasts only the minute that it takes me to cross the meadow and enter another, dark, forested stretch. By now, I can see nothing. But I hear a rushing creek which I tell myself, not knowing, must be the valley creek. I force myself to repeat this over and over, crowding out the anxiety that I'm not even on a trail at all, telling myself that it's impossible to get lost this close to the valley. Worse comes to worse, I just go down hill and I will inevitably reach the valley.
Luckily, worse did not come to worse. The coursing water grows louder and the trail steeper. A few more hairpin turns and slick rocks, and I find the bridge which Axel had ridden across this morning on his skuut. Only a mile to the trailhead along the gentle, wide valley trail. Even blindfolded, in the dark and fog, I can find my way to the car.
I lock the car at 4:30pm, figuring I have about an hour before dark. I'm going to run seven miles, so I know that the timing is close, but I also know that the trails are well-marked. Also, yesterday I started my run at 5pm and managed to find my way back to the trailhead in the gathering dusk. I carry along some candy, just in case, but leave my license in the car, since I don't have a big enough pocket for it. Nothing worse than carrying a lot of junk with you on a run.
I love running in the evening. In my twenties, I used to go for runs after my shift at the restaurant. After having wiped down the tables, stored all the saran-wrapped condiments, wrapped the silverware in napkins and counted the money. In the dark of 2 or 3 am, I would run along the edge of the street, scanning for pools of light from the street lamps above. I loved that time of night in Charlottesville, after the bars have all closed and the streets had emptied of drunken students. It's not that I wasn't a little scared; I knew how dumb it was for a twenty-one year old woman to run out alone that time of night. But the pleasure of those empty streets and my footfalls marking out a rhythm against the silence outweighed the fear. Anyway, a little bit of fear makes a run more fun.
After we moved to Oakland, I found a running buddy to run with at night. Oakland is no Charlottesville and, though the winter evenings are far more temperate than Charlottesville, I'd venture to say they're not quite as safe. She and I would meet in the dark and loop around the city streets. But the streets in Oakland are only empty early Sunday mornings, never after dark. More recently, I've been running trails in the evening with another friend, at dusk just as the sun disappears into the bay. It's harder to see at that time of day than in the pitch black of night, so my friend and I wear headlamps. Usually. I often forget mine. The familiar trails become unfamiliar; shapes loom indistinctly. Trees? Rocks? A mountain lion? The rocks and roots underfoot disappear into a murky quicksand and we have to skim our feet lightly, as if we're skating over the surface of the trail.
My run tonight climbs up to Mt. Wittenberg from the far side of the valley. The first mile and a half takes me along the gradually sloping, wide trail that borders the valley creek. Although it hasn't been a rainy winter, it has rained quite a bit for the last week. The trails are muddy underfoot and I dodge large puddles. Beside me, the creek rushes by loudly. We've started our hikes and walks on this section of the trail several times already this week and the curves and hills are familiar. The first juncture takes me up Old Pine trail, a steep, narrow path up to the Inverness ridge. The muddy trail is like chicken molé, nowhere stable to place a foot. I run along wet grass bordering the trail, but so has everyone before me: it too is muddy and slick, full of sinkholes. I head straight uphill in this manner for two and a half miles.
Finally, I reach the ridge and the trail levels out. In front of me, the sun has dipped into the pink ocean. Behind me, fog rises from the valley below. Within the tree-lined trail, I have trouble discerning the rocks and sinkholes. I run, happily, hoping that the second half of my run will be downhill and that I'll make it back before dark. Suddenly a form emerges out of the fog and dusk. A silver-haired woman walks toward me. She carries nothing and we pass one another in silence, quizzically catching each other's eye. I can't imagine where she is heading, at sunset, more than three miles from the nearest trailhead. I wonder if I should stop to talk to her, make sure she's not addled. But, remembering the flip-flop wearing Hawaiians flitting along the steep and rocky mountain trail of Kauai, I reason that perhaps she's a local and knows what she is doing.
For myself, I'm not so sure. It is now difficult to see and the trail is rising. Apparently, I am not done climbing. The trail rolls upward for another mile. The sun has disappeared entirely to the west and the ocean is now a dusky lavender under the fog. Below me to the east, the fog has crept up to the tree tops. Above, I see the marker for Mt. Wittenberg, a grassy hillock against the gray sky. There is enough light to see, but my relief disappears as soon as I begin my descent: the trail winds through a thick redwood forest. In the near-black, I cannot differentiate the trail from non-trail. I move forward, my heart beating and my thoughts racing, listening and feeling for the trail with my feet. According to the sign, I have two and a half miles of this. The panic rises and I realize that I hadn't told Mychal where I was headed. I wonder if he'll be able to figure out my route based on my offhand comment that I was going for seven miles and that it was "A new trail!"
Multiple cords of might-be trails criss-cross one another. As with most of the area, splinter trails created by scores of hikers lead to short-cuts or side-trips. In the dark, I can't tell which is the trail or which is the splinter. My feet slip on wet rocks, I slide down the hill. I force my thoughts into a calming litany, slow my breathing and steps down. Suddenly, I emerge from the forest into a meadow. Hallelujah! With the ambient light, the dirt trail separates itself easily from the grassy meadow. But my exuberance lasts only the minute that it takes me to cross the meadow and enter another, dark, forested stretch. By now, I can see nothing. But I hear a rushing creek which I tell myself, not knowing, must be the valley creek. I force myself to repeat this over and over, crowding out the anxiety that I'm not even on a trail at all, telling myself that it's impossible to get lost this close to the valley. Worse comes to worse, I just go down hill and I will inevitably reach the valley.
Luckily, worse did not come to worse. The coursing water grows louder and the trail steeper. A few more hairpin turns and slick rocks, and I find the bridge which Axel had ridden across this morning on his skuut. Only a mile to the trailhead along the gentle, wide valley trail. Even blindfolded, in the dark and fog, I can find my way to the car.
posted by aelis at 9:21 PM
2 Comments:
Meanwhile I was with Axel at the playground in town, Twittering pictures of the fog: http://twitter.com/mychalmccabe/status/7316006035 Took some leafing through the trail book, but only found one trail at seven miles. ;)
Perhaps you should try your hand at serious fiction. A link to this came up on my facebook, and I was rather pleasantly surprised reading it. It is well written, has a good sense of suspense, and good pacing. All it needs is a plot, and you have several good complication points already, one being the ethereal woman who crosses your path. Step back from it and read it as if you did not write it, and you will see what I mean.
"Worse comes to worst," not "worse."
Aunt Monnie
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