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I rode up to Twin Peaks this afternoon, after going through Land's End, out to Ocean Beach and down the path that parallels the Great Highway. It was one of those days when I feel so lucky to live here.
The view above is from Twin Peaks Boulevard--I love how the Transamerica pyramid and the new One Rincon Hill bookend the downtown skyline. And if you look carefully, you can see the Ferry Building gleaming at the end of Market Street.
Today was an astoundingly beautiful day in San Francisco, and I spent a portion of it on one of my favorite rides around the City, a route that winds for just over 13 miles through Golden Gate Park, the Panhandle, the Wiggle, the Duboce Bikeway (above), Market Street, the Embarcadero, Fort Mason, Crissy Field, and the Presidio before returning to the Richmond.
I've ridden through the Duboce Bikeway literally thousands of times--I worked in downtown SF for a total of 8 years, and I commuted by bike for most of that time--but not once have I ever stopped to take a photo of the mural there, even though it happens to be my favorite piece of public art evah.
But for some reason today I stopped and snapped the pic above. And looking at it now I want to ride out to Ocean Beach immediately.
Today we decided to simply hang out and enjoy a day in San Francisco, which included:
While thinking about a student who's seriously ill and sending good thoughts his way, I'm finding it comforting to recall a trip Amy and I took up to Pt. Reyes this past December, during the week between Christmas and New Year's. Amy's dad Rich had recently been diagnosed with cancer, and Amy had spent the two weeks prior to Christmas back in New Jersey, helping her parents navigate the medical system and begin his treatment.
Amy was glad she could be there for her parents, but it was a stressful time for everyone, and we knew that her ability to be a source of support depended on both of us taking some time out along the way. So she came home to San Francisco for the holidays, and we put up a Christmas tree for a few days before heading up to Marin.
On our first hike that week we took Sky Trail to Woodward Valley, and then we wound our way down to the coast. Fog was creeping up from Bear Valley, but the coast was clear enough to see the Farallons.
We made our usual trek out to Tomales Point, and the tule elk were incredibly active. One male chased another for several hundred yards, just off the trail, stirring the rest of the herd into movement. (No, not here, but trust me, they were running wild.)
I took a solo hike up to the top of Point Reyes Hill, down to the coast via the Bucklin Trail, and back up via the Bayview. The view of Point Reyes from the summit was spectacular:
I'd never been down Bucklin before, and it was so isolated it was spooky. I came across a relatively recent deer skeleton right on the trail, as well as an endless variety of mushrooms:
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A challenging day, as these "Half-Way" and "Almost Done" shots make clear:
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Our last day we went to Kehoe Beach for the first time. I love the pastures that roll right up to the dunes:
There was a minus tide that day, making the beach hundreds of yards wider than usual and exposing huge rock formations that are usually covered in surf. A stunning way to end our trip:
The reality of Rich's illness was always on our minds, and we knew that Amy would be returning to New Jersey shortly, but it was helpful to spend just a little time in this most beautiful place, not to shut out the reality of death, but to appreciate life even more. So as my student R. is locked in a tough battle with cerebral malaria, I'm not surprised to feel a keen sense of appreciation for every aspect of life, particularly as it's expressed in a place like Pt. Reyes.
I've made a concerted effort this past month to unplug, disconnect and de-blog. (Hey, I've barely even tweeted.) I haven't been idle, but I've given myself plenty of leeway to just do whatever I felt like doing--which has included a lot of exercise but not much writing.
As part of that strategy, Amy and I just spent a long weekend in Point Reyes. It wasn't exactly restful--I returned to SF slightly worse for wear, having pushed it a little too hard on the trails and at the dinner table. (Yes, you can eat too much Marin Sun Farms steak.) But it was still deeply satisfying to be there, exploring new corners while returning to some old haunts.
One change from past trips was staying in a cottage right on Tomales Bay. The distant hill lit by the setting sun above is Barnabe Peak, which I climbed 3 years ago.
This was the first time we've been all the way out to Limantour Beach--the point at the far left in the background is Chimney Rock. Layers of "monsoonal moisture" resulted in some unusually dramatic clouds rather than the typical Summer fog (for a night, at least.)
We didn't make it to the end of the 3.5 mile Limantour Spit, but we got far enough to look across the estero at Drake's Head (on the right). That's the hill we climbed in June, the end of an amazing, desolate ranchland hike.
Tule Elk on Tomales Point, with Mt. Saint Helena in the background. These two males are from the "bachelors herd," a somewhat sad group of adolescent and declining males who've been ousted from the main herd by the dominant male (whose reign can last just a single mating season, apparently.)
The tip of Tomales Point, draped with sea lions and cormorants.
The walkway behind our cottage, leading out into Tomales Bay. At the end you can just make out a loveseat where we enjoyed a warm and starry evening under the monsoonal moisture before the fog rolled in.
A final, solitary view from Limantour Beach. I've said it before: Thank you, Phil Burton.
I suspect the urge to write'll return once Summer's over and classes at Stanford have begun. See you here again soon.
I'm 42 today. Yay me! As I wrote in March, 42 is "too young to feel truly old, but old enough to no longer feel young." Forty was just a number--I really didn't feel much different as a result. But 41 was a quite a bit heavier because Amy and I lost several family members that year, and that process has continued this year, leading to thoughts about mortality while laid up or caring for Amy after surgery.
Andy Chan, the former Director of Stanford's Career Management Center, once provided me with a great framework for thinking about where we are in a given journey or experience by asking, "Are you in the first half or the second half?" And it's safe to assume that I'm in the second half of this existence. (Although hopefully it's still the third quarter.)
As a result of my reflections over the past few months, I'm comfortable with this. Being sick and helping Amy recover made me realize how little I know about aging and infirmity, but, paradoxically, learning how unprepared I truly am has helped me prepare. Funny how growing old (up?) works that way.
So a sense of my mortality doesn't leave me feeling gloomy--but it does cause me to take stock, to look around and assess where I am and what I'm doing. And last night I wrote to a friend that "I've been feeling down lately, wondering whether I'm making enough of a difference, feeling a little frustrated and envious as I get glimpses down other paths."
This is largely a result of the absence of our students over the Summer, those from the Class of 2009, who have graduated and left the GSB behind, and those from the Class of 2010, who are in the midst of their internships all over the world. I have more time to see private coaching clients when classes aren't in session, but on balance I spend less time coaching and more time on administrative work and other projects at Stanford over the Summer. Coaching is my vocation, it sustains and feeds me--but the rest is just stuff that needs to get done. It's not drudgery, but it's not my passion, either.
So knowing that expressing gratitude is one of the keys to my happiness, I've been reflecting on what I'm grateful for, what I appreciate--which is to say who I'm grateful for, who I appreciate:
My day was going badly. I'll spare you the details, but it involved traffic jams and missed phone calls and rescheduled meetings. I wasn't blaming anyone but myself (and the unknown forces behind all that traffic), but I was feeling increasingly annoyed with the world, and I still had another 40 minutes to go in the car. I could just tell that things were only going to get worse from here.
And then, in a moment of inspiration, I had a little dialogue with myself:
Do I need to continue down this path? Do I need to push on?
No.
Could I turn around and go home?
Yes.
OK, then. New plan for the day.
I was on 280 in San Bruno, and I took the next exit to turn around and return to San Francisco. As I pulled off I saw signs for Golden Gate National Cemetery, a huge facility that I've driven past more than a thousand times but have never visited--until today.
I took a short detour, passed through the gates and drove slowly up to the summit of a huge mound at the center of the cemetery. The view today was almost identical to the photo above (thank you, Pargon), although the Memorial Day flags were gone.
Looking out over the graves of 139,000 veterans was sobering, and it put my "bad day" in perspective pretty damn fast. It was blustery and sunny, weather that makes me feel very much alive. Being surrounded by the memories of so many people who had sacrificed their lives while I could stand there and enjoy the sun and the wind helped me see just how meaningless and insubstantial my problems were and how much I have to be grateful for.
So the first lesson I learned today was how easy it can be to simply stop and reverse course when things are not going well. Sometimes persistence is called for, and sometimes it's merely a failure to consider all your options.
And the second lesson was that even when things seem not to be going well, they really are. Really, they are.
Photo by Pargon.
Every year Amy and I try to get up to Point Reyes, and at the end of June we spent a week at a cottage up on the ridge in Inverness. We'd hike all day, pick up some amazing local produce (like Marin Sun Farms steaks), grill dinner on our back porch, and collapse, exhausted. And then do it all over again the following day.
One of our favorite hikes up there is the Tomales Point Trail. This stand of cypress is all that remains of the Lower Pierce Point Ranch, about 2/3 of the way from the trailhead to Tomales Bluff. I always wonder what it was like to live here 120 years ago:
 | We made it all the way to the end (9.4 miles out and back), and it was so satisfying to rest on the hillside, eat a simple lunch of Molinari salami, bread and water, and watch the loons and pelicans and an occasional seal. (Or sea lion--I never really know.) The yellow lupine that looks so charming in the background was out of control this year. Chest-high and occasionally over our heads and sprawling across the last mile of the trail. |
Later in the week we went out to Tomales Point again to hike down to McClure's Beach:
A great discovery this trip was the Estero Trail to Drake's Head (coincidentally, also 9.4 miles out and back.) We saw 4 people in a full day of hiking, and 2 of them were in the last 1/4 mile. (In addition to the cows scattered across this section of the park, we saw 2 coyotes, 2 mother deer with their fawns, scores of bat rays swimming in Drakes Estero, and a red dragonfly.) From the top of Drake's Head, 150 feet above the Limantour Estero:
Another new destination was Marshall Beach. You have to drive 2.5 miles of gravel road to reach the trailhead, and from there it's only a 1.5 mile hike down to the beach, but here's the view of Tomales Bay (the beach is nestled in among the pines at right):
As I learned last year, the four best happiness strategies for me are Increasing Flow Experiences, Taking Care of My Body, Practicing Acts of Kindness, and Expressing Gratitude. Although hiking isn't always challenging enough to be a flow experience, there were certainly stretches on the longer days where I felt a sense of meditative peace. It was a gloriously physical week, from the daily exertion to the deeply satisfying food. And although we were kind only to ourselves, I am profoundly grateful for the experience. (Thank you, Phil Burton.)
Nearly as many boats in the Golden Gate as sunbathers on Ocean Beach, thanks to an unusually warm and cloudless day. Not a bad day to be alive, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to be here.
Some day you will
I saw this plank nailed to a telephone pole in my neighborhood this afternoon, and I found its cryptic message both reassuring and daunting. It offered encouragement, but it also challenged me to step up and make something happen. It made me pause and think about all the things I'm not doing now but that I will do...some day. What things? And when? And is some day... tomorrow?
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