And then there was light

Kat didn't believe me when I said it had been more than a year. "That can't be," she said.

"Well, we haven't gone since you got pregnant. You were so sick. We've been out of the house, but not on a hike."

"But that wasn't until August. When was Marble Mountain?"

"June."

"I'll have to check my blog," she replied, as if the blog were now the chronicle of our lives.

Turns out it was exactly a year...to the day.

I have to say, it felt really good. I'm not really one of those granola outdoorsy types that dresses in hemp or the latest gear from REI. I probably would like to be like them, but it's just not me. But I have to say, I really felt like myself again hiking through the brush.

Katherine is so wonderful to humor me. It's still early for her. She wanted to do a coastal hike, which admittedly would have been superior given the weather. But I've so wanted to explore the mountains that overlook our home. The big ones to the west are steep and forbidding. The green grass finally turned brown last month and the oaks are nearly black, but they still have so much character. But for some reason, I've really been drawn to the smaller hills to the east. They lost their hint of green long ago, revealing their near desert climate. Many California hills look golden and inviting from a distance, but these hills even look scraggly and barren from afar.

Yet somehow that held more allure for me. Strange since I've always hated the dry, dusty California climate that these mountains embody. It almost feels like an old western, with dust invading every corner of your boots and clothes. I can see a young Clint Eastwood racing a horse through the brush to elude outlaws. What you can't see on TV is that the dust is so fine it sits in the air unseen, and mixes in your sweat like finely ground salt dissolves into oil, and coats your skin, even getting in the creases that age brings around the eyes.

Katherine must have been thinking the same thing as we wound our way past dried brush, and patches of dirt and sand to parches to support even grass. The tall mountains to the west must steal all the rain. Still, there was something romantic to the softened colors. The early summer dust powders everything, muting the colors. Burnt orange, burgundy, evergreen...all become shades of brown in the California summer. But there's a beauty to the subtlety.

As we approached our destination, craggy spires started crowning the hilltops, until we were greeted by huge slabs of rock glinting with volcanic glass, uprooted by geologic forces at the entrance of Pinnacles National Monument.

The hike was short, but satisfying. My curiosity had been satisfied, if only briefly. I will have to return with proper equipment on an early morning hike sometime. For now, it felt good to get out again.