Up a mountain, down a hill

Mount Diablo is a 10-minute drive from my corner of suburbia, buried deep within a residential area with no apparent access. There is only a small sign that designates the path to ascension; it is easily missed if you speed past the turn-off. I've been visiting this landmark to view the greater Bay Area from up high. And perhaps a deeper unspoken purpose, I suspect, is to gain some kind of perspective. Mount Diablo serves as sanctuary when I can find no other retreat.

There are many points along the twisty road that lets you turn off in order to take in the view, but the real reward still rests near the rocky peak, more than 3800 feet above sea level. Once at the peak, one can view the Bay all the way to San Francisco, where the Golden Gate bridge appears to be made out of toothpicks. You wouldn't be alone however -- the peak is actually the most crowded part of the mountain, any time of the year. Solace is found elsewhere.

On the rare occasion, clouds smother the mountain 3/4ths of the way up, obscuring the the peak like a fabled Olympus (the picture of a frightening shield volcano with nearly vertical walls come to mind, with angry clouds dancing around the peak -- I wish). On those days, I take great pleasure in creeping through the clouds in my car with the windows rolled down, the chilly mist soaking into my skin. I would emerge a bit later, over a rolling carpet of clouds and into a harsh sun which saturates the colors so intensely that I am forced to squint while using my hand as a visor.

The colors of the mountain change in accordance to the seasons; it gives the location palpable moods. Thus, in order to appreciate the full volume of emotion, one must return to the mountain at different times of the year. The thriving spring greens that spill into every crevice in March is not to be overlooked by the thirsty amber thistles alongside the brown grass of September (which puts the fire hazard sign at the base of the mountain at "High").

Up here, the mind leaves for new cities while the heart dwells at home. There is a wistful dialogue between these two things -- The frenzy of New York minutes; the deafening still of your home town. The fog that settles in the San Francisco harbor; the sticky heat you wake up to during hottest months of summer. These callings take you across great distances and through fragments of memory. Up here, you can see both sides equally. You get to choose which side of the mountain you go down.

Coasting down is fast. The mountain becomes a hill; the mind seeks greater peaks.