Today, I found myself uninspired by the marked trail I had done numerous times – a mangled and muddied mess requiring two steps to the side for every step forward. I eventually came to follow a path worn forward by cloven hooves, the passage revealed tenatively by the morning light behind an overgrowth of plants and the gnarled arms of oaks. More of a suggestion than a genuine trail, it seemed to promise the possibility of observing flora and fauna unmolested by the procession of ever louder weekend hikers who’ve all but forgotten the joys of quiet, and this was enough.
Following an animal path requires steady attention with every step. Pockmarked by the four-legged, wet clay soil common to Southern California can prove precipitous if taken lightly; pressed into submission like the overwrought dough of a baker’s apprentice, the chance of a twisted ankle was always looming, the possibility of poison oak even greater. I moved like Catherine Zeta Jones in Entrapement – tip-toeing, ducking, shimmying past glistening leaves of three, letting them be. My hiking
Emerging from a shaded turn, not even a half-mile further yet seemingly a lifetime away from the fork I had left behind, I was greeted by a gentle tide of wild grass silently swaying in unison. Several arterial possibilities cut through this angled plane, each leading to different congregations of oaks further ahead along the horizon (their denomination, I do not know). Countless mule deer must have passed throughout the winter, making these footpaths through the otherwise unnavigable overgrowth (I caught a deer spying me curiously from a nearby hilltop while photographing mushrooms). The entire time wondered how much further I would go before I would feel compelled to turn back.
The trail was by all means nothing special, yet entirely memorable for the quiet experienced under the embrace of oaks where deer undoubtedly congregated for shade, shelter, and the camaraderie of
“I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”
