Yesterday I drove past Big Sur the town, which is on the northern stretch of Big Sur the storied coastline, to hike Buzzards Roost, a trail in Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. There are no apostrophes on the trail signs so I’m taking the name as a statement. I had tried and failed to hike this trail last year for no very good reason last year, and have been looking for a chance to redeem myself.

I thought at first it would be the trail version of the Paris chapel I never managed to view, Sainte-Chapelle. There was near-zero-visibility fog along Monterey Bay, three one-lane roadwork delays across bridges, and on arrival I found the park closed. Happily only the parking lots were closed for paving, there were spots for cars along the road, and the lodge and trails were open.

I am a fast walker when alone, not quite as fast given a 800-foot elevation change, but even so I completed the round trip in less than the guidebook-estimated two hours, even including some hanging about at the peak, where I saw a couple of turkey vultures, though they were soaring, not roosting. I was thrilled to be there, even though the “360-degree view” was not what I had imagined, and the peak was dominated by a 5G tower; suddenly I had bars, for the first time in miles. I did not avail myself of their services.

My husband and I have been discussing the relative merits of spending one’s days on steady increments of accomplishment, such as practicing an instrument; volunteering; specific experiences such as a longer hike or a concert; or haphazardly, as the spirit moves one. He is mostly keen to cultivate skills, which I admire and feel I should crave, yet I have noticed that days of practice tend to disappear into the mush of my memory, while events can be vividly recalled, though perhaps only because there are fewer of them.

For example, from this hike I will remember the several bridges built in the 1930s, which even under repair somehow seem more substantive than structures built later, competently and patiently spanning chasms for nearly a century, leading to reflections about the WPA and Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? I remember the people who helped me on the way up and the people I helped on the way down, and that mostly there weren’t any people at all, just me and the forest, birdsong and sunshine, fresh air and satisfaction and joy. Driving home, The Hills Are Alive unexpectedly sprang to mind, which I know is hokey, yet I find the lyrics evocative, capturing the stir of life one feels surrounded by in nature.

Many would assert I was never really “in nature” at all. There was that startling tower, faint occasional road noise in the lower elevations, roads and structures sometimes glimpsed in the distance, the amenities of the lodge, the maintained trail itself, all belying a true wilderness experience. I’ve taken longer hikes, but never really been one to bushwhack about, digging my own pits, and this portion of myself I will not consider a failing. Rather, I’m very pleased that where I live is surrounded by accessible natural beauty, and that it sears itself into my memory so readily.