Hike SF

Stepping off the bus and into the Candlestick parking lot, coworkers fanned out to their cars, safe from street sweeping ticks another day. I emerged with them, but broke from the pack, and soon was plodding up Jamestown avenue.

For the first time, I was so far off the edge of my map that I didn’t know if I was even going in the right direction. A familiar billboard became my beacon, and I eventually found Bayshore.

Cackling and staggering men offered me warm, canned cerveza. A noodle-armed teenager requested a cigarette, then offered an ass kicking. A hastily scrawled sign offered “FREE SAND.”

Outer Mission is such a generous neighborhood.

Choosing to avoid the tramps’ camps under the Caesar Chavez interchange, I climbed into Potrero and eventually towards General. It was only when I returned home that I realized I’d finished the first page of my book. God damn.

On Bonnie Brae in the Outer Sunset, two birds fervently guard their nest. Passing within ten feet once was a transgression. Passing twice was unforgivable.

Taking turns, they swooped at my head, screeching and scratching. Ducking, I turned onto Country Club Drive. They followed. In fact, they continued to follow for at least half a block until I received some advice from a neighbor.

Giving a knowing glance, he put down his trash bag and gestured with flailing arms. I followed suit, and the parents quit diving at least. But they followed for blocks, flitting from house to house, aggressively cawing and beating their wings.

If birds could learn lessons, I would have gone back to take the eggs.

Off Bayshore a ramp leads up to a bricked tunnel entrance titled “Morris Olson Tunnel” and dated 1949. Long since replaced by a pedestrian overpass and pointless to sweep, the dead entrance attracts piles of garbage.

So who was Morris Olson, and what did he do to deserve a tunnel? If Google reflects the world’s collective memory, Morris is lost to oblivion. Only photos of the bricks and passing blog comments mention the tunnel, and nothing mentions the man. Even the camera van had a bad day when it passed the tunnel.

While Ellie poured over volumes in the UCSF Library one Sunday in mid-November, I hiked up and around Twin Peaks. A narrow couple lanes encircle both bumps, forming a figure eight. But unlike the tourist magnet to the North, the eight has no sidewalk–only a retaining wall separating the street from a muddy trail.

The fog easily keeps the mud slick and treacherous. After a few near slips, I moved to the road. And after a few near automobile hits, I moved on top of the wall.

Its back is comfy eight inches wide, but feels like a tight rope. On one side, cars whiz by; on the other, a nasty fall down the rocky hill awaits. Descending on the southern side, both wall and trail disappear, and cars and pedestrians flirt perilously.

According to my map, I walked through the “T” in the Tenderloin this morning. Despite its pervasive poverty and pungent stench, the loin has a feeling of hustle and bustle akin to the financial district. Overladen shopping carts weave to and fro. Gristled old men push stained, empty strollers. Tourists examine the bottoms of their shoes.

Along Jones, I happened upon the “Anti-Saloon League,” established 1920. A windowless corner space whose single door had an eye slot. Above the door: an air vent and a featureless light fixture, like you’d install in a back alley. This must be Bourbon and Branch, I thought.

Pitiful boasts characterize the buildings along Jones. A sign on the Hotel Herald proclaimed, “Steel Frame Bldg.” Across the street, a Chinese Restaurant flew a banner with letters bigger than the name, “No MSG.” An hourly on the next block trumpeted, “Rooms Cleaned Daily!”

Last Sunday Josh wound through the streets in and around Bernal Heights Park. Covered with a smooth layer of grass, it’s surface is almost featureless. Only a handful of trees, an antenna and it’s control room break up the monotony. We ascended to the peak via a gravel path, and spent a while contemplating the view. The Golden Gate bridge was visible. Coit Tower and the Transamerica building were not.

Along the east end, a fellow had planted a garden and parked his RV in what once was Mayflower Street. He and his dogs stared quizzically and unwelcomely as Josh and I discussed trespassing. GMaps, curiously enough, marks this with a dotted line.

Our path down the hill became more and more circuitous as we descended. Streets are often severed by hidden leafy stairways, split by retaining walls, and bent by rifts and valleys. Intersections almost always have three or five ways.

Back down in the Mission, we passed a group of high schoolers dancing on the sidewalk. Not break dancing, crumping, pop locking, or anything else remotely timely. They were practicing synchronized formal dancing, like one might do in a castle in the 1600s. Half were clad in formal wear, and the other jeans and white t-shirts.

Four weeks passed, each with their own excuse. Dark ages thankfully bygone.

My amnesiac alarm clock blunk 3:18am Thursday morning. My watch, less susceptible to power outages, reported I was 15 minutes too late for the last shuttle to work. I worked from home the rest of the day, but took a long lunch to mosey down to Glen Park.

A young Hispanic man leaning against a wiring box on Caesar Chavez and Mission was clad in a beanie and ski jacket. All black, of course. As I passed by he reached with his left hand towards his right shoulder. In moments he scrawled incomprehensible letters with gold sharpie.

His movement had all the grace and precision of an auto maker’s welding robot. From the corner of your eye, it’d look like he was scratching an itch–a skill I assumed was important when standing amidst a dozen people, a busy intersection, and broad daylight.

The light changed, and I had to move around him to cross. He’s going for two, I thought, stepping into the intersection. Looking back, sure enough I was right.

Ugly or depressing sights are no rarity in the Tenderloin, but last week I saw something truly disturbing. Walking down Golden Gate near the federal building, a few homeless kids were strewn across the sidewalk. The youngest, looking about ten years old and 90 pounds, sat in a pile with his legs covered in blankets.

His face had a couple of open sores, and his arms were absolutely covered with them. He stared intensely at a quarter-sized wound on the back of his arm, below the elbow. Right as I walked by, he unflinchingly plunged a needle into its center.

I was shocked, speechless. Drug addicts, I’ve seen my fair share, but not enough to prepare me to see a child like that.

Reux reminded me that the page was a little light on maps the other day, so I set aside a chunk of the weekend to add a few new features. Now behind each post is now a faint trace of the walk to which it’s referring, and for meta posts, all walks combined. These are built from the monolithic KML file of all hikes. They be browsable too, if boredom overcomes you. My fav is probably the one with the cactus.

Links to maps, both in Google Maps and KML, are linked on the side. You might be wondering: why can’t I show all hikes on GMaps? Because it’ll cripple your machine, that’s why. Try as it might, my browser can’t render all paths within 45 seconds, and dragging lags by at least ten. True, my machine is old and busted, but I doubt yours can do it in less than 20.

Posts now sport a hike map link near the top, which’ll take you to the path in GMaps. I suppose this might help one to figure exactly where I saw that hobo playing baseball, scary tree monster, or giant pile of rubble.

Whilst Ellie was rummaging in the UCSF library, I fled towards the shadows, large trees stretching out behind the campus. A real live forest–or the city’s closest to it.

As I rounded the cul de sac of Hill Point, a gap between driveways gaped larger than any urban architect would allow. Indeed, the shoulder-to-shoulder pattern was cleft by a city stairway, heading down and to the right. I’d no interest in reaching Carl, which I assumed was where it went, but curiosity got the best of me.

Around the corner, impossibility struck. Farther and farther down, prickly bushes crowded the path, thicker and thicker. Halfway down I stopped to tuck my pants into my socks. But before the next turn, ’twas too dense to continue. Turning back around, I snapped the above picture.

The lower end of the stairs, I thought, was probably blocked by home construction at some point. Then, useless as they were, the stairs were abandoned by the city, and eventually overgrown. Not even Stairway Walks in San Francisco, with its exhaustive list of public steps, mentions the stairs.

One day I’ll return with proper boots, thicker pants, steadfast determination and a better camera, and trace those stairs the end. Who’s with me?