Hike SF

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.

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.

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?

On Saturday I moseyed down to Mission Bay to finish off a few stray roads, and came back over Potrero. And I discovered a few interesting things along the way. First off, many streets that appear on maps near Mission Bay no longer exist. Mostly they’ve fallen to UCSF construction, which is slowly turning Mission Bay into a concrete and glass oracles to nursing. The common theme is an otherwise empty lot littered with I-beams, mounds of gravel, vacant machinery and occasional security guards. Of course these guards insist that you’re trespassing.

Second, following 20th Street to its very bitter end, you’ll encounter a few interesting things. Just beyond Tennessee you’ll find an abnormally large number of people waiting for the bus. The neighborhood otherwise has all the qualities of a ghost town, but for some reason at least 75 people will be waiting for the bus.

After Illinois you’ll find yourself in the docks. Three rent-a-cops will ask you where you’re going. Remind them that you’re on a public road and they’ll begrudgingly go back to eating their subway sandwiches. A beaten up old truck will present you with messages of hate (e.g. “FUCK YOU LARRY, SUCK MY DICK”) and a strangely large number of cyclists will ride by. Because you’re going to a dead end, if you’re anything like me, you’ll assume these cyclists are buying drugs in the boat house. I’m not a connoisseur, but this seems like a good place to exchange contraband.

When you near the end, you may be awe struck by a gigantic pile of scrap metal that includes multiple MUNI buses. Gates with barbed wire surround this pile, and proclaim US Customs ownership.

On the way back, I wound up through Potrero, eventually making my way down Vermont, a street which some conjecture is curvier than Lombard. Given the height of the stairs, Vermont is clearly steeper, and seemed to be windier. But unable to recollect a rigorous mathematical definition of “curvy”, I abandoned hope of ending the debate.