or a chance to turn back,

They say that this

will be the worst fog

in a hundred years.

Are you kids sure about this?

It might even rain?

In the middle of summer!

When we reach the trailhead,

we burst from the car.

Lean our packs against

the wooden sign,

the gateway to Bolinas Ridge.

She hugs us both,

and she waits outside the car,

her cigarette smoke

polluting the wet air

as the fog thickens.

Somehow, she knows

we have to do this.

See you tomorrow,

she says.

Be careful.

Up the Trail

Up.

The fog gets thicker,

and the ground is still

summer-baked earth,

and sliding feet,

ankles turning over gravel,

our packs ten times too heavy.

Finally,

at one of the turns

where we curve

around what we think

is the top of the trail

at last, we see the trees

rise out of the fog

until finally we reach

the spine of the mountain.

Flat. Trees.

BOLINAS RIDGE

at last.

Redwoods soar across the trail.

The Pacific spreads

into an endless blue horizon.

We seem so far from the bottom.

Jorge takes off his pack

near a wood sign

where the trails split.

My back is drenched

with sweat and wet air,

my feet wet too.

My legs ache.

I don’t think I’ve ever

pushed my body

this much before.

I feel my breath,

but I can’t slow it down,

my heart beating

way too fast.

Outdoor Conversations

Do you like her? Jorge asks.

Who? I say. But I know who.

Lisa. I mean it seems like you do.

I love her, I say. You know,

like a sister, I mean.

But what if I do?

What if this

is what love feels like?

Do you see that? I ask.

I point to a dark shape in the sky.

A bird soars, black against the gray fog.

I reach into my backpack,

pull out Mysterious World,

start to flip through its pages.

There are so many giant birds

in mythology that appear

when there are storms or fog.

But then I remember something

and I stop, close the book.

I think about how when I was little,

my father loved taking me

to Central Park on Sunday mornings

to look for birds.

I wish he could see this one.

Jorge, I say,

where’s your dad?

I don’t know, he says

between breaths.

I never met him.

Campsite

We hike along the ridge for a while.

The trees rise and fall over the edges of the trail,

toward the coast,

a blanket of green.

We walk

until we find the spot

where the trees are so thick

that every direction looks the same,

and we fold into the forest.

Jorge finds a deer trail,

a tiny path, barely noticeable

through the thick ferns and bushes.

We follow it down

toward the valley,

our legs scraping

against rocks and bushes,

the sun dropping

while more fog rolls in.