Did those birds really just crash into each other, I wondered?

I was hiking along the Ohlone Wilderness Trail, hearing the occasional raptor
screeches from high above me, when I saw what appeared to be a midair collision
at the edge of my field of vision. This was about 12 miles into an 8-hour, 19.2-miile
beast of a trek I had chosen because, well, the weather was cool and the drive
was short, compared to some of the hikes I’ve undertaken this summer.

So I stop and stare straight up at these two big, broad-winged beasts — a
golden eagle and a hawk, I’m guessing — soaring in circles on the warm-air
currents, and I realize they’re trying to maneuver into attack position. Like
warships of the 18th century, they’re big, powerful and hostage to the winds.
They execute impressive twists and turns and sure enough, they collide once
again. After that they resumed soaring, circling and screeching, and I left
them to their aerial combat.

Awhile later I see another hawk swoop in for a landing in the tall grass near
the trail. I figure a mouse’s day is about to take a terrifying turn for the
worse, but the bird sees me and flies off. Along about Mile 17.2, when the soles
of my feet are seeking U.N. sanctions against my brain, I take consolation in
the thought that I may have saved a field mouse’s life.

Scenes like this make me grateful my vision relies on the human eye rather
than, say, a cheap digital camera, which always seems to be turned off and packed
away someplace when all the cool stuff happens. As usual I’ve relied on taking
pictures of things which, being inanimate, are content to stand still while
I get the camera focused.

Posting this picture of the "W Tree" should not be construed as an
endorsement of any political figures currently in the news.

OK, so more about the hike. I started out at the headquarters of the Sunol
Regional Wilderness and hiked east on a gravel road for a couple miles to get
warmed up for the hills to be climbed. I’d end up far higher than the hills
pictured here. My goal was Rose Peak, which is 10 miles from the park HQ and
3,400 feet higher. I trimmed off four-tenths of a mile by starting from the
far eastern edge of the parking lot, then headed down the mostly-flat road past
Little Yosemite (so named because it’s a little bit like Yosemite: it has running
water, a canyon and a few big rocks).

I got on the Ohlone Wilderness Trail here, at the border of Sunol’s backpacking
area. It’s a brutally steep slog up a hillside from here, but it’s over quickly.

The rocks along the trail are impressive, but not particularly photogenic in
the way trees are.

Here’s one such tree.

The hike to Rose Peak is mostly uphill, except for one plunge into a valley
about 2.5 miles from peak. From here it’s another thousand feet of uphill drudgery.
The summit is not visible till you’re almost right on top of it, so there’s
no goal to keep your mind focused. I just thought back to all the hellish hills
I hiked at Henry Coe State Park, which taught me to never think of the top of
the hill until you’re dead certain you’re there.

A tree stump near the Rose Peak summit, though summit is a bit of a misnomer.
It’s really just the high point on this particular ridge. It’s not a "mountain"
like, say, Mount Diablo. The best time to be here is in late fall, winter or
early spring, when there’s less haze over the flatlands. I camped out near here
last year and could see San Jose, Pleasanton and Mt. Diablo in the distance.

Another picturesque, dearly departed tree, not far from where I interrupted
the hawk’s lunch.

Goat Rock is one of the more more impressive features along the Ohlone Trail.

The view through a hole in a hollow tree. No elves were sighted.

Just a garter snake, no reason to be alarmed, folks.

Another big rock formation near the entrance to the Sunol backpackers’ area.

This was my longest one-day hike to date. I came home tired and footsore, happy
to have proved I could handle a near-20-mile distance with 3,000 feet of elevation
gain, and thankful for cool ocean breezes that made the whole walk doable in
August.

Though the countryside around here has become familiar enough that the wow
factor has worn off, I still get a kick out of walking in these hills. They
are not spectacular like the Sierra peaks, but they are, for want of a better
adjective, scenic. And addictive, which would explain the urge to hike past
the point of sanity in them.