On the Trail

After 17 years of hiking in the same area, one could presume to have seen everything. No surprises. Just same old, same old.

Not quite so, we discovered recently while descending a section of the Backbone Trail accessed from (upper) Latigo Canyon Road that provides access to Castro Peak Motorway.

Although the powers that be deem many a narrow, undulating single track trail such as this one as multi-use, lucky is the person merely on foot who doesn’t encounter other users on conveyances with wheels and/or hooves.

Passage can get a wee bit tight if not scary.

While resting atop a small knoll beside the trail, we became aware of an unrecognizable racket fast intruding upon our quiet aerie.

It was a combination of what sounded like brush-crunching footsteps and metallic clanging, banging, thudding, skidding, labored breathing, gasping and some mild cussing. It was dusk and not that easy to see.

I’m still not sure I believe what I saw. A very slight fellow appeared, breathlessly trotting beside a large, shiny motorcycle that quite dwarfed him.

This was no dirt bike, but an honest-to-gosh full-sized, handsomely equipped, gleamingly polished hunk of two-wheeled horsepower.

The trail spiraled downhill in a wicked stretch of sinuous bumpy curves before entering a forested section with exposed roots and a creek crossing, then twistingly climbed back to the trailhead’s parking lot.

It was challenging enough on foot.

Before I could say a word, the fellow said, "Great dog!" to my canine companion and propelled past us, pushing his motorcycle. Where the heck was a park service ranger when you really needed one?

The dog, who has an unfortunate motorcycle fixation, tried mightily to follow the mysterious stranger. If I were of a religious nature, I would have begun praying for anyone unfortunate enough to be coming up the trail at the same time that gravity was sucking motorcycle man down the trail.

Needless to say, we gave him a very long lead time before we risked our necks and followed him down the trail.

Who knows? A caravan of clog-dancing elephants could have been next.

Another time, we were walking in back of Trancas Canyon along an unpaved Edison Road that’s overgrown by wild mustard and other vigorous weeds until a once yearly cleanup by the utility company.

Rugged and isolated, part of the canyon is parkland, not open to the public yet due to access problems, and part is private, which we were on because we lived there at the time as tenants on the property. There’s no access except for a locked gate, the combination known only to the property owner and the tenants. Except for the occasional trespassing bicyclist who’d read erroneous information in a guidebook, not another soul was ever encountered on that road.

It was a hot quiet morning and we were picking our way through the road’s unkempt vegetation when a distinguished looking older gentleman emerged from the end of the road—a no man’s land of steep canyon walls and impenetrable chaparral—wheeling a luggage carrier neatly loaded with an expensive set of bags.

He resembled a lost lawyer looking for a courthouse in the middle of a remote jungle.

When he spoke, it was clear he was an educated person but somewhat addled. He couldn’t explain how he and that heavy wheeled carrier had made it back in there, or where he’d been or why.

Since we were only tenants, it was hard to act too territorial, so we wished him a nice walk and left him on his way.

Coincidentally some days later, my hiking partner met up with some of the man’s family members. They lived in the sub-division about a mile down the road from us. The old gent had been missing for several days and had just turned up, tired but in good shape. His family feared he might be developing Alzheimer’s disease.

The wild canyon had been kind to him, providing him shelter on his confused journey then returning him safely home.

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