The unexpected lessons of a Santa Cruz hiking group

REBELS WITHOUT A COMPASS The Pillars hiking group, left to right: “Sleepy” John Sandidge, John Leopold and Richard Stockton with guest hiker John Hanks.

WALK THIS WAY

You never know what you’re going to learn about life when you hike on the wild side BY RICHARD STOCKTON

It’s 8:30 am Monday and we’re driving up Highway One to Fisherman’s Wharf in The City to begin today’s hike.

When “Sleepy” John Sandidge came up with the idea of hiking in the city of San Francisco it did seem foreign to us. Our group of over-50s has been nature trail hiking for more than a decade seeking natural majesty, but today we intend to walk the City. Maybe our San Francisco trip will be a Magical Mystery Tour.

“Sleepy” John is El Jefe, our fearless leader because for a quartet of wandering dreamers it is essential to have a final decision maker. The nimble, buff, French, single and younger Laurence Bedford of the Rio Theatre is our scout, our point man. When Laurence starts brainstorming, I feel like I’m sitting in on a think tank with Jacques Cousteau and Michel Foucault.

An Experiment

As for me, I’m strong and I am the group’s clown. I am the mule. I am the fool. I remember a few years ago we were crossing a stream that flows out of the mountains across the beach to the sea. I was the last one to cross, trying to decide whether to take off my shoes and wade the stream or rock-hop across and hope I didn’t slide off the slippery stones. My backpack was heavy with garbage we had collected on the beach, and with giddy, fool-mode inspiration, I announced to my comrades that I was the director of the Institute of Centrifugal Force Flight. “Gentlemen, I will now swing my backpack so fast in a circular motion that when I

launch my leap, the centrifugal force of my backpack will carry me safely over the water. Please have your cameras ready to record this historic event.”

My theatrical conviction actually got me wondering if this might work. With my right arm, I swung my backpack forward, up, back over my head and kept it going in a circle, faster and faster. I ran at the stream, whirling my backpack until I leapt off the bank, extending the backpack towards the other side and hanging on to it.

Throwing my backpack ahead of me and hanging on to it did not give me the lift I had hoped for, and I landed with both legs in the middle of the stream. I was soaked. For this attempt at aeronautic breakthrough, my comrades dubbed me Water Man and insisted I take the lead when we come to a water barrier.

Pillars of the Community

With deep sarcasm, we call ourselves the Pillars—as in, “pillars of the community”— because we see ourselves as rebels. We claim hiking days for our rebellion against structure and rules. We hike to rebel against aging, to rebel against our spare tires, to rebel against life on the clock, to rebel against not enough time on the clock. We hike to rebel against our cushy, white privileged lives. The system is fixed, so we gotta break it. We do give a wide berth around homes—we respect people’s privacy—but out on the trail there is no barrier we will not climb, no fence we will not hop, no river we won’t cross, and no double negative we won’t use. Our favorite song lyric is from Woody Guthrie:

“There was a high wall there that tried to stop me/Sign was painted, it said private property/But on the back side it didn’t say nothing/This land was made for you and me.”

OK, lately there are more walls I choose not to scale, but that is because of my advancing limited range of motion, not adherence to rules. I still have the strength to muscle over anything, but the years have made my legs less bendy than a penguin’s.

On the trail, we discuss our problems until we are somebody else. I can become the Fool rather than the Mule. We don’t leave our problems behind us when we hike, we take them with us to talk and walk them out. “Boys, I had a rough week. I was thrown out of my yoga class for misinterpreting the pose Half Moon.”

Sleepy John squints at me, “Only half? And how many times have we had to suffer the full monty? And why are you doing yoga?”

“El Jefe, I do yoga for the same reason we hike, because some questions cannot be answered by Google.”

Today we are joined at Fisherman’s Wharf by our pal John Leopold and our long time friend John Hanks, a razor-thin, frail cancer survivor. We are amazed by his resiliency. How can he walk for miles in his condition? He is rebelling against his mortality, and his heroism grabs us by the heart. Tasked with protecting my fragile friend, my confidence grows throughout our walk – I see a speeding bicycle just in time to hold my delicate bro back from stepping off the curb. I put my body in front of traffic as we inch across Market Street.

We have walked six miles along the north end of San Francisco; we’re tired, hungry and the burgers at Mel’s Drive In on Lombard Street have all our attention. With John Hanks to my right, I’m sitting at the end of the outdoor table with my back to the parking lot, eating in a dream. I notice Sleepy John staring behind me.

The Healing Power of Soda

I turn and find a Meth Head jerking his torso spasmodically, throwing his arms into the air like one of those Air Dancer Inflatable Tube Men while shouting unintelligible words at us. He is jerking and cursing his way towards our table. I think of my fragile friend and decide that I need to handle this.

I turn in my chair and look into the methamphetamine sunken eyes. The Meth Head locks eyes with me and jerks and spasms directly towards me. Six feet from me, his spasmodic arm movements turn into punches towards the ground, and his shouts turn into incomprehensible snarls and threats.

Meth Head takes another step towards me and I stand up and plant my feet at a 45-degree angle. He is tiny. This guy does not eat. I doubt he weighs one half of my 210 pounds, and if I hit him I could kill him. Punching him is not an option. But then he takes another step closer to me, mutters and snarls like he is having a Tourette’s tick and starts slapping at his little thin coat. I can smell him. I wonder if he has a weapon, and I focus on his hands. Should a gun or knife appear I will knock him out.

He starts to move closer. I hold up my left palm, “Step back! Step back!” He backs away, snarling curses I can’t make out. He backs 30 feet away and flails his arms in his Inflatable Tube Man dance while screaming at me.

A police car pulls into the parking lot, the passenger door opens and a blue-uniformed officer steps out. He is massive and chiseled, his hair a silver flat-top that looks like a steel helmet on his dark skin. Mirror sunglasses. He walks towards us with his massive arms bent like he is about to draw his weapons. The parking lot pavement trembles under his step.

Then the driver door opens for another big blue uniform. This one is younger, his shades are wrap-around Ray-bans and his black hair hangs back down over his collar. I’ve never seen a cop in uniform with such long hair. He strides to our table smiling like he is thrilled to see us, “Hey, hey! I hear you might be in a bit of a standoff.”

“No, sir. We’re fine. We’re all good here.”

His smile gets wider, “Great!”

He walks over to Meth Head and greets him like they are long lost friends, “Hey man, I recognize you! You were down there that day at Pier 39. Remember me? How are you doing, man? You doin’ alright?”

Meth Head freezes, focuses on the cop’s smiling face and slowly nods, “Yeah, I remember. I remember.”

The cop looks at the sky, “Man, this is one beautiful day!”

The Head turns his head to the side and squints upwards.

The cop steps closer. “This is the kind of day where it would be great to drink a soda. What kind of soda would you want to drink today?”

The wild anger in the junkie’s eyes melts and his sunken, misshapen face takes on the look of a child. He whispers, “I want… a Dr. Pepper.”

The cop booms, “Then let’s get you a Dr. Pepper! Come over here by my partner.”

As Gandhi-With-A-Gun goes into Mel’s to get the soda, the Fearsome Flat-top Warrior stares at Meth Head through his mirror sunglasses and shakes his head. He looks at our table and shakes his head again. He doesn’t have any use for us, either.

As Meth Head waits for his dream soda, his face is a portrait of peace. At this moment, I realize that I had triggered this drug-addled soul to be his worst. It may be true that I was “right” to defend my friends. And I did get what I wanted—he had stepped back away from our table. But my fear, my attitude of combat blew the whole thing up. It was me.

Then out comes Dalai-Lama-With-A-Badge with an extra large Dr. Pepper and hands it to our junkie. “Come on man, let’s walk down to the park.” My guess is he is leading him far enough away to put me out of his mind.

I have one last view of them as they walk together down Lombard Street. On the outside is the Fearsome Flat-top Warrior, walking as if towards a High Noon gun battle, arms bent, hair-trigger-ready to draw his weapons. On the far right, the young cop is calling out to shop owners, laughing. And in the middle is my little Meth Head buddy, bouncing with joy as he skips between the two giants in blue, waving his soda cup high over his head so all the other meth addicts on the street can see his Dr. Pepper.

The young cop did this by going into fool mode. In my wildest dreams, I never thought a cop would show me how to do that. My first day of class I failed the pop quiz—this fool business is tough with fear.

On the drive back to Santa Cruz, I fall asleep and dream of an anthropological timeline showing drawings of Pleistocene Man, then a Cro-Magnon Man, a Neanderthal Man, Modern Man and finally one that is me, Pissed Off Man, bent over, crippled with fear. But in my lucid dream I do not clench my fist and square off against Meth Head like I did in front of Mel’s. I dream that I ask him if he wants to fly. “Hey man, you look like you want to fly! You ever tried to fly?” In my dream, I swing my backpack around and around and then jump into the air and my little junkie buddy smiles.

I want to be that fool.

So guys, when’s the next hike?

“There was a high wall there that tried to stop me/Sign was painted, it said private property/But on the back side it didn’t say nothing/This land was made for you and me.”