Happy Labor Day weekend.
Just checking in from the trail, folks, where I have apparently missed the dress code, the social norms, and possibly the entire point of our neighborhood park. I arrived this morning, armed with my trusty hiking poles, ready to commune with nature and improve my fitness. Within thirty seconds, I realized I was the only person who hadn’t seen the instructions posted at our community mailbox.
Apparently, there are rules out here. Obviously, I just don’t know what they are. Let’s meet today’s cast of characters:
The Golden Years Poop Patrol: Retirees are everywhere, enjoying leisurely strolls tethered to dogs ranging from small cows to waddling cotton balls. But the humans all share one accessory: a fistful of small plastic bags. It really makes you ponder the American dream. You grind for forty years to finally earn your freedom, only to spend your golden years harvesting Labradoodle shit from the neighborhood landscaping. Congratulations, you made it.
The Adrenaline Chasers: WHOOOOOOSH! Mountain bikers. They aren’t hiking or walking; they’re hurtling. They rocket up trails, catch air over dirt mounds, and skid around blind corners like an energy drink company is filming them just out of sight. Nothing complements a peaceful morning quite like dodging a neon-clad human missile screaming past at twenty miles an hour.
The Young Family Expedition: Small children. Tiny backpacks. Dust clouds. And screaming. Maybe someone lost a water bottle, or perhaps civilization is collapsing. Whatever the emergency, the volume suggests we’ll need earplugs. Hey Siri, activate noise cancellation.
And Then There’s Me.
Which raises the obvious question: Why the poles?
Practice. Every deliberate step is preparation for my next Sierra adventure. As Zig Ziglar put it: “When you do the things you ought to do when you ought to do them, the day will come when you can do the things you want to do when you want to do them.”
These poles aren’t for show. They build rhythm, balance, strength, and endurance. The work I put in now helps me get up those high mountain passes later. So while the bikers risk their collarbones and the retirees manage gastrointestinal responsibilities, I’m doing something much less dramatic.
I’m paying attention.
When you slow down out here on a late-summer morning, something interesting happens. You notice things. The breeze moves through the canopy. The joyful tap-tap-tap of a red-headed woodpecker hammering away with the enthusiasm of a carpenter on a tight deadline. I even found myself staring—probably far too intently—at a craggy, weathered old tree anchored in a dried-out waterway.
You miss this magic if you’re flying by at twenty miles an hour or scanning the grass for biological landmines. But I hear the dry leaves crunch under my boots. Best of all, I enjoy the hypnotic rhythm of my hiking poles:
Step. Plant. Step. Plant.
I’m not in a hurry. I’m not trying to catch air. I’m just moving, practicing my rhythm, and enjoying the fact that I don’t have to be anywhere else.
So to the Golden Years Poop Patrol, the neon-clad racers, and the tiny humans conducting their campaign against parental sanity: I salute you.
You can have the bikes. You can keep the dogs. I’ll take the poles, the quiet, and the crunching leaves. Because someday, standing high in the Sierra with a long climb ahead of me, I suspect I’ll be very glad I spent a few mornings down here acting like the neighborhood alien.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask better questions. See you on the trail.
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