hill walking

Sandy was listening to an episode of Radiolab (a pretty great podcast you can find here) in which a European scientist was discussing a recent archaeological find.  What's relevant here is not the find, but that it was discovered by some hikers.  Only the scientist didn't say "hikers," he said, "hill walkers."  The interviewer guy says something like, "Wait.  What?  Who found the such and whatever?"  And the scientist says something akin to, "The hill walkers.  Oh.  Yes.  Hikers?  Is that the word you use?"  I guess the word for hiker in whatever language was this guy's native language is a compound of hill and walker.  Makes sense, right?

So the other day Emma and I decided to go hill walking.  I guess you could call it hiking if you wanted to, but really, we were hill walking.  See?

Do you see how bright the grass is?  That's not Photoshop, friends.  That's the real deal.
Spring green.  That's the name of that color.

Our golden hills have finally turned green (see above), after receiving some much prayed for rain.  It's still pretty dry, but we may actually get wildflowers after all.

As Emma and I walked along the trail she pointed out some of the botanical specimens she discovered last year:  vetch, sorrel, snowberry, oak.  I pointed out some new acquaintances:  poison hemlock, buckeye, hawkweed.  We both puzzled and muttered over some dainty little white umbels whose name I didn't know, but with whose relatives I am well acquainted.  She pointed out another small, white flower whose face certainly identified her as a member of the brassica family, but whose leaf-dress left us wondering.

There is a dentist, whose name I have completely forgotten, who studied the teeth of native people all over the world.  He found a particular group of people in the Alps (I think) who had really great teeth, even though they didn't have access to dental care.  Their secret?  The mothers and children drank milk from cows who had been eating the fresh spring grasses on the sunny slopes of the hills.  This milk was cleaner than clean, richer than rich, and very, very nutritionally dense.  Our grass on the hills this week looked like that kind of grass.  There were a few cows meandering along the hillsides and I wondered would their milk be that good?  Or would their proximity to the city change things?  Or maybe they had to be a special kind of cow?  Or maybe our weeds just aren't as nutritious as the weeds of the Alps?

Emma decided to run.  And then stop.

From the top of the hills, on a clear day, you can see nearly the whole San Francisco Bay.  Emma and I pointed out the landmarks we knew:  Coyote Hills, the Dumbarton and San Mateo bridges, Quarry Lakes, and various streets and buildings.  Further north our view was obscured by the morning fog that hadn't yet burned off.

After about an hour or two of wandering about we decided we were hungry enough to head home for lunch.  As we meandered back down we passed others who were just starting:  people walking dogs, a mother and daughter speaking Russian and taking pictures, a trail runner nursing a pulled hamstring, some caballeros with big hats, and a small group of "legit" hikers with packs and poles.  Just as we were approaching the entrance gate we ran into some friends from church, one of my seminary students, his brothers and little sister.  The oldest brother had decided to take his peeps out for some sunshine and fresh air.  "They watch too much TV!" he said.  The boy that is my student smiled good naturedly, shrugged, and shoved his hands in his pockets.  The little sister asked if the hike was hard and if there was anything good to see.  The smallest brother lingered at the edge of the conversation, not knowing for certain when or if he should join in.  Finally, we waved them on to their own walk  in the hills, shouting promises over our shoulders of beauties they were certain to see ahead.