I'm What You Call a Writer

Chapter 1: A Dark, Dark Place

I fell for it. When I was a student at Berkeley City College, I fell into a deep dark hole. With no way to get out and nowhere to move around, I knew I was in big trouble from the very beginning and was on the verge of dying for sure. It might sound scary to most people, but I tried hard not to let all that bothered me too much. Given the fact that I was a young mystery writer, who had published a few short stories and essays in my high school days, I knew that this dark hole was heartlessly handmade and manipulatively planned. It was shaped into form deliberately with one cold-blooded intention—they wanted to lay their murder victim here to rest without anyone knowing. I considered myself extremely fortunate to be safe and sound.

I was hiking and trail-walking on Mount Tamalpais State Park (known locally as Mount Tam), a 30-mile drive from downtown Berkeley. I loved the great outdoors. And I loved being outside. Consequently, I had become a keen observer of nature. I had a total wanderlust like no one else I knew. Whenever I had the free time, I would never hesitate, not even for a second, to get out of town and find my next adventure. I wanted to get away from it all, away from school, away from stress, away from studying, away from life, and away from people.

Mount Tam, one of the most beautiful woodlands in all of San Francisco Bay Area, covers over a massive area of mountain ridges, deep gorges, coastal redwood, oak tree forest, and open space. And rustic high elevations. After driving though East Bay urban streets and then the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge and onto Marin County rural coiled roads, I parked my aging Volkswagen Golf near the Pantoll Campground site, and then I grabbed my hiking backpack, officially began the long climb to the summit, also known as the East Peak.

Venturing past the grinding masses at the campground, my rewards were amity and isolation. After a long traverse on foot over hilltops and across streams and creeks, I found an excellent resting place under a tall leafy tree. Wildflowers fired to life across the foothills on a late summer tepid day. Sore legs and stiff back needed a break. I sat under the shade, took a long glimpse of the outstretched blue sky and all the sweeping views, and gathered some random thoughts.

At ease, in my comfort zone, this was my safe haven. It was important to take time to slow down, breathe, watch, perceive, comprehend, and focus. Secluded from the rest of the world, free of tension and free of distraction and stress, I embraced the moment idle and still. To tell you the truth, I disliked being around people because people freaked me out. Hence, solitude was my way of life, my way of living, and my way of being myself. It always had been, and always will be. This was the best thing ever—being alone, doing things alone, and enjoying life alone. Just perfect.

Suddenly I heard some noisy footsteps of another fellow hiker, walking heavily toward my direction. Because of that, I was having a nervous breakdown. I didn't like people interrupting me especially when I was meditating and healing, when I was enjoying harmony, peace, nature, comfort, routine, and most importantly, when I was enjoying the slow rhythms of life. Quiet moments like these were hard to come by. A pretty day took a downward spiral turn.

Hereafter I left this supposedly peaceful spot and continued walking toward the top of summit. To be honest, the walk wasn't too bad. It wasn't the first time I did this hike. It was moderately difficult. It was good for the body, mind, and soul. I could hear my own shoes rubbing against the sandy surface throughout all the wavy and winding trails. My hefty breathing was constant reminder that I was doing good, and I just had to keep it up. Hummingbirds flying over the greens and butterflies dancing from one flower to another, I had nothing to complain. I loved it. Seriously. What was there not to like!

I had been up here more than enough to know what a wood-rose looks like, what a Douglas Iris smells like, or how sticky monkey flowers differs from other flowers with its sharp shapes and colorful leaves. I had always enjoyed my time in this quiet woodland.