When the air turns slightly crispy and the California sun dresses the land in a lustrous golden skirt, autumn comes to the ridges and folds of Mount Diablo. The mountain looms over the East San Francisco Bay like an ancient mother who has seen oceans lap at her sides, Indians forage in her curves, and suburbs grab at her ankles. She stands against a pale blue sky, adorned in antique oak trees and Manzanita brush. I ache to climb her.
To get to the South Gate of Mount Diablo State Park, I have to drive through the roads of the old town of Diablo where oak trees cast shadows like huge canopies and stately homes hide behind mechanical iron gates. The road winds slowly past rows of oleander hedges and stone columns until the mountain comes into view around the last suburban curve. I feel like Dorothy opening the door to Oz.
Houses sink lower on my right and the mountain swells on the left—a pregnant belly planted with gold and dusty green children that dance in the breeze. But no breezes break the tranquility and the stillness today. Instead, big leaf maples poise on the landscape like jewels in red and green. Poison oak gleams like branches of garnets in the sun.
The whole world holds its breath as I climb into the solitude, as I scan the view for recognizable landmarks, as I marvel at the preciousness of being alone to see a perspective that is not broken by company.
Several miles up, Rock City is like a neighborhood of boulders. Teenagers have written graffiti on several, large stones but the squirrels and insects don’t seem to mind. The critters climb in and out of the dark, small caves like hurried waitresses in a cavernous San Francisco restaurant carrying acorn shells, pine nuts, bits of leaves, and grains.
Nearby, a furry tarantula slowly crawls through the dirt on the way to find a mate. He plods carefully like a rover scaling a planet, placing his legs down cautiously with each step as if feeling the earth for signs of life. A few yards away, I spot a hole curtained off by tightly-woven, white, silk threads. This is the door of a female tarantula’s nest and the poor bachelor, who is now only a few feet away, is out of luck. This female has already mated and is now settling down in her new home. But this he doesn’t know yet. He is close to the ground and can’t enjoy the perspective I have until he reaches the silk door and finds it closed.
For those close to the ground, life is like that.
Livermore Valley Overlook is only several yards up the road from Rock City. From this lookout point, I can see for miles. Brushy Peak out in Livermore sits on the valley like an upside-down cupcake. The 580 freeway draws a blurry line on the earth and the campus of Lawrence Livermore Lab on Greenville Road lays out like a rectangle filled in with wooden blocks of different sizes.
As I search the Livermore landscape for wineries and vineyards, I feel empowered, like the tallest person in a crowd who can see over the heads of hundreds of people. I can see the stage, clear and unobstructed. I’m getting a lot for my money, and, because I can see more, my lungs fill up with air and every cell in my body grows stronger, healthier, and happier.
With fortitude, I climb the winding road ever higher until I reach 2,900 feet at an outlook on the other side of the mountain called the Diablo Valley Overlook. The San Francisco Bay paints the view with a silky, light blue ink, and I seek out the numerous landmarks that poke up into the San Francisco skyline—the Oakland Port, Oakland Bay Bridge, Angel Island, and the Golden Gate Bridge.
This is a fourth dimensional view. Not only have I see the valleys of the East Bay from the other side of the mountain, but I can see clearly for miles and miles beyond the corporate stairs of the City; over the artists’ loft studios; and even farther than where crab sailors deftly navigate the fierce currents of the Bay. I recognize earth and water, good and bad energy. The cells in my body grow more vibrant and vigor courses through my muscles and veins. I am renewed, and even though I am alone, I feel connected to all the people filling the spaces in front of me
So I climb now with gusto, feeling like a bird that soars over the majestic oak and buckeye trees of the mountain’s grassy elevations. I feel strong and joyful, playful and beautiful. Finally, at 3,849 feet, I reach the summit, where even mere mortals can sometimes discover immortal perceptions.
To the southeast, Mount Hamilton rises like a brother. To the south, Mount Loma Prieta marks the crest of the Santa Cruz range. To the East, I follow the meandering arms of the San Joaquin and Sacramento Rivers as they twist into the watery mazes of the Delta. To the north, I see the massive shoulders of Mount St. Helen and Mount Lassen. And finally to the West, beyond the orange cables of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Farallon Islands lie like giant seals floating on the gray Pacific Ocean. The view is clear and unambiguous like the perspective of the fifth dimension where every thought is bathed in light and love.
Perspective is everything. At the bottom of the mountain I could only see as far as the wandering tarantula. My perception was limited. The higher I climb, the more I see. The more I see, the better I understand my environment and my potential. The better I understand, the more peace I feel.
While I stand at the balcony of this fifth dimensional perspective, I don’t feel the need to be anywhere else. To do anything else. To finish any tasks, solve any problems, acquire any more things. All I clearly need is the miracle I can see.
Tess Perko's Blog 