Given the choice, my feet tread the wild and scenic routes. Today, I veered onto the mountain goat track and worked my way through the sprouting blackberry vines and blooming heather. Ms. Riley was lost in the undergrowth, her crash warning the thicket tenants, her nose twitched in ecstasy as she powered through the tangled roots. I paused at a hidden dip in the landscape. Ms. Riley sidles up to me, bits of shrubbery embedded in her fur. We are standing in a field of hidden wild iris, the petals waving purple tongues in the salt wind. Mason Jennings words filter through my empty mind...' you should know by now that someone's been there long before you, you're never going to be the only one..."
Calm washes through my pulsing veins. Despite trailhead disclosure, and stranded tourists who attempt to defy the tides, and local beer drinking yahoos who litter the sides of the trails like a sunset offering, I am alone, in a wildflower field, the ocean offering cadence to my ramble. The spongy ground, the forgiving soil will absorb my footprints; my spirit will always be primal.