At the east end of my street, a mountain loomed. As a young child, it seemed days away. In truth, it was only several hours’ walking. As I got older, it became clear that you could spend half a day walking to the mountain, and half a day returning home. It was best done during the long light of summer, with enough time at the summit for rest and reflection.
Only four of the neighborhood kids were old enough to be gone that long without raising alarm. Several of us had made it as far as the roller rink before—and we assumed the mountain stood just behind it. Add another hour, we figured, and we’d be there.
But the road to the roller rink veered to the right. We’d need a more direct approach if we were going to make good time.
So, at the peak of summer, we set out: packs full of snacks, a compass, a signal mirror, a watch, binoculars, several canteens of water—and rope. You always needed rope. It was probably the heaviest thing we carried.
The first ten blocks were direct, running perfectly east. The mountain was still visible, perhaps only a little closer. Every few blocks we checked the compass. East was still east. Eventually, the neighborhood changed—streets began to slant off, leaving us with a choice. We could follow the roads as best we could, or drop down into the creek, which we knew led to the park behind the roller rink.
It never occurred to us that there might be two creeks that close together.
We took off our socks and waded in tennis shoes. The water looked clear, though now I realize it wasn’t spring-fed so much as runoff—from lawns, car washes, and the like. Every once in a while, there were suds.
It wasn’t a straight shot. Creeks curve with the land. Mostly, the bed was flat, like a path. Sometimes there were “holes” we had to detour around—buried tires, rusted shopping carts. But we stayed cool under the overgrown banks. Trees and brush shaded us from the sun—and kept us from climbing out easily.
It was a little like The African Queen, slogging mile after mile in wet shoes. It was a fine summer adventure.
When the freeway crossed over us, we decided to climb out. We didn’t really need the rope—but we’d brought it, so we used it. Tied it to a tree. Made the climb.
We put on dry socks, shoved them into wet shoes—and realized we’d swung a dozen blocks to the north. Two creeks. It suddenly made sense.
Fortunately, a street ran straight south. Eventually, it would intersect the road to the roller rink. We were only two hours behind schedule. Two hours exploring the wrong Wildcat Creek.
Soon, we were behind the rink, looking for a way up the hill. At that range, the mountain lost its shape. All we saw was the slope. Upward.
We marched. Sometimes on our feet, sometimes on our hands and knees.
Looking back, we saw the city grid unfold below us. We were gaining altitude!
After an hour of climbing, we came to a ridge, well above the park. A narrow road ended there—dropping back down into the creek where we’d been. We saw, with some satisfaction, that our path had been almost a straight line. Not bad for a first expedition.
The actual summit was still an hour away—through cow pasture and barbed wire. We were tired.
As the leader, I checked the watch and officially declared the expedition complete.
We’d made it to the highest point a car could drive. That counted. We sat on the ridge. Drank the last of our water. Ate the last of our snacks.
We tried to find our street—looking down across the grid, trying to follow a line pointed directly at us. Binoculars helped, but the cross streets blended. We saw the Bay. We saw the bridges. But not the markings of our own block.
There was still a chance.
One of our friends hadn’t come with us—he had a sports commitment. But he’d promised to help. At three minutes past the hour, every hour, he would go out into the street and flash a mirror toward the mountain.
We had ten minutes to wait.
Maybe he forgot. Maybe he wasn’t home. Maybe he’d gone shopping or gotten caught up in some Saturday movie. We sat. We waited.
And then—there it was. As clear as day. A flicker of light from the grid below.
We trained the binoculars. We swore we could see the speck—our friend in the street, mirror in hand.
We rummaged through the packs and found our own mirror. For several minutes, we pretended to know Morse Code—flashing Ridge to Grid, Grid to Ridge. A language of light and distance. And friendship.
We headed back in the late afternoon—no creek wading, just block after block of streets. Tired. Proud. We’d been somewhere. We had done great things. We’d even used the rope.
There were still thirty minutes until dinner.
