A Moment Along the Trail
From 1860 to 1864, William Brewer traveled extensively throughout California as part of a government survey team tasked with mapping the newest state in the Union. His journal is both well-written and fascinating—a glimpse into a rugged and unfamiliar California.
Mount Diablo played a central role in that survey. A benchmark on its northern peak anchored the elevation markers for much of the state’s interior. These benchmarks—small bronze disks embedded in rock—establish position and elevation, a literal grounding of knowledge.
Brewer camped in the area we now call Concord and Pleasant Hill. In one striking entry, he warned that night travel, even for a few miles, was perilous.
Why?
Grizzly attacks.
Grizzlies? In the Bay Area foothills?
I know they’re on the state flag, but the realization still shocked me.
Yet it makes sense—at least now it does. The trail I often ride on my recumbent trike runs alongside Grizzly Creek. I’ve seen the name on maps and trail markers, but today something shifted. Today, the past roared back.
I was crossing one of the major trail bridges, listening to the sound of fast water—clear, musical, tumbling from recent rains. But that gentle gurgling was suddenly overwhelmed.
The sound changed.
It became a gurgling of a different sort—wet, sharp, animalistic.
Screams erupted.
High-pitched. Incessant. Feminine. Dozens of voices. Screaming not with joy, but with terror—pure terror. Something was happening. Something terrible. I froze.
A creature had emerged from the creek.
Something ancient, with claws and matted fur.
Slashing. Ripping. Screams trailing like blood behind it.
My instincts warred—flight or fight. One part of me wanted to pedal away as fast as possible. Another wanted to rush toward the sound, find a rock, a staff, anything to stop the carnage.
It all happened in milliseconds—too fast for logic.
And then it hit me.
I was next to Grizzly Creek, yes.
But I was also two blocks from Stanley Junior High.
It was lunchtime.
Dozens of exuberant students, pouring out of classrooms into open air. Laughing. Yelling. Shouting. Living.
For one strange moment, it was 1862 again.
For a millisecond, the grizzlies had returned.
