Lines for a Christmas Card

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My send-off went something like this:

Husband: "You are being so stupid."

Grandmother: "What the hell's the matter with you?"

My husband was just worried. My grandmother was just herself, with wine. At almost 93, I'll cut her some slack. Still, their criticism of my planned solo hike up Iron Mountain may have been why I had butterflies approaching the entrance on Route 67 in Poway. I realized that I rarely do anything alone anymore, which is not uncommon for any woman that's been married and a mother for many years.

This is a crowded trail, but not so this early in the morning. Temps still in the 30s guaranteed I wouldn't encounter many, if any, snakes and this trail isn't known for big kitty cats. It turns out I had the first half of the 3-mile climb completely to myself, and during that spell I dwelled on something else my grandmother said to me after learning I was still running. "Haven't you done enough damage?"

This isn't the first time someone's asked me why I continue to run year after year with no quantifiable return on investment. And I suppose were I not riding high on quite the hormonal swell, I would have brushed it off like all the other times. Instead it took awhile before I eventually just enjoyed the scenery and solitude, feeling that third of five stars in the hiking guide's difficulty rating as I got closer to the top.



Naturally something interesting or accidental was bound to happen because, let's face it, it isn't a Run DMZ story without some freak coincidence. The first (and last) time I attempted this trail with the family more than a year ago, the very first person we encountered was a woman who'd obviously run the entire thing. She was fit, tanned and looked, well, happy. This morning, I was about 1.5 miles from the top when I again encountered my first human: the same woman, running this time in tights and long sleeves instead of a tank and shorts. What are the odds?

I'd cross paths with about a half dozen others before reaching the summit, where a lone guy in shorts and a Dale Earnhart baseball cap shouted, "Isn't this the best morning to be up here?" He then showed me how even without the nearby telescope you could see the snowy peaks of Mount Baldy almost 120 miles away near LA.




It turns out he climbs up here every weekend that he can and after showing me a few more natural monuments in miniature, he bid me well and was off. There isn't much room at the top: just a bunch of rocks and a picnic table. I could see a long line of cars now at the trailhead and knew I'd have company before long. So I set to work.

Iron Mountain has a mailbox and I pulled out a plastic box holding a notebook and loose leaf papers that I attempted to read in high winds. Some entries were pretty pedestrian, detailing the weather and conditions on a particular hike. Several pages were hijacked by a 7-year-old named Dylan and his younger sister. Immediately after the last scribble was an entry marked by clean penmanship and different ink. It began: "This is my last time hiking up here." The passage went on to explain that the author was ready to give up, and that his parents refused to acknowledge the depths of his dispair. It was signed Gerard.

I thought about that message in the mailbox on my descent and hoped that tortured soul had found a better solution by the time he reached the bottom. And so, inspired by Gerard's message and my current mood, I leave you with the same words I left on top of Iron Mountain. I wish I could claim credit, but this one was penned by the poet and political critic Hillaire Belloc.

"Lines for a Christmas Card"
May all my enemies go to hell.
Noel, noel, noel, noel.


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