I spend rather more time than the normal city dweller trekking in the rough. I find it restorative to wander in the relative wild of the wash and mountain trails where evidence of human desecration is minimal. And so when I encounter evidence of the “wrong” kind of human polluting my bit of paradise, I seethe.
Last evening, I walked up the Morton Peak fire road just before sunset. A gentle on-shore breeze blanketed the valley in a cooling marine haze, and the long shadows on the eastern slopes made the steep climb comfortable.
At the gate to the fire lookout tower some Cretin had answered the call of nature, leaving behind an unsavory mess for everyone who came after to suffer.
Disgusted, I figured that I would collect up the dirty tissue on my return. I always carry a zip-lock sandwich bag for just such personal emergencies. I wonder if I should add a pair of gloves to my bag.
The old watch tower is being restored and updated for the comfort of folks who care to shell out $85/night to sleep in a tower with no water, no wi-fi, no electricity, and no cooking facilities. There is a picnic table, a pit toilet, and a splendid view.
To my surprise, I found that someone else had picked up the filthy litter at the gate. So, it was a case of mixed emotions: one inconsiderate slob was balanced by one like-minded nature lover. Interestingly, the person who had done the good deed was probably the shirtless, nicely muscled, young man I’d met who was headed downhill. I had taken a picture of his car when I parked next to it, thinking it looked a bit disreputable because it was dirty and had no wheel covers. Just goes to show, you can’t always judge a man by his car.
The three mile walk back down went by pleasantly as I skipped down the smooth sections. Skipping is about as fast as jogging downhill and spares old knees the jarring of running, though it does look a little silly. Molly openly laughed at me.