The Ascent of Mount Tamalpais

(Inspired by “The Ascent of Mount Carmel” by  St. John of the Cross, 16^th century Spanish mystic, and “The Circumambulation of Mount Tamalpais” by Gary Snyder, 21^stcentury poet)

Five Pools, Cascade Canyon:

Teenage nymphs dip their toes into bubbling water in the stone bowls that hold the creek’s oblation. Squealing as they goad each other from the summer heat into the cold water.  Effulgence of sun on dusty air between the redwoods, their bark glowing deep brown-red in the light.

"Nada, nada, nada." To reach all, grasp at nothing.  Not the beauty of the flesh, not the bliss of imagination, not the stimulation of the senses.

Myrtle Grade:

Profusely, sweat breaks out.  A fast scramble up a cliff of loose clay rock.  Gripping the “No Trespassing” sign at the top of the trail, to make the last few steps onto the dirt road.  Above, turkey vultures float in wide gyres over Cascade Canyon, away from their perches high on the tall pines.

"Nada, nada, nada." To experience all, claim nothing.  Not possessions, not pride, not happiness.

Tree Fort below Double Bowknot:

Hands sticky with pitch. A grand view, sitting on the perch of weathered plywood over two-by-fours nailed to the top of the fir tree on the ridgeline.  The turkey vultures are circling specks below.

"Nada, nada, nada." To enjoy all, hold onto nothing.  Not achievement, not glory, not honor.

Falls at Fern Canyon:

Water drapes over stones, glides under stones, tumbles around stones, leaps over stones.  The trail a carpet of dried leaves.  A stone stair.  Redwoods yield to dense chaparral.  The sky seems nearer.

"Nada, nada, nada." To delight in all, be stuck at nothing.  Not natural gifts, not human gifts, not gifts of heaven.

Tavern Pump:

Wooden stair rises through a thicket of manzanita.  Lizard darts under blackened, twisted roots. Calves burn with exertion.  Behind, an ocean gleams gold under the soft haze of fog.

"Nada, nada, nada."  To exult in all, expect nothing.  Not insight, not wisdom, not revelation.

East Peak:

Boulders worn smooth by feet and hands.  Scrub oak frames views of Diablo, the Bay, the City, the dimpled shores of the reservoirs to the north.  Classical piano music emanates from the lookout tower.  Taking long drafts of bottled water while leaning back on a sun-soaked rock.

“To arrive at being all, desire to be nothing.”