I’ve been going to Pogonip for three years now, but I’ve never visited the clubhouse or main meadow where they propose to put in a community garden. I usually go up the spring trail down toward Henry Cowell, or through a place called the Friendship Garden, where I’ve never actually seen a garden. I have seen plenty of trees and grass and, unfortunately, ticks.
One of the cool things about Pogonip, like many other hikes in the Santa Cruz area, is that there are many types of trees. Scrubby live oaks in the more exposed areas; regal redwoods in the places that must get foggy sometimes. The variety never gets tiresome, nor does the view.
Like my experience, my knowledge of pogonip is limited. I just discovered, through a quick Google serach, that pogonip is a dense winter fog containing frozen particles that is formed in deep mountain valleys of the western U.S. I’ve rarely seen fog at Pogonip, but I’ve also rarely been there early in the morning when it might form. Fog keeps the redwoods growing, so it makes sense. I wouldn’t call it a mountain valley, but there are small ravines, places where water flows when the rains come, which is rarely.
Heading toward the Pacific on Spring Trail
To get to my usual trail, I drive up a long residential street. I try to give good distance to the people walking their dogs or biking. It’s quite a hill. The entrance is often busy because the trail is popular. It can be difficult to navigate the narrow entranceway when large groups of walkers are there. Sometimes it seems that these walkers are in a fog of their own; they buzz gossip among themselves, they fail to yield to others.
I typically choose the trails where bikes are not allowed: more pleasant for running. In defiance of the rules, I sometimes let my dog off leash. I splash through small creeks traversing the trail — a few when it rains, one when it doesn’t. I always forget to look back at the ocean when I’m setting out, and am always stunned by its beauty on the way back (as shown above).
It’s funny how easily, instinctively, one chooses a consistent path through areas with so many trails. Is it a fear of getting lost? Is it conviction that you’ve chosen the best path? Or is it simply habit: knowing that with this amount of time, you can travel this distance, complete this run? Whatever it is, I almost always do the same thing at Pogonip, unless I’m with my daughter or dog, in which case any trek is inevitably shorter.
Perhaps it’s not simply that I’m unobservant: winter fog is decreasing: by nearly half in the Central Valley over 30-odd years, according to one study. I’ve not truly been here long enough to notice a difference. But I notice a lack.
Changes in patterns make it hard for us to stick to our own. That might be a good thing, to the extent it drives good change. Makes us want more. It could be a bad thing, to the extent it makes us random, unfocused, unable to notice that things are different — or why. So as I travel the same trails, I’ll keep my eyes open. I’ll look for something different. Something I haven’t noticed yet. I’ll let you know when I find it.