And keep it wild.

And keep it wild.

"If you think about it, they probably felt like they were doing a good thing," my friend John mused a day later.

Not counting the fact that he and I use the phrase "if you think about it" as a completely free-standing insult, John had shuffled through the order of events of what turned out to be quite a bizarre evening, and realized that even though we did the right thing and took the necessary precautions, we totally pissed off some good-hearted stoners.

We started our usual, try-really-hard-to-be-weekly night hike differently, this time. We caravaned to a new parking area, left one car there, and drove back to our usual spot. This particular hike is our favorite, so it was getting a little boring. We decided to do a point-to-point route, up and over the mountain. Easier said than done.

It was a total adventure. A really technical descent down an unknown route with no trail in sight. Our soaked feet slipped on wet rocks and our hands grabbed for anything we could grip to. Flora and fauna, obliterated by each wrong move. Ultimately, I felt free, strong, rash, and independent. Only a few times did I call ahead to John to find out where he had put his feet, not sure of the safest route over some fallen rocks.

"What are you most afraid of? Falling, or getting trapped and stuck?" "Dude. Falling," I answered, as the loose rocks I was about to step on tumbled down and out of sight. John then described how it was mostly an irrational fear. "We're actually more likely to get trapped." I then explained how even though I was more afraid of falling, getting trapped and stuck was a very close second and he wasn't helping.

We paused to shine our headlights on beautiful and rare plant life, mostly succulents sprouting forth from between rocks. Things I'd never seen in this area. The nearby sounds of rushing streams fed by the recent storm took us to another world. Something like the northwest, something distinctly un-San Diegan. A beautiful waterfall trickled down a rocky fissure. Slugs and snails shone blue in the glow of the bright moon and our LEDs.

We gradually found a somewhat official trail that switchbacked down the rest of the hill. A quick walk through the park and into the neighborhoods, and we were back at our car. Erik called me on my cell phone to ask where his burrito and wife were, and I sort of explained we got lost but left out the intentionally-leaving-the-main-trail part. Being a scientist and future park ranger, let's consider him better off not knowing about me trampling through muddy, forbidden terrain.

John drove my car back to the main parking lot, where his car and my legally-required-to-drive eye glasses sat anxiously awaiting their owners.

"Holy shit, there're people there," I warned John as we pulled up towards his little Subaru.

"That's my car," he said through my open window.
"No it's not," they snapped back.

Much confrontation ensued, with my sweet car moving slowly in reverse as they continued approaching us, trying to explain to John that his car was, well, not. The man reached into his pocket, and my fingers fumblingly typed 9-1-1 on my cell phone. "Should I call?" I asked. "Sure." Sure? What kind of response is sure when there's a 911 call involved? I needed affirmation. I was afraid of a spectrum of things, ranging from them whipping out a gun to the girl dragging me out of the car door and scratching my face and pulling my hair. It took me a while to be afraid of the camera-phone picture they snapped of my license plate, but I'm good and afraid of that in retrospect.

They told John that the people in the Subaru had walked off a while ago and it wasn't us. Yes, it was us. We were just much cleaner and dryer and were wearing beanies and camelbaks. They said someone else came up to the car while we were gone. You know, because they were monitoring the parking lot all night.

"So, what's the problem again?" the dispatcher said, slightly puzzled and very jaded. I knew it sounded ridiculous. I knew I sounded like I was the one on drugs, not the clearly altered couple denying John his rightful sense of automobile ownership. But there was no way I was even getting out of the passenger seat to drive myself home, much less let John get out and push through the loiterers to his car. Also, I needed my glasses.

I remember in college, we walked our friends home after a party only to find their front door smeared with blood. Drips led us across the complex to their neighbor's house, an old lady they knew was home alone this weekend. Her door was locked, also smeared with blood, and nobody answered. The police took over an hour to arrive. Before rescuing the seriously injured and weak-from-blood-loss lady, they took another few seconds to chide us for walking all over a crime scene (you know, our friends' doorstep).

This time, the cops arrived in 10 minutes flat. Nobody was mysteriously scattering blood around a neighborhood. Nobody was dying. Yet. All in all, the police confirmed that John's car was indeed John's car, and the couple sped away in their car. They were clearly on something.

We were convinced they were trying to break into John's car, but now we're not so sure. They were just harmless kids, enjoying a little chemically-induced paranoia and protecting our cars, trying to be good people. But we called the cops on them, pissed them off, and they have a picture of my license plate.

Muddy Patagonia-clad engineering workers vs. stoned parking lot protectors. Totally your average nature walk.