A Tree

over and over and over

It’s not just a tree. It’s a Coast Live Oak. I think it’s a Coast Live Oak. It’s on top of this hill called Double Peak, and I don’t know why it’s called Double Peak because there are three peaks right there. This tree is on top of the main peak, not the highest peak, but the one with the road and picnic tables on the top.

Peak is a stretch. It’s not a mountain, barely a hill, but a few miles from the coast, this is what we get.

It’s where I run. It’s where I have run over and over and over. It’s where I would take the kids to watch the sunset before everyone started watching the sunset there. Now you look up at sunset and see a line of headlights pointing at the ocean.

It’s where snow fell for the only time I can remember snow falling here. We drove up because the snow level was about 1,500 feet and we live at about 600 feet. It was the first time my kids saw snow.

It’s where I have run repeats. Over and over by myself, and with friends. We would get off the road on a side trail and run up the rocky back side of the hill. Pushing to the top with fire in our lungs, swinging numb arms because the blood had better places to be.

I get romantic about repeats. You work, and then they work. It’s simple. The math is simple. The effort is anything but.

It’s where we started and finished our home-grown marathon for a few years until it got too big and the rangers shut us down. You could see the tree from miles away on the route, and you knew at the top there would be family, beer, doughnuts, sweaty hugs, laughter, and that slow, warm time that glows when you look back on it, and now wish it would have been slower.

It’s where I would take my oldest to watch fireworks because you could see them from miles around, small flickers, not the grand overhead sensory spectacle. It was quiet, dark, and beautiful.

I saw the flames reaching up to the tree when that hill caught fire. I looked up as I ushered the kids into the car. Scattered in the back were birth certificates, passports, some pictures, and not much else. You realize when you have to load a car with your valuables, that not much is valuable. I couldn’t see if the tree was on fire. When we returned home with dusty ash covering everything, I ran up the hill. It’s about 6 miles, depending on the route, and the tree at the top was still there. It stood alone over hundreds of other black and white skeletons of trees.

I’m trying to paint the tree now. I’d like to give copies to a few friends who have joined me up there on runs, repeats, or just to watch the dot of a space station slowly drag across the sky. Friends who I have shared everything with over the past 15-plus years of running these trails. Friends who gathered in the early morning. Friends who stood up there as the sun rose pink and orange over the cotton blanket of the marine layer.

It’s not just a tree, and that’s why it’s so hard to paint it. Over and over. I keep trying to get it right. I’m struggling with it. Every time I try, there is something that I don’t like. I like the branches, but the sky isn’t right. I like the rocks, but the leaves are messed up. I like the tree, but the rocks suck. It hasn’t come together, but I’m getting closer. I’m hoping that the math is simple.

My wife, sensing my frustration, told me to give it a rest, draw something else. She knows me, and she knows that repeats work. But pushing too hard, running too many repeats will break you.

The math is never that simple.