Two days ago Laura and I finally made it up to the mountains. Up past the thick marine layer, the skyscrapers of downtown, the housing complexes of La Mesa. Further along the I-8, past the last traces of Surburbia in Alpine and through the fragrant low desert chaparral that leads you to Sunrise Highway.

Sunrise Highway … is a legend. Sunrise Highway is the thick hair and luscious curves of a Greek Goddess delivering you from the numbness of your everyday reality to somewhere greater, to a pine and oak dotted haven where something deep down inside your chest will take wing and want to fly with the red-tailed hawks above.

But before all of that – before the stupid perma-grin on my face and the memories swimming around in my serotonin flooded head – I remembered that it costs $5 to park in paradise. The adventure pass it’s called. I remember way back in high school when I used to ditch class to drive out here alone, to get away from it all, the adventure pass didn’t exist. You could park anywhere along Sunrise Highway and go for a hike wherever you saw a trail. Then, (I think it was around ’97 or ’98) Cuyamaca State Park officials began complaining that there was not enough public funding to properly maintain the park and its increase in visitors. Propositions to increase taxes to cover the cost were struck down until Park Officials reluctantly proposed the permit fee system. Those who “use” nature (whatever that means) should be the ones to pay for its upkeep so the logic went.

Which would be fine with me if I had some say in how the money was spent. But I don’t. There was a lot of protest against the Adventure Pass. “Mother Nature doesn’t charge,” said some bumper stickers. In response Cuyamaca State Park has begun to put up signs saying “your adventure pass dollars at work.” It would be nice to see my adventure pass dollars working against big developers putting up Martha Stewartesque trophy homes facing Cuyamaca Lake rather than building yet another “scenic overlook” for tourists too obese to meander further than 20 yards from their car. Since the Adventure Pass system was implemented I have not seen any signs of improved park upkeep except for the highway itself and the “scenic outlooks” that litter it.

So we pull off into the small roadside town of Pine Valley – bordered by Sunrise Highway on one side and the I-8 on the other. Immediately I was flooded with memories. The mandatory stops into the market for chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers. The time Duggan, Anna, and I got caught in a near blizzard and retreated down the mountain – our tent soaked – to stay in an overpriced motel room, smoke bowls, and trade stories until a bright winter sun made its ascent and we had a sunrise stoned snowball fight in the parking lot.

A drive up burger joint had a big sign in the window: Soft-Serve. I couldn’t believe it. There goes Antonia’s recommendation that I start San Diego’s first independent soft-serve establishment. Then again, there is much room for price competition. “Small cone - $2.45, medium cone - $2.50, large cone - $2.55.” We went with the large swirl, chocolate dipped. I’m sad to report … nowhere near as good as Mickey D’s. Stopped by the market for our adventure pass and some batteries and finally we were on our way.

It was my first time up to the Laguna/Cuyamaca area since the San Diego Wildfires rained ash down on us for two weeks last year. Finally I would see the real damage. There was plenty of it, but not in the areas that I had expected. I remembered hearing on one of the newscasts that all of Laguna Village had been burned down, but the fire went nowhere close to there. In fact, most of the damage was on the other side of the lake on the 79. That side of the park is still completely closed down. Once majestic Granite Peak now looks like nothing more than big brown caca de vaca. (cow-shit) I couldn’t belive my eyes. The whole scene was so surreal. The aftermath looked like it could have only been done by … by, something with a purpose. Something that could choose to burn here and not there, to cremate one giant oaktree but let be its equally impressive neighbor.

Looking out over the razed, barren landscape with salvaged strips of fertile green, it did not seem possible that fire abided strictly to laws of physics and chemistry. Its acts are too malicious, its shape too exquisite.

I was ready to get out and hike, to get high on pine, to greet my friends the blue-jays, robins, and circling hawks. To see the marks of my homies, the woodpeckers. The glowing lime green of the moss living on the north side of most pines and a few oaks. But it was already 2:30 and Julian apple pie was a requisite. Ironically we went in town specifically for a slice of Mom’s Apple Pie (mine, a la mode with cinnamon ice cream of course) but after two mammoth sandwiches, we both knew that pie and ice cream would be masochistic. Instead, we got lost in the bookstore and a couple candy stores and then got back in the car with renewed determination to get in the woods.

We did just that, parking somewhere along mile 22 of Sunrise Highway and taking one of the narrow paths westward, towards Cuyamaca peak and down into Descanso. It was instant refreshment. I mean the true meaning of the word refreshment. Laura and I were like two old, tired batteries … completely drained. And now here we were walking under these giant pine and oak survivors and we were giddy like children. Laura was pointing at how this cloud looked like something-or-other and how that fallen tree looked like a dog and I couldn’t stop smiling. A smile, not because it was expected, but because I just couldn’t hold it back.

We were young again. We were holding hands, two people stumbling down a dirt path in utter ecstasy.

Driving down the grade of the I-8 into the bright lights of Costco shopping centers and San Diego State University’s giant buildings, we felt the weight of the marine layer push down on us again. Of all we had to get done by tomorrow. Of our debts still unpaid from our winter trip to Mexico.

Before going to Lowe’s Hardware to buy paint and plumbing supplies for the kitchen though, we stopped into Kensington Coffee for a couple cappuccinos. Sitting comfortably on one of the sofas there, we talked about all we had to finish before this coming June when Laura will be heading back to Mexico to finish school and I will be going to SE Asia to travel. It was still daunting, all that lay in front of us. But it was, all of a sudden, more manageable. We needed this day under the pines, above the city. We needed a little solitude, a little perspective.

A couple hours later, back home I was having the following conversation with our kitchen sink: “Fuck you, you fucking piece of miserable leaking piece of shit. I’m gonna fuck you up you fucking fuck.” Then I hit my head on one of the pipes. “FUCK! God damn it. I’m gonna shit on you, I’m gonna shit on your mom, I’m gonna kick your little baby in the head, I’m gonna kick it’s fucking head off asshole!”

The kitchen sink however remained pensive and silent. I wasn’t sure if it was afraid or was mocking me. I began to speak sweetly and quietly, but the washer would still not thread. Laura was already in bed.

“Fuck it, you’re not worth it,” I told the sink. Still, he would not answer. I climbed into bed, put my arm around Laura who mumbled something in her sleep, and I sighed in deep contentment before drifting off.

The next morning the washer slipped on perfect and within two minutes we had a working sink again.