Gnarled trees surrounded by fields of manzanita stand and watch as hikers like my friend and me gasp out the final half mile on the trail to the summit of Mount San Antonio. I doubt that they have much sympathy. Their twisted tortured trunks and limbs give evidence of the fierce fighting that goes on each winter.
Four and a half hours gets you to the bald head of this tough old mountain where piles of rocks seem like a sweet place for a lie down and butterflies come to bless your acheivement.
The roasted almonds and animal crackers you brought seem a lot less tempting at 10,064 feet than they did down in your living room. The Dr. Pepper that you lugged up the trail tastes divine, even though it's been thoroughly warmed in your pack.
The air is thin up on top, and so you descend, giving back the elevation gained with sweat and struggle.
Vistas unimaginable down in the urban haze tempt you to stop, but the cool crystal mountain stream two miles down the trail sings a song that your feet can't ignore.
Back at the trail head, you might look up back towards the seemingly unreachable summit and wonder...were you really all the way up there?
Old Baldy has treasures in abundance, and he doesn't give them up for free; he exacts a demanding price. But he is faithful and will repay you efforts with deep blue skies, sweet air, and memories that will bring you back.
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