Bowling

Photographer: Jesus Manuel De Haro

Follow him on Instagram: @grizzlydeharo

Enjoy his work, show your appreciation with a donation: Venmo @jesusdeharo

My partner steadied me as I slipped down the trail that was

more like a creek bed then a dirt path, struggling to keep my feet under me as

the rain pelted my head and ran in cold rivulets down the back of my shirt. This

was the problem with hiking in January I thought as I ran my hands over the

verdant green grass that lined the side of the trail. Then again it was also

what was great about hiking in January. We were the only car parked at the

trail head, we were the only people crazy enough to be sloshing down this

trail, we had this whole corner of the wild world all to ourselves.

We ducked under some trees that had grown low over the path

and the trail began to level off. Around the next corner I could finally hear

it, the crashing of waves, we were getting close. Then suddenly the tree

branches parted, and a bluff covered in tiny white flowers rose before us.

Carefully we made our way up the steep path, crouching down to keep our center

of balance low so we wouldn’t slide back down in the slick mud.

Finally, we managed to reach the crest of the bluff without falling

down on our asses. We stood for a moment, savoring the view below us, the large

expanse of the Pacific, blue, green, grey, a stormy ocean crashing on the

cliffs below. I thought for sure this would have been the place, but there was

only water, and waves, and the sandy cliffs, so we kept walking, following the

trail around the edge of the bluff.

We walked for another fifteen minutes, until the trail forked;

the right hand side weaved across the bluff and back into a thicket of oaks

that were pushed up against the base of the foothills, and the left hand path plunged

over the edge of the cliff. Carefully we shuffled towards the precipice and

peered over. The trail meandered down the side of the cliff, a river of water

rushing toward the beach below. This was it alright, exactly as the guidebook

described it, well, a bit wetter than the guidebook described it. I was sure we

could make it down, though there was just one problem. There was no beach down

there, no boulders shaped like bowling balls in perfect rows across the sand,

just begging to be photographed. There was just the angry ocean. I had failed to

consider the tide.

I took out my phone, but I had no signal of course. There

was no way to know when the tide would start going out again. With a sigh I let

my backpack slide off my shoulders. Then I bent over, pulled out my picnic

blanket, and spread it across the wet grass. We sunk down on the blanket,

popped open a couple of beers, said a cheers to our adventure, and settled in

to wait for the bowling ball beach to be revealed again.