Julia Holter

Tuesdays, with a little luck and some dedicated overtime, I hike. Alone and far if I can swing it. I like to do a little research, bahiker is my go-to. I consult the weather, the traffic, do I have to pack a pb&j or can I last until I get back. I usually deliberate too long, leave late and forget the pb&j on the counter.

You can work through a lot of shit on the trail. Are you good at your job, is your partner still wildly attracted to you, are you letting friendships go by the wayside, (this is when I usually stop, reconnect to the Grid and text a number of people to try and drum-up some affirmations. Back on Airplane Mode), I like trails when I can attack inclines on the first half; when I can barely hear anything but the to-do list in my head - quad-burn and gasping runs a good distraction. If it's an estimated a four-hour trip, I aim to do it in three. 1. Overachiever 2. Pb&j is on the counter and it's 1:30pm

By the second half, I remember to look up. A few years ago I was on one of my favorite trails, blasting through the duff of a Buddhist retreat with a soul-sister, when she quipped that we might as well be on a treadmill. Head down, just moving through rather than being IN. You know where this could go. All kinds of meta directions.

There will be plenty of heavy-meta blogging to come, so don't you worry your pretty lil head.

For these 7.4 miles, there was fog and wind. A treacherous yellow jacket's nest I ran through like my tail was on fire. One Jerusalem cricket - goddamn if I don't hate those things yet remain intensely intrigued. Retired Marin hippies three-times my age leveling damaged trail swaths with pick-axes. Just a little bit of water trickling from the Mt Tam watershed, making it's way to the sea. Flora I can't identify, coyote scat and the bewildering streams of consciousness.