Off the Mountain

Wake early. Drink coffee. Climb the coastal mountains, wind tearing, sun carving shadows. Talk to grape growers, hands dark with history. Smell the earth, the salt, the fermenting fruit. Get lost. Lose track of time. The Pacific roars. Trails vanish. And somehow, by miracle or stubbornness, you descend back to the Presidio, every nerve alive, every sense on fire.