Tim and I started our hike toward Mission Peak around noon. The first weekend 
of MP re-opening, traffic on the Ohlone side was much eased. It was a cool and
windy Saturday. A few lazy fluffy clouds hang from an azure sky. Early summer,
the hills have hastily changed into a bright golden coat. Against a blue canvas,
they looked majestic.
        

The grass was tall, yellow, and thick. It reminded me of Laura Ingalls's
prairie. Aside from the tornados and wild fires, I wouldn't mind living in a
little cabin there, I told Tim, who promptly pointed out that I forgot the wifi.

To the east and all the way to Livermore, lay a vast wilderness. The undulating
terrain looked desolate, darker, and less cheerful, as if harboring some deep
ancient secret. To the north we could see Mount Diablo beyond Danville, almost
double in height than that of MP, thrusting toward the sky. The East Bay is huge.

        
Close to the foot of the summit, colorful hang-gliders came quietly into view,
like big kites floating above. Some flew low enough that I could see the pilots.
With their arms stretched out in the front and legs together straight behind,
they glided as if in a medium thicker and more bouyant than thin air. Others
hovered much higher and farther away and looked more like giant birds hunting
for prey. They invoked black memories, acquired from fiction, of the unfortunate
boy Icarus.  Strangely, that made them more free and beautiful in the mind of
this beholder.