Growing up on Grizzly Peak

Off the ribbon of asphalt that runs the western lip of the Berkley hills, at the base of an old Oak tree that overlooks the bay, I used to dream about living in San Francisco. If it were September or October, and the afternoons were allowed to dissolve free of fog cover, I’d sit with my back against the tree, watching the towers turn to silhouettes in the sky, and I’d wonder what it might be like to be a different person. More capable, more adult, less anxious. I’d sit there like this — content, consumed — until it was dark, and the city was nothing but shadows and tin lantern perforations. Then I’d stand to leave. But it was always difficult tearing myself away. Each time, savoring my last few moments there on the side of Grizzly Peak, I got the sense that spilling out before me, in spite of my pessimistic inclinations, was empirical evidence that life didn’t actually suck.

I started driving up to Grizzly Peak when I was 15. I’d grown up on the other side of the Berkeley hills, off the 24, in a town that’d seemed to me, at the time, intolerably insulated, a microcosm of commutes and routines so mundane they made “growing up” seem more like “giving in.” I was also, for the first time, becoming aware of just how thoroughly greed, oppression, fear, dislogic, and other more discarnate forms of personal evil seemed to permeate the human experience. I’d lost faith in the concept of karma, the idea that there’s utility in being a moral person. I’d started feeling hopeless, one might say. But it’s probably because of this that I fell in love with Grizzly Peak so quickly.

From the side of Grizzly Peak, on the edge of the gravel turn out where the old, heavily tattooed tree stood, I felt like all the badness I was waking up to existed only on the other side of the hill, behind me. From Grizzly Peak — on this side of this hill — all I could see was opportunity, possibility, and San Francisco. That’s what my future could be like, I said to myself, sitting at the base of the tree. My future could be Russian Hill. My future could be the Sutro tower. It could be the Financial District and Vesuvio and Russian Hill and Golden Gate Park and all the grey melancholy in between. I pictured myself on the other side of the water, warm under a down blanket of fog, in an apartment that was small but wood-floored and well lit, with windows that faced the Berkley hills. I imagined myself standing by the window, a cup of coffee in my hand, looking out to the East Bay, where some skinny, dutifully depressed 15 year old kid was sitting at the base of a tree, picturing himself as someone more adult and accomplished.

To be sure, the San Francisco of my 15 year old imagination was distorted by naivety and youth — by a complete lack of familiarity with real life — but I think there’s something about the view from Grizzly Peak that inspires this sort of childish idealism. At sunset, the Headlands across the water look like sleeping cats. The intercourse of nature and industry at the base of the Oakland hills is so uniquely Californian. During the day, the towers of the Financial District possess an Oz-like resplendence.

This San Francisco became, for me, a sort of antithesis to apathy. It was a San Francisco not simply different from other places but catalyzed by it’s differentness, as if it drew energy from the badness and boredom that seemed so prevalent elsewhere in the world, and used that to fuel it’s own caffeinated, Victorian momentum. It was a city impervious to the less fortunate, less unique momentums of other cities. It was a city full of people who gave not one fuck about what other people thought. This took on an almost religious importance to me. I dreamt of escape, and this San Francisco was my vehicle.

Of course, this was a much different San Francisco than the one I would eventually move to — a city of contradictions and stereotypes, powered by programmers and ambivalent of it’s poverty. I love this San Francisco, and I take deep pride in living here — and, to be sure, there are many qualities I’ve grown to love about this city that I had no idea existed back when I was 15, on Grizzly Peak. But some times living here feels like watching a car crash in slow-motion, over and over again. Collisions of reality and ideals, every day. Ironically, when I’m overcome with the desire to escape somewhere now, it’s the city that I want to escape from, even if just for a bit. I’d felt this for some time — resisted it, I think — but last Tuesday I gave in and rented a Zipcar and drove back up to Grizzly Peak. I parked and walked to the old, carved up tree where I used to sit.

I hadn’t been back up to Grizzly Peak for some time, and it surprised me, how truly breathtaking I found the vantage offered. The view was so vast, encompassing everything from East Oakland to the Richmond bridge. The water glimmered like tin foil in the sun, And the fog — it seemed so much more impressive now, approaching like a glacier off the Pacific. A familiar sort of rejuvenation rivered through my body — nerves like a chain link fence in a storm. I stood there in awe for 10 minutes before I leaned back against the tree and let myself slide down the trunk. That’s when this combination of aesthetic appreciation and physical excitement translated into personal pride. Deep, loving, personal pride. I knew right away that this was a different sensation from the distinct desire I used to feel up here, at 15. That was the desire of a caterpillar in a cocoon, mad for light and air. This, however, was the pride one feels for the place they call home. I suddenly understood the concept of tattoos, why someone might want to capture a feeling and make their pride in having felt it permanent.

Accordingly, before I left and drove back to the city, I took out the key to my apartment and carved my initials into the trunk of the tree. It was harder work than I’d anticipated. But the initials are there now, and will be for as long as that tree stands, offering rejuvenation and religion for anyone who seeks it.

DM.

*****************************************************************

Enjoyed this post? Please hit Recommend or share it on Twitter. And feel free to follow me for more writing like this. Thanks for reading!