I'd heard so much about this iconic bridge, so driving here, I admittedly had some high expectations. The view was indeed great, but the loud and obnoxious people clamoring for photo-op space along every inch of the dirt ridge left me feeling annoyed, disappointed and claustrophobic.
How often we think that those 'iconic' moments and things in life will make us happy- securing that ideal job, finding the perfect partner, getting that first book published, buying that dream house, getting that puppy- only to realize that once we've 'arrived' it is not at all what we expected. I've learned that society's definitions of what makes a good life rarely define my own.
I got in my car and kept driving south, enjoying the view and being open to exploring a new adventure on an off-beaten path somewhere else. I needed silence. And space.
It's a funny thing when you have no phone reception and are searching for a trailhead that you've only heard about from social media. Even in my search for solitude, I needed to enlist help. I stopped and asked for directions at the Henry Miller Library where I was met by a friendly man wearing a beanie, who delightfully led me to the back corner of the library. He picked up a book of hiking trails, glanced at the index, and thumbed through the pages until he reached the trail I was inquiring about. He then drew me the clearest, detailed map, including landmarks that would alert me that I had driven too far south, and warned me that is was trail that was "strenuous and not for the faint-hearted." I was grateful for him and his little map, which is now tucked away in my shoebox of special cards and letters. It is a reminder of how complete strangers allow us to discover places and parts of ourselves, and a call to point people in the right direction, regardless if we know their name or not. Such is the power of human kindness. I smiled and went on my way, without any clear expectations, yet excited for the adventure that awaited me.