Where the Sidewalk Ends

Looking at this picture I am immediately reminded of the Shel Silverstein poem Where the Sidewalk Ends. The trails of La Jolla twist and wind around marvelous coast, passing high above the rolling tides and foaming waves of the Pacific Coast below. This is why I hike. I’m not particularly keen on the act of walking, although I do enjoy exercise, but I do it for the sights; views that most people miss due to inconvenience. Stand at a mountain’s summit, body aching and weak with exhaustion, brisk wind slapping you in the face, and gaze into the surrounding sprawling land, feasting your eyes on nature’s beauty and you will forget whatever conditions you just endured.

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

-Shel Silverstein