I endeavored Mission Peak’s steep hills this past weekend. I say endeavored because the first time I hiked up those hills it truly felt like I arduously accomplished the impossible. That day, eventually six miles later I made it to the peak. It was damning cold and I smartly wore a white sports bra that pushed my boobs up the way I loved, a pair of earl grey nylon-cotton shorts that hugged my waist so snug, and my Nike dad-like shoes paired with, you guessed it, white Nike ankle socks that turned an eventual beige sand because of the dirt. I, admittedly, looked hot regardless. I say endeavored because it was a treacherous journey that I loved every minute of those 4 hours.

Recently, I reencountered those same steep hills. I made it all of possibly half an hour because I was so high that I was convinced those birds flying high and low were scaring me for the purpose of protecting me. They were trying to tell me to turn back. They’d nearly touched the gravel-dirt filled path of dried grass that you couldn’t even really say was grass with their bellies. Right by shoes it felt. I turned back, hurriedly. As I passed what I believe to be some form of Western sycamore trees back down the path, I heard a voice. A sort of airy and light angelic voice speaking to me, singing to me without words and then whispers of secrets. They came with a wind every time. The wind would whoosh and way and woosh and way. And when it whooshed into the trees and wayed through my hair strong enough for my split ends to graze across my glossy red-stained lips, I heard that melodious angelic song of vocals against my ears and around my air. It? She? Whom- or what- ever had relaxed me had also spooked me altogether.

It was for another eight or so minutes that I listened to her sing and sway and whoosh and way. She felt protective and at the same time instilling some sort of fear. As if I had to pause and think and wait and whoosh and way like the Western sycamore trees that she whooshed and wayed through. At some point during my sitting in a hot muggy car I contemplated if I made all of this up because a downed 30mg of St. Ides THC mango fruit flavored tea on the 30 minute drive over. By the time I fixed up my lip gloss in the Mission Peak entrance parking lot I was so high that I couldn’t feel my legs. There was no reaching the top once I realized it was 80 degrees out and no clouds grazing the peak or even grazing the gravel-dirt path. The grass that you couldn’t even call grass was dead, brown, and dried, as is right with the season, but I couldn’t fathom the thought of hiking in that heat. It was a colossal hike. Maybe again sometime this winter.

That airy velvety soft voice has beautifully haunted me since. I cannot pull her out of my primary auditory cortex. Tucked tightly in my temporal lobe. Like slime or gum, just stuck and sticky. And even when or if I remove that voice, it will leave this residue that will taint whatever I hear or think of next. My neurotransmitters will send my every move with that residue until it washes out months later. That is what it feels like to enter a manic episode quite frankly.

The angelic voice was still very real. I haven’t stopped thinking of her since. I haven’t heard her since either. If I visit those hills again, and reach the top against all odds, I wonder if I will hear her clearer and for longer than those eight minutes. I wonder where she will lead or where she will fray or whoosh and way like those Western sycamore trees. What is so special about those? Where is she?

Aug 27, 2026