On the borderlands of campus rises a place upholstered in shimmering grass, dotted with ancient oaks and punctuated by a big metal disc aimed at the sky.
Its verdant hills are a sanctuary for the urban weary. Its meandering trails beckon hundreds of thousands every year. Its beauty inspires fawning encomiums. Oh, how we love the Dish.
Whatever.
The Dish leaves me breathless every time I go there, but not because the trees are so grand or the grass is so splendid. You see, my typical day at the Dish involves running up its infernal slopes, cursing the headwind and wishing I had not eaten so many mini-wheats for breakfast. I have yet to be compelled to craft a sonnet on my way up. I'm too busy trying not to cough up some important internal organ.
The route I typically take is on the northern edge of the preserve, more or less following the same path as the infamous ad hoc trail known as "the scar," which although now paved and slightly curved, retains its formidable butt-kicking features. Which is to say it's steep as hell.
About two-thirds of the way up, the trail momentarily levels to enable the lungs to return to their proper place in one's chest. And then steepens again. Here, some clever Berkeley person has spray-painted "Go Bears" in white. I'm certain this charming piece of graffiti wasn't intended as a mark of affirmation, but when I reach "Go Bears" I know there's at least a possibility that I can crest the hill before requiring hospitalization. (The authorities once blacked out "Go Bears," but a few months later it reappeared, like an old friend returning to show me the way.) More than once, I have pulled myself up the hill with an impromptu pep talk: Just make it to the "Go Bears" mark. And then keep going.
Want to know what's really beautiful about the Dish? Getting to the top of it. Now that is worthy of a poem. Moreover, although tamed long ago, the Dish does retain the residue of wilderness; thus it is always possible that you will encounter a predator of sufficient skill and size to, well, ruin your day.
It happened to me a few years ago. I was out of shape because of an illness-induced hiatus, and hurting more than usual thanks to a stiff westerly breeze. Wheezing past the "Go Bears" mark, I looked up long enough to notice a mountain lion sunning on a small knoll a few hundred yards off to the left. This seemed like a good moment to pause and consider my options.
Hands on hips, gasping, I looked at the mountain lion. She (I think it was a she) looked at me, perhaps wondering whether vultures might soon be circling overhead and maybe she should get a head start. But she made no menacing moves. Just sat there, yawning periodically.
Since the lion didn't seem too intent on a meal at the moment, I jogged slowly up toward the summit, one eye peeled. Then she stood up. I stopped again. Okay, new pep talk: So what if I don't top out today? My legs are wooden. My chest is on fire. And there is a mountain lion standing in the grass over there.
Whereupon I arrived at the point where the Dish is truly lovable: that delicious moment of realization that it's all downhill from here. I turned around.
Kevin Cool is the executive editor of Stanford.
