I made a right turn at the sign for Milagra Ridge, a park that is part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. The road curved along the hillside, with houses to the right and a steep drop to the left. It went for no more than a mile before reaching a gate.

In front of the gate, there was just enough room for four cars to parallel park. With three cars already there and the road so narrow, I had to make a three-point turn to back into the last spot. (In reality, it was more like an eleven-point turn, but let's not quibble.)

Just left of the gate was a trail head leading west and up one of the grassy hills. The trail began with a waist-high cable fence and dirt steps kept in place by 4×4 beams. As I got closer to the top, the distance between the steps grew.

The climb was easy and in less than five minutes, I was standing atop one of the park's highest ridges overlooking Pacifica and the Pacific Ocean. The wind was blowing, but I was prepared with a thick jacket, a wool cap and gloves.

It was after four in the afternoon by this time and the sun was slowly dropping to the horizon, casting long shadows and causing the water to sparkle yellow and white. I would have hiked the trail along the ridgeline and taken photos of the same ocean from various angles, but with less than an hour of daylight remaining and a desire to read, I plopped right down on the summit.

I was nearly alone out there. The only creatures I could see were the crows, butterflies and one other soul sitting on a hill, about a half-mile off, looking out at the ocean. The two of us were enjoying the same view as the houses, condominiums and apartments surrounding the park, but the remarkable distance between us struck me. We were the only two occupants on this grassy island.

I looked at the homes on the hills behind me, each with large windows or porches and a view. I tried to imagine every single occupant admiring the sunset at the same time. My imagination then removed the walls and roofs, but kept the people and the picture in my mind's eye showed a crowded hillside. Everything and everyone was so close together, too close for my taste. That made me truly appreciate where I sat, for it felt like the biggest porch in the world.

The book I was reading was Alvah Simon's North to the Night, an account of his Arctic experience and adventure in Tay Bay aboard his yacht. The man is both inspirational and insane (and I mean that in the nicest way possible). It takes a certain type of person to sail that far north and voluntarily strand himself, his wife and their cat in such an inhospitable environment for a year to have an authentic Arctic experience. What he describes isn't extreme adventure; it's extreme living. I'm all for working hard and playing hard, but when going bathroom or making coffee becomes an adventure in itself, that's where I draw the line. Call me a wimp, but I'll take Milagra Ridge over Tay Bay any day.