One week ago, I started writing this blog post as I waited out an unexpected layover at LAX. At the moment I began writing, I should have been somewhere over Mid-America approaching Chicago on a United flight which was to have taken off from San Diego at 8:15 am and was scheduled to land at O’Hare at 2:22 pm on Wednesday, June 20^th. Instead, that fight was canceled, and I found myself sitting in the Los Angeles airport, jiggling my faulty charger every time it stopped charging my iPhone, listening to announcements that urged me to have an “LA-Exceptional experience.”

I was returning home from a beautiful vacation where I spent three days in LA and three days in San Diego visiting very dear friends. There were beaches, sand, ocean breezes, strenuous hikes, breathtaking views, wine tasting, puppies, joyful reunions, and long goodbye hugs. I collected so much blog-able material that I needed time to process what exactly I might write. Then life threw me some more curveballs, and I ended up with very little time for reflection or writing this past week. Before the details slip through the cracks in my gray matter, I’d like to share two particularly meaningful experiences from my trip – a day trip to Mexico, and hiking the Mount Woodson trail.

On Sunday morning, I awoke early at my best friend’s house in Camarillo and gem that she is, she drove me to Union Station in LA so I could make it to San Diego before noon. My Amtrak ride was peaceful and uneventful. I read, ate snacks, and napped comfortably – arriving in downtown San Diego at 11:24 am. My friend Craig and his partner Mike greeted me with hugs, help with my bags, and a large hot coffee before whisking me away to Valle de Guadalupe, roughly a 2 ½ hour drive south of the border. Craig drove, and Mike shared his vast knowledge of Tijuana and the surrounding area – pointing out landmarks and explaining historical and economic realities.

As we traveled south along a winding road that hugged the seaside before veering into the mountains, I took in the stunning views of the landscape and noted the desolate outlines of unfinished ocean-view condominiums standing guard over lush white beaches. Mike explained that buildings often remain unfinished for a decade or more after developers run out of money.

Ultimately, we arrived in the Valle and, lured by the Jurassic Park figurines in front of a nearby restaurant, we turned down a small gravel road to discover our first winery of the day. The landscaping was immaculate, the wine delightful, and the sun cheerfully relentless. We sipped wine and pet dogs of various sizes with identically even temperaments who wandered the premises and alternately lounged in the shade or shoved their velvet snouts under our waiting palms. It was glorious.

The day only got better as we made our way to two more wineries – each more beautiful than the last, with impeccable service and quality wine. At 5:30 we arrived at Javier Placenscia’s pop-up restaurant, Animalón, where our reservation was honored with “the restaurant is yours, sit wherever you would like.” We stepped under the sweeping expanse of a 100-year-old oak tree to discover a restaurant of magical proportions. Wood and rawhide chairs encircled round tables, and white cloth lanterns hung from the ancient boughs, casting an otherworldly glow. We opted for an appetizer and the four-course dinner. The entire experience – ambiance, service, food, and wine – was absolutely exquisite. After our meal, we emerged into the cool twilight and I probably said a half a dozen times “I can’t believe how beautiful this is.” Craig drove home and I rode in the back of his Buick – sated, sleepy, and so thankful for my friends and the opportunities of my life.

Two days later, Craig and I woke early to cross an item off my San Diego bucket list – a hike to the top of Mount Woodson and a picture on Potato Chip Rock. I didn’t know much about the hike or the rock at the top of the mountain, but I had new trail running shoes and a fancy Fitbit and I was ready to take the most Instagram-able photo of my life. Craig drove the twenty minutes or so to the base of the mountain, we loaded up a backpack with water, snacks, and sunscreen, and we started up. Upon reaching the trailhead, we encountered signs that warned us about cougars, rattlesnakes, extreme heat, and the overall difficulty of the hike. Undaunted, we read the rules of mountain lion evasion and bounded along – congratulating ourselves on our high level of sportiness and openness to adventure. The first mile was relatively easy, and we stopped every quarter mile or so to sip water and take in the sprawling views of San Diego.

As the elevation rose, so did our core body temperatures, and my level of irritation at not reaching the summit. We encountered no other hikers headed up the mountain, and those that passed us were infuriatingly cheerful. One man quipped “You’re almost there!” “Good,” I said, “because I want to see that damn potato chip.” But I didn’t say damn. I said another, less-nice word. We stopped more often to sip water, hauling our bodies up an increasingly difficult path until we passed a sign that read “end of city-maintained trail.” I knew we had to be close, and sure enough, about a quarter mile later, we reached “The Chip.”

I will never do this rock justice in my attempts to describe it, so I will just include a picture. While the photos make the rock look more frightening than it actually is, getting onto it was far scarier than I expected. In hindsight, I’m glad I didn’t know what making it out onto the chip actually entailed, or I might have chickened out.

It was early afternoon on a Tuesday and only about twenty people dotted the mountaintop, meaning we wouldn’t have to wait long for our chance on the rock. On weekends, the line for a picture can stretch down the mountain and last an hour or more. I handed my phone to a nerdy-looking, astonishingly pale young man who offered to take our picture, and Craig and I climbed onto an adjacent boulder and asked bystanders what exactly we should do. A bubbly girl with bleached blond hair and a blue t-shirt piped up. You just have to jump across onto this rock. “Jump?!?” I responded, eyeing the two feet wide, eight-foot deep crevice I would have to traverse. “Yep!” she chirped, “If I can do it, you can do it!” Legs shaking from the climb, head throbbing with the possibility of a snapped ankle if I should fall, I followed Craig over the crack and out onto the chip.

We stood proudly on the top of the rock, and I cocked my hip and planted my hand on my waist in the “skinny-arm” pose I abandoned in my mid-twenties. I wanted my hard earned biceps to pop in that picture. Then Craig and I took turns sitting with our legs casually dangling off the chip. Mindful of the line that had formed at the base of the rock, we turned around to make the harrowing jump back over the crevice – a harder feat than the one before, as this time we not only had to jump across but up. I inelegantly belly-flopped onto the opposite boulder and Craig helped drag me up as the aforementioned bubbly blonde made sure I didn’t slide into the crack.

I took my phone from the teenager who had taken some amazing pictures of us and, as I swiped through them, we heard a yelp from the rock. The blonde in the blue shirt had failed in her attempt to make it across to the adjacent boulder. She had fallen in the crevice. Her voice sounded very far away as she yelled “I’m ok, but I hurt my knee! I heard a pop!” As bystanders tend to do, everyone looked at each other, eyes wide and startled, and a few people ran toward the rock. The girl’s friend made it to her first, and several good Samaritans helped slide her out of the crack and down to the ground.

As soon as we ascertained that there were plenty of people to help and that she could walk, Craig and I started back down the mountain with an increased awareness that a torn ACL or twisted ankle was just a slip away. Within an hour, we found ourselves at the foot of the mountain, and minutes later we were overpaying for Slurpees and chocolate milk at a nearby 7-11. All told, we hiked more than eight miles and 125 floors, according to my fancy Fitbit. I was sweaty, dirty, exhausted, and felt like a million dollars.

The next morning, I found myself sitting in LAX waiting out my unexpected layover, I began this blog post, and I started searching #potatochiprock on Instagram. I found some awesome photos, including a picture of our bleached blonde, blue-shirted friend posing proudly on the rock – no indication of what should have at least been a trip to urgent care after her mishap. Well, it got me thinking.

We all put so much of our lives online, and with this blog, I do so even more. I try to be forthright in conveying my triumphs and my failures, my good times and my tough ones. My trip to California was wonderful, my day trip to Mexico, phenomenal, my trip up Mt. Woodson – fun, but challenging. A series of pictures on my Instagram account, however, could never tell the whole story. An entire feed of pictures – a lifetime of blog posts – can never tell a single person’s story.   In an online world coated slick with the filtered sheen of our most joyous moments, we must be careful to tell the world, and ourselves, our entire truth.

Tomorrow morning, I will get on another plane – this one headed to Orlando for the North American Irish Dance Championship. My MacBook will make the trip, but I doubt I will have much time to write. I promise that when I do, I’ll share not just my summit stories, but also my trip up the mountain.

Until next time…