Kettlebell at the top of North Fortuna looking west.

• Located in Mission Trails Regional Park, the backside of North Fortuna is a moderately strenuous hike. With a length of around 6 miles and an elevation gain of around 1,400 feet, the hike will take most people 2 to 4 hours to complete.
• Distance from downtown San Diego: 18 miles
• Hike length: 6 miles • Difficulty: Moderately strenuous • Season: Year-round

My soul itches as I pace back and forth in my room, unable to decide where to hike. Through a linen curtain near the window, I see that the sky above is blue and clear, and to the east, although the window is closed, I hear the green hills beckoning me.

“Cowles or Kwaay Paay,” I muse. Two close hikes, more familiar to me than the back of my hand. “Or perhaps I crack open my copy of Afoot & Afield and aim for trails unknown?”

This is the dilemma tormenting me: should I soothe my achy legs, flying up familiar hikes in competition with the ghost of my younger self, or would it be wiser to pacify my urge to write by greeting a new trail, then chewing on the encounter, and spewing it onto paper? I haven’t a clue, yet the hills continue their siren call. Frustrated at my indecision, I sit on my bed, and that’s when a dull gleam in the corner of the room catches my eye and a distant memory creeps into my mind.

Years ago on the trail,  I met a gruff firefighter, strong, bronzed by the sun’s embrace, and clad in a weathered tank top, shorts, and leather boot. He strode with purpose. But what captivated me most was his companion – an iron kettlebell, which he passed between his hands.

Staring at my own 25-pound kettlebell on the floor, the path forward becomes clear. I will go on a familiar hike, but I will carry this weight with me and write about the experience.

Parking my car in Mission Trails, I am anxious to avoid prying eyes, so I slip the kettlebell into my fanny pack and carry it towards the trailhead along Father Juniper Road. I am worried the iron load will betray me, that it will grow too heavy as I haul it down the muddy path before me, and that my knees will buckle, leaving me sweaty and short of breath in front of amused strangers who pass by, grinning at the stupidity that is on full display.

Entering into the Grasslands.

As I pass by several strangers, I catch a curious look of scrutiny from a few observant folks who notice one of my arms appears oddly strained for a man who is carrying a simple black fanny pack. But aside from a raised eyebrow or a double take, they keep their observations to themselves.

Midway through the grasslands that spread out north of the San Diego River, I unzip the pack and extract my cumbersome cargo. I survey my surroundings like a watchful meerkat and see that I am alone, aside from a few distant hikers on parallel paths some ways away. The lump of iron looks out of place in the sea of verdure that extends out every direction around me. With a deep breath, I fasten my fanny pack and stoop down to begin carrying it up the mountain.

Looking out at Kwaay Paay.

I have decided to hike up North Fortuna; I want to test myself against the Fortuna Saddle trail, which connects North and South Fortuna on a low-lying ridge that separates the east and west sides of Mission Trails. I know this trail well, especially the intensity of its sloping side, and want to see if the iron within me is as enduring as the iron I hold in my hand.

I strike my boots along the path, finding a steady rhythm as I trade the weight back and forth between hands. I carry it on one side until fatigue creeps into my arm, then swap. This happens every few minutes or so. After a mile of flat walking, I still feel fresh; my muscles settle over bone to brace against the added weight. But as the road turns up towards the sky, the iron begins to sink into me and I am surprised to find that it isn’t my arms or back that begin to complain, but my quads. It has been a while since I backpacked or hiked with any serious weight and they begin to stir like hungry snakes on a summer day. I tune them out as I continue up the hill that overlooks Oak Canyon.

Heading out of the Grasslands.

Patches of light blue flowers are knitted in among the sage scrub and granite boulders, which stick out like broken molars in the jaw of a long-dead giant. Spring is in full bloom, this first wave of flowers will crest in a colorful crescendo before crashing amongst the later blooms that will arise in the following weeks. Spring will shed its youth, the light blue flowers and orange poppies dwindling to mangy, threadbare tatters along the chaparral slopes before slipping into a quiet dormancy as the April gives way and May gray returns to the land.

I pass several other spring hikers. A few are caught up in thought or conversation, ignorant of the burden I carry Others take note of it. Among the latter, some keep a straight face, while the rest gawk with bewilderment, the same way I did when I spotted that firefighter hauling his iron load up the mountain.

Creek flowing through Oak Canyon.

As I descend the hill towards Oak Canyon, I am amazed by the amount of water flowing through the creek, which I cross via a flight of dry, protruding stones. As I follow alongside it, I decide to change my heading and continue along Oak Canyon instead of going up the saddle. I am curious to see how much water is flowing along the rocky gorge; it seems I haven’t seen this much since I was a boy. Keeping to the right at the fork, I bow my head and enter a low tunnel formed by overhanging branches, then cross a wooden bridge, passing a couple shirtless guys sipping Arizona iced teas and snacking on Cheetos.

Crossing the San Diego River.

A middle-aged couple is cautiously approaching the water’s edge to snap a selfie when I arrive at the upper canyon. Seemingly satisfied with their photos, they saunter off into the brush to circle out of the canyon back towards the grasslands. I set down my burden, take my own photos, and watch the cascading water as it barrels through a slot along the canyon wall.

Content after taking in the view, I pick up my iron and continue up the canyon towards the rolling hills that will lead me up the backside of North Fortuna. Before I start up it, I pass a father and his young son who are wandering out of the park to pass below SR-52 and enter into an idyllic green dell where the creek meanders its way below old oaks that know the faces of birds, rabbits, lizards, and deer better than those of men. I am envious I am not going that way, and feel the urge to drop my weight and follow them. Instead, I turn away toward the sky.

Steep hike up the backside of North Fortuna.

I am making good time ascending the backside of the mountain, where the trail rises and falls like the humps of a camel. Every step taken up the hill is lost going down its other side, until I arrive at the final ascent, which looms over me like a sheer cliff rather than a steep hill. I dig my boots into the earth with every step forward, keeping my back as straight as a rod as I shift the iron weight back and forth. Somewhere during the climb, I forget that the weight is separate from me.

When I reach the flat, barren top of the final hill, I anchor the kettlebell and stretch my arms while looking at the rest of the mountain. It is too late to turn back. The path behind me is nearly as strenuous as the path ahead.

Heading down from the Fortuna Saddle.

Resolved to finish what I have started, I sip water and prepare for the final effort. Behind me, the tumult of traffic zips by along the 52. Clustered alongside the concrete road are a few patches of California poppies. They hold their golden petals high as they are buffeted by the wind — not a gentle blowing breeze that comes from the earth, but a gust from passing cars as drivers speed by, blind to the fleeting beauty that grows alongside them.