A tale of two hikes. (First Person).

I lace up my hiking boots in the chill October air and wonder what I hope to accomplish. The last time 1 was here was in late August. It was a world before September 11, 2001--before the phrase suicide hijackers had any meaning to me. My journal reads like that of a thirteen-year-old who had just gone to her first dance, gushing, "Back from another glorious weekend!" Adrenaline fueled by a spontaneity I thought 1 had lost.

I had been surfing hostel websites all summer, favoring the ones that resemble summer camps for adults in remote spots. The Marin Headlands certainly qualified. There are no food or drink concessions here or hotels. Even though it is only ten minutes from San Francisco, only a hardy band of hikers, bikers, surfers, and birdwatchers come regularly to the sweeping vistas caused by tectonic plate action extraordinaire. So I came here for a getaway--a mini-adventure with some exercise, if you will.

Usually a hike is simply a hike, a way to get exercise and see nature up close. But today is different. I want to feel peace again. So I'm returning to the last place I felt truly peaceful, the Marin Headlands. I know it's an order as tall as these trees I'm sitting under, but watching television nonstop and wondering what size flag to fly hasn't brought me any closer to understanding the terrorist attacks.

When I was growing up we had an embroidery sampler hanging over the kitchen table that my great-grandmother had stitched. "Yours is the earth and everything in it," it said, surrounded by luscious vegetables neatly done. The idea that the earth could yield secrets as well as plentiful fruits and vegetables seemed to me a given. I am not picking vegetables today, instead I am picking through historical facts embedded in the coastline. But I keep thinking that, if I press my ear to the ground, gather a handful of dirt in my hand, perhaps then I can hear the secrets of a place that was developed for war and now enjoys peace.

So I stand at the Miwok trailhead and try to incorporate this landscape into my consciousness. There are less wildflowers on the trails and that seems to match my mood, too. Still, I find myself deeply appreciative of the spots of purple and red, with names like Farewell to Spring, poking their tiny heads through the brown grasses. The odor of fennel and sage is potent, smelling faintly like licorice.

Soon, however, I'm breathing too heavily to be very contemplative. Bicyclists who pass me could be advertisements for "Buns of Steel." Around every corner seems another 100-foot gain. At one point you can see the path clearly in front of you, but you have to scoop down into the valley first and then rise even higher than you started. It seems a bit of a silly joke to make us go down first. I find myself mindlessly counting the steps, deciding I will only look up at the top every ten steps.

With the elevation gain comes a scenery and climate change. The fog cascades over the hills so thick you can feel its moisture. It looks like someone is pouring the fog over the crest right in front of me. It spills over and I hear miniature waterfalls hidden in the rocks beside me as I walk through it. It seems orchestrated just for me, movie-making magic perhaps, and I try to absorb the natural phenomenon. But such natural wonders aren't really why I'm here today, and I feel the magnetic pull of the rest of the hike.

The military history embedded in these hills is now drawing this peace-loving hiker to switch from reading hike descriptions to studying World War II strategy. These rolling hills were the military's domain for over 100 years.

They were our first line of defense against potential coastal attacks. Then in 1972 defense theories changed and the vast expanses of the coastline were given to the National Park Service. It's an unusual alliance--the military and the local environmentalists. But both groups consider the land almost sacred, albeit for different reasons.

The path curves nonchalantly around the landslide and up a slight hill. It's a good place to pause, but I'm too eager this time to stop. Last time I passed by the curious sight of these strange concrete visors protruding from the hill with scarcely a second glance. This time I scamper down, leaving the trail behind to get a closer look.

The brochure primly tells me, "Many visitors frequently (and erroneously) call them bunkers." Several paragraphs later the writer lets us in on the secret. The official name of the single-room stations was the B.S. stations (for base-end spotting). I can imagine the soldiers' jokes about that. A sense of humor would serve you well here. The tiny rooms didn't include bathrooms; each soldier was issued a shovel for that purpose.

The work wasn't glamorous either. Using telescopes and a precise measuring routine based on trigonometry, the soldiers would call in the range of an enemy ship. In the station I'm standing in, you can still see where the telephones used to hang on the wall. It's analytical work that I probably would get assigned to if I ever found myself in an army. These particular stations were the eyes for Battery Townsley.

I'm amazed at a wave of claustrophobia that hits me. I have to remind myself that my time is still my own. I'm not a draftee or even an enlisted person who received this particular assignment. Consciously I know that there is no one easy answer for my questions about humanity, but subconsciously I find myself staring at each artifact, wondering if it's the key.

When I climb out, I blink my eyes at the sunlight. As I continue down the path, I think of the young men of the past, perhaps taking advantage of such a sunny day with a football. The path leads from the eyes of the operation to its guts, to the remains of the battery that held the huge guns.

"Battery Townsley 1938" is engraved at the top of the large, concrete, now slightly useless hallway through the hill. It is camouflaged well by cypress trees, the seeds which the military trucks inadvertently brought in from Monterrey on dirt clods clinging to their tires. Today there's a bench in front. At one time on this spot you would probably have felt the cold steel of the gun barrel at your back. But long ago it was dismantled and sold to the Gillette Safety Razor Company. I've read that the sixteen-inch projectiles fired by Battery Townsley would spin, like a football, when fired.

When I hiked here in late August I was deeply appreciative of my world. I sat on the bench, munching my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and watching sailboats drifting in time to the foghorn. "We live in a time of peace," I thought, and felt profoundly grateful. I thought of my brother who has never had to serve in any army and my father who narrowly missed the Vietnam War, and I knew that such peace was something many countries yearn to achieve. I didn't linger long. The shade brings a chill and the smell of paranoia and boredom seem to have infused the walls. Pelicans flew inches above the rolling waves below and beckoned me to leave the sedentary pause and deep thinking.

There are no wartime glory stories from here. All of the batteries were obsolete by the time construction was finished, if not before. The last one remains a concrete hole in the ground, labeled simply "Battery Construction 129." They changed the men, the guns, and the ammunition but no shots were ever fired in anger from this location or any other on the Marin Headlands.

So here I sit, a little more than a month after my August visit, my perspective brutally altered. I once again eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which I'd made in the hope that if I kept the menu the same perhaps I could regain that sense of a peaceful future. The structures haven't changed perceptibly, but they are no longer quaint anomalies of a fear we no longer have. Suddenly I can imagine the people inside them having real faces and personalities.

Descending the hill, I see how the land has continued its dramatic changing; at one junction a landslide has suddenly cut off the road. I imagine 1 can feel the geological energy emanating from the rock. It looks like a blanket someone tossed in the air prior to folding, although in reality it took thousands of years to form.

The end of a hike is often a bittersweet moment for me. Tired but not quite wanting it to end, the adrenaline ! require to climb the hills begins to slowly wane. Usually my mind drifts to the to-do list in my head or begins deciding which groceries to buy. Today, however, I'm mildly irritated. I came looking for peace and enlightenment and all I've developed is an appreciation for the people who protected this coast and a fascination for the remaining architecture. I thought that this park had no agenda; it had done its part for our nation's security and now could honorably retire. But the wheels of change keep turning. I don't know if the children I know or their children's children will have a park like this. I hope so. It's a place that cycled from war to peace in one generation and wildflowers literally grow between the cracks. It's reassuring to know this can happen, but now I acknowledge how quickly it can all change again.

At the bottom of the hill, the old military chapel's steeple still beckons visitors. Only now it offers detailed trail maps and knowledgeable guides instead of the promise of everlasting life. At the moment I'm the only guest of the Park Visitor Center. As I walk in, to my left is the natural history section; to the right, the military history section. Squarely in the middle is the information desk, staffed this chilly morning by manager Bob Poirier of the National Park Service. I had gotten hiking advice from him in August, but I don't think he remembers me. He reminds me of a kindly uncle that everyone trusts.

His smooth delivery of facts is tempered by just a hint of nervousness when I ask about the military occupation. He would much rather give hiking advice than worry about how to deal with a potential rash of graffiti or a protest staged on his watch. It doesn't help that I'm not sure where I'm coming from either. He reaches below his desk for the brochures on Sea Coast Fortification and the Army in the Headlands that aren't currently on display, and he recommends a book. He even gives me a slight discount on the book when I tell him I'm writing an article.

Hostels don't usually have televisions, and it's only much later in the day that I will realize that, by the time 1 am talking to him, the United States has already begun dropping bombs in Afghanistan. We both slip back into nature talk, the topics both of us are more comfortable with. "I hear the wildflowers are beautiful in the spring," I offer. That was when I had originally planned to repeat this trip.

"Oh yes," he exclaims, and quickly produces the requisite brochure. We both know we are yearning for a day in April or maybe May 2002 when the fields of blue lupine and golden poppies will be our biggest obsession. "The hawks are migrating right now," he says. "They're circling in droves. Huge numbers." He pauses. "Of course, it might just be an early migration."

Cheryl Smith is a technical writer from San Mateo, California, and has been published in several magazines and newspapers.