A line of hikers posing with the chip.

• Located in Poway, Potato Chip Rock (or Mt. Woodson) is a moderately strenuous hike. With a length of around 7 miles and an elevation gain of around 2,050 feet, the hike will take most people 3 to 5 hours to complete. Dogs are allowed.
• Distance from downtown San Diego: 28 miles
• Hike length: 7 miles • Difficulty: Moderately strenuous • Season: Year-round

Years ago, I stood on the side of Mount Whitney, its peaks packed with ice and snow, and felt the warm breath of the mid-morning sun thawing frozen beads of sweat from the loose curls that hung over my brow. Rivulets of sweat streamed into my eyes, the stinging salt blurring my vision as a large stone began to barrel down the slope toward me after having fallen from its perch on a pass high above.

My ears caught the noisy scuttle of hikers far above, hollering about the tumbling debris. Wiping my eyes, I looked ahead and saw my doom leaping down the path in long, graceful arcs; then looked back and saw my brother stumbling off the path a hundred paces below through knee-high snow to take shelter behind a boulder. Unfortunately, I had no such protection. It was as if the mountain had played the long game, patiently waiting for me to draw near, and then, like a cannon, it pointed itself at me and lit the fuse.

I had just enough time to jump out of the path of this firing squad. Clutching my ice ax, I readied myself to leap onto a bank of hard, ice-slick snow that was only beginning to thaw from the shivering night. I hoped the snow was not too firm, for a misstep meant sliding a thousand feet down the mountain and crashing into an outcrop of boulders that grinned like the teeth of a hungry giant. Caught in a fatal predicament, I coiled my legs to jump and thought, “Is this how it ends?”

As if in divine response, the stone whistled through the air, falling like a shooting star, then collided against the ground a couple dozen paces ahead of me, splitting into two equal halves that passed me by on either side. Although I had escaped an early grave, my soul had been marked from the encounter.

Looking at the line from the other side.

These thoughts played like home movies through my mind as I stood in line on Mt. Woodson, waiting to take a photo atop San Diego’s renowned landmark and Instagram sensation, Potato Chip Rock. Unlike the rock on Whitney, this one wasn't trying to kill me, at least not yet. In fact, there was nothing sinister about the rock at all. It resembled a giant Pringle hanging off the side of the mountain, and it held itself like a bored lion, waiting patiently for the zookeeper to deliver its next meal while tourists snapped pictures on the other side of its glass cage. After enduring a sluggish ten-minute wait, I realized I might be imposing my own mood onto the rock.

Looking at SR-67 as it heads into Ramona.

Watching the hikers posing on Potato Chip Rock, I couldn’t help but feel that the experience of standing on a scenic mountain was lost on them. Surrounding us was a charming panorama with a view of the lapping sea to the west and the low-lying mountains to the east. Not that anyone seemed to care, for they were too busy gawking at their smartphone cameras. The vibe was sacrilegious, as if everyone had made a pilgrimage to a sacred temple, but instead of praying, they scratched “I was here” on the walls and went home. Worst of all, I found myself among them, standing in line to do the same! Oh the fury.

I looked around at my fellow hikers as we continued standing in line. While I hate to admit it, they were indeed fellow hikers. They sported Osprey backpacks with Patagonia shirts and chewed on the worn nipples of their CamelBak bladders to gulp water. Some wore hiking boots that were so mercilessly beaten from the trail that I knew their owners had climbed longer and tougher peaks than I had. But I felt no connection to these hikers.

Looking south from the trail.

As the line moved forward, my frustration expanded until I began to silently rage against a deeper quality coiled within human nature, for upon this peak loomed a sinister deceit. Surrounded by these hikers, all deceiving ourselves, we weren't escaping but succumbing to society's demands. The sheer absurdity of queuing on a mountain laid bare our collective surrender.

In my attempt to go hiking and flee my civilized cage, I had stumbled into another one atop the mountain and no one could see the bars but me. Every one of us was caught in this cage. Whether unveiling views, sculpting bodies, chasing a higher truth in the wild, we were all prisoners of our seeking.

The joy of hiking isn’t in the vistas, the physical grind, or in conquering mountains—only fools believe that, and I’m speaking from experience. No, seeing the bars of my cage I finally understood it’s in avoiding your own damn self on the trail. Those Pacific Crest Trail thru-hikers who aim to “find themselves” miss the point—it’s about losing, not finding. On the trail, you ditch your identity because there’s nothing civilized to tag you. Bob Dylan got it, singing, “How does it feel, to be on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone?”

Starting from Lake Poway.

Walking solo, you are like a leaf adrift in a stream, having left behind the tree that raised you. Perhaps a dragonfly might alight on you, or maybe a small frog might hop by. You’re free from your own snarls because there’s nothing to cast your reflection—instead, you merge with nature. The hues of flowers, the song of birds, the babble of streams and the whisper of trees become your companions. Walk long enough, and you’ll open up to the world, I swear. It's inevitable when your self thins out, stretching beyond what eyes, ears and hands can grasp.

At the peak of Mt. Woodson, I didn’t stand there like a drifting leaf or a stone on the roll. The cold clasp of civilization forced me to stand there. The Potato Chip Rock was a lie we all swallowed. It wasn’t iconic in and of itself. It merely let folks claim triumph, turning wanderers into performers as they posed like big-game hunters with their kill. This place offered a chance to, for a little while at least, abandon yourself to the elements, to truly be present. But no, we clung to our threadbare identities and smug civility like fairground riders clutching a finely carved horse on a carousel.

As each hiker stepped onto that sacred Pringle to embalm a moment in dead pixels, they stroked their ego by gripping the landscape until they had dominion over it. Yet their photo was more or less the same as every other taken atop the peak that day and every other, and they remained unaware of the fact that they were not moving freely, but going around and around in circles.

Brooding and lost in thought, there came a tap on my shoulder from behind. I turned to see a man dressed like me who said, “You’re up, bud. Want me to take your photo?” And the rock, once left behind on Whitney, came rolling back to impale me.