I walk past the tranquil Trails Café, where the baked goods are made from scratch and Allison Anders can be seen reminiscing with friends about Gas Food Lodging. I pass the Macbethian bridges, where the musk of resident nymphs has rubbed off on the tree bark. I cut through the children's playground and onto the curved canyon path, whose compact soil is like tightly patted sweet potato pie. To my left, gothic trees spill their hair in the ravine below. Above me, to my right, the cream domes of Griffith Park Observatory crown the peak.

I walk higher and catch the dot of disappearing sun, then find the gnarled earthen staircase that forms a shortcut to the top. I climb the earthen staircase until it floods with pink light, and pass by an uprooted tree whose twisted bark reeks of mystery.

At the top, I sit down. A dog with a mouthful of stick brushes against me. His guardian walks by. "If it's on the ground, it's fair game," she says, laughing, and I wonder whether that's what Colonel Griffith J. Griffith was thinking when he gave us this land.