Tag: hiking

The Call of the Hills

Ruby Sodhi, Ph.D.

Whizz. Zip. Hum.

The hummingbird began its morning ritual early, its tiny wings moving so fast it seemed suspended in the air — hovering from flower to flower, gathering nectar pooled deep within their petals. Nearby, a squirrel traced its restless path across the rooftop, its chatter so familiar it had long since crossed into affectionate annoyance. 

Still, the day unfolded in a quiet glow, rising with warmth and sunlight.

Sitting on my deck, I breathe in the earthy freshness of the mountain air, feeling my lungs open with each breath. 

Sunrise and sunset, the slow unfurling of fog across the hills — all of it echoes a stillness that asks for nothing more than presence. The reddish-maroon hues of the redwoods reveal themselves not in full daylight, but as the sun dips toward the horizon, especially after rain, casting a warm glow across their ancient trunks.

Such is life in the Santa Cruz Mountains. For over fifteen years, I have lived within this almost ethereal landscape, and its everyday gifts have never lost their quiet magic.

The call of the hills has been nothing short of a dream come true for me. 

I was ten when I was sent to boarding school, nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas in India, at an altitude of about 7,500 feet, in the hilltop city of Shimla—once the summer capital of the British Raj. I was homesick for months. I spent my free time at the edges of the school’s seven playgrounds, overlooking an expansive valley layered with endless mountain ridges.

There were days when my eyes searched that landscape for something familiar, something that felt like home. Scattered across the terrain were rooftops in shades of red, green, white, and slate. From some, thin trails of smoke rose into the air, carrying the distant scent of wood fires and cooking. It felt warm and comforting.

I longed for a home like that—a quiet place nestled in the mountains, its rooftop barely visible among the trees. Three decades later, that is exactly where life brought me — and the mountains have been teaching me ever since.

Here in the Santa Cruz Mountains, each season brings its own character. On intensely hot days, the Redwoods release soft spatters of seeds into the air. On windy days, their mighty trunks sway as if in a slow waltz. Other days, fog rolls in to cradle the trees and the valley in a blanket of soft white cloud. 

To pass through on a winding road is to glimpse only the surface of this place. While visitors gather at its familiar parks and attractions, those who live here discover a quieter world—hidden trails and shifting landscapes that reveal themselves slowly, and only over time.

There is also a rich community of mountain dwellers who have chosen to make their lives within the folds of these peaks, valleys, and crevices. From the valley below, mountain dwellers are often misread — dismissed as hippies, isolationists, or simply eccentric. But those who live here have chosen something far more deliberate: a life balanced between connection and solitude, close enough to neighbors, yet deeply held within the embrace of nature.

That balance shapes daily life in quiet, thoughtful ways—from the size and structure of a home to its light, water, and relationship to the land. Living here is not accidental; it is an ongoing act of design, a careful tending of both space and self.

In the city, one has neighbors; in the mountains, we have community—people who genuinely care, who show up without being asked, and sometimes without even announcing themselves. That kind of quiet camaraderie feels increasingly rare in cities, where neighbors often know little about those living just next door.

And then there are the other neighbors. The quiet, constant presence of wildlife—the deer, bobcats, wild turkeys, skunks, foxes, coyotes, partridges, and, on occasion, a mountain lion. Here, adults and children alike don’t just read about these creatures; we live alongside them. There are moments—unexpected, almost surreal—when our human lives brush gently against theirs, and for a brief instant, we share the same space, aware of one another in a way that feels both humbling and extraordinary.

From the mountains of Shimla to Santa Cruz, their quiet call has traced an arc through my life. Perhaps that is their promise—that they do not draw us away from life, but deeper into it. Into stillness, into presence, into a way of being that cannot be hurried. The longing I carried as a child, looking out across distant mountains, was never just for a home, but for a feeling. And somehow, over time, that call was answered—softly, patiently—until I found myself living inside the very dream I once watched from afar.

What the Ocean Gives Freely

Ruby Sodhi, Ph.D.

The endless blue ocean looked calm, as though a soft blanket had been stretched over the Pacific as far as the eye could see—this was my view yesterday as I drove along Highway 1 from Cambria to Carmel-by-the-Sea. The drive itself was nothing new to me; I’ve traveled this route countless times. What took my breath away, once again, was the contrast: the rugged, rocky cliffs rising beside the road, the green-folded mountains behind them, and peaks that seemed to promise views no road could ever offer. Here and there, landslides scarred the hillsides—a humble reminder of how close we travel to forces that will, in the end, always reshape the land.

Near Big Sur, Highway 1 had been closed for over two years because of a massive landslide. Just weeks before that closure, I had passed through with my husband and son, taking in the vastness of the ocean and letting the cool, salty air sink deep into my lungs—as though I were being invited to see everything around me with fresh breath and renewed senses. We stopped at Lucia Lodge Restaurant, a quiet bend along the road. Fish and chips tasted better with a glass of wine and the immense blue of the ocean as our backdrop. I remember feeling, at once, so small and strangely whole. The ocean asked for nothing more than our presence—its coastline edged with dramatic curves, rocks stacked in seemingly careless arrangements, waves splashing white against the dark stone, keeping the scene endlessly alive.

At the highest points along the road, the coastline opens into some of its most breathtaking views—vistas to take in and to carry with you long after. The curves and turns of Highway 1 create a rhythm of reveal and retreat, the ocean appearing and disappearing beside towering hills, as if offering brief invitations to look deeper before moving on.

In several stretches, large homes are nestled into the rocky edges—some barely visible, others announced by grand gates and bold stonework that only hint at what lies beyond. For a fleeting moment, I found myself wishing for a house by the sea. Each one looked like a dream. But as we continued, that longing softened into a different understanding: to own a view like this might change how one receives it. These homes are beyond what most can afford, and even those who can often come only in seasons, not to stay. The ocean, however, belongs to no one—and to everyone. It offers its quiet and its fury freely. It meets each of us where we are: those who pass by for a single afternoon, those who linger for a weekend, those who return again and again with no claim beyond gratitude.

And perhaps that is the gift. The ocean doesn’t promise permanence, only presence. It asks nothing of us except to arrive—to stand small before something vast, to feel both humbled and held. In that shared encounter, luxury and longing fall away, and what remains is a simple belonging to the earth itself. That is what draws me back—not the road, not the houses, not even the familiarity of the drive, but the quiet, enduring invitation to witness something larger than myself and to remember, again and again, that it is enough.