As I wended my way along the green edge of the North Clevenger Canyon Trail, I felt very alone and very safe. I was accompanied only by two California condors, floating above the mountainous expanse like a leaf on water. At one point, one of the black-feathered, red-headed birds flew no more than 10 feet above me; in command of all of that space, and he chose to fly by for a closer look. A quick hello.

Of course, and sadly, the first thing I’m thinking is “PICTURE. INSTAGRAM. MUST SHOW PEOPLE.” But just as soon as I’d taken my eyes off the condor to reach for my phone, he was already on to the next piece of life—or death—that might interest him, and certainly too far for an iPhone 7 camera to capture.

It was a windy day. At first, I thought the sound of the gusts was coming from the 78 freeway below, but when I looked, there were no cars on the road. The way the rolling breeze picked up leaves and branches as it sped along the mountainside created beautiful and at times startling waves of green, occasionally giving the impression that an animal was moving through the wispy tendrils of the grassy landscape. I passed only four or five clusters of one plant in particular, that was probably more of a tree than a bush. They were about five feet tall with smooth bark and small white flowers, holding lonely to the branches that had shed their autumnal leaves. As the wind shook these clusters of small trees, the sound was like that of a ship on a quiet sea. Creaking. Clicking. Lurching. It was calming and slightly eerie.

At one point, as the wind rushed all around me, filling my brain and my being with brightness and lightness, I threw my arms out and closed my eyes and smiled a genuine smile in full ecstasy. I didn’t feel like a human with a car, and a job, and an apartment, and a boyfriend, and bills, and a credit card, and all those other things that tend to set us apart from nature. I was with nature, fully and feeling complete.