A small one, anyway - 3,422 feet. And I suppose I should say I "hiked" a mountain, because there is no way in hell I would ever actually plan on climbing anything - I get vertigo enough hugging the wall five feet away from the edge of a trail. Note the word "plan" - the few times I've done anything that might vaguely resemble climbing (and I have written about them) were just testosterone moments - you know, "Hey, who's this hill to make me think I can't get over it?!" - that I have no intention of repeating, but probably will some time in the future. Anyway, I "climbed" a mountain today - the first time I've ever been to the summit of anything that qualifies. Edmund Hillary I ain't. Yet.
As a lone hiker, the trail can be spooky-lonesome sometimes - the echoes among the rocks and canyons can play tricks, sometimes magnifying the minute rustle of a lizard or a bird in the brush into an alarmingly sudden rush of sound.
But then the awe becomes truly dizzying:
The trail eventually comes to the summit of Potato Mountain - a humble, flat-topped peak at 3,422 feet with an LA Fire Department concrete something-or-other at the summit. It's so humble it doesn't merit its own Wikipedia entry, even though it does have some mentions on various hiking sites. Nonetheless, the view of the entire San Gabriel valley is commanding, at least for one who has never been to an even higher summit:
Those ovoid objects on top of the concrete cylindrical thingee, BTW, are potatoes signed and left behind (unlawfully) by various well-meaning hikers making light of the mountain's name:
Looking back at the trail from whence I'd come: