I've heard there are wild boar up there, but I've never seen them-

Indian summer hills. Steinbeckian landscape. A dry heat rolling over blameless, golden mounds; before its watch, green paint coughs and flakes off dry dugout boards, next to the baseball diamond. One base is missing. The air, which smells of sweet tanbark and dust and hot gravel, carries silence-- in waves-- through tall, coarse palms, and squat olive trees, and eucalyptus growths, up and down Mission Boulevard. A skein of dirt traces its way up through the hills, to the very top, beyond which point, we are easily lost.