Folsom Lake Trails: My New Ocean
Growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, the ocean was my playground. As a kid, I loved splashing in the waves, but it wasn’t until my teenage years that the coast became my sanctuary. My friends and I would spend days hanging out on the beaches and nights partying under the stars. It was our escape—a place of pure, unfiltered freedom. No parents, no authority (most of the time), and not a care in the world. That sense of freedom has stayed with me ever since.
As I grew older, the ocean transformed from a party spot into my “happy place.” Just a 30-minute drive from my doorstep, I’d head to the coast after work to photograph sunsets. Wandering from beach to beach, I found peace in the rhythm of the waves. My friends and I would cruise along Highway 1, from Santa Cruz to San Francisco, chasing new spots to capture the perfect shot. Even now, just thinking about it brings those moments flooding back.
When my family considered moving away from the Bay Area in 2019, I hesitated. The idea of being two hours from the nearest ocean felt like losing a piece of myself. It was a serious consideration—the ocean had always grounded me. I knew if we made the move, I’d need to find a lake or river to fill that void. I wasn’t convinced anything could compare though.
We settled near Folsom Lake, and as a trail runner, I figured the surrounding trails would be great for training. Little did I know how deeply those trails would weave themselves into my life. Then, in March 2020, the world turned upside down with COVID. I had a race the weekend before the world shut down—staggered starts, social distancing, the whole deal. It was a strange time.
With races canceled, I kept running. The trails became my refuge. A half-mile from my house, a path led me to Folsom Lake, where the possibilities felt endless. I could run north to Auburn or south to Natomas, though anything further might’ve been a bit much. My weekend long runs ranged from 16 to 30 miles, giving me hours to be alone with my thoughts—no headphones, just me and the trail. During the height of the pandemic, the trails were deserted. It felt like I had the entire lake to myself. I watched the seasons change: spring’s lush greenery, summer’s amber grasses, fall’s vibrant colors, and winter’s biting cold (which, I’ll admit, I loathe—45°F to 75°F is my sweet spot).
I’m no stranger to pushing myself. I like testing my limits to build resilience. One rule I follow: no water unless it’s over 95°F or I’m running more than 10 miles. That rule bit me hard a couple of weeks ago. After a break from running, I’ve been easing back into it, but I’m slower now, tire more easily, and, well, I’m getting older. I decided to hit the trails to one of my favorite viewpoints, forgetting it was a 5-mile trek from where I started—10 miles round trip. It was 95°F, and I had no water. By the end, I was hurting, but I made it.
Midday skies, still beautiful.
However, that run reminded me how much I love these trails. They’ve become a part of me, carrying me through countless moments of solitude and clarity. Twisting through the singletrack, every step feels familiar, like greeting an old friend. I’d round a corner and know what was coming next, even if I couldn’t recall it until I got there. I paused a few times to soak in the sounds of the wind and birds, letting the peace wash over me.
The lake itself was buzzing with summer crowds—boats, families, the works. But once I hit the singletrack just off the water, it was quiet, save for the distant hum of occasional traffic. It wasn’t as silent as the COVID days, but it was close enough to feel like mine again. Further along, where the trail hugs the North Fork of the American River, the views are breathtaking. You know anyone you meet out there is putting in serious miles, and there’s a quiet camaraderie in that shared effort.
That run made me realize Folsom Lake and its trails are more than enough. They’re alive, vibrant, and fuel my soul. Surrounded by mountains and nature, I’ve found a new kind of beauty here—one that rivals the ocean. The Bay Area’s chaos feels distant now. Friends who’d moved up here before us swore they had no regrets, and I didn’t believe them at first. I thought they’d settled for a cheaper life. I was wrong. This place is special. Beyond the trails, it’s the community here that’s made this place home. The community is tight-knit; we know our neighbors and many across town, unlike our decade in San Jose, where we barely knew the folks three doors down.
Do I miss anything? Sure, I miss my Bay Area friends and some of the restaurants. The ocean, too, sometimes. But I visit a few times a year, and I have another rule: if I’m near the coast, I have to feel the sand under my feet. That’s enough for me. My home now is here, near the mountains, by the lake and rivers.
These trails have carried me through a major life transition and a global upheaval. They’ve seen my struggles, my triumphs, and my stubborn determination. I’ve logged thousands of miles on them—someday, I’d love to tally the exact number. They’re part of who I am now, and I’m grateful they’re practically in my backyard. Here’s to many more miles.
Writing this has been therapeutic—it always is. It must be why so many swear by journaling. Give it a shot; it’s powerful. Even if I’m the only one who reads this, it’s worth it. Until next time!
Another one of my favorite views.