I first truly saw Otay Valley.

It was a Tuesday in late October when I first truly saw Otay Valley.

I had driven past it a hundred times, always in a hurry, always with somewhere more important to be. But that afternoon, my car sputtered and died on the old road near the trailhead, and I had no choice but to wait.

I climbed a small hill out of frustration. Then the valley opened up before me — golden grass rippling like a slow tide, red-tailed hawks circling lazily overhead, and the creek below catching the last light of the sun like scattered coins.

I sat there for two hours. I missed my meeting. I didn't care.

A coyote appeared at the tree line, looked at me with calm, ancient eyes, and disappeared. It felt like a greeting — or maybe a reminder that this place existed long before my deadlines and will exist long after them.

My car started again just as the stars appeared. I drove home slowly, for once in no hurry at all.

Otay Valley didn't ask for my attention. It simply waited until I had no choice but to give it.

Visitor: Rodos Feribot Bileti