Milpitas resident reflects on 25 years of walks in the park

Hillcrest Park opens at dawn and closes at 10 p.m., but for me, it has never been just a set of hours on a sign. For 25 years—since the day I bought my Hillcrest home just four houses down the lane—this half-a-mile loop has been my constant companion.

I have walked this park in every light and season. Morning walks before the neighborhood stirs. Afternoon strolls when working from home. Evening circuits after dinner on weekdays. Weekend doubles, morning and evening both. And those in-between moments when restlessness or boredom sends me out the door once more. I know this place intimately.

Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt. But with Hillcrest Park, it has bred something else entirely: comfort, curiosity and joy.

The park has changed alongside me. When I first arrived, the entrance opened onto a flat grass lawn with an unobstructed view. Then the city council planted trees and installed a statue. Those saplings are 15 years old now, their green canopies arching over the tarred trail to welcome me. I resisted them at first, mourning that open vista. But time has a way of softening resistance into appreciation.

When I round the first corner in the evening, the lowering sun turns those leaves to shimmering gold. On windy days, they dance in perfect tandem, as if choreographed to lift my spirits. At night, I’ve learned to dodge the sprinklers; some spray directly onto the path. I watch the water arc through the darkness with the same curiosity I might bring to a fountain show, mesmerized by the force and geometry of it.

The park’s wildlife keeps me company. Deer appear occasionally on my night walks, ghostly and still. Seagulls become silhouettes against the dimming sky. In the mornings, bluebirds gather in noisy flocks, swooping down from branches to puddles left by sprinklers or overnight rain. As I approach, they scatter skyward in a rush of wings, circle once, and perch again—catch me if you can. I’ve traced Orion across the winter sky, watched the blinking lights of planes overhead and studied the dissipating contrails of jets painting temporary art across the blue.

Over the years, I’ve made friends here. The exercise ladies with their steady routines. My neighbor Kwan, who performs the civic duty of reporting burned-out lamps and fallen posts to the city. Sometimes I do stretches while walking to ease the numbness from my sciatic nerve. Sometimes I grab a lamppost and swing my leg up and down, right there on the trail. The children’s play area was my favorite spot during the years when my own children were small, filling it with shrieks and laughter.

I have walked this loop while talking on the phone to friends and family scattered across California, the East Coast, Texas, Canada and India. Their voices accompanied my footsteps—their joys, their sorrows, their everyday news. When I pass certain spots now, I remember what was said there, which conversation happened on which curve of the path.

This park has witnessed every chapter of my life. It has absorbed my worries and reflected back peace. It has given me memories to carry forward and a place to leave the weight of difficult days. Like me, it has aged and transformed. The saplings grew tall. The lawn gave way to shade. My children outgrew the swings and the home.

Hillcrest Park is living, breathing and transformative. For 25 years, it has been my steady ground. And I suspect it will continue to be, for as many years as I am able to walk.