Ever feel like you’re the only one who isn’t in on the cosmic joke? I take a walk every morning in one of the handy patches of urban wilderness nearby. Usually, it’s a peaceful reprieve from the daily insanity; a way to reconnect with my thoughts and watch the squirrels, get my blood coursing, and tune out for an hour. For weeks, I’ll do these strolls and return with little more to report than a fallen tree branch or the sighting of a hawk. But now and again, things take a decidedly weirder turn.

Last Monday, for instance. I was minding my own business, rocking out to some ’70’s FM hits on the iPod and tooling up the side of Mt. Tabor on a wooded trail. It was unseasonably cool, perfect weather for walking, and the sunlight was leaking through the canopy in puzzle piece patches. And then I walked right through it—a layer of haze floating head-high over the trail, its odor unmistakable. Ganga. Weed. Yerba Loco.

Glancing to my left, I saw a subtle fork in the trail that disappeared into a thicket of rhododendrons. As I stared into the shadows, details emerged that stood my arm hairs on end. One backpack, then another, and another, all identical, worn by dozen or more people kneeling silently in a circle. There’s a time for friendly nodding, and a time for lighting a fire under your feet and hauling ass down the trail. I chose the latter. Chances are, they were just a coven of friendly dirt worshipers communing with the great mother. Then again, they could have been a hive of predatory hippie zombies, munchie-ravenous, picking the trail clean of crunchy, hapless hikers. I didn’t stick around to find out.

Then there was Wednesday’s stroll through Laurelhurst park.  It was one of those postcard-wholesome days; couples sunning themselves on blankets, kids playing frisbee, joggers peppering the landscape. I was bopping along to Todd Rundgren, tilting my chin to every fellow traveler I passed when I saw her. She was maybe in her mid-sixties, a short, dark-haired woman holding a plastic shopping bag and having an animated conversation with a tree.

From thirty paces, I noticed she was plucking something from the bark. Urban foraging is something I see a lot of on these walks, but usually not until fall when the neighborhood Chinese women comb the grass fallen chestnuts. What in the name of all that’s holy could this woman possibly be picking from a giant cedar trunk?

Squiggles. Seed pods? No, the tree seemed to be covered in two-inch-long tan, segmented larvae. My stomach fluttered and flipped. I swung wide of the tree, unable to look away from the alien life form burrowing into the bark. Wait, she’s not picking things off the tree, she’s sticking things to it. Peanuts, to be exact. From a few feet away, I could finally make out the shells studding the bark. She was turning one of the largest trees in the park into a squirrel feeder, jabbering away to herself as she stood back to admire her handiwork.

And just today, on another voyage to the same park, I passed the normally vacant horseshoe pits to find a pair of craggy, bearded contestants lobbing iron u’s at a peg in the ground. Shopping carts mounded with their earthly possessions stood idle nearby like bored donkeys.

I dare you to find this kind of inspiration at the gym.