So we did what the landscape bid us to do—we hiked. Through pastures and up mountains, through forests and along beaches, through land that ranged from barren to fecund, water so still you could use it as a mirror and surf so kinetic that it seemed possessed, sweet sea breezes and wind so fierce that it daunted our gait and shrieked in our ears. We came upon axis deer, wary but curious, and looked hard for (but, happily, didn’t spot) the mountain lions that occasion the upper reaches. We even saw a neon-hued garter snake wriggling into the underbrush—a sure sign to a Texan like myself that he’s found “the country.” A single morning’s hike had, it seemed, provided us with a sampler of America’s ecosystems.
While the monumentality of other national parks may overwhelm, the landscape of Point Reyes is intimate, accessible. Climbing through a forest so thick it was nearly opaque, we burst into a clearing, and from out of nowhere loomed the ocean, an expanse of shimmering gray-blue dappled with whitecaps—so close it almost brought on vertigo. Coming on the ocean this way, by surprise, is surely one of the most potent experiences in nature. It gives a sense that you’re seeing something for the first time, of being one of the original explorers.
As you draw close to the sea here, you also get the sense that if Sir Francis Drake and the others who first ran across Point Reyes were bedazzled by it, they must also have been a little frightened. The romanticism of exploration, a place like Point Reyes reminds us, was surely tempered by the powerful hand of nature—a scary, frequently lethal one at that. For amicable as nature here may be, it does possess a darker side. A sign near one of the beaches warns not only of riptides but of “sneak waves”—spontaneous surges of water that can swallow up an unsuspecting swimmer—and of great white sharks, which feed frequently in these waters.
Yet the nearness of danger only adds to the weird, aphrodisiacal quality of the place. Indeed, the natives seem to go out of their way to emphasize the natural hazards of life on the Point. Where else could you find Earthquake Trail, which runs along the epicenter of the devastating l906 temblor? And they regard the inhospitality of the coast as the region’s saving grace. “If that beach weren’t so rough,” a wizened old fellow behind the counter at the peninsula’s Bear Valley Visitor Center told me, “there’d be nothing but condos down there.” An ungainly confluence of climates, he explained, defines the meteorology of Point Reyes. “We don’t get as much rainfall here as people think,” he added, “but things grow here because of the humidity and the mist.”
Ah, yes—the mist. You know you’ve discovered a special place when it contains an easily recognizable metaphor for itself. The sun does come out here for the better part of most days, but the mist (fog somehow seems such an urban word, a San Francisco shroud) settling over the treetops is a constant companion. You retire to it and awaken to it. The climax of any given day is the moment that the rising sun vaporizes enough of the haze to show itself. Like this strange place, the mist is at once lovely and comforting, yet spooky and foreboding.
Foreboding aside, it’s very easy to settle in here. Within two days, we had downshifted to a wonderfully simple routine. A light breakfast from Debra’s Bakery in the nearby settlement of Inverness Park provided just enough fuel for a morning walk of four or five miles. We’d lunch on a picnic of hard salami, a variety of locally made cheeses, artichoke hearts, Kalamata olives, and tiny crackers of sourdough and rye bread—provisions from the funky Inverness Store. After our midday meal, we’d head out for another four- to five-mile hike. In the late afternoon, we’d return to our digs at Manka’s, where we sampled both the more private, restored Boathouse, overlooking Tomales Bay (filled with contemporary furniture and art), and a more earthy room (think bearskin rugs and plaid wool blankets) at the Main Lodge. There we had our reward for a long day’s hike—showers out on the back balcony. Truth be told, the best thing about Manka’s is not the lobby dog—a big, friendly yellow Lab named Louie—or the fine grilled venison or Dungeness crab in the restaurant, or even the incredibly cozy, large beds (honest they were). It’s the redwood shower stalls that sit just outside the back door of two of its rooms, wherein one can bathe surrounded by Douglas firs and the mounting evening mist. Feeling fit and tingly and very ecologically tuned, we headed out for dinner—at Manka’s (whose dining room serves fresh local produce, seafood, and game) or at one of a handful of more moderately priced restaurants in Inverness or other nearby towns. There we’d sample quirky local fare such as barbecued oysters or the more traditional fish-and-chips, or maybe just a big salad—a riot of fresh wild greens pulled from the undergrowth we’d hiked around hours before. (In the end, we would have been just as happy with a picnic for every meal.) By nine o’clock— thankfully deprived of a television and a telephone—we succumbed to a sweet sleep, interrupted only by the light clatter of rainfall.
It all felt a bit ’60s. I even found myself unaccountably whistling The Doors’s “Break on Through” and other oldies. In this hidden little paradise in west Marin County, I was recapturing an era. That alone was worth the frequent-flyer miles.
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