Tomales Point

[HenryC]

Point Reyes National Seashore occupies a substantial portion of  coastal Marin County, just north of  San Francisco.  It is easily reached from the City, just cross the Golden Gate and stay on the coast road, Highway One, as it skirts the cliffs and spectacular seascapes, so close yet so far from the cutesy New Age perfection of  Sausalito and Mill Valley.  On the way you'll be tempted by
the redwoods at Mt Tamalpais State Park, and an endless series of remote canyons and cliffs, rocky outcrops and fields of heather worthy of anything in Scotland, but without the midges in summer or the snow in winter.  In Northern California, there are only two seasons, moist and dry, although here the fogs provide moisture even in the dry season.  There is never a need for a heater, or an air conditioner.  Highway One begs for a nimble roadster convertible with a manual gear box, no other car is safe here, or as much fun to maneuver around the hairpins and switchbacks.  On the way home, you'll be right along the cliff edge, scary, but with the rewards of breathtaking views of eroded rocks, pinnacles, stacks and natural arches, all under constant assault from the tireless Pacific.  This is the beginning of a coast that continues like this without interruption all the way to the Washington border. This is is why millions are spent to keep it open in the face of frequent rock falls and avalanches.  It, and this highway, are national treasures. 

Even before the Park, the road holds innumerable delights, the surfer's paradise of  Stinson Beach, the remote artist's colony of Bolinas, where the residents repeatedly tear down the signs the Road Department erects to guide visitors there.  Bolinas Lagoon separates the Bolinas peninsula from the mainland, a shallow arm of the sea where the harbor seals cluster on the exposed mudflats at low tide, and the kingfishers space themselves at precise intervals on the telephone lines.  Near the Park itself are the tourist communities of Point Reyes Station, Bolema, and Inverness, looking as if they were transplanted intact from Hollywood's fantasy of how New England should look.  Even at the height of the season, it never seems to be crowded.

The Park itself is a variety of landscapes which straddle the San Andreas fault, the Pacific and North American Plates.  To the geologically aware, the landscape abounds with the subtle surface evidence of colossal planetary events evolving on unimaginable time scales.  But there are forests here too, meadows of heather and rocky beaches, many mile-long strands of sandy seashore and wide shallow bays, surrounded by rolling hills.   About half of the Park is economically developed as dairy farms, but even these facilities have been here for over a century and have become a natural and wholesome part of the landscape, fitting in well with the brooding forests and windswept heather.  And almost every part of it is within sight and smell of the sea.  The cows huddle for shade alongside ancient rock outcroppings and spreading oaks and drink from natural ponds and streams.  The stockmen feel no need to fill in the natural marshes and creekside vegetation to squeeze yet one more square yard of pasture out of this elegant landscape.  It is the perfect combination of wilderness and husbandry.

It's said that this is New Albion,  where Sir Francis Drake careened the Golden Hinde for repairs on his circumnavigation in search of the Northwest Passage and the Manila Galleons.  One bay here is still called Drake's Estero, a nod to both the old pirate and the Dons he preyed on.  In Inverness the Golden Hinde Boatel also honors this tradition; a bare-bones no-frills set of cottages, each with a breathtaking view of Tomales Bay and the yacht club: no Fort Lauderdale Clorox bottles at these docks; those who can afford to live here own hand-crafted vessels, wooden masterpieces, gaff-rigged, bowspritted, wide-hipped  lovelies guaranteed to break any sailor's heart.  And behind the rustic facade towers a restaurant with that same view on three sides. I would feel no fear or shame to bring any French gourmand here,  northern Californians have evolved a world-class cuisine, second to none. 

Lacing together all these delights is an economical network of paved roads and an extravagant grid of footpaths and horse trails.  These lead the tourist to years' worth of  discovery, among them the Pt Reyes Light (not to mention the Pulitzer-Prize winning tabloid of the same name!) which perched upon a high cliff, provides the perfect platform to both warn shipping away from the rocks below and to view the gray whales on their yearly migrations.  Beaches, tidepools, shallow esteros, rocky cliffs, proud headlands,  I could go on, but we have come here to visit Tomales Point.

The Point is one of those places on earth of a scale accessible to the man on foot; it still can be recognized on a relatively large scale map, or even a satellite photograph.  It is actually a peninsula, about a quarter mile wide and about four miles long, at the extreme northern tip of the National Seashore.  It is bounded on the west side by the Pacific, on the east by Tomales Bay, a narrow, straight sword of water which separates it from coastal Marin and Highway One.  The Bay looks as if it has been cut through the hills with a knife, narrow and long, with the peninsula a sliver peeling off, secured only at its base.  In a way, this is exactly what has happened,  The Bay marks the location of the San Andreas fault, where it finally escapes California and heads out to sea.  The long sheltered Bay looks more like a river than an arm of the sea, and it is said that the early Spanish explorers thought it connected to San Francisco Bay far to the south, although the deep-draft boats they needed just to get there could not negotiate the shifting sand bars and crashing surf at the mouth to properly explore it to the source.  In reality, the Bay terminates in a series of marshes and creeks near Pt Reyes Station which drain the sunken slumps and blocks of the fault line as it shoots across to the south.  It is a shallow body of water, less than a mile across, prone to sudden fogs and glassy stillnesses.  Protected on one side by Tomales Point, on the other by the Marin coast, it carefully conceals its secret, it is the uneasy battleline where two great continental plates struggle, like sumo wrestlers,
under a thin blanket of sediments. 

The Point marks the northern tip of the park.  The paved road from Inverness and the Ranger station and museum ends there, and a small parking lot (never full) marks the end of the line.  There are two paths, to the left it follows a busy little brook down to McClure's Beach, one of the world's greatest, massive cliffs, huge boulders, tidepools; a place where you can get up close to the Pacific, and where no greased-up tourists ever go.  Only fellow worshippers venture this far.   To the right the path heads north, past an old farmstead, now deserted but still maintained to honor the early settlers and to host the occasional youth group.  Beyond, you venture onto the jeep trail that goes about halfway down the length of Tomales Point.

The Point is the exposed edge of a submarine ridge that rises a hundred feet above sea level.  From the ridge line, it is often possible to see both the Pacific on your left, and Tomales Bay and Marin beyond, on your right.  It is a windy remote place, almost treeless except for a few hidden hollows.  The somewhat sheltered slopes are covered with  a tough thicket of scrub and tall grasses, and an occasional twisted dwarf tree.  The more exposed tracts are the home of the California heather, a tough knee-high shrub that alone can take the wind from the sea.  Everywhere are stone outcroppings, natual dolmen covered with fantastic patterns of multicolored lichen, and sometimes, if you're lucky, you'll see a hawk perched on one.  There is much game here, deer, big cats, and the ubiquitous small mammals found throughout North America, but they usually stay out of sight.  The exception is the herds of elk which magically always seem to pop up on the ridge line you just came from.  They stay away, hard to hide in this terrain, but they know how to use the topography to shield their movements.  In rutting season, however, the big males are often aggressive, it is wise to not challenge them, or get between them and their does.   One day I found a salamander, a mile from the nearest water.  Another mystery.

On a clear and sunny day, it is possible from some high spots to see the entire Point and its surrounding landscape, all layed out just like on the map in your pocket.  But more often than not, the Point is covered by fog and mist, low scud clouds occasionally dip down to your path, and a constant drizzle soaks everything.  It rains little here, but it is always moist, and although never really cold,
a sweater and windbreaker are essential.   Other than the jeep trail, there is no evidence of human habitation.  Even the tourists seem to sense that this is a place where you pick up your litter and pack it out, and where you speak in hushed tones.   Because of the mist, and the rolling terrain, the perspective is always changing and shifting, it is a magical landscape, and you need your compass because if you get distracted and turned around, you won't know the way home.  Every now and then, the wind blows the fog away for a moment, and the circle of visibility expands somewhat, but it is still a place of mystery.  Tomales Point, despite its Spanish name, is a place of Celtic dread and Runic lore.   This is Land's End, California's Cornwall, and just behind the wall of fog you swear you can see dim shapes moving, ghostly knights marching to Tintagel.  And always, rain or shine, sun or fog, the wind; the twenty knot northwest trade blowing off the sea.  This is why there are no trees here, and why they never grazed cattle here, in spite of the relatively gentle climate.    It never stops.  The rangers tell us this land has remained unchanged and untouched since Drake's time or earlier.  You can feel it.  It is a magnificent desolation.

About half way up the peninsula, the jeep trail dips down into a grove of trees and stops abruptly.  You can continue north, but there is no easy path now,   you have to pick your way through the scrub and brush, and it is mostly uphill.  Sometimes you wind up in a cul-de-sac and have to backtrack, and when the fog is close, the going is very tricky, but with a little trail sense and by using your compass, you can continue in a general northerly direction.  You know you are on the right path when suddenly, inexplicably, you come to a place, several acres,  where there is very little vegetation and even fewer stone outcroppings.  It is an improbable island of sand in a sea of heather and brush, a place so out of character to the rest that it haunts you, why this? Why here?  It is easy to speculate on some geological or supernatural explanation for this unexpected apparition, but then you notice that the place is inhabited.  There are tracks everywhere, and you can see them too, little rabbits.  All over, they scurry away as you trudge through the beach-like sand.  They hide their heads in the sparse thickets of heather and the occasional tuft of grass, oblivious that their tails poke out in plain view.  They are an unexpected touch of comedy in this gothic landscape, and you wonder how they have been able to survive the hawks, but you press on, you don't want to be caught out here after dark.

Finally, you come to the end, the Point itself.  You scramble down the steep path off the ridge and approach the pile of boulders that leads into the water.  In the far distance, on the clearest of days, you can see the flash of surf breaking on faraway Bodega Head, miles up the coast. To the right, the first of the shifting sand bars which mark the labyrinthine entrance to Tomales Bay.   It is possible to scramble down the rocks right into the water, but dangerous, the waves crash into them with an unprovoked fury.  This is the very end of the world and it is not a place for mariners.   I once saw the wreckage of a yacht there, so pounded by the surf I could not even tell if it was sail or power, just fragments of fiberglass, seat cushions, life vests, galley debris.  I can only hope they all got out alright.  But the power of the surf argues otherwise.  Perhaps they were rescued before the vessel came ashore. 

On another visit to the Point, I was greeted with a more pleasant memory.  It was a clear and sunny day, and I had gotten there early enough to be able to sit by the sea and eat my lunch.  A sea lion was surfing the waves that crashed into the headland, and like her human counterparts on other beaches, she had her own technique.  She would swim out, bobbing in the water, and in a very human gesture, glance over her shoulder at the waves queueing up, choosing the right one.   She would wait carefully, then launch herself at just the right moment to ride the big breaker in, peeling off just before the wave dashed itself to pieces on the black rocks on the beach.  The ride in was spectacular, and she fully exploited every nuance of the wave to prolong it as long as possible.  Then, she would disappear  for a few minutes and suddenly surface at precisely the same spot she had started at to repeat the process.   I watched her bravado performance for a long time through my binoculars until, either tiring of the sport or sensing a change in the waves due to the tide, she disappeared.