Afterwhile, Everything in Bolinas Looks Like Art

Sunny Bolinas

Yesterday reminded me yet again why we didn't move to Inverness:  Fog!  All day long, except for about five minutes at 4:30.

Rural fog gets to me in a way that city fog doesn't.  There are more places to go in the city when the weather's dreary, more diversions.  Here I feel stuck in the house, antsy and vaguely claustrophobic, which is why we didn't move here about twenty years ago.  After a month-long trial run a rental house in Inverness during the winter, we decided to stay put in Berkeley. Couldn't take it.

Confronted with socked-in conditions yesterday,  we gave up on a hike and drove down Highway 1 to Bolinas in search of sun and lunch.

It was sunny there, and I perked up, although  I always feel a bit out of it in Bolinas,  because it's a hippie outpost, and I am not a hippie but a tourist, and the place radiates Ambivalence About Tourists.  Houses are as wildly expensive as other places in the Bay Area, so I don't know where the hippies live, unless a certain number of locals are impersonating hippies and own a million dollar house.  Or a house worth a million now that they bought when it was $75,000.  Who knows.

But the sun was shining, and we had a good lunch at the Coast Café and then walked around the town.  Here's what we saw:

 The Coast Cafe:  Note surfboards hanging form ceiling and the stolen road sign over the bar

A local house.  Note the  "Playground" sign under the balcony, two Coke ads,  a hanging bicycle, and an old-fashioned scooter in upstairs window, plus:

 On the land side of the house: a fence decorated with old glass doorknobs

Another fence, which reminded me of a quilt

...and its shadow

 A sign near the small beach:  I always wanted to be loved by a crab

 Afterwhile, everything in Bolinas looks like art

Eat, Hike, Sleep

Taken from the bridge on the Estero Trail three days ago

This trip has been wonderful,  particularly the second week, when I managed to shake off my city concerns and get into a very pleasant routine: eat, walk, sleep.  It's been soul-soothing.

A couple of days ago, we calculated that we'ed hiked 30 miles.  Now, the total's up to 38, not that it hasn't taken a toll on our bodies: for a few days after an 8-mile hike, my hip joints felt like they were grating against each other with every step, and I needed a heating pad for my lower back.  Jerry's done something to the bottom of one foot and has a blister on the other.  Still.

We head back to Berkeley on Thursday, and I'm cranky about it.

* * * * *

A barn door at Pierce Point

Yesterday, we hiked the Tomales Point Trail, near the historic Pierce Point dairy ranch.  It was a clear, warm day with a mild breeze, perfect.

We'd avoided that trail for years after a short, cold walk in a blustering wind many years ago.  Friends persuaded us to give it another go.  We saw a coyote, tule elk, rabbits, and butterflies.  And this:

Off one side of the trail:  A view of McClure Beach

On the other side: Tomales Bay

Near the end of the trail, you see both:  The ocean to the left, the mouth of Tomales Bay to the right

 Lunch on a rock

* * * * *

Every time we stay in West Marin, I have a renewed sense of calm and a stronger sense of my priorities.  Toward the end of each trip, I try to figure out how to export these feelings to Berkeley.  Sometimes I beat myself up because I CAN'T seem to be this relaxed and untroubled in Berkeley.  For God's sake, why not?

For one thing, I have no house to take care of here.  I guard against rings on the furniture, and I water the pots of flowers and deadhead the dahlias, but I'm blind to leaks, mold, malfunctioning appliances, upholstery that needs replacing, and burned out recessed light bulbs that I can't manage to extricate from their cans--(currently two in our kitchen at home).  If Elisabeth has these problems, I don't see them.

Here there are no bills, no maddeningly incomprehensible statements from Blue Shield, no pleas for money, no piles of catalogs (I bet the Christmas catalogs are starting to arrive).  No one calls us.  We have a very limited menu of dinners, which we rotate.  No meals out, no exasperated waits in noisy restaurants.  We share half a bottle of Prosecco each night and watch Amazon/Netflix/Acorn movies on the computer after dinner.  Then we go to bed, and we sleep SOUNDLY.

* * * * *

Not that the curmudgeon side of me isn't on duty!  I hate people talking loudly on trails (for God's sake, don't you want peace?),  resent having to step aside for horses on narrow trails, and wants to arrest bicyclists who come up on us so quickly that they threaten to mow us down.  On weekends, Pt. Reyes Station is overwhelmed with weekenders and day trippers.

Last Sunday, which was very warm,  I dashed into town for a couple of grocery items and paused at the unoccupied community garden.  The, though,  street was mobbed.   I thought,  Why go out in this over-heated mayhem?  I bought a New York Times  for us to read under the shade of an umbrella on the deck.

A cup of tea, the New York Times, and thou

330 Steps But Who's Counting?

We were.

 They loom, don't they?  Especially going up.

Yesterday we drove out to the point of Point Reyes--us and all the out-of-state tourists freezing in the fog and stiff breeze--and walked the steps down to the lighthouse and BACK UP.

I've done this only once before, when I was considerably younger, but this seemed to me one more of Jerry's let's-prove-we're-not-that-old challenges, so we did it. 

The weather was clear in Inverness when we left on our drive but quite foggy at the Point:

Going down the steps to the lighthouse was easy, and the lighthouse and a couple of other buildings are open to the public.

Built low on the rocks so its signal wouldn't be obscured by fog

The lighthouse keepers were isolated and hard-working, which led to escapes to town to get drunk.  Sometimes they drowned on the way back to the lighthouse.

January 30, 1889:  Who would not go crazy?

That many consecutive days of fog would drive anyone mad.

Afterward, we stopped by the tiny Park Service Visitors Center and chatted with the ranger on duty.  She lives out there in a building I've always thought looked a bit grim (is her fridge full of alcohol?):

Stuck out on a foggy point, miles from town

She said, no, "it was cool," although she had only two neighbors and hardly ever saw them.  She assured me that she had a car (see photo, above).  The old-time ligh keepers had to endure a long horseback ride into town.

Historic photo of the lighthouse down on the rocks (center/right) and the steps leading up to what's now the Visitor's Center (upper center)

We climbed on our horse (Subaru) and rode back into Inverness, where it was clear and warm. I deadheaded Elisabeth's dahlias, and then we went off to town to buy more ice cream.  (Weight????)

Antidote to Foggy Day Angst

Some images from what we've been up to:

Yesterday it was foggy all day, uninviting to be outside.What to do?

Quilt.

Then, a two-hour hike in the fog at nearby Samuel P. Taylor State Park:

Very state- or national park-ish.  Jerry checked the lights in 4 campground bathrooms and found 11 species of moths.  I was a decoy for the Women's side.

Definitely fall

Where the trail's been washed out for about five years.

Jerry speculating why on earth they haven't been able to fix it in that length of time. Surely, a drain pipe and some asphalt is all they need?

Today it was sunny when we got up, hurray!  We drove out to what used to be the site of Drakes Bay Oyster Company, the subject of the book I just finished.  Not much there.

The buildings are gone, and in their place:

A small beach

 A giant parking lot

 Fragments of oyster shells

An interpretive board

A regulation National Parks bathroom

A new sign at the road

In the afternoon, we hiked at Muddy Hollow for an hour, until the wind picked up and clouds gathered.  Supposed to be rain tonight.

In the parking lot,  I saw what looked like a large handbag hanging on a truck:

A feedbag for horses:

Dahlias brought in ahead of the storm:

Inverness Air

Fog drip on the deck this morning

One thing I love to do when we're staying in Inverness is to go outside early in the morning and BREATHE.  It smells delicious--bay trees, pine, saltwater. 

We've stayed in 15 Inverness houses over the years, several for as long as a month, and each has had a deck or patio where I can go outside and have a private morning breathing session.

Every house has had its eccentricities:  One had a former compost toilet, now converted to flush, but somehow a faint odor lingered.  Another had a master bedroom scattered with packages of condoms. One had numerous Buddhas around the house and garden and smelled strongly of incense.  A house with a really lovely view also had mouse droppings all over the kitchen counters.  What about the one we rented twice that had resident bats?  Or the one with a doily at the bottom of every wastebasket?

Whatever, they all had that air. 

Clear weather, beautiful views

Yesterday we walked the trail at Abbott's Lagoon.  Usually, we weenie out and turn around at the bridge where you cross over to sand dunes--too much exertion (lazy!).  But yesterday we walked all the way to the ocean.  Here's a picture to prove it:

We came back to the house and ate hot dogs on the deck, followed by chocolate ice cream.  Vacation food.  Doesn't get any better.

Days Two and Three and a Flying Trip Back to Berkeley

This is what we woke up to this morning: fog and temperatures in the low 60's.

By 1 pm, we said to hell with it and headed back to Berkeley with a list of 21 forgotten items.  At the top of Jerry's list was a microscope.  At the top of mine was an apron (really, a bib.  As a crone, I'm a total slob when I eat) and a bunch of other stuff I didn't really need, but we were going, so whatever.

We spent 20 minutes in our house, each of us running around with shopping bags.  We were back in Inverness by 4:15.  Still foggy and a few sprinkles on the windshield.

Yesterday we had wonderful weather, and we thought we'd take a warm-up hike to limber up the bods.  Something gentle,  not too steep and not too long.

We set off on a hike from the top of Drake's View along the ridge to the top of Mt. Vision.   A mountain. Why did we think this was going to be a flat trail?

Because it started like this:

 Pleasant, flat, sun-dappled 

I love the sense of well-being I get when I hike, but that feeling dissipated fairly soon as we began to trudge uphill.

The trail climbed and climbed, and I didn't take any more pictures because, reader, I didn't have the strength.  We kept going.  Through the trees, the views of Tomales Bay were tremendous.  Several times I suggested we abort, turn around, and return to sanity.  But, no.  Jerry has a thing right now that we have to take on some tougher hikes to prove we're not that old.  We kept going.

Finally, we got to the top (where there's an FAA facility,  a parking lot, and views down both sides of Inverness Ridge), turned around and hiked back to the car.  The National Park Service signs alleged that it was a 2.6 hike round trip, but no way.  We average three miles an hour when we hike, and it took us over an hour just to get to Mt. Vision, according to the NPS, a mere 1.3 miles.

Oh, well.  We congratulated each other when we got back to the car  (how buff! how un-old!) and went straight to the Inverness Store for ice cream bars.

Good news:  We found the box of white wine by the side of Elisabeth's driveway.  It sat outside in the sun all afternoon on Thursday, but I'd had to foresight to drop my visor on top of the bottles somewhere along the line, so maybe it's drinkable.  Whatever, we're going to drink it.

An excellent book that I'm reading obsessively:

A well-researched and balanced report on the saga of the Drakes Bay Oyster Company, which for years fought with the National Park Service to extend its lease in the National Seashore.  This issue tore apart the local community, and we had friends on both sides.  You don't know which side the author's on until the very end.

And a good watch:

An informative and entertaining movie based on the true story of an Austrian woman's fight to reclaim five Klimt paintings stolen from her family by the Nazis.

Now, off to raid that box of wine...

Day One: We Got Here...

...but not without a couple of bumps:

1. We forgot the box of Prosecco and white wine!  Tomorrow to the Palace Market in Pt. Reyes Station to replenish our supply at much higher prices, but what the hell, we're on vacation. (And where is the box?  We're not sure.  Probably in the garage in Berkeley, turning to vinegar in the heat.)

2.  Lucas Valley Road, our route from 101 to West Marin, was closed a few miles in.  We had to turn around--two cars, remember--and drive back to 101 and then to San Rafael and then through San Rafael--and you don't want to know.  This is why we don't do the San Rafael route anymore.  An unbuccolic pain in the neck. 

Bowl of Elisabeth's dahlias

When we arrived at Elisabeth's house, she was prostrate on the sofa, exhausted, she said, by getting ready for us.  Her house was immaculate, but she looked like we felt. Vacations are so much work!  She staggered off to Sebastopol, and we went to the beach.  Perfect weather.

 Shell Beach, Inverness

Waded briefly.  Icy cold.

Another end of season dahlia at Elisabeth's

Going Away, R-P Style

 View from the deck of the house where we'll be staying

We're busy packing for a vacation in Inverness/West Marin.

This morning I thought, no wonder older people stop traveling--it's not dreary airport scene or mobs on the freeways; it's all the stuff you have to remember to take with you!  What if we forget to take this, this, and this?

Straight out of bed, I made a list: "Things Especially Not to Be Forgotten."

Top of the list:  several Cheeseboard pizzas to serve as dinner for many, many nights.  The partially-baked ones freeze quite well.

Second on the list:  Several bottles of Prosecco to accompany the pizza.

Not on the list:  healthy vegetables to accompany the pizza, although we're going to buy them and haul them over there.

Third on the list: my  reading glasses, so I can read the completely unrealistic number of books I've packed up, only to be distracted by the books I find in the house we're renting.

Fourth: My make-up tray, purely for morale purposes  (although my glaucoma drops are stored there, too.).

We take two cars for two weeks and forty miles.  I've packed a sewing machine, flannel design wall, fabric, and two albums of photos to be labeled, among other things.  Jerry's car is packed with moth-collecting gear, his top priority.  Occasionally he counts his underwear, but as far as I know, he hasn't packed any clothes.

More later--

P.S. Isn't it hotter than the hinges of Hades?  It was the 90's in Berkeley yesterday, and it's supposed to be just about as hot in Pt. Reyes.

Not Greeted with Flowers and Smiles

Katharine Hepburn with signs she posted outside her country house in Connecticut.  Ambivalent?  Not in her case; she definitely wanted no intruders.

This image has been going through my mind a lot lately.  I'm thinking that all of Europe, except maybe Germany, would like to post these signs right now,  unaccompanied by a smiling face and a bouquet of flowers.

I've spent a week reading every news article I could find about the current migrant/refugee situation in Europe.  I had a high-horse phase of thinking European countries are inhumane, self-protective, and grossly negligent.  I've been appalled by comments left on the New York Times website by people who reduce the migrants to troublesome hordes of--what?  They are human beings, after all.

This morning, I threw up my hands.   Maybe the migrants/refugees (important distinction) are being short-sighted, too.  They get to Europe and don't want to stay in a poor country, but they want one that will provide the best benefits and opportunities.  Out of danger, they are no longer refugees but  economic migrants?  Too choosy?  Per the New York Times,  many people  in the current influx are wealthier than those who migrated earlier; some are even supporters of Assad's regime.  They quite naturally want to regain their socioeconomic standing as soon as possible. 

Then there's the President of Hungary--what about THAT dude?  A "Christian Europe" to be protected from the Muslim hordes?  And what about all this talk of trains and camps?  Scary, scary, scary.

Jerry and I were supposed to be in Europe in August, returning home yesterday.  We would have flown from Stockholm to Paris on the day a terrorist tried to attack a Paris-bound train. We would have taken a Eurostar train from Paris to London a few days before three Eurostar trains were halted for four hours in the Chunnel, with no air-conditioning or lights, because of migrants on the tracks and on the roof of the trains.  This could get personal very quickly if you're in Europe.  Who am I to judge?

A complicated, tragic situation is all I can come up with. 

* * * * *

And so to quilting (if only I could turn off NPR!).

Here's my current project, which I'm rushing to finish so that I can sew the blocks together while we're in Inverness for two weeks.  Not finished yet, but here's a preview.

 Naturally, there have  been changes since I took this photo

Here's the picture I worked from, which I thought looked like a quick, easy, throw-it-together-from-scraps project (from Quilts! Quilts!! Quilts!!!):

Not exactly what I ended up with

I can't seem to let go of the idea of sewing together random strips--la, la, la!--whacking them into squares, and coming up with a scrappy genius of a quilt (right!).

I did try, sewing the strips, cutting them into blocks:   A mess.  Then I unpicked many of the blocks; rearranged many, many 2" x 5" strips; and re-did the design.  A pain in the neck and very time-consuming.  I never learn.

Onward.