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.

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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

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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.

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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