Point Reyes by Land and by Sea
Where Holsteins, herons, and hidden swimming holes outnumber visitors, and the WiFi is blissfully unreliable.
Photographs by Peter Bohler
THERE AREN’T MANY places like Point Reyes left in the U.S.: miles and miles of picturesque coastline devoid of development, where there are cows, not condos; tule elk, not T-shirt shops; and no bus tours. Oh, sure, you’ll see a few tourists here and there, circling for beach parking on a rare 90-degree weekend or joining the morning line outside Bovine Bakery — a mix of spandex-clad cyclists, eager kids, and silver-haired retirees who’ve been coming through its flimsy screen door for blueberry buttermilk scones since it first opened almost 30 years ago. But otherwise, West Marin, as the locals call it, is relatively crowd-free, especially considering that it’s an hour and a half from San Francisco. Out here, once you pass Stinson Beach, the city grind falls away, and in its stead is the peace and pace of the countryside.
Emboldened by conservationists, President John F. Kennedy declared this little utopia a national seashore. The National Park Service proposed turning the area into a Pacific Coast version of New York’s Jones Beach — that bustling seaside boardwalk with six million visitors a year — but, thankfully, local resistance thwarted those plans. When it comes to Northern California getaways, Napa may have the star power (and accompanying prices), but this region, with its cluster of stamp-size towns — Point Reyes Station, Inverness, Inverness Park, Marshall, Bolinas — has soul. The kind of soul that can only exist in a place protected, forever wild with summer fog as thick as its pine forests and air as salty as the wader-clad oystermen who call these mudflats home. And the kind that comes from being a small, spread-out-yet-tight-knit community. Point Reyes Station is the main hub, with a yoga studio, a renowned bookstore, and a dance center. Marshall has the oysters. Inverness has the hidden walking trails and historic yacht club. Inverness Park has the great sandwich counter. And Bolinas (still) has the hippies.
When I need a break from urbanity, Point Reyes is where I like to go for a hardy hike along the Pacific to the windy tip of Tomales Point: a ten-mile out-and-back with ocean views the whole way, through sweeps of cypress trees and herds of those native tule elk until the path turns sandy and narrows to a tippy-tip that feels like the end of the planet. Point Reyes is where I go for a quiet paddle with the harbor seals, whose heads pop up like curious kids playing hide-and-seek; for a gawk at the prehistoric-looking elephant seals lolling around Chimney Rock; for a poke around the historic beacon that is the Point Reyes Lighthouse (and the steep descent down its 300-some steps). Although I grew up back East, accustomed to water warm enough for a long, leisurely swim, I’ve come to appreciate the bracing, at-my-own-risk dunks off Limantour Beach or in the cold rush of what’s known as White House Pool, a locals’ swimming spot (located at the turnoff to Inverness).
And, of course, Point Reyes is where I — and all in-the-know oyster lovers — like to go for briny barbecued bivalves — a dozen, at least — pulled from the same sparkling bay I’m staring at while sitting on a bench built from driftwood. There’s a reason these waters are home to buttery Kumamotos and smoky-sweet Pacifics — not to mention prized salmon and halibut and schools of anchovies. It’s called upwelling: when nutrient-packed, cold, deep water rises and replaces warmer shallow waters, producing a diverse, healthy marine and wildlife ecosystem, as well as that aforementioned fog. Point Reyes’ rolling landscape — electric green in the spring, golden yellow in the fall — is also dotted with a local meadery and homegrown farm stands, family-run organic dairy farms, and sustainable grass-fed-cattle ranches run by fourth-generation owners. And the handful of beloved restaurants scattered around Point Reyes take full advantage of its riches.
One night you may find yourself feasting on softly cured salmon “of the surrounding seas,” as the menu at Sir and Star at the Olema reads, then devouring bacon-draped dry-aged beef burgers from locally raised cows at Marin Sun Farms the next. And in between, perhaps, picnicking on a bluff overlooking rocky McClures Beach with a loaf of local Brickmaiden Breads’ whole-grain California wheat, a hunk of Cowgirl Creamery’s Mt Tam Triple Cream, and a bottle of Pleiades XXV Old Vines from the region’s legendary winemaker, Sean Thackrey.
Whenever oyster hour calls — and by the sheer force of just being here, it inevitably will — try to score a hand-carved wooden seat on the heated patio at Saltwater Oyster Depot in Inverness, where owner Luc Chamberland likes to broil bivalves with fermented Fresno chiles or with roasted tomatoes in a white-wine sauce. Or take a drive along the bay out to the rickety-looking Marshall Store, where you can slurp them Rockefeller-style, with garlicky spinach, cheese, and bread crumbs, and a cold beer. About a mile north is the famed Hog Island Oyster Co., where a little oyster-charcuterie café operates out of an old upright wooden boat, but if you haven’t made a reservation — for a weathered waterfront picnic table — months in advance, you’ll likely be out of luck.That’s okay. Grab a mesh bag, clanking with mollusks so fresh they’re still dripping, head back to your cabin, and make yourself at home. As in: Start shucking.
About the author: Rachel Levin is the first San Francisco restaurant critic for Eater and the author of the new book LOOK BIG: And Other Tips for Surviving Animal Encounters of All Kinds.
