Another Kind of Spring
Driving along the Northern California coast
This is what spring looked like in San Francisco, the starting point of my drive up the Northern California coast. I had a destination in mind, but for the most part, I drove up to discover other signs of spring.
Driving along the coast is an activity in Northern California, as is discovering the multiple local microclimates packed into a relatively small geographic area. Living in the Bay Area feels like living on a boat, if you can imagine what that feels like. One minute blasted by the hot sun, then submerged in a fog ten minutes from that spot, only to get swept away by a gusty ocean wind, and finally, regret all those extra layers once you get deeper into the shrubby valley. The break comes when you reach the soft and moist air scented with the thick, sugary sap of redwoods.
Just past the gentrified Tam Junction (about 8 miles from Presidio of San Francisco), I do not find the bright orange of the California poppies or the florescent purple of the seaside daisies. Where Pride of Madeira will soon bloom, overlooking the entire span of Stinson Beach from its Southern tip to Bolinas, I see unrecognizable brown twigs. Behind them, I see the beach down below, smothered with grey khaki waves reaching far into the coastline, devouring the houses like a bear devours fresh berries after hibernation.
I stop here. I have to. It is an easily accessible viewpoint you cannot miss because of the 270-degree expanse it offers me, of which 180 is the ocean. I still see the Farallon Islands on the horizon, even in the rain like today. Rain is rare in this area, but it is unforgiving and unforgettable. “Nature needs it,” locals say. They can’t complain about the rain because they live here. They write and read books titled “Saving Point Reyes.” They tolerate the rain and practically annual “tsunami”; they suffer from its ruthless encroachment on their paradise. It is easy to see why the Northern California drive is famous. I only go a tiny stretch. The wind is moderate, and the rain is gentle for now. I have no tailgaters to annoy. I’m free to do this drive as intended. Slowly. Now, that is rare for someone who lives around here.
I swing down from that view top. I have only a few more nauseating twists and turns before I enter the flatland along the beach below. It is easier for the driver than a passenger to sustain the swirly mount up, down and around from Tam Junction to here via Muir Beach. I am the driver, but I still feel it. The saving grace, of course, is the view. People fly here from around the world, drive, and hike to enjoy it for a day or two. Here I am, not too far from home, close to this breathtaking otherworldly nature scene. Apparently, you can get used to this. I still can’t after four years of living here.
Stinson Beach (about 20 miles from Presidio of San Francisco) is such a small town that one might pass it and continue driving along the wide tidal estuary called the Bolinas Lagoon. It recedes to its sandy, swampy bottom in low tide and low precipitation. But today, it is massive after a week-long rain and ongoing ocean storm. This rain ramification is one new sign of spring for me to observe. I grew up and had lived most of my life in snowy regions. It takes me time to see how something so beautiful can also be dangerous.
I love this road stretch because it’s isolated from human habitats except for the Audubon Canyon Ranch on the right, tucked between the narrow winding road I am on and the bottom of the up-sloping Martin Griffin Preserve. Every house around here needs saving. Everything is so near water. It is a miracle that the road is not submerged. It probably is with more rainfall, but that technically means the Ranch sits on a beachfront.
Next, I enter the eucalyptus grove, which I’d recognize by scent alone, even in a car with closed windows. That is how strong the eucalyptus scent is. These trees were transplanted from Australia back in the early 1900s. Today, they are very common in San Francisco and the region, but the area is internationally more known for its local redwoods. The eucalyptus trees have old, tall trunks that sometimes split into several trunks on the bottom, with few branches at the top, making them look pyramidal and erect, much taller than they are. You would notice them because they have distinct partly peeled-off surfaces with multicolored layers, similar to those in Hawaii, called rainbow eucalyptus. Local eucalyptus trunks are more pastel-colored, including brown, beige, grey, dirty pink, purple and off-white, and look even more subdued after rain.
Further up, you enter the Olema Valley, which feels like it sits below sea level. The entire region looks like North Devon, with rolling green and greener hills and abodes spruced all over, twinkling in the rain. The springtime here is foggy, attractive and capricious. It will distract you and deceive you into thinking that summer news about Northern California wildfires is fake.
One characteristic is similar to spring in snowy climates — the smell. Everything smells and feels like the springtime I remember. If you were to land here from the East Coast in late February, you’d feel like it’s practically summertime considering all the green and above 10 degrees Celsius temperatures. But we’re far from summer. I see the beginnings of what’s to come. I smell the openings in the soil, releasing everything that remained asleep for a little while. Imagine no winter, only short, dry, brisk fall around November, then months-long rainy spring. Summer around May, fall again around July, then back to summer around October, and then back to spring by January. I think that’s right, plus or minus a few months, and I am not kidding. I hear the splash of water every time I pass a dip in the windy road. The soil is filled with water wherever it is allowed to go and not allowed. If trees fall, the water in the mushy soil gets the blame. The soil is so moist I need another pair of shoes to return to the dry and sunny San Francisco.
At some point, I see a sign that says Five Brooks Horse Camp, making me want to return here. My speed is perfect for noticing all the nooks and crannies I could miss if I were looking for things to do in Point Reyes (about 16 miles from Stinson Beach). No digital map can flush out all the fabulous local places. Imagine not finding Presidio Park or Telegraph Hill. But it’s possible. Travelers end up staring at the familiar Golden Gate Bridge in Images, visiting and revisiting the same routes unless they make an effort. But driving slowly, or better yet, biking or walking somewhere, ideally revisiting a place, makes you hear familiar sounds and scents in the air, connect to local people because you see what they see, value what they value, and learn why this place is worth saving.
At some point, road signs come at me faster. Olema House, the Visitor’s Center, and the Lighthouse, which I decided to pass in favor of the Point Reyes indie bookstore, thoughtfully curated to match its dreamy, rustic, coastal location perfectly. This bookstore is my actual destination. A place I came to revisit.
I search for a sense of home in all this rainy beauty, but for now, I am just happy to appreciate the spring in a place without winter. That means I now know something about this region. Regardless, I know I missed many things on this drive. Until next time. For locals, there is always a next time.
© 2024 Jill Blinick. All Rights Reserved.
