Hiker. Blogger. Photographer. CrossFitter. Dog Owner. Texan.
Muir Woods and Foggy Shores
On the sound end of Stinson Beach, a big jumble of dark rocks lay scattered across the dingy sand under the brooding sky. Taking one final walk by the sea, I hopped from one to another, avoiding the tide, until I stood on a small stepstone. The surf swept in around me. It fortunately retreated just long enough for me to grab the camera, perched on another rock, and leap to drier ground.
Continued from Part 12: The Streets of San Francisco.
My last day in California got off to an unintentionally slow start. I rode a bus to the Embarcadero BART station, planning on taking the subway to the airport, where my rental car awaited. Unfortunately for me, the BART runs about once an hour on Sunday mornings, and I had just missed it. So I sat in the subway station for nearly an hour, waiting for an empty train.
Once at the airport, I rode its tram system to the rental car garage. A little while later, I was behind the wheel of a nice silver Chrysler convertible, my first drive in more than two weeks. had a little trouble finding my way across San Francisco but eventually got pointed in the right direction. Then I had trouble working the top — my first convertible — but I eventually got it down.
Now it was time to cross the Golden Gate Bridge in a convertible with the top down. In my mind, it was a bright, sunny day, in the 70s, and purely spectacular. In reality, it was foggy, misty, windy, and cold, probably about 55. Perfect convertible weather. I tried to take some photos as I crossed the bridge, most of which were crooked and out of focus. Once across, I pulled off at Vista Point for a classic view of the bridge.
Even on this cloudy day, the view from Vista Point is inspiring, although the man-made icon paled to the natural wonders of Yosemite. So it was time to rejoin the natural world.
I kept the top down as I hit the fun-to-drive Shoreline Highway, a winding, narrow, steep ribbon of asphalt zig-zagging across the peninsula. Muir Woods was my destination. Unfortunately, it appeared to be the destination of most of San Francisco. I parked almost a mile from the entrance on what could charitably be called a shoulder. Dodging even later arrivals than me, I ambled down the road to the entrance and promptly stood in line for an opportunity to walk among the redwoods. It was already 11:30 a.m.
For all the miles in Muir’s beloved Yosemite, I saw surprisingly few people. I even had the John Muir Trail to myself for four hours one Sunday morning. In Muir Woods National Monument, I felt like a chaperone for an elementary school field trip to a museum that happened to have trees in its exhibit hall. A particularly loud, unruly family of kids shouted, ran, jumped, and sang their way up the well-groomed path. The parents never even suggested they use inside voices. There was a lovely little creek with what appeared to be a tiny waterfall, but I never heard the sound of water.
When I wasn’t dodging the children dashing this way and that, I craned my head upward and gazed at the wide trunks, covered in shaggy slabs of bark, shooting straight skyward, topped by the dark canopy of spokes of branches, interrupted here and there by bright, featureless patches of gray sky.
Cathedral Grove was signed as a quiet zone. No one told the kids. The paths sometimes led right up to and circled a tree. The crowds reminded me of the windows in Coit Tower, where one has to wait for the herd to move to the next window before a view opens up. I found a bench I could lie on and stare skyward. It was quiet briefly, but no communing with nature occurred. It felt as though I was looking at a painting on the high ceiling of an air conditioned — remember, it’s chilly — museum. When Muir was alive, I suspect the place still clung to its wonder, awe, and innocense. Loved to death, its proximity to the mighty city a curse, it stood strangely sterile and decidedly unnatural.
I high-tailed it up the Fern Creek Trail, hoping to get away from the crowd. It worked for a moment, before long trains of people started coming at me from the other way. I was probably passed by more people on this trail and the connecting Ocean View (no view) and Lost Trails than on all the trails in Yosemite, save perhaps the miles between Half Dome’s summit and Happy Isles. These trails provided some elevation gain, and thus more of an eye-level view of the canopy, but it wasn’t a redwood canopy.
Fortunately, these trails meet the Redwood Canyon path near the visitor center, and I was shortly walking back to the convertible. I put the top down, foolishly, and backtracked toward Sausalito, where I once again struggled to find a place to park. About this time, I realized that Marin County operates a shuttle bus to Muir Woods on weekends. It departs from the ferry terminal. That would have been better than the drive, and more consistent with the trip’s overall vibe, but I didn’t know about it.
After a wonderful lunch of bay shrimp cocktail, lobster bisque, and a Dungeness crab salad sandwich at Scoma’s Sausalito location, I was back on the Shoreline Highway, dodging the lane-hogging gawkers, bound for Stinson Beach and a final walk by the sea. The first sign I saw warned of great white sharks. It didn’t stop several people from playing in the rough surf. It was nearly 5 o’clock.
On the sound end of the beach, a big jumble of dark rocks lay scattered across the dingy sand under the brooding sky. I hopped from one to another, avoiding the tide, until I stood on a small stepstone. The surf swept in around me. It fortunately retreated just long enough for me to grab the camera, perched on another rock, and leap to drier ground. Further out, six-foot waves crashed into the shallows, thundering over the cries of delighted swimmers. It was still in the 50s, and there was no sun in sight.
From there, I decided to go to Point Reyes National Seashore, and found it fogged in. The lighthouse was lost in the mist. A steep stairway, already closed for the day, descended into the nothingness. A fog horn cried unseen, and from far below arose the din of squawking birds, barking seals, and tumbling surf.
The walk back to the convertible was like a stroll through the Twilight Zone. A heavy fog obscured all but the closest cypress trees, their wind-blasted branches reaching out toward the trail to snatch away unwary hikers. The unreal scene unfolded slowly as the sky darkened, and I was grateful the trail was actually a driveway to the residence near the lighthouse, for I might have easily lost a foot-trail, and myself, in the gloom.
My drive back to civilization brought me out of the fog before the sun set, although it was obscured by clouds. A light mist fell off and on. I crossed the bridge into Richmond and followed the interstate south, bound for the Bay Bridge. I stopped in Berkeley and strolled the misty streets by the university. I found a hopping pizza joint and had dinner before crossing back into San Francisco.
I dropped the convertible off at the airport and took the red-eye flight to Dallas/Fort Worth.
A beautiful sunrise greeted me back to the Lone Star State. I watched it unfold from the tram as I changed terminals.
My flight to Austin was on time, my baggage came quickly.
A cab soon brought me home, where I found a very happy dog.
The end.
The complete trip report:
Part 1: Yosemite Valley and Glacier Point Dayhikes
Part 2: Porcupine and Yosemite Creeks
Part 3: Entering Yosemite’s Grand Canyon
Part 4: Walking Among the Waterfalls
Part 5: Glen Aulin to Cathedral Lakes
Part 6: The Tempest
Part 7: Sunrise to Clouds Rest
Part 8: Facing Fear on Half Dome
Part 9: Triumph Atop Half Dome
Part 10: The Final Miles
Part 11: From Woods to Wharves
Part 12: The Streets of San Francisco
Part 13: Muir Woods and Foggy Shores
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