The Streets of San Francisco

My daylong exploration of San Francisco led me to Baker Beach. Waves crashed into the sand and rocks, while the cries of gulls filled the air. Lonely fishermen, dressed in waders and coats, struggled against the wind and surf. It was nearly noon, yet the fog still clung to the shore, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the City by the Bay. Just another typical July morning.

Continued from Part 11: From Woods to Wharves.

Unburdened by a pack, I set out from the Holiday Inn Fisherman’s Wharf after a wonderful night’s sleep to explore the City by the Bay, starting with the Bay. It was a cool, foggy morning, and a stiff breeze was blowing in from the ocean. The city was already alive. Dozens of mostly Asian men and women were fishing from the municipal pier, which I walked out upon, surrounding myself with the Bay, the salty smells, and the gulls. Fog enshrouded the city’s buildings, hiding their tops and obscuring their details, as viewed from the pier. Coit Tower appeared as a monolith, its dark windows barely visible in the gloom.

Out in the water, Alcatraz Island looked ghostly pale in the dim morning light, marking the boundary where the sea and air blended into one another. Gulls cried. Waves lapped lightly against the shore and rocks. Kayakers plied the waters, followed by swimmers, some in wet suits, some not.

Back on land, I walked past Fort Mason, which was apparently the site for a race check-in. Hundreds of runners in various layers of spandex, nylon, and fleece were warming up and jogging around. Music was pumping from an enormous juke box. Several vendors were giving away their wares. I swiped a smoothie from the Jamba Juice table, blending in so perfectly with the joggers. For the next several miles, joggers and dog-walkers were constant sites. I followed roads, paths, and parking lots past the marina to the Golden Gate Promenade, which I would take to the Golden Gate Bridge.

Within an hour of walking, I was strolling along the beach, listening to the waves and watching dogs of all flavors chase bouncing balls and each other across the sand. Chisos would have loved this beach, although she might not have charged headlong into the surf. The breeze picked up as I drew closer to the Golden Gate. The bridge was still fogged in above the road deck.

The Promenade skirts Crissy Field, a level grassy strip of land that was once a military landing strip. Several historic flights used this place, including the first around-the-world journey. The field eventually turns into a restored marsh before it succumbs to concrete and asphalt. I stopped at the Warming Hut for a breakfast pastry and some hot chocolate — and to get out of the stiffening breeze — before setting out again.

The bayfront walkway curves around toward the Golden Gate Bridge, following the steep contour of the peninsula. Numerous defensive batteries and arsenals were built into the cliffs to protect the bay from invasion. The centerpiece of this defensive system was Fort Point, the only fort built on the West Coast before the Civil War’s end. In this photo, the fort is the brick structure flying the American Flag beneath the bridge. It was planned for demolition to make way for the bridge, but the project’s chief engineer, Joseph Strauss, redesigned the southern end of the bridge so it could be preserved.

This was obviously a typical morning, based on the commander’s 1861 summary report: “During the summer months the post is enveloped in fogs, and dampness and high winds constantly prevail, and consequently rheumatism and severe colds are very common.” Indeed, it was cold, damp, foggy, and windy when I explored the fort, which is open to the public. A greeter in period costume invites visitors through the fort’s sole entrance, a heavily armored sally port, which permitted guardians to fire upon invaders from the relative safety of the walls.

Fort Point turned out to be one of the highlights of the day. Numerous plaques and displays detail life here and tell the story of the fort and its men. Built to house 141 cannons, the fort ended up with no more than 102 at its greatest strength. As many as 500 men were stationed there, thousands of miles from the nearest conflict.

The lighthouse is the third at this site. The first was demolished to make way for the fort, and the second fell victim to erosion. This lighthouse was used from 1864 until 1934, when bridge construction blocked its light. Today it stands guard silently beneath the arched bridge support. Stairs lead to the top floor, where the wind whistles over the empty cannon mounts. It is possible to walk directly under the Golden Gate Bridge. The roar of the traffic temporarily drowns out the wind and waves.

Leaving the fort, I backtracked a bit until a foot path zig-zags up the slope to just below the roadway. I pondered crossing the bridge on foot but ruled it out; I would drive over it the next day. Passing underneath the road deck, I now had views of the open ocean. The path, now called the Coastal Trail, passes several historic batteries and offers views of the bridge and its traffic, still faded in the fog. I’ve been walking for about three hours as I skirt the Presidio, following the high cliffs above the Pacific. The wind is stiff.

Before long I reached Baker Beach and walk along the shore. Waves crashed into the sand and rocks, while the cries of gulls filled the air. Lonely fishermen, dressed in waders and coats, struggled against the wind and surf. It was nearly noon, yet the fog still clung to the shore, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the City by the Bay. Just another typical July morning.

I continued along the Coastal Trail toward Land’s End. The trail briefly disappears into one of the wealthiest subdivisions I’ve ever seen, with cliffside manors of all shapes, sizes, and styles hugging the promontory. Predictably, there are no signs marking the walking trail here, so I follow it with my handy road map. The neighborhood borders a popular park, and here the trail begins anew. The trail offers several increasingly nice views across the ocean back at the fog-bound bridge. It then curves to the south, leaving the Golden Gate behind, before reaching the Sutro Bath ruins and Cliff House. Seal Rocks take the waves’ pounding just offshore. From there I walked along the promenade adjoining Ocean Beach, taking it all the way to the edge of Golden Gate Park. There I caught a bus to the Haight Ashbury neighborhood.

My first stop was across the street from 2400 Fulton Street, the former home of the Jefferson Airplane. The three-story Colonial Revival home survived both the 1906 earthquake and the 1960s’ legendary parties, its four white columns matched with four palm trees in front, separated by an iron fence and gate. My next stop was Amoeba Records, an immense record store in a converted bowling alley. Live music was playing, and a pretty good crowd was there to hear it. I bought a live Grateful Dead CD, natch, and listened to the music for awhile.

I reached the corner of Haight and Ashbury a little before 3 p.m. It was still cloudy and breezy, but at least had warmed up into the 60s, appropriately enough. The neighborhood is eclectic and full of energy. Houkah bars line the street, sharing the stage with garish storefronts hocking all manner of stuff. Many of the people walking the busy sidewalks were just as garish.

This plum and lavender Victorian at 710 Ashbury was home to the Grateful Dead from September 1966 to the spring of 1968. Of course, in between was the Summer of Love. A little over 40 years ago, the Dead were busted in a marijuana raid here, but charges were dropped on a technicality. LSD was criminalized by the California Assembly while they lived here, conveniently after the release of their first album. There were other fans, young and old, there too, taking pictures and imaging what it must have been like during the Summer of Love (I am, in fact, listening to a Grateful Dead show from 1973 while I write this.).

After a late lunch of grilled portobello at People’s Cafe, I strolled beneath Janis Joplin’s old balcony before taking my leave of the hip ‘hood. A light-rail train took me to Chinatown. I strolled up Grant Street, rapidly gaining elevation toward Telegraph Hill. The sun had finally come out to play. Downtown landmarks, such as the Transamerica Building, were glittering under the bright blue sky. I visited the Beat Museum and Book Store, which is — appropriately or ironically — surrounded by strip clubs.

I stood in a long, hot line to ride a creaky elevator up to the top of Coit Tower, where a slow-moving cluster of people shuffled window-to-window. The 360-degree views were impressive; the whole city was laid out like a model. A huge fog bank remained in place over the Golden Gate Bridge, and Fisherman’s Wharf was still wearing a faint shroud. From there, I walked up Lombard Street — the self-proclaimed “Crookedest Street in the World” — which was choked with cars driving down its steep string of S-curves.

Nearing the end of my daylong walking tour, I headed down Columbus Avenue when I happened upon this quintessential City by the Bay image of a cable car, its passengers clinging to its sides, with Alcatraz and the Bay as a scenic backdrop.

After taking a break at the hotel, I ventured back out, bound for touristy Pier 39. I figured it would be a happening place on a Saturday night and was not disappointed by the people-watching opportunities. It was right about sunset, although the fog continued to obscure the bridge and the western horizon. The weak setting sun painted the misty sky a faint orange. I followed the sounds of seals barking, tracing the western boardwalk of the pier, to find a pile of characters settling in for the evening.

A crowd of people, mostly families with children, were piled upon the makeshift wooden “bleachers” to watch the seals. I elbowed my way to the rail to take some photos, then got out of the way. Beyond them, the boardwalk grew empty, and I practically had the end of the busy pier to myself. The skies slowly faded from a dull orange to a milky pink, and the swells of the bay reflected the fog and few distinct clouds overhead.

Alcatraz appeared as a great ship, its watch tower as a smoke stack and upper layers and water tower as a command deck. Smaller boats surrounded it. Hazy hills stood pink behind it. I watched it until the sky turned purple, then indigo, then dark. The city’s lights replaced the sun and slowly returned the color to an artificial orange. So I choose to remember the scene awash in pastel pink, a warm hue to end a chilly, windy day.