My first chore of the day was to empty the gray water tank under the sink in the van. I hadn't used all 5 gallons of the provided fresh water, so this container was only part full. I hauled it to the toilet in the campsite and dumped it there. During the night as I lay awake I had hit on an idea for getting rid of the kitty litter. In preparation for this trip in a van with no toilet, I'd read about various camp solutions and this seemed the easiest to rig from materials easily available. I never needed it because I spent my time close to all the necessaries. So I had a big bucket of highly scented kitty litter and did not want to burden the campground maintenance crew by unloading it there. Unless I suddenly met a cat-owner, I decided I would give it to an automotive garage or gas station for use in soaking up oil and gas spills.
Now for a time I was free to forget this was my last day and just enjoy it. I headed toward Point Reyes National Seashore, traveling down the mountain on the Panoramic Highway to a junction with Hwy 1 where I turned north. The highway hugs the coast and passes a tidewater mudflats called Bolinas Lagoon, where I stopped several times to watch pelicans and other shorebirds. In my luggage was a map a contradancer had drawn out for me, and I was now within range of an odd tidal phenomenon he described. A salt water hot springs is here, only accessible when the monthly tides are just right. Had I been here on October 21 at the right time of night I could have joined the locals who know of it, and hiked down for a communal bath.
Instead, I found the Bear Valley Visitor Center. It was not yet open so I stood looking over a big map posted on the outside wall. Along came another big tall ranger (do they ever come in size Small?) and he cheerfully greeted me and asked how he could help. What a gift! He clearly loved this place and was generous with his enthusiasm, ready to share what he knew about it. I saw now how sad it was to have only one day to spend in this park with its 150 miles of trails. Having to choose among the riches, I said I'd like to see bird life, so he suggested the Estero path off the Limantour Beach.
I took a wrong turn somewhere on this walk, never did find the Estero, but I saw how bishop pines grow their female cones:
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| Another visitor enjoying the sun. |
I returned to the van to head for the Point Reyes Lighthouse, which is approached by Sir Frances Drake Boulevard and goes up and over big hills dotted with cattle ranches, all with letter names: Ranch A, Ranch C, Ranch M. I thought at first this was a naming scheme imposed by the Park Service but these are the names given by a pair of eastern entrepreneurs who gradually took over the ranchos that had been operated by Mexican land grant holders after Mexico's independence from Spain. The area was prime cattle grazing land and the easterners built a highly successful dairying operation here, shipping premium butter downstate to the growing San Francisco market of the late 1800's. This hilly ranch land is referred to as the pastoral zone, and it stretches for miles.
The lighthouse itself was closed today, but the views and the experience of unrelenting wind can be had any day there.
I watched for whales out in the water, struggling to hold the glasses still and keep myself upright in that unceasing wind. Wind won out.
All my video clips are hideous to listen to with the wind buffeting the tiny mike so badly. But I left the lighthouse and backtracked along Drake Boulevard to find a road that would take me to the North Beach. Once I got there I could not resist some last moving pictures of the ocean.
As I was taking this farewell walk a text message popped in from Bob, asking for my arrival time in Columbus tomorrow night. I sent him the beach movie and flight info, along with my hopes that all flights would be canceled so I could be stranded here.
I looked up a new route to take me back to St. Raphael and the 101 for a straight shot down to the GGB. I memorized the route so as to be ready for losing the cell signal along the way.
In San Rafael I stopped in a Mi Pueblo for the food to carry me through the next 24 hours and on a whim picked up a Mexican guava. It smelled wonderful. I should have left it at that, for the taste was a few steps dimmer and duller.
Before continuing, I stopped for a fill-up of gas and asked for hot water in my thermos so I could have herbal tea tonight. I dropped off the kitty litter on the pedestal of the gas pump, hoping it would not be too big a nuisance.
The hot water was tepid, the tea barely flavored. So we were even.
Down around the tip of the peninsula St. Raphael is on, I found myself looking for a boondocking site once more. I saw signs for San Quentin and thought that would be a memorable locale, but conditions weren't quite right. On one of my forays in that neighborhood I ran down a road that came to an unexpected dead halt at the gates of the prison. I turned around right quick.
I finally found my roosting spot on yet another stretch of Sir Francis Drake Blvd. in Larkspur. I was nuzzled up behind a line of box trucks with the logo "Always On the Move." When I first spotted them from across the boulevard it looked like I might fit in the space between a couple of them, which would shade me from passing headlights. But in the end I decided not to chance attracting attention if the parking took too much wrangling. We were on a sort of parking island, directly adjacent to the road but separated from the businesses and foot traffic. It was a good spot and once I masked my eyes against the lights I slept well until my alarm went off at 3:30 a.m.
