Point Reyes. I don’t know how it got its name, so a Google search is worth it. The three kings. That’s the answer. The first Spaniard to see the cliffs somehow thought of the three wisemen of the Christmas story. 

Since then, 1603, no one has thought much about explorer Sebastian Vizcaino. I guess his voyage was a sort of start-up. Or in contemporary retail language, a pop-up. Who knows who financed him or why? Did he have any encounters with the Miwok? The really interesting thing is that he glimpsed the white cliffs roughly 25 years after Sir Francis Drake did. And what did Drake get for being there first? A whole bay named after him. An estero. A snack bar.  Not to mention Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, all 30 miles of it. Go figure.

Not that any of this figures in any of our experiences during the last two days. And what are those experiences? Partly bittersweet. I have been visiting Point Reyes for 50 years. No, 55. The place has seen me as an able-bodied university student. And whatever I am now. It has seen me through wives. It has seen me through thick and thin, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing. A time to die.

I was thinking about the latter quite a bit. I just had a routine assessment from my doctor of physical medicine. And while she pronounced me sound, she also pronounced the risks that come with quadriplegia and age. Oy fucking vey.

So there we were in the absolutely splendid first days of summer, air temperature in the mid 60s, hope in the air, bird on the wing. And I confess to succumbing to a bit of brooding. At Hearts Desire Beach, Tomales Bay State Park, an all-points bulletin had gone out to the Northern California Federation of Extroverts. The latter dutifully assembled, cranked up their barbecues, and their radios, and made their presence known. Jane had settled on the spot as launching pad for her hike up the coast. I do wish I could have joined her.

Thing is, on the way to and from the beach, there are the Bishop Pines. These are remnant forests. There just aren’t that many of them. In terms of the succession of species, they are at the end of the road. Somehow, this is why I like them. That and the fact that they have rejected the standard pine tree body type altogether. Bishop Pines actually have a configuration of certain fir and deciduous trees. They form an open canopy. And they are committed to fire.

Bishop pines reproduce when they burn. Heat makes the small cones open. That and something else. Climate change. You heard it here first. But for the first time in recent years, in days of extreme heat, Bishop Pines have been known to get slightly confused and dispense their seeds. I don’t like this little factoid. I would rather withdraw it. And there we have it.

If you drive up the Mount Vision Road, the trees go from thin to dense within a mile. This is where the Vision fire did its worst in 1995. The place is an eternal lesson to me. Today there is absolutely no sign of forest fire. The trees, while not the height of a mature forest, are most impressive. You can tell that the Bishop Pines leading up from the bay along Sir Francis Drake Boulevard are the true old growth. They are taller and there is more space between the boughs. Those here on the main park highway show signs of meteorological wear and tear. Some show signs of a chainsaw. The big windstorms that swept the park last winter downed branches and several whole trees. At least the ones that survive have had lots of rain. They stand an excellent chance of, well, standing quite a bit longer.

I also think the rain, that is the trees’ turgidity, may help save them from pine pitch canker. Yes, it’s a thing. A fungus, I believe. And because most of these tree infirmities (no, not all) strike weakened or stressed populations, I kind of wonder if we are witnessing something out of phase. Like the trees absorb climatic stress, i.e. the recent drought, the fungus comes along, they get sick. I don’t know. This is nature, not a morality tale of humans and their environmental destruction.

It’s not a tale at all. Just a small forest on a ridge. And It gives me heart to consider that they will be there long after I am contributing to the world soil bank. For that is my personal ambition. I would rather be buried without much of anything. Certainly no embalming. Because my goal is to feed the animals. And above all feed the Bishop Pines. We deserve each other.

Restaurants in Point Reyes Station, Olema and Inverness deserve more business. It’s a strange thing what has happened to West Marin. Places have shut, downsized and gone to reduced hours. And this seems a strange time to reduce anything. The height of the tourist season. A time of year when there was once a one-hour wait at Station House Café. But not last night on the eve of the Fourth of July weekend. The fixture café in Point Reyes Station has moved into smaller quarters across the street. Don’t miss the fried oysters.

Best of all is Tomales Bay. At high tide, the marshes at the northern end glimmer with promise. We have lost a lot of marshland in America. But this is a very happy exception. I’m not sure there’s anything like it between here and hundreds of miles north in Humboldt County where Highway 101 travels through the Arcata Marsh on a causeway. By the way, the university town has famously built some actual new marshland for its sewage treatment facility. Given a half a chance, marshes do this sort of thing.