Pacific

One of the things I love about Point Reyes is that the bay that separates the point from the mainland, cradles the San Andreas Fault. Becca and I talked about this as we hiked the two miles to our campsite. Better in a tent here, we decided, than a ten-storey, earthquake-proof building in San Francisco.

After setting up our tent we walked through the fog to the ocean. Here, at last, was the Pacific. Perhaps ironically, at this furthest point in my journey, I had reached a familiar place.

The first time I came to Point Reyes, my mother and I had walked out the long tongue that lies between Tomales Bay and the Pacific. We walked out to see the Tulle elk. One, a bull, had caught the moon in his antlers. On the walk back, my mom hoisted two branches above her head and became an elk herself, which made us both giggle. I have returned many times since, and each time, have found sanctuary in this jut of wilderness and water.

The San Andreas slept peacefully that night, and so did we. In the morning, the fog clung to us, curled our hair, and dripped from the coast pines that lined the trail. The orange faces of monkey plant shone out against the grey.


With the day still young, we reached the car, each of us rested, pacific, from this lull in our traveling. I left Becca at the ferry terminal. She headed across the bay, and I turned north on 101.