Surrounded by Fools...

     It was supposed to be three days and two nights of rain, rain, and more rain, but I had not anticipated the magic that April Fool's Day would bring! When reserving the Hummingbird Cottage at Bear Valley Bed and Breakfast, in Olema, near Point Reyes National Seashore, several weeks ago, I had envisioned beautiful spring weather. I imagined walking in the warming sunshine on beaches and through fields of wildflowers while watching birds flit about. However, as Easter week and my personal escape plans drew near, the weather forecast was not cooperating, calling for a week of storm fronts, dark clouds, and nonstop rain. Unabashed, I packed books and my laptop, knowing I would be very satisfied to curl up with a blanket and hot tea, while reading and writing to my heart's content.
     Well, it was not to be! I was awakened on April 1 by sunshine beaming through the cottage's many windows imploring me to get up and get out and go exploring! Quickly, I did just that!
     
     Happy day! Feeling a bit Alice-in-Wonderland-ish, it seemed everywhere I looked foolish things were going on! Not wanting to be left out of the delightful nonsense, I convinced myself (not a difficult task) to jump right into the tomfoolery...

     Three-hundred-and-eight steps down and three-hundred-and-eight steps back up. Down is a lark; up is an invigorating aerobic challenge. The Point Reyes lighthouse sits near the base of la Punta de los Reyes, the Point of the Kings, a befittingly regal name for this stunning geological formation, which reaches well out into el Oceano Pacifico, the peaceful ocean. The lighthouse is approached from the cliff above by navigating a long, long, long, narrow flight of concrete steps (a bit like descending through Alice's rabbit hole, though the view is significantly more majestic). The wind roars, the waves crash, the white-capped, far-from-peaceful green water is streaked with stripes of foam.

     Pods of California gray whales make their spring migration northward toward their Alaskan feeding grounds. Hugging the coastline, they pass just below the Point Reyes lighthouse, where scores of bundled human observers, hair whipping in the wild wind and armed with binoculars, squint into the sun to spot the whales as they come to the surface to wave hello!

     Three midnight-black ravens play in the brisk, on-shore wind, beside the one-lane road taking me inland. As I stop to watch their aerial gymnastics, they morph into missiles shooting across the sky, wings tucked back, moving with the speed of the wind. Then turning-on-a-dime, in beautiful synchrony, the ravens face into the wind, wings spread and arched like three pairs of spinnaker sails, they surf waves of air that rise and crest above the headlands, hovering, slipping left, sliding right, a trio of black-paper kites without strings.

     Down at the lagoon, hundreds of fat and happy elephant seals, mamas with their babies, lie basking in the sun in the lee of the cliffs, out of the wind's reach. Singing their spring songs, their voices range from bloodhound hunting calls to the hoarse barking of dogs with laryngitis and the high-speed rat-a-tat of woodpeckers hard at work. The nearly inert colony's chorus rises from what appears to be a large collection of weathered driftwood logs thrown up onto the sand.

     Wild irises wiggle and dance along the trail's edge, as the wind whips along the rolling green hills that slide across the headlands. There are many wildflowers that take part in the day's dance, pink, yellow, orange, blue, and white, but it is the deep violet irises, trying vainly to stand tall and proud in the face of this constant breeze, that attract my attention. I attempt, also in vain, to catch an iris portrait, but none of them will stop jitterbugging long enough to pose.

     At precisely 5pm, hundreds of happy California cows, udders filled like giant water balloons, prick up their ears, sniff the air, and turn as one, like a school of ungainly fish, lining up single-file and to parade in their slow lumbering waddle towards some unseen destination. These "happy cows," and many more, make their homes at historic Ranches A through G which sit picturesquely within the park's boundaries doing their dairy business much as it has been done for a century-and-a-half.

     Hawks, kites, and kestrels, sit on fence posts and telephone poles. Normally serious and fierce in appearance as they scan the open green fields for prey, this evening they appear nearly comical. They look frazzled and wind-whipped, their feathers sticking up at odd angles. If only these normally distinguished-looking raptors had fingers and external ears, then they could tuck those wild feathers behind their ears to keep them out of their eyes, or slick them back with maximum-hold hair gel.

     Having had enough of the cold, blustery wind, I park in a small lot facing the lagoon, in the lee of the cliffs. Enjoying the scene, made more tranquil by the warm interior of the car, I am greeted by the parking lot's reigning ruler and self-appointed greeter, a studly seagull who hovers over my windshield, then slowly settles down directly onto the front of my van. By way of "hello," he pecks at my driver's side windshield, throws his head back, and lets out a series of "ack-ack" calls, perhaps taking possession of this new high-ground. We eye one another from just inches away and chat amiably through my open side window.

     Heading back to the sanctuary of the B-and-B, I see far to the west, the low cloud bank, hovering just above the distant horizon, that previews tomorrow's storm. The sun, still an inch or two above sinking into the ocean, is dipping behind the clouds, creating a pre-sunset pseudo-sunset, coloring the western sky pink and lavender, silver and turquoise, while sending golden "god's rays" streaking to earth.

     Waving whales, surfing ravens, singing elephant seals, dancing irises, schooling cows, disheveled raptors, a chatty seagull, and a sunset in broad daylight... followed by a hot cup of tea in the Hummingbird Cottage... The only things missing are a grinning cat and a top hat! There's an April-Fools, Griffin-in-Wonderland-or-Kings'-Point nonsense poem in there somewhere... perhaps if the Mad Hatter were here he could recite it for me!

     Dear Friend Meghan just sent me the following Tarot description of "The Fool." I just had to go back and add it in here as it's quite an inspiring look at the classic character of "The Fool," not so much foolish as creative... like he's a blank canvas together with a palate full of paints! Thank you, Meghan! What a pair of Fools we are!
     Basic Tarot Meaning: At #0, the Fool is the card of infinite possibilities. The bag on the staff indicates that he has all he needs to do or be anything he wants, he has only to stop and unpack. He is on his way to a brand new beginning. But the card carries a little bark of warning as well. Stop daydreaming and fantasizing and watch your step, lest you fall and end up looking the fool.

By Land and By Sea...

   
     Point Reyes National Seashore, located just north of San Francisco, is a vast collection of coastal environs, broad sandy beaches, high grassy bluffs dotted with dairy farms, steep rocky seacliffs, lagoons, marshes, and small bays ringed with docks of fishing boats. The park is crisscrossed with an array of trails that traipse, meander, and robustly climb through its windswept lands.
     I especially enjoy the hike, really more a stroll, out to Kehoe Beach. The 1.2 mile trail skirts the edge of Kehoe Marsh with views of its many resident or visiting water birds and shore birds. Ducks and mudhens and other swimming and diving fowl float alone and in great groups on the smooth water that sits in a bowl surrounded by rolling grass-green hills. A variety of little flitting birds sit atop and hide amongst the branches of blackberry bushes and other shrubs that line the shore and climb the hillsides. Occasional birds of prey float effortlessly above on the air currents, watching for rodents in the grass.

     At the west end of the fresh water marsh is a small wooden bridge that crosses over the narrow outlet to the sea, allowing one access to the wide white beach in dry shoes. The water is brackish, as it is actually both inlet and outlet, changing directions with the tides. Below the bridge, the water is absolutely invisible, masked by millions of bright green leaves of floating waterplants, like the water itself is green and growing. A slender and elegant great blue heron on the other side of the green water is so immobile as to disappear into the sandy spot where it stands.
     West of the bridge, where the water of the narrow inlet/outlet slips between rolling sand dunes, a colony of seagulls stands inches from the water of the outer salt water lagoon. Every five minutes or so, on some silent communal cue, they take to the air like a school of flying fish, wheeling overhead, calling, before settling again a short distance from where they stood before.
     The trail widens where it emerges from the dunes onto the broad sand beach and becomes a dozen lines of footprints fanning out, all heading towards the sound of crashing waves. Along the trail, I have encountered only half a dozen humans, all moving back towards the parking lot. Arriving at the ocean's edge, I see only one lone speck of a hiker far down the beach.
     As far as I can see to the left, as far as I can see to the right, waves rise, curl, crash, and slide up the smooth sand. There are four, five, even six rows of gray-green waves, lined up, one behind the other, marching toward the land. After leaving foamy remains of themselves on the pale shore, each wave retreats, rejoining the vast ocean. I stand for half-an-hour or more, watching the repeating comings and goings, listening to the loud, crashing, rhythmic breathing of the sea.
     Upon closer inspection, the beach is not made from a fine-grained powdery sand, rather it is vast collection of tiny polished rocks the size of rice and peas. Each shiny rock is different from the rest, and together they are a rainbow of colors, red, green, blue, inky black, crystal white, orange and amber. I find myself on my knees, picking up the prettiest ones, until my hands are filled to overflowing, and I can hold no more. As the sun begins to make its way toward the horizon, I place my miniature rock collection into my pocket and head back to find my car, in a slow-paced race with the approaching dark, and retreat once more to my peaceful little bed-and-breakfast cottage.
     I found there to be an interesting contrast between the marsh, so teeming with wildlife, and the beach, so seemingly devoid of it. The marsh provides a microscope-like, closeup view of the bubbling and oozing life process. The creatures populating the sky, ground, and water of the that habitat produce a feast of sights, sounds, and constant movement. By contrast, the only visible signs of life on the beach are California brown pelicans passing by, cruising in formation over the cresting waves. The shoreline's vast dimensions create a spectacular setting for the eternal battle between land and sea. The marsh is a study in biology, whereas the beach is a geological study, both beautiful and fascinating to observe, but very different.