Wanderlust in the Time of Coronavirus (A GeoEx eBook)

Wanderlust in the Time of Coronavirus

Lost & Found: A Pilgrimage to Point Reyes

I realized that I needed a dose of wildness straightaway, so rather than extend my stay, I impulsively decided to drive to North Beach instead. Decades ago I had fallen in love with that remote and lonesome strand, and it had come to symbolize nature’s wild heart in my head. I steered the car through increasingly primeval-feeling landscape toward the ocean. After a half hour, the densely forested hillsides gave way to sprawling historic farmsteads and herds of placid cows. Then I turned onto the tiny lane called Point Reyes Beach North and stopped among a dozen cars in the earthen parking lot at the end of the way. I hopped out of the car and strode excitedly to the beach. On the stretch of sand in front of the lot, there were about two dozen people. A few children were braving the chilly ocean waters, skipping in and out of the waves, but for the most part, the visitors were sitting in the sand, some on blankets, some under beach umbrellas, most reading or talking or just gazing out to sea. At first, I was disappointed—I didn’t want to share the beach with anyone—but after I walked five minutes south down the strand, I suddenly found myself absolutely alone. When I looked back, I couldn’t see anyone. When I looked farther down the beach, all I could discern was sand and bluffs and sky. I felt like a castaway, abandoned in the middle of nowhere— how wonderful! I took out my journal and wrote: So here I am at North Beach in Point Reyes. It is just as wild as I remember. The waves come crashing in, ceaseless. They are at least six feet high and they make a constant curl and crash, roaring as they scrabble onto the shore, white upon white upon white, piling and jumping, splashing, frothing, layer on layer. . . . The gathering of blue-green and the crashing into white is a beautiful, soul-soothing sight. There’s the roar of the sea and the thrum of the breeze and every once in a while, the cry of a gull. That’s all.

decades. The interior of the shop was closed, but a hand- written sign in the window said they were accepting online and phone orders and dispensing them at the back door, so I wandered to the back, placed my order with the kindly woman there, and walked away a few minutes later contentedly cradling a Ham and Tam sandwich and a round of my all-time favorite triple crème Mt Tam cheese. Then I ambled down the main street to Toby’s Feed Barn. As always, I loved perusing the marvelously Marin range of products here, from bales of hay and grain to fresh organic oranges, apples, peaches, plums, tomatoes, onions, and much more, to locally made baskets, bowls, and other arts and crafts, to all manner of garden supplies. As usual, I ended in the store’s back-room art gallery, admiring an exquisite exhibition of landscape prints and wildlife photographs by local artists. From Toby’s I meandered to the end of the three-block-long downtown at Gallery Route One, an intimate art space that displays inventive box-art creations every August. A sign said the gallery was open by appointment only, so I had to content myself with peering through the windows to see this year’s boxed beauties. Walking back, I stopped at the Bovine Bakery for a takeaway blueberry scone, and at Point Reyes Books, another atmospheric place that showcases local authors and sells a discerning array of tomes, from new age treatises to literary classics. While it was poignant to revisit these treasured places, I felt unsettled, as if something was amiss. As I walked and looked around, the reason became clear: Commendably, everyone was wearing masks—signs saying “Face Covering Required–Fine Up to $500” were prominently displayed—and conscientiously social-distancing. But these simple facts reminded me relentlessly that the carefree, serendipitous spirit I always cherished here had been pandemified this year. Much as I loved this special town, I did not feel carefree or serendipitous now.

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