Across The Golden Gate
Trip Start
Sep 13, 2006
1
12
31
Trip End
Mar 27, 2007
San Francisco,
California,
United States
Friday, December 15, 2006
The Bay opened out as we progressed. Ahead, the high-rise of downtown San Francisco shimmered in the bright sunlight while across the waters to our left, the city of Oakland linked to its more famous neighbour by the broad grey span of the Bay Bridge, sprawled across a low green ridge.
'There's Alcatraz!' said the lady beside me, ponting to a small rocky islet capped by a barracks and a water tower. Then, rounding the sholder of the steep hillside, a pair of instantly recognisable orange steel towers appeared directly in our path. We disappeared into a tunnel and emerged a few seconds later on the deck of the Golden Gate Bridge. For the prevous nine and a half weeks I'd been anticipating this moment. Not once had a bus featured in my thoughts.
My attempt to cycle across the Golden Gate came unstuck in San Rafael, fifteen miles to the north on the western shore of San Francisco Bay. I'd arrived there a couple of hours previously - following directions I'd been given - and soon got lost in a maze of freeway intersections, roadworks and industrial estates from which there seemed no escape. Eventually I could stand the traffic no longer and resigned myself to the ignimony of the bus station.
Four days earlier I'd stopped for lunch in the coastal town of Mendocino one hundred and fifty miles to the north, having spent the previous night out in the forest with a tribe of hippies. It was a beautiful afternoon and the main street was crowded with Thanksgiving crowds. I'd had a great time in and around Mendocino and now it was time to move on.
Pacific Coast Near Mendocino, CA
The road south wound its way through wooded groves past small villages with artsy store fronts and small coves frequented by the surfing fraternity. Most of the holiday traffic turned inland towards Santa Rosa and I had the wild stretch of coast south of Elk largely to myself. Cliff-backed bays clustered with rock stacks gave way to a long strand which curved out to the lighthouse on the low cape at Point Arena. I camped for the night behind the dunes at Manchester Beach.
Sunset near Point Arena CA
Next morning, after a stroll along the beach, which was littered with the driftwood skeletons of fishermen's shelters, I set off south again. Beyond Point Arena the ocean ate away at an ochre barrier of rock, creating a beautiful much-indented coastline. Eco-friendly holidays homes built from native woods nestled among the trees perilously close to the cliff edge.
Fisherman's shelter At Pt Arena, CA
Beyon the town of Gualala, Highway 1 crosses the Sonoma County line and continues south over the wooded promontories of Rocky Point and Salt Point. Opting to make the most of the good weather while it lasted, I passed up the opportunity to camp at Stillwater Cove.
At Fort Ross, a few miles further on, an exotic-looking wooden structure with a pair of onion shaped domes peeps out from behind a stockade. Founded by the Russian-American Company and built with Aleutian labour early in the nineteenth century - with the permission of the then Spanish rulers - Fort Ross was the focal point of California's only Russian settlement. After the local sea-otter population was hunted to extinction (for its fur) the colony went into irreversible decline and was eventally sold off to incomers from the United States.
Pacific Coast Near Gualala, CA
From Fort Ross the highway climbs about 1,000 feet across the side of a mountain via a long series of switchbacks, the hillside dropping away sharply towards the shore below. The ascent proved to be as tough as it was unanticipated but with a little inspiration from Mother Nature I climbed onwards and upwards. Eagles hovered on the thermals overhead while pelicans bobbed on the swell below. Bullrushes glowed gold in the last rays of sunshine while cattle lowed cotentedly in their lofty pastures. I reached the summit to be rewarded with extensive views south along the coast and a magnificent fiery sunset.
Looking South Along the Coast nr Jenner CA
The twilght ride down the twisting and turning road at the back of the mountain took me through all the ponts of the compass and was as nerve-wracking as it was spectacular. From a narrow ravine down at sea-level I climbed again to a low pass before descending in darkness to the mouth of the Russian River, which I followed inland to the town of Jenner.
Sunset Over The Pacific Ocean
The silver light of the crescent moon reflected on the surface of the ocean and waves crashed ashore in the coves below. I glided ghostlike through the night towards Bodega Bay. On the access road to the campground a motorist dazzled me with his headlights. I lost the road and went sprawling through the air. Unharmed, I cursed the dazzler and went off to pitch my tent in a copse of pine behind the dunes. A pair of courting owls, hidden in the branches above, twit-twooed me off to sleep.
The storm arrived early, around six in the morning. I slet on but still it rained. Eventually I made a dash for it and got as far as the laundromat in Bodega Bay, a distance of about a mile. As it happened I had a bag full of dirty clothes and, having skipped the chance of a freezing cold shower the night before, I wasn't smelling too good myself. I stripped down to my shorts and jacket and threw everything else in the machine.
I was sitting there, shivering and dripping wet, when a lady came in with two long-haired terrier dogs. Hazel was sixty-something, petite with short hair and glasses. She'd recently returned from a yachting trip to Mexico about whch she spoke infectiously. Originally from east-coast Irish stock she had done a considerable amount of travelling herself, back in the days when she'd had long hair down to her ass, as she told me. When the washing was done, Hazel asked if I'd like to join her and a couple of friends at a delayed Thanksgiving dinner.
Hazel's holiday home was a couple of miles out of home and by the time I got there on my bike I was thoroughly soaked again. After showering and changing into freshly laundered clothes I felt vaguely human again. The house was bright and spacious with a lot of white surfaces which Hazel immediately set about scrubbing, filling me in as she cleaned. An anaesthetist by profession, she lived in a well-to-do surburb of San Francisco close to the yacht club where she kept her boat. Having done well from property investments she worked only one day a week (to keep her skills fresh) which left her with plenty of free time in which to sail. She'd never done the marriage and kids thing but spoilt her dogs rotten - although they were exceptionally cute.
The doorbell rang and an old guy with snow-white hair and bright blue eyes appeared. I could see him wondering who to hell I was. Ross was an widower who had been in the real estate business. He was a keen sailor and had hit it off with Hazel on a Carribbean cruise, he told me with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Eventually the storm blew itself out and the sun put in an appearance. We loaded the dogs into Hazel's car and headed back towards town. A narrow lane led down a steep hill to the water's edge, where wooden houses built up on stilts overhung a shallow enclosed bay. Outside, a structure resembling an old pioneer barn, we were greeted by Mary Jane who led us into her home which was filled with the delicious aroma of cooking. A territorial dispute broke out when Hazel's dogs encountered Mary Jane's dogs in the living room, along the length of which ran sliding glass doors. I snuck out onto the waterside deck while the two women pacified the dogs.
Waterfront Houses At Bodega Bay, CA
On the smooth still waters below, which were bathed in soft pink light, nature appeared in perfect harmony. A pair of seals ducked and dived in the brine while a line of cormorants skimmed across the bay. Gulls cawed atop mooring posts and a fishing boat chugged its way into the harbour opposite.
Mary Jane was a painter. Fifty-something with dark hair and soft features she spoke with a trace of a southern accent though she'd lived in California for years. She'd bought the house as soon as she saw it, she told me while giving me the tour. The building had once been a creamery and it had its own dock. During the Prohibition Era boats had smuggled in moonshine in mlk churns.
The dogs slept while the four of us sat down to a sumptuous meal accompanied by fine wine and amusing conversation. Mary Jane spoke about the trials and tribulations of running an on-line clothing business for dogs and Hazel explained why she had ordered a thong for her bitch (it was in heat!) Ross told me about the good old days with Frank Sinatra up in Tahoe. At the end of an enjoyable evening we took our leave from Mary Jane and went back to Hazel's house where I soon fell into a deep sleep.
I spent the next morning chatting and reading the papers. By lunchtime I was ready for the road again. I thanked Hazel for rescuing me from the landromat and started pedalling. From Bodega Bay the highway turned inland across a green landscape of rolling hills and dairy cattle. Crossing the Marin County line I turned west on a narrow undulating road, the rich scent of slurry flling my lungs. Beyond Tomales, a brook entered a cleft in a low range of hills accompanied by the road.
Emerging from the valley close to the mouth of a narrow fjord, I followed the highway along the southern shore of the inlet through a beautful landscape of wooded isles, fishing lodges and stands of cypress. The deep blue waters of Tomales Bay, which lies directly above the San Andreas Fault, are backed by a range of bare-brown hills. At the small village by the head of the fjord seafood restuarants adjoined the harbour and oyster boats rested on the mud flats by the pier. I climbed into the hills with the setting sun at my back. I rolled down the far side of the incline and into the village of Point Reyes Station just as darkness fell. I camped for the night ten miles further on, in the woods of Samuel P Taylor State Park. Here I found three cyclists, students from Portland, sleeping beneath a picnic table.
I heard the students leaving early the next morning and went back to sleep, eventually crawling out of my tent a couple of hours later. It was a beautiful sunny morning, though still a little chilly under the redwoods. I was excited at the propect of arriving San Francisco at last. It was thirty miles to the Golden Gate and I wasn't overly concerned about not having a local map. I brewed up another cup of tea and sat down to enjoy the peace of the forest.
A rutted two-lane highway named for the brigand, Sir Francis Drake, carried me down a pretty wooded valley to a quiet village where I paused for breakfast. The short sharp climb over the low pass to the San Geronimo Valley felt a lot harder than it should have done. The settlements along the valley floor had long since merged into one long ribbon. I stopped at the library in Fairfax to check my San Francisco hostel reservation on the Internet.
It was outside the local supermarket, which I visited to pick up some camera batteries, that I bumped into the guy who gave me the bum steer. With long black hair slicked back into a pony-tail and a New York Italian accent accompanied by contant use of the F work he came across more like a character from a gangster movie than the cycling enthusiast he claimed to be. Half an hour later I was pedalling around traffic chaos in San Rafael looking for a non-existent cycle track making liberal use of the F word myself.
ENDS
Posted: Zacatecas, Mexico, 22/01/07
PICTURES: The photos for this entry are actually attached to the previous entry. I don't have that many because my camera batteries ran out.
