Twice, recently, I've flashed on that patch of Sir Francis Drake Boulevard that goes up through the pine trees in Samuel P. Taylor State Park, switchbacking through the green darkness of the pine canopy, sun misting through the trees and glinting on the chestnut ground. We used to drive that road when we went from Berkeley to Point Reyes: we'd take 80 north along the east side of the bay, cross the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, pass the prison, and skirt San Anselmo, heading through Marin suburban sprawl to get to Marin rural utopia. Now it all blurs together in my mind--I think we'd pass Green Gulch when we went to Stinson, not Point Reyes, and I can't remember if the fields with sheep were before the woods or after--but that stretch of road remains one of the most beautiful places I know, and driving it one of the happiest experiences, because as well as the beauty of the moment, it meant soon you'd be walking on Limantour or climbing the steps down to the lighthouse or eating oysters at Hog Island.
[Anne Lamott's Blue Shoes is not a very good book, but her physical realization of Marin is fabulous. One scene takes place just where I'm talking about, and she gets it exactly right.]
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