Pirate’s Cove was the first hike I bookmarked when I preparing for our San Francisco gig. A 3.6 mile hike along the cliffs at Muir Beach, it is a part of the Golden Gate Recreational Area—one of the most dog friendly of the federal lands. And then the government shut down the federal lands over a disagreement on budgets. Although Mother Nature never truly “closes,” roads can be blocked and chained off and parking lots closed. With an hour’s drive to get there, I wasn’t going to risk being turned away.
That hour’s drive took us over the Golden Gate bridge and out from under the clouds that had covered the city for much of the week. It’s been said of New England, “If you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute.” Here is the Bay Area, “If you don’t like the weather, just go about mile in any direction. It might not be better, but it’ll be different.”
And so it was on Superbowl Sunday. As we crested the meadows outside of Muir Forest and drove down the switchbacks to Muir Beach, the grey clouds parted and sunshine lit up the landscape. The parking lot was mostly empty. The town to the north was just a few streets, huddled up to the seaside, its nearest neighboring town many miles away over hill and dale. It made wonder if people who first settled here came from the inner regions and found it so beautiful, they chose not to return, or if they came from the sea and decided there couldn’t possibly be anywhere better to live than here.
That hour’s drive took us over the Golden Gate bridge and out from under the clouds that had covered the city for much of the week. It’s been said of New England, “If you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute.” Here is the Bay Area, “If you don’t like the weather, just go about mile in any direction. It might not be better, but it’ll be different.”
And so it was on Superbowl Sunday. As we crested the meadows outside of Muir Forest and drove down the switchbacks to Muir Beach, the grey clouds parted and sunshine lit up the landscape. The parking lot was mostly empty. The town to the north was just a few streets, huddled up to the seaside, its nearest neighboring town many miles away over hill and dale. It made wonder if people who first settled here came from the inner regions and found it so beautiful, they chose not to return, or if they came from the sea and decided there couldn’t possibly be anywhere better to live than here.
Tucker and I crossed the bridge and headed along the dirt path that ran alongside the beach. There were a few families playing the in sand and chasing waves, but it was no southern California beach party. The beach here is more Oregonian (if just a word can exist.) The dramatic rocks, the cold, harsh waves: it’s not a beach you lie in the sun and catch some waves; it’s the kind of beach you sit and admire the awe and power of nature.
The trail to Pirate’s Cove was clocked at only 3.6 miles, so I suspected this to be a two hour hikes tops. I was wrong. We did walk along the well-marked trail, but we couldn’t just walk. I felt a visceral need to simply stand and look out at the water and land, the crashing waves, the curves of the bluffs: to stand in awe of nature.
The trail to Pirate’s Cove was clocked at only 3.6 miles, so I suspected this to be a two hour hikes tops. I was wrong. We did walk along the well-marked trail, but we couldn’t just walk. I felt a visceral need to simply stand and look out at the water and land, the crashing waves, the curves of the bluffs: to stand in awe of nature.
I didn’t even reach for a camera each time. I just let it all wash over me, let the wind bustle through me. Off in the distant, I spied Colt Tower—all the way in San Francisco, worlds away from this magical place by the sea.
The trail wound around the side of the puffy pillows of land, and eventually led to the final descent. There are few times I have turned around during a hike. Like Tucker, I am goal-oriented. Or perhaps, it is Tucker’s need to push every boundary that leads him to not stop until he has reached the end of the trail. But here, 350 feet from the promised land, I had to turn away.
Dog on leash plus skull & crossbones pictures doesn’t fair well. Looking down at the trail, it was more mountain erosion than an actual trail. The mud and muck with boulders and rocks combined: I knew I couldn’t get down it and back up it safely later, even without a dog at the end of a leash. Perhaps had we come at a more drier time of the season it would have been doable. But for now, I had to content myself with all the experiences I had already had.
Certainly it was not a waste. The hike was a beautiful walk along the sea. The waves crashing upon the rocks and the birds riding the winds above were magical to see. I wish we had been able to go those last few feet, but I had to consider safety over everything else.
And so we turned around, Tucker accepting that this, not the beach, was the trail’s natural end for us. We started the trek back up and over the meadows, looking northward to all the potential of the open ocean.
And so we turned around, Tucker accepting that this, not the beach, was the trail’s natural end for us. We started the trek back up and over the meadows, looking northward to all the potential of the open ocean.
The skies above the hills showed us we need not make a dangerous descent in order to experience beauty:
Pirate’s Cove was just the name of the trail, not the destination. For the journey is always the destination, and we arrive the moment we put one foot in front of the other.
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