REDWOODS AT MUIR IN THE MORNING

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REDWOODS AT MUIR IN THE MORNING

The time had come, on Monday, to set off on an excursion into the countryside, north, beyond the Bridge into forests of red in the morning, and valleys of wine in the afternoon.

We would do this in a vintage Wagon, driven by a guide whose speech, dress, gestures and bearing were a dream from the sixties, except that the hair of his body, face and head had all gone pure grey with the passing of time.

Our companions on the trip would be, firstly, a freshly minted couple, just arrived from Adelaide, married yesterday, or was it today, they were unsure, the date line having intervened during their trip over; secondly, by a mature couple from Ohio, married for twenty years, so long ago, in Canton, that the wife could emerge from their hotel confidently late and with aplomb, her punctual spouse dutifully apologising; and thirdly, by a lone traveller from Brussels of silent, or, perhaps, sleepy disposition.

Warming up to his role, our man of the sixties eased us, with informative commentary, past the historic Presidio, where the Spanish first established a fort in 1776 that remained an operational military base for almost two hundred and twenty years under, secondly, Mexican and, thirdly, American forces, after which it was turned over to the National Parks Service. The graves of some 30,000 veterans give rest on a peaceful swath of sloping terrain; touching testimony to the reality of those who have served dearly through the years.

Then came our first thrill-of-the-day, driving over the Golden Gate Bridge we had been observing from afar since our arrival in these parts. This was rush hour traffic on the way to work and the onslaught of vehicles carrying commuters into the city was furious. But the arresting view for us was the vista of massive, multi-decked ships of commerce breaching the Golden Gate, this naturally framed, immense, scenic opening from the Pacific. In concert, I suppose, with our penchant for imports from the East, traffic flow in was more pronounced than the stream of vessels out into the Ocean; at least, during the miniscule minutes our crossing took.

We sidled off the Bridge and glided through Sausalito, born as a village of fisher folk who had struggled years ago for their outpost to survive the encroaching land demands of bridge construction; and then grew up to become a posh collection of expensive homes above the Bay and quaint house boats in it, with residents who commute to San Francisco by water craft, in spite of wheeled access which the Bridge has offered since construction was completed in 1937.

Now, breaking free of urban bonds, we swerved along roadways, swaying into graceful curves that ventured deep down into lush valleys, on our way to Muir Woods National Monument, a five hundred and sixty acre reserve of gigantic redwood trees. Old growth, and unique but for the Redwood National Park further north, their stunning three hundred feet heights, yearning for the sky, yield auburn leaves that filter sunlight into a molten glow, embracing delicate flora and fauna, hugging the moist ground or drifting in the quiet streams that trickle soothing sounds through this peaceful place. It is no wonder that, as they strove to found the United Nations in San Francisco, the world’s leaders tarried here in 1948, for a wee sojourn of reflection. For us, this forest, this arboretum au naturel, afforded a near mystic morning promenade.

Which induced quiet in our Wagon, as we departed the Woods for an afternoon in the Sonoma Valley, whose southern entrance was upon us, cool breezes from the Bay giving gentle movement to rambling vines receding along low rolling hills of muted green.

V. Ernest Ainsley
14.12.09

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