Mt. Tam watercolor for Laura Austin Wiley, 4 x 6”

I ran my original watercolor thru a cartoon app

Four quick paintings

Thinking my painting for the SGV Spring Art Show was due on Tax Day, and wanting to test run my newish Gamblin oil paints, I banged out four quick canvases sitting in my car. They were wet when I took the photos. Mt. St Helena from Sonoma Mountain is glistening, it's so wet. I haven't touched oil paints in 50 years, an allergy to turpentine made it impossible to breathe. Now there's Gamsol, a mineral oil opens up possibilities. Larry Rippe said no, you have two weeks. Reprieve. Sneaky Larry. I'm always late turning in my assignments.

Pipevine swallowtails

Today was one of those days when a rare black swallowtail butterfly decided to cross my path, and flit in front of my car bearing down at 40 miles an hour. Nothing to be done, I saw it flutter to the road and I thought of how not only did I strike down a rare butterfly, I killed the only pollinator of an even rarer plant, the pipevine plant. Both, indelible images from the landscape of my childhood. The carrion-scented pipevine, or Dutchman’s pipe, with its heart-shaped leaves, is the only foodsource of the butterfly, the butterfly, its only pollinator. Their age-old dance is a deep symbiosis that I cannot even begin to fathom.

When I went to pick up my friend for his appointment, another black swallowtail fluttered overhead. I felt that for a moment, that maybe I was forgiven. I drove slowly along the road looking for the one I had struck down, thinking I could at least photograph it in death.  A memento mori. But it was gone, like the shadow of a leaf in the wind. California pipevine swallowtails are melanistic, and in the right light, their sooty wings are fringed with indigo jewels. In many cultures a black butterfly is a symbol of transition, renewal, or rebirth.

To ameliorate that sense of loss, call it unnamed grief, having an hour to kill, I hiked up the fireroad to the ridge above Terra Linda while my friend was in the hospital getting a procedure done. Lately, I’ve been keeping the doldrums at bay with routine and projects. It sneaks in when the pattern is broken. An old friend, Katelin died, and from that, there is no recovery. I walked along the ridge line, gazed back at the iconic shape of Mount Tam, and then north to the broad expanse of Loma Alta Ridge, Sleepy Hollow below me. I dawdled, and took photos of wildflowers and rock outcroppings of Franciscan strata, ribbon chert, and stray blueschist knockers. 

It wasn’t until when I was leaving, that unexpected stop after what you think is your final stop—I doubled back to see the place where an old house once stood on the ridgeline. Near where the front door might’ve stood, a liminal boundary to the east, there were two clumps of white freesias in the grass, that heavenly narcotic scent taking me back to another time, another place, when life was not as painful. Someone once said, let grief come in, and then let it go out again. I have not seen the ocean for over a year. Cease, surcease.

Still feeling blue, I headed back north to prepare for a Sierra Poetry Festival poetry reading for the California Fire & Water anthology reading with Molly Fisk. I joined a little late because I stopped off at Hick’s Valley to feed the Dolcini horses some apples, it was a necessary stop, if only for their soothing animal kindness, and gentle presence, as they snuffed and whuffled, and begged me to itch that one unattainable spot high on their necks for just a little bit longer. 

We breathed in each other’s breath in greeting. Theirs smelled of spring grass, and summer lawns. Mine, of coffee. Their soft eyes, like the deep lakes of the wings of those butterflies, held no judgement, no expectation, other than that of animal companionship. They crowded in, glad for the distraction. Sometimes I forget that deep connection with horses. The unexpected stop made me a little late for the reading, but was necessary for peace of mind.

Some 50 of us poets were electronically joined at the hip via Zoom. We read for the children, we read for the planet we read for the jetstream—that it might find its way back home; we prepare for what is to come. This year, the fire season will arrive too soon and already the hills are losing their greenery. As I listened to the poems, I was lifted out of the doldrums. After the reading, the blues slammed back in, wanting its due—that pound of flesh. But there are indigo skies on the horizon. It is all part of the dance.

There is always tomorrow for the reboot.

WILD IRISES

WILD IRISES
               —for Mimi Fariña
                April 30, 1945-July 20, 2001

Sweet Mimi. I once brought
her a childish bouquet of wild irises
plucked from beneath the cypress
in our lower garden, not knowing
it was her birthday—she was moved to tears,
saying she thought everyone had forgotten.

I was embarrassed, but also pleased
knowing that sense of diminishment
and loss when a birthday goes unnoted.
A small spur-of the-moment gesture
became something much larger.
Her eyes welled as she set those irises
by the photo of her long-dead husband.

Whenever I see wild irises I think of her.
I like to think she returns to us each spring,
a white dove circling the long-armed ridges
and slopes where Mt. Tamalpais sings.

4/30/2016

Christian Burkhardt: Almost Amish

While weeding through an old suitcase full of my grandmother's yellowed newspaper clippings, I found an article on an old friend, a neighbor I used to know a long time ago. A dark clipping of Christian Burkhardt & his horse Brandy pulling a custom racing cart along the backroads of the San Geronimo Valley—a familiar sight during the 1970s.

Christian and I used to go on long trail rides over rough  fire roads starting out from Forest Knolls. One time we went all the way to Mt. Tamalpais along the San Geronimo Ridge, to Alpine Dam, via the the Meadow Club, in his two-wheeled racing sulky prototype made from a bicycle, wire mesh, and aluminum strips drilled out with big holes (to keep the cart light).

Or sometimes we'd go up the Lagunitas fire roads near Kent Lake along Bolinas Ridge, to Bolinas Mesa, and onto what is now called the Palomarin Trail. We'd trot past Double Point, Bass Lake, Olema, etc. The miles flew by, the open air stung our cheeks, we'd pack a lunch and take off down the open road, not knowing where we'd end up.

I taught Christian the English names of plants. I pointed out a primitive plant, Equus, I'd say, pointing to Brandy's tail, horsetail fern (Equisetum). He'd reply in German: wassercandlen. His father was a famous botanist, they were born in Germany, so it made sense that Christian would know the German names of plants. English was his second language.

Christian was super smart and had many odd notions. He was part eccentric, part geek, and almost Amish. He wanted to harken back to a simpler time that never was. Christian once built an entire Model A Ford from scratch, because he could. But he wouldn't drive it. He was somewhat steampunk'd decades before it was reinvented. But then the entire family was most original in thought and manner. The saying, They broke the mold when....applied to the Burkhardts—all of them. Like the Amish people he admired, Christian wanted to be simple, he wanted to be plain. In fact, he did eventually apprentice with the Pennsylvania Amish community.

Christian Burkhardt and Brandy with his prototype buggy made of bicycle parts.

Christian lived with his parents and grannie on a house on a knoll that his father Hans had designed, made of river stone, cement, and floors with radiant heat. Hans loved the trees, and managed to build his house around them without resorting to scorched earth practices. Christian built an elaborate treehouse in a Douglas fir, with cathedral windows, electricity, a record player and a telescope (much to the dismay of Stephanie Stone's parents). That gave Christian quite a reputation. The Stones invested in bedroom curtains.

I don't know what part of Germany the Burkhardts hailed from, but Christian's grannie didn't speak a word of English and she too was pretty eccentric. I remember being shocked when Christian told me that when she was a young girl, his grannie was an ardent fan of Hitler; when he came to their village, she broke her arm falling off a chair cheering for him. It probably saved her life. 

When I was a teenager, I'd found a Nazi dagger up our hill, buried in the dirt above our spring. Our neighbor, German Consul, Old Man Latendorf must've been hiding refugee Germans in the woods. The story goes, when things got too hot, and he too went into hiding, my Irish grandfather stepped in as acting German Consul. First, my high school math teacher, Archie Williams, shook Hitler's hand after he won the Olympics gold medal with Jesse Owens, and now Grannie Burkhardt?

When we were cleaning out my grandmother's house last month, my uncle found the old Nazi dagger, but it was so rusted, he threw it out. I should've saved it, the little black and white enamel swastica was still recognizable, but I didn't have the heart to keep it. It was tainted with too much history. I wasn't expecting it to resurrect and intersect itself here in this blog. But I digress...

Western view from Mt. Barnabe toward Camp Taylor. we grew up on the other side. —Wiki

Back to our backroad explorations. Christian Burkhardt and I discovered that we could cover amazing distances in the racing sulky, much farther than if we were riding astride our own horses. Brandy, a dark mahogany bay Morgan with black points, a white sock, and a star on his forehead, could trot for hours. My horse had died a few years before, so I was truly horseless, no longer riding for Rafter L Ranches, and I welcomed the chance to travel my favorite ridges again.

On the way home from the Mt. Tam ride, we bit off way more than we could chew: we were late leaving Mt. Tam, it was so glorious at the top. A friend of mine, Dale Walsh, was working at the fire lookout, he invited us up and we spent the afternoon gazing out over the ridges of the Bay Area.

Coming back around Alpine Lake to the Meadow Club, we crossed the Fairfax-Bolinas Road, to pick up our fire road home, but took a wrong turn, and ended up on the top of Pine Mountain at sunset. Fantastic views of Mt. Wittenberg, Elephant Mountain, Big Rock RIdge. But we were on the wrong ridge that divided the middle arm of Kent Lake like a peninsula.

I told Christian we needed to veer to the right, and take what looked like a chaparral-lined goat track, but he wanted to stick to the main fire road. He said it made more sense. There was no arguing with him. He held the reins, so...off we trotted to the west. Then towards the south. Wrong way. I threw a fit and got us to turn back towards San Geronimo. But we discovered that there was a fence in the way. We lost valuable time searching for a way back though the fence as we didn't want to backtrack all the way to the Meadow Club. We were also running out of daylight.



We needed to get onto the right fire road that followed the crest of San Geronimo Ridge paralleling Sir Francis Drake Boulevard (the old Northwestern Pacific Railroad bed). I found a portugee gate of sorts, a mend in the fence; we were able to lift the sulky over the barbed wire, and sneak Brandy through a gap in the fence. I laid my vest over the lower wires so he could see in order to step over the treacherous wire. Good thing it was a full harvest moon to light our way. Otherwise we would've had to spend the entire night on the ridge.

After the second summit, I was never so glad to see the first sure landmark, the pygmy sargent cypress forest, and the ghostly serpentine outcroppings. (The San Geronimo Ridge was either Marin Municipal Water District watershed, or privately held ranch lands in those days, now the Gary Giacomini Open Space Preserve is accessible via the Bay Area Ridge Trail. See photos at the Bay Area Hiker's blog. A recent post is on Trailhiker's blog.)

To download this PDF of San Geronimo Ridge, go to MCPOS

I can't remember where we came down off the ridge, but I think it was by De La Montanya's place—we called it the deer camp road (there was an old deer camp on the ridge overlooking the lake, it ran into East Sylvestris fire road and dead ended at Meadow Way in San Geronimo. Of course none of us ever knew that the names of fire roads, or that they even had names. Google hindsight is a wondrous thing.

It was far too dark to follow the ridge to Forest Knolls even under a full moon. To come down off the ridge down Tamarack, or by the Nielsen's place on Resaca Road would have been positively suicidal in the dark. By the time we reached Arroyo Road, it was well after midnight. I was so cold, I wanted to trot alongside the sulky, but I had such painful chillblains, I could barely walk. I was never so glad to get home.

We didn't know it at the time, but when we didn't return home by darkfall, the families began to worry. Christian's father, Hans had sent the sheriff out looking for us, we were gone so long. Even my grandmother was worried, and she never worried much about me coming home after dark. The horse always brought me home. Christian caught hell for being out so late—they thought we'd been injured or killed. No cellphones or GPS back in those days, let alone, access to topo maps, we really were miles from civilization.

Poor Christian was socially gauche (as most adolescent boys are). He was always the little kid who lived down the road. He used to tag along after us when we went out riding. About the only thing we had in common was a love of horses.

I used to give him rides to SF State when we were attending college there during 1974-75. He helped to pay for gas and bridge fare so I was glad for his company as it was a long commute from Forest Knolls to Stonestown.

Christian didn't know his own strength. One time he twisted the door handle right off my old '58 Volvo panel van, not realizing it was locked. But he was also a mechanical genius, so he welded on a new shank and fixed it, not quite as good as new. But close. The handle drooped a bit. I offered to teach him to drive but he steadfastly refused. He didn't want to have anything to do with combustion engines whereas I was always under the hood trying to keep the damned car running.

Christian's father Hans, a botanist, was a pioneer in the process of cloning orchids. He'd hybridize and divide the orchid buds with a scalpel and put them in test tubes filled with coconut water. The orchid clones had to be constantly agitated in order to grow. There was a riot of rare orchids blooming all throughout their house. Christian's mother, Hannah, a quiet dark-haired woman of otherworldly charm, was his lab assistant. She was probably a doctor as well. There was much I didn't know about the Burkhardts.

The Burkhardts left the San Geronimo Valley and moved to a remote valley along the Noyo River during the late 1970s or early 80s. Their nearest address was Sanctuary Station, an unscheduled freight stop on the Northwestern Pacific Railroad freight line, now California Western Railroad line. The Skunk Train took them 20 miles to Willits or to Fort Bragg for provisions, but they were self-sufficient. The fire road into Sanctuary Station and Camp Nine was impassable during the wet season. I visited Christian a few times, as an activist poet friend of mine, Mary Norbert Korte, a former Dominican nun, was their nearest neighbor, and we held several rather wild California Poets in the Schools conferences at Mary's place.

The California Western Railroad, a Mendocino County heritage railroad that parallels the convoluted narrow Highway 20 (Fort Bragg-Willits Road). The CWR runs 40 miles along the Noyo River and Pudding Creek, crossing 30 bridges and trestles, and two tunnels. Northspur, 11 miles north of Comptche, on the confluence of the North Fork of the Noyo River, is the only watering hole, about half-way from Willits. Otherwise there's not much by the way of civilization in the canyon.—Wiki

Dr. Hans Burkhardt was an environmental analyst for Mendocino County, which was in the midst of clearcutting wars, disastrous for the Noyo River canyon. Hans' efforts led to the formation of the Mendocino County Forest Advisory Committee. He wrote a booklet, “Maximizing Forest Productivity” that outlined sound forest practices to sustain a healthy vibrant industry, but corporate forest owners branded him an extremist, along with marbled murrelets, northern spotted owls, EarthFirsters and Judi Bari.

The steam and diesel-powered Skunk Train, on the California Western Railroad.   —Wiki

When I was visiting the Burkhardts, poor Hans was nearly felled by a redtail hawk who mistook his shiny bald pate for dinner. Hans managed to live to a ripe old age of 75, fighting the good fight against big lumber. He's been gone ten years now. The Mendocino woods have lost a champion.

I heard that Brandy was killed by a car...but I'm not sure if that's true or not. I imagine it happened while Christian was driving one of his custom buggies. It would've utterly devastated Christian as he absolutely doted on that horse. I envision Christian living on that homestead deep in the Noyo forest, inventing all sorts of useful and harebrained contraptions. But our madcap buggy rides was surely the stuff of dreams.

SUDDEN OAK DEATH

SUDDEN OAK DEATH

Tussock moths teased the oak leaves.

He said why didn't you wake me?

I said: am I your timepiece?

I am most at home among the ridgetops.

I am more myself there than among the folds of earth.

Her shoes clattered on the road like a herd of goats.

Flies practiced vertical ascent in late afternoon.

Where does the self end and the horizon begin?

My mother said babies were more interesting than cats.

I hugged Blackie to me as if he were my only comfort.

I hid her craziness from the others.

The cancer, she said, it came back.

I didn't hear her and said something else.

I didn't see the truth in front of me.

She said You were made at sunset, 

on top of the mountain.

It was a wedding of light and sky.

The following Wednesday, her heart faltered.

My truck gears ground like millstones 

as I drove up the dirt road. 

Dust storms chasing me down.

I fought the urge to rewind time.

At the memorial, I remember what she said, 

that her eyes were to go to Stevie Wonder

and her ashes to the outgoing tide at sunset.

I left that box in the closet for 20 years

just like the way she had left me alone

so many time before. This crazy mother.

How was I supposed to deliver her eyes?

The horses of memory lipped at the straw,

it was a season of extreme drought, like now.

No time for more tears, I said.

Moth wings whispering in the oaks.

Sometimes the phone rings, no one there.

The clock is still set on Mountain Time.

What was the name of that song?

You are the Sunshine of my Life?

Plenty of time now for rest, someone said.

The darkness begins, it begins on the edges 

of sleep. The oaks facing their own death

their sap weeping red tears into the earth.

The moths holding vigil.

Storm on Tam

Our first big storm of the year was merely a "wee drap" in the drought bucket—except on Mt. Tamalpais. There was a deluge. The Pineapple Express dumped over 23 inches in less than 24 hours! The mountain stole all the rain (why we need trees—to tickle the clouds). Apparently the Stinson Beach parking lot got a year's worth of rain all in one go. That's more than San Francisco's annual rainfall of 21 inches. 

Talk about a cliché: when it rains, it pours. Make that a deluge. If Mt. Tam snagged the lionshare of the storm—nearly 24 inches, I wonder what Cazadero Ridge and Seaview Ridge snagged? (Someone said 20+ inches). When it comes to rain in epic proportions, Cazadero never disappoints. On the other hand, Willits (one of the seven towns about to run out of water along with Healdsburg and Cloverdale) only got 6.6 inches. A drop in the bucket.

Meanwhile, the South Bay got almost no rain at all (a half an inch,) nor did the rest of California—from Sacramento on south. Drought means salt water intrusion in the freshwater Delta. Which translates to poor water quality in the South Delta which feeds water to the Bay Area, including Santa Clara County and East Bay cities like Fremont and Livermore; the Central Valley and Southern California. We're still in drought mode, folks. Batten down, and carry on with that rain dancing thing that you do.

added 2/17
see take 1. Deluge

Hiking up Big Rock Ridge

Entrance to Big Rock Ranch—George Lucas's compound in Marin County, northern California. All these photos are © 2010 by Maureen Hurley and may not be used without express written permission from her. Please respect copyright.

Yesterday, I wore the skin right off my feet by hiking 3 hours in last year's worn out crocs up a long mountain range. Crocs = rubber slippers. Not even a proper half-shoe. What was I thinking? I promptly stepped on a stick and punctured a hole in my foot—but it didn't deter me. Though I gimped a bit, I was on an adventure. The euphoric path beckoned and blocked the pain. I had no idea where the trail led, or where I was going. Other than it was there, in front of me.

Big Rock, the apex of the watershed divide between West Marin (Lucas Valley Creek) and Southern Marin (Miller Creek). © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Big Rock Ridge in the distance. You can see the radio towers to the right. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

The path led ever onward. And so I followed the trail switchback after switchback into box canyons, climbing through chaparral, traversing crenulated flanks of steep hillsides—heading east, south, then north, then south-east again. I strolled beneath oak cathedrals where bumblebees droned in the banks of sage, phacelia, star thistle and bush monkeyflower, I crossed damp seasonal runnels in the fern-lined ravines. Not enough to wet my feet, but horsetail ferns thrived. I gazed out on the southern exposure of chaparral slopes from the rails of civilized wooden foot bridges that made the hike seem very Japanese.

Invasive purple star thistle &amp Bombus Californicus, one of 27 California native California bumblebees—threatened species all. Also sighted: diminutive but toxic to livestock yellow star thistle. And the rare native carmine red cobweb thistle—I should've taken a photo but it wasn't very close, and I was in a hurry. Double-click image to enlarge it. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

The trail opened up and took a sharp turn to the northwest and held course. I expected it to climb the chaparral ridge to the southeast—on public lands. I quickened my pace. When I crossed the threshold of the ridge, a narrow hiker's vee into the vast golden pastures of Big Rock Ranch, the view was so spectacular, I was gob-smacked.

This was a ridge I have always wanted to hike but it was off limits as we didn't know the rancher at Big Rock. The western slope was too out in the open to successfully trespass. And the rancher was permanently irate because the teen townies from Marinwood kept painting the iconic Big Rock in pastel hues.

George Lucas inherited the rancher's fight but took a Jedi stance. Now Big Rock is sandblasted clean and fenced in—in solitary confinement, replete with surveillance camera. Now, the only graffiti artists are the ravens who shit on its crest.

Trailhead. Note the surveillance camera trained on Big Rock. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

The view was so stunning, I took myriad photos of downtown San Francisco—Baghdad by the Bay as Herb Caen dubbed it—all three bay bridges (the Golden Gate, the Bay and Richmond bridges). To the southeast, Mt. Diablo loomed nearly 4000 feet straight up from an otherwise featureless plateau. But marine haze hid details. The naked eye was a far better camera lens.

Mt. Diablo from Loma Alta. Telephoto lens distorted the color and atmospheric haze made it hard to see. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

There was s small corner of San Pablo/Suisuin Bay glistening like lapiz; and to the southwest, majestic Mt. Tamalpais peeked out from behind its smoky darkness, framed by the broad open slopes of Loma Alta ridge—where I hiked up in my old crocs at the summer solstice. To the west (or Tír na-nÓg, as my grandmother called it), the familiar eastern flank of Mt. Barnabe (my natal home—a place that haunts me even in dreams) was coyly shrouded a gossamer shawl of marine mist.

As I crested the Big Rock Ridge summit after a steady hour of navigating even more switchbacks, I could see glimmerings of the Coast Range—Mt. Whittenburg, Elephant (or Black's) Mountain—once featured on Jesse Colin Young & the Youngbloods album cover—near Pt. Reyes—and to the north veering to the east near Novato, the tip of Mt. Burdell and the laid back Sonoma Moutain—cradling the Petaluma watershed. This is probably one of the best views in all of Marin Co. And I've traversed most of the coastal ridges between Mt. Tam to Devil's Slide. I've been around.

This is view you really have to earn. Sort of like hiking up Ben Lomond (3000'), you just keep at it, one foot in front of the other, and you'll reach the summit. Why would I compare Big Rock to a classic Scottish icon? Because the last time I got an urge to go climb a mountain was at Ballloch, part of the Trossachs range that cradles Loch Lomond, Scotland. Once I started trudging up the slopes of Balloch Castle, euphoria set in‚ and I wanted to keep on going. Roamin' in the gloamin'. I hiked until it was nearly midnight. We walked back to the village under starlight.

Besides, we have our fair share of Scottish references in the Greater Bay Area: Glen Ellen, Inverness, Ross, Greenbrae, Falkirk, Dunsmuir, Dumbarton, Brisbane, Albany, Stewartville, Scotts Valley, Ben Lomond, Bonny Doon, Campbell, Gilroy. And I haven't even gotten to the creek names. Suffice to say our old phone number was GL-4 for Glenwood—I suspect the suburb name of of Marinwood was an offshoot of Glenwood. I imagine that right now, my sweetie, Neil, is gazing out his ailing mother's door across the Clyde Valley at Ben Lomond and the Trossachs. A munro I plan to one day hike.

Big Rock Ridge, visible from Highway 101, dissects southern Marin—Marinwood—from Novato and is part of the larger Bay Area Ridge Trail system. According to the Marin County Open Space website, Big Rock Ridge is the second tallest mountain range in Marin; it looms more than 1800 ft over Terra Linda—with our local goddess (or The Sleeping Lady—often compared to Mt. Fuji), Mt. Tamalpais, the tallest at 2572 feet.

Mt. Tamalpais, though not a volcano, rises straight up from sea level 2600 feet, is often compared to Japan's Mt. Fuji. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Mt. Tamalpais, the Bay Area's own Mt. Fuji-san, used to stand at 2600 feet until the army corps of engineers got ahold of it during the Cold War and sawed one pap off readying it like an Amazon warrior princess—so her aim would be true. The implanted Nike missiles were never launched, but to this day, the women of Marin have a high incidence of breast cancer. My mother died from it, my two aunts survived. I live in dread.

California serpentine, aka California jade, and soapstone, or, more properly, serpentinite, is really group of 20 different varieties of serpentinite stones, one of which sometimes has an inert form of chrysotile asbestos, is not the cancer culprit. You'd have to grind up the rock into a powder and breathe non--native antigorite studded serpentine in deep for 20 years to develop cancer—and it would be mesothelioma—lung cancer, not breast cancer. 

But the scientifically illiterate closet hysterics are ignoring scientific facts and trying to ban the state rock of California. If serpentine were the cancer culprit, then men too would get breast cancer too. Breast cancer and mesothelioma are equal opportunity diseases. (A scientifically illiterate, moronic State Senator Gloria J. Romero proposed legislation (SB 624) in May 2010 to remove serpentine as the state rock and lithologic emblem.)

Serpentine soils or serpentine barrens, do host rare endemic species of plants found nowhere else in the world: leather fern, coffee fern, jewelflower, popcorn flower, campion, rock cress, wallflower, wooly sunflower, Marin western flax, linanthus, Clarkia, Indian paintbrush, owl's clover, buckwheat, manzanita, sargent cypress—most of which I've found in my wanderings. Who knew wat we called a wimpy California daisy is actually the endangered pentachaeta bellidiflora. But I digress

Mt. Barnabe—facing west. I grew up in the valley below the tower. The other side of that vague hill to the right is ours'. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Now, I'd always learned that my Mt. Barnabe was the second tallest mountain in Marin (I was surprised to discover it was only 1466'; it seemed so much bigger when I was young—but it does rise up nearly 1000' up from the foothills.) Maybe they meant in West Marin. Big Rock is Central /Southern Marin—West Marin folks consider it enemy territory. As a child, I used to climb up Mt. Barnabe often as it was my own personal playground. Most afternoons I rode up one arm of the ridge or down the other—it cradled me, made me who I am.

I knew all the mountain's secrets—where the best springs were hidden. The castle rocks. Where the dead lie buried. The windswept glens. The names of rocks: serpentine, Franciscan and limestone. The meadows where the abundant wildflowers grew. Mallow and baby blue eyes. Shooting stars and lupine. Godetia and meadowfoam. Butter and eggs. Azalea and horsetail fern. We'd pluck gold-back fern and stamp fern-prints on our jeans with the pale green pollen.

Sometimes I'd take out the little book stashed inside the geological umbilicus‚ a brass marker embedded at the summit, to see who signed it. Not many folks hiked up Mt. Barnabe in those days—and they always came from the Samuel P. Taylor Park side, not from my side of the mountain. But we knew most of the ranchers. So the western world was my oyster.

A friend was on fire lookout duty on Mt. Barnabe one summer, and I used to ride my horse up to the old wooden clapboard lookout tower that was built like a ship's quarters. Not like the ugly new stucco tower. But check out the view in the link. We'd spend hours gazing at the vast ranges—is that smoke? No. Low fog. My favorite views were to the west—Elephant Mountain, the long finger of Tomales Bay. A thin sliver of Kent Lake spillway to the south, and Mt. Tam.

As I stood surveying my new kingdom of wind at the summit, I noted my Mt. Barnabe—named after Samuel Taylor's beloved white mule—who is buried on its slopes, was roughly level with the serpentine-studded Big Rock Ridge (1825')—so I assumed they must be fairly close in height. But Big Rock has 360' on Mt. Barnabe. Poor beloved mountain of my childhood, demoted to third place.

Serpentine-studded trail. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

George Lucas's compound. No sign of life other than exiting work trucks. ILM is now housed in the Presidio. It's come a long ways from the dicy canals of San Rafael. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Most of the land I traversed is owned by George Lucas—but now, because of Open Space, we can legally trespass on Big Rock Ridge. Of course, I took obligatory photos of Lucas's compound surrounded by a moat. I won't dwell here about what that new reservoir has done to the ecosystem of Lucas Valley Creek as the huge Big Rock spring and tule marsh I crossed, that feeds the reservoir—is the headwaters.

I could even see bits of Skywalker (Bulltail) Ranch with its hillsides plaited in grapes the next canyon over. I plucked a gold-back fern and stamped delicate decorations on my jeans for old time's sake, and sucked the nectar from an orange bush monkeyflower blossom. I admired the lacy chamise in full bloom. Pale pink-tinged manzanita bells, with tiny tart "apples" ripening, pink honeysuckle, and the shiny dark leavers of the ceanothus—mountain lilac. California buckwheat. Even the lowly morning glories looked good to me.

Bush monkeyflower and morning glory, aka chaparral false bindweed. Double-click image to enlarge it. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Farewell to spring. Aka Clarkia or godetia—a member of the evening primrose family. Double-click image to enlarge it. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Clarkia, or farewell to spring, by the roadside. Clarkia, named after Lewis and Clark—has 30 species, most in CA, and some are rare—especially the species that grow in serpentine soil. Pay attention to the markings. Another favorite of mine is scarlet ribbons. I took photos of them too but didn't want to overburden this blog with photos. See Long Way Home—Hiking Loma Alta Ridge for more wildflowers —including scarlet ribbons. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Mountain chamise and bush monkeyflower. Manzanita and sage were also in full bloom. I've never seen such a lush and colorful riot of chaparral in bloom. To see more serpentine plant images, visit my Picasa site. There were also more images of Big Rock Ridge (but Google killed Picasa so this link no longer works, sorry). © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Detail of serpentine, California's state rock. Like a close-up of an Impressionist oil painting. The orange is lichen. Double-click image to enlarge it. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Serpentine detail. Double click to see larger image. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

At the higher elevations, Mariposa lilies, phlox, clarkia, brodiaea, Ithuriel's spears, blue-eyed grass (really an iris), pearly everlasting (related to eidelweiss), chaparral pea, and bush poppy, and a few spring stragglers—California poppies. No lupine or larkspur—intolerant of serpentine soils?

The California state rock, serpentine, (really a mineral) is the result of tectonic action along fault lines where two continental plates collide: the North American, and the Pacific plates. Serpentinite (the rock, vs. the mineral) is an ultra-basic metamorphic rock, from under the earth's mantle. Tomales Bay is the San Andreas Fault.

Serpentine soils, toxic to most plants, host many rare endemic plants that grow nowhere else in the world. These ridges—geologic islands—are the last refuge for over 300 endangered endemic species: ridge-specific manzanita, mariposa lilies/tulips, owl's clover, wallflowers, flax, campion, and odd drought tolerant ferns. Species found on Mt. Tam are not related to their counterparts on Ring Mountain in Tiburon. From what I can tell—Big Rock Ridge is one vast ridge of serpentine. Not typical Franciscan strata.

Some form of sunflower, gumweed, or yellow aster? Confirmed: Bolander’s goldenaster. This hirsute plant was growing close to the summit (1800') in the open grasslands facing west. Double-click image to enlarge it. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

The names of plants came tumbling back—names my grandmother had taught me as a child. And the scientific names I'd learned from my biology teacher, Al Molina. I chanted them as I trudged up the switchbacks: dodecatheon hendersonii, shooting stars, escholtzia californica—named after a botanist on the Russian expedition to Fort Ross, nemophilia menziesi—baby blue eyes. Indian Soaproot, or deer lettuce—only flowers after 4 PM. Near the summit, I noted a strange sunflower I'd never seen before—like gumweed grindelia. Where did all those names come from? Where did they go?

Now this was a find—I dismissed it as pea chaparral—until I saw the seed pods. I did a double take and counted the petals: 4, not 5 or 6. My first sighting of a bush poppy in Marin! © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Mariposa lily, or butterfly tulip. The spot patterns differ from ridge to ridge. Double-click image to enlarge it. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

I'm not sure of the total miles I hiked—my body said at least 7 miles but then, it's no spring chicken. Nor is it reliable. My knee was holding its own—tore it in Andreas Canyon, Palm Springs one 4th of July—but my ankle wasn't as cooperative. So the built in pedometer may have been lying. There were many switchbacks. I lost count. But a new view filled my senses at every turn. So my pain was assuaged.

I am a cranky hiker—I don't like to hike with friends or to meet another soul—it interferes with my hearing the song of place. All afternoon, I had the mountain to myself. I was startled to meet two mountain bikers up this trail—they earned their view. I envied them, their swift descent.

Double-click image to enlarge it. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

I didn't go all they way to the radio tower as it was fast approaching sunset and my feet were killing me. I had to keep moving for fear my body would seize up and I'd be stuck up there overnight, clad in a tanktop & shorts. I didn't have a watch nor a cellphone. I did, however, have my grandfather's wee brass penknife on me—but little else by way of survival tools. And I didn't fancy munching on brodiaea bulbs as there wasn't much else to eat at the top. Besides, a blanket of fog was rolling in. So back down the mountain it was. I was racing daylight.

Nicasio Reservoir—and shrouded in the fog, in the distance, is Tomales Bay. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

As I turned to the west, I involunntarily gasped—Nicasio Reservoir—sheets of silver shimmering in the distance, nuzzling the hills like a mirage. Shrouded in mist, Tomales Bay and Inverness. Where I had come from—so far away. Another country. To the east, the lights of the city lighting up like fireflies. But I couldn't tarry. A garter snake whipped across the trail in front of me. I yelled, leapt straight up in the air first, and asked questions later. Prime rattlesnake territory.

Once, a coiled fellow was sunning himself on the path as I trudged up our steep hill to catch my horse. She had an uncanny way of heading for the ridge around 3PM, the time I got home from school. I grasped a tussock of grass and heard him and without hesitation, I leaped backwards—straight out into space. He lunged.

I landed in the brush some 20 feet below. Gophersnakes mimic rattlesnakes—the prime difference is that the rattler holds his rattle up, the gophersnake trashes the tip of his tail against leaves. This fellow was shaking the business end of his schtick.

As I stopped by the tule spring with a water trough dedicated to Lorene French Volpe, I was literally straddling two different watersheds—Miller Creek to the east and Lucas Valley/Halleck Creek to the right. Sweet water from the pipe. I risked it. Serpentine above, no upper seep. Less chance of giardia. Ugh. Been there, done that.

One time, circa 1969, my grandmother and I traversed Halleck Creek looking for the last surviving band of Coastal Miwok Indians. We found only abandoned farm houses but the view sustained me. I could see into a small rincon of Halleck Valley as well. Hiking up Big Rock Ridge brought my small myriad worlds into focus. The great Aha! Pieces of the puzzle fitting together at last. My own inner topo map I carry with me always.

Last time I trusted a man with a topo map while hiking on unknown fire roads near Austin Creek, Sonoma County one April Fool morning—we foolishly hiked too far out, and as dusk fell, we couldn't make it back.

At least we had a blanket that time and the moon was full. At one point we used the durry blanket as a rope to slide down crevices and wash outs on the abandoned fire roads. Some of them were not even roads but donkey trails to cinnabar mines.

The road home. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

I lingered a few more moments at the Big Rock Ridge summit, then I spun a slow dervish of joy as if to take the landscape with me. But it was shank's mare back down the ridge. The shadows grew long and it was as if I was in another landscape.

A good hour later, I staggered into Peets' around 8 PM where my cousin plied me with double decafe lattes, muffins and Advil. My dogs were tired, I think I need to retire my crocs which, at this point are little better than thin moccasins. I was literally walking softly on the earth—for fear of stickers and stone bruises. The next time I decide to go for a little impromptu hike, I think I'll wear shoes.

Stonecrop, liveforever, or hens and chickies. Double-click image to enlarge it. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Bluebelly lizard, aka western fence lizard, sunning itself on Lucas Creek. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Topo map from MCOS site—where you can download a pdf.


For plant resources I used Wiki, various native plant societies, and UC Berkeley's CalPhotos.


More info on Serpentinite from the real rockhounds:

Looking For Detachment—Serpentine: A Group of Minerals

Geotripper—The Other California: Geology and our State Symbols 

Long way Home Wildflowers of Marin—some are specific to the serpentine soils of Marin, San Francisco and San Mateo counties. Loma Alta and Big Rock both host rare and endangered wildflowers. Marin dwarf flax (Hesperolinon congestum) is a threatened plant species.

Hiking up Loma Alta Trail