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long, inconvenient commute
across the ridge of hills that separates West Marin from the rest of
the county. The presence of some sixty large dairy ranches guarantees
that a good deal of acreage will be devoted to agricultural use; the
Point Reyes National Seashore and Golden Gate National Recreation Area
further ensure that much of the land will remain as it was when the
Miwok Indians roamed it, before the Spanish incursions of the early
nineteenth century.
Up to now my experience with West
Marin had been of the ordinary tourist nature: picnics at the Seashore,
a tour of the Point Reyes lighthouse, oysters at Nick's Cove, Sunday
drives on two-lane roads through the dairylands, and—of course—the
Czech restaurant. I'd even once spent the night at the Olema Inn, a
former
stage stop in a hamlet of less than one hundred people, but by and
large my knowledge of the area was gleaned from newspaper features and
the California history course that every public-school student is
force-fed before graduating. Although I'd heard tales of insularity and
occasional hostility toward strangers from east of the hills, I'd had
no direct experience with it, nor had I had any real personal contact
with the residents.
I drove out that day on a country
road that crested White's Hill beyond Fairfax. The topography was
softly rolling, with frequent outcroppings of gray rock that rose like
cairns from the sun-bleached grass. Gnarled live oak clustered in the
gullies or stood lone and wind-bent on the hillsides. At Olema the road
crossed Coast Highway One and continued toward Inverness.
The highway skirted the marshland
at the southeast end of Tomales Bay. Although it had been sunny and
warm in what I thought of as Marin proper, fog hung still and thick
above the tule grass; it lurked in the hollows of the heavily forested
hills, and I caught the smell of woodsmoke from the fireplaces of homes
that were occasionally visible through the foliage. Buckeye trees were
in full pink bloom, and wildflowers and white anise grew along the
sides of the road. Buildings appeared here and there—a grocery, a
pottery studio, the ubiquitous antique stores and real-estate offices.
A sign indicated a salt-marsh wildlife refuge; when I looked toward it,
I saw a trio of white long-necked cranes standing placidly among the
reeds.
After a few miles I reached
Inverness itself: a post office that shared a pale blue Victorian
building with a pizza parlor; the Czech restaurant and a couple of
other small eateries; a few shops that seemed mainly designed to cater
to the tourist trade; a Chevron station. I pulled into the station, got
out of the MG, and located a man in a heavy plaid jacket who was
staring glumly under the hood of a beat-up Toyota. There were cables
attached to the car's battery, but the meter on the
recharging machine indicated nothing was happening. The man turned away
with a discouraged shrug and saw me.
"Help you, ma'am?"
"I hope so." I held out a piece
of paper on which I'd written Libby Ross's address. "Can you tell me
how to get here?"
He studied it, frowning. "Don't
go much by house numbers out there. Who're you looking for?"
"Libby Ross."
He smiled; from the way it
touched his eyes, I could tell he liked the woman. "What you want is
Moon Ridge Stables. Stay on the main road here, follow it along the
water and up the hill past the sign for the Seashore. A ways beyond
that the road'll fork; you keep to the right—that's Pierce Point.
Libby's place is just this side of Abbotts Lagoon— four, maybe four and
a half miles. Big place down in the hollow, with cypress all around it."
"What is it—a riding stable?"
"Sort of. Libby rents horses to
tourists, leads pack trips to the Seashore." His expression sharpened
with small-town curiosity. "Guess you don't know her personal."
"Not yet. Thanks for the
directions." I smiled at him and went back to the MG.
As instructed, I continued along
the road. It hugged the shore of the bay, where there were
across the ridge of hills that separates West Marin from the rest of
the county. The presence of some sixty large dairy ranches guarantees
that a good deal of acreage will be devoted to agricultural use; the
Point Reyes National Seashore and Golden Gate National Recreation Area
further ensure that much of the land will remain as it was when the
Miwok Indians roamed it, before the Spanish incursions of the early
nineteenth century.
Up to now my experience with West
Marin had been of the ordinary tourist nature: picnics at the Seashore,
a tour of the Point Reyes lighthouse, oysters at Nick's Cove, Sunday
drives on two-lane roads through the dairylands, and—of course—the
Czech restaurant. I'd even once spent the night at the Olema Inn, a
former
stage stop in a hamlet of less than one hundred people, but by and
large my knowledge of the area was gleaned from newspaper features and
the California history course that every public-school student is
force-fed before graduating. Although I'd heard tales of insularity and
occasional hostility toward strangers from east of the hills, I'd had
no direct experience with it, nor had I had any real personal contact
with the residents.
I drove out that day on a country
road that crested White's Hill beyond Fairfax. The topography was
softly rolling, with frequent outcroppings of gray rock that rose like
cairns from the sun-bleached grass. Gnarled live oak clustered in the
gullies or stood lone and wind-bent on the hillsides. At Olema the road
crossed Coast Highway One and continued toward Inverness.
The highway skirted the marshland
at the southeast end of Tomales Bay. Although it had been sunny and
warm in what I thought of as Marin proper, fog hung still and thick
above the tule grass; it lurked in the hollows of the heavily forested
hills, and I caught the smell of woodsmoke from the fireplaces of homes
that were occasionally visible through the foliage. Buckeye trees were
in full pink bloom, and wildflowers and white anise grew along the
sides of the road. Buildings appeared here and there—a grocery, a
pottery studio, the ubiquitous antique stores and real-estate offices.
A sign indicated a salt-marsh wildlife refuge; when I looked toward it,
I saw a trio of white long-necked cranes standing placidly among the
reeds.
After a few miles I reached
Inverness itself: a post office that shared a pale blue Victorian
building with a pizza parlor; the Czech restaurant and a couple of
other small eateries; a few shops that seemed mainly designed to cater
to the tourist trade; a Chevron station. I pulled into the station, got
out of the MG, and located a man in a heavy plaid jacket who was
staring glumly under the hood of a beat-up Toyota. There were cables
attached to the car's battery, but the meter on the
recharging machine indicated nothing was happening. The man turned away
with a discouraged shrug and saw me.
"Help you, ma'am?"
"I hope so." I held out a piece
of paper on which I'd written Libby Ross's address. "Can you tell me
how to get here?"
He studied it, frowning. "Don't
go much by house numbers out there. Who're you looking for?"
"Libby Ross."
He smiled; from the way it
touched his eyes, I could tell he liked the woman. "What you want is
Moon Ridge Stables. Stay on the main road here, follow it along the
water and up the hill past the sign for the Seashore. A ways beyond
that the road'll fork; you keep to the right—that's Pierce Point.
Libby's place is just this side of Abbotts Lagoon— four, maybe four and
a half miles. Big place down in the hollow, with cypress all around it."
"What is it—a riding stable?"
"Sort of. Libby rents horses to
tourists, leads pack trips to the Seashore." His expression sharpened
with small-town curiosity. "Guess you don't know her personal."
"Not yet. Thanks for the
directions." I smiled at him and went back to the MG.
As instructed, I continued along
the road. It hugged the shore of the bay, where there were
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