Nothing refreshes the mind
and cleanses the soul more than wilderness, be it the wilderness of the woods
or of the shore. Point Lobos, a California State Nature Reserve about eighty
miles south of San Jose and covering approximately 9 square miles, is one of
those rare places where visitors find a merging of the woods and the shore, timeless
trails lined by ancient pines and colonies of seals and cormorants on rocks
shaped by wind and surf over millennia.
It is difficult for any
photographer to comprehensively capture the haunting beauty of Point Lobos across
the seasons, although Edward Weston, one of the earliest (1886-1958) and among
the elect, tried. His lyrical black-and-white prints of unusual rock formations
at the reserve have inspired scores of nature lovers to flock to the California
coastline over the years.
With a summer of
record-breaking temperatures in drought-stricken California winding down, I recently
found myself approaching the Pacific from a pinecone-strewn trail at the
Reserve.
The tide was coming in,
watched over by a preternaturally calm gull poised on a rock. Colorful pebbles,
green, brown, white and red, glistened in the sun, as did pink and white corals
shaped like miniature trees.
Most striking were the tide pools
reflecting bits of the sky and filled with the flower-like sentient anemones
that closed and opened every time some seawater food got inside it while
surging waves crashed on the rocks around them, sending white spray skyward.
Hermit crabs seemed to appear
from nowhere, some falling awkwardly trying to scale the slippery slopes of the
rocks. Others met headlong only to sidle away in opposite directions. Snails
were out in force as well, crawling from nooks and crannies to approach the
tide pools. Limpets, barnacles, and starfish used their suction-like holdfast
to add to the diversity of the shore. With each wave, the starfish seemed to
change its location.
The predator-prey
relationship that had evolved over millennia was in full exhibit everywhere you
looked. The tiny creatures looked fragile but there was an element of resiliency
and fierce fight for survival in them that was palpable.
A tangled forest of kelp and
rockweed farther out sank and surfaced as the tidal surge washed over them. A
flock of gulls wheeled over them. Next to the kelp was an oystercatcher, a real
work of art. Its deep-black body, bright red bill and yellow feet made it look
both pre-historic and ultra-modern. It was feeding on the ocean flotsam that
had washed up the shore and emitted a piercing cry that stopped me cold in my
track when I tried to approach it. I did the only brave thing I could do: I quietly
withdrew.
In a rock island farther out
in the sea, saw hundreds of birds preening and, well, socializing. And farther
beyond were seals talking up a storm in their rocky habitat, a combination of
grunts and exclamations, punctuated by what seemed uncannily like the sound of laughter.
As I stood back to take the
whole elemental scene in, I smelled it, the pine-scented breeze wafting in from
the ancient grove nearby, and I thought: The music of the forest is lapping at
the shore of eternity!
The sun moved across the sky
with an urgency rarely witnessed on a normal day. And when it set in a blaze of
yellow and crimson, with a flock of pelicans flying in formation across its
golden orb, I knew I had gotten what I had hoped for: the gift of a fresh
perspective and the appreciating the blessings of being alive.
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