On these hot summer days everyone flocks to the coast to escape the city and the heat. Unfortunately, most of the city is there, crowding the beaches and the parking. Imagine relaxing on a totally deserted beach. There is such a beach, at the mouth of Estero Americano, half way between Dillon Beach and Bodega Bay.

There is a catch, however. You can't drive to it, and you probably can't even walk to it, unless perhaps at a very low tide. The only way in is to paddle for an hour and a half to two hours.

In the discovery of a place that becomes a gemstone of memory, getting there is often at least as wondrous as being there.

This is definitely the case with Estero Americano. The four to five mile paddle down the estero transports one to a California gone for two hundred years, a sparsely populated rolling land of green and gold.

The launch spot is about a mile from Valley Ford, just off the road to Dillon Beach. Cross the bridge over the estero and turn left on Marsh Road. Immediately, turn left again on a short piece of pavement that leads to the bank. Push your kayak or canoe into the water and go left.

Just after passing under the bridge there is a stretch of water populated with thousands of pale blue dragonflies. They dance in the air like fairies or like heat shimmers on a desert highway. With a little imagination they become a welcoming committee to a land of solitude.

Soon the estero widens, birds pick for food along the marsh grasses, cows graze lazily on the hills, and the occasional ranch house can be seen atop a distant hill.

After about an hour there is a channel going off to the left at a right angle. It flows to a bluff, turns and appears to intersect the main channel in a quarter mile. This is the one deceiving place on the trip. The left fork is the main channel, as I discovered when I had to walk my kayak through the mud and climb over a barbed wire fence.

This left channel takes the paddler by Whale-Tail Rock, a very distinctive formation. From this rock to the next formation, the water is very shallow, so one must take care no to go aground.

The estero enters another steep-sided valley, populated with egrets, herons, pelicans and gulls. As the canyon walls drop away, the beach appears a short way ahead.

Currently the estero doesn't flow to the sea. Perhaps if we have a stormy winter, it will again. When it does, it will be wise to take a tide table along.

A ranch house way up on the hill reminds the paddler that he isn't totally alone, as the beach gives the impression of being visited for the very first time. Approaching the beautiful rock formations on the south end of the beach causes the nesting birds to take up an angry cry against the invading aliens.

These rock formations, surrounding crystal clear tide pools, give way to another, smaller beach, more sea rocks, and on and on, perhaps all the way to Dillon Beach. I walked through a sea arch and into the water to see yet another beach and point. It looked possible to walk to Dillon Beach on a minus tide, but I've yet to try it.

For an hour or more I wandered those beaches alone. This was on a hot, sunny Saturday in mid June. I didn't see other people until half way back to the car.

Approaching the shallows at Whale-Tale Rock, I watched two kayaks growing closer. In a brief conversation with the couple, I discovered that they were among a small group of regular paddlers on this slough. A half hour later I passed a couple in a canoe, desperately maneuvering to keep from going aground.

Returning through a blue haze of dragonflies to my car, it seemed odd to find the tiny parking area filled with three vehicles. I had been out of touch for five glorious hours, and it took a few minutes to readjust to civilization.

I'll return again, with more time to spend and a camera to record the beautifully empty open country and the quiet water.

Sometimes when the afternoon sun plays over a slightly breeze-ruffled surface, Tomales Bay looks like a vibrating silver mirror. Standing at some central point, perhaps at Marshall, thereís an ancient, misty mystery about the place. You can look out toward the open sea, but Dillon Beach, at the mouth, is hidden by the jutting, sandy point that blocks the north swells from running up the bay. To the south the bay loses itself in the little fingers of marshy wetlands. In between is over a dozen miles of potential exploration.

There are a number of hiking paths on both the mainland and on Point Reyes peninsula, but to truly explore Tomales Bay, you need take to the water.

I see little romance or magic, and absolutely no exercise, in roaring around in some power boat. To truly get the feel of the place, you need to paddle.

Paddling serves two important purposes. Itís quiet, allowing you to hear the ambient sounds of wind, water and wildlife. Itís also slow enough to allow you to explore each nook and cranny in intimate detail. Do take your kayak, and if you donít own one, you can rent in Marshall.

If you are a renter, they will launch you, perhaps give you a guided tour, or at least a set of directions. If you have your own boat, you can create your own agenda and follow your curiosity.

Unless you enjoy bouncing over chop and pushing against the wind that seems to come up almost every afternoon, get an early start. The early morning bay can be a sheet of glass.

There are some beaches around Inverness, on the peninsula, where you can launch. Thereís also a pay to park and launch ramp just north of Marshall. If you donít want to pay to play, thereís an informal ramp along the road about a mile south of Marshall. Thereís room to park a half dozen cars just a few feet from the water.

For a more oblique segue to the bay, there is a parking lot about a mile up Keys Creek. You can cart your kayak down a twenty yard path and put your boat in the creek. Itís a great, bird filled paddle down the creek, but take care entering the bay. There is a shallow sand bar at the mouth of the creek, and the best deep channel is to the north, along the bluff. The birds that seem to be walking on water just off the mouth of the creek are actually wading in less than six inches of bay.

Straight off the end of Keys Creek, and almost to the peninsula side of the bay, is Hog Island, a great place to pull up, explore, and have a beach to yourself.

There are several sandy coves on the peninsula side where you can stop and wander or catch some sun. For overnight paddles, pick a deserted cove, pull out your sleeping bag and sleep on the beach.

You can explore the mouth of the bay, but when getting close to Dillon Beach, watch out for the wave action and strange currents, unless you plan to do some kayak surfing.

At the other end of the bay, explore one of the tidal channels, nestled deep among the tall, marshy grasses, but pick up a tide table. You donít want to find yourself up a creek without water when the tide goes out.

And if you like a bit of luxury with your adventure, paddle up to Inverness, change into some dry clothes, and try one of the fine restaurants before paddling back to the car.

Whether you stop for a couple hours exploration, as I often do, spend the day on the water, or make it a camp out weekend, Tomales Bay will keep you fascinated and intrigued.

One west Marin hike is so etched in my mind that it plays like a big screen movie at the mere thought of it. This is Tomales Point at Point Reyes National Seashore. Just driving around Tomales Bay and out on the peninsula through Inverness makes you think you are entering a different country, a different continent perhaps.

To get there drive to the roads end near McClures Beach at the old ranch site. The trail starts out behind the historical old ranch. I stepped off, and within a minute the ranch had vanished in the blowing fog.

If you like sunshine and good visibility, take this hike in any season except Summer. Summer is fog season and the warm land sucks it in with awesome force. The result out on these unprotected coastal bluffs is fog that blows onshore so hard that one has to lean into it at times. And it comes in giant waves, sometimes so thick that you can't see thirty feet in any direction. But at times it will suddenly clear, giving a momentary panorama that has the effect of a photo, a stroboscopic scene flash frozen in your mind for life.

I slipped my nylon windbreaker over a heavy, long sleeved, tee shirt. I also wore a hat, pulled down hard to keep it from blowing away.

Walking along, I caught occasional bright flashes of the scenery, exploding out of the fog, only to be engulfed again. Sometimes the views would be of the steep cliffs and pounding surf on the ocean side, and other times I'd be looking down the gentle, rolling hills to the deep blue calm of Tomales Bay.

The land narrows down until finally coming to a point, which juts north at the margin of two huge tectonic plates. Tomales point and the huge crustal plate it rides on plows its way north at two inches a year, leading a strip of land that includes Los Angeles and Baja California.

In a way this is more than a hike, it's an excursion into the very nature of the human thinking process. Since we have a left and a right side to our brains, we tend to mentally cut things in two: right and wrong, black and white, poor and rich, civilized and wild, etc. Tomales Point works as a symbol of that human tendency.

Along the entire walk, one is confronted with opposites. On the bay side, those gentle hills slope down to calm inlets and absolutely still beaches. On the ocean side the land crumbles away, creating rugged cliffs that hang out in space before plunging to pocket beaches constantly ravaged by a restless surf. The inland side is done in brown and tan, while the ocean side has rocks coated with bright crimson and orange and lime green.

There's the constant flow of the fog which blows like slow and massive waves or glacial ghosts over the point. Walking along, you look off toward where the water might be and you see swirling fog. But in that fog you can find faint lines like the light pencil traces that can be found below the color in watercolor paintings. Then, just as you think the hint of some natural shape is playing hide and seek with you, the fog lifts for a moment, and a beautiful piece of coast, complete with beaches, waves, rocks, sea birds and off shore islands stands brilliantly illuminated in the sun. Then you blink or look away, and it's gone, only to be replaced a moment later by another scene on the bay side. The result is a world of unreal images, a dreamscape that resembles the labyrinth of the subconscious.

And the animals! You see, there is very little natural cover. There are a few rocks and a small stand of trees at the one low spot half way out. Other than that, it is mostly waist high grasses and sage, all waving wildly in the wind. The constant motion of the grass and the dense fog serve as hiding places for the animals. In a forest, as you approach, the animals start to back away, taking refuge behind trees or boulders. You can't sneak up on them, and when you see them, it is a fleeting look at a nervous thing. However, out on the point the weather is cover, so the creatures are going about their daily lives just a few yards from you, safe in the knowledge that everything is blended into the mass of swirling gray. When those moments come and the fog clears briefly, everything becomes crystal clear. Then you catch them all in the act, naked and engaged in whatever they'd be doing if no one was around. It's like taking a strobe light into the wilds.

The scenery is seductive, pulling you further and further in. There is one deep canyon leading way down to a deserted beach on the ocean side, a great eroded canyon that spirals down in deep greens, blues and oranges into steep and dark walls, cliffs that drop to the beach. It's like a fractal, but a fractal is a poor approximation of the wonders of a canyon. The complexity, instead of decreasing or staying the same as you get closer, increases. The total is a deep, intricate, wondrous maze.

Starting down the canyon, I watched the depth and complexity grow, each piece a whole unto itself, like looking at the milky way through more and more powerful telescopes.

Upon approaching, the canyon seems much too steep to climb down into, but you can walk a few yards to the edge for a better view. Those few yards reveal a trail, not too steep, to follow down to the next edge. The next edge you walk to reveals another section of the trail, winding down to yet another apparent dead end. That pattern repeats until you find yourself deep in the canyon, the walls towering above and the beach only a few yards below. The indentations you saw from above are now deep caves in the canyon wall above you, the only shelter big enough for the local mountain lions and coyotes. The ground is wet from the tiny streamlet that trickles down from the canyon's head.

All along the trail out to Tomales Point, there are opposites, the tamed, calm, gentle, civilized, predictable bay side, and the wild, unknown, steep, mysterious ocean side, just like the two opposing forces that pull the human being. And all along the way each side beckons in turn, each with its own charm. You wonder which side will prevail. Will the trail's end bring you to the bay or the ocean? It's like asking which side of the human condition will prevail.

Five miles out is the big, sandy nose that points longingly toward Alaska and its future reunion. Standing up on that sandy bluff brings it all together. You can see both sides from there, the calm bay and the angry ocean. You can look north to Bodega Head, emerging faintly from the gray. It's then you feel like you're on a massive ship, an irresistible force of nature, the tip of thousands of miles of earth moving relentlessly and deliberately north at an amazing two inches a year, cutting through the waves like the prow of a ship of dreams.

But the end of the point, the last piece of land, was still down a sandy hill. And the bay and ocean drew closer and closer. Looking from right to left was like playing ping pong with the eternal principles of yin and yang. By then, I was obsessed. I had to know what was there. Was there a place that was neither bay or ocean or perhaps both?

Would I end up on one of those gentle bay beaches or climbing down a cliff to a stormy, ocean cove? The trail dropped steadily. Finally the point was only a few yards wide, and the trail, deeply cut, dropped suddenly. A few yards walk, left me on a rise, maybe fifteen feet above the water. Here the trail split, dropping almost straight down to the bay and also to the ocean, the two opposites unresolved to the bitter end. And straight ahead, separating the two sides was a slab of rock right at water level, a dark slab maybe twenty by thirty feet. Great waves from the west crashed against it. sometimes almost washing over it. Hundreds of birds, gulls and cormorants, huddled and fussed and dodged the ocean spray. The point of contact between two unimaginably huge tectonic plates, the point where rocks are subducted and ground to molten pulp, one of the most wind blown and storm tossed places on the coast, and to these feathered creatures it was home, just as my warm house with its roaring fire is home to me.

In the great cosmic painting that is our earth, this point is a watercolor. Woods and mountains look as if they had been done by a god who works in oil. But Point Reyes was painted by a god whose medium is watercolors, misty washes and flowing colors, Turneresque and elusive, phantasmagoric and fluid.

Along the trail back I happened to look down and saw what looked like the sky reflected in tiny mirror finish sunglasses. There were dozens of little beetles trudging down the trail. Each of them was a highly polished blue-black mirror, with the fog swirling on their sturdy little backs.

As I continued up the trail, something caught my eye from off to one side. Within the sea of blowing grasses, there was a patch too dark and billowy to be normal grass. I looked, but I couldn't make it out. I took a couple more steps, turned. and looked again. There it was, looking more like fauna than flora. I stepped off the trail, and suddenly this patch moved against the wind. A few more steps and it emerged from the fog as a skunk's tail. Inching closer, I saw the animal lift his head, acknowledging my presence. It's tail moved furiously, a warning that a nasty spray awaited the animal foolish enough to venture closer. Barely fifteen feet from this beautiful, big animal, I realized that the wind was blowing perhaps thirty miles an hour, and I was upwind of the skunk.

Grabbing the rare opportunity, I moved to about ten feet from him. His movements bordered on panic as he realized that I should have been repelled by now. It was not the fear of being sprayed, but the fear of upsetting this gentle creature that caused me to turn away and find the trail again. This was his home, and I was only a visitor.

Back at the car, I looked up the hill to see a large herd of tule elk. I watched them for awhile as I relaxed and got out of my muddy hiking boots. A flock of birds made a pattern like notes of a symphony as they passed behind the black phone lines strung over the road. Marshall, across Tomales Bay, emerged momentarily from the fog.