A short hike that always opens my mind, centers me, and leaves me immune to stress for days is the trip up the Tan Bark Trail to the old Tin House in Big Sur. The trail head is at Partington Canyon just south of milepost 38 on Highway 1.

Within 50 yards of the parking spot the trail enters a wonderland, suddenly shifting from the open into a dense redwood forest and then to a bridge over a frothy, tumbling creek. The canyon, only a couple dozen yards wide in spots, is thickly wooded and ambient light is muted green and burnt sienna, and everything is soft and damp and cool. The creek cascades over rocks and fallen logs in a series of rapids and waterfalls. Every inch of the creek is dynamic and fascinating, making it hard to watch the trail as it climbs along the side of this musical flow of white water.

That first half mile is as beautiful as any place I've ever been. Once you've walked it, whenever someone mentions "redwood canyon," the Tan Bark image will fill the mind like a huge holographic photo. One could spend an entire day along that short stretch.

About a half mile in, the trail abruptly turns away from the creek and starts to climb up the canyon wall. The trail is wet from the tiny feeder creeks that trickle down the canyon. Then up on the high edge of the canyon the forest becomes mixed and sunny, before it turns again into redwood forest to climb high above the south fork of the creek. The trail runs along the steep side of the canyon, and the water music whispers from below.

Near the top of the canyon the trail crosses the creek near the headwaters, where it is a narrow and gentle trickle. There, along the creek, at the junction of two branches of the south fork, in a grove of majestic old redwoods, there was a bench, made of split redwood logs. On my early Spring visit, the bench was gone, and I'd considered trying to rebuild it myself. On my last visit, a makeshift replacement bench had been set in place. Common courtesy among the hikers there was that if you'd enjoyed the bench for a time, you'd move on when the next person comes along. I guess that tradition will continue.

This is a solitary place, a place so soothing and serene, so bucolic and peaceful that it can do for the psyche what weekly massages and therapy can never do. It's a place that can give the soul a gentle shower and a loving caress. You need only spend a quarter hour there to be renewed. If you are an artist, you return from the bench ready to paint a picture, compose a song, write a poem, or pen a novel. If you are a lover, you return ready to make a full commitment. On the other hand, you are a corporate raider, you may return ready to make amends to your fellow man.

Those in a hurry can return along the same path, but continuing a few minutes longer rewards the hiker with another magical spot.

The trail continues upward for perhaps another 20 minutes, out of the shaded redwood groves, into the mixed forest. Then, shortly after the trail turns downhill, it merges with a fire road. A right turn leads steeply down to Highway One, and a half mile walk along the highway back to the car.

Almost everyone, however, goes left for a quarter mile detour to the old Tin House. The Tin House was built by a friend of F.D.R., during World War Two, as a place where the President could get away from it all. F.D.R. never stayed there, and the place, closed up, now belongs to the State.

While the house itself is interesting, the real reward to the hiker hides behind the house. There is a beautiful meadow that slopes down and then drops sharply away to the sea. This is the place to pull off the day pack, unpack the lunch, and enjoy a sweeping view of the best of the Big Sur coast.

If you are taking this hike in the spring, the lower section of the fire road, just above the highway, will be ablaze in wildflowers. If you go in the heat of late spring or early summer, bring insect repellent. The flies and gnats can be fierce. The upside is that the warm weather brings out thousands of butterflies that can become so thick that the air in front of you appears to dance.

The hiker on a tight schedule can make the loop in three hours. For a leisurely walk with lunch, allow four or five.

Often the ephemeral nature of things precious make them all the more precious, creating a deep longing. Momentary beauty and wonder tug at the heart and cast a shadow of memory far longer than the experience. Such is Spring's brief climax.

The winter storms slowly wind down, leaving a fresh carpet of green over ground that had so recently been bare. Naked tree limbs start to bud and then to bloom. We catch this brief drama on our way to work, to shop, to take care of the myriad little chores that frame our daily lives. We wash the car, paint the house, and weed the garden, and the days get warmer and redolent of floral mysteries.

And one day we stop for a moment and recognize the drama unfolding around us, and we take ourselves to some hillside, some meadow, some piece of public land. We arrive, prepared to drink in the rebirth of the life cycle, and we find remnant stands of flowers and patches of brown. The butterflies and bees are few, and the warm air faintly hums, rather than sings. The creeks roll slowly and leisurely in their beds. The land is ripe, perhaps like a banana that's starting to spot. You find a ranger or a docent and remark about the lush scenery around you. She sighs and says, "You should have been here yesterday. The flowers were so thick. Today's heat, it feels like summer's coming on."

And so we seem to live our lives, striving for things that last so long they become a problem, requiring an eventual yard sale or a trip to the dump. All the while the things that enrich the heart and bring music to the soul are put off for a more convenient day, and if we miss that day, we wait a year or forever.

I've witnessed nearly sixty Springs, and each one is still as magical as the first. Each turns me into a wide-eyed child again and fills me with wonder and primal longings. The first bud on a tree, the first blade of new grass, the first wildflower, and I'm returned to my innocence. I see the world newly minted. I am a baby chick emerging from my egg, an adolescent in the throws of first love.

I never allow myself to take daily life so seriously as to miss that moment of wonder when the heady energy of Spring explodes in joyful reaffirmation. I have my favorite places, little Edens where the drama is so intense as to be almost painful.

One of these places is Garland Ranch, a park in Carmel Valley. Set where the Carmel River meets vertical mountains, Garland, at the right moment, is a floral insurrection, an anarchy of color. I arrived at one of those moments and walked among monkey flowers and indian paint brush. Lupine and poppies made an ebullient quilt across the meadow. Along each bend in the trail baby blue eyes, wild morning glories and a dozen other flowers kept time to the gentle breeze. Under the shifting light of marching clouds, I walked among humble and bumble bees, butterflies of every hue, effervescent birds, and sunbathing lizards. There wasn't an inch of that park that wasn't dancing wildly and beckoning me to abandon myself and join the celebration.

Then there was the amazing climax to a breathless day. Walking in the deep woods, I stopped at a small pond. I sat at the bench on the bank, looking over the water. Most of the pond was in the shade, but a small patch was bathed in sunlight. The light breeze was sending ripples over the surface. There was a sycamore on the bank, hanging over the sunlit spot. As I looked at the tree I saw light running up the trunk and out the underside of the overhanging branches, rivers of light. It moved like a stream, a constant flow, upward and outward, running off the tips and into space. The liquid light rushed, bubbled, cascaded and poured. I watched this brilliant upside down river for fifteen or twenty minutes before heading down the hill to my car.

That was yesterday, and yesterday was Spring.

Like a drape over the back of a chair, Mt. Madonna County Park sits on the spine that marks the boundary between Santa Cruz and Santa Clara Counties. While it is technically a Santa Clara park, along the summit it speaks of typical Santa Cruz mountain scenery. Look twice, and it could easily be Henry Cowell or Big Basin.

The top of the park is healthy second growth redwood forest. Steep, canyons, covered in rust-colored duff drop abruptly, quickly losing themselves in the thick woods. Little streams trip briskly over bouldered ravines. Anything that doesn't move is covered by mosses and lichen, and clumps of ferns shimmer in the shafts of filtered sunlight.

Like in all redwood forests, a deep silence overtakes the hiker. If you find one of the less popular trails, you step back into a Mesozoic daydream, where dinosaurs of the imagination lurk behind every tree, and the wind in the trees is the beating of a pterodactyls wings.

In the woods and away from the parking and picnic areas, you may discover some odd road cuts that could be maintenance or fire break cuts. Many go nowhere and are close to already established road cuts. They seem to serve no logical purpose, and occasionally you might see a logger's truck parked on one. To my suspicious mind it appears that the park system is using "fire break" to justify a bit of logging here and there to help fund park expenses. I rather suppose this will continue until it becomes disturbing enough for many hikers to complain.

One can enter this quiet wilderness from the top of Highway 152, through the park entrance and the various picnic and camping areas. From the top, most trails wander downward and eastward, many ending up at Sprig Lake near the bottom of 152, close to Gilroy. Some of these trails hug the canyon sides, descending almost all the way along tree-shaded paths.

Another kind of experience can be had by slipping in the back way, up Mt. Madonna Road, past Summit Road and down unpaved, old Mt. Madonna Road about a quarter mile. A wide spot in the road and a locked gate marks the start of the Loop Trail, a graded road.

For the first mile this trail hugs the mountain side and is almost perpetually shaded and cool. Then the trail branches, with the Merry Go Round trail dropping steeply to the left. In a couple hundred yards, the forest has changed to mostly deciduous trees, and just as quickly to madrone, manzanita and sage.

In less than a half mile the trail leaves the woods altogether and emerges in the sunny, meadow-covered rolling hills above Gilroy. On a clear day, you can look off to the east at the observatory domes on Mount Hamilton. The upper Santa Clara Valley, still more green than paved, stretches out below. Knee high grasses wave in the breeze, clumps of flowers meander in all directions, and outcroppings of rock create the feeling of a joyful Zen garden. This trail continues down to Sprig Lake, where it meets other trails that lead back to the summit.

What I find appealing about this trail is the striking contrasts afforded in a two to three hour hike. The hiker is treated to classic Santa Cruz mountains redwood forest and the best of the Santa Clara valley.

Although the trail is well known, it isn't heavily used, and it's quite possible to find yourself alone for a hour at a time.

Being so close to those of us in south county, this park is a perfect place for a quick sanity break from our overworked and over stressed weeks.

As the days warm, it's best to come early. The hike back up the hill can become very warm, and the ocean breeze doesn't make it over the summit.

A little known or used trail ascends Borronda Ridge to a spectacular view point and camp three thousand feet above Highway One. The trail head isn't marked, and it isn't even described in the Sierra Club's guide, arguable the best trail book for Big Sur and the Ventana Wilderness.

The trail starts at an old corral site one half mile south of Coast Gallery. There is room for a few cars to pull out, and a sign on the gate that warns against parking there. The trail, an old four wheel road, is apparently still usable in case of fire or rescue.

There are three good reasons to hike this trail. The views are stunning from almost any point on route. It's the quickest way to the Coast Ridge Road, which is the gateway to much of the Ventana wilderness; and there is a lovely camp at the very top, at the site of an old ranch.

The down side is that the trail climbs almost three thousand feet in a space of between two and a half and three miles. The steady uphill grade varies between strenuous and grueling, and it is perfectly acceptable to stop often to wipe the sweat from your brow and take a long pull on the canteen.

It takes about two hours to make the top. If you are a trail runner. . .

Well, I find just the thought of running the trail quite painful. Naturally, if you are backpacking, allow more time.

My last assent was on July 10, during the period of cool, foggy weather. This is definitely not a hike to take on a hot, sunny day, unless you are also a fan of self-flagellation.

Except for a stand of old oak and a short stand of bay, the trail is almost totally on an open grassy ridge, affording continual sweeping vistas, and since it follows the old road bed, you don't always have to watch your step.

During the spring, the wild grasses are in bloom along the ridge. The trail itself, being compacted and worn, allows room for tiny, ephemeral flowers to play out their short life cycle, adding delicate pastels to the hike.

In mid summer the grasses are high and dry, discouraging the hiker from wandering off the trail. Hiking with burrs and stickers in your socks is not much fun.

There is only one trail marker on the route, a short way up and just past the power lines. The road branches, the right fork has a gate, and a small sign points to the left with the word "trail."

There are two other forks in the road, where it's possible to go the wrong way. At both of these junctions take the right and upward fork.

Since the trail isn't marked nor well known, you are almost certain to have it to yourself on a weekday and probably also on the weekend.

If you start early to avoid the heat of the day, you're likely to see deer grazing along the ridge. There will always be hawks circling overhead, plus the occasional vulture waiting patiently for you to collapse.

The uphill climb is broken by only three, very short downgrades, and in some places the road bed is very steep with loose rock. Care is advised, particularly on the downhill. It isn't a good trail to descend with a twisted ankle.

Near the summit the topography changes subtly. The long ridges are replaced by rounded, melted ice cream, hill tops. This gently undulating ridge line is sliced by the start of the forested canyons that will become deep and choked with redwoods nearer the bottom.

Timber Top itself stands above the Coast Ridge Road, which arcs around it a hundred feet below. The ruins of an old ranch are still there, along with a water tank for use in case of fire. A cook stove is set up near a fallen log, a good, shady place to sit and eat.

There is a beautiful stand of giant madrones near the stove, making it a superb place to make camp. And a few yards above the camp site there are impressive views of the Ventana Wilderness, with the line of dark, rocky peaks east of the Big Sur River valley. There is also a good view of Cone Peak, twenty-some miles to the south.

One can lie in the tall grass, feeling the cool sea breezes, and imagine cowboys herding cattle into the old pen. That little touch of human history only adds to the charm.

On this last trip I looked along the ridge, set against a clear, blue sky, while the layer of fog sat at two thousand feet, making the ridge seem like a floating island.