Took a lovely walk with the Peanut the other day, from Sausalito, up into the Marin Headlands, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and across the northern part of San Francisco back to my home.
After poking around some of the very steep stairways connecting the terraced streets of Sausalito, we found a trail that I had not been aware of (this is noteworthy, anywhere within 50 miles of San Francisco). Beginning at the junction of Edwards Ave and Marion Ave, on the southern edge of town, an un-named trail departs steeply upward into the Marin Headlands, which loom immediately to the west in the Golden Gate National Recreation Area.
The town of Sausalito takes its name from the Spanish word sauzalito, which means “small willow grove”. So it seemed fitting enough when we found ourselves climbing fairly steeply for about a half a mile through thick groves of willows and eucalyptus, eventually topping out at a ridge overlooking San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge.
We dropped down out of the Marin Headlands into Fort Baker, a decomissioned coastal defense station which sits at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge, on the Marin County side of the famed strait.
Then we made our way up to the pedestrian walkway of the bridge, which, as it happens, doesn’t allow dogs. Lucky for me, though, I don’t give a shit about arbitrary rules; and so proceeded Peanut and me onto the walkway. As usual, every 50 yards or so I was stopped by tourists who couldn’t seem to stop raving about how handsome he is. Nothing new about that.
On the bridge we met some guy named Nick, who was scoping out the city for a possible (and likely) immigration. He was traveling with his brother and another friend. We spent 15 or 20 minutes plying each other with questions and information, talking about the weather (in an interesting and productive way), and laughing at how ridiculous conservatives are. Then we went our separate ways.
Touching back onto terra firma on the San Francisco side of the bridge, me and the Pean made for the Presidio, cutting irreverently through its cemetary en route back to our house.
Don’t worry- I didn’t let him piss on anybody’s grave. He would have, though, had I not stopped him. Last year, when we visited Hendrix’s grave outside of Seattle last year, he totally lifted his leg to douse Jimi’s crypt. But I do not brook urinations on guitar gods; so Peanut’s designs came quickly to naught.
After almost five hours and 13 miles of walking without any annoyances whatsoever, I got my head shit on by a bird as I was walking up to my front door.
Ho Ho Ho.