Rift Zone Trail, from Bear Valley to Five Brooks
Length of hike: 9.4 miles round-trip, out and back (about 4 hours)
Difficulty: Easy to moderate
Best time: Any season of the year, more challenging in wet weather
Highlights: Bird song and serenity
To get there: Take California Highway 1 to the town of Olema (population 56, elevation 60). Just north of the stop sign at Sir Francis Drake Highway, turn left on Bear Valley Road and in about half a mile take another left into the Bear Valley Visitor Center. Park in the large lot at the end of the road. No bicycles are allowed on this trail, but horseback riders use it often.
Trail: Today, a mid-June day full of clouds and fog creeping over the ridge to the west, I opt for a route I haven’t traveled for several years. Where the Bear Valley Trail begins at the far end of the parking lot, I turn left onto a dirt track that leads through a golden meadow ringed with old bay trees and coast live oaks draped with fine nets of gray-green lichen. Soon the path enters the woods, crosses a ferny little stream, and wanders uphill to a squeaky horseman’s gate; then it dips down into a broad field where cattle black as monks meditate. I need to watch for cow pies on the narrow scrape of a trail that skirts the hamlet of Olema, hidden behind the trees to my left. Swallows swoop around me. Bright purple thistles and white bindweed dot the rough stubble. The acrid odor of yellow tarweed mingles with the rich, comfortable smell of well-kept cattle and cut hay.
I go through a green metal gate—the first of six along the way—and cross a narrow paved road that leads through a corridor of brooding cypress trees to the Vedanta Religious Retreat . Approximately 3 of the 4.7 miles to Five Brooks traverse land owned by the retreat.
Later in the evening I search the Internet, and at the retreat’s Web site I learn that Vedanta, the source of Hinduism, holds that all religions lead to the same goal—the realization that God can be experienced in whatever aspect one wishes, directly and vividly in this life, in this world; it reveres all great teachers and prophets and respects their teachings as the same eternal truth. The small monastic community was established in 1946 on about 2,000 acres of meadow and forest. The monks lease rangeland to a stockbreeder who owns the Black Angus cattle. These sleek shiny beasts are gentle and lend an air of tranquility to the landscape. The retreat facilities are open to spiritual seekers of all faiths who wish to stay for a few days of secluded spiritual practice. What a boon for stressed-out urbanites—I wonder how many people know about this invitation.
I take a brief side trip down the road into the retreat. Huge old cypress and eucalyptus trees tower above me. Their trunks are furrowed and knobby, gray-brown with red highlights; some of them remind me of elephant legs and feet. At the end of the road, a weathered barn, adorned with white potato vine, offers “Information” and invites the visitor to ring the bell to find out more about Vedanta.
Back on the trail, Vedanta’s large green sign at the roadside requests that hikers and equestrians stay on the marked trail and close all the gates, leave only footprints, and keep silence out of respect for the spiritual purpose of the place. This suits my mood perfectly.
The gate at the sign opens into a field that is sometimes full of cattle, but is almost empty today. The few beasts are curious about me, but ultimately sweetly shy, and they trundle away as I approach. Midway through the pasture I come upon the largest Rubbermaid container I have ever seen, a 300-gallon water tank for the animals, emblazoned with the familiar kitchenware logo. The field wears a thick collar of trees: willow, buckeye, oak, cypress, alder, eucalyptus, bay, and more that I can’t name. The buckeye is covered with white candles of flowers.
In the rainy season wide arcs of pasture around the gates, and several patches of trail, turn into gigantic mud pies, this walk’s greatest challenge. But the weather has been dry for months and I have no trouble at the end of this field getting through the gate that leads to one of my favorite stretches—a long, leafy tunnel. Tanbark oaks and hazelnut shrubs now appear along with the bays and live oaks. Ferns, cow parsnip, and a medley of introduced grasses thrive in the dappled shade. Pink hedge nettles as well as vicious stinging nettles grow among yellow madia. From the dusky lane I can look out through the arching branches, as if from a secret hiding place, to a sunlit field of tall grass.
The woods and meadows of Rift Zone Trail are seldom silent. Birds constantly call and sing. Some refuse to be seen; others hop about in the leaves and grass, indifferent to my passing—juncos, jays, towhees, winter wrens among the trees; blue birds, swallows, red-winged blackbirds in the open areas. I can hear a Cooper’s hawk screeching in the treetops. My constant companion is the haunting song of Swainson’s thrush, like a husky-voiced wooden flute, floating on a minor key through the foliage—music the same texture as the forest itself.
The trail makes a wide arc around a marsh choked with cattails and reeds and a pond blanketed in duckweed. Burly blackberry canes reach out to grab me. It’s just about the summer solstice and cheery red fruit dangles from the elderberry bushes, enlivening the myriad greens of the woods. The forest becomes tall and airy as I enter a stand of Douglas fir. The understory here is dense with bracken, wood and sword ferns, and embrangled vines of wild cucumber, grape, pea, and blackberry. Then the left side of the path opens out to a long meadow and follows it to a marsh where more black cattle graze among blackbirds and frogs.
From now on, the land tends gradually upward and dim woods play leapfrog with sunny meadows. Soon I seem to have stumbled into Hansel and Gretel’s forest, where contorted tree roots tangle with my feet and soft-leaved hazelnut bushes press close against my shoulders. A huckleberry patch materializes, but I have doubts about its productivity—usually only bushes at higher elevations bear their small purple-black fruit at the end of summer. I’ll have to come back and check this out.
A steep, loose downhill leads to a wooden bridge over a creek fringed with the dinner-plate leaves of false aralia. The sign at the bottom tells me I am 3.2 miles from Bear Valley and about 1.5 miles from Five Brooks. On future hikes, I could make the top of this hill my turnaround point, since the rest of the way to Five Brooks is a roller-coaster landscape that requires more work than I’ve been putting in.
After about a mile I step over a small creek that trickles past Stewart’s Horse Camp, where half a dozen horse trailers are parked. Later, I meet a horseman trimming overlong branches who tells me that in summer Stewart’s is a popular starting point for rides to Olema for lunch at one of its small restaurants. I make my way tentatively across the wide expanse of the camp, past the entrance road and an enormous green dumpster. This is the only place along the trail that isn’t well signed. In the trees to the left I find an indistinct trail that I vaguely remember and, after a few steps, a small wooden sign assures me I am still on the Rift Zone Trail. While I contemplate this good news, a Cooper’s hawk plummets from a nearby Doug fir into the tall grass and rises up with a small bird in its talons. I’ve been told to look for raptors hunting at places like this, edges of woods and meadows—the delicate seams joining dark and bright, dense and open, opportunity and risk.
Stinging nettles and poison oak embroider the edge of the trail as it climbs and dips and ever climbs—I’m glad I wore long pants. Then, abruptly, I come out on broad Stewart Trail at Five Brooks pond. To the left are rest rooms, a large parking lot, and a riding stable. I turn right, though, looking for an opening through the crowd of willows to the pond.
As I munch a snack at the waterside picnic table in the company of swallows and mallards, I reflect that my hike today embodies the ancient Chan principle of wu shih, “nothing special,” that is, lacking pretension or self-importance. There has been nothing spectacular about this trail. It’s merely a slice of northern California landscape, a modest green and gold splendor. It lays no claim to expansive views, exceptional trees, or impressive waterways. Just ordinary meadows and woodlands, simple raiment of the Earth. Not wholly unchanged by humans, but only lightly touched. How fortunate I am to live where this kind of beauty is “nothing special.” I mustn’t begin to look at it without seeing it.
Returning the way I came, I’m surprised at how fresh and engaging the trail remains on the homeward journey. After the steep climb from the creek, the rest of the way—mostly level or downhill now—is pleasant and relaxing. My feet seem to float above the path. The song of the thrush runs along ahead.
