Little brothers are good for something. Yes, I have known that for a long time. But I do have to admit that from time to time, it is possible to forget the good things about having brothers, big or little, and just remember those days when you wished to be an only child.For instance, there was that day when my brother Steve and I were messing around with older brother Sandy's heavy, wooden, metal-edged discus and somehow my then scrawny little brother managed to lose control of the thing while I was looking the wrong way. My memory is vague on what followed. It was surely one of the first of many concussions I experienced over a period of a decade or so of football, wrestling, bike wrecks, and other less than smart self-inflicted catastrophes.
There was lots of blood from that discus, I know, because brother Steve had to run across the street to our house to get some towels or something for me to wrap around my throbbing head. And there was another in a long line of trips to the emergency room for stitches. But all of this has nothing to do with what I have to tell you about today.
The result was that last Friday morning I took off for a whirlwind visit with Steve that started with a drive to Spokane to take advantage of a cheap airline ticket to Oakland. A day or two before I left, Steve had called to voice his concerns about the weather forecast.
"It's supposed to rain all weekend. Maybe you should wait and come when the weather will be more pleasant," he suggested.
But I was not of a mind to change those plans. And when I arrived in Oakland to rendezvous with my friend Jennifer and brother Steve, Steve was waiting there at the airport, full of plans to share some of his secret and not so secret places around the Bay Area with us. The visit was not going to be a sampling of the cultural or commercial offerings of the big city.
Instead, Steve couldn't wait to take us out into the countryside where he spends nearly every weekend exploring the hidden nooks and crannies and unexpected natural wonders close to his Berkeley home. Usually, Steve reports on his weekly explorations via e-mail to his far-flung family, sharing a few words and many beautiful photos of the places he discovers within a few minutes or hours of his home in the midst of the big city.
Yes, Steve is happy to claim Montana as his native state, and he cherishes his memories of growing up here amid all of the wild splendor we are blessed with. But he is just as happy and proud to share the natural beauty and wonder he finds around him in his adopted home.
Early morning on Saturday found us careering up winding mountain roads on the flanks of Mount Tamalpias in Marin County. The day was to begin with a hike around a particular lake on the northeast flank of the mountain in search of newts and other interesting creepy crawlies. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the trailhead was not packed to the gills with vehicles. Here, within shouting distance of millions of people, we had the place almost to ourselves. Only an occasional hiker or biker passed with polite hellos and unexpected smiles.
As we hiked along, the conversation and the "oohing" and "ahing" were nonstop as Steve and Jennifer compared notes on plants and trees along the muddy trail and beside the roaring streams, swollen from the ongoing rains and straining to escape the confines of their narrow channels.
Although there were plenty of "Newt Crossing" signs, we did not scare up any newts on our morning hike. We did, however, encounter some dandy big, glistening banana slugs. There were scads of ferns to identify and mosses of countless varieties, including the fern moss, or is that the moss fern? I can't remember for sure.
Steve was also eager to show us a particular tree, a fallen fir I believe, that had apparently been a long time favorite of the local woodpeckers before it had finally tipped over and crashed to the forest floor. Thousands and thousands of woodpecker excavated holes adorned the prostrate tree trunk, and nearly every one of the holes was tightly filled with an acorn in sizes ranging from about a standard jelly bean to acorns the size of a thumb. Steve explained that the acorn woodpecker was responsible for this work, and then one appeared, as if on cue, to demonstrate its work in a standing snag nearby.
OK, I admit it. I did not believe it was really called an acorn woodpecker. Steve tolerated my doubts politely.
"I'll show it to you in the bird book at home," he said.
The hike was followed by a drive almost to the top of Mount Tamalpias where a short, brisk walk took us to a lookout affording an overview of the entire Bay area.
From our vantage, Steve pointed to and described some of his favorite hiking and biking areas, from the huge dark mass of Mount Diablo 30 or 40 miles to the east to the inlets and windswept promontories of Point Reyes to the north.
"That's where you see tule elk isn't it?" I asked.
"They're beautiful. And there's tons of other stuff to see up there," Steve replied.
And we could make out the outlines of parklands and open spaces in San Francisco and across the bay to the east, where a regional park system takes up something in the vicinity of 100,000 acres of the hills that provide a backdrop for the East Bay communities.
On the way down from the heights, we stopped at Stinson Beach to admire the roaring surf and watch the few hardy souls on surf boards who were trying to tame those waves under the sodden January sky.
Just before Muir Beach we got out to examine the field of heather that blanketed the southeast slopes of Mount Tamalpias above Muir Woods. From a distance, of course, it looks like an inviting blanket of warm, plum-colored flowers. Up close, the flowers are beautiful, but the heather looks like an impenetrable thicket of tangled, woody shrubbery that I, for one, would not particularly relish having to negotiate.
The day flew by. And the time flew by again on Sunday when Steve took us on the East Bay portion of the tour. This outing included a visit to a marvelous botanical garden where we could have happily spent the entire day on our hands and knees, examining trees and shrubs and plants of all kinds that are native to the various geographic regions of California.
Steve also guided us up and down a whole series of public paths and stairways, crowded in among dripping vegetation, that lead walkers high into the Berkeley Hills through mazes of streets. It would take a long time just to explore those secret public footpaths that lace the hills and streets together. By the end of the day, I felt like I had hiked up and down Mount Jumbo several times.
Ever the gracious guide, Steve offered all kinds of observations for our consideration.
"One of the differences you will notice is that in Marin, people on the trails will look you in the eye, smile, and even chat with you. Over here, eye contact is not recommended. People often pretend not to see each other even when they are practically falling all over each other. If you write something about this, don't sugarcoat it. We can take whatever you have to say about California," Steve said.
Well, he was right about the way people seemed to act. Folks we encountered really did act a bit more skittish and suspicious on the east side of the bay, but beyond that, I can't think of anything negative about the weekend in California.
In fact, the whole experience served to remind me of the importance that people everywhere place on the protection of open space and access to the natural world. And it reinforced my own belief about how important all those things are right here at home, just as they are vital in the midst of millions of people.
It's good to have a little brother to remind you of important things once in a while. And yes, the acorn woodpecker was right there in the bird book, where Steve said it would be. And no, my head doesn't hurt where the discus hit me.
My truck was hidden under 18 inches of snow when I found it in the airport parking lot in Spokane on Monday afternoon.
Greg Tollefson is a freelance Missoula writer whose column appears each week in Outdoors. He can be reached at gtollefson@bresnan.net.
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