parktrotter

The photo above is a close-up of one of the bolts that holds the Pt. Reyes lighthouse together. It suggests, again, how destructive the salt air is in Marin. The lighthouse is kind of like a naval vessel: bored entry-level government employees have been slopping paint all over it for its entire existence (look how lumpy the surface is next to the bolt). Yet that was not enough to stop the salt from discovering the steel beneath.

My title comes from a Robert Frost poem, “The Wood-Pile,” about an abandoned stack of firewood slowly dissolving back into nature. You can practically see that happening in real-time, in Marin–and I like the reference to firewood; at these places we always stay at on the coast, the wood is so wet and dense that trying to burn it is like trying to set fire to mud. In short, everything is always wet. Cloth, walls, porcelain, all are overlain by an invisible but clammy coat of dampness. The whole environment is hostile to anything delicate. I rather like it.

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