Angel Island Overnight

June 10, 2012 to June 11, 2012

It was time. Time to try a little overnight, self-supported, camping, away from home. My problem has never been unable to go but unable to decide about where to go - there are so many options nearby I've been paralyzed. But finally an online article caught my eye - Angel Island State Park. In San Francisco Bay. Hadn't been there in 30 years. Made a reservation for a Sunday night two weeks hence and I was committed.

So the night before it all I wrestled my Target-special sleeping bag into its stuff sack. Rolled up my 2.5-inch-thick Therma-rest knock-off. Borrowed a tent from my brother. Packed my commuter panniers with some cold cuts and some veggies and a hunk of cheese. Water bottle. Fleece jacket, fleece vest, fleece hat (Have you spent a summer in San Francisco? The fog comes barreling through the Golden Gate and runs right into Angel Island before proceeding to Berkeley and beyond). With the help of the wife figured out how to attach them all to my recumbent trike. In sum, I was not traveling light, but I was traveling with what I had to hand. That's the idea of an overnight.

My sister decided she wanted to spend the day on Angel Island herself, since she hadn't been there in a while either. She would be on foot. That, it turned out, would not be a problem.

I parked just a few miles away from the ferry, perhaps three. I'm no fool. And the way to the ferry was on an old rail trail. Flat and lovely right along an inlet of the bay. Except for the little old hill I forgot about between my car and the trail. But nothing was daunting this day.

Here's Pokey, my faithful steed, looking good with all the gear. The Golden Gate Bridge is peeking up to the left of the flag.

Don't ferries and bikes go together like horse and carriage? Brie and baguette? Coffee and cream? I think so. A three mile bike ride to a seven minute ferry ride was the right scale for a bite-sized tour.

Your faithful correspondent awaiting the ferry.

Approaching Ayala Cove and the ferry dock on Angel Island.

And we were discovering, my sister and I, that this gorgeous day was turning out to be downright hot. It ended up close to or even above 90F, which is an infrequent thing on the bay. I had checked the weather forecast before setting out, really I had, and it said the same thing it said the night before, which was high of 68. Hence the fleece. And the jeans.

Angel Island is a mountain surrounded by water. Everywhere from the ferry landing is up. Sometimes quite steeply. So as I pedaled in my granniest gear the two miles toward my campsite, my sister easily strolled alongside me. At one point I had to leave the paved road for a gravel fire road. I did not have sufficient weight upon the rear wheel as I thought I would with the gear and all. And I had not sufficiently deflated my tires, nor did I feel like deflating them more. That rear wheel was spinning out unless I pedalled maddeningly slowly. That's when I discovered, yet again, that a sister is a good thing to have around. Good old sis pushed. Not a lot, more like leant against the back of my gear and walked as I pedaled, but it made all the difference.

Even though I was on wheels it was not easy keeping up with my strolling sister.

And I learned yet again again that a sister is a good thing to have around as I was setting up camp. There was ridiculously significantly more tent pole than tent and it took the two of us to bend the poles to our will. We prevailed.

The view from my campsite. Looking at Oakland and Treasure Island and the Bay Bridge.

High on both our lists was to visit the immigration station that had been restored and renovated. Angel Island served as an Ellis Island for many years last century. It was the usual stellar episode in our history: European immigrants were interviewed briefly and allowed to move along. Asian immigrants, thanks to the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, were kept weeks, months, sometimes years as they waited to be processed. They were housed in a barracks, three double bunks high, a small fenced-in enclosure for exercise, men and women separated. The men turned to poetry and carved their poems on the walls. The poems were painted over again and again but it didn't stop them. You can still see the carvings. Heartbreaking to see and to reflect on. The folks who restored the station did a wonderful job and I recommend the trip to see it.

An example of some of the poetry carved in the walls of the dormitories of the immigration station on Angel Island. Asians in particular were held for weeks or months before being admitted to the country, as opposed to Europeans who were admitted relatively quickly. While waiting on the island they did what they could to cope, such as write poetry.

View of the immigration barracks from the beach. Note the words that describe the inmate's world inscribed in the concrete.

Sis caught the ferry back to the mainland after that and then I was on my own. The day was still hot and bright. Taking a clue from another cyclist who exclaimed 'You're going the hard way!' as I was first riding to my campsite, I rode the paved perimeter road in the other direction from the ferry. It was a great way to get a 360 view of the Bay Area a little at a time. And around every turn was more history. Most of it is military, some of it is immigration, a very little is from the first people. But as always, it was special to see the Golden Gate Bridge and the magical city, San Francisco.

But the best part of the day was, however, that at some places during my ride round the island, I just sat and looked. And felt my shoulders sink just a bit lower. And just looked. And felt my brain relax. And I just looked.

And as one does, I started thinking about what this place might have looked like when Lt. Ayala and Fr Serra and Fr Crespi and Portolá and the other early explorers and settlers, and even the first people, were first here, and what would they think of it now. Would they recognize it?

A view of the paved perimeter road. Note the folks. This island is the first place I ever saw people use rolling suitcases and rolling coolers and carts to get to their gear to their campsites. It can be up to 2 miles to a campsite, which you have to do on foot or by bike. I chatted with this family on the ferry back the next day. It was their first time with the kids and yes they took too much stuff, they said.

In case you need a reminder that Angel Island is a rock in the middle of the bay.

Some military history. A hospital built near Camp Reynolds. WWI soldiers were put here. The hospital was separate from the rest of the post in order "reduce the spread of disease and fear" according to the plaque.

This is the handicap accessible campsite, not far from the hospital, above. Because no one was using it, I spent a long time here, just looking and not thinking.

Never saw a sign explaining this, but since there was a small quarry nearby it must have been a rock-crushing mill.

Every state park needs its Venus de Milo.

Evening sun peeking through the oaks on the fire road.

When I made it back to my campsite for dinner, there were still no other campers at the other two sites. I was keeping my fingers crossed that I'd have the place to myself, but alas, no. Well, not alas at all because I met Maude and Erwan, a French couple that were on vacation from their home in Southern California. We got to talking after they asked if I had a hammer they could borrow for their tent stakes. I offered them my cleated bike shoe but said I didn't think there wasn't enough of a breeze - unusual - to merit staking the tent.

The perimeter road had had its ups and downs, so I took a little stroll after dinner to loosen my knees. I intended to find the trailhead to Mt. Livermore, the high point of the island, so I'd know where to go when I got up early tomorrow for the sunrise. One thing led to another and before I knew it I was on top of the island right at sunset. I was even by myself for a few minutes before a young couple arrived. I just stood there and looked and turned and looked and turned. Now this is a 360 view. When the sun dipped behind Mt. Tamalpais, the young couple said, 'Ready? 3-2-1 aaaaaooooooo!' Apparently it's their custom.

Sunset over San Francisco, from atop Mt. Livermore.

A view of the East Bay in the twilight on the way down from Mt. Livermore. The tiny aqua dot is my tent. The buildings of Fort McDowell are below, but not visible from the campsite.

I returned to my campsite and watched the lights come on around the bay. As it got darker the sounds got more prominent. There was a navigational buoy that tooted every few minutes. Motors from boats and oil tankers and ferries. The occasional airplane or jet. The breeze. Snatches of music and laughter from passing sailboats. Waves lapping the shore. A pounding bass line from a music festival across the bay on Treasure Island. And birdsong. Lots and lots of birdsong. The festival ended. The buoy eventually shushed. The boat traffic slowed. The great horned owls continued calling until I fell asleep.

My fleece accoutrement came in quite handy after all. They made a wonderful pillow.

The sun came up hot and way too early for someone who never sleeps well the first night in a tent. But since I'd hit Mt. Livermore the night before there was no need to climb it, especially since the dawn was long past.

Before packing up I rode a little ways along the fire road to see the city and the bridge in the morning light and to just look a little longer. But eventually it was time to go. I rode the longest possible way, and what took me three hours to ride yesterday took me 30 minutes. There was a ferry waiting but I wasn't ready yet so I let it go without me. While at the cafe relaxing before the next boat I sent a text to my sweetie to tell her my stuff was packed up and I was about to get on the ferry. But in one of those serendipitous acts by autocorrect I unknowingly sent 'Soul packed up ...'
Yea, verily.

Route to the campsite (red), ride around the island (blue)

Today's ride: 10 miles (16 km)
Total: 10 miles (16 km)

Rate this entry's writing	Heart	6
Comment on this entry	Comment	2

Ingrid DaytonI know your post was a while ago, but I just read through this. I live in the SF East Bay and I'd forgotten about Angel Island as a bike ride. Haven't been there in over 20 years! Time to go see it again. I like your writing style, it's fun and informative.
Reply to this comment
2 years ago

Kathleen JonesThanks for the kind words, Ingrid. I hadn’t been there in 30 years, and it’s been another nine since I was there camping. It’s a great little outing for the day if not for an overnight. The beauty of riding your bike is that you can park as far away from Tiburon as you want to ride to the ferry because parking is tight there, and spendy.
Reply to this comment
2 years ago