Byways Around San Francisco Bay | Page 9

out across the bay.
Jack rabbits and cotton-tails scurried across our path and dodged into thickets. An owl flapped lazily over our heads and sailed away down the valley, evidently on his nocturnal hunting. But we had little time or inclination to give to these mountain creatures, as we had to pay strict attention to our footing.
The last descent proved to be the hardest, for the grade was as steep as the roof of a house, but we finally succeeded in scrambling down, and at last reached the grove surrounding the Greek Amphitheater; then home, footsore and weary, but happy with our afternoon's outing on the trout streams in the Berkeley Hills.

[Illustration]
On the Beach
We stand in awe at the grandeur of the mountains, thrusting their snowcapped summits into the clouds, and it is indeed a glorious sight; but the ocean, with its ceaseless motion, its wonderful rising and falling of the tides, and its constant and mysterious moaning, is not to be outdone in sublimity, and offers a keen delight to the lover of nature. Its sands and waters are ever changing. Its rugged coast, with rocks scattered in wild profusion, is one of the most interesting spots in all the world.
A piece of wreckage is thrown upon the beach, and you wonder what dire disaster happened far out at sea, and if the rest of the ship went to the bottom with all on board. But take it home, let it dry in the sun, then place it on your open grate fire, and as you watch the iridescent blaze curl up the chimney, dream dreams, and weave strange fancies in the light of your driftwood fire.
A day at the seashore is one of pleasure, a delightful change from woods and uplands to rocks and rushing waters. Some prefer the smooth stretch of sandy beach, where one may lie at luxurious ease in the warm sand, and listen to the waves lapping along shore, or, discarding shoes and stockings, wade out until the white-capped waves, like policemen, drive you back from encroaching upon old Neptune's domain. But we prefer the rocky cliffs, combined with the sandy beach, and such a place is Land's End, near the Golden Gate, in San Francisco.
We started down the steep incline, strewn with jagged rocks, to follow the narrow path along the cliffs. But our outing was marred by meeting two men toiling up the path along the narrow way, carrying an unfortunate sightseer who had ventured too near the edge of the cliff and fallen into the ocean. Only the prompt action of a friend who scrambled down the rocks at the risk of his life saved him from a watery grave. His resuscitation must have been painful, judging by his agonizing groans, but the ambulance officers had been summoned and the unfortunate sufferer was cared for at the hospital.
The incident served to make us more careful, and at the narrowest place in the path we used the utmost caution, for the rocks below rose up like dragon's teeth, ready to impale us if we should make a false step--and that white drawn face haunted us like a specter.
The path along the ocean is a narrow and tortuous one, running about halfway between the water and the top of the cliff. Great granite rocks rise up like giants to dispute our passage, but by numerous twistings the path skirts their base, or wriggles snakelike over the top.
[Illustration: THEY HAVE STOOD THE STORMS OF CENTURIES]
Hundreds of feet below, the waves come rolling in from the ocean, dashing with a giant's fury against the rocks, and shattering themselves into white spray that is tossed high in air, like thousands of white fingers seeking to clutch the granite barrier. Then receding like a roaring lion baffled of its prey, it gathers new strength, and flings itself again and again against the rocks, like a gladiator striving for the mastery.
Here, in a massive pile of rocks, is a deep, dark cavern, evidently worn by the action of the waves that have pounded against it for centuries. Looking out upon the ocean, we see a wave mightier than all the others sweeping onward, as if challenging the rocks to mortal combat, its mighty curving crest white and seething with foam, hissing like a serpent. On it comes, sweeping over half-submerged rocks, growling in its fury, sublime in its towering majesty, awful in its giant's strength.
Nearing the rocks, it seems to hang suspended for a moment, then hurls itself as from a catapult against the barrier with a sound like thunder, filling the cavern to its utmost, causing the ground to fairly tremble with the impact, and sending the white spray high up the face of the cliff, to be scattered like chaff before the breeze. And the old rock