Walking. Just letting feet take me away, out the door, up the trail, into bliss. Mt. Tamalpais State Park is like one gigantic backyard for the generations who are raised in Marin County. We had instant access to clear creeks, hundred foot Redwoods, open grassland ridges, and places to find solace from the madness below. After each sunset watched at "The Alcove" up on Bolinas Ridge, the drive back down towards the distant city lights was always a surreal experience. 'Jimi Hendrix is jamming on the speakers of my friend's old Toyota Corolla, we are taking the windy turns fast, and leaving rubber on the road. Our minds are focused on the fleeting image of the sun racing a million miles away.' The solitude and quiet up on Bolinas Ridge, combined with the awe-inspiring panoramas of the Pacific Ocean and Point Reyes National Seashore make for a difficult re-entry to traffic, stop signs, advertising, and . . . well, people.


When I think of Mt. Tamalpais my mind slips towards a Pynchonian desire to rewrite the history of Marin County with a more accurate "anti-history". With the help of some Internet research I discover that Marin is named after a powerful Miwok chief who lead a pesky resistance to the Spanish divinely appointed pillagers. If only the coastal Miwoks had thrown rocks and shouted warnings at Sir Francis Drake and Viscaino when they sailed into the Bay Area in the late 16th century. But I suppose it was part of an inevitable imperialistic advance that defines our world, as we know it.


I have to say, this whole naming process seems very odd indeed. We refer to refer to our biggest city as San Rafael, The archangel of San Rafael. No offense to citizens of Marin but it's pronounced Raf-eye-L, not Rah-fell. So not only do you pronounce it incorrectly, but you are also referring to a Mission, i.e. torture, murder, rape, chemical warfare, all that good stuff. Growing up in this sheltered community of excess wealth I saw the names everywhere on streets signs: Timoteo, Richardson, Reed, Kent. I never knew there was another perspective until I forced myself to look deeper than textbooks authored by government cronies. Those names stood for Spanish dons who ruled with a cruel and iron fist over their illegally stolen land parcels in the mid 1800's before US takeover. "The Days of the Dons." Tell me that should not be made into a movie? All these fat ass Spanish lords living in gigantic ranch mansions and fighting off hostile Natives while getting into who knows what kind of illicit services.


For now, guilt resides in my soul; it is a pain felt when knowledge is gained about the true story of the rise of this great nation. I do my own ghost dance up on the Bolinas Ridge, staring out into clouds on fire, thick green forests below, and a fresh ocean air coming straight from the Aleutian Islands. I am sorry to those native peoples who my race has caused to go near extinction. I pray that the Hopi are correct in their belief that this is a regular occurrence, you can see with your own eyes by watching Godfrey Reggio's Koyaanisqatsi. With incredible cinematography the film demonstrates how life is out of balance. Ah, but not to worry for the Hopi elders of the southwest. They live in their caves like they have for many generations. This has all happened before and will happen again. It is like a cycle, a wave that crashes forth, and retreats. White man has spread across all the lands with a massive construction of cities and infrastructure, but each time this has been followed by their complete and sudden demise. And the creatures of the earth, including the remaining indigenous tribes of the world will thrive once again. Until the next advance of the white plague.

ER Harris

sources: marin.org

http://www.indians.org/welker/byecolum.htm