If you’ve been griping about the cold weather, here’s your chance to strip down and sweat: Call in sick and go to the beach. In case you haven’t heard, a major heat wave is building. And wouldn’t you know, the fog will return just in time for the weekend.

No car? Fear not. Take Muni to Baker or Ocean beach. Baker Beach is often warmer and always sexier—you can tan nude at the north end (pack a slingshot to ward off the slack-jawed boys spying from the cliff tops). Ocean Beach’s saving graces are easy access and close proximity to the super-cool Camera Obscura and Louis’ Restaurant, the greasy-spoon diner with the million-dollar views.

Weekend traffic is horrendous in Stinson Beach, but not on a Thursday. Sprawling for three miles, Stinson is one of Northern California’s rare long, sandy strands. And it’s a primo spot for a beach party: not only are there freestanding fire grills, but alcohol is permitted on the beach (no glass). One caveat: Make sure your passengers don’t get motion sick on tortuous Hwy 1.

If you can’t deal with bridge traffic or carsick friends, head south. Grey Whale Cove (aka Devil’s Slide) is California’s only state-sanctioned nude beach, and has sugary-soft white sand with stunning vistas. If bare breasts make you squeamish, continue two coves farther south to the locals’ favorite, Montara State Beach (aka McNee Ranch). Though it’s close to Hwy 1, the sand is long and wide, and at low tide, you can comb critter-packed tide pools.

Southern San Mateo County beaches have the most variety. Among the best: Gazos Creek State Beach is ideal for long walks down sandy strands—and it’s usually empty. If you long for New England-style beaches, those compact crescent-shaped rocky coves, head directly to Bean Hollow State Beach, the only dog-friendly beach this side of Half Moon Bay.

Gay boys and grlz head to San Gregorio, the big daddy of Northern California gay beaches. Normally it’s sopped in by fog, but not this week. Head north of the state beach parking lot—way north—to the private lands where nudists have built driftwood shelters. (There’s an exclusive private parking area down a toll road on private property, but its location is the province of the gay underground. Ask your ‘mo friends, or park at the state beach and hoof it.)

The best beaches for barbecues are in San Mateo. Read my tips on cooking over an open fire. The best beach for off-leash dogs is Fort Funston, at SF’s southeastern edge. When you tire of playing fetch, you can watch hang gliders take their lives into their own hands.

Beach days are rare. We get so caught up in our daily dramas that we forget what’s around us. The time is now. In the words of Horace: “Seize the day! lest the years imprison us.”

Time to Slow Down. So reads the sign at the entrance to Wilbur Hot Springs, a 19th-century DIY sulfur-springs resort, where guests come to take the waters and vanish off the grid. Last week I visited for the first time in an attempt to regain stability in my otherwise chaotic and too-loud life. It worked.

Never underestimate the effect of hot water on the body and soul. After a few panting breaths, I exhaled deeply, unclenched my knees, and let myself float in the salty-soft water. The silence and intense heat forced my attention inward. Drip-drop, drip-drop—that’s all I heard. At last! my mind had stopped chattering.

Inside a Japanese-style redwood bathhouse beside a gurgling creek, the baths are laid out in a series of flumes, three long, narrow tubs with waters ranging from 101ºF to 109ºF. The flowing water reeks of minerals, mostly salt and sulfur, but there’s lithium in it too—some say that’s why everyone at Wilbur looks so blissed-out and mellow. When sunlight hits the water, it glows green. (Fear not: the tubs are frequently drained and scrubbed with a German-like fetishism for cleanliness.)

Wilbur is no skirt-and-sweater spa, but neither is it the stomping ground of drum-beating hippies. Though the baths are clothing-optional, modesty prevails; clothing is required elsewhere. And people wouldn’t dare even kiss in the tubs. This ain’t Harbin. There are no en-suite bathrooms, nor an on-site restaurant. Guests shower outdoors in the bathhouse, and feed themselves from a giant communal kitchen, the center of the inn’s social scene.

In the daytime, guests wander off on hikes and bike rides of the surrounding 1800-acre nature preserve, scoping out hilltop vistas and 19th-century silver mines. Others silently vanish into yoga postures or disappear with a book or journal. But come evening everyone reappears, gathering in the kitchen to prepare their dinners, chopping veggies on a giant butcher-block island before an 18-burner commercial stove.

I made fast friends with two hardcore backgammon players while I prepped a pork loin. As it roasted, we threw dice in the living room, an enormous space with sofas and tables, board games and billiards, and musical instruments tucked in the corner. After losing twice, I took solace in a tattered copy of Bach’s Invention No. 1 that I found in the piano bench, a piece I hadn’t touched in 20 years. Nobody seemed to care when I played a sour note.

Our vaguely Victorian-looking room inside the 1915 inn building had two comfy beds, a wicker chaise lounger, oak dresser, and white-porcelain washbasin with a cold-water tap. (We could have chosen a less-expensive dorm room, but I came with a friend and we wanted privacy. Had I come alone, I’d have chosen one of the tiny single rooms, charming for their sloping eaves and rough-hewn wood paneling.) The shared bathrooms were spotless. Electricity at Wilbur is solar-powered—don’t count on charging any battery-powered devices unless you bring a solar charger—and there’s no internet connection. The only communications device is a single outdoor pay phone in a cedar-sided booth, which I never once used.

Quiet is the order of the day—and it is an order. Conversation isn’t allowed outdoors in the bathhouse (but you can chat on the pool deck) or indoors in the inn’s library. Though I twice got (politely) shushed during my visit for laughing in the library, I was grateful for the mandate of silence. Really, how often do you get to travel beyond cell-phone range, with neither television nor traffic interrupting the quiet? After two days, nature sounded downright loud—the cawing of crows, the roaring of wind through pine boughs, the chirping of songbirds hiding in the oaks. It took nearly two days for me to slow down, escape the frenzied pace of the city, but I managed to do it: I actually caught myself whispering as I inquired about extending my stay another night.

IF YOU GO: In summer, the weather is blazingly hot; rooms have no a/c, only fans. If heat bothers you, go soon or wait till fall. Pack a towel, slippers, and down pillow if you dislike foam. The inn sells chocolate, tea and snacks, but not much else. Bring everything from coffee and flour, to meat and butter. Williams, the closest town, is 40 minutes away. For a (far) better selection, buy groceries at home. It’s okay to bring wine to Wilbur. The kitchen stocks salt and pepper and basic equipment. There are ovens, but no broiler. The knives are lousy. Bring any special equipment or unusual baking dishes you might need. If you’re going to bake or roast, I’d also suggest an oven or meat thermometer. When in doubt about what foods to bring, remember, you can never go wrong with a nice dish of pasta.

In the two decades I’ve lived in SF, I’d never made the trip to Angel Island, foolishly reserving it for a camping trip that never seemed to materialize. On a recent Saturday, I gave up the ghost when a botanist friend called and invited me on a wildflower walk of the island.

We meet up at the Ferry Building, where we fill our backpacks with the season’s first ruby-red strawberries, a crusty-loaf of pain de campagne, and a hunk of tangy-delicious goat cheese sold by a cranky artisinal farmer. Ditching the chaos of the market, espresso in hand, we amble up the wide Embarcadero promenade, alongside tourists, joggers and mamas with strollers, to Pier 41, where braying sea lions and the smell of caramel corn permeate the salt air.

The city never looks as good as it does from the water, and today is no exception. The wind has blown away any trace of fog; the breeze is fresh, the spring sun warm. From the top deck of the ferry, the Bay Bridge grows longer and longer, while the downtown skyline shrinks beneath a bluebird sky. Gulls squawk overhead as we chug past Alcatraz, where hundreds of ink-black cormorants bob and dip in the water.

What you see is what you get at Ayala Cove, the port of Angel Island—grassy lawns, picnic tables, and barbecue grills surround a handful of historic buildings. Though it’s a scenic spot for a family gathering, for my $14 ferry ticket, I’m more interested in scoping out the island’s topography than hanging around screaming kids. And we’ve got just four hours to explore before the last ferry leaves.

After a quick loop through the visitors center, we hit the Sunset Trail toward the top of Mt Livermore, the island’s 780ft-high peak. The flora changes fast as we ascend the switchbacks through lush oak woodlands. An owl hoots unseen in the woods above us—an owl! Here we are, smack in the middle of America’s fifth-largest metropolitan area, and a raptor is hooting overhead. Wow.

My formerly quiet botanist friend grows chatty after a toke on his pipe, and starts rattling off which trailside plants are native and which aren’t. We stand in a field of forget-me-nots (non-native) as he pops a handful of European miner’s lettuce into his mouth. We all follow suit and agree: the younger lettuce is tastier, less bitter. Maidenhair ferns (native) cling to rocks where the mosses have just dried, taking with them the last vestiges of winter’s deep green.

The trail tops out on a sunny promontory, and I stand awe-struck at the postcard-perfect views of the Golden Gate and the bay’s vast open waters. My guide meanwhile points to the ground, where maraca-like seed pods of North African rattlesnake grass jangle in the breeze. We pick a handful of coastal sage, rub the silver leaves, and sniff. The smell reminds me of a lemon-verbena-sage tea I once tasted in Paris.

San Francisco Bay looks spectacular from atop Angel Island on a clear day. You can actually see the bay’s treacherous currents whooshing out to sea; suddenly I understand why prisoners couldn’t escape from Alcatraz. Marin’s peninsulas jut like bony fingers into the bay’s blue waters. A regatta of sailboats glides past below us. I watch them till vertigo sets in, forcing my attention back to my feet, where stalks of sticky monkey flower peek through the grass.

I’d always wanted to see the Christmas tree at the top of Angel Island. Guess what? There is no tree, just seven strings of high-wattage lights stretching from atop a flagpole to the ground, marking Mt Livermore’s summit. In December, when spotted from San Francisco, the lone ‘tree’ looks stunning, but now that I see it up close, the ugly concrete and electrical wiring is a disappointment. No matter. We’ve no time to linger: the ferry leaves in an hour. We scurry down the mountain’s saddles, along the North Ridge Trail and arrive just in time to hear the all-aboard call. We splurge on a round of Budweisers from the ferry’s grungy bar, and as the boat chugs out of port, we lean over the railing of the top deck and raise a toast to our perfect day trip.

If you’re considering going to Angel Island this weekend, make the trip on Sunday. Saturday’s weather forecast calls for wind. Pack layers: the weather changes fast. To avoid the crowds, hike up the Sunset Trail and down the North Ridge Trail; most people do the opposite. If you prefer not to hike, consider renting bicycles or taking a tram tour. Campsites book well in advance on weekends; alas, no fires allowed. (Better to book Kirby Cove instead.)

MARK YOUR CALENDAR:
The annual Maker Faire, that fabulous two-day-long, family-friendly festival of inventors, hobbyists, and crafts-makers takes place on May 3 & 4. Trust me, it’s a blast.

The snowy egrets are back. One of the Bay Area’s most sublime natural wonders, hundreds of egrets and great blue herons are courting and nesting in the treetops of the Audubon Canyon Ranch, in West Marin. If you’ve never seen these magnificent birds up close, now’s your chance.

Tucked in a sylvan dell abutting Bolinas Lagoon, a mere 30 minutes from the Golden Gate, the ranch protects a stand of old-growth redwoods that the birds colonize each spring. The scene is mesmerizing. Fog evanesces and twirls through the branches. Chirping choruses echo through the canyon. The smell of salt air and bay-laurel perfumes the breeze.

Easy hiking trails wend up forested hillsides to viewing platforms at eye level with the birds. Binoculars on tripods give you a close-up look, while naturalists provide backstory. The heronry is particularly exciting at low tide, when the lagoon’s mudflats are exposed. The giant birds swoop back and forth between the treetops and the flats to carry food to the chicks, and as they alight at their nests, the chicks stretch their long necks skyward, mouths open wide—a thrilling sight.

For the optimal experience, plan to picnic on the sun-dappled lawns beneath the towering trees. And leave time to explore the small museum, which chronicles area history and ecology, as well as how the ranch helped save West Marin from development. The ranch is open only on weekends and holidays, or by appointment, through July 13. Suggested donation $10.