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 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 market’s chaos, 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 few tokes on his pot 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.)
More beaches, hotels, restaurants, and hikes in San Francisco
