Named after the Miwok Indian word for Coyote, the little town of Olema is a quiet outpost of rolling hills and green pastureland on the eastern edge of the Point Reyes seashore. It’s one traffic light, perpetually blinking red, stands as a sentinel at the intersection of Sir Francis Drake Drive and Highway One. An oasis of of aging hippies, ranchers, and refugees from the City, Olema is a force of serenity on a rushed and rattled world making its way to the red blinking light standing guard at the end of the road.
I lay quietly on a clear and cool autumn night, the sky choked with stars as soft patches of moonlight illuminate the bedstead near my pillow through the parted curtains of the cottage window. In the stillness, almost like an apparition at first, I hear a soft yet persistent wail reverberate through the valley. It is the town’s namesake, coyote, baying at the moonlit night.
I am lost in timelessness, as if out in the crystalline darkness the haunting sounds of the night echo through the centuries as the Miwok and I lay motionless in the still night, entranced and enchanted, listening as if in a half-dream, to the call of Olema.
Image credit: tomswift46, courtesy flickr