No, I wasn’t really Cow Tipping in California, but there was a moment’s pause, something that felt, well, weird. It’s at the end of the earth, edge of the world, not but a few miles north of San Francisco, and still, with the clouds scuttling by at eye level, Pacific wind whipping the trees into mythic figures, and the barren coastal prairies below?
Cow Tipping in California
The road is narrow, two-lane, winding its way towards the lighthouse. Alphabet soup, “Historic Ranch, G through C,” then, on the return trip, there it happened. A sign marked “Cow crossing” had a herd of cattle that crossed to the milking barn, udders swaying, the fecund air redolent in that aromatic blend of cow pie. “Organic farming.”
I’m from Texas. At one time, live stock was more important and richer than oil. Felt just like home.
Point Reyes Station
Cattle blocking the only road out of there.
Blasted Heath
