Trestles Beach

Author's Comments

The walk in is part of it. A mile and a half of paved trail with no shade, the railroad trestle ahead of you the whole time, the smell of sage and creek water and eventually salt. By the time you arrive at the beach you have earned something, though I am not sure exactly what. September mornings are when I come. The summer south swells are still arriving and the fall light has started to clarify, and at Lower Trestles the water goes glassy in that first hour after sunrise in a way that makes the surfers look like they are moving through poured glass. The cobblestones underfoot are loud when the waves pull back. That sound stays with me longer than the images do. A long lens is the obvious tool and I do bring one, but the photograph I find myself making more often is the wider one - the trestle bridge in the middle distance, a single figure paddling out, the creek mouth where freshwater meets the Pacific in a thin dark line. San Mateo Creek is one of the last undammed coastal streams left in this part of the state, and you can feel that on the beach in a way that is hard to articulate. The place has not been engineered into something else. Come early. Leave the car before sunrise. The walk back in late morning, with the sun overhead and no shade and a heavy bag, is the price you pay for the hour you got.

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