Greetings from 1,800 Feet

The West Point Inn, two miles slighly downhill from that dearly departed den of iniquity, is Mount Tam’s lone remaining bridge to her roaring past. It is not at all difficult for me to imagine, as I relax on the porch after a summit hike, that John Muir or Jack London might have scribbled notes at this table or that during the inn’s first decade, and I feel all the more connected to my own call of the wild. This is my mountain porch.

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