The path rises and falls gently here, but the bricks are flush with one another and the footing is sure. More rustlings and birdcalls follow you as you enter a patch of woods.

The trees here are of improbable variety. Oaks towering over small birches. A chestnut tree next to eucalyptus. A graceful willow entirely surrounded by young pines, like a matron flanked by soldiers. Holly brushing against pear. Off to your left, a giant sequoia looms in the distance.

Anywhere else, such profusion would look wildly out of place. Here, though, the diversity seems healthy, natural, completely in accord with some grand design that the trees keep as their own sly secret. They whisper and gesture with each gust of wind. Standing near to one another like this, their airborne voices are so distinctive it seems you would recognize the species of each speaker with your eyes closed.

Starlings watch you curiously as the road, still heading mostly north, begins a slow descent. The scent of salt is there, then gone, then back again, incongruous with many of the arboreal visions available to your eye on all sides.

Up ahead, the road drops sharply out of view.