As soon as you are over the rise, woods are before you. And such an assemblage of different trees!

The nearest are coconut palms, but after that . . . profusion reigns. Holly brushing against pear. A graceful willow entirely surrounded by young pines, like a matron flanked by soldiers. A chestnut tree next to eucalyptus. Oaks towering over small birches. Off to your right, a giant sequoia looms in the distance.

Anywhere else, such variety 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.

You walk onward, hearing occasional chirping in the distance.

An impressive fir tree stands ahead, the path detouring around it. Its scent reaches you, washing away the last traces of the brine smell that has seemingly clung to you since the harbor. A cawing startles you, and you look directly left and up to see a raven improbably close at hand, watching you calmly from a branch. Its eyes glint with good humor.