Eulogy for a State Park

On a clear day atop California’s Mount St. Helena, the entire Bay Area comes into view.

In the mornings, a shroud of fog enrobes the Napa and Sonoma Valleys like a giant cotton ball, clinging to the green hillsides as the sun threatens to drive it away. In the afternoons, these same hillsides emerge as an undulating landscape, a lush version of the rolling waves due west, in the Pacific.

The view from the trail to the summit

Perhaps the best time of day is evening, when the moon rises from the east like a silver saucer, illuminating the mountain in soft yet resplendent light.

It’s no wonder author Robert Louis Stevenson (yes, he of “Treasure Island” fame) spent a summer in an old mining shack here in 1880. Stevenson chronicled his experiences in the 1883 book, “The Silverado Squatters,” a great and detailed (albeit anti-Semitic in parts) read.

The book soon may be the only way for interested visitors to experience the park; the mountain and related trail systems lay within the boundaries of the aptly named Robert Louis Stevenson State Park, one of up to 100 state parks that might be closed by Labor Day to help eliminate a budget gap of $26 billion.

Faced with the threat of public lands no more, a buddy and I took a recent trip to the park to explore. We were blown away by how understated the place was.

Two images in particular lingered.

First, of course, was the spot where Stevenson and his wife spent their summer. No structures remain, but a concrete memorial in the shape of an open book on a pedestal now sits where the mining shack once stood. The memorial doesn’t say much—here lived Mr. Stevenson, blah, blah, blah. It was erected in 1911 by the “Club Women of Napa County,” whoever they were.

An understated memorial to an understated guy

The second unforgettable image was the view from the top of 4,344-foot Mount St. Helena. The peak is the only place in Northern California from which you can spy land in three counties: Napa, Sonoma and Lake.

Ask any local vintner, and they’ll tell you that the schlep to the summit has become a Wine Country rite of passage. The summit was a reason to celebrate for us, as well; after the customary photo opp, Bill reached into his bag and grabbed two glasses and bottle of rose.

By the time my buddy finished pouring, the wind was whipping, the fog was burning off and we could faintly make out the silhouette of a hot-air balloon floating below us.

“To Stevenson,” I said, raising my glass. Let’s hope I can do it again soon.

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