The plan was simple: take the bus out to the Marin Headlands and enjoy a quieter day with big views and not too much effort. Whether our legs agreed was another matter, but we set off anyway.
Marin County, Missiles In The Mountains
We left the hotel around 10:30 and wandered round the corner for the short walk to Sutter Street,
picking up snacks and drinks for the day. A wise move — once you’re out in the Marin Headlands,
you’re on your own. No shops, no cafés, just wind, hills, and whatever you remembered to bring
with you.
With supplies secured, we caught the 76X limited-stop bus for the 45-minute ride out of the city and
across the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s one of those journeys where the city slowly falls away behind
you, replaced by open hills and that huge sweep of coastline. Even the bus ride feels like part of the
adventure.
Now, full disclosure: the main thing I’d wanted to see out here was the Nike Missile Site — one of
those wonderfully strange Cold War relics that are equal parts eerie and fascinating. The Nike sites
around San Francisco were part of a 1950s air-defence system built to protect the Bay Area from
potential Soviet bomber attacks carrying nuclear weapons. Radar stations, underground launch
bays, and missile silos were scattered around the region, forming a defensive ring that thankfully
never had to be used.
The Marin Headlands site, SF-88, is the only fully restored Nike missile site left in the United
States. You can normally go underground, see the missiles up close, and wander through the old
control rooms. It’s surreal to think that beneath these peaceful hills — now full of hikers, cyclists,
and tourists — there were once nuclear-armed missiles waiting for a war that never came.
Unfortunately, I discovered slightly too late that it only opens on Fridays and Saturdays. Friday had
no bus service, and Saturday we’d been in the Mission District — which, with hindsight, we
probably could have shuffled around. A shame, but hardly the first thing we’d missed on this trip,
and certainly not the last. Three visits to this city and there’s still more to see than time allows. Not
that we ever need much of an excuse to come back.
Our first stop was Battery Spencer, just across the bridge on the Marin side. Built in the 1890s, it
was part of a network of coastal defences guarding the Golden Gate Straits, and it remained in
military use right up to the end of the Second World War. These old batteries are wonderfully
accessible — no tickets, no queues, just wander in and explore at your own pace.
The view from Battery Spencer is nothing short of spectacular. It’s the classic postcard angle of the
Golden Gate Bridge — the one you see on calendars, posters, and screensavers — and it’s every bit
as impressive in person. What surprised me was how few people bothered with the fort itself. Most
visitors made a beeline for the viewpoint, took their photos, and moved on, leaving the old concrete
structures almost completely empty. Perfect for us.
Standing among the ruins, it’s easy to let your imagination drift. What must it have been like on a
fog-shrouded morning, scanning the horizon for threats that never materialised? The place has a
quiet, atmospheric weight to it — history without the crowds.
And speaking of fog: I was very glad I’d packed my hoodie. It had been warm enough in the city,
but up here the wind came slicing in off the ocean, sharp and cold, turning the sunshine into
something of a decoy. Classic San Francisco — warm at street level, winter on a hill.
History In The Hills
We crossed back over the road to pick up the bus again and continue deeper into Marin County.
This required a bit of timing — the morning buses only run once an hour — but even then we ended
up waiting an extra fifteen minutes because it was late. Not ideal when you’re standing on a
roadside with no shelter, no bench, and an endless stream of traffic roaring past. The wind had
picked up too, and after a while the cold started to creep in. It’s amazing how long fifteen minutes
can feel when you’re just standing still.
Once the bus finally arrived, we climbed aboard and carried on up into the Headlands. The ride
from here is about twenty minutes, winding through some truly spectacular countryside — rolling
hills, wide open spaces, and that feeling of being far from the city even though it’s only a few miles
behind you.
The Marin Headlands Visitor Centre is tucked inside the beautifully preserved Fort Barry Chapel,
and for such a small building it packs in a surprising amount. The exhibits cover the whole sweep of
the area’s history: the Miwok people who lived here first; the Portuguese dairy farmers who worked
the land in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; and the soldiers who were stationed
across the Headlands during the military years. It’s presented with a real human touch — not just
dates and facts, but stories of the people who actually lived and worked out here.
Because the surrounding area is now a protected nature reserve, the visitor centre also dives into the
local wildlife. Displays on bobcats, coyotes, the endangered Mission Blue butterfly, and the raptors
that migrate over Hawk Hill each autumn sit alongside the historical material. Somehow it all fits
together — the natural and the human history layered over one another, just like the landscape
itself.
Outside, the scenery was breathtaking. It reminded me a little of the Lake District, but softer — the
same sweeping green hills and sense of space, just without the jagged rocks breaking up the skyline.
We watched large birds circling high overhead. At the time I couldn’t identify them, but later
learned they were Turkey Vultures, with the occasional Harrier or Hawk drifting through. They
were too high up for a proper look, which was mildly frustrating, but watching them glide on the
thermals was impressive enough.
I wandered a short way down one of the trails into a small patch of woodland and found several
species of dragonflies flickering through the dappled light — one of those unexpected little bonuses
that makes you glad you took a detour. The hiking paths stretch off in every direction around here,
and I can only imagine how stunning it must be at sunrise or sunset.
What struck me most, though, was the quiet. No traffic noise, no city hum, no pollution — just
clean air, green hills, and the simple pleasure of standing there with the person you love, sharing the
shade. It’s astonishing how quickly you can forget that one of America’s great cities is sitting just
over the ridge. Some moments on a holiday don’t need much embellishment, and this was one of
them.
Hunt The Bus Stop
Now came the tricky part: finding the bus stop for the ride back. It’s only a short walk down a
footpath behind the visitor centre, but in the afternoon the bus runs just once every ninety minutes,
so timing is everything. We could have got one earlier and ridden it to the end of the route before it
looping back, but the sun was warm, the grass was inviting, and we decided to wait it out.
The “bus stop” — and I use that term generously — was nothing more than a worn, twelve-inch
strip of yellow paint on the road, half buried under gravel. No sign, no shelter, nowhere to sit, and
an endless stream of cars flying past. Not exactly confidence-inspiring, especially in a place where
the fog can roll in faster than you can say “where’s the path gone?”
After a few minutes we were joined by a small group of hikers on a guided tour. None of them
spoke English, and even their guide wasn’t entirely sure whether this was the right place to stand.
That didn’t exactly help the nerves. At least we’d stuck to the roads — these people had been
trekking across open land that looked like the moors back home, and if the fog had swept in, they’d
have been in real trouble.
We ended up with about half an hour to wait, but it was surprisingly pleasant. There was no wind at
all, just warm sunshine and the occasional bird circling overhead. After the chill earlier in the day,
this felt like bliss.
The reason the bus only runs every ninety minutes in the afternoon is simple: traffic. Once it gets
caught in the city bottlenecks, the whole timetable stretches like elastic. And of course, the longer
you wait, the more you start thinking, What if it doesn’t turn up? There was one more scheduled
after this, but if that one failed too, we’d have been well and truly stranded. Plan B would have been
to hitch-hike back to civilisation — or at least as far as the Golden Gate Bridge.
In the end, it was just me being paranoid. Have faith, as Jane would say. It hasn’t gone wrong yet,
so don’t fret. And sure enough, right on cue — or as close to “cue” as Marin County buses ever get
— the bus rolled into view.
Step Away From The knick-knacks
The ride back down from the Headlands was every bit as spectacular as the journey up. It felt like
something out of the Swiss Alps — steep winding roads, huge drops, and those vast views
stretching out over the Pacific Ocean. I never imagined a simple bus ride could be worth the trip on
its own, but with the road sitting around 800 feet above the water, the scenery was nothing short of
breathtaking.
After the long descent we got off at the toll booths on the Golden Gate Bridge. The 76X bypasses
the main plaza, but it’s only a short walk under the highway to reach it. We’ve been here a few
times over the years, but it’s one of those places that never gets old. So, after a much-needed cup of
tea in the café, we wandered into the gift shop.
They had some lovely items — most of them exclusive to the National Park store — including a
really nice bridge plaque and a replica rivet like the ones originally used in the bridge’s
construction. You can’t buy these anywhere else, which makes them feel a bit more special than the
usual tourist souvenirs.
From there we retraced our steps back under the road. I left Jane at the bus stop while I went off to
explore a few more of the old batteries scattered around the hillside. Much of the ground here is
uneven, with steep gravel paths and awkward slopes, so it wasn’t really suitable for Jane to get
around safely. It’s one of those areas where you have to pick your battles — and in this case, the
sensible option was for her to wait in comfort while I indulged my curiosity.
The Battery’s Above The Bluffs
Battery Cranston, Marcus, Boutelle, and Godfrey form a line along the cliff edge, stretching for
nearly a mile and sitting roughly 300 feet above the ocean and were built built between 1877 and
1900. They’re an impressive sight — four great concrete fortifications perched above the entrance
to the Bay, each one once armed and ready to defend the coastline. Set back in the trees behind
them are all the old subsidiary buildings: barracks, storage rooms, and support structures that would
have been completely hidden from view, even if you’d managed to climb the hills on the opposite
side of the strait.
I’ve no idea how many gun emplacements are scattered around this area, but it’s a lot. They range
from the huge, fortress-like Fort Point — which the Golden Gate Bridge was literally built over —
to the batteries I’d just walked through, right down to tiny cannon positions dug deep into the cliffs.
Some of those smaller ones are almost impossible to reach, but you can spot them from higher up in
the hills if you know where to look.
What surprised me most was how intact everything still feels. Considering none of these places are
fenced off, there’s remarkably little vandalism. It gives the whole area a kind of ghost-town
atmosphere — abandoned, but not forgotten. I could easily have spent the entire afternoon
wandering around with my camera, exploring every corner.
The views from up here are incredible. The sky was the deepest blue I’ve ever seen, and the
coastline seemed to stretch on forever. But time was getting away from us, and we needed to catch
the 76X back. If we missed it, our only options would have been the number 28 followed by the
dreaded 30, or the PresidiGo shuttle and then the number 43 — both of which would have taken
well over an hour to get us back to the hotel. So, reluctantly, I headed back to where I’d left Jane
waiting.
It’s a good thing we didn’t rely on the timetable posted at the stop. According to that, the bus was
supposed to leave fifteen minutes later than it actually did. We ended up getting back to the stop
almost exactly ninety minutes after we’d stepped off the previous bus — which made sense, since
they only run every hour and a half. What annoyed me was that I’d downloaded the timetable
directly from the Muni website, and even that had the wrong information for this stop.
Photography In The Square
Before long we were back on the bus for the twenty-five-minute ride to Union Square. We grabbed
something to eat, then headed straight to the hotel for a well-earned beer and a sit-down. It had
turned into a much longer day than we’d planned, but it was worth every moment — one of those
days that leaves you tired in the best possible way.
After transferring the day’s photographs onto the laptop, I realised it was the perfect chance to head
back out for some night photography around Union Square. Most of the big department stores —
Macy’s, Saks, and the hotels that line the square — are beautifully lit after dark. Compared to the
daytime, the whole area feels almost empty, despite the bars and clubs scattered around the nearby
streets. It gives the square a completely different atmosphere, quieter and somehow more cinematic.
I spent a while sitting on the edge of the square watching the cable cars trundle up and down Powell
Street, their bells echoing through the night. It’s one of those simple pleasures that never gets old.
I dropped into Johnny Foley’s for a quick drink, but it was absolutely packed, so I only stayed for
one before calling it a night and heading back to the hotel.
Reflections On The Day
Today felt like one of those rare days where the world slows down just enough for you to notice it.
The Headlands had a way of stripping everything back — the noise, the rush, the usual clutter in
your head — until all that was left was space, sunlight, and the quiet reassurance of being exactly
where you were meant to be.
There was a calmness to it all, even in the moments that should have been stressful. Waiting for
buses that may or may not appear, standing on windswept hills, wandering through old military
ruins — somehow it all felt part of the same gentle rhythm. Maybe it was the scenery, maybe it was
the company, or maybe it was just the kind of day that reminds you how good it feels to be alive and
curious.
What stayed with me most wasn’t the views or the history, but the stillness — that rare sense of breathing a little deeper, thinking a little clearer, and realising that even the long, tiring days can leave you feeling quietly grateful.
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