A large black crow flew over my head and perched on the pool's white stone wall to look around. Satisfied the coast was clear, it leaned over and drank from the hot chlorinated water. It turned, marched back along the ledge to a lush green lawn, and pulled out a few mouthfuls of grass with his beak. It returned for more water. Satiated, it flew away.

A scratching sound made me look toward my feet. A small brown lizard on the stones was doing push-ups with his front legs, head darting left and right. Reaching for my camera startled him behind a rock. I decided to leave him alone.

The past several years my vacations have gotten less people- and city-oriented and more nature-oriented. Now I judge the success of a trip by the number of wild animals I see or by the tracks and scat they leave behind, or by the number of plants I can identify, and what I know about them. By this measure, my Big Sur getaway was an outstanding success.

The Post Ranch Inn is a luxurious retreat built at what seems to be the edge of the world. It is absolutely private and quiet. Cars are not allowed past a certain point on the grounds; no radio or television disturbs the peace; the occasional murmur of another guest can only occasionally be heard over the rustle of towering redwood trees and the crash of waves breaking against rock. The flow of land and building is seamless - some guest cabins have curved, sod-covered roofs which arch gracefully toward the sea; some are tucked between the same redwood as the trees they are made of. Signs are wood, paths are stone, blue-green grasses and sage plants abound, shades of brown and tan harmonize; nothing jars the eye. Metal sculptures dot the property and provide a harmonizing touch.

Inspired by the crows and lizards at the basking pool, I decided to take advantage of a post-breakfast guide nature walk. We were lucky to have Billy Post as our guide. As the great-grandson of the original homesteaders, he has been exploring Big Sur for more than eighty years and was a fountain of information. We stared off on Billy's Trail, where he pointed out every plant in the redwood forest from coyote bush to manzanita. He stopped to let us all pick some low-growing yerba buena, crush its leaves, and inhale its mellow, minty aroma. We heard how his grandmother used to make a tea that would cure a stomach ache. He rummaged through the bushy green ferns for fiddleheads and explained what a delicacy they are. The trail led us out of the forest and crossed the property through a rolling meadow, past oats and other grasses, to a lumpy looking pond where he used to swim as a boy. He explained that this pond is federally protected now - Mark Twain's famous, now endangered, red-legged frogs make their home there. After a closer look, I realized the lumps were dozens and dozens of frogs, sticking out their heads in the warm sunshine.

This land has been occupied by more than the frogs for millennia. Billy pointed out the area where a 1,800 year old skeleton was uncovered, and where arrowheads are still found in the dirt. Two massive bedrock boulders have bowl-shaped indentations where the Native Americans ground acorns picked from oak trees for their meals. He pointed out the soap plants growing near the boulders and explained how the tubers were stripped and used by these Costanoans just as we use a bar of soap.

We were nearing the end of the nature walk; we climbed back up the hill to the top of the cliff. Resting at the top, we looked out over the ocean.

"Look, a spout!" someone called out, pointing to the water. I looked down - just before the next spray of water, I heard the whoosh and pop the gray whales made below us on their annual migration back to Alaska from the warm waters of Baja California, their newborn babies in tow. Amazing - I was in a place could be so quiet you could hear a whale splash a mile away.

After the walk was a lazy lunch next to the basking pool. Then, looking down at the water, I saw hundreds - or thousands maybe - of black fins. Through the telescope I could see it was a pod of porpoise - thousands, definitely, frolicking by in the sea below. I watched them pass then settled back down in my lounge to watch the condors and hawks circle the crystal blue sky.

I really liked the frogs. Later that day, I went back to see them and get a good picture. As I strolled back down the cliff, past the black sage and blue sage, past the boulders - that old Costanoan kitchen - to the pond, which was now guarded by a flock of wild turkeys. They were thin with brown feathers. They gobbled and chased each other away under the setting sun, past a family of deer nibbling on leaves, looking at us with wary eyes.

I stepped up to the pond. The startled frogs dove under the water, but I waited them out. Soon they surfaced, hundreds of them, shiny brown heads with big, bulging eyes and croaking and singing a frog lullaby.

Starting back up the path back to the cabin, I saw movement ahead of me and stopped. A long-legged coyote stopped too, and turned around to look. The coyote, one of the Costanoans' most sacred creatures, has been prowling this land for centuries, providing a living link between that long-ago time and ours.

After a day filled with nature from the sea to the land, the only place left to look was to the skies. The Post Ranch is well-equipped for the task. Every night guests have the opportunity for organized stargazing. Mike, the evening's celestial host, set up a large telescope up on a rotating pedestal. He pointed out the pitted surface of the full moon and Jupiter with 2 red rings and several of its moons dancing around it. He pointed out the double stars of Sirius, the Dogstar, the second closest star to Earth, only eight light years away, and told us about how, in ancient Roman times, warriors were tested on their eyesight with a quiz on where the two stars were in relation to each other.

At the Post Ranch Inn, every guest leaves with a packet of California wildflower mix. The envelope instructs, "As these seeds grow into flowers, may they become a living reminder of your stay with us." I am going outside now to scatter them in the bare spot beneath my curly willow tree. Next spring, after this winter's rains, I should have an annual reminder of my trip. No photo can beat that.