People love waterfalls. But I don't believe our fascination with them is just about how visually stunning they are. There’s something more to it. In the six miles Tucker and I traversed the Wakeena Falls Loop Trail, I had a lot of time to ponder and listen to the waterfalls for what it is that draws us there.

One end of the loop is Multnomah Falls, one of the busiest and well-known falls in the area. The two-tiered waterfall with the bridge one third of the way up from the bottom makes for some spectacular photos. Being right on the road, it's a hot spot for tourists.

So Tucker and I didn’t start there.

We started just down the road at Wakeena Falls, where there would be some people at the bottom of the falls, but I didn’t expect a lot of people to make the 2-3 hour journey up into the mountains and back down again. The loop wasn’t just a waterfall on either end but a total of five along the way: Wakeena, Fairy, Ecola, Wiesendanger, Dutchman, and finally Multnomah. It is almost as well-stacked with waterfalls as Silver Falls State Park, except Tucker’s allowed to see these, and we avoided a long drive back and forth.
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The bottom of Wakeena Falls made me think of a fast running creek someone had tilted at an angle.

Taking the trail upward, we didn’t encounter many folks, and ended up at Wakeena Falls proper behind a footbridge.

The trail continued on, and from there, we could see the Columbia River Gorge.

Again and again, these peek-a-boo views were like windows in this house of forest out to the sprawling vastness of the wilderness.

Inside the forest house, we followed along the river, until we reached Fairy Falls.

Here was yet another great fall of water, splashing down and carrying on its way.

It didn’t feel like two miles into the mountains when we reached this crossroads, but there we were, two miles from civilization, with spectacular views of Nature, unheeded by human intervention.

I can’t tell you which Falls were which now, as the route followed the water, and there were crashes and dips along the way that may or may not have had any specific nomenclature. We witnessed the water passing by us on its way down to Wakeena Falls, and once we reached the summit of the trail and we began our descent, we followed the rushing water on its way to Multnomah Falls.

I occasionally turned around to capture one of the river's dramatic dances with gravity.

We went to the bay windows of the forest to capture the glorious views.

Twilight would be arriving soon, and as much as I wanted to stay to watch it slowly take over the skies, I also wanted to make it back to our trusty steed before dark. We still had Multnomah Falls and the path back to Wakeena Falls to finish the loop.

Multnomah Falls is impressive from every angle.

(Even if Tucker doesn’t think so.)

A word of warning to those taking this path: right around here, the water sprays back up and creates its own weather pattern, making you feel like you’re in a hurricane, wind blustering around you and water coming at you from all angles.

From afar and up close, it is magical, like a cascade of light and energy.

Tucker paused so we could capture the moment at the iconic location.

It’s difficult to fit the entire falls in one frame. At 620 feet, it is the tallest waterfall in Oregon.

The waterfall’s origin according to Wasco legend is that it appeared as a sign to the Multnomah people that the chief’s daughter, who had sacrificed herself to save her people by jumping off the cliff here, had been welcomed into the Land of Spirits and dwells there still today.

But I doubt most of the two million visitors a year here know that tale. They come because it is pretty. Or so they think that’s why they come.

As we followed the water up the mountain and down again, I thought about our own life’s journey and that river. We, as carbon-based lifeforms, are made mostly of water. We are made of the same stuff rushing through the forest. As it runs over rocks and through the soils of the woods, over lichen and moss, it picks up minerals, and becomes something other than it was only a mile before.

It needs to keep moving. Stagnation is bad. I never let Tucker drink stagnant water, as bacteria and fungi can fester in the stillness. But moving water is healthy. And so are we.
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​As we journey through life in our overwhelmingly-made-of-water transport systems, we pick up mineral deposits along the way. We crash down, sometimes from falls that feel as high as Multnomah cliff’s edge. We fall and shatter, rise up as mist, and fall again, changing form, yet remaining the same. We continue moving, as it’s the only way. If stagnate for too long, we start to spoil. We may rest for a moment in the pool, but we need to find the exit, we need to keep moving, keep picking up more goodness that makes us better along the way.

​The river’s journey takes the path of least resistance, but still encounters rocks and tree limbs to get around; it is a force unto itself, sometimes breaking through instead of going around obstacles. It carries with it that which it wishes to and leaves behind that which impedes its journey.

When we stand before the Falls here, it is not just our eyes and mind processing the beauty. It is our soul reaffirming that no matter how far we fall, we will rise again and keep moving. Our soul is resilient, it is water, moving through time from the beginning of existence through eternity. No matter what gets in our way, even if we are briefly stagnant as we find the path of least resistance, we will keep moving.

The journey doesn’t break us down; it makes us stronger, more complicated, and better equipped for what lay around the next bend.

Perhaps this all explains why I need to be in nature so often. I need to be reminded often that my soul can withstand the pressures of this earthly life. I just need to keep moving, rising and falling, crashing, and flowing, knowing that every surface I touch I am affected by. And every surface is affected by me.

In our journey, we join forces with other like-minded souls, and flow with them, affecting one another as we crash against the shores, tear through obstacles, and fling ourselves over the horizon. The force of the water, the extreme power of it, is only matched by that of each of our souls. We are all water, and each time we stand before a waterfall, our soul reaches out in recognition.

I am blessed to be able to experience such beauty, such soul-affirming works of art by Mother Nature. I am so grateful for all the fellow travelers I have met in this riverbed of life, and especially blessed to have my soul-dog beside me on so much of this journey. There will be Falls, there will be downed trees, there will be jagged rocks, but we will keep on moving, picking up minerals and making them a part of us. And eventually we will make it to the sea to rise into the clouds and start again at the mountain's peak. But the goal is not the ocean; the goal is to experience every moment of joy and beauty along the way, together.

Thanksgiving is an odd holiday if you think about it. We all make this pact that on this one day, wherever you are, you must gather with others--often travelling great distances to do so--in order to sit down and have one meal together. And we all seem to adhere it.

But I’ve never been one for conforming to the masses.

Instead, I used others’ desire to do so to my advantage.

Sleeping in (since we don’t need to start hikes at 6am to avoid hot weather), I waited till noon, when I suspected most people would already by at their perspective gathering places, and drove to the first natural touristy spot that I assumed would be crowded every other minute of every other day: Vista Point.

I was rewarded with easy parking and only a few families still out and about before settling in for their long afternoon of eating and holiday cheer.
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There were a few too many people around to get great sweeping photographs of the Columbia Gorge, but at least I was able to get a couple of shots sans humans. 

And Tucker got to enjoy the views too, thanks to some conveniently located spy-holes in the architectural design.

Of course I still tried to get proper photos of Tucker with the landscape, to which he got a smidge irritated after so many attempts.

We had passed the trailhead for Water Line Road trail along the way, and while I didn’t care to do the hike which consisted of just walking down a hill to the train tracks and then walking back up hill, I did want to check out the trailhead itself: the Portland Women’s Forum State Scenic Viewpoint. Its name is a mouthful. Abbreviating it doesn’t make it any better: PWFSSV.

Figuring there would be even fewer people there than at Vista Point, once we finished up our walk around the Vista Point building and Tucker tired of my photo shoot, we headed to the Scenic Viewpoint.

In my quest for a non-crowded Thanksgiving, I succeeded. Only a few cars were in the vast parking lot that sloped downhill toward the overlook of the river.
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The first thing I noted was the little white dome downriver: that is Vista Point. Grey up close but white in the sparkling sunshine from afar, rather than being a place to view from, it became part of the view itself.

A plague commemorated Gertrude Glutsch Jensen for protecting this land was off to the side. In 1956, this little plot was bought by the Portland Women’s Forum, a group of women active in politics and civil evolution. It seems that when it comes to the preservation and protection of land, animals, and the world as a whole, the movement is usually led by women. Or sometimes, depending on taboos of the time, it is led by women behind the men that society deems acceptable to create change. Don’t get me wrong, there have been men who have stood for the protection of Mother Nature (such as John Muir and Bob Hunter), and I applaud them. But it just seems like women, overall, have spearheaded the efforts to keep this world turning.
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After appreciating the view, Gertrude, and all the women did (and still do) for Mother Nature, we headed down off the mountain to Red Rooster State Park for a walk along the River we had been admiring from afar for the past few hours.

There are parts of the river where one can be even closer to nature than usual, and shed your manmade skins to be as nature made you.

Being a tad chilly out, I wondered if anyone was taking advantage of this. I certainly was not.

Tucker and I carried on along the river, getting a few peeks of the river but mostly walking along the flat leaf-lined trail though the woods.

Down by the river proper, after getting through some rocky trail areas,

We reached the shores.

Maybe it was the lighting, but the golden aspens and sparsely covered trees (evidently clothing optional for plantlife as well), it didn’t seem like we were in the Pacific Northwest anymore. It felt more like the south or eastern seaboard, like Virginia or North Carolina. Of course, once back in North Carolina, I will be reminded exactly how small their mountains are, and how majestically tall the gorge’s rock walls actually are.

Tucker and I climbed a short ridge to get back into the woods for the back half of our loop walk along the river and through the woods (but not to Grandmother’s house we go).

We finished up with one more close-up look at the rover. Then we drove back along the highway, the Columbia River to our right, the towering rock walls of the Gorge to our left, and only a smattering of traffic between us and the setting sun.

Thanksgiving is about gathering and gratitude. While I did not gather, I did give gratitude. I gave Tucker his favorite Turkey and Sardine dinner, and I had my own usual vegetarian fare. I gave thanks for adventures like today, to be able to share them with my faithful companion who is up for every car ride and every walk, wherever we go. I am grateful to explore new places, and take in the wonder Mother Nature has created. I appreciate that I still have my health and Tucker has his so we can walk long distances and climb steep mountains in pursuit of experiencing Nature’s art from every vantage point.

I hope you all got to gather—or not gather, if that be your preference—with those you love and share the gratitude for this thing we call life. Whether you enjoy an urban outing or seeing the stars alone in a campsite miles from civilization, I hope you were able to be wherever you find joy. For that’s what life is about: expressing gratitude for every moment of joy this beautiful life has to offer.

It’s getting to be that time of year again for that magical weather element: snow. Mt Hood had been boasting her beautiful white coat as of late, and it was enticing enough to lead me to her.

So up we went into the mountains, parked at a ski place, reminding me of our adventures in Whistler, BC. There wasn’t as much snow here as Whistler, but it was just as chilly.

The dusting of snow on the bridges, rocks, and downed trees added a smidge more character, like someone went through the painting and just touched up a few places.

But it wasn’t cold enough yet to stop water. The streams ran strong.

Tucker has zero fear, and crossed the make-shift bridges with ease.

Once up the mountain, we reached a level trail, but could see neither lake nor the iconic mountain it reflected in its waters.

​ But it was still magic.

Finally we spied her, peeking up from the treeline.

And with a few more steps, we began to see her reflection too.

And then finally we reached the memorable spot, the one where all the photos are taken, to see Mt Hood and her reflection in the crystal clear Mirror Lake.

Tuck even got to stand on a snowy beach while I tried to capture it just right. The clear blue skies made it the perfect day to experience this.

Just before we reached this spot, a lone female hiker arrived at the shoreline. She stood in reverence as each person did, seeing it for the first time. She had her moment and then walked back under the canopy of trees to the trail. 

​I suddenly had a vision: two dogs. A sporting dog—a short haired white and black, maybe a setter?—to her right who went leaping ahead up the trail and one to her left right, a steadfast golden retriever, by her side. I wanted to tell her that she wasn’t alone. Because once you hike with a dog, you will never hike alone again.
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But I didn’t say the words. I kept them to myself, and gave a thanks to the mountain and her magic.

Tucker and I continued around the Lake, taking in the views. In one marshy area, we watched people up ahead seem to splash down into the thicket. As we approached on the precarious boards that trail tenders had left for us, we came upon a group of hikers and their dogs. They explained that if we continued ahead, one of the boards would sink and we’d get super wet. Even with a dog, they recommended that hacking through the thicket on solid ground was way better than ice cold feet—for both human and canine. So, taking their instructions and hoping that Tucker didn’t lose an eye or get shrub shrapnel down his ear canal, we ventured off the trail to avoid what was more than just a puddle.

Having made it unscathed, we continued around the lake, enjoying all of the views, even the ones without Mount Hood.

As we stood without a view of Mt Hood, looking out at the lake, I heard two women coming toward us in the opposite direction we were heading. They were chit-chatting about this and that and then stopped near us. I looked up a bird—the first and only bird I had seen or heard on this hike—land on a branch in a nearby tree.

Then a second bird joined the first.

“Oh, I wonder what kind of birds those are?” one woman asked the other.

“I bet Frank would know,” the other posited.

The two birds, as if requested for further examination, flew closer to the women.

The two women then stepped off the main trail and started up a small incline to another short trail. They stopped, turned around and went to take a photo as I saw the two birds then fly toward them and land on a nearer branch to them.

“Those birds are following you,” I said to her.

She sighed a little, and said, “Birds seem to like me. The other day one flew right into my office!”

Then she walked off, as if this was just a normal thing. I wanted so much to ask, “Have you figured out what they’re trying to tell you?” but she was already gone, and I wasn’t sure how she’d take it.

There is something about this mountain, or maybe this lake. If you open your heart and listen, you will hear things and see things beyond what our logical minds normally accept.

I considered the reflection in the Mirror Lake. Why--or how--was it reflected at all? If a mirror faces upward (as a lake does), it will reflect that which is directly above it, as it reflects the stars and moon at night. The trees along the coastline were reflected too, as they were on the edge of the mirror.

But how was the mountain in the reflection?

The mountain's summit was still at least fifteen miles away from the lake. It was not above the lake, but rather northeast of it. Yet the lake reflected it as if it was standing on the lake’s edge just as the trees were.

This may be one of those things like my inability to comprehend how we see the Milky Way “out there” when we’re actually “within” the Milky Way…

And yet, Mt Hood has shown me her disappearing act while I've driven across the Ross Island Bridge in Portland, and here her Houdini act was no less impressive.

In some places she was there, but her reflection was not (as I expected):

But take a few steps for a new perspective, and you could catch her reflection:

Although I seek to understand everything, I have to leave some things to faith. I do not question why or how I saw the two dogs with that woman, or why those birds were following that woman and what message they had to her and from whom. Yet I question how the mountain can be reflected in the lake when it’s not directly “in front” of it. Faith isn’t easy. Some things, I still want science to explain to me.

But until then, I am grateful to have experienced this: this glass-like pool of water, high in the snowy mountains in the Pacific Northwest. And I am even more grateful that I have this beautiful soul accompany me. I hope he feels the magic as I do here. And I know now (or perhaps always had faith) that Tucker will be with me on every trail I take, even long after his his physical paws have ceased walking the earth.

Not feeling the need to climb 1200 feet above sea level, I chose Warrior Rock Lighthouse for this weekend’s adventure. Located on Sauvie Island, it was described as an easy walk through the woods along the Columbia River to the smallest lighthouse in Oregon.

The island reminded me of San Francisco Bay’s Treasure Island, except more rural. It feels sparsely populated and isolated. There is that distinct remote feeling of being on an island, and yet all you see if farmland as far as the eye can see. The remoteness feels more deep, as if you’re not only in a faraway land, but in different time.

Despite having a Northwest Forest Pass (for federal land), and Oregon State Park Pass (for Oregon state parks) and a Discover Pass (for Washington State parks), I still had to purchase a different pass for the privilege of walking to the lighthouse. The pass is sold in only four locations on the island: the Department of Fish and Wildlife, a 7-11, a Cracker Barrel, and a country store located at an RV park.

Luckily, there was a giant painted sign pointing to the country store and RV park on the one road to the trailhead. We pulled in, and I entered the little house-converted-to-convenience-store. The man behind the register stamped a piece of paper for me and wrote down my payment in a little book of pages with carbon paper as if we were in 1976. It added that remoteness of the rural island, as if time had stopped here decades ago.

We carried on with the water to our right (at least I assume that was what was up over the dune with stairs that led upward). There were parking spots on both sides of the road from near the country store to the trailhead. Then it would be three more miles on foot to the northwestern tip of the island and Warrior Rock.

The asphalt ended and our tires rolled onto Mother Nature’s earth for the last few miles. Grey skies and dampness abounded, keeping the dirt on the ground without the usual sand storms one encounters in dry Southern California. The parking lot wasn’t overly crowded, but there were people. Out afternoon arrival meant we were crossing paths with the eager morning hikers who were just finishing up.
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I left our trusty steed to stare off into the farmland and ponder simpler times.

Tuck and I headed to the gate, trudged through some shrubbery to the beach, and got our first look at the Columbia River from here.

We stepped back up to the path but before long encountered a tree down. The couple heading toward us were with a small terrier/Chihuahua mix who was easily picked up and set down over the tree. While I could clumsily surmount the challenge myself, I could not also help Tucker. The tree had struck some sort of thorny bushes, so Tucker was standing in sharp, violently defensive plantlife. I couldn’t see how he could get onto the trunk of the down tree from that liftoff point and then land back down on the same terrain on the other side.

So we backed up and headed to the beach so we could go around. We shambled up the beach and onto the low grass running parallel with the trail.

Judging we had passed the tree, I found an open spot through the brambles to climb through to  return to the trail.

At the one fork in the road, someone had posted a friendly directional sign:

Once deep into the forest, it was an autumnal wonderland. Tucker and I walked upon a blanket of ambers and yellows and golds.

Once through the final meadow trail, we ended up seaside once more. I imagine with blue skies and the sun shining down, things would look a lot different. From here, all was one grey palette.

Even the lighthouse in the distance was mostly grey...

Except not totally grey.

Someone has painted a glorious bird taking flight. I couldn’t tell if the echoes of autumn colors that looks like silly string but were lines of paint were done by a graffiti artist or were part of the original concept. Either way, it worked perfectly, adding this splash of color to the already vibrant piece.

Above, a chunk of missing plaster gave the impression of a smaller bird taking flight.

The downed tree made for an excellent vantage point to enjoy the painting and also look downriver.

Having had our fill of the tiny lighthouse, we returned to walk back the three miles on the blanket of golds.

Seldom has this happened, and perhaps it was simply due to the grey skies or that it was an out and back hike—not as a loop—but I have to shamefully admit that I got bored on the way back. I kept checking my app, hoping the miles would disappear. 

I never regret any trail I take, for each step leads to the next one. There are some I will return to in order to experience time and time again, and there are some that having done them, I am satisfied. Warrior Rock is one of the latter. While grateful to experience this other-timely island in the middle of the Columbia River and to see the tiniest lighthouse with the most majestic artwork, I need not do it again. But I am ever appreciative of the journey, and I look forward to seeing where the next trail leads us from here.

I have this belief that most often indecision is inevitably worse than the wrong decision.  And yet, I am plagued by indecision far more than I’d like to admit. To get around it, I have learned to clear my mind and go with the first thing that shows up no matter how inconvenient and illogical it may seem. That’s how the morning started. There are so many options for hikes in Oregon, deciding which one on which day is difficult. So I calmed myself, scrolled down the list of hikes without any forethought, and Cape Falcon Lookout leapt out at me. My mind and heart were telling me that I needed some dramatic cliffs, cresting waves, and classic Oregon coast. And Cape Falcon Lookout would give me just that.

And more.
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The trail, which was 90 miles west from my doorstep, begins in the forest. Forests have always been my church, but there is something extra special--sacred--about the seaside forest. It is a woods with character and an ancientness about it that I cannot put into words. I can’t even capture it with a camera.

I tried once or twice, but the way the rays of sunlight glistened off the green moss and the leaves gently swayed in the breeze, I just couldn’t do it justice. The world around me wasn’t just an image but a visceral experience unable to be contained in pixels or on the page. It was best left to live in the hearts and minds of those who came here for themselves.
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As the trail led to the edges of the forest, the ocean with its dramatic cliffsides could be seen through the treeline.

Every now and again, there would be a place to look out, as if the treeline were walls and these spots of leaflessness were windows to peer out over the ocean.

A young woman who was ahead on the trail, real camera in hand (something I so rarely see these days), stopped every now and again and pointed out the good spots and occasionally shared her awe with us.

The main event was over two miles in to the trail’s namesake lookout, an outcropping of a cliff that looked west out to the sea and south to the coastline.
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The woman was sitting on the edge when we arrived. Another two people stood nearby.

Tucker and I turned right, where there seemed to be a narrow path through the bluff’s shrubbery. While many of the smaller paths led to precarious edges of the cliff, a couple led to more steady ground. One took us north, and there we spied the northern view.

Another took us to the very edge where it was all endless ocean.

We then turned back toward what most thought was the end point. Before we reached there though, the young woman had ventured up to where we were. 

​I had been taking photos of Tucker when she came up to us.

She asked if I wanted her take a photo of Tuck and me, and of course I said Yes. As Tucker has gotten older, I feel the need to capture any moment another person offers to take of us. Even if I don’t feel photogenic, like in this case when the wind turned my jacket hood into a second head, reminiscent of Zaphod Bebblebrox in Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

​But it was still me and my boy doing what we love best, and honestly, if we could adventure across the galaxy, we would.

She asked me if I had been here before, and I said No. I asked her the same. She said she had not. She had just flown in from Texas for a three day adventure on her own. She had done Multnomah Falls (the one that was too touristy for me in the Gorge), explored Portland proper, and now was on the coast. I wished her well on her adventure. I explored solo for many years before Tucker joined me. But I never up and left for a long weekend to the other side of the country. I respected her for that.

Later, when I turned to go, I looked back at her taking in the view of the ocean. She wiped her eye and sniffed. I wondered if it was the wind, the power of the moment, or if perhaps this venture was the salve for a broken heart.

Over the years, I have found that when there is a breakup, men tend to return home their mothers and find comfort in that stability. Women, on the other hand, pack a bag, buy the first plane ticket they can get, and trek across Western Europe for a month (or take on some other equivalent journey). Men find stillness; women find movement. It’s not a hard fast rule and there are many exceptions, I’m sure. It’s just something I’ve noticed amongst my friends.

Back before I ventured far alone, when I was waiting to find that human partner to join me on my travels, I told a friend, “I’ve always wanted to go to Ireland. I should get in a relationship, have a devastating break-up, and then go to Ireland.”

She followed my logic on its ridiculous journey, paused, and then simply stated with a shrug, “Or… you could just go to Ireland.”

The woman on the bluff had gone to Oregon. Maybe not after a devastating break-up but simply because she could. I hope she is still exploring and keeps going on solo adventures. Once I stopped waiting to find a human partner and set out on my own, life got a whole lot more interesting and no broken hearts were necessary to get there.
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Tucker and I took our last looks from Cape Falcon and then headed back down the mountain, through the woods, and to the sandy beach below.

The sun was just about setting, and we needed to get back to the roadside parking lot before it got too dark.

I am grateful to have this boy along for the journeys I have. I wouldn’t not have them if he wasn’t here, but they are far more meaningful and fun when he’s with me: crying with excitement in the truck as we near the trailhead; seeing the look of joy in his eyes and on his face when experiencing a new place; watching him try to run ahead and sniff and be everywhere all at once. He is my soul dog, loving every moment on the trails we physically take and being there every step of the way as we walk life's path together.
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I looked down at my pants before getting in the truck and saw that I had taken a bit more of the trail home with me than just memories and images.

That’s thing about adventures, whether you’re going it alone or with a companion—human or otherwise: you always take a piece home with you. Most of which you can never wash off quite as easily as a bit of mud. For every trail you take becomes a part of you and a part of your past, and will ultimately always lead you to the limitless potential of your future.

Some hikes just stay with me long after my feet stop treading the soil, much like a book whose characters live within me long after I close the final chapter. Angel’s Rest is one of those hikes.

I knew it was a straight up climb, but it would be worth it. Having Fridays off instead of Sundays gives me the advantage of being able to do walkabouts when everyone else is at work. With some narrow sections of trail and a sheer drop off the cliff, I like lightly trafficked trails. It’s not that Tucker doesn’t like other dogs; generally he does. But dogs don’t naturally walk head on into one another unless it’s to start something. To avoid conflict, it’s best to walk in an arch toward another dog. But with a cliff on one side and a steep hill on the other, it’s tough to do that. Urban dogs who regularly walk narrow, busy sidewalks with dogs coming and going right next to them and headed toward them have lived their entire lives used to this. Tucker is not one of those dogs.
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So we were pleased to have to trail to ourselves. At one point a man in his 30’s with wild grey curls came up behind me with such stealth that Tucker and I missed him until he was only five steps behind us. Having like-minded trail-treaders who enjoy the silence is lovely, but it did give me a start.

The trail had a 1400 foot elevation gain in the 2.5 miles it would take to reach the summit. Luckily the beautiful weather (that prime 50-70 degrees) gave me an edge to make it up without dying. A dog with four separate heart issues and a middle-aged overweight woman in questionable health probably shouldn’t give this a go mid-summer. But the last week in October didn’t seem quite so risky.
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Around every bend and along every edge was a beautiful vista to behold.

Even when we weren't looking out over the river, there was beauty to behold within the forest.

​Every now and again, I’d look up to see how close the summit was, and was always surprised that it seemed so close and yet was so far away.

A couple coming down gave me some advise on finding the path once we hit the “field of boulders”. “Just go straight. There’s a human-shaped whole in the shrubbery—that’s where you need to go.”

“Human-shaped hole” made me wonder if at some point someone had crashed through like the Kool-Aid Man.
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I ended up not needing to find the hole, as two people were crossing the boulder field in my direction, so I merely headed toward them (because heading directly toward people isn’t the same thing as dogs heading toward one another). Then up we went again, to even more stunning views.

The peak was more of a rocky mesa with boulders to climb around on. I spotted one woman sitting in mediation on one of the higher boulders who I had seen at the parking lot. And as we came up over the ridge, there was the man with the wild grey curls. “Welcome!” he said with a smile, and I replied with thanks.

There’s something about being greeted at a summit with someone saying “Welcome” that adds to the magic of the moment.
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We walked on to the edge of the boulders. I could see on the app that this wasn’t the end of the trail. So we took some photos and headed into the shrubbery (no human-shaped hole to lead us). We finally came to the bench: the end point that is Angel’s Rest.

We sat for a spell, looking over the Columbia River Gorge and to Washington State. There are no states in Nature, no countries, no municipalities. All is one.

It appeared that there was a trail behind us, so Tucker and I ventured further than the little red line on the app told us to go.

It seemed we’d have to bushwhack through some rather defensive shrubs, so I called off the trek. On our way back, the man with the curly hair was headed our way.

“Is there a way back down through there?” he asked.

“I don’t see how it’s possible. Although someone mentioned there was another way by climbing up the hill from the boulder filed, so I imagine it gets you here.”

“That’s what I was told too, but I’m not seeing it. But it’s supposed to be a shortcut.”

“I don’t hike for the shortcuts,” I responded with a smile. “I hike to see and walk every inch of the journey!”
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As he headed into the violent shrubs, Tuck and I walked back to the edge to imbue the vista into our souls before heading back down—the long way around.

As we got to the boulder field again, the curly-haired man had caught up. We discussed where one might see this supposed trail upwards rather than through the “human-shaped hole”. We thought we spied the make-shift rail, where the smaller rocks had fallen away and it appeared a little more traversed. It looked mighty dangerous going up the steep incline. But he was up for it. As he leaned into the incline and started heading upward to the area without rocks, I yelled out, “Don’t die!”

To which he responded, “That’s my usual goal. So far, so good!”
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Tucker and I continued downhill, leaving the man to his own adventures. 

​Hiking is a lot like reading books. Despite being in the same place, each of our experiences are unique to us, and how we interpret them might be radically different. Yet, when we find one another on the same trail, as when we find someone who has read the same book as us, there is a connection. There’s an ease between us. I always know avid hikers compared to the tourists or first-timers as the avid hikers smile and say “Hello” when you cross their paths. They may even give words of advice, much like someone who has read a book will tell you, “Oh, no spoilers, but Chapter 11—WOW!”

And in this case they even greet you with a “Welcome”.
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Angel’s Rest is one of my favorite hikes, and while I probably won’t do it again while I’m here this time, I will revisit it. Like a well-stocked library of books, Oregon has a plethora of trails to explore, and I want to visit every one before I start to reread the classics.

For my birthday each year, I go in search of Autumn. My fortieth was most successful, as we took the short drive from Atlanta, Georgia to Asheville, North Carolina and I got the closest thing to a New England fall as I had had in half a lifetime.
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This year, I was already living in Autumn. This is the street I walk every day with Tucker for his neighborhood jaunt.

Clearly I needn’t look far to find Autumn this year. I had considered going to Silver Falls State Park, but since I had just been there the night before for the production I’m working on, the thought of driving another three hours round trip after waking up late wasn’t my favorite idea. Also, I learned that my faithful friend isn’t allowed on half of the main waterfall hike through Silver Falls. Apparently, the trails are so narrow (and cliffside) that for everyone’s protection, they do not allow dogs. Having been on a few stretches of such narrow trails, I appreciate the advice.

With Silver Falls off the list, I checked out anything else nearby. With overcast skies and rain imminent, I had to avoid possible flood-prone areas, and Tucker and I are both averse to hiking too long in the rain—especially during major downpours.

I found a quick hike only forty minutes away: Latourell Falls. While Multnomah Falls, just down the road from it, is the tallest in the state at 650 feet, Latourell’s 249 feet is nothing to scoff at. Given the less than ideal weather and that this was a "second choice" falls, I presumed there would be fewer tourists than Multnomah Falls and on any other bright and sunshiny day.

The parking lot proved my theory: very few people were out on this drizzly Friday, and there were no crowds to contend with. The bottom of the falls is actually right at the parking lot down a short trail. While this is kind of a bummer as I like to build up to the main event, it meant that after the falls, the trails would be wide open as those who came just to see the falls would not feel the need to walk any farther. 

The nice thing about a not-so-crowded tourist spot is that everyone assumes you are a tourist. And therefore, they are delighted to help you capture the moment. A kind gentleman asked if I wanted him to take Tucker's and my photo, and I happily said Yes. A birthday photo with my boy is a rare gift.

The man had incredible patience, as he took a number of shots, all of which bring me joy. Seeing Tucker and me moment by moment is actually a better portrait of us than just one in which we’re (sorta) both (sorta) looking at the camera.

Birthday photo done, we headed over the viewing bridge. Tucker did not seem terribly impressed and didn’t care to climb down into the rocks to get a closer view.

So we carried on along the narrow trail, having it all to ourselves since everyone got what they came for visually. They had no idea they were missing out on some spectacular fall colors and cool bridge above.

The trail took us out through a small neighborhood park. There, Tucker placated my need for a fun shot. It was too steep for him to get his front paws up, but I appreciate his effort.

We headed up into the forest, and as the climb took us higher, around every switchback was another view. The Columbia River and the autumn colors were vibrant and alive. No iphone or camera can truly capture the magnificence of Nature’s palette.

We found a little bench some way up, and it looked like the perfect Yearbook Photo place, so I asked Tucker to once more let me take a bunch of photos.

We tried for a shot under an enormous tree, but it was too muddy. Many of the trees here are ancient, and their energy and character are truly something to behold.

I didn’t realize we’d get to another falls (or perhaps, just the “upper falls” of Latourell Falls), so it was a lovely surprise some couple miles in.

It may not seem like much, but on heading farther down the trail, and having a human in the shot, one can see just how tall it is.

By the time we were started our descent, the clouds had had their fill and were about to runneth over. I slipped on Tucker’s rain jacket. While Tucker isn’t a fan of the rain, the jacket is more for me than him. His fur simply does not dry. A raincoat cuts down on the time I need to towel him off.

As we came back around the loop, we got one more look at Latourell Falls. The humans had dispersed; the rain was coming down steady now. Tucker wished he had come with a person who knew enough to already leave and wasn’t trying to get more photo ops. Wet ears and wet head is no fun for Tucker, as he clearly expresses.

So I took one more one more photo of the beautiful falls and we headed back to the truck for Tucker to dry off while I drove back home in the rain.

Being able to experience the beauty of the Falls and the River is an incredible birthday gift.

But sharing it with this guy is what made its indelible mark upon my heart.

Now for something completely different: No falls, very little forest, and a lot of open space. With Tucker’s disenchantment with the falls, I opted for an entirely different trail. I felt we had experienced a lot of the coast lately, so I opted to go inland. Powell Butte was touted as an excellent hike with wide open vistas and a bit of a forest trail. And of course, it was wildly popular. This meant I had to contend with humans-my least favorite element of any hike.

And contend with them I did before I even started. The parking lot is up a winding drive, and consists of three tiers of lots. All of them were full. And due to the roundabout-direction of traffic, you could be on the top tier while someone on the bottom tier exits, and not make it there before the next person up the hill snags the spot.

I didn’t want to give up, nor did I want the mile long uphill climb by parking at the bottom (which I saw a few enterprising folks doing). Instead I decided to exercise patience, and fifteen minutes later, someone left at the right time and I got their spot.
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At this point it was truly late in the day, and taking the forest route would have added some time to the hike, cutting it close to my deadline of sunset. In order to enjoy the hike and not be scrambling at the final moments like the hike was a game show, as I had done at Washington Park, I simply chose a different route—on purpose.

The beginning of the trail was wide open meadow, and despite it being October, Tucker was already panting a little. This was clearly not a mid-summer hike. At the Y in the road to go straight or head right to go down into the woods, we went straight. It was still covered by tree canopy, but it was more of a grove than a canopy. After leaving the grove, we were in wide open meadow again, as most buttes are. Being late in the day, it wasn’t terribly hot.

As we reached the center point, we came upon the main event: Mt Hood.

There truly is something about her. Every day on the way the work, as I cross the Ross Island Bridge, it is a surprise whether or not she shows. When she does, it is almost shocking: her energy and presence is so intense. Other times it’s as if she was never there, and clouds hover in the space where she should be. Sometimes it's a human versus technology battle that causes her disappearing act.

Today she stood in all her glory, and I tried to capture that intensity with a camera, but it just did no good. No matter how much I zoomed in, or how much I zoomed out, that intensity just didn’t come through in the digital print. How can I express how majestic she is? Mt Hood is forty miles from where I stood, and yet seemed to be right here on the hill with us while also being a mirage.

Legend has it that Mt Hood is Wy’east, who was in love with Loowit, the keeper of fire on the Bridge of the Gods. When he and his brother Klickitat (aka Phato) fought over Loowitlatkla, their father turned all three into mountains: Phato bowed his head as Mt Adams, Wy’east stood tall and confident as Mt Hood, and Loowitlatkla stood between them as Mt St. Helen.

Yet I have to say, the energy I feel from Mt Hood is not masculine at all. It is a powerful feminine through and through. Perhaps when St Helens erupted, she made her choice and joined Wy’east. Or perhaps Wy’East has always been the dominant feminine. Or maybe I'm just used to using a feminine pronoun with Nature's greatest works.

I eventually gave up trying to capture in print the elusive energy of Mt Hood, and we meandered across the butte to a spot to see the source of Wy’east’s love: Loowitlatkla in the form of Mt St Helens.

It’s bizarre to think that I was born before she erupted. We always think of volcanic eruptions has ancient history, and while I am on the mature side, I am certainly not yet ancient. The mountain was once 1000 feet above its current height. Lootwitlakla was true to her name "Lady of the Fire" and blew ashes and molten lava in such an explosive manner, her entire top crumbled down. That's what you get for locking up a lady in love.

Tucker and I took one more look at the separated lovers across the butte and then headed back down to the parking lot. Even from there, Mt Hood sparkled in the sunlight in all her majesty.

The energy of the mountain is palpable. There’s something about this place, this town, this stretch of land and sky that I feel is powerful and sacred. Its character and personality is authentic. And I feel connected to it. Perhaps we all do. I can’t put into words why I feel the way I do. There’s just something about that mountain…

As Tucker and I were heading back to the truck, I looked down rather up to the mountain and found that a favorite author of mine tried to put it into words for me:

More accurately, one touch of nature makes us remember that the whole world is kin. For we are all connected, from the ground to the sky and from seas to the mountains, we are one.

We got our ocean fix mid-week when we had to drive to the coast for work. Since we arrived after wrap, we had to find our crew at their hotels, making it a bit of a different adventure than I had expected. However, on the pleasant note, we got to revisit where we had spent Christmas 2015: Cannon Beach, Oregon.

After a quick jaunt on the sands, we took our lunch break, enjoying the sea breeze. When people ask why I don’t settle down and just take a job where I live or work from home, this is why. I get paid to be in places like this.

Since we had already traveled west for the week, on our day off we headed east. There is a little bit of me that still wants to hike the PCT with Tucker, but I know doing so is not in the cards. The entire length is 2661 miles. That's about what we do on a cross country road trip in a few days. Walking it is a different matter. Between his health issues and me just not being in good shape, it’s not the best of ideas. But much like the Appalachian Trail along the east coast, one can hop on and off the Pacific Crest Trail at various points.

​So Tuck and I hopped on for a short trek to Dry Creek Falls (which seems like an oxymoron of a name). The trailhead begins at the Bridge of the Gods, which is considered to be a major point along the PCT, where one crosses over from Oregon to Washington State for the final 500 miles.
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Tuck and I had our backs to the bridge as we started on the trail to the falls. Upward we went, and while there were no spectacular vistas to behold along the way, being held in the warm embrace of the forest was plenty satisfying to me. And of course, the waterfall at the end was spectacular.

I have to wonder if the spraying water, the tall rock walls of the amphitheater, the loud noise of the falls, and the overall general wetness make waterfalls like this an olfactory overload for Tucker. He didn’t seem too happy, with his tail down and ears back. But there was nothing unusual about the place. We even had it all to ourselves for a brief few minutes.

Maybe he was just tired from a long week, but since he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself, I took in the view and we headed back down to the Bridge of the Gods. 
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My general rule when it comes to activities with Tucker: whether it’s a walk in the neighborhood, an agility course, or human shenanigans (like dressing up for a calendar), if one of us isn’t having fun anymore, then we stop. It’s quite simple. Life is too short to willingly continue to do things we don’t enjoy. I know Tucker enjoys hiking; he just wasn't fond of this one. I can't say every hike has been five stars for me either, so maybe we just had a hike he wasn't in the mood for. And like the hikes that haven't been my favorite, I'll take the hike for the experience it was, and next time try something different. Not all paths are worth taking, but once on one, there's no regrets for every trail is part of the journey.

I always think I have drive far off to have an adventure. But the point of Portland was to not have to drive “away” just to get where I wanted to go: Nature. So, taking a neighbor’s advice to check out Washington Park, only seven miles from our Portland abode, we headed out in the afternoon for a short walk.
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The trail was supposed to be the Washington Park Loop, but after missing a right hand turn, we did our own thing.

The effect of going left rather than right cut out the Zoo, the Japanese Garden, and a few other of the more public, probably touristy areas. Evidently my subconscious knows where I want to be: deep in the forest. We ended up heading north rather quickly, and easily crossed the border from Washington Park to Hoyt Arboretum.

I had initially wanted to check out Pittock Mansion, which was supposed to have an excellent view of the city. However, looking at alltrails, I didn’t think I’d make it there and back by dark given our late start of the day. But with our abbreviated “loop” to a more like an a very thin oval, it appeared the mansion wasn’t that far away.

The most delightful thing about Oregon thus far is that we don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to go for a hike. We can meander through the morning, and then sometime in the afternoon head out for a walk. The temperatures are in our perfect zone: 50-70 degrees, even in mid-afternoon. That said, as winter approaches, it does get dark earlier and earlier.

We had till around 6:30pm, and as we came upon the trail crossing that read “To Pittock Mansion”, I took my chances. We could make it back in time.

It was a bit of a climb, but it meant it was all downhill on the way back. So up we went, through the woods. Up and up and across a road and up and up again. If Tuck and I could do Twin Peaks in San Francisco, we could certainly do this.

Much like Twin Peaks, while the hike up was pretty solitary, the landing point was quite busy. As usual, there was an easier, faster, and less sweaty way to get here. I always tend to choose the hard way.
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There, past the chain link fence and crowds of people was Portland proper.

And out beyond that, Mount Hood, one of the three sisters. She is magical, disappearing and reappearing at will. Sometimes twirling a ring of clouds around her like a dancer. Sometimes still and proper, taking in the sunshine and letting it glisten off her brightest whites.

Today she was unassuming, just there, as she always has been, long before man built bridges over the river that ran between us and her. There is something that keeps my eye on her at all times. She is captivating. But eventually, as the magic hour was approaching, I had to look away so we could make the descent back to our trusty steed who was napping at the base of the mountain.

There were many ways back, and I was having some difficulty figuring out which way would get us back before dark. I was trying to outrun the sun, as the sun lazily slid toward the horizon. It was winning. I was panicking.
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We stopped for a brief moment to catch a sight of Mt St Helens.

But I as tried to capture her image, I realized the sun had already slipped behind the trees, and we needed to get back soon. From the hilltop where we stood, I couldn’t seem to get my bearings on which way to go.

I stopped a couple who was coming up from one side and asked how to get back.

“You can’t miss it,” the guy said as I explained here I needed to go. He started to get into some pretty specific details on what I would see to find the right track. Finally his female companion broke in with, “You’re making it was may more confusing than it needs to be. Just head down this path, turn right, and you can’t miss it. You’re so close. Honest.”

I thanked her (and him, for his valiant effort) and Tuck and I headed across the lawn to the path they pointed to. Sure enough, only moments later, feeling rather stupid for not just trying, we found ourselves on the quickest path back to the parking lot.

Indecision is oftentimes has way worse of an outcome than the wrong decision. Especially in hiking, since really there are no wrong paths, just different ways to get to the same place. And as with all hikes and life, the point of doing it isn’t to finish but to experience and enjoy the every twist and turn of the journey along the way, always staying one step ahead of the darkness.