The plan had simple: I would see Krystal in Marin County in the evening, then find a place to stay, and then meet up with Carolina and her beagles at Fort Funston the next morning so Tuck could romp around his favorite haunt. Then we’d drive the five hours south to Burbank.

But the universe finds plans amusing.

Or maybe just mine.

Krystal had thought some friends of hers were coming into town the following day, but they had a quick switch of plans, and were arriving that very same night. While I was invited to come over as well I was not yet comfortable being indoors maskless with people I didn’t know, drinking and eating for a prolonged period of time. Even in my plan to see only Krystal, I had pictured us sitting out on the patio. This wasn’t just for my own protection, but because I had been traveling and staying in hotels; I wanted to reduce my own potential of getting anyone else ill.

So we saw one another outside for a brief moment out on the street, for the first time in nearly two years, and made plans to meet up the next day after her guests had left. My days go from absolute nothing but long naps on the couch and reading to traveling two hundred miles, hiking protected lands, scouting burial sites, and seeing old friends all in a 12 hour timeframe.

I awoke in the morning to another change of plans. Carolina’s husband had tested positive for COVID. So, the Fort Funston romp was a no go. Later in the day, Carolina also tested positive. Although I was bummed to not see her, I was glad to see Krystal, and get an extended time with her as I had no other plans for the afternoon.

She took me to China Beach, where Tuck and I were allowed on the shores, but not in the fishing village.

It wasn’t the side of the Bay I was used to seeing, so for my first time back to the Bay since my exodus in March of 2020, it was truly a whole new experience.

There was no romping like at Fort Funston, but Tuck found a delectable stick and went to town on it.

And after a magical morning of catching up with an old friend in the safety of the outdoors, we began out southward journey--but not before catching a glimpse of the native wildlife.

Leaving here was almost as difficult as leaving Portland.

The Grapevine, the final big “hill” between Central and Southern California, was closed due to snow. There was a detour that would take an additional few hours. Or, we could continue our coastal route, which would take the same amount of time with the detour, but with a different view. I chose the coast.

But alas, that too, was blocked with afternoon traffic. So, after an eventful morning, then eight hours on the road, and still at least two hours from home, I called it a night. One more hotel room, one more night away from my own bed. So be it.

Once more, the universe proved that its yield signs aren't done to anger us, but let us slow down and enjoy ourselves. The delay and the detour gave me a chance to experience something new. Never had we gone this way before, or at least that I could remember.

As we neared the mountain range, the dog settled in to obscure the peaks.

The closer we got, the the thicker the fog became, obliterating the cloudless sky above and beyond.

As if paying homage to Oregon, California showed us that its viewpoints could be just as secretive and time-sensitive.

The sun tried to light our way, but it just wasn’t cutting through the blanket of mist.

So onward we went, until we passed the mountain summit and there in the distance, below the sun and blue sky, was the ocean once more.

After over a hundred days away, we returned to our humble abode, having given our old house a break from our antics.

​The orange trees greeted us with an abundance of fruit.

And the avocado tree showed off its newest babes. I am wishing and hoping the majority of them grow their full potential and remain on the tree till harvest this fall.

2021 was the Year Away after a Year At Home. From Connecticut to Georgia to Massachusetts to Oregon, Tuck and I had been on the road for over nine months of the year. We made it in just under the wire on New Year’s Eve to end the year at home.

But the truth is, Home is wherever we are together. Our little plot of land is our basecamp, our physical place to rest and recoup, and our project to help heal and evolve after years of abuse and neglect prior to our residency.

Our little house needs some attention and love before we leave her to rest in quiet again. Between our healing moments on the house that gives us shelter, you will find us in the nearby wilds, with a city just far enough away to be accessible, but forgotten about once we turn our back to it.

And here we will stay until the open road calls to us again.

The rain began after dark, and while I had driven southbound along the coast before, I suppose I had never taken the 101 at night—during a rainstorm.

Like a rollercoaster, once we began the harrowing ride through the redwood forests along winding roads with sharp turns and no lights, there was no getting off or turning around. Most likely had this been daylight, it wouldn’t have been so bad. In fact, I would have loved to take in the towering redwoods on either side of us. But this just seemed like punishment for leaving Oregon or for cheating on Northern California with Oregon.

We pressed on, knowing that Humboldt County isn’t very dog friendly anyway. Tucker is not allowed in the best redwood forests, except to see the parking lot or walk along the road. So missing out on daylight adventures wasn’t too much of a loss. We ended the rollercoaster ride in Fort Bragg, where Tucker and I had been for New Years at the very end of Before Times. The motel we had stayed at then was booked for the night, but we found another one close by that suited our needs.

The next morning we drove the hour southbound to Point Arena. Before making our way into the mountains to check out our potential burial site, I wanted to see Point Arena Lighthouse and explore Stornetta Lands National Monument, one of the most recent additions to this country’s protected lands, proclaimed to be so in 2014.

​Since the lighthouse was literally at the end of the road, we began there. Point Arena is not only the tallest lighthouse on the West Coast, but it is the closest point on the continental US to the islands of Hawaii. At about 2300 miles away, that’s about the same distance Tuck and I travel for our east coast adventures.

​The clouds of Oregon had followed us. While they stopped dumping on us, they still provided their character-rich heavy background to the sea and bluffs.

There were a few trails, but the open peninsula made it easy to see where I’d end up on any given trail. Being on a short timeline, I opted to extend my gratitude to having been to this place in this time, and then we headed back down the road to Strornetta, whose trails were unseen from the road and lent itself to the joy of discovery.
​
Tucker quickly read up on the rules before entering.

Cows graze on this land, which is why you must keep the gates closed.

It is by far the prettiest cow pasture I have ever been to.

The rains from the night before still left their mark as puddles, but the land was so sandy there was little mud. It was more like puddles of seawater on a grassy, sandy beach.

The craters prove that land doesn’t always go all the way down; sometimes there is ocean beneath it (and maybe thereafter, turtles all the way down).

I had to wonder if the cows warned one another of this. I didn’t see a way they could get back up if they accidentally fell--even in the craters not filled with water.

Off in the distance, we could see the lighthouse we had experienced up close.

The first stream we came across was a little difficult, but not impossible to pass.

We carried on, enjoying all of Nature’s details.

​Even erosion was beautiful.

But then we came to the next stream, one not so easily passable.

Another couple was also trying to find a way across without having to take off shoes, hike up pants, and wade across. The stones made everything just a little more perilous. If you fell, the soft ground wasn’t going to catch you; the hard stone would break your fall—and you.
​
With time running short anyway, I admitted defeat and we headed back across the pasture.

If you have ever seen the ads about California cows being happy, it’s because this is where they spend their days.

As we walked along the bluffs, the skies began to clear to give us that famed California sunshine.

The contrast of low hanging clouds to blue sky to green land and rocky cliffs was stunning. It was if California was reminding me that it was just as good—if not better—than its neighbor to the north.

It had a valid point.

Because Nature knows no boundaries.

I didn’t have to be in Oregon to experience similar ocean and bluffs and skies. And as the skies cleared, it was almost as if to say, “See, in California, the sun shines more often.”

​Definitely a point for California. I need to see the sun.

Tucker and I left the pasture and with still a little time left over since the stream had cut off our southern walk, we headed north toward the lighthouse along the road.

There we found the seal lions, sunbathing and lounging about.

Cows and sea lions have some of the best property on earth.

The sea lions had more of an ocean view, but the cows got the mountain view as well.

From skies to sea to mountains, this entire place was beauty.

But with the hour running short, we headed to the mountains to see the redwoods up close.

We arrived on time despite not having any cell phone service in town, and the address not existing in my decade-old GPS. It was off the beaten path, like a house I’d find down a dirt road out on Skyline Blvd.

Walking down the path to the main entrance building, we met up with the forest steward who showed us around the various trails and told us more about the property. I got to see a few of the resting places for those who had already been buried here. They were subtle, not like a tombstone, but just a small affair, the size of a maple leaf on the ground.
​
There were a couple of trees I felt a connection to.

And one stump.

The stump’s sheer ancientness resonated with my soul, and when I thought of my ashes becoming a part of it, I began to tear up. I asked Tucker what he thought. He could take it or leave it.

It was at a crossroads, so I would get lots of people to come by, and it seemed fitting that I would lay my earthly remains at the crossroads, as that seems to be where I exist in life: helping foster dogs find their homes; showing up in lives of people who are finding their way... I’ve always felt like the camp host for life’s crossroads.

I couldn’t decide right then and there, as it was a big decision. There were no refunds. I could transfer to another tree in another forest if I wanted to, but that was it. Selling it (like one does with burial plots) was still not really worked out in the business structure for Better Place Forests.

I was able to place the stump on hold (which sounds super weird) to think on it. I had to consider if I really needed a destination funeral, if anyone would visit or even want to; or if I was isolating myself in death, as I often did in life. Unlike a state park, this forest wasn’t open to the public without an appointment. Freedom to move about is something I hold dear—even for others.
​
So Tucker and I thanked the forest steward, and I pondered on the journey and our ultimate earthly destination as we headed down the mountain and south toward our next stop, San Francisco, to see our friends and to our city by the Bay.

All things come to an end. But every end is another’s beginning—and in this case it was the beginning of a roadtrip, back to sunny Southern California.

But it wasn’t a smooth ending or exit. Clearly, Oregon and I did not want to part ways.

We awoke on December 27th ready to spend two days on the road before arriving in Point Arena, California. I had an appointment set for the 29th to see a potential burial site for myself. I gotta think ahead (hopefully very, very far ahead). At Better Place Forests, instead of buying a burial plot in a cemetery, you buy a tree—or rather, the rights for your ashes to be buried beneath the tree. Unlike most traditional burial grounds, you are free to also bury your pets’ ashes there as well. Not that there was ever a question about this, but yes, my pups’ and my earthly remains will be together after all of our spirits shed them.

I was excited to finally see the Forest after reading about it for years and to take a lovely drive down the coast, much like Tucker and I had done four years prior. But alas, the state of Oregon still wasn’t up to snuff on their plowing. The main artery to the coast that I had tried on Christmas Day was still covered in snow. And given that the driveway was icy, I was concerned about the rest of the city roadways. Having driven across the polar vortex in February of 2021, and in plenty of winter conditions during my lifetime, I theorized that if could get to an interstate, I’d be fine. But getting to the nearest interstate, I-5, and taking an inland southern route didn’t seem possible either. I knew I wouldn’t make it over Grants Pass on I-5, just north of the California border. That was notorious for shutting down in the winter.

My landlord, who was driving northbound from the Bay Area along I-5, called me first thing in the morning to tell me he wouldn’t be there to see me off. He had gotten just north of Grants Pass when he slid off the road, hitting a snowbank. He had popped a tire and was waiting for a tow truck at a nearby hotel. No one had plowed.

So, by 1pm, with only three hours of daylight left, I made the call to stay another night. The truck was packed, but there was no need to risk my life just to be on time to see where I might want to be when I’m dead. I also had been giving myself a lot of extra time to make it there, so if I waited a day, rather than two short days of driving, it would be one long one.
​
My friend’s Christmas package arrived as we waited, so instead of having it forwarded to California, Tucker got to one more Christmas gift to destroy. Because that’s the point of all toys.

​Waiting out the weather is not something residents of Southern California are used to doing. I had to dig deep to my New England roots to find the patience—and the joy—of postponing my plans to give Mother Nature time to do her thing. 

​I took that time to appreciate our stay, our play, and our moments during our Oregon tour. And Tucker took the time to thoroughly deconstruct his final Christmas gift of the year.

And I got some extra time to clean up the mess his venture made.

Which isn't a bad deal considering how much joy Tucker gets from the whole experience.

The next day we headed south on I-5 (now cleared of snow and ice) until we could cross over to the coast where the temperatures were still above freezing. I still didn’t trust the mountainous terrain—or rather I didn’t trust government transportation departments—to be free from hazards near the border.

It’s a much prettier drive anyway, in my opinion.

Tucker didn't care either way, as for him it's more about the scents than the sights, but he seems to enjoy both. 

While there are no official rest stops along the 101 in Oregon, one can stop and rest just about anywhere. And so we took a moment to enjoy the setting sun and the Oregon beach before crossing back to the Golden State.

State lines are nothing more than man-made imaginary boundaries. The ocean, the land, and the skies do not care for such delineation. We humans put significance on things to create order and give ourselves milestones, even if they are sad ones. I had enjoyed Oregon, and would like to return. But it wasn’t because it was a place named Oregon. It was because in this area of the planet, Nature created a stunning coastline and beautiful forest with cool temperatures and an energy that resonated so in sync with mine that it made me feel at home. But that feeling does not necessarily end when we cross the border. For in northern California, much of the same energy resonates.
​
As the sun took its leave beneath the horizon, we started up our trusty steed once more and continued southbound, past the manmade sign letting us know we were back in the Golden State where redwood trees reach for the skies and the bluffs show off their character as they stand against the ocean.

Just because we were leaving Oregon didn’t mean that the stunning coastline or beautiful forest just ended. There was still much to experience as Mother Nature doesn’t heed manmade borders, but spreads her art as far and wide as her creative vision sees fit. And regardless of the name we put to these places, Tucker and I will experience as many of these places as can fit into our lifetime together.

The weeks leading up to Christmas were supposed to be a vacation for Tuck and me. Job completed, I had planned to explore and enjoy Oregon for a couple of weeks.

But the grey skies…

And the roads…

I can’t say it was the weather. The temperature was delightful. But Portland isn’t super great with their road conditions. I had been warned (perhaps facetiously but it proved accurate), that Portland has only one snow plow.

So we kept close to home as the temperature dropped close to freezing, for my fear of ice. If you’ve ever crossed the bridges in Portland, you’ll understand my paralyzing fear when I envision it at 32 degrees.
​
Tucker and I took a short walkabout close to home on a day that it was at least wasn’t raining.

But then, mid-way through, the skies opened up. Although I love Tuck’s new rain jacket because he keeps so much of his body dry (and because I love the high collar that reminds me a monk or priest), Tuck hates it.

Luckily it’s a quick on and off, much like the faucet in the sky, so he only had to wear it part of the way.

Not knowing if we’d make it to a spectacular Christmas hike, I opted that perhaps Tucker would like a Christmas day of touring pet shops. I needed to do some shopping for my friends' pups, and I think the only thing dogs enjoy more than unwrapping a new gift is being able to go on the adventure of acquiring said gift.

Tucker found one store that had a low area for dog food in which he fit neatly into to receive treats.

Another was actually a dog supply store, dog park, and bar! Unfortunately, I don’t give Tuck a kennel cough vaccine, so he couldn’t register to attend the dog park.

But he was allowed to shop and see the dogs playing inside the park area.

As for Christmas, I had grandiose plans, wanting to drive to the coast for a spectacular seaside hike. There were predictions of snow—at the beach! If I was delighted by a dusting of snow on ferns in the forest, my heart would explode from the beauty of snow falling on sand.

But I guess I hadn’t thoroughly thought through the implication of snow. Or rather, the state’s ability or lack thereof to clear said snow from the major roads.
​
At first it seemed okay, and in fact was rather mystical.

I was enjoying our venture, knowing it was nowhere near freezing and the roads were pretty clear while we travelled through nature’s tunnels of white, and made-made tunnels a well.

But then we came upon a flashing sign, telling us our vehicle needed chains. I do not own chains. I have never needed chains in the twenty years of New England driving. I pondered if this was because we all just knew better than to drive before the plows got to the roads—and they always did within a a few hours, even salting and sanding before the snow hit the ground. Or if this was because the elevation was higher. California also requires chains in many of the mountain towns. I’ve never understood it.

But when we hit the elevation where the snow on the road was as deep as the snow on the curb… I understood.

They just don’t plow.

This was a major artery connecting the coast to the interior of the state. Yes, you did have to cross over a high peak of a mountain, but that’s it. I was pretty sure that if I had been able to traverse the ten miles at the high elevation, I’d come down off the mountain to clear roads.

But I was concerned that once over the top with more snow on the way, we wouldn’t get back. And there was literally nothing—no motels, no hotels, no anything—between here and the beach towns.

So with heavy heart, I turned our trusty steed eastward, back to Portland.

​I had kept my rental house after finishing the job so I could spend Christmas in Portland, knowing being home would just be a lonely place where none of my friends would gather due to COVID anyway. At least here, there were mountains to climb and forests to explore.

So I was certainly disappointed.

We returned home, and rather than wait till evening, as is our usual holiday schedule, I let Tucker dive into his presents.

Because I don’t believe a tree should die simply because I want decorated plantlife indoors one day of the year and I don’t believe in all the energy and waste of a plastic tree, I place Tuck’s presents by whatever hearth we have wherever we may be.
​
He doesn’t seem to mind.

Tuck enjoyed his new gifts as I took in the beautiful yard that was our home for our first venture to Portlandia.

And then, with Tucker's success of completely unraveling one toy and my rising anxiety that I needed to be somewhere other than here for this special day, I packed up and we headed out again--this time to nearby woods. The forest is my church, and I could not go without attending today, even if it wasn’t the parish I had planned on going to.

Because we were arriving to the forest later in the day, we ran into a few more people than I would have liked. For me church isn’t about human community, but about communing with Mother Nature one on one (or one-and-dog on one).

It was spitting rain again, so Tucker had to put on his monk-like robe (which I still contend looks really good and is mighty practical). He's getting used to it.

I admit I was disappointed with the way our Christmas was ending up. When you’re single (and I supposed even if you’re with someone, but more importantly when you’re single), you need to make your own traditions. You are what gives a moment magic. You are who decides your own happiness. I couldn’t control the weather or Oregon’s Department of Transportation. But I could choose a different perspective to find joy in this day.

And so I did.

Upon return, I did my favorite post-hike activity: take a nap with my loyal adventure partner. And as I lay there with Tucker asleep on my arm, I gazed upon his furry head and the beautiful mountain the artist had inlaid the headboard with.

I was with my boy in the mountains, in an area of the United States I had wanted to experience for nearly thirty years. My path had led me to a circumstance in which Tucker and I got to stay here for an entire season and then some, with autumn leaves,  crisp clear air, and the scent of chimney smoke on winter nights. We were here together, exploring, being, loving, and living.

I couldn’t ask for a greater gift this Christmas or any day of the year.
​
May you all find joy in every moment, for the joy and magic is always there; you just need to find the right perspective to see it.

I had been warned that Portland was a bit grey. Having only experienced the beautiful fall here, with had its days of grey, this was all I thought they meant. In comparison to Southern California, it is a big a difference, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

Then December happened.
​
In November, the days of grey started to outnumber the days of sun. By mid-December, I couldn’t remember the last time I had been on a hike in the sunshine. Oddly, my peaceful retreat was giving me bouts of anxiety: any time the sun shone through, I panicked, quickly searching for the perfect hike, believing this would be our one and only shot at walking in the sunshine before we left.

So, that’s what happened this week. The clouds parted, so I quickly geared up, got Tucker into the truck, and headed to the mountains—the LL Stub Stewart State Park which boasted glorious views of the mountain ranges. There was also some snow on the ground in the higher elevation so I chose this one as being nearest with the lgreatest likelihood of clear roads.

The roads were clear, but a half hour and thirty miles later, the skies were not.
​
I was oddly hopeful, even though I am fully aware that, generally speaking, clouds travel west, not east. So it’s not like the sun would follow us from Portland. I just had to hope there was another break in the clouds somewhere over the Ocean that would reach us  at some point in our journey on the mountain.

​I couldn’t turn around now anyway. Tucker was excited to be out and about, and I had to fulfill his expectations. And honestly, I couldn’t turn down experiencing vibrantly and imaginatively named trails like Caddywomper Way, Lilli’s Lollipop, Widowmaker Way, and of course, Crazy Train. Because when I think of nature calling, I think of Ozzy Osborne.

Following the advice of many a trailwalker before us, we meandered out of our way to one of the lookouts (which was also accessible directly via vehicle and paved road… but why take the easy way?)
​
The clouds had decided to stick around, and when we met a forest ranger there, she confirmed that indeed we were at the lookout. We just couldn’t Look. Out.

Consulting the map, she showed us two other viewpoints we might enjoy and may be clear once we got there, if we we were up for walking another hour or so. I figured why not? We were here. And maybe I should focus not on what was out there, but on what was right here.

So off we went.

As we climbed higher through the forest, a dusting of snow appeared on the foliage all around.

I don’t recall ever seeing snow on green ferns. As a New Englander, if there is snow, there is nothing green but the pine trees. Here there was a magical coating of light in this darkened day.

We reached the view point, and yet again, Mother Nature suggested we should focus on the here and now, not the out there.

I admit that the here and now was indeed delightful. Tucker and I don’t do well in the heat, and so this 40-something degree weather was just right for us. And the snow, as if painted by Bob Ross on the tree limbs, was a unique experience for us.

As if I had passed the test, finally focusing on the present rather than the future and out there, a wee bit of blue shown in the sky.

And a bit more…

And as we rounded the corner to the overlook, the sun itself broke through to greet us.

The mist of the clouds still danced between the treetops, and we stayed for a spell, in this quiet place, high in the mountains, enjoying the right here as much as the out there.

Hiking isn’t about the summit. It's about the journey to the summit. Too often, we’re focused on the goal, told to focus on the future so much that we muddle through the present instead of enjoying every twist and turn along the way, every fern blade painted with snow, and every pine needle dusted with frost.

While I did not get the vitamin D I had been hoping for, I did get all the nutrition and soul-food I needed by just being on the trails, in the woods, out in the Oregon mountains with my beloved companion souldog.

Out there in the distance can be a glorious sight, but what really matters is right here, right now, which is all we really have.

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.
​
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.
​
​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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.