Since Tucker and I missed out on an actual beach on our last adventure, we decided to spend a few hours, and about seven miles walking, on another one: at Point Reyes.
Tucker seemed pretty happy to be there.

​There was plenty to climb on.

​And even a stick to chew on.

​From beach to bluff, there was plenty to sniff.

We had the entire beach ourselves. Or so we thought. As we took a break, resting and taking in the ocean air, I looked over and thought, “Huh, that rock sure looks like a giant seal. Weird.”
​
A few minutes later, when we resumed walking and went by it, I realized the large lump on the beach was indeed an actual elephant seal!

It sneezed and wipes its eyes. Finding another human on the bluff trail, I asked, “Is that seal okay? Does it need help?” thinking it was beached. To which he responded, “No, they just hang out up here and sunbathe. She’s fine.” That would explain this notice in the parking lot:

Tucker and I continued down the empty beach, occasionally climbing up onto the bluff and back down again, when it finally became clear that Tucker was indeed all tuckered out.

​I let him rest some, and since he was content not to get to the overlook, I accepted this as the end of his trail.

​After he rested and I took in the saltwater air and beauty of the solitude and ocean, we headed back toward our trusty steed, almost three miles away.

​From atop the bluff on our way back, Tucker smelled his kindred spirit, and suggested that he keep her company for a spell. 

Although he wanted to be closer, I decided this distance was much safer. I’m used to living with a being who doesn’t know the sheer force of his weight and damage he could potentially do with it; I didn’t need him to meet his match.

​And so Tucker lie as next to her as I allowed, shadowing her position. I hope the two of them communicated in some way, perhaps on a dreamlike plane of existence, where they shared their stories as they dozed in the warmth of the sun, listening to the waves crash upon the shore.

I discovered that the bluff trails were easier on Tucker as he was exhausted from walking in the sand, so I awoke my sleepy kid and we went back up on the hill, making our way back to the parking lot.

There was still plenty to enjoy, as the ocean's scents and stories carried on the wind.

We didn’t get to the lighthouse on this trek, but it was my first time ever experiencing an elephant seal this up close and personal. I imagine it was the same for Tucker (although he hasn’t been forthcoming with his adventures prior to meeting me so I could be wrong.)
​
I say Tucker is a beach dog as he enjoys it, but really what he loves is the scents and sounds of the ocean more than the beach itself. He needn’t run through the waves as other dogs do, or race headlong across the sandy beach. But to lie and listen to the sounds of the sea is pure bliss. I couldn’t agree more.

Pirate’s Cove was the first hike I bookmarked when I preparing for our San Francisco gig. A 3.6 mile hike along the cliffs at Muir Beach, it is a part of the Golden Gate Recreational Area—one of the most dog friendly of the federal lands. And then the government shut down the federal lands over a disagreement on budgets. Although Mother Nature never truly “closes,” roads can be blocked and chained off and parking lots closed. With an hour’s drive to get there, I wasn’t going to risk being turned away.

That hour’s drive took us over the Golden Gate bridge and out from under the clouds that had covered the city for much of the week. It’s been said of New England, “If you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute.” Here is the Bay Area, “If you don’t like the weather, just go about mile in any direction. It might not be better, but it’ll be different.”

And so it was on Superbowl Sunday. As we crested the meadows outside of Muir Forest and drove down the switchbacks to Muir Beach, the grey clouds parted and sunshine lit up the landscape. The parking lot was mostly empty. The town to the north was just a few streets, huddled up to the seaside, its nearest neighboring town many miles away over hill and dale. It made wonder if people who first settled here came from the inner regions and found it so beautiful, they chose not to return, or if they came from the sea and decided there couldn’t possibly be anywhere better to live than here.

Tucker and I crossed the bridge and headed along the dirt path that ran alongside the beach. There were a few families playing the in sand and chasing waves, but it was no southern California beach party. The beach here is more Oregonian (if just a word can exist.) The dramatic rocks, the cold, harsh waves: it’s not a beach you lie in the sun and catch some waves; it’s the kind of beach you sit and admire the awe and power of nature.
​
The trail to Pirate’s Cove was clocked at only 3.6 miles, so I suspected this to be a two hour hikes tops. I was wrong. We did walk along the well-marked trail, but we couldn’t just walk. I felt a visceral need to simply stand and look out at the water and land, the crashing waves, the curves of the bluffs: to stand in awe of nature.

I didn’t even reach for a camera each time. I just let it all wash over me, let the wind bustle through me. Off in the distant, I spied Colt Tower—all the way in San Francisco, worlds away from this magical place by the sea.

​The trail wound around the side of the puffy pillows of land, and eventually led to the final descent. There are few times I have turned around during a hike. Like Tucker, I am goal-oriented. Or perhaps, it is Tucker’s need to push every boundary that leads him to not stop until he has reached the end of the trail. But here, 350 feet from the promised land, I had to turn away.

​Dog on leash plus skull & crossbones pictures doesn’t fair well. Looking down at the trail, it was more mountain erosion than an actual trail. The mud and muck with boulders and rocks combined: I knew I couldn’t get down it and back up it safely later, even without a dog at the end of a leash. Perhaps had we come at a more drier time of the season it would have been doable. But for now, I had to content myself with all the experiences I had already had.

Certainly it was not a waste. The hike was a beautiful walk along the sea. The waves crashing upon the rocks and the birds riding the winds above were magical to see. I wish we had been able to go those last few feet, but I had to consider safety over everything else.

And so we turned around, Tucker accepting that this, not the beach, was the trail’s natural end for us. We started the trek back up and over the meadows, looking northward to all the potential of the open ocean.

The skies above the hills showed us we need not make a dangerous descent in order to experience beauty:

​Pirate’s Cove was just the name of the trail, not the destination. For the journey is always the destination, and we arrive the moment we put one foot in front of the other.

The Peninsula is my haven: the redwood groves along the mountain ridge, the crashing waves on the cliff’s edge, the fog that rolls in, sweeping over bluffs and along the mountains. There is a peace in the ancientness, the sound of the water and the smell of earth and trees.

Unfortunately, most of the Open Space Preserves on the Peninsula are dog-free zones. Tucker and I can walk along Skyline Blvd on the “sidewalk” of foliage, but not within the vast expanses of redwood forest that are protected on either side of the highway. In my search to find a forest for Tucker and I to be in, I came across Thornewood—one I had not noticed before. The main entrance was near Skyline and LaHonda, with the trail trickling down the mountain to Woodside’s less inhabited areas. I’m not a fan of starting a hike at the top; I like to get the hard stuff out of the way, reach the pinnacle, and then have a relaxing journey down, so it didn’t seem like the perfect hike… until I found the back door.

At the bottom of the trail in Thornewood was another parking lot. The little dirt patch that looked like a turn-out for slow vehicles going up the winding mountain road was actually a place to rest my steed at the trailhead.
​
Exiting the vehicle, I took in the scent that brings me home: the redwood forest. The sound of water over rocks could be heard, a kind of atmospheric music to add auditory joy to the already visually stunning experience. Stepping into the forest is like stepping back in time. The soil and fallen leaves give just a little under your feet, adding a softness and warmth to every footfall. The colors green and brown radiate from all around, almost filling the air. Bits of fog still remain, and you unwittingly inhale them with each breath.

We crossed the bridge that carried us dryly over the stream and started our vertical climb through the forest. 

​Each switchback gave us a new perspective on our surroundings. Walking through a preserve like this I am in awe not just of nature, but of the people who care for and tend to it. There are no words for the beauty when you walk such a trail:

​We rose through the grove, still never quite reaching the heights of the redwoods themselves. 

​Out from under the cozy embrace of the forest, we could see for miles. Hills and farmlands went all the way to the horizon.

We went to the main entrance, the one that was at the top of the hill, and I was thankful I decided on taking the opposite route back. The sweeping vistas are a sight to behold, but it is not the way to end a hike for us. After looking out across the trees, I can't just walk back to my truck and drive away; I must walk through the woods, let the images settle in while I walk, simmering in my soul and branding into my heart as we make our way back down the mountain.

​Although I prefer solitude on our hikes—the forest, my dog, and me—the few people we came across felt the same and so we bonded in that way misfits and outcasts do: we let our dogs do the talking. One little black and white Staffie girl wanted to run Tucker around in circles on the trail. I let Tucker’s leash go for a brief moment of trust so he could chase her back. I couldn’t let him be teased by a girl. She had excellent recall and for the few moments of joy, I hoped he would follow her should they go too far off trail. Between her two people and me, the three of us proved to be enough obstacles to dodge in their play as they ran up and down the switchback trail. When our dogs were thoroughly worn out, we both leashed back up and headed in opposite directions with a smile and a wave.

​The forest is a magical place: this cathedral ceiling of life above, dancing in the sunlight, the smell of earth and timelessness that radiates from below, the babbling brook that provides music. Around each switchback is a new vista to behold and perhaps even other forest friends to meet. We speak of soulmates as those individuals we connect to deeply and more profoundly than can be put into words. While many people feel the same about dogs, speaking of their “heart dog,” I prefer the same terminology: Tucker is my souldog. And now I discovered one more connection: the soulspace. Like a soulmate, the soulspace is where your heart is truly at peace. It feels as if you were born of the soil, and the air you breathe there rejuvenates not just your body but your soul. When you stand in your soulspace, the air wraps itself around you in a loving embrace. While our life paths will take us many places, it is the soulspace we hold within us that we share with the world, and it is the soulspace we will always return to.

Tucker and I wish for each of you to find your soulspace--that place where your heart is at peace and you feel that connection to self, and earth, and the universe both in the heavens and within you. If you've been lucky enough to find your souldog, let him lead: he knows exactly where it is.

Four score and seven year ago…

No wait, that’s not it.

It was only one score ago that I first walked the streets of San Francisco, visiting a friend before heading south to start my Los Angeles life. Seven years ago, as I had hoped from that first day in 1998 in San Francisco, I finally got a gig here. During the day, I sat at my desk and looked out the window that faced the Bay. At night, I drove up 92 and across Skyline Blvd to a guest house in the redwood forest. I spent my weekends hiking the woods along Skyline and every other place north and south of the city. The seven months I lived here engrained in me what I knew my whole life: I belong here.

The movie that brought me here was Chasing Mavericks. I new nothing of surfing and had no desire to take up the sport. However, what I learned on that film has given me a deep respect for those who surf, as I realize that surfing for them is what hiking is to me: it’s a connection to the planet, to life, to all existence. I feel that when my feet tread forest floors; they feel it when they ride that wave.
​
In all those seven months, and even all the times I’ve come to visit since then, I’ve never hiked the bluffs above the beach the movie is named for—the premiere surfing spot Mavericks Beach. I felt it was about time to do so, especially with Tucker by my side. Starting across from Half Moon Bay airport, the trail takes you up and through Pillar Point Bluff, up to Pillar Point, and down to Mavericks Beach in a little over 5 miles round trip.
​
The trails looped around on the bluff, and before heading toward the open waters, we travelled inland, where the clouds hung low on the tops of the mountains peaks.

​Upon seeing the ocean, that brilliant Tucker smile appeared.

​Out in the distance, that golf ball shaped thing (apparently radars for the US military), is Pillar Point.

​Tucker was allowed along the cliff’s edge, but down below the beaches were off limit to him. It wasn’t until we reached Mavericks Beach that Tucker could climb up onto the rocks in the harbor.

He even ventured far enough to get his feet wet.

But of course he had to if he wanted to enjoy the natural agility course--and he's never been one to turn down a chance to climb on anything.

There were no surfers out that I could spot, but there were birds aplenty out on the rocks and people with dogs running about the beach and rocks at low tide.

Tucker enjoyed the experience so much, he decided to act as greeter for a short spell to those who walked up the trail from the parking lot.

​Although I am not a surfer, I feel a connection to Mavericks for what the film was for me. It was during that shoot that I found where my heart belongs; I envisioned exactly what I wanted in a house if I couldn't live here now; I found that house in Burbank and the job provided what I needed to buy it; and most importantly, because of all that, my life was set up so when I met Tucker a year later, there was nothing stopping me from adopting him.

Mavericks, then, is responsible for not only letting me find and experience my soul space--that place where my heart soars and my soul is at peace--but also for blazing the trail to my soul dog.

While surfers love Mavericks for the giant waves that challenge their skill and give them the ride of their life, I love Mavericks for the wave it produced in my own life. I'm still riding it, and loving every second of it.

When I envision Christmas, I think of New England. Bing Crosby’s White Christmas and Holiday Inn (two similar plots which get mixed up in my memory) are the epitome of winter. In real life, there’s sledding and snowball fights and hot chocolate while your snowsuit dries by the fire. That’s my childhood version of Christmas.

As a travelling freelancer, my adult version of Christmas differs quite a bit from my New England upbringing. And yet the spirit remains the same. The feeling isn’t carried down from the heavens on snowflakes; it comes from within us as we experience and celebrate the light returning to the earth: The Winter Solstice.
​
While others bundle up Christmas Eve and head out to their parishes for communion, sermons, and singing, I go to bed early to be awake for my Christmas morning church service. It is not in a manmade cathedral, but rather out in the woods, under the towering redwoods and along the bluffs, overlooking the vast and powerful ocean. My church has no walls, and its ceiling is the sky above.

This year, with the national parks being closed or unattended, I chose county parks and beaches as my church. The highways around San Francisco were clear on Christmas morning, so it was a short drive down the coast to Santa Cruz. Greyhound Rock was to be the ultimate destination, but because high tide was noonish, I chose to delay our travels to later in the afternoon and explore Santa Cruz from Moran Lake to Pleasure Point.

Starting in a neighborhood of seaside town bungalows, we took a dirt path between residences and around what was supposed to be a lake. It appeared to be more of an ambitious pond, rather than a lake. Here is where I realize that New England has an entirely different criteria for “lake” than California does.

The lake/pond ended at the road that cut across and above it. On the other side was a plot of beach, no bigger than my Burbank front lawn.Our feet hit sand and Tucker sniffed the rocks and seaweed that had come up on shore. It was before noon, but the tide was clearly rising, evidenced by the water lines that were almost to the road.

Tucker climbed up on some rock outcroppings on the edge of the beach, looking out over his domain. The leash being short (since we were near the road, he wasn’t allowed his usual extra few feet of freedom), I had to join him or he’d be pulled down off his perch. I put one foot upon the nearest rock, and instantly discovered it was not yet quite rock but still in its sand phase of existence. My foot fell through, crumbling the sandpile and my balance. I fell backwards, just as the tide roared up on shore and ran under me, soaking my feet, pants and butt. My backpack had broken my fall, so at least my shoulders hadn’t gotten drenched.

I righted myself quickly, feeling the salt water slide into my back pocket where my phone was. I grabbed my phone, and immediately silently praised Otterbox for its impenetrable case. I still took my phone out of the case just to make sure there wasn’t any trapped water, and found it to be perfectly dry. I checked my backpack—my paper journal had also been spared. It was 10am on Christmas morning, and although I stood on the side of the road with wet and sandy jeans, my socks full of water, soaked underwear, I was overwhelmed with thanks that my words and my digital map/camera/communication device were all in working order.
​
Tucker and I carried on along the streets, and I was first surprised at how many people were out and about. Then I realized I’m in a place with like-minded people, so why wouldn’t they all want to spend the day as I did? More surprisingly, not only did no one who actually witnessed me take my fall at the beach say a thing to me, but no one gave me funny looks or said a word to the inexplicable wet woman with a pitbull as she walked along the sidewalk toward Pleasure Point. I suppose in a surf town, you’re just used to seeing damp people wandering about.

​The sidewalks were full of families and couples and individuals. There were dogs aplenty with their human companions. Out in the ocean, surfers waited patiently to catch the perfect wave (see black dots behind Tucker.)

​Tucker seemed as happy as I did to be out and about on this adventure. 

I hadn’t expected it to be so populated, nor so civilized. From the map, I expected open land, not a sidewalk around the cliffside with homes on the other side of the street. But that’s okay—we’d get our serene moments later on at the beach. This was our fellowship time.

“Oh my god, he looks like Lily,” I heard a woman say as she walked toward us with a man, a child, and a very happy, tail-wagging brown dog about Tucker’s size. “We recently lost our Lily and she was a brindle just like him, “ she said to me.  “He’s been really sad since she passed away. We all have.” Her pup was all wags, and I imagine Tucker was hearing tales of Lily as well. “They were best friends. I wish I had my phone so you could see a picture.”

We all spoke for a short while, she telling me stories of Lily, and I answering questions about Tucker. Our canine companions finished up their conversation as we did, and as they walked away I thought about those little signs we get from the universe. Coincidences maybe. Or maybe we attribute meaning to things that aren’t there. But maybe, just maybe, they are indeed messages. As my thoughts came together about the eternity of the soul and relationship to the physical world, a black and tan dachshund walked toward me with her person at the end of the leash. I almost laughed out loud. If that little doxie was a nod from Dutchess then perhaps Lily had somehow arranged for Tucker to come across her beloved family this morning. While we look for signs in the universe, we might very well be the signs others are waiting for.

With cheer in my heart, I stopped for Tucker to enjoy a little story time along the beachfront where someone had set up this adorable scene.

The sound of jingle bells—actual jingle bells, not the song—made me to turn toward the street. There I witnessed the equivalent of New England’s Norman Rockwell Christmas, California style:

In the empty road, a lean black dog in a red and a white sweater, donning sleighbells around his neck, raced down the street on a ten foot leash, his twenty-something human guardian on a skateboard sailing behind.

Now that is the quintessential Santa Cruz Christmas.

Knowing we could never top that, Tucker and I headed back to my trusty steed where we loaded up and headed to our more private portion of our church service: Greyhound Rock.

From the highway, it was rather unassuming: just a parking lot sparsely populated. Indeed this would be the quieter part of our day.

Once parked, looking over the cliff, we could see the beautiful beach below and the waves crashing up on the rocks. The trail down to the beach wasn’t obvious. It was definitely keeping itself hidden, special, only for those who truly wanted to find it.
​
The steep incline had a few tiers to look out over the beach.

​And down below, the tide was halfway to it’s lowest point, allowing us a vast area to walk:

​Tucker always seems happy at the beach. He walks briskly away from the tide coming in, but always seems to love walking and galloping upon the sand.

His ears in the wind and smile on his face is all I need to fill my heart with joy.

​Mother Nature even provided him a little Christmas gift:

​I don’t know why I spend money on manmade toys when nothing can beat a simple stick steeped in seaweed and crustacean carcasses.

As with any walk or hike, Tucker needs to go from one boundary to the other, pushing the limits as to how far he can go. We probably could have walked further, but I was worried that I might not judge the tide and end up stuck on the wrong side of a cliff’s edge. I was finally dry; I didn’t care to be covered in ocean again.

​With the sun about to set in less than an hour, I was hoping to make it up to Skyline Blvd to watch the sun set over the ocean after driving through the sacred redwood forest where my heart is home. ​

We stopped off to give Methuselah Solstice greetings. I don’t believe Tucker has ever met her, but he seemed slightly unimpressed… or perhaps just tired from his long day of Christmas adventuring.

​Back at our humble San Francisco cabin in the city, Tucker had his special dinner (I have no idea why it tastes good… it sounds disgusting.)

​And then it was time to open gifts.  After seeing Tucker with a broken tennis ball he had found on the beach a week earlier, I questioned my purchases. Perhaps random trash was better than a new toy.

​But it seems he liked what he got as well. So, I guess his taste is like mine: I like new things, but truly appreciate the antiques for the stories they hold.

Christmas is no longer the Bing Crosby and Norman Rockwell images of my childhood. But that’s okay. We make our own traditions as we grow up, and the Christmas spirit is alive and well no matter where we are as it resides within us.

Tucker and I wish you all a happy holiday season. May you always find the Christmas spirit within your heart, no matter where you are or what time of year it is. Wishing you all blessings of love and light.

Three hundred and fifty-eight days (just shy of one year) after Tucker and I arrived back from our last location gig and subsequent trek across the States, we loaded up our trusty steed and headed north. Back home to the redwoods… sort of.
​
Although our weekend personal getaways take us to San Francisco proper, our own home-away-homes during our location gigs have always been among the redwoods on the peninsula. There, the sidewalks are paved with fallen leaves and the smell of earth permeates everything, even when the windows are closed.

This time though, there were no such cabins available. As a runner up for accommodations, I had been hoping for a beach house in Pacifica or even a house in Daly City that might have a yard but even that search came up empty. And then, a week before take off, a search lacking filters came up with this beauty (photo from MLS):

It was as if someone had secretly stolen a redwood cabin from the woods and tucked it away in their backyard in the city. Although I would miss my morning walks in the woods, the commute to work would be wonderfully short, and once the door to the street was closed, Tucker and I would have our own private cabin. No one floor flat and no cramped quarters of a junior one bedroom like the other city options I had inquired about. A proper house (only 700 square feet, but still a stand alone house), in a small garden, where Tucker and I could be safe, secure, and forget we were only steps away from a concrete jungle.

I must admit though: it's not all concrete.

At the end of our street, just a ten to fifteen walk away (depending on how much sniffing Tucker needs to do), is Kite Hill—a quarter acre mound of green where numerous trails from different parts of the city (and elevations of the city) intersect. Here, people come to just look out across the bay or let their dogs socialize in the morning. 

Even within the city, there are strange pockets of nature, as if nature fought back, refusing to give up every square inch to manmade edifices—no matter how beautiful they might be.

​One afternoon Tucker and I wandered about this forest known as Sutro Park which, although it had only a couple miles of trails, seemed many miles away from the city that surrounds it.

Tucker found this meta art piece rather ridiculous. Humans are always trying to replicate Mother Nature's work, but here in her own gallery it was blasphemous. 

On the other hand, this is exactly what this city is about: little gems of creativity and individuality. And an incredible respect and reverence for nature. This was merely someone's expression of that. That love of nature is reflected in the architecture and in the city design as a whole.

Just from Kite Hill, I could see three green spaces: Corona Heights, Tank Hill, Twin Peaks. I could see people on those mounds of earth, so I estimated they couldn't possibly be that far sway. I decided Tucker and I should trek to a couple of those green spaces and get to know the city.

Indeed it was not far—it just a lot of ups and downs to get there.
​
Corona Heights Park was only half an hour walk on city streets before our feet touched soil again. Up through the dog park to the tippy-top where we could see much more of the city and the bay.

That mound out near the water is San Bruno Mountain. I had looked into staying near there as well, but learned that Tucker would not be allowed on that grassy knoll. It's one of the few green spaces within the city that is not dog friendly. It was immediately taken off my list of possibilities.

Although Corona Heights offered a lovely view of the Bay, I still longed for the westward view, the ocean, the place where the fog rolls in, and so we headed northwest to Tank Hill.

Many hills (and about twenty minutes) later, we arrived at its base. There, in the distance, those two little reddish pillars are the Golden Gate Bridge.

​We climbed the hill to find more people here than at Corona Heights. 

Everyone was standing facing east, looking out at the Bay that we had seen from Corona Heights. I wanted something different. So we went around the rocky outcropping to find the view that suited us better:

​There was still city, but much more of Nature and a lot less of Man to be seen.

​Tucker and I sat on the grassy knoll with rocks behind us, getting to see the most of nature that we could this deep in the city.

​San Francisco is a beautiful city. I’m not knocking it. I’m just more of a woods and sea kind of person. However, every night when I walk Tucker, I take the time to really see every individual house (and hope no one thinks I’m casing the joint) to appreciate the attention to detail. The details make up the whole and every distinctly individualized house makes up the city itself. These patches of green spread about the hills and valleys is what makes San Francisco so unique. People realized that Nature is important and that open space must be preserved. It’s why real estate is so expensive here: there’s a limited amount to reside in. The rest is for Mother Nature.

​Even secret passageways have the touch of Nature—like this one we took to get down from Tank Hill. It’s called Pemberton Lane—four city blocks of stairs. And on every riser flat was an entrance to a home. People live here as if tucked away in a fairie glen.

In under two hours, Tucker and I had traversed over four miles of the city and spent a good deal of that time on soft earth. So overall, it’s not bad to live in the city. But we will absolutely be venturing beyond the city streets as often as we can to be under towering canopies of redwoods and along the shore, taking in the sea air and watching the fog roll in.

And that's another great thing about San Francisco: you don't even need to leave it to get to the ocean.

Seldom am I in Southern California for my birthday. I knew that after spending last year in the Blue Ridge Mountains, nothing I could do this year could possibly top that. That’s the downfall to doing a big thing for your 40th: the rest of your 40’s pales in comparison.

However, my annual quest remains the same regardless of where I am: to find Fall. In Los Angeles, I worried autumn may never come. After a hot summer, the fall wasn’t looking any cooler. Leaves change color when the kiss of frost is touched by the morning sun. We had sunshine aplenty, but frost was nowhere to be found.

An online search for where to go to see autumn colors in Southern California brought up a trail called Ice House Canyon in part of Mt. Baldy—a mountain I had yet to explore. It was listed as 7.7 miles up and back which is a bit long for Tuck and me, but with an elevation gain of 2637 feet, I thought the length might prove in our favor as it would be less of an incline. I honestly was going for the parts that touted the fall colors near a stream on the canyon floor, so if we didn’t make it all the way up the mountain, so be it. At least I’d see fall.
​
Autumn in the Golden State is exactly that: golden. Seldom do you get the reds and oranges and other colors that blanket New England. It’s all a yellow-gold.

In that way, the trail did not disappoint. It only disappointed me in comparison to last year’s North Carolina’s adventure.

After less than an mile of hiking, I figured out that this trail was named Ice House Canyon not for the chill in the air, but because the giant white rocks gave an illusion of bricks of ice tossed into the valley.
​
For Tucker, this was instant agility heaven.

A stream ran along the trail for quite aways, a bubbling brook for our auditory pleasure.

And then the ascent began…

​The ice blocks petered out, and what was left was a sandy trail. But up above, the sky was a stunning rich blue, unmarked by clouds.

Down below, the trees clung to the steep land, still reaching to the heavens.

A fews hours after leaving the canopy of gold on the canyon floor, ​we did indeed reach the Saddle. However, my GPS had clocked us at 5.5 miles, not 3.6—a hefty difference in space and time.

The thing about the saddle is that it’s the low point, not the pinnacle. The best views were right before we dipped back into the saddle. But I still longed for Blue Ridge Mountains. Here the mountains are majestic and high—but also often bare from the climate. I am, afterall, in a desert.

I made it a point to still find some green:

​Tucker decided he needed a rest having reached our goal, without concern that we now needed to go back the way we came. Since he is always courteous when I need a rest, I allowed him his and waited.

​I don’t know what dreams Tucker was having, but I think what I was seeing beat anything he saw behind his closed lids.

It wasn't the Blue Ridge Mountains or the rolling hills of New England, but it was still beautiful. It's just a different style of beauty. Mother Nature is diverse, and as I sat there looking out over the thorny plants and harsh landscape, I felt blessed to be able to visit so many of her different, yet equally stunning, galleries.

We had been hiking for over 3 hours, and although I wanted to let Tucker rest more, we needed to get back down the mountain. I assumed the descent would be significantly quicker than the ascent, but I was wrong.

Tucker is very goal-oriented. He will push through to reach the finish line (i.e., the top of a mountain), failing to realize that we aren’t actually finished; it’s just the first goal. The second goal is to make it back to the car.

Less than a half mile into our descent, Tucker held a sit in… then a lie down. I waited five minutes, uneasy that this portion of journey could extend into nightfall if we continued at this pace.

As I watched him nap, I realized I need to add a rescue harness to my backpack—something to carry him out should he become injured. He wasn’t injured. He wasn’t suffering from a life-threatening incident. He was just too dang tired to keep walking.

I urged him on and when we came upon three boys in their twenties taking a break on their way up to smoke some pot, Tucker decided these guys were totally his speed. He lay down beneath one of them who was sitting on a rock in the middle of the trail.

I enjoyed conversation (and a slight contact high) while Tucker took another ten minute nap. Once the boys were done with their break, Tucker and I resumed our downward journey.

Every time Tucker stopped, I wished I had something to carry him in. Back on the canyon floor, Tucker came across a family who had stopped to eat lunch among the golden leaves. With no formal invitation, Tucker let himself into their circle off the trail and lay down as if this was his family now and promptly fell asleep.

It hadn’t been since Mt Shasta that Tucker had been this exhausted on a hike. I had wanted to wear him out some so I didn’t feel guilty leaving him behind for my birthday dinner in the evening, but I guess we went a little too far.
​
​One of the boys had questioned if perhaps Tucker’s hiking days were over. I exclaimed No! Absolutely not, he’s only six. He’s got at least five more years left. As he ages, I know our hikes will need to be shorter and less strenuous. But I’ll never go hiking without him. And if he needs to stop, then I’ll stop with him. Because I’ll never leave him behind. And he’ll never leave me either.

So I didn’t get a New England Autumn this year; I had one last year. So I didn’t get an easy hike; I still got to explore nature. And ultimately, the greatest gift of all is with me every day: my constant and loyal canine companion. Whether we’re hiking to the highest mountain peaks, strolling through meadows, or stopping to take in the fresh air and view, we’re on this journey of life together, side by side... even if I can't manage a proper selfie together to prove it.

Different neighborhoods of the same city have their own energy, their own feel. Whether its the inhabitants or the houses, or the traffic patterns, or a combination of all those things and something more ethereal, the same is true of the forests. Except the houses and traffic patterns play no role. It just is the personality of that particular tract of woods.

Guernsville had a dark undertone to its personality. Deep in the woods, where the house we rented was placed, the forest was silent. At night, and especially during the day, I expect to hear the leaves rustle, woodland creatures scurry about, and the sound of birds. Inside the house I could not tell if the windows were open or closed—both situations were equally silent. There was no sound of birds in the morning. And no sound of night creatures after the sun had set.

However, sound travelled easily. Two men building a cabin a quarter of a mile down the road could be heard conversing as easily as if they sat across the dining room table from me.

Despite this, Tucker was ease. He gave no hint of feeling we would be set upon by either a very real living human murderer or, less likely, demonic goblins of the night. So I merely noted the eery silence and gave my respect to the towering trees above.

Not wanting to spend another day on pavement, Tucker and I headed north out of the silent redwood grove to Stillwater Creek Regional Park. Unlike the state parks, Sonoma County’s parks allow human and canine partners to traverse their trails together.

The road to get the park was a coastal highway, winding along the curves of the bluff overlooking the ocean. So unfortunately, I have no photos of its beauty due to the tight turns and the need to have both my hands on the wheel at all times.
​
We arrived at the campground, parked, and every molecule of my body sighed in peaceful thanks as my boots hit soft forest earth.

Ah yes, this is what we came for.

Tucker was just as thankful:

​The prehistoric ferns and mosses…

​The rock-bottomed streams…

The towering trees—although not ancient now, they were new growth, to be ancient a thousand years hence...

The random little meadow…

And a schoolhouse.

Wait what?

Along the well-marked path of the park was a small cul-de-sac trail that ended in a meadow marked “Fort Ross School.” Locked up due to vandalism, we couldn't go inside, but we were able to peak into the windows to see what 1800’s schoolhouse life was like. The school was built in 1885 and perched on a bluff overlooking the village of Fort Bluff a few miles south of its current location. It was disassembled piece by piece and re-erected south of the village, in the early 20th century. Then it moved again… and again. Until it finally landed here, this little piece of history tucked away in this redwood grove on county property.

​This forest isn’t silent like Guernsville. It has the rustling of life that feels safe and protected. It retains its mystic qualities while being welcoming to outsiders, and protects any and all who come to visit.

Perhaps that openness is due to it’s approximation with the sea. A trail from the grove led straight to the ocean (crossing a man-made two-lane highway.)

A little cove, tucked away from the large expanse of ocean, was small and covered in rocks. ​It didn’t seem as comfortable for Tucker as Shell beach was, but maybe after six miles in the woods, he just didn’t care where he lay his body.

​More than other worldly, it felt other-timely. The forest itself always harkens to an age before humans. This beach seemed to go back in time too: to a simpler time when families would come to this little private cove to teach their children to swim, or teenagers snuck out of the house to meet up to drink beer and have a bonfire in this little bit of beach hugged in a loving embrace by rocky cliffsides. It was from another time.

​Perhaps it was some playful sea sprite then that hit a button on the camera to show me what Tucker would have looked like here in the 1970’s.

It was a small cove, but Tucker made sure he explored every inch of it.

By the time we reached the campground parking lot, the sprite whisked us through the decade and into the 1980’s.

From forest to beach and through decades of time, our little trek in this neighborhood was through. It was time to head back. On our southward journey, I spied the fog starting to make landfall. We had to make one more beach stop.

Goathead Beach was off limits to dog, but the beach just south of it, Blind Beach, was dog friendly. The road led to both Blind and Goathead, so I stopped at the tiny parking lot above Blind (I imagine not being able to see it from the parking lot would account for its name), and waited for one of the dozen spots to park my trusty steed.

Although we couldn’t see the beach that was our destination, Goathead was prominent in our view.

​Although the only thing separating us from Shell Beach which we enjoyed so much yesterday was an insurmountable cliff outcropping with waves crashing against it, this beach, like different forests, had its own personality. The black sands that twinkled with a rainbow of colors was still the same, but the boulders and rocks were nowhere to be found on the beach itself. Out in the ocean, though, huge cathedral sized natural monuments stood.

Rocks like this always make me think an ancient city has collapsed and these are the remnants of their fortresses.

​Petrified trees still had a few centuries to go before turning to rock, but were just as interesting to look at and sit on.

Tucker surrounded himself with them.

He lied on the soft, warm black sands as the fog rolled in.

​There is an inexplicable magic that settled overs the cliffs and beaches as the fog rolls in. As much as I enjoy a watching a glorious sunset, I love to breathe in the evening fog even more.

Tucker and I took one more deep breath, and then headed back to the silent redwood valley of Guernsville.

​The next morning, I couldn’t leave the Bay Area without truly going home first. Although I was in the redwoods, I hadn’t stopped into my own redwood neighborhood quite yet. After a brief walkabout with a friend in Marin, Tucker and I stopped for lunch at Alice’s Restaurant in Woodside, California. A sprawling lawn and wooden wraparound deck, across from a filing station, it is a pit stop for bikers and hikers, and truly feels like home. Just up the steep hill is a little path that could take us to the cabin we spent our holidays in in 2015. Built by the Masons, this cabin neighborhood had a little mystery to it, but no darkness.

​The food was good, the atmosphere even better. Here, the ocean breeze makes its way over the mountains, and the redwood trees dance in the morning and evening fog. They open up their arms and welcome Tucker and me home.

​I had lived on Skyline Blvd a few miles north of Alice's, long before Tucker sauntered in my life, and I knew from the first moment I drove the windy crest of highway, this was home. And that I would always return. There maybe be many months in between, but like good friends, time has no meaning to these trees and me. I—now we, Tucker and me—will always come home, and we know we are always welcome. Even if it’s just for a snack and a nap.

If I ever go off the grid, the most likely place you’ll find me is home: in the redwoods. Lucky for you, that narrows down the search area to only about 300 square miles in the northwest portion of the United States. Unlucky for the redwoods, their habitats have been shrinking because we humans have, in years past, taken up full campaigns to injure, harm, and destroy these majestic beasts.

People will say they were cut down for their lumber, their sapwood and bark all but impervious to fire and pest so that we could build homes. Some felled trees because it was botanical equivalent of hunter taking down a rhino. Some sort of sick pride goes into taking the life out of a beauty you yourself will never have. Maybe it’s an unconscious fear of that majesty, that timelessness. The same thing that some humans, fear, I go to explicitly to experience.

When you stand beneath the canopy of a redwood tree, you sense how small, how short, how insignificant your life must be to this being who has withstood earthquake, fire, flood, famine, and human interference for sometimes thousands of years. Your act of walking by the tree, to this tree, is the same as a fruit fly flying by your cereal bowl one summer morning when you were three years old. For the tree or you now, neither event is particularly meaningful. And yet…

Look at all you’ve done in your life. All there is to do. Your life isn’t meaningless. It’s filled with joy and tragedy, love, and laughter and every little thing you do can affect the world around you—and the world within you.

And yet, you are just a fruit fly to this redwood.

The potential that every single soul has is astounding. Stand beneath a redwood tree, and look stories up into the canopy, and think of the stories in your life, and the stories in your own imagination yet told.

This is why I come to the redwoods. To see how high one can reach into the skies when you have the support of the grove around you. To listen to the stories in the wind. To feel soft, solid forest floor beneath my feet. And to breathe in earth and rain and leaves and tree. Here I am renewed.

Clearly Tucker seems to feel the same because he was pretty excited when I told where we were going.

​As with much of our adventures, in order to get the most hiking in during daylight hours, we started our journey the afternoon before. Tucker and I literally drove off into the sunset, leaving the City of Angels behind to explore the forest around the Russian River that winds it away north of San Francisco.

The best thing about arriving at night to a new place is that you get to wake up in a whole new world as if you’ve been transported there by some unearthly means into a dream universe. Although we had a hike planned, we really didn’t need to leave the multi-tiered fenced-in backyard to experience the redwoods.

From this upper tier where I ate breakfast at a small bistro table, Tucker looked out over the edge.

He then held sentinel along the ridge, able to look out into the neighborhood below while being far from me saying, "Don't stand so close to the edge!"

After a leisurely early morning breakfast, I packed our bags for our planned short hike. California State Parks seldom allow dogs on trails. These are the people who say, “Of course your dog is allowed to camp with you! But if you go on a hike, leave in him your tent.” Um, have you ever met a dog? Or a dog owner/guardian/parent?? That’s not only not safe, but really particularly mean. It’s like inviting your recovered alcoholic friend to a winery because he might like to see the vineyard and beautiful landscape. And then have a flight of wines and finish off a bottle by yourself while he sits there with a glass of water.

It was going to be a short hike in the Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve because although dogs were allowed they had to stick to the paved areas. The paved road runs pretty much side by side with the trail like an access road along the freeway. I was a little annoyed with not having boottread hit earth, but Tucker got a little ground on the edge of the road and we saw pretty much what everyone else could see.

My heart swells with joy when I see that Tucker is just as happy to be among the redwoods as I am.

He even got to stand next to one of the oldest trees in the park.

​At one of the intersections with a dirt trail, a fallen redwood lay, its petrified roots exposed. Tucker and I watched a horde of school kids (probably campers) cross the road and then try to climb it as their teachers yelled for them not to touch.

​After seeing that, I really didn’t think there would be any harm in Tucker getting up close and personal with it—afterall, he wouldn’t disrespect it like the young humans did.

At the end of our alloted paved roadway within the Redwood Preserve, we were presented with an opportunity to go further. The ranger we had met upon entering had said that if we didn’t mind elevation we could continue up to Bullfrog Pond Campground. It would be about 10 miles round trip. The only caveat (besides the elevation) was that it was paved the whole way—and once above the treeline, very little shade.

I decided to go for it anyway. The best thing about starting the trail at the bottom is that if it gets too tough, you can always stop and it’s all downhill from there.

Tucker and I had the road/trail to ourselves for many miles. Dry grassland and green canopies blanketed the mountain tops.

​Tucker had some edge along the pavements to trod soft earth and fallen leaves.

One mile from the campground, at a turnoff for a parking lot and two trailheads (which dogs were not allowed on), Tucker and I took a break to enjoy the view.

It had gotten hotter than I had expected here. It could have been Mother Nature providing a little heat. Or it could have been my own body as it rose 1200 feet above sea level over the course of three miles.
​
Either way, after consulting my four-legged partner, we decided we didn’t need to walk another two miles round trip just to get to the campground. This pinnacle was good enough for us.

Sweeping views from above the forest treetops are glorious in their own right, but now we preferred to be under the treetops, in the forest.

​On our way back down, we stopped off at Pond Farm Pottery,

It was locked off with no trespassing signs, so of course Tucker needed to see inside.

Endless miles he’s free to explore, but no, it’s the one acre of land off limits that he desperately needs to see.

For me, I just wanted to be where the treetops touched the skies.

​We walked through the grove in reverence of the beautiful giants...

... and ancient mystics...

...and then we bid farewell to the forest.

​In less than half an hour, we arrived at our next, completely different, walkabout.

​One of my coworkers who spends his holidays near the Russian River  advised that I absolutely needed to go to Goathead Beach and Shell Beach. Goathead Beach was off limits to dogs, so Shell Beach was next leg of our hiking day.

​I was not disappointed.

And this is just the trail leading to the beach.

There’s just something about it: when land not only touches sea, but the two intermingle, rocks jutting out in the ocean, the waves crashing against the cliffside. All is connected.

And then there’s my boy, my adventure dog, my soulmate of another species who is happy to be anywhere new, but especially in places like these:

Down at sea level, his affinity for rocks was satiated as it is less shell beach and more boulder beach.

It was late afternoon, and the fog began to roll in, that mysterious, magical layer of clouds whose nautical and aerial origins are unknown. It drifts in subtly, capturing the sea, then the rocks, then the cliffs.

​There were few people on this tucked away shoreline, so Tucker made himself comfortable among the rocks to watch the fog roll in.

There were no children running around screaming or even people wading into the water. It was as if we had made some pact together that we would all remain silent, to give the sea and fog the reverence it was due. 

Tucker and I sat on the beach experiencing Nature as each rock disappeared from sight in the ocean, and the ocean itself became shrouded in a haze, while it’s crashing waves could still be heard.

We let the fog wash over us, breathing in the salty air until we both felt at peace with walking away. Walking away, taking with us the peace and the timelessness of the beach:  its rocks, its sand, and its fog filled with stories from far off lands.

That evening as dinner cooked on the stove, Tucker crawled up on my lap. I occasionally lament that I missed out on Tucker's puppyhood, having met him during his second chance at life. But as he gazed up at me in this one moment, I saw that puppyhood echoed in his eyes as real as if I had been there.

There really is magic in the forests and fog of Northern California. It renews us, makes us young again, and makes us believe that anything is possible.

And that was only the first day.

Sadly, having an adventure every weekend was stymied by that thing called a job. As on every production, once the camera starts rolling, my days in the office get longer and my off time is reduced to sleeping, snacking, and more sleeping. Tucker spends the majority of the days and nights in the office like this:

This is frequently interrupted by co-workers who take him up on his offer to play Tug or by crew members who come in to get snuggles from him. Tucker is stuck behind the gate in our office the entire day, and the only people he meets are those who happen to stop by. However, this time was a little different.
​
LA Center Studios has to be one of the most dog friendly studio facilities in Los Angeles.

Although the grassy park is often closed for shoots or events, it does exist. And dogs are allowed everywhere—out on the streets, in the offices and halls, and around the stages.

Not only did Tucker make friends with crew dogs from our show,

​But he met other crew dogs and office dogs while on his afternoon walk—which ultimately turned into play.

Although fun could be had any day of the week, I deemed Thursdays to be Payday-Playday.

First it was because it was our weekly playdate with Pete.

But when we started working too late into the night for playdates, play meant carrying out his duties as the Payroll Pitbull: bringing good cheer and paychecks to the crew.

​Wardrobe offered up their red wagon for Tucker to get wheeled around in should he need a break from all that walking.

​Tucker climbed every set of stairs, at basecamp hopeful they’d lead to some new land to explore.

Using his extraordinary sense of smell, he found the most frequented location of any set: the craft service truck.

​There he waited patiently and was soon rewarded with gifts of food and love: bacon, scraps, and the best of all: hotdogs.

​After eating, Tucker and his hot dog supplier commiserated about set life…

…the long days, the endless nights, and how their jobs were basically the same: to bring happiness to the crew. Craft service brought it in the form of hot dogs and pancakes and freshly baked cookies; Tucker brought it with his games of tug and his big dog hugs.
​
After a snack, he headed to the make-up trailer to get the star treatment.

​He even tried out what it was like to be a rigging grip one week.

Tucker took a few minutes at the smoking section, hoping to catch some set gossip. Unfortunately for Tucker, there aren’t as many smokers in production as there were twenty years ago. He usually came up empty for visitors there.

Regardless, it was quite clear that Tucker loved being on set:

​Of course he only saw the fun side: the talking to people, giving them money, seeing them smile and take a moment out of their day to say hello. He didn’t spend 14 hours standing around with no comfy bed to lay on, and then be ready in a moment’s notice to do his job.

The office isn't as exciting as set, but I did try to make it fun for him. Tucker loves to learn new things and feel a part of it all, so I had one task I was determined to teach him before the gig was up. 

The gate at my door was to keep Tucker in and make sure he didn’t run off with another crew. However it had the additional effect of keeping many people out—simply because, like Tucker, they couldn’t figure out how to open it.

The task for Tucker was to run information between my desk and the gate where people couldn't get in. People could put documents in a briefcase I had hanging next to the door, hand it to Tucker, and he would bring it to me at my desk. I would empty it, give it back, and he would return it to the person at the gate. 
​
Four months later, I’m not sure who’s more proud: him or me.

Tucker loves to be in the middle of everything and everyone. He makes an indelible impression on everyone he meets. So much so, that people have started rendering him in artwork.  My boss made a Tucker-doodle on a Post-It:

And the barista at the coffeehouse drew him in my morning mocha:

​Tucker became so popular, he was even invited to a dog party. He hung out with new friends and old.

Our attempts for a group photo weren't much of a success, but it was clear from the outtakes who had humans who took a lot of photos of them. Like a leading lady who can always find her light, Tucker and Bartock always found the camera lens.

Tucker is all professional when we're at work, but when he's off the clock, he's all play. And he plays as hard as he works. 

Production wrapped up at the end of June, leaving Tucker no one to visit on Payday-Playday. Instead he wandered the streets in search of his pack.

He sniffed the empty parking spots where the trucks had been and refused to leave. He hadn't ever been so attached to--and so involved with--a crew before. As much as it made me happy when we were shooting, it made me equally sad when it was over, unable to explain to him why everyone had left.

​Back in the office full time with no crew to visit anymore, Tucker the set dog expressed his disappointment in not being able to return to the bustling activity of production.

Now that adventures weren’t had in the office, we needed to have them outside of work—once I could get some time off.

On the hottest day of the year with my house baking in triple digit degree heat in the Valley, I packed Tucker up and we headed south. I had to meet with a contractor in Escondido, and figured we'd make a day of it, spending some time at the beach near San Diego. 

There are a number of dog friendly beaches in and around San Diego. Dog Beach is the most known, an off leash mecca of sand and ocean. It was still warm at the beach, and I didn't think Tucker needed a full-on romp among other dogs. We just needed the sea breeze to cut through the heat. So I chose one a little more north that required leashes, hoping it wouldn't be so crowded.

​Tucker is happy to be anywhere new, but he didn’t seem to like this beach as much as he did Point Conception. I guess he and I are just Northern California beach people. The beach down here is flat and crowded with swimmers and sun bathers (not pictured.) 

Up north, there are dramatic bluffs and cliffs. There are surfers and hang gliders, and birds sitting on rocks as waves crash against them. 

Perhaps it is the rocks that make all the difference. At the northern border of the beach area designated for dogs, outside an extremely expensive restaurant, Tucker enjoyed his favorite aspect of the beach: climbing on rocks.

The sea breeze only made a tiny slice into the heatwave, and with no trees for shade, we needed to seek shelter under manmade edifices. The restaurants on the beach weren't quite our style, but across the street was a  little bar that I could have a cool beverage and snack, and Tucker could lie on cold, slightly wet slate.  Looking down at my loyal companion using my backpack as a pillow, I was filled with gratitude for whoever or whatever had brought Tucker into my life.

When I signed Tucker’s adoption papers almost five years ago now, it wasn’t just a contract to a rescue saying that I would feed and house him and meet his basic needs. It was a contract with a living, breathing soul who came in the shape of a dog stating that I would be his partner through thick and thin. I had to do my human part to create a life for us as he did his canine part creating obstacles, opportunities, and bringing his boundless love to the process.

Somewhere in the fine print it stated was that my main duty was to be his chaperone and chauffeur on his Tour of Joy (giving and receiving) in this world. I don't always think I'm living up to that duty. I know not every day can be a hike in the woods or a walk on the beach (Northern California beach, that is.) But I do feel like we need more of those than we've been having lately.

Life is short--especially if you're a dog. I imagine the contract he signed that adoption day stated that his main duty was to lead me on this Tour of Joy. After all, it isn't just his life or my life, it's our life.

If you’re doing it right, it’s not the dogs who come along for the ride with us; it’s us following their lead.

I can't wait to see where Tucker's Tour leads me next.