People should be careful when making a sweeping metaphor. For instance, stating that Panthertown Valley in North Carolina is the “Yosemite of the South” is pretty bold and should be backed up with some pretty solid evidence.

I did not find that evidence.

Not that I’ve ever been to Yosemite.

So perhaps I’ve set Yosemite standards too high. Or perhaps in the Ven diagram of the two, I simply hadn’t hiked far enough to reach the overlapping circles and was way off to the left, wondering what all the fuss was about.

Now please understand: Nature is always something to fuss about. I look forward to every footfall that doesn’t involve manmade pavement, and I appreciate the details of beauty that make up every glorious vista. But when you hear that something should be the likes of Yosemite…

I have been to the “Grand Canyon of the South” and having been to the western one, I can see the comparison. Certainly it was not miles upon miles of caverns etched through time and looking like a painting from the south rim, but it was a pretty cool canyon on a small scale in southeastern United States. I was impressed and entertained.

I will blame my disappointment of Panthertown Valley on my own expectations for Nature never disappoints, but I disappoint myself quite often. And I clearly had some pretty high expectations.

Tucker and I set ourselves up in a cabin in Fairview, North Carolina, just south of Asheville. On our first stop on our back-to-California-the-long-way-around trip, we had three full days to hike, write, explore, and rest. Panthertown Valley had gotten such excellent reviews, I chose that as our first hike. With concentric loop trails, we had the opportunity to go long or go short around the valley. We chose to start long, and ended up short.

The lower trailhead was located half way back to Georgia, but I didn’t mind the drive. The upper trailhead would take just as long to get to and it would involve having to get back up the hill once our explorations were done. I always like to start at the bottom so that the way home is downhill.

​This is a valley of waterfalls. We had plenty to choose to from, so I planned a route that would hit as many as possible.

​The first was Schoolhouse Falls. It reminded me of any other falls you’d see in Georgia or North Carolina. It was quiet with only a few people wading into the shallow, rocky waters.

Continuing along the trail, there were little sandy beaches.

And the canopy provided shade along the shale-lined trail.

​Near the pinnacle of the trail (the upper trailhead) was an overlook. Tucker and I managed up the steep incline and took a sit for a spell. Those rocky faces on the mountainside is what makes my heart melt for North Carolina. That dichotomy of soft mossy top and sheer hard, solid surface are beautiful to me.

​Even where we sat was ancient rock, accessorized here and there with a tuft of grass.

After enjoying the view, it as time to head back toward home on one of the loops that would take us downhill again. We would not go all the way to the upper trailhead.
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I chose the almost-upper loop and down Tucker and I went back under the brambles.

The trail led to rocky slope and there… there I lost the trail. While Tucker often senses the right path, he sometimes does not. We tried my way then his way, then circled back. Here’s what ultimately happened:

The “trail” we had both missed was an almost straight down dirt path with tree roots as the only steps. There was a lot of holding onto trees (always asking their permission and requesting assistance.) If this is what Yosemite is like, then sure, it’s like Yosemite.
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I prayed this was the right way because there was no way we would be able to get back up it. This was what it was once it leveled off:

​Much to my surprise, I finally heard the sound of water and the trail led us to a place we saw a waterfall below. There was a man fishing, along with a woman and her two dogs.

​We stopped for a moment to enjoy the spray from this tucked away tiny private waterfall. It was only big enough for a few people.

We bid them farewell and continued on, the trail following the stream. Although it was hard to find, we came across a few spurs that led us to the water.

The only thing better than seeing a river on a hike is being able to stand in the middle of it without getting wet.

After our precarious jaunt downhill to get to Wilderness Falls, and the steep slope we continued going down, I opted to not take the wide loop back to our trusty steed, but took a shorter route.

But once again, we missed a turnoff… or took a turnoff that wasn’t a trail. It’s hard to tell, but here’s what happened:

​Eight miles from the start, we arrived back at the parking lot, ready for a long nap. Maybe the view isn’t Yosemite but the backcountry challenge is. I can’t say. Tucker and I will just have to check out Yosemite for ourselves… although there’s not much for us to check out. Dogs are allowed on paved roads and on two hiking trails. That’s it. So I guess we’ll have to accept this as our Yosemite adventure.

For our last foray into the Georgian wilderness, I chose Blood Mountain, a rather dramatic title, but probably aptly named. The thing about the south is that there’s a lot of human history here; a lot of blood spilled in the soil. To offset the rather macabre mountain, our destination was a bit more optimistic: Preacher’s Rock.
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The story goes that in the late 1800’s a preacher used to come up here to practice his sermons. Since I consider all of the wild to be my church, I felt that going to the practice pulpit of a like-minded soul seemed a fitting conclusion to our southern tour.

​The trail upwards was reminiscent of the next stop on our journey: North Carolina. The rocky footholds in the trail and peek-a-boo views always make me feel like I’m back in the Blue Ridge Mountains. But we were only eighty miles north of Atlanta in the Chattanooga National Forest, near the tail end of the Appalachian Trail.

​Although listed as heavily trafficked, the mile walk up to Preacher’s Rock had only a few people on it. It seemed like it might rain, so perhaps that kept this congregation to a minimum today.

Arriving at the top, we stepped through the canopy of trees and bushes flanking the trail to the open rock as if we had stepped through the curtains of the wings and were not center stage. Except it wasn't us who was the main event; it was the audience of mountains as far as we could see.

The preacher had found his pulpit.

As Tucker and I looked out across the rolling hills, the grey clouds started to roll in and hang low, ready to burst at any moment. A family we were sharing the rock with were off to our left, and I heard the father say, “We have about half hour to forty-five minutes before the rain starts. We should head back down.” He was looking out at the clouds.

“How do you know that?” I asked, expecting some Boy Scout meteorology.

“The app on my phone,” he said almost questioningly as if the only other option to the knowledge would be through psychic ability.

I smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t see you look at that. I just heard you.”

His wife and I laughed. “What did you think I did?”  He licked his finger and put to the wind. “Hmm… yeah, about thirty-seven minutes.”

​Despite his app’s warning, Tucker and I bid the family farewell so we could keep walking up into the mountains. I feel safer walking under the trees in a forest than driving on the interstate in my truck during a sudden Georgia downpour. This tree seems to feel safe walking through the forest too.

​Along the trail were offshoots that led to camping areas. One of my favorite places I deemed “Vicar’s Rock”—not quite as open of a view as Preacher’s Rock, it seemed the perfect spot for pastors in training to practice their own sermons.

Evidently it was also a great place to camp.

​Around the rock was soft, cool grass that Tucker took to lying on. It was a peaceful and quiet place.

​We continued on further down the trail, but with no real goal in sight, we eventually turned back to sit and enjoy Vicar’s Rock and then back to Preacher’s Rock.

Nature doesn’t adhere to state property lines—or any property lines for that matter. It didn’t matter that I was in northern Georgia and not North Carolina. This was still my church. It's the biggest church on earth, diverse and expansive, and these little known pulpits are worth every step to get to them to hear what Mother Nature has to say.

While our trusty steed had her own much-needed spa day,Tucker and I took to the woods. The auto detail place was nice enough to give us a lift—and even pick us up later—to a park I had wanted to explore for some time. Tribble Mill Park is in Lawrenceville, a town only a few block away from the town the auto detail place is in, and according to my research, had BSL. It wasn’t a full out ban, but it did deem that pit bull type  looking dogs had to wear a muzzle at all time in public.

When Qwinnett Humane Society was going to hold their annual fundraiser within Lawrenceville city limits, I contacted them about this ordinance. I was wondering if the ordinance was not applicable for that event, or if maybe it had been revoked and I just couldn’t find it.

No explanation was given, but I was told told that Lawrenceville had no BSL requiring that certain dogs where a muzzle.

Although they are not the animal control agency, I felt I had some backup in an email if approached and told I was violating a law. So I took the risk. If the local animal rescue agency didn’t know about the law, and the city didn’t know, it must be pretty obscure. And the penalty was simply a fine if it was enforced.
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I’m so glad I took the risk. Tuck seems pretty happy with my decision too.

​We were dropped off at the entrance, (‘Your are Here”) and we walked only a matter of feet before hitting a path around a lake.

Unfortunately, the rest room I was in desperate need of was a mile walk away--on the other side of the lake. I now understood how Tucker feels when I don’t pick up his cue that he needs to go to the bathroom. We were ironically in the exact opposite situation. He, with his endless choices of places to defecate right now, and I, the human, on a uncomfortable walk through the forest to a man-made building to do my business. I was quite close to going in the woods, but I had no Kleenex, the forest cover wasn’t terribly thick, and I wasn’t familiar enough with the park to know sightline and where some child might just come bouncing through the woods off trail.

So while the first portion of our hike was not the least bit enjoyable for me, once I got relief, I began to enjoy my surroundings.

Being stuck in a office five or six days a week with no windows drains my soul. This day would fill it back up again.
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The soft earth and shaded paths we walked along took us to a lake with a wide grassy area to walk along. If Tucker had perfect recall, I would have let him off the leash to see him bound a quarter mile down the lane.

​The journey on this path was diverse. 

​The trail veered south around the edge of the lake and returned to forest once more. The lake and woods was home to many who were enjoying this Friday afternoon. A family of turtles spotted us just as I spotted them and quickly dropped into the water like SCUBA divers off the edge of a boat. Two remained, and then just one as we passed in front of them on the trail.

It was hard to believe I was so close to the city. I couldn’t hear traffic. I couldn’t see car. It was just a lake in the woods, as remote as the lake in the Santa Cruz mountains Tucker and I had visited in March.

While we walked the secluded edge of the lake, a great heron (not sure if was an actual Great Heron, but it sure was great to me) made its graceful landing into the shallow end. We kept our distance so as not to disturb this beauty, but felt blessed to witness its descent and could have stood watching it all day long.

Someone had placed a swing in on little outcropping toward the lake. Here we stood for a moment, enjoying the peaceful serenity of the open, still lake. While we had encountered benches along the way, this was the first hanging seat.

When we were about to leave, a grand blue dragonfly alighted on a tree branch in front of me. I nodded a hello and asked if I could take his picture (after telling him how beautiful he was of course.) He obliged, but I could not capture his true glory with my piddly phone.

​We walked back to the trail and continued on our flora and fauna tour. The trail took Tucker and me out into the woods, and onto the perimeter of another lake. Since we were on the far side of the park away from boat launches and picnic pavilions and even children's’ park, we had the trails to ourselves except for a few runners. It was just us, the trees, and the creatures who call this place home.

​As the day grew to a close and we had circled back almost to our original drop off point, the path turned back to pavement. There, we sat on a bench, reading and being still.

Movement is good for the soul, letting your energy out to affect to the world around you. But being still and open gives the universe a chance to respond.

It is here, in the woods, that I not only speak to nature, but it talks back, and we engage in the grand conversation about life, love, and all the beauty the universe holds.

If there’s one thing Georgia has that California doesn’t, it’s water. Granted California has oceans. But Georgia has water in rivers, streams, lakes, and even the air itself. The amount of water I have dumped down outdoor drains from the dehumidifier in my apartment over the past month could have watered my Burbank lawn for the entire summer.

So needless to say, finding water features on a hike is usually pretty easy. For this one, I took a page out of the Atlas Obscura again—to a little known wildlife preserve on the outskirts of Atlanta just twenty minutes from downtown. Its claim to fame in the atlas is that although it is where the Battle of Utoy Creek took place and the water ran red with blood, the water now is considered to have healing powers. (So I guess it’s like a vampire creek.)

You do have to drive through some pretty sketchy areas to get there, but if you come out alive, you arrive in the promised land: big houses, expansive lawns, and the Cascade Springs Nature Preserve.
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The main trail is a loop, beginning with a large amphitheater/picnic area. 

 And a cute little pump house that looks like a hobbit’s home.

To the left, the waterfall is only a short quarter mile away.

So we headed right.

There was a third trail in the middle, and in fact many offshoot trails along the way, which was a major turnoff for some folks on hiking reviews, but for me, I understood its purpose: this is a park. It’s not a one-road journey here and back. This is a place you hang out all day. It’s a place for eight year olds to have sword fights with branches in the woods, and to wade into the creek. It’s a place to find that super secret place to meet with your high school love. Or a simple place to sit and soak up all the stories in the birdsongs.

​Tucker and I began with a stroll along the creek's edge.

Tucker did his usual taste test, and gave the water five stars.

​We meandered down the trail, and took our time, going down short trails to the “beaches” and exploring around.

​The trail turned away from the creek after a spell and up into the forest. While the website had pointed out that we would be able to see some remnants of war, I did not spot them. We did find rocks to climb on, which for Tucker is better than any piece of human history.

And there were overturned trees to study with their roots exposed and all sorts of smells only Tucker could appreciate.

And then, as we came down the trail, we arrived at the main event:

​I really wanted to walk down the tunnel to where the water began its journey, but reviews spoke of the rocks being quite slippery. So we kept to the main area.

Tucker agreed with my assessment.

There was still plenty for him to climb around on without putting me in danger.

Despite taking my time and energy to be careful with my footing, ten minutes after this photo was taken, my ass was in those healing waters. Tucker's four-wheel drive always fares better than my silly two-wheel human design.

Oddly, I didn’t seem too wet after my fall. Or even muddy. Perhaps my water resistant backpack repelled it from even my pants. Or the healing waters are also magical. Tucker took no time in discussing it; he's used to my inferior coordination skills and all the consequences of that--and he loves me anyway.

​Cascade Springs was a nice little getaway that didn't take much get away to get there, a fun place for any kid to grow up, and for any adult to come and feel the peace of the water—even if you fall in it.

On a beautiful clear day that wasn’t looking to be as if we were walking on the surface of the sun, Tucker and I headed two hours north for my majestic mountain range fix.

Black Rock Mountain State park is Georgia’s highest state park (not the highest peak, but overall the land is farther from the ocean vertically-speaking than any other state park. And it was only 3640 feet.

Once you climb around Vancouver, British Columbia or even just the California Sierra mountains, 3640 feet is nothing—that’s just the usual elevation gain on an everyday hike and still nowhere near the summits that can be 10,000 or 12,000 feet up.

I found the trailhead rather easily and parked along the side of the road. I figured the visitor center couldn’t be too far as I watched some folks walk down the steep incline of the road that kept going uphill past the trailhead parking area.

I was wrong.

Half a mile later up the hill, we found the visitor center and the much needed restroom I had been looking for.
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On a positive note, the view behind the visitor center was worth being there for.

Inside the center, I got the scoop about the trails I could have taken, rather than the road, to get there from the Tennessee Rock Trailhead parking area. They informed me of where to pick up the trail so we could walk back on soft earth instead of hard pavement.
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Along the way, we stopped by Black Mountain Overlook.

​We had already gotten a few beautiful views in and we hadn’t even started the hike proper yet.

​Once on the trail, we were back in the woods. 

​But luckily for us, while meadows and wildflowers were beginning to bloom, Spring hadn’t quite finished filling in the trees yet, so we could still peer out over the valleys to the Blue Ridge Mountains and beyond.

Unlike our western mountain hiking, we only climbed about 500 feet over the course of our four miles around mountain tops. While the dramatic jagged rocky mountains of the western United States are breathtaking (sometimes literally), I also enjoy the soft rolling hills of the east coast.

There aren’t many hiking days left in Georgia until autumn, so I’m glad we got this one in. As the days get longer, they get hotter, more humid, and although it seems pleasant enough to stand around and enjoy a beer and barbecue, any kind of physical activity is just too much—for both Tucker and me.

​Even on this decent day in he 70’s and 80’s, many weeks after our last real hike, Tucker pooped out under a picnic table about twenty yards from the finish line—our truck. Any talk of walking a little further for air conditioning went unheard from his loud panting.

​While he didn’t want any water, he also didn’t want to move.

​I allowed him his five minute nap, then dragged him to the truck where we made the half a mile drive this time up to the visitor center for me to get in my last pee break. And since we already there, we took the time to just sit a spell—something Tucker appreciated after such a long walk in the woods.

​He needs to rest up. Cause there are a lot more mountains out there we have yet to hike.

Tucker and I have been to some pretty majestic places:sweeping vistas of mountain ranges, endless forests to traipse through; lakes and waterfalls abound. So this one was a little different. But I supposed that’s what you get when you take a tip not from a hiking website but from Atlas Obscura.
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Now that we’re in the south in spring time, hiking times and days are limited. Either we’re rained out or we’re heated out. There’s very little in between. One night after work, figuring it would at least be in the lower 70’s rather than high 90’s with 90% humidity, Tucker and I took a short drive to a little-known trail in a little-known park just around the corner.

Although off a main thoroughfare of a road, Constitution Lakes is still hidden away, only available to those seeking it. Sharing a driveway with a business, you wouldn’t think to look over there to the sign, almost hidden in the trees you need to pass under to get to the super secret parking lot.

Once under the canopy of trees, civilization and the road seem miles away. There are two trailheads—each on on opposite ends of the parking lot. To the right, there is a sketchy hand-written sign “Dolls Head That Way <——“

That's right, we’re here for the Dolls Head Trail. Because sometimes Tucker and I don’t need to experience the art of Nature. Sometimes we just want to feel like we’re part of a 1980’s horror movie.

I followed the instructions, and took the left trail, which ultimately is just a big loop, but why not experience it as intended?
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The first portion of the hike is just a simple walk in the woods. 

Although there was an occasional hint that this wasn't just a walk in the woods.

The wide path became some well-made boardwalks to go up and over the sometimes-marshy spots. 

​Although once a brick factory property, this is now a wildlife refuge. Those giant crevices and holes left by humans who excavated Mother Nature’s interior were filled out by Mother Nature with life-giving water once humans left. The rains came down, and lakes were formed.
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The boardwalks led us to the lakes.

Beautiful decks and piers were placed around the lake and a few people fished by the dying light of day. Tucker and I followed the path, careful of the poison ivy (the warnings are everywhere.) The closer we got, the more signs we spotted that we were headed in the right direction.

Abandoned properties tend to become human’s trash piles. But not bags of your household waste. The big things. The odd things. Like refrigerators, old tires, broke TV’s… and an alarming amount of dolls.
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One man saw this as an opportunity. 

​He asked parkgoers to collect any of these items of “trash” as they walked along, and then make them into a “treasure,” placing them along this found art gallery trail. The rules still apply:

Although only a small loop within this large refuge, Tucker and I took our time, appreciating the art and creativity. Some were cute:

And some were a little creepy...

Tucker seemed to enjoy them all. It was his first gallery attendance. Not often a dog gets to appreciate art.

Given the nature of the elements involved, I'm sure there was a whole olfactory experience I was missing out on that Tucker truly appreciated.

The visuals were plenty interesting enough for me. I looked for the creative over the creepy, although any time a doll's head is involved, you can't have one without the other.

​At the end of our tour, we carried on, back on the boardwalk across the lakes. 

​Then through the woods, where we found a second project: a tire pile. A sign requested that should we venture down to the stream, would we be so kind to take a tire up and place it here.

It seems many people were able to do that. Perhaps a Rubber Trail will be the next art gallery here.

The rest of the trail was on soft earth, and I appreciated the variety in such a small area.

​Even without the Dolls Head trail, it was a lovely after work walk a million miles away, and yet just around the corner. The south has a lot of unique hidden places—you just have to want to experience them to find them. Whether it’s a serene lake or some creepy art tucked away in the woods (or both), there’s something for everyone.

Working in film production is a lot like being part of a travelling carnival. You arrive in a town, find a place to set up shop, have all your eccentric friends (and some enemies) join you, and then a few months later you pack up, leaving no trace behind that you ever existed in the first place.
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Although Tucker has been through this process with me three to five times a year, every time I pack up, he still has to be right with the rest of my belongings, lest I forget to take him with me.

​I have been more concerned as of late that perhaps our nomadic lifestyle has made him hesitant to create lasting deep canine friendships. On this show, we were lucky to have frequent visitors, and my clerk never said a word about me turning our professional office into a doggie romp room.

There was the art director’s dog, who used to never come to work because his days were filled with dog parks and walks at Chrissy Fields with other dogs. And then he got kicked out for lunging at a dog in another pack. Tucker and I could sympathize. Sometimes you just say something when you shouldn’t, and your life is changed forever. Angus was always a fun playmate for Tucker.

​Tucker’s frequent friend Tulip wasn’t even a member of our carnival. Her dad worked downstairs in a cabinet-making business. But when she spotted Tucker one day walking by, she made it her mission to befriend him. And she did. Together they ran in the fenced-in area around the building, chasing one another and exploring the overgrown patches of weeds and skunk-trails.

​Just as wrap started, our best boy rigging electric came in with his dog, Shadow. Pit mixes always seem to really understand each other.  I think Tucker had a little crush on her. I sure did.

The point of working in San Francisco, besides just that I love the Bay area, is that I have friends here and could visit with them while not having to put them out by sleeping in their spare bedroom. Unfortunately I didn’t get to do enough visiting while working, and not enough housing reimbursement to just stay a few extra days in my own place. So Tucker and I packed up our rental property, drove two miles down the street, and unpacked at my friend Carolina’s house.

I had asked the universe for a San Francisco gig around this time not just because I always request it for any time, but because Carolina’s first child was due in January and I wanted to be there. Being a mom for the first time (and really anytime) is a tough thing and can be super lonely. Everyone focuses on the baby--including the mother—and the mom's needs mean nothing. I wanted to be there to remind Carolina was she was still a person and while this little child named Olivia was super awesome and she should be proud of creating her, Carolina was also a super awesome individual who deserved attention. Carolina has always been a mama bear. From her two beagles Saffie and Layla, to her whole host of friends, Carolina is always the first one to step up and help, to be there when you need something, to send you cards in the mail, to be the mom among our friends. Olivia is lucky kid to have Carolina as her actual, biological mom.

I wasn’t sure how Tucker would react to the little one as we have no experience with babies. And I wasn’t sure how the dogs would react to Tucker being near her. To Layla, Tucker has always been just another bit of furniture who came with a person who handed out treats. To Saffie, in the past, Tucker was annoying and must be told so at every instance. He must also stay away from her momma.

Surprisingly, I had nothing to worry about. Tucker accepted Olivia into the pack as a human, and took on nanny duties.

​Saffie appreciated the gesture (she had been doing it alone all this time), and even allowed him space to rest when off duty right next to her on the couch.

​Tucker also took a class in neighborhood watch from Layla.

​On our extended weekend, we walked along the cliffs of Half Moon Bay where we figured out that a baby in a Bjorn and two beagles is too precarious for anyone to try. I commend Carolina’s effort and feel horrible that she had such a terrible time.

The next day we left the girls at home, and Tucker, Olivia, Carolina and I headed north to Marin headlands.

Tucker’s face here is the physical representation of how my heart feels every time I’m in the Bay area:

Olivia got to experience the trek in her stroller along rocky terrain

​And grassy fields

​On our return trip home, rather than Tucker in the front seat and I in the back next to Olivia, as we did on the ride out (this is how he spent the whole ride)

​He sat in the back, content to use the baby seat as a chin rest.

​Back at home, sleep was a must. I really don’t know if Tucker could function in a non-human world lacking pillows and other luxuries.

​We got to visit with Krystal (who was part of the production for a short spell as well) and spend some time under the Bay bridge to give Carolina some time off from houseguests.

On our final day, we did our old standby: Fort Funston. The girls get to run off leash, eating gophers in the dunes, and Tucker gets a long lead to meet new friends.  

​It had a been a long weekend for Tucker, and by the time we got back to the truck, he would have preferred to be inside the stroller than next to it.

But I had to make one more stop: Alice’s Restaurant. My favorite cabin eatery, just around the corner from where we spent Christmas a few years back on our last San Francisco gig. The long picnic tables allow for for strangers to be seated next to one another. Two women were meeting for lunch at our shared table, and one of them said to the other, “I’ve been trying to get Jim to move up for years. But he just won’t. I love it though!”

​And I realized how lucky I am: to be free from anyone else determining where I live or travel. I would hope my human partner would love many of the same places I do, but for now I don’t have to worry about that. I’m blessed that my canine companion feels the same way about the Bay Area that I do: it’s home, where we may not get to often enough, but will always be welcome.

There are few places for Tucker to enjoy the redwoods in San Mateo County. Looking through the Mid Peninsula Open Space website this to recheck the areas my faithful companion could experience, a new one popped up that he could explore.

LaHonda Creek Open Space with the caveat “designated trails only” was suddenly on the webpage for Dogs! Lower LaHonda had not interested me as it was described as farmland and meadow, inhabited by cows so the fact that Tucker wasn’t allowed didn’t bother me. Stretching from ocean to foothills, near Pescadero it is rolling hills and flatland. But Upper LaHonda, where the "designated trails only" are, is in my heart’s neighborhood—right off Skyline Blvd in the redwood forest. I applied for a permit (first time I’ve had to do that for hike anywhere; it feels quite official), received my parking pass and Tucker and I were set for our weekend hike.

The trailhead wasn’t directly off Skyline Blvd. My trusty steed had to negotiate some bumpy and steep terrain on narrow dirt roads to find the entrance. Along the way, there were mansions, these massive abodes looking like they had been carried by a tornado from their Beverly Hills location and set down neatly in a small clearing in the forest. There was no traffic. There didn’t even seem to be any people in the houses.
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The final road in the directions ended abruptly with a gate.  I needed to unlock the gate, get in, then lock ourselves in and continue to the parking area. However, had we just hiked here, we could have just walked through the pedestrian gate unhindered... or just walked around both gates.

​The parking area was only a few cars wide and not a single soul looked to have been there recently. I was surprised to find that we had actually driven back out of the forest and was in a meadowland of sorts.

​There were no cows, but this was most definitely grasslands... Steep grasslands and rolling hills, but still grasslands.

We were headed to Vista Point, yet from just about anywhere on the trail, there was a vista to behold.

​Although the space was bovine-free, it still felt a little like we were on someone’s farm.

We travelled on, and after walking through a little redwood grove, we came to another open meadow with the sign:

We had reached the designated Vista Point.

I watched in awe a bald eagle soar overhead and dipped down to the valley below. It was hard to discern where ocean met sky. The clouds that had lingered from the morning mist and previous night’s rainfall created a canopy above the gently rolling hills and forests.

​Tucker and I stood in reverence, and I wished I had packed a blanket for us to sit in the damp meadow and look out over the hills for hours.

Instead we stood and took it all in, letting the air revive us and the view heal us before turning our tracks to head back to my trusty steed who stood alone in the parking area.

​The trail back went through another forest where we paid respect to the ancients.

When we returned to the truck, I didn’t want to leave this hidden little space, so beautiful not just for its views but for the space itself. Our tour in San Francisco was ending, and this would be our last weekend adventure in the wild. But it seemed a fitting place to bid farewell until next time, just around the corner from my heart’s home, now a part of it forever.

​Only thirteen miles from where the Pacific Ocean crashes upon the shores and cliffs of California, there is a hidden lake high in the Santa Cruz Mountains named Loch Lomond. Little-known and only accessible March 1st through Labor Day, it keeps true to its Irish nomenclature with its misty atmosphere and deep green surroundings. On the day Tucker and I visited, we can’t say so much that it was raining, but more that we were walking through a raincloud that had dipped below the mountains’ peaks. It seemed the perfect hiding place for a sea monster.

We took the advice of some hikers in AllTrails and began with the forest portion of the hike, and then looped around to the lake to try to spot an ancient denizen.
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The forest portion of the hike was exactly what I had needed:

​It was difficult to spot anything in the lake—even a dinosaur—with how murky it was up close. I was surprised to see some brave folks fishing in it. A few people were in boats, headed to the island in the middle of the lake.

​From the lakeshore itself, it was simply a lake in the woods: serene in quiet to most; the inspiration for camp horror movies to others; and for others still the place of legends and mythical transpirations.

​But from high atop the trail, the lake was a stunning beauty—even under the cover of clouds—a reflective glass in the valley between the peaks.

That’s the thing about hiking—and life: it’s all about perspective. The world doesn’t change; we do. We walk a little further down the trail and we see things we hadn’t before. On out-and-back trails, even though our feet tread the same soil, we experience a whole new view facing the opposite direction on the way back.

​Just last weekend, Tucker and I were traipsing over boulders at a beach and now here we were deep in the mountains at a lake. Yet both times, we were hiking in Northern California. Labels and boundaries aren’t natural elements. It is us as humans who set boundaries—on land and for ourselves. We delineate one space from another using names; one time from another with age. We separate ourselves from our experiences and others. Hiking takes away those boundaries. From ocean to mountaintop, it is all one world—one world that is constant in its diversity and uniqueness. As we walk through it, it is not the world that changes, but us and our perspective. From every vantage point, there is something to learn and experience. We just need to be open to it.

Having spent most weekends in a northern exploration, I felt it was about time we headed south. I had heard that Monterey was a very dog-friendly destination, and only one hundred miles south of the city. So on one of our final Fridays off, Tucker and I drove past Santa Cruz and continued down the California coast.
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I had picked Monterrey Peninsula Recreational Trail from Alltrails as our destination hike. It wasn’t until I drove past the city limits of Monterey that I realized that we wouldn’t be in Monterey the city, but in Monterey the county… in a town called Pacific Grove.
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Much like our Santa Cruz Christmas, the hike was more of a leisurely seaside town sidewalk stroll than an actual woodland adventure. Tucker didn’t seem to mind.

​His pleasure is in the scents that drift from the ocean and carry over the sand.

​And of course the climbing. He loves the climbing.

​The rocky beaches were other-worldly.

​The beaches weren’t just sand and rocks. They were broken shells—homes of animals who once lived here.

​Tucker and I sat on one of the rocky outcroppings to take in the ocean air and enjoy the view.

​When people ask me why I freelance and travel for work and why I don’t want to settle down, this is why.

​The new places we get to explore, the different lives we get to witness and sometimes be a part of. I have a permanent residency in a state in a country as is required by societal norms. But I really live here, on this planet. The whole world is my home. Sometimes I enjoy sitting on the front stoop, other times I like to enjoy the view from the back deck, but more often than not, I want to pack my bags and go adventuring on the back forty. Sometimes I find a woodland kingdom, other times, a mountain top, and still others, an ocean that goes to the horizon and beyond.