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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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?
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.

​Rather than venture north over the bridge this weekend, we opted for a shorter commute down to Mori Point in Pacifica.   At just under three miles, the loop took us up onto the hills overlooking the township to the north and the wilds to the south. Looking more for the wilds than the town, we seldom looked northward.

​The trail wound its way along the cliff, overlooking the ocean.

For you Harold and Maude fans, Tucker and I got this view of the cliff in the ending sequence along the trail:

It really hasn’t changed much since it was captured on 35mm half a century ago:

​I am always astonished at how far from civilization you can feel in the bay area while only being a mile or two away (look very closely in the upper right.)

​Long ago people banded together to protect the wild spaces within and around the city. It is what makes the area so special: not just that the land is protected, but that its residents care so much about the place they call home. Tucker thanks them immensely.

It’s not just the land, but the sea and sky that lend itself to the full beautiful picture.

​As we headed south, the trail became rockier, feeling more like an ancient burial site than the lush grassy fields only a few hundred yards northward.

​And perhaps that is why people make mediation circles here.  There is a spirit in the sky and land.

​It why I love this place so much: although I may be forced to live within civilized urban society, it is a society that respects and loves Mother Earth. The inhabitants are like me: we have a need for our feet to tread soil, our nose to take in the salt sea breeze, and our eyes to watch the sun set over the infinite ocean.

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.