I’ve always been one to focus on beginnings, not endings. I remember people’s birthdates, not their death dates. I know the first day I arrived somewhere or first day of a job; not the last day or the day I leave.

But 2020 was a year like no other—literally, like no other in the course of human existence, not just for me but for everyone on the planet. So I felt that this time, just this once, there needed to be a special commemoration for making it through the year, for grieving the losses, accepting the suffering, and truly having closure on such a year.
​
And so Tucker and I returned to the coast, this time to Coronado Butterfly Grove (80 miles south of the last grove, but with the same expectation of not seeing any butterflies). We had walked Ellwood Mesa previously and touched upon this preserve in our meanderings then. But this was a purposeful walk, through the grove, along the mesa, to watch the sun go down on this year.

The entrance was an unassuming sign post on the side of the road in a neighborhood where kids played in their driveways and airplanes flew overhead. Tuck was excited to get out (I have no idea how he knows what we’re about to do; or maybe he’s just excited to be doing anything).
​
Up over the ridge, the trail led downward again though the eucalyptus grove. Walking through the woods, we then veered westward toward the ocean.

We were back on the mesa, trekking across the open meadow, with the sounds of the ocean far ahead of us.

I wanted to make the most of our walk while not retracing too many steps. The trail system was vast, and you could cut across in a number of ways. I headed south then west then south then west until we reached the southern border of the preserve at the cliff’s edge overlooking the beach.

​Seeing the wooden fence, I recalled that we had come this way along the beach on our Ellwood Mesa hike. Now we weren’t going down to the beach, but staying on the bluff for our walkabout. I had arrived with at least two hours for walking before sundown so we could stroll slowly, enjoying every view.

There was even time to stop and play in the trees.

We walked away from the ocean a bit and re-entered the forest to get more walking in and to see it from a new perspective.

Then we returned seaside in a shorter loop to find our spot along the cliff’s edge and enjoy the magic hour.

The sun hung low on the horizon, and I watched a person playing with their dog, kicking a ball back and forth as the dog chased it and ran back. I sat with my canine companion watching another canine with their human companion.

As I witnessed the sun dip beneath the horizon, I came to the realization that I’d been looking at it all wrong. This sunset wasn’t the sun going down one more time this year; it was just the continual turn of the earth. The earth didn’t stop spinning. The sun doesn’t move; we do. We keep going no matter what. And in that turning, in that constant motion, we carry with us the losses and the suffering, as well as the joy and the hope.

Tucker lost two of his friends this year. Harlowe was his very first friend, the dog who taught him to be a production dog, to be a traveling dog, how to be a friend to other dogs and how to play nicely. He was patient with Tucker and he learned all sorts of dog stuff I will never truly understand. We were blessed to be on location with Harlowe in different cities around the US over the years and even take an agility class together in our home base of Southern California. While we hadn’t seen each other a long while, Harlowe has influenced Tucker growing up, and plays a frequent role is so many of our favorite memories of our travels.

And we lost Pete this year. Pete, who was Tucker’s best friend, his brindle brother from another mother, Pete and Tucker have been buddies for the past three years though it always seemed they may have been soul brothers long before time began.

During our Los Angeles isolation, Pete and his people were the only ones in our social bubble. We walked with them once or twice a week during the summer, and they came over and hung out on my deck; the humans drank wine and chatted, the boys played or napped, or chatted among themselves. Tucker still doesn’t know that Pete is gone; he only knows that Pete and his people don’t come around anymore. We hope one day they will again. But seeing Tucker not being with Pete is just too painful for them right now.
​
Tucker and I have lost loved ones this year. But we still have each other. We still keep moving forward, keep turning as the earth does. We carry with us in our hearts those who are no longer by our side. I am ever grateful to still have Tucker by my side, in the back seat, on my lap, next to me on the couch, and in every frame I view of this world.

It has been a dark year, but because of that, the stars have shown even more brightly. We pluck them from the sky and keep them in our pocket, to bring them back out when we need them to guide us.
​
I am looking forward to seeing what this next turn of the earth brings, what we do during it, and how our lives evolve and change. Tucker and I send our love to all those grieving their losses from this year. May you find peace and closure, and may you have found joy and triumphs in moments along the way. We carry all that with us long after the sun goes down and we keep on turning.

In memory of Harlowe and Pete. Thank you for being our friends. We miss you by our side, and carry you in our hearts forever more, wherever we go.

Tucker and I don’t have any real true holiday traditions for Christmas because we never know where in the world we will be. The only thing that is consistent is that we begin Christmas morning with a hike. I consider Nature to be my church, so it is my version of church service.

I usually head to the woods, and the redwoods is of course my favorite. However, being far from their natural habitat, and knowing that no other woods would give me equal pleasure, I opted to expand my church service to the sea.

We had done just about every beach and bluff around the 100 mile range away. Since it was a holiday, I thought we may be able to travel just a little bit further given even less traffic on Christmas morning. Pismo Beach looked to have the craggy outcroppings and dramatic cliffs I love, so at 180 miles away, we packed up and headed north beyond our usual beach and bluff haunts.

The hikes at Pismo were mainly beach walks, and most reviewers said that north of the campground featured RVs and roads and wasn’t anything to write home about. I wanted to check out the Monarch Grove, which seems like the half way point from south to north, so rather than starting at the Monarch Grove, I started at the southern point of the hike and headed north to the Monarch Grove figuring we could go further if it seemed interesting. But it wasn’t what I expected. Mainly because I had arrived not at Pismo Beach, but at Oceano Dunes.

Surprisingly, the booth to the California state park was actually manned (or, I should say wo-manned). I was a tad confused because the parking lot to the right was not after the booth, and there didn’t seem anywhere to go once I passed the booth. She saw the confusion on my face.

“Sorry, where do I park?” I asked.

“It’s $5 if you want to park on the beach, otherwise you can park right there,” she said pointing at the paved lot on the other side of the fence. “That’s free.”

“Why would I want to park on the beach?” I mumbled, thinking I had asked it internally, and thanked her, telling her the paved parking lot was just fine. It wasn’t that $5 was too much to spend; I just didn’t think taking my two-wheel drive truck onto sand was something I needed nor wanted to do.
​
The paved lot only held a couple dozen cars, and there were plenty of empty spots.
​
I had expected a bluff based on the photos people had posted, but perhaps that was in the north campground. Here, Oceano Dunes was aptly named.

From the compacted sand beach, we walked toward the ridgeline and discovered that it wasn’t a cliff but of course, a dune.

Thereby, the hike north wasn’t actually along a bluff, but through sand dunes. Each foot fall took us upwards of 6 inches deep in sand. I imagine it was rougher for Tucker who had less surface area to stay afloat. We both needed snowshoes.

A mile in, Tucker had had enough. He just came to a full stop and lied down in the sand.

I have to say, it wasn’t a bad place to be stranded with all the beauty around us. I sat down as well, and took in our surroundings while we both rested. The sand was powder soft, and almost dusty as I lifted it up and let it fall back onto the ground. I dug a little in, and felt the cool sands invigorate my fingers. Always Go Where the Dog Takes You, even if it’s stopping for a spell—you won’t be disappointed.

It was another mile and a half to the Monarch Grove, and while I enjoyed the beauty of the dunes, I was relieved for Tucker to hit solid ground again. He had to take a couple more breaks before we hit the pier, and I was worried I might wear him out before Christmas Day was even a quarter over.

There was a wooden plank bridge for a bit of the walk on the way to the Monarch Grove, but once we started seeing more people, we hopped off and and took to the sands. It wasn’t dune-like this time, and we made the walk with ease along the golf course boundary.

As we approached the switchback up the tiny hill to the Monarch Grove, a man walking down said without prompting, “In years past there were butterflies everywhere. But you can only see a few flying around today.”
​
Thanks to his words, I had zero expectations. The website had photos of butterflies hanging off trees like bunches of bananas; now I was aware to not expect that. Perhaps the butterflies were being socially distant too. Only a few flew up near the tree-tops.

We took our photo at the Monarch Grove sign just to prove while monarchs might not have been there, Tucker and I had been.

Walking back across the dunes didn’t seem like an option given Tucker’s and my fitness level. So we meandered over to the beach side of the park and took a seat upon the dune to watch the beachgoers. (I watched, Tucker napped.)

The northern end didn’t look any more different than what we had already experienced, so I figured we’d walk back along the beach where the sand was compact enough for us walk on without difficulty. 

​It was, after all, compact enough for cars. Now that it was later in the day, I finally grasped the “parking on the beach” concept. People drove on and just parked right there at the waves, got out and went swimming, or had a picnic, or played a game.

Tucker and I walked southward, for the most part staying out of the way of the tire tracks that seemed to determine an unofficial roadway for motorists.

Tide was low, so in the compact sand there were pieces of sea debris strewn about: shells, rocks, seaweed… and surprisingly, I found two full sand dollars.
​
I generally don’t take anything from nature. I leave every pine cone, every stone, every shell right where Nature placed it in her art exhibit. But for some reason, I was compelled to take these two. There were plenty of them smashed in across the tide line, but these two, found a few yards apart, were whole.

It wasn’t until I got back to the truck that I learned exactly what sand dollars are: sea urchins. And I also learned that it’s illegal to take them if they’re alive. A moment of panic struck me as I frantically tried to determine if I had mistakenly kidnapped two very much alive sea urchins.

From the descriptions online and the white beings in front of me, the panic ceased as I concluded these were indeed dead.

In all my life, having seen sand dollars for sale in shops and I think there was one in parent’s house (I have a vague recollection of shaking one and hearing the little pieces inside), I guess I always considered them to be fossils. Or shells. Or rock. I never thought of them as skeletons or just a deceased body.

Looking at videos of alive ones, I also concluded that I had never seen one not dead. I had never seen a deep purple, fuzzy-bottomed sea urchin making its way across the sand. I was relieved to not have damaged the eco-system but still felt guilty for taking something from the beach. I couldn’t take them back now. It seemed too late, sitting in the truck, the two sand dollars in my center console cup holders. I tried to rid myself of the guilt, and be delighted with the magic that I had actually found them.

Turning my attention to an encore hike, I searched a little online for those dramatic cliffs and rocky beaches I had yearned to see this Christmas Day and had not seen thus far.
​
A quick search brought up a walk along the cliffs only a few miles north, so Tucker took a quick nap while I drove us from the beach to… well… another beach.

The parking lot wasn’t for the beach but for some cliffside tennis courts. There was a path behind the adjacent hotel that seemed to be where we could find walk along and gaze out over the cliffs. I figured we’d do a quick a walk, and then hop back in, my fix taken care of, and we’d be done.
​
The sightline was exactly what I had been after today.

Tucker had look through bars to see it, but he didn’t seem to mind.

We even saw some interesting rock formations on this side of the fence.

I let Tuck sit in the hotel chairs too… cause, why not? He sits in chairs everywhere else.

And then, to my surprise, as we came to the end of the fence, I noticed a set of stairs with a “Beach Access” sign next to it. Tucker and I approached, and while it was a bit of a ways down, I didn’t think we’d have a hard time getting up later.

So down we went.
​
And there it was: the cove and dramatic cliffs, and amazing rock formations time and water had created.

Tucker had a rough time on the sands. Unlike Pismo’s powdery soft sand, this was hard and completely covered in shells and rocks. After his five mile walk, his feet were already sore. I tried to find some sand sans sharp pebbles and shells, so we could walk along the water’s edge.

We were able to find some smooth rocks to walk upon and explore.

​I saw a bit of sand that didn’t look too rocky and headed up the beach to sit on some rocks and just be still a few moments.

Tucker took this moment to rest as well, happy to be off his feet for a little while.

I took in the sea, the cove, the sun, the rocks, and my precious little boy resting. Time is all we really have here, to enjoy, to love, to be. The three hour drive wasn’t wasted time. It was time with my dog, and the experience of driving up the coast. And it was time to see more of this planet with my best boy.

We stayed for a spell, walked about, and then as sunset would soon be coming, we trekked back to our trusty steed for the three hour ride home. Those three hours were for talking to family and friends, wishing them a Merry Christmas, hearing about their Christmas Day (which, for most on the east coast, was coming to a close), and reconnecting with humans again.
​
Disengaging from humans to be in nature is what I need to recharge. Being isolated has been difficult this year as I love being away from humans—but only in nature. Being alone in my own house in the city… that doesn’t feel right. That’s for social time. But once in nature, the lack of humans puts life in perspective. Both Tucker and I enjoy people (Tucker probably more so because he gets belly rubs and treats from them, whereas it would be weird if I did) but we need balance too-away from humans to remember what life is all about.

When we returned, I cleaned off the sand dollars, and set them down on the counter just to make sure they wouldn’t suddenly walk away. While Tucker had his Christmas Dinner, I set out his gifts and fired up the heater in the fireplace.

I made sure to get in our 2020 Christmas photo, which Tucker kindly obliged wearing a scarf.
​
Usually I only have Tucker open one or two gifts to play with the toys, and then the rest he gets throughout the next few weeks. But instead this time, I just let him have at it.
So about ten minutes after this was taken…

This was our living room:

(Shirt is care of his Aunt Carolina, who also got him a turtleneck sweater for his winter travels… and so he could fit in at any beatnik poetry reading he might be attending in the near future.)

I still contend dogs shouldn’t wear clothes—unless it’s for practical reasons (ie, a raincoat, or in this case a sweater if it’s cold). Tucker didn’t seem to mind, but he’s used to putting up with my shenanigans while he’s enjoying some other activity—like destroying his new toys, ripping open bags of treats, and hiding his presents under wrapping paper and shredding paper again.

Intrinsically, no one day is any more special than another. It is us who assign meaning to a day, and it is us who create and manifest the magic that make it special. Venturing in the dunes, driving along the coast, and ripping open gifts doesn’t need to be done just on December 25th. We could do it any day or every day. But doing it on Christmas, as the year comes to a close is just a reminder that we can do that. We can infuse magic into every day. We can make any and every moment special. Life is one day at a time, and while this year has made each day blend together and those special activities be less frequent, this Christmas is proof that every day is special when I get to spend it with my boy.

Merry Christmas one and all. May you all find magic in your every day.

Every time I hear about the “Great Conjunction”, I only hear Augrah’s voice in The Dark Crystal as she explains to Jan about the three suns. The great conjunction was when the crystal cracked. And now with this great conjunction—well, anything could happen.

I had hoped the great conjunction we would experience would put the crystal right again. That the great divide would be no more, and that we would realize that we need balance—the gentle mystics and the self-centered, cruel skeksis are both part of what make up each of us. When we separate and deny the others’ existence, our world collapses.

That’s a lot to ask of the suns to fix (or in this case Jupiter and Saturn). At the very least, maybe we could find something we could all get behind, a magical heavenly event that would bring us together and realize how minute our little human problems are.

In order to witness the great conjunction, you had to look into the southwest sky just over the horizon, right after sunset. That’s a pretty specific time. I checked my StarGaze app on December 19th, and it appeared that the planets would be out of view below the horizon only an hour after sundown. And given where my house, the trees, and streetlamps are, the planets couldn’t be viewed from my little plot of land in Burbank.

There was only one place to go to assure seeing it: the horizon. (Not the event horizon just the horizon where this event was taking place.) So on the Winter Solstice, Tucker and I headed west again, this time to Douglas Family Preserve, a few miles south of More Mesa (and, according to one map, just north of The Mesa… which may explain More Mesa’s nomenclature).

Reading a bit on it, I learned that this plot of preserved land is owned by the Douglas Family (Michel, Kirk and the gang). It seemed like it might be truly the closest thing to Fort Funston we could get: a wide open space along a bluff that has various trails and allows dogs off leash in most areas. And a beach down below which your dogs are free to roam about off leash as well.

Granted Tucker can’t be off leash, but a lot of reviewers kept their dogs on leash because their dogs might run right off the cliff. I think Tucker would dive off the cliff, not fall—but mostly, I just don’t think he’d come back when asked.

The plot of land is accessible at the end of a cul-de-sac, where people were entering and exiting, leashing up their dogs as they entered the neighborhood.
​
I wasn’t sure which direction to walk as there were some areas off limits to dogs and the signs were a little confusing on where they could be, couldn’t be, or could be but only on leash. I followed the first person with dogs I saw and off we went.

Tucker was excited to see other canines, and he greeted a few as they passed by to run off into the dunes and sniff under trees.

While Tucker seemed fine to say hello to most dogs, after one dog tried to play with him by jumping on his shoulder, he was cautious of others. And while that should be fine, I am ever-over-aware of what he looks like and how deep his bark is. There were no other pit bulls there, and I certainly didn’t want mine to be the loud, angry one.

Luckily, people were actually pretty cool here. We ran into the dog later on in our travels, and I mentioned that Tucker didn’t like that this dog had tried to play with him like that, and his person said, “Ranger tried to mount him? Well, good for Tucker for not putting up with that.” And she walked on.
​
When Tucker barked at another dog he didn’t like and he scared him off, that dog’s person just called him back (four times before he went, but at least he tried). Overall, most dogs and their people seemed responsible and polite, and it wasn’t crowded.

But as night started to fall, the people started pouring through the gates.
​
I guess I wasn’t the only one who wanted to see the Great Conjunction. But I was the only one who had misjudged what time sunset was. I had estimated 4:30 would be dark based on on my Burbankian experience. Turns out 4:53pm was actual sunset. Which left Tucker bored for half an hour, when we stopped walking around. He seemed to be getting cranky with the other dogs, so I opted to just find a place on the ledge and take a seat.

We sat for a spell, and I kept watch on the group of people who were on the other craggy cliffside next to me and had set up a telescope and had binoculars as a backup. They were scanning the skies once the sun went down. I used my app to approximate where the two points of light should be seen, and then waited for the darkness to fall around it.

Half an hour later, the pale blue sky turned a deep indigo blue and there it was: two points of light so close, they almost seemed as one.

I had forgotten my binoculars, and now wasn’t the time to ask to use someone else’s. Everyone was masked up, and stood along the cliff at safe distances between them.

Tucker didn’t appreciate the astronomical significance of the moment and was tired of waiting around. I needed to make it back across the mesa before I lost sight of the trail, so we headed out shortly after I felt I had taken in this once-in-a-lifetime moment. Sadly though, it hadn’t healed the crystal.
​
But when I looked back at the horizon, I did see more than an astronomical conjunction. I saw people, families, children, and dogs, lined up together (while being safely apart)—conjoined, if you will.

We’re all on this planet together, trapped on this spinning rock, hurtling through space (or maybe not hurtling but just stationary, who really knows?) so we can’t get far from one another. We’re stuck with each other.
​
There is no Dark Crystal to heal. But we can come together, we can empathize and sympathize and listen to one another. We can find common bonds. Jupiter and Saturn aren’t really close to one another at all. They’re millions of miles apart. But they look like they’re together from where we stand. Maybe that’s the lesson we should take from this: that in the end, that’s all we should expect from one another as well. Let’s be apart, but find someone or something that joins us together—even if it’s two planets, far apart coming together.

For Thanksgiving, I chose to drive northwest again, back to the bluffs (or "mesas" as we now know they are scientifically called). This one was aptly named More Mesa. Not sure where Less Mesa was, but I feel like this was Plenty Mesa for us.

There was no parking lot—just some dirt area along the shoulder of the road where one could park and a subtle metal bar gate at the curve of the road that was the entrance.

The beginning of the trail was no mesa, but just a trail through the shade. Trees on either side (I think some people warned of poison oak, but always wearing long pants and long sleeves, I never really worry about it). Checking my alltrails map, I chose one of the uphill dotted lines that would take us our of the low-elevation trail and up onto the mesa.
​
Once atop, it was all field. Not a tree dotted the skyline, and we still could only see field and sky for a good portion of our walkabout.

While I can’t say exactly how many miles of trails there are, I do think it’s gotta be at least 10 miles or more if you wanted to tread every inch of trail in the system.

We chose to just get straight to the good parts—the cliff.

We placed our feet on just over 3 miles of earth as we walked across the mesa, and south along the bluff and back north again.

In the twenty years I’ve lived Southern California, this is the most time I’ve spent in Santa Barbara. I imagine that long before the city became over-crowded, such journeys were commonplace. Now with few people on the road for holidays and even fewer commuting, perhaps these 100 mile jaunts up the coast will become a new thing for those able to go.

I’ve been quite lucky and am grateful that I have been working since the end of July from home, despite how difficult it is to do the job from afar. Steady income lowers stress, and now knowing that I can indeed hop in the truck and whisk away to another land in less than two hours’ time adds a little bit more relaxation to my life.

California has 840 miles of coastline (or maybe 3427 miles**), and if we have to stay here in quarantine for much longer, Tucker and I are going to walk a whole lot of them, just three to five miles at a time.
​
Certainly there are worse places to be, so I can’t complain. Tucker seems to enjoy the walkabouts along the shore, and so do I. Once I’m not working anymore, we can take a true unemployment break and start trekking the coastline every day if we wish.

Until then, it’ll be a holiday affair, which makes it all the more special.

​**Watch the video. You'll learn that distance isn't as black and white as you may have believed. https://www.boston.com/news/local-news/2017/08/11/does-maine-really-have-more-shoreline-than-california

There is no match for New England when it comes to fall foliage. So as a New England girl, every Fall my heart yearns to go back east.  The Aspens do turn here in California, and my liquid amber in my yard comes through to give me a touch of Massachusetts in December, but I am always seeking something more.

I had been hearing about Oak Glen, home to apple orchards galore about a hundred miles east of Los Angeles, for many a year. Friends and colleagues have made the pilgrimage to pick apples and eat apple-everything-baked-goods, and go on hay rides. While apple picking was out for the year due to that being not so sanitary during a pandemic, orchards were still open to buy apple products and walk about their property.
And so, with an online tip that the dog-friendly Snow Line Orchard makes the very best apple cider donuts (another New England staple), Tucker and I hopped in the truck and headed east into the mountains for a hike and some special donuts at that orchard.
​
The hike itself, Wildwood Canyon, was not what I was expecting. But I fault myself as a New England girl setting my expectations too high.

A few leaves had changed, and the winter skies were stunning, but for the most part, the trail was open land that we trekked on and the only fall foliage was off in the distance where a few Aspen trees had begun to yellow in the adjacent small town.

Oak Glen itself was also not quite what I had expected. It just proves that most unhappiness is the result of high expectations being dashed. I should have expected nothing and been surprised with the outcome.

In their defense, a fire had raged through the surrounding mountains only a couple of months earlier, so it’s possible that what was now just scorched earth used to be acres of deciduous forest abundant with fall foliage in previous years.

Oak Glen proper was just a stretch of a few miles on one road that had a few apple orchards. The roadside was packed with cars, and people and dogs walked along the shoulder to get to one orchard or another. It wasn’t the idyllic apple orchards I had thought of with sweeping views of trees in the landscape.

Snow-Line was the perfect place for Tucker and me. Not just because of the donuts or dog friendliness, but because of its out-of-the-way-ness. At the far end of the stretch of highway, long after the final fruit stand, I spotted a van coming down out of an inconspicuous dirt road. Next to it was a hand-painted sign touting its “hot, fresh cider donuts!” There were no cars parked along the roadside, and it was unassuming and quiet. Just what I wanted.
​
We wove our way down the short dirt road to a red barn-like building. A few people were there, and cars were parked around the back. We continued beyond it to the parking lot where there were a surprisingly good number of spots left. People lined the front of the building, all dutifully six feet apart (so really the line wasn’t long in terms of number of people, just geographically due to mathematical distancing).

This was probably Tucker’s favorite part—waiting in line. There were people! And Dogs! And the air to sniff!

Being outside and distanced, I wasn’t too concerned about my health. As a first-timer, I learned from another patron that usually the place is open for customers to come and go but due to health advisories, there was now an outside line and a limited number of people allowed indoors to shop. So it became more of an assembly line or cafeteria style space, rather than open market.
​
Tucker got to see them making the donuts (not at all like what Dunkin’ Donuts dude used to do at 4am).

I ordered up a dozen mini-donuts, caked in cinnamon and sugar, and then walked through the market.

A sign at the other end of the market pointed the way to the bar where I could get my other favorite fall (or anytime) treat: hard cider.

There I got a beverage and Tucker got a cookie. Another upside for Tucker, making it much more interesting than our hike earlier.

On our way out, Tucker got a bonus treat from the cash register clerk as well.

I stepped outside, trying to juggle fresh hot donuts, a cold cider, and Tucker at the end of the leash wanting to sniff everything all at once. And of course, having my mask on, I couldn’t just sip the glass to reduce the liquid from spilling, or shove a donut in my mouth to lower the load.

For the most part, people wore masks—unless they were stuffing their faces with donuts and drink.

I chose a table out on the grassy knoll beside the barn and listened to the live music.

Taking off my mask, I was able to finally imbibe of the beverage and taste these donuts I had driven a hundred miles for.

Tucker lay under the table, taking in the little bit of almost-normalcy around us.

Once my drink was finished and I held onto the willpower to not eat every.single.donut.in.the.bag, we got up and began our wanderings in the orchard.

I was a little confused by how small the orchard was. I kept expecting acres upon acres of apple trees, and the short trees didn’t seem enough to make this booming business.

The raspberry field where people could come pick raspberries during the allotted time of year (and not during a global health crisis) also seemed rather small… more of a patch than a field.

When I compare New England to California in my mind, New England is always small, quaint—even the sky seems lower (a scientific impossibility). California’s towering mountains and craggy peaks are dramatic and imposing compared to the rolling “hills” of the Berkshires, the places I thought of as “mountains” until I saw the Rockies for the first time.
​
But when it comes down to the microcosms—the farms and the orchards—New England wins for sweeping landscapes. What they lack in mountain peaks, they make up for in rolling fields and meadows. Here along the San Bernardino Mountains, they planted trees wherever they could hold. They didn’t have miles of flat land in which to plant trees.

There is no substitute for New England Autumn. But when you’re 3000 miles from it, this is certainly a little taste of it. The 100 miles was worth it for the donuts, the cider, and of course, for being able to stand beneath the trees and listen to the wind.

The hot weather kept us inside and off the trails for the rest of the summer. Triple degree heat just isn’t good for Tucker or me. But in October, on one magical day when the weather looked to be under 80 degrees in the mountains, we headed northeast to Big Bear.

Big Bear was my birthday destination some twenty years ago, back when the 100 mile trip took only an hour and a half. But with traffic, over the years the mountain venture was just too tedious to take often. I had found my home in San Francisco, and if I was going to spend half a day on the road to get to the forest, I’d rather it be to end up among the redwoods.

But now with traffic patterns across the Southland being Pandemic-Light (something akin to “Tuesday-Light” traffic from the westside to the valley in Before Times), a jaunt to Big Bear truly was just a jaunt.

I chose Castle Rock and Bluff Lake for our hiking adventure. Castle Rock was rather popular, not only for the Stephen King reference but because the trailhead was right on the main road. However, one could start near Bluff Lake, up in the mountains, and reach the same peak of Castle Rock minus all the crowds.

And crowds there were indeed. Here the stewards of nature had blocked off roadside parking and the main parking lot, which just meant that people were walking a mile or more from up the road to get to the trailhead. Never underestimate the determination someone has to go for a walk when they’re told they can’t.

I found the back way to Bluff Lake, and Tucker and I took took some not-at-all-trafficked forest service roads up the mountain to reach what seemed like a camp, now abandoned from summer and from a global health crisis.
​
We parked (the only car in what I assumed was the lot for the trailhead), and while we saw a couple of people and dogs exiting the trailhead, there was no one else nearby.
​
The trail was a beautiful, socially distant, lack of human experience.

​There was a sparkling lake,

Some woodland area to walk through,

A meadow,

Some autumn colors to enjoy,

And even a small house to check out.

We then found our way along forest roads to the trail that would take us to the back door entrance of Castle Rock.

There were some amazing rock formations which made me feel like we were on a set. (How did Mother Nature make these??)

And some stunning textures on the fallen trees.

Our travels took us along the trail that eventually started to drop in elevation. We were two miles into our walkabout, and I wasn’t quite sure how much further we should descend before ascending later would prove problematic—for Tucker or me. We saw Castle Rock, but the way there looked to be a few hundred feet downward and then a few hundred feet up again to reach the pinnacle.
​
I felt the view of Castle Rock was enough for what we came for: a walk in the mountains.

So we sat for a spell, and enjoyed the lake, Castle Rock, and our strategic avoidance of other people.

Tucker got to gnaw on a branch.

And I got to enjoy the view—of both the lake and my boy.

When we had had our fill of relaxation and stillness in nature, we headed back the steep incline, taking a few breaks along the way, and then onward to Bluff Lake again.

This time we stopped for a photo op with a Champion Lodgepole Pine. While no giant redwood, it was impressive in its own right. There was no other tree quite so large, and the fact that it had escaped human’s destruction was a feat to be honored.

Southern California does offer a wide variety of nature to explore—as long as the freeways are clear and people don’t ruin it. Whether it’s the oceans or the mountains, thanks to people working from home, people moving away, and people just not going anywhere, we can be with nature in under two hours in any direction. And we plan to explore every direction possible.

One week later we returned to the ocean. This time, just a little more north to Ellwood Mesa. I never think of mesas as near the ocean, but I suppose that’s the proper terminology for what a Bluff is: the top of a mesa overlooking an ocean.
​
We walked through the field which felt a lot like Half Moon Bay, the trails criss-crossing the open meadow with trees on the perimeter.

We found our way down to the beach and once more, had it all to ourselves except for a few people. We walked over two miles on the edge of the sea, enjoying the cliffs (a.k.a the side of a mesa), and looking out into the great ocean.

Tucker might not have cared much, but I enjoyed the beautiful rocks, wondering how long they had been beneath the sea and what it took for the earth to create such beautiful masterpieces.

A few birds hung out by the pier, and allowed us to pass so we could get under the pier for a photo op.

And then back across the beach we went.

At what I felt was the end of our beach travels, we headed upward on a trail to get bluff-side again.

There was the majestic eucalyptus tree, akin to something from the Upside Down (not that Tucker got the reference, but if he had paid attention to my Netflix nights, he would have).

There’s just something about the view of the ocean from above that I like more than standing on the edge of the waves. Tucker isn’t a fan of actual ocean swimming (or any kind of swimming), so the panoramic view suits our needs.

It was as close to Half Moon Bay as we could be after such a long time away. Bluffs or beach, even this far south from the Bay, we are standing before the very same ocean. 

And so we vowed to come back again, to gaze out over the waves and to let them carry the love in our hearts northward to the bluffs of Half Moon Bay. 

The one thing I can say is a plus during a pandemic is that the traffic in Southern California is finally reasonable. The ninety miles to Santa Barbara now really only takes ninety minutes. This is in comparison to the Burbank to Culver City commute, which is a whole seven miles and takes forty-five minutes. Even the west side (Santa Monica) which used to take over an hour, now is a mere 35-40 minutes.

With that in mind by mid-July, I decided it was time to get out of the house and get to the beach. Tucker doesn’t like getting wet, but he seems to like the ocean: just being near it, sniffing the things that have been drudged up on the beach, and walking along the coast. He’s not going to go surfing or even go walking off into the waves. But he likes the olfactory view I suppose.

Our first try was to Rincon Beach. I followed the directions and ended up at a campground that bordered the ocean, but there was no way to get where the trail was supposed to begin. Fencing, boulders, and a lack of land made me think I was in the wrong place. So after twenty minutes of giving it my best go to find the trail, I gave up.
I looked back at the map, found another trail a few miles north and off we went.

The Carpenteria Bluffs is directly off the freeway. Literally. The parking lot is within spitting distance, but once you walk past the sign, you’d never know you were so near to civilization. Apparently someone made an imprint of the land like one of those ceramic paw print ornaments and shrunk it down.

The bluff itself was an easy walk and featured some nice climbable trees. But Tucker weren't satisfied with just this. We kept going, crossing the railroad tracks (which is usually not a good idea, but I suppose it depends what side of the tracks you start on).

We ended up on the right side of the tracks. The view from that side of the tracks put me in mind of being a few hundred miles north.

We walked down the slopped trail to the beach below and found that we had the beach almost all to ourselves.

Tucker climbed on boulders, sniffed the air, and got a good noseful of seaweed.

The hour and a half drive was well worth our three mile walkabout.

​I won’t be making the drive every day, but with the Bay area in my heart but 300 miles away, we’ll be back here for our ocean fix whenever we need it. Knowing it’s this close makes this isolation thing a whole lot easier to handle.

Stough Canyon finally finished being “maintained” and opened back up to the public in mid-May. Stough Canyon is my go-to hike because it starts at the bottom, meaning there’s no risk to venturing too far. Go as far as you can, and then it’s all downhill from there.

So for the month of May when the skies were grey, or when the day was cool enough, we took a drive to our old stand-by rather than walk again the same two mile stretch of bike path that is our evening walk.
​
Being in the canyon meant if we went late enough in the day, we’d be in shade the whole way up and the whole way down.

Our usual end has always been what I term Three Corners—the “top” for most in which you could turn around or head west up to picnic table and watch the sun set (or the planes take off—depending if you’re looking skyward or landward), or head east further into the mountains.

I had never ventured much east, so with time and cool air on our side, Tucker and I explored further up the mountains, hoping to find the end of the trail one day.

We often found the ravens and other inhabitants who were seeking the quiet as much as we were. Seldom did we see any other humans up this high.

It was still upward momentum, and unfortunately the first time, I mis-judged the angle of the sun and the trail around the mountain tops, so we were in sun a little too long. But I eventually figured out the geometry and time coordination, and we were able to trek up further than ever before.

The trail winds upward, and oddly ends up winding back where we can almost oversee the original parking lot, a few hundred feet down below.

We never made it beyond the cell towers, as I wanted to get back before dark. Perhaps I’m a bit paranoid, but when parks close “half hour after sunset”, I don’t want my trusty steed to be fenced in because I took too long to come down off the mountain.
​
Sometimes we explored some maybe-not-trails when we got bored of the obvious wide trails.

Tucker and I spent a good amount of time up here in the hills, mostly under overcast skies. With June comes hotter weather, so our ventures up mountainsides would have to come to an end for a bit. But at least we have somewhere worth going back to once weather is on our side again. And honestly, with views like this only minutes from our basecamp, I can’t really complain.

But in the end, it's not the views I'm truly after. It's all about spending time and having adventures with this smiling kid. No matter where we go: up mountains, across meadows, walking along the beach, or driving coast to coast across the country, as long as we're together, every trail worth taking.

Los Angeles City went back and forth from closing nature completely to opening trails but not able to figure out how to reduce the number of people actually using them. That alone, kept me off their trails. The city of Burbank, however, decided to give people a chance and opened a few of their trails in May to see if we could handle it, or if they needed to turn the whole bus around on account of a few lousy kids in the back shooting spitballs. Having off mid-week while many others were either working from home or schooling their children, I took a shot on a cool day.

Stough Canyon has been a go-to for many years—even before Tucker Time. When I arrived to give it a go in May, I found that it was closed “for maintenance.” So I tried “the other trail” in Burbank. The other trail, Wildwood, was beyond my capabilities some years ago. I had gone just once, and discovered that the first 50 yards of the trail was straight up. I thought my heart was going to explode within the first 20 yards, so I descended, defeated, never to return—until now.

I had read that this wasn’t the only trailhead to get to the top. I could take a meandering, less inclined route up the road with switchbacks, and find the other trail head (or trail end) to begin our hike.

Tucker and I took to the road (which was uneventful) but at least shady so the pavement wasn’t hot on Tucker’s feet. We passed a few picnic areas where some people were sitting, reading books or enjoying a snack. Checking on my app, I found the trail off the pavement, and up we went.

It was a narrow path, but significantly less difficult that those first few yards from the bottom. It was also completely deserted. It wasn’t until we hit the ridgeline where human life became evident again. Not many people have ventured at this hour—only a couple hours before sundown and the end of an at-home-work-day.

The mountains were still a crisp a green from the winter rains, and the wildflowers were in bloom.

Tucker wasn’t overwhelmed by heat, and I wasn’t overwhelmed by people. All and all, a good hike for having been my second choice and spur of the moment substitution.

The way down was indeed steep, and I was grateful for taking the advice of others who had come before and pointed the way to an easier, more enjoyable experience. Those we passed on their way up were huffing, puffing, and heaving, hardly able to turn around and check out the view.

It just proved that while we don’t always get what we believe is the best option, we can still get what we want in unexpected ways.