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

But the universe finds plans amusing.

Or maybe just mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaving here was almost as difficult as leaving Portland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​Even erosion was beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

It had a valid point.

Because Nature knows no boundaries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And one stump.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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