The last day of January, the last day of our month-long adventure in the bay area, I drove over the Bay to the Marin Headlands. We’d been there before, but we hadn’t taken these exact trails before; hadn’t experienced it from this perspective.

Rather than park at our usual spot by Rodeo Beach, we kept driving up and over the hilltops where once the military stood guard, staring off into the abyss, ready to shoot down any invaders.
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The trail was unshaded (you can’t very well launch a canon from deep within the forest), but the breeze kept us cool as we headed north along the wide trail.

To the south was a new vista to behold.

In the distance to the north, we could see Rodeo Beach, our usual parking area, and the trails that led up to some of our favorite spots.

Taking a turn on the trail to the east, we headed back down the loop to the battery.

We stood atop the mound, and I wondered if the battery had been dug into the hill or if the hill was made on top of the battery.

We took in the views, finished the loop and continued south to the a path toward the beach.

It was a long, wide path through the hillside.

And eventually the packed dirt turned to sand, where at one time, it was ocean floor.

We had the beach to ourselves.

If it had been low tide, we probably could have walked along the beach all the way to Rodeo Beach; high tide would be impossible.

As we were somewhere in between, I decided not to try the venture and just enjoy the view.

Tucker climbed the rock outcroppings for a new perspective.

After we got our fill of the sea up close, we climbed back up the hillside trail.

And took in the view again.

We headed further south, which was actually uphill, past a school, to the end of the peninsula overlooking the bay and ocean.

Tucker was not allowed to see the lighthouse at the end of the peninsula up close, so we veered right to take the path to Battery Mendell.

Some of the best views are reserved for cannonball launch sites.

In the distance, Tucker and I could see the forbidden lighthouse.

We turned our attention northward again, and walked along the bluff to Bird Island Overlook, which, as you may have guessed, overlooks Bird Island. (We didn’t see any birds, but it was a large rock not attached to the mainland, which I assume is where it gets its designation as an island.)

It also overlooked Rodeo Beach.

Turning around to head back, I espied the other batteries along the hill, further island. I wondered how hollow all of this land was. Perhaps there was no dirt, but just catacombs beneath our feet.

And of course the Golden Gate Bridge, the Bay, and the city beyond.

We walked back along the road for a spell, taking in the sights and smells before our exit and taking our farewell of this stunning place.

That night we went back to a bar we called home every week for Trivia Night (which was actually Trivia Bingo, a delightful mash-up of both games). Tucker always had a seat, and everyone knew his name.

Kicking off 2023 in the Bay area was what we needed. I had hoped the cancer treatment would have worked. It’s disappointing that it didn't, but it's not devastating. It caused no harm, and it was the catalyst for us to spend a few weeks exploring and enjoying our beloved Bay area. We’ll continue to manage the condition as we always have, and above all else, we'll continue to keep on living. Which means hiking from the forest to the sea, taking in the beauty of nature, and experiencing the kindness of people who welcome us into their neighborhood bars and make us feel at home.

Live every day as if it's your first day, not your last. Explore with the wonder of a child, and experience the world in all its beauty. Essentially, Go Where the Dog Takes You. You'll never be disappointed.

There are some hikes that simply cannot, and should not, be captured in photos. I admit, I love that hikers post a trail to know what to expect (I do it too). But sometimes the trail is about the energy, something that I, as an unprofessional, untalented photographer, cannot capture. Such it is with Land of Medicine Buddha.

We had tried to do the longer hike there on my birthday, but we arrived to closed gates that morning. This time, the gates were open and we were free to walk through and onto this Land. We had two options: a six mile hike that would take us far up into the forest along the border of The Forest of Nisene Marks, which is the park we ended up going to when the gates were closed. If we were to tke that loop now, we’d miss half of the Eight Verses Trail of meditation. The Eight Verses was clocked at only a mile and a half, but I was here for the energy, not the exercise. And in the end, we managed to walk 2.7 miles under the redwood canopy.

Dogs are welcome, as all life is respected here and they too, can benefit from meditation. Tucker and I walked the path, stopping at each verse. I read and contemplated; Tucker smelled and enjoyed. We walked among the towering redwoods in peace and tranquility. I wish the loop had been bigger, just for some more footfalls, but I was not disappointed with our venture. And every one’s journey will be their own.
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On the drive back from Soquel, Calilfornia (which, up until this fall, I thought “Soquel, California”, was short for “So[outhern] Cal[ifornia]”, not an entirely different town), we stopped by Manresea Beach. One of the many reasons I love this area is that I can walk from the forest to the sea, and my feet can feel the forest path layered with redwood leaves and the sandy beaches both in the same day.
We walked a mile along the bluff, taking in the views.

And then we wove down from the cliffs and started walking south along the water’s edge.

I figured we’d watch the sun set here. But what we witnessed was even more spectacular.

A seal lay on the beach, one man standing far enough away to not disturb the animal, but close enough to clearly be his guard.

I asked what was wrong with the seal. He wasn’t sure; he was waiting for his co-volunteers to return with a crate. They were going to take the seal back to the wildlife rescue to help him (or her).

Tucker and I walked on for a spell and then returned to sit on a log, watch the sunset, and watch the rescue.
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A large dog crate on massive all terrain wheels looking like something related to the Mars Rover, was wheeled out onto the sand, steered by a few humans.

The seal did not move or fight back as she was surrounded. Maybe she was too ill; maybe she could sense these bipeds were here to help.

Using boards like one uses to get people with back and neck injuries into an ambulance, the team of seven worked to get the seal into the crate with as little trauma as possible.

​The seven humans in total may not have weighed more than the seal alone. Humans’ use of tools was the only way this seal would be moved.

In under fifteen minutes, this team had gotten the ill sea-dwelling mammal into the crate to be wheeled up to the parking lot, about a mile away. From there, the seal would be taken to the marine mammal rescue facility to be nursed back to health. Once healthy, she would be released back to her home.

Watching the team work and ten trek back up the sands, I felt tears well up in my eyes. These seven individuals stopped their lives to answer the call of one distressed mammal. The effort they made to save the life shows that every life matters. It doesn’t matter than the being wasn’t human. It doesn’t matter that it’s rather inconvenient to get that massive of an animal to a veterinary care facility. All that matters is that someone’s life, just one someone’s life, was in danger. And the volunteers could save her.

But why? Why help just one seal?

Because: every.life.matters.

​We’re all connected—every being of every species is part of the massive web of life. What you do—and what you don’t do—makes a difference.

I came to the Bay area for Tucker. I travelled 300 miles, stayed a month, paid for office visits, treatment, and follow-up, all for one dog. To help one dog. The treatment did not work as I had hoped, but Tucker is still alive and well, and so we move on. I had to try. I had to do something.
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That’s no different than seeing an animal in distress on the beach and making a call, or being the volunteer to stand watch, or the veterinarian who will look the seal over back at the rescue. Someone needs help. And if we can help, we do.

Pink Floyd sang  “On The Turning Away” from the “pale and downtrodden” in 1987. Turning away is not something new. And it continues today. But not everyone is turning away. For those seven volunteers, turning away isn’t even an option. Nor is it for me. For the people who work in rescue—for wildlife, for pets, for humans—turning away is not even on the table.

With the animal shelters in Southern California and across the country at capacity, people dumping dogs they adopted during the pandemic because their life started up again, it’s easy to lose hope, easy to lose faith in humanity. But then I see this rescue. A rescue of one animal, whose name we do not know, whose past we cannot fathom, who simply needs help. And over half a dozen people answered the call. By the time this seal is healthy again, she will meet a dozen more people, emissaries of our species, proving that we are not all engaging in the turning away. And that for many of us there will be:

“No more turning away/From the weak and the weary/No more turning away/From the coldness inside/Just a world that we all must share/It's not enough just to stand and stare.”

And that we hope, and we act in answer to the question: “Is it only a dream that there'll be/No more turning away?”
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It is only a dream until we make it happen. And we are. One person, one dog, one seal at a time.