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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We had reached the designated Vista Point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​The rocky beaches were other-worldly.

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

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

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

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