Technology has its advantages. But if you rely it on too heavily, you may find it has some major pitfalls too.

I have been hiking for years long before I had a smartphone; I had a stupid phone and a paper map. It served me well. I never cared how many miles I went, how long it would take to get anywhere, or what to expect. I walked to walk and I knew I was off course when I had a little feeling in my gut telling me I wasn’t where I should be.

Now I have my GPS-tracker app on the moment I park the truck. I look at the app rather than my surroundings to find to the trailhead. While sometimes it comes in handy, I really need to stop relying on it.

Arriving into the first parking lot I see, I realize I’ve been here before—but I had done the hike from the other end. And it wasn’t really a hike. Devil’s Slide is a paved path, and a while back my friend Carolina and I had started at the bottom and turned around here at the top. The app said I was in the right place, so I surmised that maybe Pedro’s Point, the trail I was here to take, was an offshoot of this one.

Tucker and I headed toward the trailhead for Devil’s Slide. I didn’t see any smaller trails, but from what I read it was a dirt path—and this was not a dirt path. My GPS wasn’t giving me any warning that I was off path, so we kept walking. And honestly, it's not like the view was terrible or anything.

One mile later, after descending a good portion of the “slide,” that little gut instinct told me we were completely off course. We should have hit the trail as described by now. I looked down at my phone, and noticed that the red dot indicating Me had not moved. “No Service” was in the upper left of the phone.

We were walking in the wrong direction. And this mountain filled with abandoned artillery was blocking my cell phone reception.​ We walked back up the hill, I refreshed the app, and boom, there I was, a mile away from the trailhead. We had walked in the exact opposite direction of the trail.

So, uphill we climbed, back to the truck and I wondered where the trail might be. There was a road—Highway 1—right there, which is why I hadn't looked in that direction before.  We walked to the end of the drive, turned left at the road, and there, just a a few yards away was a little tiny sign announcing the entrance to Pedro Point Headlands.

Annoyed that my gut instinct took so long to kick in, but proud that it was still there, our feet hit earth after two miles of walking a different, paved path.
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Arriving at what seemed like it could be a parking lot one day, we chose one of the four trails leading out. I consulted my app again, this time not fully trusting it, and chose the one my gut was telling me was the right path. It led through a Eucalyptus grove.

​And through probably what was once a riverbed that drained to the sea. Steep walls of meadow lined one side and a trees rose up from the other side.

I recalled some description of views and took a path I suspected might take us to one of the vista points. The map at the trailhead didn’t have quite so many paths that were on the ground, so I chose one and traveled along the narrow path etched through high meadow.

When we came to the path’s natural end, it turned out nature was thriving so much, there was little expanse to see. So we turned around and hiked back to the main trail.

Out across the ridge line, there was a mountain with two people walking a trail. I thought, “I wonder how you get there?” and looked down at where I was. I couldn’t see where the path was connected due to the rolling hills, and thought there was no way we would ever walk that far.

I was wrong.
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Tucker and I paused a moment on the peak I thought would be our turnaround spot. Sitting on a rock for a moment, Tucker even took a load off to stare off into the mountains to the southeast of us.

After a sufficient break, I rose up and we continued up and down a couple less steep valleys and peaks. It wasn’t as long as I suspected, and as we crested the final peak that would show us the direct line to that final mountain, those two people I had seen in the distance were now huffing and puffing their way back up the peak I stood on.

When the man caught his breath, I asked (while maintaining my social distance), “Is it worth it?”

He looked back at the mountain and his female companion who had taken a moment to stare at her shoes and get some more oxygen about half way up the steep incline, and smiled ever so slightly, “Oh, yeah, definitely.”

So Tucker and I headed downhill once more, and then straight back up again.

The hiker was right.
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Looking north, we saw the almost abandoned beach and town.

​To the south was Devil’s Slide—where we had been a couple hours earlier—and the sea beyond.

​There seemed to be another path along the ridge line that went out to the ocean, as if we would be riding the spine of a dragon’s tail. But when I considered that we’d have to go downhill again to go back uphill… my body rejected the idea. There was no certainty we’d get there anyway.

​We took in the view in each direction one more time. To the north.

​And to the south.

And then headed back down to go back up to continue along the ridge that bordered the sea.

​Wildflowers added dots of color to the green and brown cliffside.

And trees of mystical arrangement held sentinel.

​From ocean...

To mountains...

​We saw it all along the journey.

​When I got back to the trailhead, I took a photo of the map. It’s the symbol of this trek itself: you need to look beyond the map. While this was supposed to be just be a map of where we journeyed, it’s actually reflection of who I am… amongst the trees that hug the sea and the mountains beyond.

​I have always felt at home here in the Bay Area. The land and sea sing in harmony with my soul. Perhaps it’s because I am a part of it as much as it is a part of me. Whether it’s in the woods, along the bluff, or just gazing out at the tip of the dragon’s tail, this is where my heart belongs.

Systematically going over the Bay area map on AllTrails, I came across a bluff trail I had never noticed before: Thornton Beach. It is south of Funston, and while people noted they couldn’t get down to the beach itself, it seemed like a cool little spot to check out. I usually enjoy the bluffs over the beach anyway.

Arriving at the tiny parking lot (literally only 10 spots) with only six cars there, I knew we wouldn’t be fighting crowds. From the truck, I could not see the beach, ocean, or even a trail. Once out of the vehicle, I spotted a few trails that started just on the other side of the rope that acted as a parking barrier, so Tucker and I hopped over and started along the bluff.

Coming to the edge, I was overtaken by the panoramic vista. We stood atop a canyon ridge; down below there were a few people and dogs walking in the hollowed out canyon area. Above them, more trails led through the bluff, and beyond that, the sea. I was in awe, but pulled myself together to try to figure out how we could set foot on every inch of every path down below while not backtracking too much.

Tucker and I started down the path heading north on the first path I saw.

​Even then, choices abounded.

​Half a mile in, I realized that I had been here before: from Fort Funston! I had come from the north, taken a turn and headed down to the beach. Had I continued straight, I would have ended up right here.

​So I turned around and headed back to trails we had never tread before. Taking the western most path, we rose up on the bluff’s edge and could see south along the coast.

We looped around and headed back into the canyon, where no sea, no bluff, and no mountains could be seen. It was its own private place of magic.

​I wasn’t ready to head back up the way we had come, and I had seen some people come down from the southern edge of the ridge into the canyon. So rather than return the way we came, we took a mid-range trail, and walked south again, with the canyon to our left and the ocean to our right.

​The way I had seen a few people come down the hill I did not think would work in the same way going up. They sort of slid down the embankment in a cloud of sand. But there had been people even farther away, up on the ridge who I saw later on down below—so there had to be another way up.

Indeed there was. I was reminded of Vancouver, where this would be rated “easy” because at least there was a chain you could hang onto while scaling the side of a mountain… with a dog. This was actually the first time Tucker even turned around and was like, “Um, maybe we should skip this one?”

I went slowly, making sure he was on solid ground, and he overcame his fear. His fear had made me pause though, as he’s never frightened of anything. But I felt we could be safe, and we could feel safe as long as we didn’t look down until we were all the way up. I find it strange how hesitant I am now—even though being hesitant is actually more risky than just having the confidence to move forward swiftly.

​Doubt is a dangerous thing.

Once up on the two foot wide sandy edge, I quickly scrambled to safety with Tucker ahead of me. Taking a moment to look down across the valley rather than down the way we came up, I was filled with awe at the beauty rather than dismay that I had risked our lives.

We followed the ridge line back to the parking area and a little alcove under a tree to look from a view it from another perspective.

​Any way we looked it, this magical land was stunning. Whether we could see the ocean, or were in the canyon, or atop the bluff, or even hanging on for dear life off a chain, I couldn’t ask for a better place in which to “shelter in place.”

The great thing about being unemployed is that I get to be places other people aren’t because they’re at work. However, with more people working from home or not working at all, I needed to look a little deeper for some solitary hiking.

Sweeney Ridge seemed like a good choice. I mean, if you want to go where no one else is, an abandoned missile site is a decent option. There are three routes to get there. The first is paved. That didn’t seem fun. The second starts from behind a nursery off Highway 1, but boasts close to 1000 foot elevation gain in the first two miles--close to 700 feet in the first mile. The third route begins at a college, starting you at 700 foot elevation, meaning you only have to climb 300 feet. That seemed more my fitness level.

Sadly, though, the road to the trailhead was closed since the school itself was shuttered. If I had been alone, I probably would have gone back home. But Tucker is a like a kid: we’re on the road so there must be an exciting adventure about to happen so we can’t just turn around now. While he sat and whined, frustrated that we hadn’t even begun whatever super exciting journey we were going to embark on, I found directions to the nursery and steeled myself for the challenge.

It was surprising to see the official trail sign there at the back corner of a dirt lot that belongs to a nursery. But this is the Bay Area. They respect their open spaces and keep as much of them as they can no matter how odd the location.

Even the very first steps on the trail were straight up hill. It wasn’t a cakewalk for Tucker either.

​But the views were worth it.

​Even stopping beneath a tree, we had spectacular views.

From atop this ridge we could choose to look at the city,

​Or keep our eyes on the wild.

The missile site itself was unspectacular—slabs of concrete amongst the overgrown vegetation so high we couldn’t see the ocean. But if you’re a missile, you’re aimed for the sky, not the sea, so why bother with the view?

We continued walking south along the ridge to the “San Francisco Discovery Site.”

​The placards are quick to point out that this is not where and when it was discovered for all of humanity, but rather, this spot commemorates the place and time non-indigenous people figured out the Bay was here—thanks to the indigenous people who had known about it for thousands of years, lived here, and pointed it out to them.

​Southward, the mountains were undisturbed by human hands, and I imagined what it must have been like coming up over the mountain to see the bay and then the ocean.

There are no photographs of what communities looked like back then, or for the thousand years prior. But I’m pretty positive it was not a booming metropolis as it is now. The serenity must have been awe-inspiring.

Perhaps because of the manmade intrusions upon the landscape that exist now, I am drawn to turn around and face the ocean.

I enjoy the convenience of the city, but being in the wilderness is far more appealing. For me, social distancing is a regular part of life. I can’t be around people all the time, or even a majority of the time. I need a healthy dose of human companionship, sure, but this is where I find peace and joy.

​I don’t want to live in a city and come here to escape. I want to live here and take occasional field trips to the city for some human contact.

​Sweeney Ridge is the epitome of what I need: a balance of cityscape and wilderness, ocean and bay…. But mostly the sea and the forest.

It was only Monday, the first day of my unemployment, that it happened. I was with my friend Carolina at Fort Funston. Her beagles were frolicking in the dunes catching gophers, and Tucker was balking at the end of his eight foot leash (because no matter how long the leash is, he always wants to be a foot farther away than that.)

Carolina looked down at her phone to read a text from her husband. “David said they’re going to announce lockdown for San Francisco at 1pm.”

“Wait—they’re locking down at 1pm or their announcing the lockdown at 1pm?”

“They’re announcing it.”

It was 12:40. I wasn’t terribly concerned. Carolina, on the other hand, while calm, was trying to plan for the worst.

“You should go. Get out now while you can. I can go shopping for you or help you pack. Whatever you need. But you should go before you can’t.”

I hadn’t planned on leaving San Francisco for two weeks. My humble abode was paid for till the end of the month, and now that my job ended, I had grand plans of hiking, taking a tour of wine country, seeing friends, and writing. Now it seemed those middle two would be out of the question, but writing and hiking are solitary endeavors I could still enjoy.

There was no way I could pack up my entire place and and still be awake enough to be safe driving the six hours back to southern California.

“You don’t need to get all the way the home. Just get out of San Francisco. You can go to Santa Cruz and be fine,” Carolina suggested.

She was ready to call the beagles back and leave immediately. The announcement hadn’t even gone out yet.

“No, let’s hang out for a bit.”

I wanted to hear what they had to say, how they planned to make this happen, but I also wasn’t overly concerned that I would be jailed in San Francisco… I mean, honestly, how bad would that be anyway since I was already choosing to be there?

Carolina received text updates from her husband as we let our canine kids romp about for another forty minutes. As of midnight, the city would be shutting down and they were requesting all residents to stay at home except for essentials. It was surreal hearing that, as dozens of people and dozens upon dozens of dogs roamed about the open sand dunes and shrubbery. How would they tell everyone about this? Would anybody really listen?

We walked around the usual path and back up to the parking lot. I was still considering leaving, only because if a lockdown did extend past the end of the month, I couldn’t afford to continue renting here. I took one last picture of Tucker atop Fort Funston in case this was our last stop…

​I hugged Carolina good-bye, and drove back to my little rental house listening to the news. Hearing it first hand, I was being swayed to stay. Parks and trails were still open; I could still walk Tucker around the ‘hood. We rarely encountered people even when they weren’t being asked to stay home. Travel out of the city to get home was still allowed, so needing to leave by midnight was no longer necessary. And then I pondered: leaving tomorrow or a week from tomorrow, does it matter?

I paid for the place, and I wanted to stay. I couldn’t visit friends, but hiking and writing would be most of my days anyway. So I called my landlady and told her I would be staying until they forbid me to leave to go home—in which case I had to leave on the drop of a dime.

But I didn’t expect that to happen. After two days of being indoors, catching up on some writing, I ventured out, but didn’t want to venture far. When I first moved in, my landlady had told me there was a way to get to Glen Canyon Park through the woods from a few streets away and it was really beautiful. Since I was finally home during daylight hours, I thought we’d give it a shot. I found it on alltrails.com, and after a few wrong turns (are there really wrong turns or just a longer path?), I found the entrance.
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It was like entering a portal into a fairyland. Wildflowers bloomed along the steep incline. Butterflies  danced above. No picture could do it justice. 

​Tucker was instantly overjoyed.

I could see a few people and a couple of dogs on paths farther down into the canyon. But there was no sign of cityscape anywhere. I was in awe of this magical getaway and was disappointed that I had not ventured here earlier in my stay.
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There were a few paths to choose from from, but I didn’t feel like one would outdo another; they were all equally fantastic.

​Flowers bloomed.

​Rocky outcroppings were available for climbing.

After getting all the way to the bottom of the canyon, we headed back up on a different trail that was equally enchanting.

It’s strange to think how our daily walk back in Burbank is about the same: 2.5-3 miles, and yet there it would be along sidewalks. Here it is to a magical land where the the city seems miles away.

Before returning to the city, just over the hill, Tucker sat atop a manhole cover, and I imagined this was a secret portal that others come to and find this other world.

My home in LA is home because of the life I built there, the friends I have, my yard, my house… but if I can’t see my friends, can’t go out to dinner, or go to a bar, or sit at the coffeehouse, then the redwood forest and the bluffs above the beach is where I need to be.
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Because if you’re ordered to shelter in place, this is the place to be—at least for Tucker and me.

At this point in my life, I’ve clocked in over one full year in the Bay Area. Not all at once, and I still have yet to experience summer here but since 2011, I’ve spent a fall, part of spring, and three winters here. Only the longest tour, a seven month run, was BT (Before Tucker.) When Tucker joined me, I was excited to show him around my favorite trails—but alas, most of them he is not allowed on. As much as San Francisco is dog friendly, the percentage of hikes dogs are welcome on is actually rather low.

Overall, it seemed like we had been on most of that small percentage-unless I got up at a decent hour and drove an hour or two north. Working six or seven days a week, and no new hikes nearby that really called to me, Tucker and I have been living like a local rather than exploring new trails. We've spent our few days off visiting the places any San Francisco dog would regularly frequent:
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We walked along Chrissy Fields to Fort Mason, and got to witness the fog roll in over the bridge..

​And visited every dog’s old stand-by, Fort Funston a few times.

​We walked along the sandy dunes and down onto the beach.

​We discovered and appreciated beach art.

​And we watched the sunset.

​Although not a prime canine spot I wanted to be a little more secluded so one day we took the long drive down to Greyhound Rock Beach, where we had explored the year before.

​With the tide out, our feet touched earth and sand we never had before.

​So while we have no new trails to speak of, we have enjoyed our weeks of living like locals. Maybe we’ll even be official locals one day. Dogs here have quite the life—and humans too. There was no excitement for the newness of these places, but the beauty was—and always is—still captivating. And with a smile like this, I know Tucker isn’t complaining either.