Different neighborhoods of the same city have their own energy, their own feel. Whether its the inhabitants or the houses, or the traffic patterns, or a combination of all those things and something more ethereal, the same is true of the forests. Except the houses and traffic patterns play no role. It just is the personality of that particular tract of woods.

Guernsville had a dark undertone to its personality. Deep in the woods, where the house we rented was placed, the forest was silent. At night, and especially during the day, I expect to hear the leaves rustle, woodland creatures scurry about, and the sound of birds. Inside the house I could not tell if the windows were open or closed—both situations were equally silent. There was no sound of birds in the morning. And no sound of night creatures after the sun had set.

However, sound travelled easily. Two men building a cabin a quarter of a mile down the road could be heard conversing as easily as if they sat across the dining room table from me.

Despite this, Tucker was ease. He gave no hint of feeling we would be set upon by either a very real living human murderer or, less likely, demonic goblins of the night. So I merely noted the eery silence and gave my respect to the towering trees above.

Not wanting to spend another day on pavement, Tucker and I headed north out of the silent redwood grove to Stillwater Creek Regional Park. Unlike the state parks, Sonoma County’s parks allow human and canine partners to traverse their trails together.

The road to get the park was a coastal highway, winding along the curves of the bluff overlooking the ocean. So unfortunately, I have no photos of its beauty due to the tight turns and the need to have both my hands on the wheel at all times.
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We arrived at the campground, parked, and every molecule of my body sighed in peaceful thanks as my boots hit soft forest earth.

Ah yes, this is what we came for.

Tucker was just as thankful:

​The prehistoric ferns and mosses…

​The rock-bottomed streams…

The towering trees—although not ancient now, they were new growth, to be ancient a thousand years hence...

The random little meadow…

And a schoolhouse.

Wait what?

Along the well-marked path of the park was a small cul-de-sac trail that ended in a meadow marked “Fort Ross School.” Locked up due to vandalism, we couldn't go inside, but we were able to peak into the windows to see what 1800’s schoolhouse life was like. The school was built in 1885 and perched on a bluff overlooking the village of Fort Bluff a few miles south of its current location. It was disassembled piece by piece and re-erected south of the village, in the early 20th century. Then it moved again… and again. Until it finally landed here, this little piece of history tucked away in this redwood grove on county property.

​This forest isn’t silent like Guernsville. It has the rustling of life that feels safe and protected. It retains its mystic qualities while being welcoming to outsiders, and protects any and all who come to visit.

Perhaps that openness is due to it’s approximation with the sea. A trail from the grove led straight to the ocean (crossing a man-made two-lane highway.)

A little cove, tucked away from the large expanse of ocean, was small and covered in rocks. ​It didn’t seem as comfortable for Tucker as Shell beach was, but maybe after six miles in the woods, he just didn’t care where he lay his body.

​More than other worldly, it felt other-timely. The forest itself always harkens to an age before humans. This beach seemed to go back in time too: to a simpler time when families would come to this little private cove to teach their children to swim, or teenagers snuck out of the house to meet up to drink beer and have a bonfire in this little bit of beach hugged in a loving embrace by rocky cliffsides. It was from another time.

​Perhaps it was some playful sea sprite then that hit a button on the camera to show me what Tucker would have looked like here in the 1970’s.

It was a small cove, but Tucker made sure he explored every inch of it.

By the time we reached the campground parking lot, the sprite whisked us through the decade and into the 1980’s.

From forest to beach and through decades of time, our little trek in this neighborhood was through. It was time to head back. On our southward journey, I spied the fog starting to make landfall. We had to make one more beach stop.

Goathead Beach was off limits to dog, but the beach just south of it, Blind Beach, was dog friendly. The road led to both Blind and Goathead, so I stopped at the tiny parking lot above Blind (I imagine not being able to see it from the parking lot would account for its name), and waited for one of the dozen spots to park my trusty steed.

Although we couldn’t see the beach that was our destination, Goathead was prominent in our view.

​Although the only thing separating us from Shell Beach which we enjoyed so much yesterday was an insurmountable cliff outcropping with waves crashing against it, this beach, like different forests, had its own personality. The black sands that twinkled with a rainbow of colors was still the same, but the boulders and rocks were nowhere to be found on the beach itself. Out in the ocean, though, huge cathedral sized natural monuments stood.

Rocks like this always make me think an ancient city has collapsed and these are the remnants of their fortresses.

​Petrified trees still had a few centuries to go before turning to rock, but were just as interesting to look at and sit on.

Tucker surrounded himself with them.

He lied on the soft, warm black sands as the fog rolled in.

​There is an inexplicable magic that settled overs the cliffs and beaches as the fog rolls in. As much as I enjoy a watching a glorious sunset, I love to breathe in the evening fog even more.

Tucker and I took one more deep breath, and then headed back to the silent redwood valley of Guernsville.

​The next morning, I couldn’t leave the Bay Area without truly going home first. Although I was in the redwoods, I hadn’t stopped into my own redwood neighborhood quite yet. After a brief walkabout with a friend in Marin, Tucker and I stopped for lunch at Alice’s Restaurant in Woodside, California. A sprawling lawn and wooden wraparound deck, across from a filing station, it is a pit stop for bikers and hikers, and truly feels like home. Just up the steep hill is a little path that could take us to the cabin we spent our holidays in in 2015. Built by the Masons, this cabin neighborhood had a little mystery to it, but no darkness.

​The food was good, the atmosphere even better. Here, the ocean breeze makes its way over the mountains, and the redwood trees dance in the morning and evening fog. They open up their arms and welcome Tucker and me home.

​I had lived on Skyline Blvd a few miles north of Alice's, long before Tucker sauntered in my life, and I knew from the first moment I drove the windy crest of highway, this was home. And that I would always return. There maybe be many months in between, but like good friends, time has no meaning to these trees and me. I—now we, Tucker and me—will always come home, and we know we are always welcome. Even if it’s just for a snack and a nap.

If I ever go off the grid, the most likely place you’ll find me is home: in the redwoods. Lucky for you, that narrows down the search area to only about 300 square miles in the northwest portion of the United States. Unlucky for the redwoods, their habitats have been shrinking because we humans have, in years past, taken up full campaigns to injure, harm, and destroy these majestic beasts.

People will say they were cut down for their lumber, their sapwood and bark all but impervious to fire and pest so that we could build homes. Some felled trees because it was botanical equivalent of hunter taking down a rhino. Some sort of sick pride goes into taking the life out of a beauty you yourself will never have. Maybe it’s an unconscious fear of that majesty, that timelessness. The same thing that some humans, fear, I go to explicitly to experience.

When you stand beneath the canopy of a redwood tree, you sense how small, how short, how insignificant your life must be to this being who has withstood earthquake, fire, flood, famine, and human interference for sometimes thousands of years. Your act of walking by the tree, to this tree, is the same as a fruit fly flying by your cereal bowl one summer morning when you were three years old. For the tree or you now, neither event is particularly meaningful. And yet…

Look at all you’ve done in your life. All there is to do. Your life isn’t meaningless. It’s filled with joy and tragedy, love, and laughter and every little thing you do can affect the world around you—and the world within you.

And yet, you are just a fruit fly to this redwood.

The potential that every single soul has is astounding. Stand beneath a redwood tree, and look stories up into the canopy, and think of the stories in your life, and the stories in your own imagination yet told.

This is why I come to the redwoods. To see how high one can reach into the skies when you have the support of the grove around you. To listen to the stories in the wind. To feel soft, solid forest floor beneath my feet. And to breathe in earth and rain and leaves and tree. Here I am renewed.

Clearly Tucker seems to feel the same because he was pretty excited when I told where we were going.

​As with much of our adventures, in order to get the most hiking in during daylight hours, we started our journey the afternoon before. Tucker and I literally drove off into the sunset, leaving the City of Angels behind to explore the forest around the Russian River that winds it away north of San Francisco.

The best thing about arriving at night to a new place is that you get to wake up in a whole new world as if you’ve been transported there by some unearthly means into a dream universe. Although we had a hike planned, we really didn’t need to leave the multi-tiered fenced-in backyard to experience the redwoods.

From this upper tier where I ate breakfast at a small bistro table, Tucker looked out over the edge.

He then held sentinel along the ridge, able to look out into the neighborhood below while being far from me saying, "Don't stand so close to the edge!"

After a leisurely early morning breakfast, I packed our bags for our planned short hike. California State Parks seldom allow dogs on trails. These are the people who say, “Of course your dog is allowed to camp with you! But if you go on a hike, leave in him your tent.” Um, have you ever met a dog? Or a dog owner/guardian/parent?? That’s not only not safe, but really particularly mean. It’s like inviting your recovered alcoholic friend to a winery because he might like to see the vineyard and beautiful landscape. And then have a flight of wines and finish off a bottle by yourself while he sits there with a glass of water.

It was going to be a short hike in the Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve because although dogs were allowed they had to stick to the paved areas. The paved road runs pretty much side by side with the trail like an access road along the freeway. I was a little annoyed with not having boottread hit earth, but Tucker got a little ground on the edge of the road and we saw pretty much what everyone else could see.

My heart swells with joy when I see that Tucker is just as happy to be among the redwoods as I am.

He even got to stand next to one of the oldest trees in the park.

​At one of the intersections with a dirt trail, a fallen redwood lay, its petrified roots exposed. Tucker and I watched a horde of school kids (probably campers) cross the road and then try to climb it as their teachers yelled for them not to touch.

​After seeing that, I really didn’t think there would be any harm in Tucker getting up close and personal with it—afterall, he wouldn’t disrespect it like the young humans did.

At the end of our alloted paved roadway within the Redwood Preserve, we were presented with an opportunity to go further. The ranger we had met upon entering had said that if we didn’t mind elevation we could continue up to Bullfrog Pond Campground. It would be about 10 miles round trip. The only caveat (besides the elevation) was that it was paved the whole way—and once above the treeline, very little shade.

I decided to go for it anyway. The best thing about starting the trail at the bottom is that if it gets too tough, you can always stop and it’s all downhill from there.

Tucker and I had the road/trail to ourselves for many miles. Dry grassland and green canopies blanketed the mountain tops.

​Tucker had some edge along the pavements to trod soft earth and fallen leaves.

One mile from the campground, at a turnoff for a parking lot and two trailheads (which dogs were not allowed on), Tucker and I took a break to enjoy the view.

It had gotten hotter than I had expected here. It could have been Mother Nature providing a little heat. Or it could have been my own body as it rose 1200 feet above sea level over the course of three miles.
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Either way, after consulting my four-legged partner, we decided we didn’t need to walk another two miles round trip just to get to the campground. This pinnacle was good enough for us.

Sweeping views from above the forest treetops are glorious in their own right, but now we preferred to be under the treetops, in the forest.

​On our way back down, we stopped off at Pond Farm Pottery,

It was locked off with no trespassing signs, so of course Tucker needed to see inside.

Endless miles he’s free to explore, but no, it’s the one acre of land off limits that he desperately needs to see.

For me, I just wanted to be where the treetops touched the skies.

​We walked through the grove in reverence of the beautiful giants...

... and ancient mystics...

...and then we bid farewell to the forest.

​In less than half an hour, we arrived at our next, completely different, walkabout.

​One of my coworkers who spends his holidays near the Russian River  advised that I absolutely needed to go to Goathead Beach and Shell Beach. Goathead Beach was off limits to dogs, so Shell Beach was next leg of our hiking day.

​I was not disappointed.

And this is just the trail leading to the beach.

There’s just something about it: when land not only touches sea, but the two intermingle, rocks jutting out in the ocean, the waves crashing against the cliffside. All is connected.

And then there’s my boy, my adventure dog, my soulmate of another species who is happy to be anywhere new, but especially in places like these:

Down at sea level, his affinity for rocks was satiated as it is less shell beach and more boulder beach.

It was late afternoon, and the fog began to roll in, that mysterious, magical layer of clouds whose nautical and aerial origins are unknown. It drifts in subtly, capturing the sea, then the rocks, then the cliffs.

​There were few people on this tucked away shoreline, so Tucker made himself comfortable among the rocks to watch the fog roll in.

There were no children running around screaming or even people wading into the water. It was as if we had made some pact together that we would all remain silent, to give the sea and fog the reverence it was due. 

Tucker and I sat on the beach experiencing Nature as each rock disappeared from sight in the ocean, and the ocean itself became shrouded in a haze, while it’s crashing waves could still be heard.

We let the fog wash over us, breathing in the salty air until we both felt at peace with walking away. Walking away, taking with us the peace and the timelessness of the beach:  its rocks, its sand, and its fog filled with stories from far off lands.

That evening as dinner cooked on the stove, Tucker crawled up on my lap. I occasionally lament that I missed out on Tucker's puppyhood, having met him during his second chance at life. But as he gazed up at me in this one moment, I saw that puppyhood echoed in his eyes as real as if I had been there.

There really is magic in the forests and fog of Northern California. It renews us, makes us young again, and makes us believe that anything is possible.

And that was only the first day.