Avoiding the crowds, Tucker and I went to a place we didn’t think anyone would pick out of a guidebook based on its name: Fryingpan Mountain. The crowds were a couple miles away at Mount Pisgah (perhaps because people liked their mountains to have Biblical names rather than being named after kitchenware), but alas what is in a name?
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Of course finding the trailhead wasn’t an easy task for me. But like with the road of life, a wrong turn is seldom completely wrong. Although it wasn’t the campground I had been seeking, the parking lot afforded us this spectacular view.

Down the road a couple more miles, I turned into the campground and asked the ranger where I’d find the trail. He pointed to the sign ten yards away. Ah-ha. Too far or too close, and I lose sight.
Tucker and I trekked through forest and meadow for two miles, enjoying the serenity of just being with nature. Today I got the best of both of my favorite locations: the autumn leaves of New England, and the rolling fog of the San Francisco Bay area. The fog rolled across the trail, taking no heed to our existence, as if having a mind of its own, meandering on its way to some event we were not invited to.

As we came down off the hill, we found the parking lot where most people parked in order to get to the lookout tower. It seems a common occurrence for Tucker and me that we always take the long way around to our destination. But that’s because our destination is the hike itself, not an actual point on the trail—so the longer the hike, the longer we are right where we want to be.
As we reached the peak, a straight up hike reminiscent of Dante’s Peak in Griffith Park, most of the fog had passed through. The clouds lifted  slightly, and the world around us became visible as if the mists of Avalon had parted to reveal the mystical land.

The tower itself was off limits to dogs. (Not that that stopped some people.) I watched a young woman go up with her Bassett hound on a retractable leash. The stairs swayed beneath them, and I could hear the terror start to rise in her nervous laughter. “Okay, I’m getting nervous. Come back!” she yelled to her dog who had no qualms racing up the unprotected staircase. One mis-step, and she would have gone through the space between the stairs and fallen to the ground below. They returned safely, and I asked the dogless couple behind them, “Is going to the top even worth it?”
“No. It’s still just fog. One or two levels up is a great, but anything beyond that and you’re in the clouds.”
And so Tucker and I went one flight up, Tucker safely right in front of me. I felt the sway of the staircase and was more than content to enjoy the view from the first landing. On this side of the mountain, the mists still kept the landscape backstage, behind its curtain.

The sun peeked out from between the clouds, casting a light show on the mountains and valleys.

​The colors weren’t as vibrant as they would have been in the sunshine, but the cloud cover added a mystical element to the view. And really, seeing this makes me just as happy:

My boy’s smile lights up my life.

The journey downhill afforded us a few more glimpses of the mountains in the distance as the clouds lifted and separated, allowing the sunlight to dance across the peaks and valleys.

Tucker and I spent the evening back at the schoolhouse, filled with its history and spirits and stories. While I spoke with friends and made dinner, Tucker took to his favorite spot: right in front of the fireplace. It appears a working gas fireplace might be an order back in our California abode--even if it only gets used four days out of the year when it's below 50 degrees.

My fortieth birthday wasn’t like any of my friends’. There was no big party, no gathering at a restaurant, no big surprise, no charity event, no day at the spa or Broadway show. It was me: spending the weekend with my dog, in the woods, writing stories.

As I looked out at the glory of Nature’s season this weekend, it finally hit me why I'm so attached to it. It's not just because I began life at this time. It's not just because the first thing my olfactory nerves sensed on this planet was the smell of autumn leaves. It’s because Fall is the ultimate crossroads.

I am at the campground host at the crossroads of life—for many people and dogs, I greet and spend time with them as they chose which path to take next. The changing of the leaves is Nature’s greatest transition, her most prominent crossroads. This is where and when she shows how it all comes together—past and future. The leaves that sprout in springtime come to maturity in the summer, acting as solar panels, soaking in nutrients for the trees. But as the earth shies away from the sun, the kiss of frost upon the leaves transforms them into a brilliant blanket of color across the hillsides. They give one final performance against the skyline before they take the next step of their journey. As the winter winds start to blow, the leaves take their bow and fall to earth.

But it’s not over. Fall is not the end of a leaf's story. They cover the earth, the earth with seeds of the next generation buried deep. The leaves protect the hope of the next year, covering them in the earth from the cold and wind, snow and freezing temperatures. Their glossy colors dull only slightly, but their purpose and their journey continues.
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Autumn isn’t the end of the journey. It’s the crossroads: a beautiful, brilliant crossroads where form and function shift while the heart remains the same. It reminds us that change isn’t scary; change is majestic and magical. Whether it’s a change of season, or the passing of a year in life, there is nothing to fear. Because we all live on, our purpose changing over time, but our heart remaining the same, blowing in the winds of time to the next place we’re needed.

We are all a product of our experiences. As we journey through life, we stop at roadside attractions, run out of gas, take a few wrong turns, make a few right turns, and overall, this shapes who we are. But I believe no matter what happens on the road of life, the foundation of ourselves remains the same. We are still that eleven year old playing D&D, or that awkward thirteen year old standing in the corner at a dance, or that exuberant six year old in the sandbox.

So to mark the fourth decade on my road of life, I went back to my foundation. When I was four years old, and even fourteen years old, my most joyous experiences were playing with my dog, wandering around in the woods, and writing stories. I haven’t really changed much. I just needed to pick which woods I wanted this weekend to take place in.

Although I love the dramatic oceanside cliffs of Oregon and the redwood forests of Northern California, I am a New England girl, born during its most magical time of year: Autumn. But I hadn’t seen the hills of red and gold and amber in almost twenty years. I knew I couldn’t make it all the way up the eastern seaboard and still be back to work Monday morning, so I did the next best thing: Tucker and I packed our bags and headed four hours north of Atlanta to our favorite eastern town: Asheville, North Carolina which echoed the other end of the Appalachian trail 2000 miles north in its fall colors.

Keeping with the New England at heart theme, I rented a place that was once a two room schoolhouse in the late 1800’s, had a second life as a tobacco warehouse, and then was left abandoned until a couple renovated it twenty year ago. It was a place of history and story and spirits.
​
Not only was it the perfect place for me, Tucker was treated as a guest equal in stature to me. He had his own set towels, blankets, and even treats.

It didn’t take long for Tucker to find his spot in front of the fire and relax.

​Arriving in the dark means the first morning is a surprise. The old schoolhouse windows looked out into the woods. 

​The building itself, although near neighbors, was secluded and private. Outside, just down the gravel road to the main paved street, I found myself on road that could have been in Tyringham, Massachusetts.

I had an idea of what trail I wanted to take in search of an echo to the Berkshire Hills in Autumn. But as I ate breakfast, I found one on alltrails I hadn’t seen before: Big Lost Cove Cliffs. I had read that this was the busiest weekend around Asheville, and hoped to avoid the crowds. I grew up in a town that only had a short breath between the summer tourists and the fall tourists—the ones we called Leaf Peepers. Oh how we hated how slow they drive, mesmerized by the trees, or ride their bikes down the middle of the road, blocking our way to work, or how they rampaged the farmers’ market before we could reap the benefits of our own local produce. And now, here I was, being a Leaf Peeper. I hoped to seem more like a local, and avoided the crowded trails.

Big Lost Cove Cliffs trailhead had parking for only four cars and was located a couple miles down an unpaved national forest road. I hoped this was enough of a deterrent to the other lead peepers. Hikers online recommended getting their early, so I figured by arriving around 11am, I would miss those people who took that advice and have the trails to myself.

The parking area was full, but luckily only six other cars lined the road near this obscure trailhead.

As I drove along the dirt road, I caught glimpses of bright red between the trees that lined the roadside. There was nowhere to pull over to let it all sink in, but I didn’t need it to. My eyes welled up with tears from the sheer beauty of the tiny glimpses I caught between the branches. I had found Fall. Real Fall. The one I hadn’t seen in almost half my lifetime—the one Tucker had never experienced at all.
​
Tucker seemed to understand what our quest was: to find Autumn. He sniffed the leaves that blanketed the trail and announced we were hot on Autumn’s trail.

​Indeed we were. A sightline provided by the utility poles showed us how deep into Autumn we were.

As we rose in elevation, I spotted the echoes of the Berkshire Hills.

It makes sense of course: although 2000 miles away, it is the same mountain range, the Appalachians. Although the trail may differ depending where along the mountain range you are, it’s the same mountain—the same foundation.

​Tucker took it all in, and I wondered what extra experience he got to have, not just seeing it, but smelling it. The scent of autumn leaves makes me smile, and my nose isn’t anywhere near as good as his. He must have been enveloped in Fall.

The cliffs were four separate rock cliffs that reached out over the valley. Tucker and I explored each one. Although they all looked out at the same set of hills, and each cliff showed us a new perspective, alighting a different beauty in each view.

​The leaves weren’t the only beauty on the mountain. The rocky cliffs themselves were works of art.

​Together rock and earth, tree and sky made a stunning mural to behold.

​Luckily, Tucker isn’t afraid heights. His boldness and ease afforded him incredible views.

We spent an indeterminable amount of time at the cliffs. Time had no meaning for us as we sat, stood, and looked out over the hills. There were a few hikers enjoying lunch, or just hanging out, all giving respect to Mother Nature’s art gallery, in awe of the beauty in this moment. That’s what makes Autumn so special—it’s ever-changing in the moment. If we came tomorrow, we would experience something different, just as we would have the day before.

When Tucker and I felt like we had had our fill of Fall from this vantage point, we made the trek back, finding new perspectives along the way, seeing beauty we had missed on the way up.
​
Big Lost Cove Cliffs is hard to say and hard to find—which hopefully will keep it a secret. Driving by Linville Falls, a well-known spot for Leaf Peepers, we saw the cars stacked along the road over a mile and a half from the trailhead. The trail itself is only a mile round trip. I don’t consider nature to be an amusement park ride, so I refuse to stand in line for it. Big Lost Cove Cliffs should remain lost, and only show itself to those who truly appreciate it—not just the cliffs, but the six mile journey there and back with portraits and murals to experience along the way.

Tucker and I returned to our storybook schoolhouse to shower, nap, and then head back out for the social part of our weekend. Now that we were renewed by being with nature, it was time to interact with humans.

Tucker was as excited as I was to return to our favorite drinking spot: The Bywater, which we last experienced Fourth of July 2016. While the summer experience was one of river-rafters and tubers, this Autumn crowd played more to my personality. As dusk turned to night, one patron gathered wood and stoked up the firepit. One by one, we all gathered around it. One person played guitar softly as if only for himself, and the rest of us heard it as if in a dream half-remembered. People chatted amongst themselves, introduced themselves, and soon there was a crowd of us all talking together. Even Tucker found a friend in another pittie mix who had come with his person.

As midnight approached, I was invited back to a house gathering with the other twenty-somethings. I’m sure Tucker would have voted to go since it was his new buddy’s home. But I wanted to be up and hiking in the morning—the morning I turned 40. Being asked to go was gift enough. I had already informed the inviter that it was my birthday and he said he thought I was around 30. You’re only as young as you’re feel—or as young as a twenty-something thinks you are when he’s drunk and it’s dark.
​
I had an amazing day of farewell to my thirties. The next day would kick off another decade. But Tucker and I would continue as we had today: spending the day perusing Mother Nature’s art galleries during her finest exhibition of the year. Because age doesn’t matter. Being 30 or 40 or even 14 again, the place I most wanted to be was the same—with my dog, in the woods, listening to Nature’s stories, ready with pen in hand to retell them to the world.

Every other day I read the description of the John's Mountain/Keown Falls hike in the guidebook as if it was an item in a catalog that I desperately wanted to buy but couldn’t afford. In this case, it wasn’t that I lacked money; I lacked the ability to get up early enough to make the hour and a half drive to Northern Georgia. It’s not Autumn here in the south, and hiking at noon isn’t the best of ideas when it’s 90 degrees out.

But finally, on a cloudy day, not getting up as early as I would have liked but deeming an overcast day with temps in the 80’s as safe enough, Tucker and I packed up the truck and headed north.
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The beginning of the Keown Falls trail is an eloquently graveled path with stone borders.  I don’t imagine it felt great on Tucker’s feet, and I wished for an end of the man-made adornment to get back to Mother Nature’s flooring.

​We came looking for fall—the season, not the natural formation of water cascading through air, though both at once would have been amazing. Although the view was expansive there was ne’er a colored leaf to be found. All was still a brilliant green, soaking in the molecules of water from the overcast sky and ready for the moment the sun shone down again to capture every ray of light before winter.

We did enjoy a woodsy dirt path most of the way, but as we came closer to the falls (water, not season), humans had intervened to make a steep incline more biped-friendly with stairs.

Keown Falls was unlike any other falls Tucker and I have been too. It was not a waterfall, or a cascading river over rounded rocks. This was a ledge where water drained off, leaving a cave behind it in which to walk in.

Tucker and I took the stairs downwards and stood behind the waterfall—only a dribble, but I imagine in the wet season it would be a spectacular experience.

The view beyond the falls was the woods itself. It had no mountainous vista, but instead showed us the forest we were visiting.

Crumbles of rocks littered the area behind the falls. It was the perfect place for Tucker to test out his camouflage abilities.

We continued up above the falls to take a different perspective. There we met two people on horseback. I told them I had planned on going to John’s Overlook, and they warned that it was steep but a good hike. Despite being overcast and cloudy, it was a decent view.  The woman noted that there was another overlook about half way up the mile-high trek that also had a view.

I thanked her for the insight and made a decision. I could go left, 2.5 miles to the overlook, which probably wasn’t as steep, or go right one mile, and also catch the second overlook. I opted to go right.

I chose wisely.

The next overlook was indeed not on a map. We saw a little bit of color in the immediate plants surrounding us. 

​However the mountains were still blue and green in the distance.

Onward and straight upward we ascended to the main event. One last push and we crested the horizon to...

... a parking lot. Yes, we could have driven here, but that wouldn't have been fun at all. Hiking isn't about arriving at one spot to take in a view; it's about being on the journey and all the things you experience along the way. For us, John's Overlook wasn't the goal endpoint; the journey getting there and back was.

As for the view at this point in the hike, it was indeed still green as far as the eye could see.

For some reason, I think Tucker looks like an east coast dog. He blends well with the colors and landscape.

As we finished up our photoshoot, a big white truck pulled into the parking lot. An older gentleman with a white mustache, wearing a baseball cap got out, camera in hand.

We said hello, and then he said, “You hiked here?”

“Yup, sure did.” I can’t see how the level of sweat pouring off me could be excused in any other manner.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

Nope, clearly not.

Two dogs in the pickup truck started baying, and a woman in the front seat yelled at them. As I tried to tug Tucker along to the trailhead where the 2.5 mile trail that would complete the loop back to the Falls began, she stepped out.

“You hiked here?” she asked, exasperated. (I don’t think she had heard my answer over the dogs barking.) “How long of a hike is it?”

I told her it was about 2 miles up, and about 3 miles down.

She shook her head. “Maybe is my younger years.”

I started down the trail and she yelled after me, “You’re not afraid of bears, hiking alone?”

Well, no, not till you just said that. Thanks.

I shrugged. “No.”

Her husband, who was snapping pictures turned around and said, “I don’t imagine she’s afraid of much with him as her hiking partner.”

I smiled and said, “Yeah, but he’d probably try to be friends with the bear, and then I’d have a whole other problem.”

We wished each other well and I started down the trail, thinking of Mt. Mitchell where the same sort of encounter happened. Tucker and I had hiked a few beautiful miles to get there. Those who walked the 500 feet from the parking lot, seeing a disheveled woman and her panting dog, had to wonder how out of shape we were to not even be able to make it from the parking lot without extreme physical difficulty.

As soon as we were out of sight of the truck, the couple and their dogs, we came across this--far creepier than any bear in my opinion: 

I tip my hat to whoever thought of writing that to freak people out. We continued along the path which stayed on the ridgeline, offering views of the valley below between the trees.

One one of our journeys slightly off the path to catch a glimpse of the pastures below, Tucker proudly announced, "Look! Fall!"​

Indeed, those sparse leaves were all we were going to see of the season we sought.

But that didn't detract from our walk in the woods. Instead of experiencing the glorious colors of Autumn, I was reminded of the subtle beauty in all woods year round.

Every rock seems specially placed, the lichen and moss dressing them just so. The trees space themselves appropriately, and leaves of autumns past blanket the ground. 

Whoever thinks this earth is here only to be plundered by us because we are humans, has never taken a walk in the woods. Beauty exists here not because people will see it one day and enjoy it; it exists because Mother Nature is innately beautiful. The world isn't here for us to steal its elements, waste its resources, and wreak havoc on its delicate balance. It is a work of art we are to preserve, protect, and enjoy. You would never walk into an art gallery and knock over a sculpture to take a piece with you; you wouldn't dump the drink you don't feel like finishing all over the handmade woven fabric of a quilt; and you wouldn't rip a painting off the wall, stomp on it, and slice through the canvas.

Nature is art, the world her gallery. Around ever bend is a new piece to explore and experience. The way a leaf falls from the tree and lands upon a stone; the clouds caressing the tips of mountaintops as you look into the distance; the way the light plays on the forest floor, dancing with the shadows.

I had been hoping to visit during her spectacular Annual Autumn Exhibition, but we were a little early--or maybe in the wrong wing of her gallery. Tucker and I would continue searching for it, but in the meantime, we pay reverence to the art already on display.

​It’s only been a week, and Tucker has already made a friend just as goofy and sweet as he is:

​This office is so dog friendly, there is even a courtyard for them to romp and play in. Of course, Tucker and Ollie prefer the challenge of a small indoor space in which to wrestle where it’s air-conditioned. 

My trusty steed acquired a mild ailment, so while she was getting fixed up, Tucker got to experience how other people ride.
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In the crew van he didn’t sit next to me or even on the floor which was quite spacious. He hopped up and took a seat behind me, you know, like any other crew member.

​When we needed to borrow a car to get home one night, our status suddenly raised to a whole new level. I put towels down in the hopes that Tucker wouldn’t scratch up the leather seats of the Chrysler 300. 

Note: there is a sunshade that rises from behind the backseat to cover the back window. Evidently, it can be activated from the backseat--make sure you figure which button that is before you take off. It's like a driving a spaceship, and the only thing worse than a backseat driver is a backseat dog who can unwittingly activate functions you didn't even know your car had. (Googling at stop lights for the rest of the ride home, I found the sequence of buttons on my dash to put it back down again.)

By the end of the week, my trusty steed sans luxury features was her old (young) self again and we were off to the mountains.
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Unbeknownst to me, it was National Public Lands Day. Parking was free, and this little critter greeted us on the first sign.

Unlike in Santa Fe, where I had to search long and hard to find trails with water, here in Georgia having one without is rare. After being so long in the desert, Tucker couldn’t believe his senses when we stood on a bridge overlooking greenery and a stream.

He was so happy to get his paws wet and taste clear water with just a hint of a few autumn leaves.

He climbed on rocks...

and looked up river by the old mill...

We climbed up to the dam.

... and discovered the dam might not be providing 100% containment anymore. Someone might want to check on that.

It is still hot here in the south, but it’s not a dry heat. There’s water everywhere not just spilling out of the cracks of dams but even in the air. The trees branches bend politely when you accidentally brush against them. The ground is soft and welcoming beneath your feet.

​This was only the first of many bridges to cross, streams to wade in, and forest trails to walk upon.

It’s been quite awhile since my last post which would correspond with our last hike—in the high deserts of New Mexico.

Since the last week in July, we returned home to sunny southern California, which albeit is a desert, is at sea level. Makes a world of difference when it comes to breathing. Tucker got comfy and relaxed back on the couch.

And was quite pleased to take in the wafting smell of freshly mowed grass and feel the cool, damp earth beneath a soft layer of lawn.

​We tried to see an outdoor movie together like we used to do, but it was all just too exciting for him. For the sake of everyone around us, we decided to call it quits and watch the DVD of the movie back home.

I’m not saying it isn’t hot in this California desert, but Tucker seems much happier to let his tongue hang out on Trex decking than on desert landscaping.

​We made the yard into an agility course.

Tucker found my sad excuse for a tire jump positively hilarious.

​Tucker even made a friend.

​Pete and him had bi-weekly playdates to run around like maniacs together and play tug.

​But our time at home was cut abruptly short when I received a call for a job. Despite my sadness in making Tucker bid farewell to his new friend for a spell, I couldn’t say no to a good job with good people.

​Tucker was so tired from spending the afternoon with Pete, he didn’t even care that I started packing our suitcases.

The next morning, Tucker and I hit the road to cover just under two thousand miles in three days.

​Much like a midnight trip to Vegas, my travelling companion was first quite excited.

And then about an hour in was bored enough to snuggle up with his owl and nap most of the way.

Apparently Arizona expects lazy dogs. I couldn’t find a dog walking sign, but here is where dogs can sit.

Right around the middle of the country, where there is a severe lack of rest stops (lots of picnic places, but nothing with restrooms and places to walk--or sit--your dog),  I passed a sign with a cross on it that read, “Inspiring Rest Stop, Next Exit!”

Tucker hadn’t peed in about five hours, and I didn’t see any harm in giving us a few minutes to stretch our legs, so I put my blinker on and headed down the off ramp.

I assumed with inspiration and a cross, that I would end up at a mission (because I live in California which is dotted with missions all up the coast.) This, however, was not a mission. A ministry yes, but not the missions I have been to with a chapel and gardens. It was more like Jesus-centric park. It had one of the largest crosses I have ever seen. In fact, it almost made me exclaim under my breath, "Jesus!"

A quick Google search informed me that it’s 19 stories high and its owner is the Cross of the Lord Jesus Christ Ministries (or perhaps that's the name of the cross.) It is the tallest thing as far as the eye can see—except for all the windmills. You thought Texas was just an oil field? Nope. It produces more wind power—clean energy—than any other state.

I am grateful they allow dogs in this well-groomed park-like setting. However, I had to keep reminding Tucker “No, don’t pee on that” whenever we came across a statue, plaque, or gravestone. This outdoor art house dedicated to the Crucifixion of Jesus Christ had fourteen stations in a circle around the cross where there were 14 gruesome depictions of the events leading up to it:

Tucker got to sit at the table for the Last Supper, something I don’t think was on his bucket list or mine, but what the hell, right?

​Just around the back of the memorial was a replica of the Tomb of Christ. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to stop Tucker before he tagged the stone, but given that he hadn’t peed on anything else, it was a quite a feat. And of course, Tucker got a photo op here too.

The final day on the road offered no grand inspirational religious experiences, but in Arkansas I got my own inspiration: just a touch of Autumn.

As a New Englander born in October, Fall is my season. The smell of leaves and wood fireplaces, the sight of the hills painted in red and gold and amber, and the chill in the air at nightfall is what I live for. I realized that this will be my first birthday spent on the east coast in almost 20 years. Granted, Atlanta is more “south” than “east coast,” but the Appalachia and the Great Smokies aren’t too far away. You can be sure that despite our southern zip code for the next couple of months, Tucker and I will be experiencing a whole lot of East Coast Autumn.