​We might have overdone it on my birthday. Looking at my AllTrails, we ended up clocking about seven miles in our explorations. I didn’t have an alcohol-induced hangover; it was more like the day after Thanksgiving except rather than our stomachs being overfull, our day had been overfull and we were still digesting our explorations.
​
But life is short, and while I wanted to rest, I couldn’t justify sleeping away the day. Tucker, however, could nap while I (slowly) got ready for the day’s adventures. 

​Mount Madonna, another crowd-sourced suggestion, was our destination for the day. It’s a county park, and Tuck is allowed pretty much everywhere.

I chose a hike with as little elevation gain as possible while still getting my redwood fix since my legs were recovering from the day before.
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Evidently not just my legs, but my eyes, were still tired, because I started on the wrong trail. I didn’t mind much, and in fact, by the time we reached the connector trail at the top and came down, I was happy that I hadn't followed the planned route. Our walk wasn’t as expected, but I think it was even better as we ended up in the deepest redwood grove on the way back down where I could truly enjoy it.

​And our trusty steed got to rest among the towering giants while she awaited our return.

It was our only hike of the day, but I had chosen our place due to its deck and view, so I wanted time to enjoy it.

Tucker needed time to sleep on it (still digesting the day before).

​Our final night under the stars was relaxing and beautiful, and certainly not a waste of time. We turned in a little early so we would be ready for the the train ride: the catalyst that had brought us here.

The Monday time slot was perfect. I was relieved to see only half a dozen cars in the parking lot an hour before boarding. 
​
Tucker was well-rested and ready for adventure.

He was happy to explore the grounds and check out the trains.

But was a little perplexed once we got on. “Wait, what’s happening?”

I think he might have been over my enthusiasm—or me—as his face in our selfie looks like every teen’s face when their mom tries to get a picture with them.

​We nabbed a seat on the middle car, but up front so he could look out without being in someone else’s face. The benches faced inward, so this was the easiest way to see.

​The conductor’s stories of the redwoods and the land was a beautiful end cap to our extended weekend in the place I love so dearly. 

Tucker changed his vantage point from seat to floor for some of the trip up Bear Mountain.

​And he enjoyed the quick walkabout at the top. It was like being on a cruise ship that had landed at port—you were given a few hours to wander about and make it back before it shipped off again. Since the port was just a picnic area and we were on a train not a ship, we had fifteen minutes, not hours.

​As people milled about, checking out Cathedral Grove where they hold weddings, the team of railroad employees checked the equipment. Dixiana, the steam engine, just turned 100 on October 12th. I thought my Toyota was going strong at 24. This steam engine, now fueled with recycled oil (not coal or wood), burned cleanly, but still needed to be maintained and brakes needed to be checked before heading back down the mountain.

​We drove through the remains of the original double-decker trestle bridge that was like a spiral staircase for the train. In the 1970’s, some people who did not do their research, thought this was a logging train, and so blew up the bridge in protest, as they had nine others that week. Had they done their research, they would know that this land had never been logged; the railroad is a tourist attraction to bring people to the forest to see how beautiful it is to NOT be logged. 

While the spiral trestle hasn't been rebuilt yet, there are plenty others, made to wind around the trees so no tree loses its life to the railroad.

​The bridges, the trees, the narration, all of it was just what I wanted. And while Tucker wasn’t as excited about it as I thought he would be, he seemed to enjoy it well enough. Even the conductor said he did better than most dogs. I think it’s fantastic they allow dogs; like the Buddha retreat center that knows harmony with nature is good for dogs, this place know that being in the woods is good for dogs too. 

​But Tucker is more of a coastal dog. So after I got my final fix of redwoods, we headed down the mountain for Tucker to get some Santa Cruz sea breeze before heading back to Southern California.

​It was only West Cliff Drive, not a beach or even a trail. But Tucker showed his joy in the big smile that only comes out when we are near the ocean.

​We walked a mile up and back to the lighthouse, taking in the views and the ocean air,

​And then we bid Santa Cruz and its mountains good bye... for now. In five hours, we’d be back in our home who I’m sure appreciated the break from us. But I have no doubt we will return. I just won’t wait four months to respond to its call. Life is short, but if we truly invest in every moment, committing to adventure, then how short it is doesn’t matter; only how full we make it. 

​As I have learned over the years, plan and you will be disappointed; prepare, and you’ll get along just fine.

I had a few ideas for my actual birthday. I wasn’t sure I could top the last day of 44, but that’s not the point. It was committed to adventure on any level. 

One of the places recommended by a fellow hiker online was the Land of Medicine Buddha. I checked out their website, and from this photo alone, I knew this is was where I should be:

​Dogs are allowed on their trails, as they feel every animal can benefit from harmony with nature and within oneself. They even have three dog friendly rooms should you come to stay with them for a retreat.
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However, their website on operating hours was contradictory. Depending which page you were on, and if you were on mobile or desktop, public was allowed between 9 and 2,  7 and 5, or not at all on Saturdays. I was hoping for the first or second. It was too late to call when I found this, and since I had a couple other ideas of ways to spend my birthday, I had backup preparations should they be closed.

Having chosen to sleep on the foldout couch (by the way, foldout couches have a come long way since the 1990’s) instead of the bed which was in a room with no windows, I was able to awaken to this view:

(Looks better without the blinds)

​We spent a little time on the deck before we headed out for our adventure day. When we arrived at Land of Medicine Buddha, we were confronted with an unexpected situation. It wasn’t that it open nor closed to the public today, it just wasn’t open for ANY of the days we’d be here.

​But Nature doesn’t stop at gates. The drive down Prescott Rd to the gates was magical. It was mostly residential, and signs posted along the way asked people to drive only 15 mph because “fairies live here… as do children” and because “Prescott is magic”. I had to agree. This forest was enchanted with hope and delight. It was a cheery, welcoming woods. So with the gates to the Land of Medicine closed, we walked back down the Magic Road of Prescott. It was public property, and while I still needed my feet to tread on earth not pavement, this would be a fine beginning.

Near the dam, someone had place a couch, and it reminded me of a woodland version to the opening of Friends.

The redwoods were ancient here. Not all were second growth. The remains of their elders still stood.

The road was clear, but along the side, the telltale red needles, lined the path to magic.

​Close to the residential area, Tucker found some space to take a dump. While he squatted, I contemplated how magic was the theme of the day. Two texts that came in that morning wished me a magical birthday, and this road mentioned magic again. Tucker finished his poop, and when he kicked his feet (as he always does despite how many times I tell him not to), he kicked the leaves and there buried beneath was a shiny piece of copper.
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I picked it up, wondering if it was minted in the year of my birth. It was not. In fact, it was brand new, minted in 2022. I wondered this was a bit of magic heralding a shiny new beginning. 

​We returned to the truck after meandering down the magical street, and were met by two women who were attempting to “break into” the Land of Medicine. They had before.
“Have you ever been caught by the monks?” she asked me as if I had broken in before. I told her no, and was fine not doing so.

“I have. And let me tell you, you’d think they’d be much more peaceful. But they are super pissed, yelling and screaming if they find you got in!”

I imagine they would be. Gates are closed for a reason. Nature has no boundaries, but I do respect boundaries when other viable options are available (ie, taking a walk down the street).

Tucker and I got in the truck to head to my Plan B, Nisene Marks State park, and leave the women to their breaking and entering.

Nisene Marks was on the other side of the Land of Medicine’s property. Tucker wasn't allowed in all areas (because it’s a state park), but I thought there may be enough for us to enjoy.

Once more, communication was contradictory. Online, it said dogs were allowed to the bridge. Another listed a dog friendly trail that went north of the bridge. When I arrived, I was told he was allowed farther up the road. Then I got the map that said he wasn’t allowed on ANY trails, which I read while standing at a trailhead with a sign that read “On Leash Dogs Only”.
​
Just then a man with a dog on leash went running by on the trail. So I said, “F-it” and took a chance. What would they do us? Arrest us? Ask us to leave? Fine us? I respect boundaries and rules, but when the boundaries aren’t clear, you can’t expect people to follow the rules.

​I had a trail cued up on my AllTrails app, but we just wandered. I let Tucker lead and we ended up at a creek where he did his chameleon impression.

We crossed it, and continued on. We soon came to a bridge,

Aad then entered onto the Trail of the Giants. First generation redwoods stood… and fell.

​The Advocate Tree was a bit down in the valley, but Tucker and I eventually found it.

When you see the path of human history that has gone on while this one tree stood, it puts your own mortality and life in perspective.

We took what may or may not have been an official trail up to the Advocate’s sister tree that was still standing. We had seen her on the way down and assumed this was the ancient one.

Why she didn’t have her own story and plaque was beyond me.

We carried on through the woods, looking at the towers of life around us.

And checking out the ones who had fallen. If you want to know why the redwoods don’t fall prey to fire often, it’s because of this: their incredibly thick spongy bark that is thicker than my hand's width. It’s also what traps in the magical fog and gives them life.

​Their heart (wood) is protected by this so they are able to grow tall and strong, and below the earth’s surface, they reach out to their neighbors and hold on with their roots. They are a community-oriented tree.

As we stood in the land of giants, a breeze came through and I watched as gold fell from the canopy: the redwood needles gently drifted down to earth in a shower of magic.

Our journey around the forest had taken us back almost to the parking lot. Tucker wanted to continue on, so we did for a bit until I found another trail to take us back. We had no schedule to keep. This was about being in the forest, and committing to the enjoyment of exploration.

​But eventually, like every trail, it came to an end (which is also the beginning), and we still had most of the afternoon left to explore.

I know Tucker loves the beach, so we headed down the mountain to a place I found on the map: Hidden Beach. It was indeed hidden.

Like Toluca Lake in Burbank, CA, this beach was behind locked gates. Apple maps was unaware that I was not one of the privileged, so it just took me to the locked gate.

I scanned around the map, found a public street that seemed to go to the park that the beach was a part of, so off we went.

We found the park! But all six spaces were taken. I saw a little trail off the parking lot that went under a trestle bridge, consulted the map, and saw that there was another road close by running parallel. Perhaps there was yet another way in.

(See, I respect boundaries… but it doesn’t mean I stop looking for a break to get through them.)

Going up and around, I found the road and an area where a suspicious number of cars were parked. There was nothing around—no stores or houses, just a line of cars. Sure enough, as I drove by, I spied that trestle bridge. I circled back, parked with the others (we surely couldn't all get ticketed, could we?) and headed down the little path to the park that had access to the aptly named Hidden Beach.

The park was just a small children’s park with some kids’ equipment and a little open lawn before the path led down the hill to the beach.

​There were a lot of people for it being so hidden. I suppose no one else had to take such time as we did to find a way in.

​Tucker and I walked along the beach where leashed dogs were allowed. But there were also plenty off leash.

Tucker watched two labs chasing balls in the ocean and cried a little, wanting to be included.

“Tucker, you hate the water. And you don’t play fetch. Let's walk the other way.” 

​We walked in the other direction, but on our way back, we noticed a few more dogs had joined their fun. Tucker asked to join them.

“Tuck, they’re off leash, you don’t know if you’ll like them, and honestly, I’m a little tired. And so are you. We should head out to dinner.”

Tucker stood his ground; I leaned toward the beach’s exit, he leaned toward the dogs. 
​
“Tucker, no,” I said calmly and envisioned us walking toward back up the hill. He acquiesced and followed along. 

​I did feel bad, wondering how many times I prevented him from making friends. I allow it when there’s another dog on leash and they both seem happy to see one another. But a group of off leash dogs is a gamble. Things could go terribly wrong.
​
We took one more look at Hidden Beach before we headed up the incline.

And there on the bench at the top was another line about adventures and life.

​Tucker seemed to want to stop, but the bench was in the sun, so I suggested a different bench in the shade.

A few second after sitting, literally only minutes after Tucker had begged to stay and play on the beach, he passed out.

​I enjoyed the view as my traveling companion took a short nap. After a ten minute break I asked if he could make it the last quarter mile back to the car. He rose up and gave it a shot.

Once in the truck, he had an hour to sleep before we reached our next destination: paying our respects to Methuselah, the great Redwood on Skyline Blvd.

​As usual, there was no one else there, despite cars being at the entrance to her forest. 

​We walked down and around, and Tuck took the stairs to say hello.

​It may seem odd to just go to look at a tree, but I was doing more than looking. I was paying her my respect, just a blink of a moment in her long existence to say, “I appreciate you.” I appreciate her holding up the forest. Forests are a community. People once believed trees to be like people nowadays: “this is mine, that’s yours”, competing for resources. But trees are a hell of a lot smarter than humans. They support one another and grow together for a healthy community. They share resources along the root system. One tree may have more sunlight, another closer to the river gets more water, another in soil with more phosphorous. Roots and fungus under the surface of the soil connect the trees. Methuselah is the grand matriarch. She stands tall, gathers resources (and uses much I’m sure) but also shares with her community. The power of togetherness makes everyone strong.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I love the redwoods so much. They are individuals rising tall, and yet only do so through the support of others. And when one of them dies, when their time is over and they topple, they let go. They literally let go. They untangle their roots so as to not bring down the entire grove. 

But life isn’t over even after they fall. New life begins in and on their trunk. Woodland animals make their homes in it, bacteria and insects eat away at the fibers, and the tree eventually adds nutrients to the soil, still contributing to the community that once helped it stand tall.

The Redwood grove is life. It is connection. It is the place I feel most at home. Perhaps I once was a part of this soil, or perhaps one day I will be. They say time is a construct and all that exists is this moment, and yet in this moment is all time.
​
I pondered all this as I sat, eating my birthday meal at Alice’s Restaurant while Tucker napped at my feet. 

​Listening to conversations about life and love taking place at other tables, I enjoyed the atmosphere. It was a way to be connected in this forest of people, without really engaging. I was just another tree in the community.

We traveled back to our tiny house along Skyline Blvd. It is a lot of forest, and a lot of open land as well, ocean view property although many miles away from it. We were lucky enough in timing that we were crossing through one of the open meadows when the sun took its final bow for the day.

I pulled over and watched it go, capturing its quick descent, and bidding the day farewell. 

​There was still the magic of the night, the meteor showers, and for Tucker, a gift: a monkey for my monkey.

​The day wasn’t what I thought it would be, but I wasn’t disappointed by any means. In fact, those obstacles and unexpected turns just brought new explorations.

Life takes turns we don’t expect, but some of those turns are the most meaningful events and greatest gifts, sending us in directions we never fathomed. Certainly this beautiful furry soul was one of those unexpected turns and greatest gifts, and now I can't imagine life without him. With Tucker, I feel ready--and looking forward to--all the unexpected twists and turns that lay ahead on the trail. Not only because was he, himself, was a twist I never saw coming, but because I know he will always lead us to just where we need to be.

​I chose Pogonip Open Space for our first adventure of the day, a little park in Santa Cruz, bordering the UC Santa Cruz campus. The street parking was only 2 hours (4 hours if I parked a half mile away and walked uphill to the trailhead). I thought we could manage all four miles within 2 hours, but we don’t powerwalk; Tuck takes time to sniff, and I like to meander, soaking in the atmosphere. I could only hope we wouldn’t return to a ticket if we got back late.
​
The trail at the end of the street started in the wide open. Signs warned of ticks, but the wide trail made it feel less risky. 

We were soon under forest canopy.

Even with the trees towering above, there was a glimpse of the farmlands in the distance.

And a meditation circle. I tried to walk it, but Tucker didn’t see the point when he could get to the center straight over the rocks.

The little canyon area where it stood was perfect for it. The energy was peaceful but intense. It felt like magic here.

We carried on through the forest, allowing others to pass us so we might take our time.

There was a small waterfall to check out.

And a place the map called The Haunted Meadow. I didn’t question its nomenclature. There was something mystical about the area. It emanated from one tree on the edge of the meadow. I could imagine that once the sun went down, one might start to see spirits here.

​Shortly after passing the meadow, I called it at about a quarter mile from the official “end” of the trail. It would have been a steep downhill grade to the trailhead then right back up again. I didn’t think the quick dip and rise in the trail for such a short distance would be worth the possibility of not making it back to our trusty steed in under two hours.

We turned around (always difficult with Tucker who needs a clear finish line—so I turned us around at a trail crossing), and headed back through the forest to see it from a different angle and return back to civilization.

(Tucker still didn't see the point of the circle.)

It was only early afternoon, so we went to Santa Cruz proper to find a bite to eat. Santa Cruz Brewery had gotten some good reviews, had some basic food, cider, and a dog friendly patio. In essence, it checked all the boxes.

I realized, sitting there in the complex of breweries, design, and bike shops, that Santa Cruz was the oceanside version of Portland, Oregon. It was certainly a bit sunnier, but the vibe here was very Portland. The state parks weren’t dog friendly, but the beaches and the businesses were. So, while not entirely ideal, I do hope that a gig takes me here so we can take a few months to explore instead of just four days.

After lunch we returned to Felton and took a stop at what is believed to be the country’s tallest covered bridge. I had hoped there might be an actual walk there, but it was within sight of the parking lot.

A family was attempting to get a photo, but with a child involved, it was taking longer than it would have with just adults. I waited it out some, wanting to get a shot with Tucker, but then gave up to walk across the bridge.  We could take a photo upon our return.

As we passed the family, they all expressed wanting to say hello to Tucker, but Tucker was too excited to get up the ramp and onto the bridge.

“There’s a dog who’s obviously been here before!” one of them said. I replied with, “No, actually. He just loves exploring new places.”
​
Tucker practically ran into the covered bridge, sniffing and enthusiastically checking out the place while also heading toward the other end.

​At the other end, there was no more trail to follow. To our left was an equestrian district that pointed out “no dogs allowed” on a sign, to the right was just a residential street, and straight ahead was a field.

We got a shot in of the plaque

And we tried to get a photo with the bridge, but the garbage cans detract from the authenticity.

​So back we went, to where the family had given up hope on getting the child to smile.

They commended Tucker on being a much better--and faster--photo subject than their kid. What can I say? Tuck's a professional at this point.

And then they asked if we wanted a photo together. While not my actual birthday, I knew this was our one shot at a family portrait on our vacation.
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Tucker prefers me not to be in the photos with him, so it took some time for him to figure out how to work with me.

And then we finally got it.

This isn’t 45.

​This is the last day of 44... and close enough.

We returned to our tiny house (and big deck) to spend the evening having dinner, writing, and enjoying the forest from above.

​Tucker took a nap, but I stayed up with a glass of wine and my thoughts, to which I was rewarded with shooting stars.

I had accidentally and opportunistically made our travels coincide with the Orionid meteor shower which peaked on October 21st. 

As I looked up at the skies with my pup beside me, I thought about a conversation I had overheard on our walkabout at Pogonip this morning.

Two women in their late sixties or early seventies had passed us on our route going in (because they were walking, and Tucker and I were meandering). I had heard some of their conversation and I was realizing how age, the number of years we are alive on this planet, has very little to do with who we are. They were chatting like they were two women in their thirties—discussing careers, what gym would have hand weights, and how to get back to living after the pandemic. 

They had gone the full distance (downhill and back) so while we were on heading back to the trailhead, they were behind us. Tucker took a moment to sniff something so I let them pass, and while behind them, heard them talking about their lives again. One said to the other, “I thought I was doing well by starting to do walk and talks again. I thought that was a big step. But then Marge said, ‘I saw you on that Galapagos trip. You were happier than I have ever seen you. I think you need to commit to new experiences like that.’ And she’s right. I had set the bar too low. I was happy then. I need to commit to adventure every day.”

Commit to adventure every day.
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It was something I, too, needed to do. Not just for me, but for Tucker. Our day had been filled with adventure. And while we can’t make every day a vacation, we can commit to new experiences and doing something meaningful every day.

So as the clock turned to midnight and I watched for shooting stars, I didn’t just wish but made a commitment: I commit to adventure every day. I will seek out new experiences to try new things and explore and visit old places to see them anew. Life may be short in years, but it can be long and meaningful when you make every moment last and every day an adventure. 

It took a long four months since the forest first started calling me, but after my last job finished up, I was able to fulfill my heart’s desire: to return to the redwoods. I had recently read an article about a train that took you on a trip through the redwoods in the Santa Cruz Mountains—and it was dog friendly! I immediately knew this is where I needed to be for my birthday.

With the ability to make my birthday into an extended weekend adventure, I booked a tiny house with a giant deck overlooking a valley of redwoods for four nights and started searching for friendly hikes to fill our days. 

After booking our lodging (only ten minutes from the train station), I discovered that the railroad had an all weekend Tommy the Train children’s event: every hour train rides and a bunch of children’s activities. It sounded like a nightmare for Tucker and for me. Luckily, they run the redwood forest steam train every single day. It’s almost always sold out, but the beginning of the week it’s less likely be so. So I locked us in for a 10:30am Monday train ride after we checked out of our place to end the adventure on a relaxing note.

I have learned throughout my life that plans are often thwarted. Better to make preparations and see where the day takes you; few or no soli plans--just be prepared for wherever the road leads. So rather than schedule every hike and every minute of our getaway, the train was the only place we had to be at a certain time. I decided against any of the trails that needed advance reservations and permits, and still had a decent list to choose from once we got there.

We hit the first trail before we even checked into our basecamp rental. We got into Scotts Valley, adjacent to Felton where our tiny house was, and went directly to the Lodato Loop trailhead. I had waited a long time to be amongst the trees and I wasn’t going to wait single second longer than I had to.

Located at the edge of the paring lot of a business park, the trailhead had plenty of parking and few people. I had read online about people “going the wrong way” on the loop, but it didn’t specify which was the “right way”. I asked someone who had also just arrived with her two dogs, and she said, “I haven’t been here in a while, but I don’t think it matters. It’s a loop.”
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The trail started wide, and immediately we were beneath towering redwoods and their neighbors.

It was a series of switchbacks, and I checked which way the woman with her two dogs went and decided to follow her lead. As we carried on, the trail became more narrow, and the one-way rule seemed optimal.

Also, with everyone going in one direction, you were able to feel completely alone. Unless someone came up running behind you or a fast walker wanted to play through, you never ran into anyone else.

It was a peaceful loop with a peek-a-boo view.

Less than two miles of walking, but it felt much farther and further than where we had come from.

With our lungs full of forest air, we finished the loop and our first walkabout in a weekend of walkabouts and adventures to fill our souls with joy.