Most of our adventures involve sweeping landscapes or the peace and solitude of the forest. But every now and again our journeys focus on friends. It just happens that in this case, the sweeping landscape is still a feature.

This weekend, Tucker and I headed north over the bay bridge. Our friend wrote a book, and since it was inspired by the sea, we went to the beach to read it aloud and discuss editing. Since there was no chair for Tucker to sit in during our meeting, he chose to sit on the log.

​Tucker had a long leash, allowing him to sift through sand, roll around in the seaweed and take in the ocean air. Instead, he had to be in the middle of it—as he is with all things.

After a productive and fun editorial meeting, Tuck and I headed north to the solitude of the forest. However, we weren’t alone in our quest to be alone. With no parking left at the trailhead, and only precarious “spots” on the side of the cliff,  I chose to head back down the mountain a bit and take a trail less travelled.

​Not as forest-y as I would of liked, but it was still some time in nature. One of the many things I love about the Bay Area is how quickly one can get from the beaches to the trees. And even from our vantage point among the treetops, we still spied water.

​From ocean to mountain and across the bay: all in a day when you’re in San Francisco.

It didn’t feel as if we had gotten our true nature fix for the weekend, so the next day we headed south to find solitude. I really wanted to hike to Castle Rock, but being a state park, my faithful companion was not allowed. And so I, too, missed out. We are a package deal; I only go where he goes.

We paid the $10 to park at Castle Rock because there wasn't any free street parking, but rather than follow the people up the western trail to the forest reminiscent of a fairyland with gnarled trees and amazing rock formations, we crossed over Skyline Blvd to where we were allowed: the east side.

I don’t know what we missed out on being on the east side, but we did have our own unique experience where we were welcomed. Once I was out of sight of the cars and pavement, I was in a place like no other I had experienced on the Peninsula. The rocks and trees had grown together throughout the centuries and stood in a still frame of their life dance together.

​I can’t say which came first: the rock or the tree, but clearly they are forever bonded.

​The Skyline Trail which runs alongside Skyline Blvd (which, incidentally, rides along the San Andreas fault line) seems to be a place of coming together—plates of the earth, rock and vegetation… perhaps even sea and mountain.

​I wondered why one trailhead was called Seagraves.

​It probably is an uninteresting tale of some guy in the 1800’s who decided to slap his name on a parcel of land. But looking at some of the rock formations, I wondered if perhaps this was an actual sea grave. I could certainly imagine it underwater, the tides eroding the rocks, and coral and seaweed growing up around the sediment.

Further up the trail, the path led us away from the road, but turning back, we could see the mountain ridges beyond, knowing just on the other side was the edge of the land, and miles upon miles of ocean beyond.

​We walked almost seven miles among the trees on leaf-strewn pathways, and by rocks of magical dimensions.

On our return, as the sun was starting her descent to the horizon, I stopped to take in that which we had sought: solitude. I realized as I stood there that although I used the word “solitude” for my goal, it wasn't an accurate description of what I sought nor accomplished. What I needed, and what I got, was to be surrounded by Nature. And in Nature, you are never alone. Nature is not devoid of life, but rather, teeming with it in a myriad of unique and magical forms.

Whether it’s in the woods, on the bluffs, along the mountains ridge, or walking at the sea’s edge, Tucker and I are not trying to disengage from the world; we’re yearning to reconnect to the universe.

Only here, without the noise of fellow man, can we hear Nature sing; we feel the soft earth under our feet, the gentle breeze on our skin, and see the sun shining, its rays dancing through the treetops and the clouds sweeping overhead. As small as we are in the grand scheme of things, here, we recognize we are part of it all. And as we take it all in--the vision of beauty, the scent of the earth, the sensation of the wind through our hair, and breath of life that fills us--it all becomes a part of us.

The first time I visited San Francisco was 1999 on my first “long way around” the country from Massachusetts to Los Angeles to spend my last semester of college. I stayed with a friend for a few days and instantly fell in love with the city. Over the years, I applied for jobs there, but I never got in the running for Pixar.

Then in 2011, my luck changed. Twelve years after vowing to eventually live in the Bay area and not just be a visitor, I got my first distant gig here—living in the redwoods on Skyline Blvd, and working in San Mateo and Half Moon Bay. I didn’t need to be in the city itself. I discovered that living on the peninsula was better for me; I was in the woods, but only a short drive to civilization.

It was during that job that I envisioned what I truly needed in a house: sliding doors in every room to a lush, green backyard; lots of trees, and the sense of the outdoors inside. This job provided the inspiration and the money to pay for such a house. To my surprise, it wasn’t in Northern California but in Burbank, California. That was okay, because I would bring the Bay back to Burbank, create a home here, and then continue to live in the Bay as often as possible.

I have been blessed to return often, not just for visits with friends but for jobs. I am so lucky to be spending my fourth winter in the Bay area, my third with my canine partner along side me. We’re living in the city proper this year, but have found an eclectic place with enough character to make us feel like when we step outside, we will be in a redwood forest.

It seems we have done almost all the trails around here, and yet I know that can’t be true. While there are a few tried and true places to return to, I still seek to find new places.

One such place is McNee Ranch. Half way between San Francisco and Half Moon Bay, just south of Pacifica is an open space east of the highway, overlooking Montara Beach.

Due to lack of parking at the trailhead, I parked at Montara Beach, and Tucker and I made the harrowing race across Highway 1. I felt as if I was playing Frogger and hoping I did better in real life than I did at the video game.

The beginning portion felt a little Los Angeles with its dusty trail and low sagebrush along the sides. Up the hill we went toward a blue sky.

​The difference between this and Southern California is what’s at the top of the hill. Rather than a view of downtown Los Angeles, we found this:

There is just something about the brown cliffs, the green hills, the blue sky and the ocean that reaches into my chest and grabs a hold of my heart.

​We stood a spell, not only to enjoy the view but to catch my breath before ascending further up the trail. We went eastward, up the hills, where no houses stood. When I paused and turned around, I saw the echo of Southern California’s Wisdom Tree.

While the Los Angeles tree sits atop a Hollywood Hill as the only survivor of a wildfire some decades ago, here stands this tree, seemingly the only survivor of some ancient storm, now holding sentinel over the ocean.

Further up the hills, we spotted some signs of humanity—a town to the south.

​But looking north, there was only the wilds.

We continued up the dusty trail for more solitude and soon silence out-sang the ocean’s waves.

There was no end to this trail-only my desire to make it back to to the truck before nighttime and the entrance to the loop trail we had passed on the way up. And so we turned back to the setting sun, and descended.

Along the way, we found and followed a short trail to find a bench.

​We sat a moment to watch the sun over the ocean, and then took the trail that would lead us into the forest and back out to the sea.

Beneath the canopy of trees, the sun’s light faded faster. But there were still moments that we could reach out and touch the rays before they dipped beneath the horizon.

​We finished our walk in the woods, and came back out to twilight. The ocean blushed a shade of purple, and the cliffs reflected the setting sun’s golden rays. Here on the edge of the bluff, we looked out over the beach, grateful for the trails we've taken, and blessed to find that throughout the years, they lead us here time and time again.