Thanksgiving is an odd holiday if you think about it. We all make this pact that on this one day, wherever you are, you must gather with others--often travelling great distances to do so--in order to sit down and have one meal together. And we all seem to adhere it.

But I’ve never been one for conforming to the masses.

Instead, I used others’ desire to do so to my advantage.

Sleeping in (since we don’t need to start hikes at 6am to avoid hot weather), I waited till noon, when I suspected most people would already by at their perspective gathering places, and drove to the first natural touristy spot that I assumed would be crowded every other minute of every other day: Vista Point.

I was rewarded with easy parking and only a few families still out and about before settling in for their long afternoon of eating and holiday cheer.
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There were a few too many people around to get great sweeping photographs of the Columbia Gorge, but at least I was able to get a couple of shots sans humans. 

And Tucker got to enjoy the views too, thanks to some conveniently located spy-holes in the architectural design.

Of course I still tried to get proper photos of Tucker with the landscape, to which he got a smidge irritated after so many attempts.

We had passed the trailhead for Water Line Road trail along the way, and while I didn’t care to do the hike which consisted of just walking down a hill to the train tracks and then walking back up hill, I did want to check out the trailhead itself: the Portland Women’s Forum State Scenic Viewpoint. Its name is a mouthful. Abbreviating it doesn’t make it any better: PWFSSV.

Figuring there would be even fewer people there than at Vista Point, once we finished up our walk around the Vista Point building and Tucker tired of my photo shoot, we headed to the Scenic Viewpoint.

In my quest for a non-crowded Thanksgiving, I succeeded. Only a few cars were in the vast parking lot that sloped downhill toward the overlook of the river.
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The first thing I noted was the little white dome downriver: that is Vista Point. Grey up close but white in the sparkling sunshine from afar, rather than being a place to view from, it became part of the view itself.

A plague commemorated Gertrude Glutsch Jensen for protecting this land was off to the side. In 1956, this little plot was bought by the Portland Women’s Forum, a group of women active in politics and civil evolution. It seems that when it comes to the preservation and protection of land, animals, and the world as a whole, the movement is usually led by women. Or sometimes, depending on taboos of the time, it is led by women behind the men that society deems acceptable to create change. Don’t get me wrong, there have been men who have stood for the protection of Mother Nature (such as John Muir and Bob Hunter), and I applaud them. But it just seems like women, overall, have spearheaded the efforts to keep this world turning.
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After appreciating the view, Gertrude, and all the women did (and still do) for Mother Nature, we headed down off the mountain to Red Rooster State Park for a walk along the River we had been admiring from afar for the past few hours.

There are parts of the river where one can be even closer to nature than usual, and shed your manmade skins to be as nature made you.

Being a tad chilly out, I wondered if anyone was taking advantage of this. I certainly was not.

Tucker and I carried on along the river, getting a few peeks of the river but mostly walking along the flat leaf-lined trail though the woods.

Down by the river proper, after getting through some rocky trail areas,

We reached the shores.

Maybe it was the lighting, but the golden aspens and sparsely covered trees (evidently clothing optional for plantlife as well), it didn’t seem like we were in the Pacific Northwest anymore. It felt more like the south or eastern seaboard, like Virginia or North Carolina. Of course, once back in North Carolina, I will be reminded exactly how small their mountains are, and how majestically tall the gorge’s rock walls actually are.

Tucker and I climbed a short ridge to get back into the woods for the back half of our loop walk along the river and through the woods (but not to Grandmother’s house we go).

We finished up with one more close-up look at the rover. Then we drove back along the highway, the Columbia River to our right, the towering rock walls of the Gorge to our left, and only a smattering of traffic between us and the setting sun.

Thanksgiving is about gathering and gratitude. While I did not gather, I did give gratitude. I gave Tucker his favorite Turkey and Sardine dinner, and I had my own usual vegetarian fare. I gave thanks for adventures like today, to be able to share them with my faithful companion who is up for every car ride and every walk, wherever we go. I am grateful to explore new places, and take in the wonder Mother Nature has created. I appreciate that I still have my health and Tucker has his so we can walk long distances and climb steep mountains in pursuit of experiencing Nature’s art from every vantage point.

I hope you all got to gather—or not gather, if that be your preference—with those you love and share the gratitude for this thing we call life. Whether you enjoy an urban outing or seeing the stars alone in a campsite miles from civilization, I hope you were able to be wherever you find joy. For that’s what life is about: expressing gratitude for every moment of joy this beautiful life has to offer.

It’s getting to be that time of year again for that magical weather element: snow. Mt Hood had been boasting her beautiful white coat as of late, and it was enticing enough to lead me to her.

So up we went into the mountains, parked at a ski place, reminding me of our adventures in Whistler, BC. There wasn’t as much snow here as Whistler, but it was just as chilly.

The dusting of snow on the bridges, rocks, and downed trees added a smidge more character, like someone went through the painting and just touched up a few places.

But it wasn’t cold enough yet to stop water. The streams ran strong.

Tucker has zero fear, and crossed the make-shift bridges with ease.

Once up the mountain, we reached a level trail, but could see neither lake nor the iconic mountain it reflected in its waters.

​ But it was still magic.

Finally we spied her, peeking up from the treeline.

And with a few more steps, we began to see her reflection too.

And then finally we reached the memorable spot, the one where all the photos are taken, to see Mt Hood and her reflection in the crystal clear Mirror Lake.

Tuck even got to stand on a snowy beach while I tried to capture it just right. The clear blue skies made it the perfect day to experience this.

Just before we reached this spot, a lone female hiker arrived at the shoreline. She stood in reverence as each person did, seeing it for the first time. She had her moment and then walked back under the canopy of trees to the trail. 

​I suddenly had a vision: two dogs. A sporting dog—a short haired white and black, maybe a setter?—to her right who went leaping ahead up the trail and one to her left right, a steadfast golden retriever, by her side. I wanted to tell her that she wasn’t alone. Because once you hike with a dog, you will never hike alone again.
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But I didn’t say the words. I kept them to myself, and gave a thanks to the mountain and her magic.

Tucker and I continued around the Lake, taking in the views. In one marshy area, we watched people up ahead seem to splash down into the thicket. As we approached on the precarious boards that trail tenders had left for us, we came upon a group of hikers and their dogs. They explained that if we continued ahead, one of the boards would sink and we’d get super wet. Even with a dog, they recommended that hacking through the thicket on solid ground was way better than ice cold feet—for both human and canine. So, taking their instructions and hoping that Tucker didn’t lose an eye or get shrub shrapnel down his ear canal, we ventured off the trail to avoid what was more than just a puddle.

Having made it unscathed, we continued around the lake, enjoying all of the views, even the ones without Mount Hood.

As we stood without a view of Mt Hood, looking out at the lake, I heard two women coming toward us in the opposite direction we were heading. They were chit-chatting about this and that and then stopped near us. I looked up a bird—the first and only bird I had seen or heard on this hike—land on a branch in a nearby tree.

Then a second bird joined the first.

“Oh, I wonder what kind of birds those are?” one woman asked the other.

“I bet Frank would know,” the other posited.

The two birds, as if requested for further examination, flew closer to the women.

The two women then stepped off the main trail and started up a small incline to another short trail. They stopped, turned around and went to take a photo as I saw the two birds then fly toward them and land on a nearer branch to them.

“Those birds are following you,” I said to her.

She sighed a little, and said, “Birds seem to like me. The other day one flew right into my office!”

Then she walked off, as if this was just a normal thing. I wanted so much to ask, “Have you figured out what they’re trying to tell you?” but she was already gone, and I wasn’t sure how she’d take it.

There is something about this mountain, or maybe this lake. If you open your heart and listen, you will hear things and see things beyond what our logical minds normally accept.

I considered the reflection in the Mirror Lake. Why--or how--was it reflected at all? If a mirror faces upward (as a lake does), it will reflect that which is directly above it, as it reflects the stars and moon at night. The trees along the coastline were reflected too, as they were on the edge of the mirror.

But how was the mountain in the reflection?

The mountain's summit was still at least fifteen miles away from the lake. It was not above the lake, but rather northeast of it. Yet the lake reflected it as if it was standing on the lake’s edge just as the trees were.

This may be one of those things like my inability to comprehend how we see the Milky Way “out there” when we’re actually “within” the Milky Way…

And yet, Mt Hood has shown me her disappearing act while I've driven across the Ross Island Bridge in Portland, and here her Houdini act was no less impressive.

In some places she was there, but her reflection was not (as I expected):

But take a few steps for a new perspective, and you could catch her reflection:

Although I seek to understand everything, I have to leave some things to faith. I do not question why or how I saw the two dogs with that woman, or why those birds were following that woman and what message they had to her and from whom. Yet I question how the mountain can be reflected in the lake when it’s not directly “in front” of it. Faith isn’t easy. Some things, I still want science to explain to me.

But until then, I am grateful to have experienced this: this glass-like pool of water, high in the snowy mountains in the Pacific Northwest. And I am even more grateful that I have this beautiful soul accompany me. I hope he feels the magic as I do here. And I know now (or perhaps always had faith) that Tucker will be with me on every trail I take, even long after his his physical paws have ceased walking the earth.

Not feeling the need to climb 1200 feet above sea level, I chose Warrior Rock Lighthouse for this weekend’s adventure. Located on Sauvie Island, it was described as an easy walk through the woods along the Columbia River to the smallest lighthouse in Oregon.

The island reminded me of San Francisco Bay’s Treasure Island, except more rural. It feels sparsely populated and isolated. There is that distinct remote feeling of being on an island, and yet all you see if farmland as far as the eye can see. The remoteness feels more deep, as if you’re not only in a faraway land, but in different time.

Despite having a Northwest Forest Pass (for federal land), and Oregon State Park Pass (for Oregon state parks) and a Discover Pass (for Washington State parks), I still had to purchase a different pass for the privilege of walking to the lighthouse. The pass is sold in only four locations on the island: the Department of Fish and Wildlife, a 7-11, a Cracker Barrel, and a country store located at an RV park.

Luckily, there was a giant painted sign pointing to the country store and RV park on the one road to the trailhead. We pulled in, and I entered the little house-converted-to-convenience-store. The man behind the register stamped a piece of paper for me and wrote down my payment in a little book of pages with carbon paper as if we were in 1976. It added that remoteness of the rural island, as if time had stopped here decades ago.

We carried on with the water to our right (at least I assume that was what was up over the dune with stairs that led upward). There were parking spots on both sides of the road from near the country store to the trailhead. Then it would be three more miles on foot to the northwestern tip of the island and Warrior Rock.

The asphalt ended and our tires rolled onto Mother Nature’s earth for the last few miles. Grey skies and dampness abounded, keeping the dirt on the ground without the usual sand storms one encounters in dry Southern California. The parking lot wasn’t overly crowded, but there were people. Out afternoon arrival meant we were crossing paths with the eager morning hikers who were just finishing up.
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I left our trusty steed to stare off into the farmland and ponder simpler times.

Tuck and I headed to the gate, trudged through some shrubbery to the beach, and got our first look at the Columbia River from here.

We stepped back up to the path but before long encountered a tree down. The couple heading toward us were with a small terrier/Chihuahua mix who was easily picked up and set down over the tree. While I could clumsily surmount the challenge myself, I could not also help Tucker. The tree had struck some sort of thorny bushes, so Tucker was standing in sharp, violently defensive plantlife. I couldn’t see how he could get onto the trunk of the down tree from that liftoff point and then land back down on the same terrain on the other side.

So we backed up and headed to the beach so we could go around. We shambled up the beach and onto the low grass running parallel with the trail.

Judging we had passed the tree, I found an open spot through the brambles to climb through to  return to the trail.

At the one fork in the road, someone had posted a friendly directional sign:

Once deep into the forest, it was an autumnal wonderland. Tucker and I walked upon a blanket of ambers and yellows and golds.

Once through the final meadow trail, we ended up seaside once more. I imagine with blue skies and the sun shining down, things would look a lot different. From here, all was one grey palette.

Even the lighthouse in the distance was mostly grey...

Except not totally grey.

Someone has painted a glorious bird taking flight. I couldn’t tell if the echoes of autumn colors that looks like silly string but were lines of paint were done by a graffiti artist or were part of the original concept. Either way, it worked perfectly, adding this splash of color to the already vibrant piece.

Above, a chunk of missing plaster gave the impression of a smaller bird taking flight.

The downed tree made for an excellent vantage point to enjoy the painting and also look downriver.

Having had our fill of the tiny lighthouse, we returned to walk back the three miles on the blanket of golds.

Seldom has this happened, and perhaps it was simply due to the grey skies or that it was an out and back hike—not as a loop—but I have to shamefully admit that I got bored on the way back. I kept checking my app, hoping the miles would disappear. 

I never regret any trail I take, for each step leads to the next one. There are some I will return to in order to experience time and time again, and there are some that having done them, I am satisfied. Warrior Rock is one of the latter. While grateful to experience this other-timely island in the middle of the Columbia River and to see the tiniest lighthouse with the most majestic artwork, I need not do it again. But I am ever appreciative of the journey, and I look forward to seeing where the next trail leads us from here.

I have this belief that most often indecision is inevitably worse than the wrong decision.  And yet, I am plagued by indecision far more than I’d like to admit. To get around it, I have learned to clear my mind and go with the first thing that shows up no matter how inconvenient and illogical it may seem. That’s how the morning started. There are so many options for hikes in Oregon, deciding which one on which day is difficult. So I calmed myself, scrolled down the list of hikes without any forethought, and Cape Falcon Lookout leapt out at me. My mind and heart were telling me that I needed some dramatic cliffs, cresting waves, and classic Oregon coast. And Cape Falcon Lookout would give me just that.

And more.
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The trail, which was 90 miles west from my doorstep, begins in the forest. Forests have always been my church, but there is something extra special--sacred--about the seaside forest. It is a woods with character and an ancientness about it that I cannot put into words. I can’t even capture it with a camera.

I tried once or twice, but the way the rays of sunlight glistened off the green moss and the leaves gently swayed in the breeze, I just couldn’t do it justice. The world around me wasn’t just an image but a visceral experience unable to be contained in pixels or on the page. It was best left to live in the hearts and minds of those who came here for themselves.
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As the trail led to the edges of the forest, the ocean with its dramatic cliffsides could be seen through the treeline.

Every now and again, there would be a place to look out, as if the treeline were walls and these spots of leaflessness were windows to peer out over the ocean.

A young woman who was ahead on the trail, real camera in hand (something I so rarely see these days), stopped every now and again and pointed out the good spots and occasionally shared her awe with us.

The main event was over two miles in to the trail’s namesake lookout, an outcropping of a cliff that looked west out to the sea and south to the coastline.
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The woman was sitting on the edge when we arrived. Another two people stood nearby.

Tucker and I turned right, where there seemed to be a narrow path through the bluff’s shrubbery. While many of the smaller paths led to precarious edges of the cliff, a couple led to more steady ground. One took us north, and there we spied the northern view.

Another took us to the very edge where it was all endless ocean.

We then turned back toward what most thought was the end point. Before we reached there though, the young woman had ventured up to where we were. 

​I had been taking photos of Tucker when she came up to us.

She asked if I wanted her take a photo of Tuck and me, and of course I said Yes. As Tucker has gotten older, I feel the need to capture any moment another person offers to take of us. Even if I don’t feel photogenic, like in this case when the wind turned my jacket hood into a second head, reminiscent of Zaphod Bebblebrox in Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

​But it was still me and my boy doing what we love best, and honestly, if we could adventure across the galaxy, we would.

She asked me if I had been here before, and I said No. I asked her the same. She said she had not. She had just flown in from Texas for a three day adventure on her own. She had done Multnomah Falls (the one that was too touristy for me in the Gorge), explored Portland proper, and now was on the coast. I wished her well on her adventure. I explored solo for many years before Tucker joined me. But I never up and left for a long weekend to the other side of the country. I respected her for that.

Later, when I turned to go, I looked back at her taking in the view of the ocean. She wiped her eye and sniffed. I wondered if it was the wind, the power of the moment, or if perhaps this venture was the salve for a broken heart.

Over the years, I have found that when there is a breakup, men tend to return home their mothers and find comfort in that stability. Women, on the other hand, pack a bag, buy the first plane ticket they can get, and trek across Western Europe for a month (or take on some other equivalent journey). Men find stillness; women find movement. It’s not a hard fast rule and there are many exceptions, I’m sure. It’s just something I’ve noticed amongst my friends.

Back before I ventured far alone, when I was waiting to find that human partner to join me on my travels, I told a friend, “I’ve always wanted to go to Ireland. I should get in a relationship, have a devastating break-up, and then go to Ireland.”

She followed my logic on its ridiculous journey, paused, and then simply stated with a shrug, “Or… you could just go to Ireland.”

The woman on the bluff had gone to Oregon. Maybe not after a devastating break-up but simply because she could. I hope she is still exploring and keeps going on solo adventures. Once I stopped waiting to find a human partner and set out on my own, life got a whole lot more interesting and no broken hearts were necessary to get there.
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Tucker and I took our last looks from Cape Falcon and then headed back down the mountain, through the woods, and to the sandy beach below.

The sun was just about setting, and we needed to get back to the roadside parking lot before it got too dark.

I am grateful to have this boy along for the journeys I have. I wouldn’t not have them if he wasn’t here, but they are far more meaningful and fun when he’s with me: crying with excitement in the truck as we near the trailhead; seeing the look of joy in his eyes and on his face when experiencing a new place; watching him try to run ahead and sniff and be everywhere all at once. He is my soul dog, loving every moment on the trails we physically take and being there every step of the way as we walk life's path together.
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I looked down at my pants before getting in the truck and saw that I had taken a bit more of the trail home with me than just memories and images.

That’s thing about adventures, whether you’re going it alone or with a companion—human or otherwise: you always take a piece home with you. Most of which you can never wash off quite as easily as a bit of mud. For every trail you take becomes a part of you and a part of your past, and will ultimately always lead you to the limitless potential of your future.