It appears I have a theme for last hikes on location: go on the hike that involves the most stairs.

I didn’t mean for that to happen, nor did I know that was case until we arrived.
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Although we almost didn’t arrive. Because after almost two weeks of non-stop freezing temperatures, two snowstorms, and even now the thermometer outside not reaching 32 degrees, this was lot more appealing:

But sunshine is rare, or at least has been, and it being our last day to explore before we leave (and before the next wave of snow hit the city), I had to choose between two different places. Both involved a suspension bridge and was located less than fifteen minutes from the house.

Capilano Suspension Bridge is a big tourist attraction. It’s a long-ass suspension bridge but also a park of trails and hikes through woods and into the forest canopy. It sounds quite fun. And crowded.

They also have a light show, so it was something I could go to late in the day and have a good time. Dogs are welcome, so that wasn’t the issue. The $45 price tag to enter was.

The hike I really wanted to do was Norvan Falls in Lynn Canyon Headwater Park, but it is estimated at five hours to get there and back. With the recent snow and knowing my usual pace without precipitation blanketing the ground, I didn’t think we’d make it. However, Lynn Canyon Park, just down the road from Headwater Park of the same namesake, also boasted a suspension bridge, had some other falls we could see, had much shorter hikes, allowed dogs, and best of all, was free.

Looking at pictures of Capilano, I realized this was not best choice. The bridges and tresses in the forest were all very narrow, meaning that Tucker would be meeting dogs head-on. Not being able to have a good solid group of friends here, he’s bit more on edge meeting new dogs. Most of the dogs we met on hikes were off leash and un-neutered, a combo Tucker does not appreciate. I certainly didn’t want Tucker being the crazy pit bull in a touristy, heavily populated area should he run across an un-neutered dog—especially one heading straight for him in the middle of a suspension bridge.

So, Lynn Canyon it was.

Not only was it not terribly crowded, it saved me $45 too.

There was only half a dozen people on the bridge hanging over the canyon. The bridge floor was made of metal (it actually looked like tin), with small wood “speed bumps” every foot and a half or so. This was helpful to not go sliding into the middle of the bridge as well as giving traction when climbing back up the other side. I didn’t know how Tucker would take to this, as it was slightly swaying and moving when we got on. With no dogs in sight, Tucker and I took the first step onto the bridge.

I slid a little bit, but Tucker trucked on as if he didn’t notice that it was any different from any other bridge or even the earth itself. I have no idea how cold that metal was, so I justified him in his hurry. I would have loved to taken photos from the middle of bridge, but it was about the time we got to the middle that I tried to look over the swaying bar and remembered/experienced simultaneously: I get motion sickness, and sometimes get a bit of vertigo when looking straight down from a great height with nothing but air between me and certain death. I can climb mountains and look out across vistas, but I can’t stand on the edge and look straight down without a distinct feeling that I might fall head first.
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So there are no photographs of us crossing the bridge. Here’s one I took after the fact:

The park does an excellent job of making it easy to find your way around. Signs give you approximate distance and time to each location, so with a few hours before dark, I knew we could hit a few highlights. 

​First we turned left to head up to the 30 foot pool.

Like many areas around North Vancouver, wooden bridges and staircases have been conveniently built to help you through the forest muck and steep inclines. However, if you don’t actually shovel these wooden bridges, it’s just an inch and a half of mounds of hardened snow and ice on each plank sometimes connecting to other planks, but overall giving you essentially just one big sheet of ice to walk on.

​As one fellow hiker pointed out about Tucker, “He’s got four-wheel drive,” so Tucker didn’t notice. Hell, he even has nails, like chains on a four-wheel drive off-road machine.

The kid had no problem, and he saw me for the first time for what I really am: a poorly designed biped of inadequate coordination skills. Switching Tucker to the harness made it easier for him to sniff and not yank me every time his nose went to the ground, but he couldn’t pick up cues from the harness. He’d still tug until I yelled “Tucker!” or yipped, letting out a high-pitched, girly screech which somehow helps to keep one upright when sliding on ice.

We stopped at the river, where Tucker was interested in the scents, and unlike the forest floor, the rocks were dry and easy to navigate.

​We reached the 30 foot pool, but was unable to go closer to get better photographs. The ground was covered in ice, and I tried to get down closer, Tucker tried harder, and it was he, not I, who slipped on the ice. Even four-wheel drive and chains can’t save you on a clear, clean, solid sheet of ice.

​There were also people taking photos down below who dared to crawl around boulders, and I really didn’t want them in the photographs.

After waiting five minutes and realizing they were never going to leave, Tucker and I headed up a flight of stairs that looked like it belonged at Chimney Rock in North Carolina.

Once again, the hard icy mounds of snow were on every single stair.

Once we got up past six or seven landings, I vowed not to come back that way. I hardly made it up them; there was no way I was making it down.
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We visited the “pipe bridge,” but much to my surprise, you couldn’t walk on the pipe bridge, but only look at it from the wooden bridge next to it. I had no issues taking a photo from the wooden bridge at all:

Not wanting to dare go down the stairs I barely came up, we traveled further up the trail to make a full loop, including Twin Falls south of the Suspension Bridge.
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The snow was pretty packed on the trails, which unlike in Whistler where this made it easier, it was actually a hinderance to the walking process. I realize all snow is water, but there’s something about Vancouver snow that seems to be made of angry water; water that simply hates humans, takes evil joy in their inability to relate to it safely, and wishes they would leave.

In avoiding the staircase, I came to a trail that descended rather quickly and abruptly. I was at the top of it as three people were coming up. “It’s pretty slippery, but this is the worst of it,” the nice middle-aged man said to me as he lost his footing but remained upright. The woman behind him slipped, let out a yip similar to ones I had already let loose, grabbed him to stay standing, and continued uphill.

After they passed, Tucker and I started downhill. I urged Tucker to please, for the sake of both of our lives, stay behind me or next to me. The trail was only about four feet wide, had a wall of earth on to the left side and a sheer drop-off on the other side.

I stayed close to the earthy wall, unable to find anything to hold onto, but at least a little bit of traction was found on the bit of ground that poked up from the snow. Despite my tediously slow descent, I made one wrong step, and down I went. My little girly yip echoed through the canyon, but no one was around. Tucker kindly stood still, waiting for me to come up with a plan for myself. For a moment I contemplated hanging onto Tucker’s harness and just letting him pull me down the rest of the trail. It seemed like an excellent idea for a stuntman in a movie; not so much for me in real life.

So I scooched my ass along until I found some solid ground to plant a shoe and then lift myself up. Tucker was amazingly patient. I got up, brushed myself off, and continued on at a snail’s pace, but remained upright for the rest of the descent.

At the bottom of the hill was the crossroads between the suspension bridge to the right and the trail to Twin Falls to the left. A man behind me had made it down and proved that it was clearly easier to navigate if you didn’t have a dog with you. He surpassed me on the Twin Falls trail, which was actually helpful. All I saw was a sheet of clear ice in front of me. He hopped from one good spot to another and I followed suit with Tucker.
Then we came to more bridges, and more mounds of snow on wooden planks. The man who had been in front of me was now well out in front and a young Australian couple was directly in front me. The woman was smart enough to avoid the stairs completely on the downward trail and just take to the forest ground next to it which had more traction.  There was a switchback ahead just past the end of the stairs, and I waited at the top while they tried the slick, narrow path to the next set of stairs.

“Where should I go?” the woman called after her companion, as he had just managed to go the distance without falling. He waited on the next platform just before yet another staircase. The grade wasn’t very steep, but the packed snow gave no traction. He tried to direct her; she followed, and then Boom! Down she went. She laughed, and all three of us tried to come up with a game plan to get her to the bottom of the trail.

We all agreed that staying close to the ground would be most helpful, so she stayed down in a squat position, and shuffled on her feet to the end. 

I was up next. It was like lining up for a luge competition. The couple waited on the platform to make sure I made it down alright.

It was another three or four foot wide trail. This time the wall of earth was to the right and the sheer drop off was to the left. It wasn’t the Grand Canyon, mind you, but it certainly wouldn’t be fun to drop off the edge and topple down between the trees of the forest. 

I concentrated on remembering the woman’s footsteps, trying to recreate her path. I asked Tucker to stick to the right and he kindly did, being angelically patient with my human deficiencies.

About what I presume to be half way down (I honestly don’t know as I was only looking directly in front of my hiking boots to find the best place for traction), I no longer saw my shoes, but my view was instantly filled with sky and trees. 

“Ooooohhh!” I heard chorus of both a male and female voices, and could only imagine the grimaces on their faces .

“That sounded like a hard hit! Are you okay?” the woman asked.

Luckily, my fat ass had cushioned my fall, and thankfully my backpack, not the back of my cranium, hit the hard icy earth. My hat had fallen off, but that was only casualty. Tucker, my loyal canine partner, remained steadfast at my side while I repositioned my hat, sat up, and laughed my cold ass off.

“Yup, all good. Just think I should stay on the ground now that I’m here and all.”

There was a band of four guys behind me. From the loud yell followed by laughter we had heard moments earlier, we discerned that one of them had fallen further up the trail. Now they were in line at the top of the path, waiting for me to finish my little sledding adventure. 

Now that there was someone to watch (and call 911 if necessary), I implemented the plan I had thought of on my previous contact with the ground. Grabbing Tucker’s harness for stability, I scooched my way on my ass a few feet. I wasn’t going to be any more stable on my feet, and I was already wet, so what the hell? However, the little pull I gave myself to start sliding was a bit too much and there were no brakes on this ride.

“Oh no!!!” the Australian woman gasped as I saw the edge of the left side of the trail coming ever nearer and no way to stop myself from careening over the edge. Tucker’s 60 pounds was not going to hold my weight if I toppled over the edge; he’d be coming with me. It wasn’t certain death; there were trees and bushes and forest floor, not a cliff, but I couldn’t be positive we’d get back up uninjured—or back up at all with how hard I’d be laughing if I didn’t stop in time. 

Thanks to whatever luck I had in gravity, my butt came to a convenient stop an inch from the trail edge. Having watched enough action movies in my day, I was nervous to even breathe for fear it would upset whatever balance was keeping me on the trail.
​
“I thought you were going over the edge!” the woman yelled.

“Me too!” I said back with a smile as I contemplated my next move to not send me the final inch over the side.

My foot found a little snow and using it like a grappling hook, I dragged myself, butt on the ground, to the safer side of the trail. Totally wet ass, but glad to not be alone on this fall (because when you fall alone it’s sad; but when you fall in front of people, it’s funny.) I met up with the couple at the end, having avoided my drop into the forest by an inch and a laugh. The boys behind me began their descent and only one hit the ground mid-way, but all was good when they made it to the landing with us. 

​From there, it was another flight of stairs down (photo taken once I got to the bottom.)

The boys went down quickly, and we heard their yells as one of them biffed at the bottom.
​
“Hey, it’s a little slippery right here!” he yelled up to us, pointing to the section of ground right below the bottom stair.

“Thanks!” we yelled back to him. I then let the couple go next to see which way they would take.

The woman went slowly, but the man tried a new technique: going down backwards. 

There was no way I was trying that.

I waited for them to get to the bottom and then Tucker and I slowly descended.

We had no trouble at the end; we hopped over to the fence line to look at the canyon river and to get some traction instead of walking on the snow-covered planks provided by the park.

​All four of us (the couple, Tucker, and I) made it to Twin Falls without further incident. 

We crossed the bridge, and headed up yet another flight of stairs to find ourselves in a clearing with no signs of a way out. I consulted the map on my phone, picked a direction, and off we went back to the car.

In recounting this adventure to a friend, I pointed out that this never would have happened in the US. The park would have been closed. But here in Canada, people are hardcore. You walk in the woods at your own peril (or entertainment… it’s a fine line.) There were signs in this park of how many deaths happened due to failing to stay behind fences and avoiding warnings about no cliff-jumping into rivers. But falling on perfectly sound earth was your own damn fault and not worth noting.

When Tucker and I had first arrived, there was a child’s birthday party about to begin at the Ecology Center. A woman was watching a four-year old child climbing around on whatever the courtyard rock sculpture was covered in the snow in the front of the building. Another parent showed up with her child, and just at that moment, the kid made a misstep, and down he went, his fall broken by his crotch which hit a protruding rock rather hard. “Oh!” the parental figure cried. “You alright?”

The boy said nothing, stood up, shook it off, and carried on, climbing over the snowy mounds of rocks.

That’s Canada for you. 

​We couldn’t be in British Columbia and not go to Whistler. I had heard of it forever, and although not a skier (strapping two long sticks to the end of my feet really doesn’t increase my motor skills, trust me) I still wanted to go. Granted, I wanted to go in the fall, when hiking was good, but with the short days and my late sleep schedule as well as the frequent inclement weather, I wasn’t able to make the hour and a half drive up there until December 4th.

​The sun was blazing above, the mountains were snow-capped, and the waters reflected every bit of beauty from above. 

Even a picture taken from the side of the road is frame-worthy.

That's Tucker... on the side of the road.

The drive along the coast and up into the mountains led us to what reminded me of a univeristy campus. This is the village map of Whistler:

I, of course didn’t have this map upon arrival so I drove around looking for parking, or a place to stop to find a map. The roads were decently well-plowed, but people were everywhere—people and their equipment. Men, women, children, people with dogs, all walking on what appeared to be short, cobble-stoned paths that I was driving on. They carried snowboards, skies and ski boots. I stopped in front of a hotel door and the host promptly came out to greet me. I told him I wasn’t staying, but had gotten lost and he kindly gave me a map, showed me where we were, and how to get to the free parking lots.
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Off we went, and although the free lots were full, I didn’t think $6 for a day of walking in this outdoor adventure park was that bad of a deal. This is a brief chart of things to do and where:

​My goal was to get to Lost Lake. It boasted a dog beach and a decent walk from the hotel. I was picturing Big Bear in my mind, so I was surprised to see there is really no separation between town and wilderness. It is all one big adventure park.

It took a bit to find the entrance to the trail I was seeking due to being turned around in all the parking lots we drove through seeking a spot. I’m sure if I went back in the summer it would be quite easy to navigate, and I’d realize how small of an area the entire place covered.

Once on the trail, I was happy to see enough other people had ventured on it to make it an easy walk.

There were a few offshoots we could try, but the snow had already developed that crunchy top layer that made trudging through it more of a hassle than I wanted to take. Also, Tucker hadn’t ever hiked through snow before, so I wanted to make it as comfortable as possible for him—not take him through the Iditarod.  

​It wasn’t a terribly chilly day, and Tucker didn’t see to mind the cold ground. 

​The lake itself was beautiful and serene. Unlike the village that teemed with crowds, very few people and dogs were out on this trail.

We found a snowman sitting on a bench enjoying the view.

​Tucker introduced himself and the two became fast friends.

The dog beach wasn’t much of an expansive beach—just a little cove. But it was still beautiful.

The forecast called for freezing temperatures after dark, so we walked around the lake and then headed back to the car. 

​Despite it only being a few hours, Tucker was thoroughly wiped out from the adventure. 

I enjoyed the southern views on our drive south for only a few minutes before night completely fell.

Although the Vancouver forecast called for snow, many people told me it seldom sticks and it usually rains out the next day. We went to Whistler to experience a walk in the snow, and I’m glad we did. It was a great day for it, a relaxing meandering walk in the woods, and a good experience in the fluffy white stuff. But it was not our only snowy adventure...

This time it wasn’t weather but time that was not on our side. Being this far north this time of year means the days are quite short. The sun rises at 8am and sets by 4:30. The sun’s workshift is shorter than most American factory worker’s.

I am a night person. Left to my own devices, I don’t get going until 11am… 10am if it’s a good day. So here I don’t get days off, just hours.
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Granted, we don’t need to go far for a little forest. This is our morning walk—the trail at the end of the cul de sac. 

​Not a bad way to start the morning: in the woods. 

But still, I want to see and do more while I’m here, not just walk around my neighborhood.

Having gone south for Stanley Park the weekend prior, I opted to head north toward Horseshoe Bay and Whistler. Those were places I’d heard of, and I suspected the places between here and there might not be as crowded.

Surprisingly, I was right. 
​
A little trail in the little town of Lion’s Bay between Horseshoe Bay and Squamish provided a lovely forest hike with occasional views of the ocean and not a soul in sight. 

Perfect.
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Except we didn’t get there until 3:00…

... although beautiful, it was already getting dark.

When Tucker stopped showing up in the pictures I was taking, I felt we should head back.

I had a flashlight and a granola bar. I'm guessing neither would appease a bear should we run into one out after the sun went down.

So… fast forward one week. We get back on the road and head farther away from the United States border.
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The drive is gorgeous. If Central Colorado and the Southern Oregon Coast had a baby, it would be the southern coastline of British Columbia. The mountains towered over us to the right, and the ocean and bays with its islands and rock outcroppings saluted us on our left.

The misty clouds made the view even better. I didn’t want it to be a bright sunny day. This was magical.
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We returned to the hard to find trail, and decided on the loop. Only about three miles, but more than we’d done while he had been here. 

​We stopped at picnic tables. 

​We walked through deep forest. 

​Then open meadow along the cliff’s edge.

​We saw the ocean.

And a waterfall.

​We even traipsed up the trail a little too far and ended up on a rural road. We turned around, headed back, found the trail, and continued back through the forest.

​This is what I came to Vancouver for. I came for the forests and the water. I came for magic in the woods, and time to contemplate and walk and experience yet another geographical and spiritual aspect of Mother Nature.

It was an easy hike. Easy for both British Columbian and American standards. There were no ropes to climb or pulley systems or suspension bridges to cross. It was just a walk in the woods along the coast.
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I don’t hike to challenge myself or even to feel like I’ve accomplished anything. I hike for the experience of the journey itself. I don’t need to push my body to the limits or make things more difficult than necessary.  Granted the boy gets pretty down if I turn him around before we reach the end, but for me hiking isn’t about the destination. It’s about the journey. And this is the journey: eyes to the sky, and nose to the wind.

I woke up the next morning with a new perspective. It had rained almost every day in October in Vancouver. If I wanted to hike with Tucker, I couldn’t wait until the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. I had bought him a rain jacket—excuse me, a “Vancouver Jacket.” Might as well get some use out of it.

Vancouver boasts a rather extensive public park: Stanley Park. At just over 1000 acres (or 1.5 square miles), it beats New York’s Central park by over 150 acres.  While Central Park is, well, central, with views of the cityscape between the leaves of the trees, Stanley Park rests at the end of downtown, a peninsula of wildlife in an already wild space.

Despite the downpour, plenty of people were around in the more urban areas of the park to check out tours and monuments. I sought to be a little off the beaten path and closer to nature. I didn’t have to look far. I carried south along the park road to find parking and off to my right, I espied a full grown and particularly healthy adult coyote at the trail intersection.

Upon parking, I saw notices and signs about “how to co-exist with wildlife” and how to appropriately deal with coyotes. Despite urbanity being less than a mile away, Tucker and I had entered the wild, with the forest to our backs and the ocean to our front.
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We headed toward the ocean.

​Tucker didn’t seem to mind the rain or jacket as much as I thought he would. We walked down to the seawall (or boardwalk) and looked out into the ocean. It wasn’t until about ten minutes of letting Tucker walk across the sands and dip his toes in the Canadian Pacific Ocean that I saw the sign stating, “No Dogs Allowed On Beach.” Whoops.

No one was around anyway. We took to the forest, finding a trail that would meander its way back to our car parked at a baseball field up the hill. 

Being in the woods here is like being in primordial times. You expect a dinosaur to come around a bend in the trail. The trees are ancient and glorious. And when they are killed, new ones sprout from their chopped off tops. You might not be able to see the street sign in the lower quarter left of this picture for perspective, but the top of this tree where the roots spill over is about eight feet high.

​This antler-like mossy head-dress for giants is in the distance and yet is still ginormous. My guess is that the width at the bottom is around fifteen feet.

​Here’s Tucker in front of a tree. Just one tree. I couldn't get the whole thing in one shot.

Here's the tree from far away:

​The thing no one tells you is that Vancouver is actually a rainforest. (That would explain the copious amounts of precipitation.)

​This fabulous ecosystem is about seven feet tall and about five feet wide and looks as if it was designed by Jim Henson.

​But it’s not all forests. This open meadow gave me the most magical, surreal feeling. Something went down here many many ages ago, but I’m not sure exactly what. 

​Historians chose this giantess of a tree to reconstruct and hold upright for everyone to see in the parking area. I think I saw bigger, more alive ones on our hike, but I guess this makes it easy for tourists.

​Tucker and I ran into two brindle Boxer-mixes running about off leash on the trail, and he happily greeted them and wanted to play. Their owner was also pleasant. Other than that, Tucker and I had the woods to ourselves.

If Tucker and I want to fit in, we need to be like the locals. Rain cannot deter us. Driving to work, I see women out and about wearing baseball hats and rain gear and hiking books. At least I don’t dress differently from them. But I’m not as tough as they are. I’ll get there, though. Maybe Tucker will even get to be like the two Boxers we met—no Vancouver jackets needed, just running in the rain like it’s the greatest thing in the world.

​For now, we’ll do one day at time, not let the weather deter us from adventures, and see where the day takes us.

I usually spend my birthday on a hike. This year I spent it in the truck driving north toward Vancouver. Spending a night in Ashland, Oregon was something I always wanted to do, but in order to see the Oregon Shakespeare Festival not because I had to get up early in the morning to make it to the border.
​
However, waking up Ashland is pretty beautiful even if you don’t get to see Shakespeare.

​It felt a little like the Berkshire Hills… with fog. I have been missing Autumn the past few years, so it was nice to finally experience--even at rest stops.

Because of the short notice of the job, we didn’t get to arrive early and get a sense of our surroundings. We arrived late Sunday night, and the next morning was work. I didn’t even get a chance to really look into daycares for Tucker.
​
So Tucker took over my job.

​And had to sit through terribly boring meetings where he exemplified what we all were feeling.

​I did not see the sun the entire week. On our first Saturday, we did a tour of the local pet supply stores so Tucker and I could get out of the house. Granted, our house isn’t too shabby. The view alone is spectacular (that’s the Vancouver skyline in the distance.) 

And the leaves changing color was inspiring. I finally got Autumn. Real Autumn. 

Sunday brought a brief amount of sunshine and I took the limited opportunity to get to the nearest mountain for a hike.
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Mount Seymour had a dog-friendly hike called, oddly, Dog Mountain. It seemed like a good beginning hike for us. However, it was closed. 

​I attempted to find another trail, lost the trail, and ended up going in the wrong direction.

​Finding another trail which was more populated, Tucker and I finally got on our way.

Here’s the thing about dog-friendly Vancouver. It is dog-friendly—but in a very different way than other cities. Well-behaved, leashed dogs are not allowed on patios of restaurants. They are not allowed in stores or cafes or coffee houses. However, dog are free to be off-leash on many trails. And even if a leash is required, no one adheres to it.

Now, if you have full control over your dog, that’s great. Honestly, there were plenty of times I thought I might crack my head open as I stumbled over roots and slippery rocks while holding Tucker’s leash. It would be safer if he could be off leash. However, he’s not a fan of all dogs. He’s not great with un-neutered males, and he gets pretty worked up about any dog that is not being respectful of their owner. Tucker cannot be off leash. And that’s fine. I’ve accepted that. And probably 80% of the time, that’s totally cool. The moment that follows falls into the 20% "not cool" category.

Being my first hike in British Columbia, I didn’t realize there is a bit of difference in their ratings of trails. Now I know that “moderate” in Canadian terms is “impossible” to Americans. “Easy” will still involve some obstacles. A couple days ago I read a description of a “dog-friendly” hike that was “moderate” because there was only “a couple of ropes to climb that you will have to hoist your dog up.” What?!? Evidently us Americans are used to Candyland, and the Canadians are playing Chutes and Ladders. 

This particular hike at Mt Seymour was quite muddy (it had been raining), and Tucker and I hadn’t yet coordinated our hiking-in-mud policies so it was a bit stressful as I tried to remain upright. Mud and severe elevation changes, and roots and rocks and then bunches of people and their dogs. It wasn’t quite the peaceful and serene hiking experience I’m used to.

I had considered turning back but tried to keep going. Tucker never wants to give up, and I really didn’t want this to be a wasted venture. But then there it was: the dog coming up quickly behind us with no person attached. Tucker wouldn’t keep moving forward, but there was no person so I didn’t know what would happen when the dog arrived in front of us. The person finally came into view, saw Tucker and called her dog. No response. Called again. Still nothing. The dog continued toward us, and albeit not in a threatening manner, still was not under the control of his person (and it was a leashed trail, mind you), which alone is terrifying and there was nowhere for us to step off the trail to be out of the way. The trail itself is only a few feet wide. Dogs coming up the hill are meeting dogs coming down head-on. Not a good way to introduce one another.

Her dog gets up to Tucker just as she reaches her dog with a leash excusing him because “he’s friendly.” Tucker lunges at the dog ferociously, people with small dogs coming up are terrified, and the dog with no respect for his owner just carries on like nothing happened.

Meanwhile Tucker and I are in the treeline, bush limbs jabbing into my spine, and he’s thrashing about, upset at the dog that just passed and scaring the people with a dachshund off leash heading toward us.

And that’s when I felt we should call it quits.

We climbed back up the steep, muddy, narrow trail and out into the open. I took a breath, looked around, and off to the side I saw a trailhead everyone else was ignoring.
​ 
Perfect.

Through a small meadow, Tucker and I alone crossed a bridge and headed up to a peak.

​There was just one couple there, dogless. Tucker and I took the time to sit and enjoy the peace. This is what hiking is for us. Not a tourist attraction, not a social event. It is our church; our peace. 

Tucker and I sat in peace and relaxation until Tucker and I felt we should head back before the rains came in again.

​Not the best first hiking experience, but we learned a lot. Regardless of “leash” or “off-leash” signs, every dog will be off leash. So we just need to go to places off the beaten path, less crowded, more remote, where Tucker can be at peace and not worried about rouge dogs coming up behind us.

We’ll find our place. It’s just isn’t on this trail. And that's okay. There's plenty more to try out.

I can’t believe it’s been almost five months since last I’ve written of our travels. Let me bring you up to speed.

Tucker and I headed back to the West Coast after Asheville to get some much-needed renovations done on the house. Although satisfying for humans, the process is rather boring for dogs, and Tucker had to put up with my stressful outbursts as the renovations didn’t go quite to plan.

We hiked in Griffith Park, and Tucker got an expansive view of the city (in monochrome.) Not quite the same as looking out over the Appalachian Mountains.

​We had only one adventure in August. Missing Northern California, Tucker and I headed out to our closest alternative: Malibu. There Tucker padded the sands of the beaches... 

...and sniffed the salty ocean air.

But he wasn’t happy. 

He missed his friends in Asheville. The balance we had in North Carolina of work, play, hike, and canine friends was gone. Tucker is much like a military kid. Except at least a human child understands the why behind each move to a new town. 

I took Tucker up to the San Gabriel Mountains in September, not only to be back in the mountains, but to try to escape the stifling Valley temperatures that were still topping the high 90’s even after Labor Day.

​The clear blue skies were beautiful and the trees felt homey, but this is California, not North Carolina. The trees are spread out. The mountains are higher but the woods aren’t as dense. 

​Tucker didn’t express his usual excitement for a mountain exploration. 

​Even the friendly geo-creatures didn’t delight him. 

​There were hints of Northern California, but not enough to be an adequate substitute to the redwood forest I was longing for.

I will get to the redwoods eventually, but Tucker needs more than a forest to make him truly happy. Beautiful vistas bring me joy, but not as much as seeing my boy happy.

​Finally, the solution, the answer, the thing that Tucker had truly been lacking, came to be. Due to a job possibility (which ultimately fell through but another came about), I discovered West Pack BnB—a small daycare and boarding facility about twenty minutes from our Burbank home. Here I got to see it again (via text since I wasn’t there in person): Tucker’s beautiful, infectious smile.

​Tucker romped and played and met other dogs and made new friends. 

He even found a chair all his own. And nothing says Home to Tucker like a good chair.

Five days a week was too much for him—he became cranky like a two-year old who hasn’t had a nap. But three days a week was the balance he needed. Three days while I went to work, Tucker got to have his social time and hang out with his own kind. Not only did it make him happy, but it made me happy. My boy was joyful again.

And because they provide boarding as well (cage free, slumber-party style in small groups), it means I can now go away for a weekend on a human adventure knowing Tucker is well-cared for and happy.
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The photo and video updates throughout the days made my smile each and every time. My happy Tucker was back. Balance had been restored. 

Now that Tucker's social needs were met and my job provided money, it was time for more hiking. 

In early October we did one more hike—back to Malibu. A burned down “cabin in the woods” California style. There seems to be many of these in the Los Angeles area. Fifty to seventy years ago people started building mini-mansions off the grid in the wilderness to get out of the “city.” And it was hardly a city then. I don’t think these people would be able to tolerate the crowded urban sprawl that is Los Angeles today. And the woods are hardly woods--just canyons in the desert.

It seems that fire is the big killer of these estates... leaving, ironically, only the fireplaces standing.

Despite no fire actually burning, it was unbearably hot in the canyon.

​The reviews of the hike claiming adequate shade proved incorrect, as did my silly notion that the ocean in view would provide some salty sea breeze.

When it came down to my boy needing to rest, I provided a shady spot for him. Although not as large as a tree, I was thicker than any vegetation along the trail.

​The views were pleasant, but I wished for better hiking weather.

My wish was granted rather quickly, but it was a case of not being specific in my request to universe. Location and temperature were fantastic. Precipitation levels: not quite ideal. You don’t need to be careful with what you wish for; you just need to be very specific with what you wish for.

Like a military kid, Tucker had say goodbye to his new friends which saddened me greatly. At least this time I was certain we would be back and he’d return to his friends again, but for Tucker, the future was unknown. All I could do was promise him new adventures.

And a rain jacket.

I would like Tucker to be a versatile wilderness explorer, but I am sensitive to his Southern California upbringing. I hoped he wouldn’t be considered a wuss for wearing it. I’m not sure how other dogs reacted to it, but my favorite comment from a human came from the label she gave it: not a “raincoat,” but a “Vancouver Jacket.”  Tucker wasn’t being wussy wearing a rain jacket; he was a hip dog with impeccable fashion sense sporting a piece of clothing named after the city we were stationed in.

​Next up: Tucker and I cross the border to experience wet and wild British Columbia.