The weeks leading up to Christmas were supposed to be a vacation for Tuck and me. Job completed, I had planned to explore and enjoy Oregon for a couple of weeks.

But the grey skies…

And the roads…

I can’t say it was the weather. The temperature was delightful. But Portland isn’t super great with their road conditions. I had been warned (perhaps facetiously but it proved accurate), that Portland has only one snow plow.

So we kept close to home as the temperature dropped close to freezing, for my fear of ice. If you’ve ever crossed the bridges in Portland, you’ll understand my paralyzing fear when I envision it at 32 degrees.
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Tucker and I took a short walkabout close to home on a day that it was at least wasn’t raining.

But then, mid-way through, the skies opened up. Although I love Tuck’s new rain jacket because he keeps so much of his body dry (and because I love the high collar that reminds me a monk or priest), Tuck hates it.

Luckily it’s a quick on and off, much like the faucet in the sky, so he only had to wear it part of the way.

Not knowing if we’d make it to a spectacular Christmas hike, I opted that perhaps Tucker would like a Christmas day of touring pet shops. I needed to do some shopping for my friends' pups, and I think the only thing dogs enjoy more than unwrapping a new gift is being able to go on the adventure of acquiring said gift.

Tucker found one store that had a low area for dog food in which he fit neatly into to receive treats.

Another was actually a dog supply store, dog park, and bar! Unfortunately, I don’t give Tuck a kennel cough vaccine, so he couldn’t register to attend the dog park.

But he was allowed to shop and see the dogs playing inside the park area.

As for Christmas, I had grandiose plans, wanting to drive to the coast for a spectacular seaside hike. There were predictions of snow—at the beach! If I was delighted by a dusting of snow on ferns in the forest, my heart would explode from the beauty of snow falling on sand.

But I guess I hadn’t thoroughly thought through the implication of snow. Or rather, the state’s ability or lack thereof to clear said snow from the major roads.
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At first it seemed okay, and in fact was rather mystical.

I was enjoying our venture, knowing it was nowhere near freezing and the roads were pretty clear while we travelled through nature’s tunnels of white, and made-made tunnels a well.

But then we came upon a flashing sign, telling us our vehicle needed chains. I do not own chains. I have never needed chains in the twenty years of New England driving. I pondered if this was because we all just knew better than to drive before the plows got to the roads—and they always did within a a few hours, even salting and sanding before the snow hit the ground. Or if this was because the elevation was higher. California also requires chains in many of the mountain towns. I’ve never understood it.

But when we hit the elevation where the snow on the road was as deep as the snow on the curb… I understood.

They just don’t plow.

This was a major artery connecting the coast to the interior of the state. Yes, you did have to cross over a high peak of a mountain, but that’s it. I was pretty sure that if I had been able to traverse the ten miles at the high elevation, I’d come down off the mountain to clear roads.

But I was concerned that once over the top with more snow on the way, we wouldn’t get back. And there was literally nothing—no motels, no hotels, no anything—between here and the beach towns.

So with heavy heart, I turned our trusty steed eastward, back to Portland.

​I had kept my rental house after finishing the job so I could spend Christmas in Portland, knowing being home would just be a lonely place where none of my friends would gather due to COVID anyway. At least here, there were mountains to climb and forests to explore.

So I was certainly disappointed.

We returned home, and rather than wait till evening, as is our usual holiday schedule, I let Tucker dive into his presents.

Because I don’t believe a tree should die simply because I want decorated plantlife indoors one day of the year and I don’t believe in all the energy and waste of a plastic tree, I place Tuck’s presents by whatever hearth we have wherever we may be.
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He doesn’t seem to mind.

Tuck enjoyed his new gifts as I took in the beautiful yard that was our home for our first venture to Portlandia.

And then, with Tucker's success of completely unraveling one toy and my rising anxiety that I needed to be somewhere other than here for this special day, I packed up and we headed out again--this time to nearby woods. The forest is my church, and I could not go without attending today, even if it wasn’t the parish I had planned on going to.

Because we were arriving to the forest later in the day, we ran into a few more people than I would have liked. For me church isn’t about human community, but about communing with Mother Nature one on one (or one-and-dog on one).

It was spitting rain again, so Tucker had to put on his monk-like robe (which I still contend looks really good and is mighty practical). He's getting used to it.

I admit I was disappointed with the way our Christmas was ending up. When you’re single (and I supposed even if you’re with someone, but more importantly when you’re single), you need to make your own traditions. You are what gives a moment magic. You are who decides your own happiness. I couldn’t control the weather or Oregon’s Department of Transportation. But I could choose a different perspective to find joy in this day.

And so I did.

Upon return, I did my favorite post-hike activity: take a nap with my loyal adventure partner. And as I lay there with Tucker asleep on my arm, I gazed upon his furry head and the beautiful mountain the artist had inlaid the headboard with.

I was with my boy in the mountains, in an area of the United States I had wanted to experience for nearly thirty years. My path had led me to a circumstance in which Tucker and I got to stay here for an entire season and then some, with autumn leaves,  crisp clear air, and the scent of chimney smoke on winter nights. We were here together, exploring, being, loving, and living.

I couldn’t ask for a greater gift this Christmas or any day of the year.
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May you all find joy in every moment, for the joy and magic is always there; you just need to find the right perspective to see it.

I had been warned that Portland was a bit grey. Having only experienced the beautiful fall here, with had its days of grey, this was all I thought they meant. In comparison to Southern California, it is a big a difference, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

Then December happened.
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In November, the days of grey started to outnumber the days of sun. By mid-December, I couldn’t remember the last time I had been on a hike in the sunshine. Oddly, my peaceful retreat was giving me bouts of anxiety: any time the sun shone through, I panicked, quickly searching for the perfect hike, believing this would be our one and only shot at walking in the sunshine before we left.

So, that’s what happened this week. The clouds parted, so I quickly geared up, got Tucker into the truck, and headed to the mountains—the LL Stub Stewart State Park which boasted glorious views of the mountain ranges. There was also some snow on the ground in the higher elevation so I chose this one as being nearest with the lgreatest likelihood of clear roads.

The roads were clear, but a half hour and thirty miles later, the skies were not.
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I was oddly hopeful, even though I am fully aware that, generally speaking, clouds travel west, not east. So it’s not like the sun would follow us from Portland. I just had to hope there was another break in the clouds somewhere over the Ocean that would reach us  at some point in our journey on the mountain.

​I couldn’t turn around now anyway. Tucker was excited to be out and about, and I had to fulfill his expectations. And honestly, I couldn’t turn down experiencing vibrantly and imaginatively named trails like Caddywomper Way, Lilli’s Lollipop, Widowmaker Way, and of course, Crazy Train. Because when I think of nature calling, I think of Ozzy Osborne.

Following the advice of many a trailwalker before us, we meandered out of our way to one of the lookouts (which was also accessible directly via vehicle and paved road… but why take the easy way?)
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The clouds had decided to stick around, and when we met a forest ranger there, she confirmed that indeed we were at the lookout. We just couldn’t Look. Out.

Consulting the map, she showed us two other viewpoints we might enjoy and may be clear once we got there, if we we were up for walking another hour or so. I figured why not? We were here. And maybe I should focus not on what was out there, but on what was right here.

So off we went.

As we climbed higher through the forest, a dusting of snow appeared on the foliage all around.

I don’t recall ever seeing snow on green ferns. As a New Englander, if there is snow, there is nothing green but the pine trees. Here there was a magical coating of light in this darkened day.

We reached the view point, and yet again, Mother Nature suggested we should focus on the here and now, not the out there.

I admit that the here and now was indeed delightful. Tucker and I don’t do well in the heat, and so this 40-something degree weather was just right for us. And the snow, as if painted by Bob Ross on the tree limbs, was a unique experience for us.

As if I had passed the test, finally focusing on the present rather than the future and out there, a wee bit of blue shown in the sky.

And a bit more…

And as we rounded the corner to the overlook, the sun itself broke through to greet us.

The mist of the clouds still danced between the treetops, and we stayed for a spell, in this quiet place, high in the mountains, enjoying the right here as much as the out there.

Hiking isn’t about the summit. It's about the journey to the summit. Too often, we’re focused on the goal, told to focus on the future so much that we muddle through the present instead of enjoying every twist and turn along the way, every fern blade painted with snow, and every pine needle dusted with frost.

While I did not get the vitamin D I had been hoping for, I did get all the nutrition and soul-food I needed by just being on the trails, in the woods, out in the Oregon mountains with my beloved companion souldog.

Out there in the distance can be a glorious sight, but what really matters is right here, right now, which is all we really have.

People love waterfalls. But I don't believe our fascination with them is just about how visually stunning they are. There’s something more to it. In the six miles Tucker and I traversed the Wakeena Falls Loop Trail, I had a lot of time to ponder and listen to the waterfalls for what it is that draws us there.

One end of the loop is Multnomah Falls, one of the busiest and well-known falls in the area. The two-tiered waterfall with the bridge one third of the way up from the bottom makes for some spectacular photos. Being right on the road, it's a hot spot for tourists.

So Tucker and I didn’t start there.

We started just down the road at Wakeena Falls, where there would be some people at the bottom of the falls, but I didn’t expect a lot of people to make the 2-3 hour journey up into the mountains and back down again. The loop wasn’t just a waterfall on either end but a total of five along the way: Wakeena, Fairy, Ecola, Wiesendanger, Dutchman, and finally Multnomah. It is almost as well-stacked with waterfalls as Silver Falls State Park, except Tucker’s allowed to see these, and we avoided a long drive back and forth.
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The bottom of Wakeena Falls made me think of a fast running creek someone had tilted at an angle.

Taking the trail upward, we didn’t encounter many folks, and ended up at Wakeena Falls proper behind a footbridge.

The trail continued on, and from there, we could see the Columbia River Gorge.

Again and again, these peek-a-boo views were like windows in this house of forest out to the sprawling vastness of the wilderness.

Inside the forest house, we followed along the river, until we reached Fairy Falls.

Here was yet another great fall of water, splashing down and carrying on its way.

It didn’t feel like two miles into the mountains when we reached this crossroads, but there we were, two miles from civilization, with spectacular views of Nature, unheeded by human intervention.

I can’t tell you which Falls were which now, as the route followed the water, and there were crashes and dips along the way that may or may not have had any specific nomenclature. We witnessed the water passing by us on its way down to Wakeena Falls, and once we reached the summit of the trail and we began our descent, we followed the rushing water on its way to Multnomah Falls.

I occasionally turned around to capture one of the river's dramatic dances with gravity.

We went to the bay windows of the forest to capture the glorious views.

Twilight would be arriving soon, and as much as I wanted to stay to watch it slowly take over the skies, I also wanted to make it back to our trusty steed before dark. We still had Multnomah Falls and the path back to Wakeena Falls to finish the loop.

Multnomah Falls is impressive from every angle.

(Even if Tucker doesn’t think so.)

A word of warning to those taking this path: right around here, the water sprays back up and creates its own weather pattern, making you feel like you’re in a hurricane, wind blustering around you and water coming at you from all angles.

From afar and up close, it is magical, like a cascade of light and energy.

Tucker paused so we could capture the moment at the iconic location.

It’s difficult to fit the entire falls in one frame. At 620 feet, it is the tallest waterfall in Oregon.

The waterfall’s origin according to Wasco legend is that it appeared as a sign to the Multnomah people that the chief’s daughter, who had sacrificed herself to save her people by jumping off the cliff here, had been welcomed into the Land of Spirits and dwells there still today.

But I doubt most of the two million visitors a year here know that tale. They come because it is pretty. Or so they think that’s why they come.

As we followed the water up the mountain and down again, I thought about our own life’s journey and that river. We, as carbon-based lifeforms, are made mostly of water. We are made of the same stuff rushing through the forest. As it runs over rocks and through the soils of the woods, over lichen and moss, it picks up minerals, and becomes something other than it was only a mile before.

It needs to keep moving. Stagnation is bad. I never let Tucker drink stagnant water, as bacteria and fungi can fester in the stillness. But moving water is healthy. And so are we.
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​As we journey through life in our overwhelmingly-made-of-water transport systems, we pick up mineral deposits along the way. We crash down, sometimes from falls that feel as high as Multnomah cliff’s edge. We fall and shatter, rise up as mist, and fall again, changing form, yet remaining the same. We continue moving, as it’s the only way. If stagnate for too long, we start to spoil. We may rest for a moment in the pool, but we need to find the exit, we need to keep moving, keep picking up more goodness that makes us better along the way.

​The river’s journey takes the path of least resistance, but still encounters rocks and tree limbs to get around; it is a force unto itself, sometimes breaking through instead of going around obstacles. It carries with it that which it wishes to and leaves behind that which impedes its journey.

When we stand before the Falls here, it is not just our eyes and mind processing the beauty. It is our soul reaffirming that no matter how far we fall, we will rise again and keep moving. Our soul is resilient, it is water, moving through time from the beginning of existence through eternity. No matter what gets in our way, even if we are briefly stagnant as we find the path of least resistance, we will keep moving.

The journey doesn’t break us down; it makes us stronger, more complicated, and better equipped for what lay around the next bend.

Perhaps this all explains why I need to be in nature so often. I need to be reminded often that my soul can withstand the pressures of this earthly life. I just need to keep moving, rising and falling, crashing, and flowing, knowing that every surface I touch I am affected by. And every surface is affected by me.

In our journey, we join forces with other like-minded souls, and flow with them, affecting one another as we crash against the shores, tear through obstacles, and fling ourselves over the horizon. The force of the water, the extreme power of it, is only matched by that of each of our souls. We are all water, and each time we stand before a waterfall, our soul reaches out in recognition.

I am blessed to be able to experience such beauty, such soul-affirming works of art by Mother Nature. I am so grateful for all the fellow travelers I have met in this riverbed of life, and especially blessed to have my soul-dog beside me on so much of this journey. There will be Falls, there will be downed trees, there will be jagged rocks, but we will keep on moving, picking up minerals and making them a part of us. And eventually we will make it to the sea to rise into the clouds and start again at the mountain's peak. But the goal is not the ocean; the goal is to experience every moment of joy and beauty along the way, together.