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:
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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