There were two ways back to the 101. The first was the way we came—a trip through Anderson Valley. Since we had “been there; done that,” I chose the northern route—which would take us straight through the Jackson Demonstration Forest. Although Chamberlain Falls was still two hours too far in my opinion, I looked for trailheads that were along the way.

After packing up the car, I re-entered our cabin to discover that my canine companion was not particularly impressed with the diner service.  Evidently the wait for coffee was just too long.

Leaving at our 10am check-out time, we headed north and then east, into the forest.
Although it was not Chamberlain Falls, we stopped at Chamberlain Creek Conservation Camp. It was only a mile and half of trail, but my feet were happy to tread the forest floor again.

​Being beneath the green canopy, walking across the a blanket of redwood leaves is were I feel most at home. While the sea is exciting, dramatic, and I love it as well, here is where I feel truly embraced by Mother Nature.

We spent an hour in the woods, climbing up the trail, looking through the trees, and then walking down slowly, taking in every moment of the forest life.

I didn’t see any more trailheads easily accessible, but I had had my fix. The ocean and the mountains; the bluffs and the forests: these are what I need to recharge. These places fuel my soul. Grateful for the few days of escape, I was also thankful for a job that brings me to locations like this, just on the edge of Nature’s realm, where I can easily cross the border and leave civilization entirely.

On the road home, I pulled over for one more view. I had to return to society, go to work, make money, pay my bills, and do all those human things needed to survive. But here was my reminder: that Nature’s got a whole lot more places for Tucker and me to explore, experience, and enjoy. There is no doubt: we’ll be back as soon as possible. It’s a big world and we’re going to walk as much as of it as we can within our lifetime.

Having toured most of the Fort Bragg seaside area, day two was one destination only: Mendocino.
​
Mendocino was settled by some New Englanders who had come out with a logging company. With a population of less than 1000 even today, it certainly could have been a New England town—except for the vast Pacific Ocean bordering two sides of it.

It may have seemed familiar to me not just because it is reminiscent of New England but the opening of Murder, She Wrote is right here. The theme song still plays in my head, some thirty five years later.

Tucker and I walked up and down the road (one of five east-west streets in the entire town proper), referencing my alltrails map, trying to find the start of the Mendocino Headlands trail. I walked down a dirt driveway to a parking lot and found two people carrying supplies from their car to the meeting room of a church (lots of churches—just like New England.) I asked if they could direct me where to go, and the man said he’d show me after he put down his supplies. His gregarious Anatolian Shepherd was lumbering about, and Tucker made fast friends with her—as he does with all the canine locals. She seemed excited to show Tucker the trail she herself often spent her days on.

The gentleman and his dog walked us through the back field, and there, sure enough, was a narrow trail that I never would have found for fear of trespassing.
​
The trail led out to the cliff’s edge where through trees, we could see the beaches below. 

​Further down the trail, the trees fell away and we got a more open view of the cove.

​Open or from within a cliff's small forest, the view was beautiful.

​We walked down onto the rocks to be closer to the sea.

Then came back up to view the stunning artwork the ocean had made in the earth.

​I can see why it’s photographed so much. Every angle was beauty.

​Stumbling upon a trail that led down to a grassy knoll, I sat down with Tucker, feeling as if I was in Ireland--or what I imagine Ireland to be like, never having been. 

​This hidden oasis with our two raven friends seemed worlds away.

​The sea had once covered this little plateau, as was evident from the wall’s chambers.

​Water washed away the earth, creating tunnels. I wondered what sea life must have been like when once this was all under water.

​I then wondered what life was like now, growing up here in a town whose population didn’t even top 900 people. The sea’s edge right here, on the cliff, a border that could not be crossed.

​The few shops and restaurants catered to the tourists, like many new England towns, and but I couldn’t see myself enjoying a life here. Tucker and I traversed the entire town in less than a day. Although touted as dog friendly, I only found two shops that Tucker was welcome. I couldn’t find enough to do to fill a day, let alone a lifetime.

Don't get me wrong: this place is stunning--some of Mother Nature's finest artwork. But since art is always about personal taste, I have to come clean and say that Fort Bragg’s dramatic rocks and cliffsides appealed to me more. It is more rugged, unpolished; it is a place to not only enjoy looking at nature, but engage in it. Here, I could look out at the sea all day. But in Fort Bragg, I could get up close, walk through it, dance in it, and find the little bit of unkempt nature that is beauty in itself.

But I am still grateful to have had a chance to explore this particular coastal work of art. Nature is diverse in her genres, and I appreciate all the medias she works in. It's just that some of her pieces I feel more connected to than others.

Tucker and I bid farewell to the Californian New England town and headed back north For our final night, we watched the sunset from our little beach and then sat beside the fire again.

Day one was bustling and active; day two was like walking through an art museum. Day three would be whatever adventures we could find along our route. We would leave the sea behind, thankful for getting to experience its beauty, and head east, back to Nature's art gallery where I feel most at home: the redwood forest. 

My job gave me an unexpected winter hiatus, so I thought it’d be a great time to do a weekend getaway that’s a little too away from Los Angeles but the perfect distance from San Francisco: Fort Bragg and Mendocino.

There is a plethora of dog friendly places, but the lodging business was kicking off the new year with extraordinary prices. The most dog friendly place was $400 for just one night. Seeing as we’d be spending most of the time on the trails, that was a waste of money. I was already out a week of pay due to the hiatus; I didn’t want to go further into the hole.

Luckily Shoreline Cottages, a cute little motel/cottage establishment, seemed right up my alley. Not deserted enough to be creepy (as other low price venues were), but not bustling enough to make me feel like too many people were around. Not only did they have individual cabin/cottages, they had a fire pit and a private beach.

So on the first day of the year 2020, Tucker and I packed up and our trusty steed whisked us away on a three night, three day getaway to the Northern California Coast.
​
The day was rather rainy, and the journey across the valley to the coast up north took its toll on me. By the time we reached the shoreline, we could see no sea nor no shore. There would be no use trying to watch the sunset at the beach, but that’s okay. Tucker evidently was already worn out and wanted to prepare for a good adventure in the morning, so he made himself at home.

(Now where am I supposed to sleep?)

The next morning, I had my grand plan to hike to Chamberlain Falls in the Jackson Demonstration Forest. I drove over to the fire station that gave out maps for such a task. Standing behind a couple who were getting their permit to go mushrooming, I heard all about the forest and closures—and how long it takes to get places. After speaking with the ranger who said their beach rivaled Mendicino, and her tip of, “Well the beach is right there if you wanted to check it out first,” I threw my plans out the window.

With the redwood waterfalls hike being at least a two hour drive away, I instead got back into my truck and drove 300 feet to MacKerricher State Park. The ranger was right: it was stunning.

Tucker and I climbed on rocks, and listened to the waves crash against the shore.

​We took in the view from various angles.

​And delighted in the bluest ocean waves I’ve ever seen, capped with frosty white edges.

​When our beach wandering took us back to where we began, we meandered down Ka Kahleh Trail—the walking path along the bluff.

While the beach was an up close and personal view, the bluffside was a broad, far-range vista.

​At the end of the trail was a compass. Here Tucker decided our fate on where to go next.

And after many attempts, we got a somewhat decent family photo in.

We walked the mile and half back to our steed, and headed south to the next place I wanted to tread: Caspar Headlands and Cabrillo Lighthouse.

Caspar Headlands wasn’t much headlands. It was a short jaunt through the woods along a road...

... up through a field...

... and behind someone’s property. It seemed like we could have walked down the road to the lighthouse, but I wasn’t sure we’d make it back before dark to get through the forest. So we walked back to our starting point, and drove further south to…

Cabrillo Lighthouse.

​There is no parking next to the lighthouse; it’s a good mile walk from the parking lot down to the lighthouse, so let's call that our second hike of the day. There was a shortcut… but really, was it a viable shortcut?

We chose wisely and took the long way around, taking in the sea breeze and clear skies.

​I admit I’ve never been this close to a lighthouse before—or rather, this close to the light of a lighthouse. Since it’s only one story up, I could see very clearly the weight and depth of the glass. It looks like a giant Christmas tree ornament.

​Tucker seemed unimpressed.

Inside there was information abut the lighthouse, and of course people for Tucker to endear himself to for a few pets and attention.
​
Once outside, we ventured south along the bluff.

The trail seemed to end here at the rocky outcroppings, where the sea splashed up onto the cliffs.

By the time we got back to the parking lot (via some tree climbing), the sun was low in the sky.

And so we had one more stop—the private beach to watch the sunset.

We hurried back up the two lane road to the cottages and got walking directions to the beach. A rather precarious journey involving going over a narrow bridge with traffic made me uneasy, but once to the trailhead of the beach, all was well.
​
There was one couple, and then there was Tucker and me.

​We gave the couple as much privacy as possible, setting up some ways away, while still getting a good view of the giant ball of fire making its descent toward the horizon.

After chewing on some tasty seaweed sticks, Tucker settled in and together we watched the sun set.

We walked back to the cottages, and while I made dinner, Tucker took a nap. My faithful companion may have weeks of inactivity, but when it’s go time, he grabs his shut-eye when he can so he’s always ready for the next adventure.

(Again, where am I supposed to sleep?)

Dinner, wine, and Tucker fed, we went out to the fire pit to enjoy some warmth and community. A day with alone with Nature is always topped off nicely with a return to civilization.

Tucker got in some people attention, ate some treats, and enjoyed the fire.

​It seems I, too, go from inactivity to everything-activity in a moment’s notice. We could have spread out our vacation a little bit, but why not fill our days? Time management on vacation is not my strong suit, but it leads to some pretty fun adventures with spectacular sights. And that was just day one.

Since we spent last Christmas south of the bay for a surfin’ Santa Cruz holiday, this year I chose to head north into Marin to visit the redwood forest. My faithful companion will never be able to visit Muir Wood due to restrictions as a national park, but I found a roundabout way of being able to allow him into the forest area without harming wildlife or skirting laws.

The trail began at Muir Beach, where only a year prior we had tried our feet at Pirate’s Cove only to be turned away before the muddy eroded cliff that led down to the beach. Instead of heading westward on that trail, we’d cross the road and head north and upward, into the forest that bordered Muir Woods. Humans make borders—nature doesn’t. So it was quite possible there’d be the same redwoods on this side of the line as that one.

It was a grey, overcast day, but when you’re under a canopy of ancient redwoods, the color of the sky isn’t too important. It’s just a different experience than a sunny day when rays of light dance about the leaves. The trail was a loop. I had read one review that stated that part of it wasn’t dog friendly. I stood at the trailhead and found confirmation that my companion was not allowed passage. A big dog with a line through it meant it was a no go. However, this trail was actually a combination of two different trails, so we headed down the road to meet up with the back end of the trail to see if we would be allowed to walk back some ways up the mountain.

It took some searching across the road and down a private driveway and back up again and then down another road to find the hidden trailhead. But alas, there it clearly was... and our fate sealed: No Dogs Allowed.

I had driven close to an hour on Christmas morning and could not figure out how the one reviewer managed to salvage a hike out of the dead ends for dogs. I gave up, unable to see another trail we could take and headed back to Muir Beach.
​
It wasn’t a complete loss. We still had the rocks on the beach to climb on.

​And there was still the hill to climb to look out over the ocean.

​I knew Pirate’s Cove would still be a muddy mess due to the recent rains and with the sky looking like it was about to dump another few million gallons onto the earth, we only did an abbreviated walk and headed back to our faithful steed.

Returning earlier in the day then planned and not exhausted enough for a post-hike snuggle nap with my boy (one of my favorite things about hiking), I opted to allow the present-opening to begin. 

Tucker politely bowed in front of all the gifts.

​Then lowered his head in thanks.

​And then the undoing began.

I have concluded that pit bulls are the de-constructors of the universe. If anything has been made, they need to unmake it. And not like a precocious ten year old who takes apart the toaster to see how it works. Pit bulls want to break everything down to their elemental parts.
​
While this delightful caterpillar did last a few days, its head became much more festive and explosive within a matter of minutes.

​This ball became less ball and more points moments after Tucker first touched it.

​There is no explaining that a ball is for fetching or a rope or for chewing. All gifts for a pit bull are made to be deconstructed to their singular parts.

​Less than an hour later, Tucker needed a nap. Clearly this whole business is hard work.

After Tucker’s nap and my attempt at baking, we headed over to my friend Carolina’s house where she was finishing up her baby’s first Christmas. Dinner, bath time and bed time were all that was left on the agenda, so Tucker and I joined them.

While the trail yielded no grand journey, the day was an adventure. A drive over the Bay Bridge, some time with nature, a moment of thanks for the plenty our lives have, and ending it with friends—a bounty that is immeasurable.

​Tucker and I wish you all the same for this day and all year round: days of adventures in which regardless of obstacles and sabotaged plans, you recognize the bounty of goodness in your life.

​“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night…”

​I have always thought the the life of a San Franciscan dog is one in which many canines would be envious. Although they live in a city, it a city where green space is respected and adored. For every few blocks of pavement, there is a half acre of green to shove your muzzle into, leave pee graffiti, and catch up on the local dog gossip. There are beaches to race along, ocean waves to splash in, hills to climb on and trees to sniff.

So this weekend we stayed in the city proper to explore the nature that dwelled closer to our urban abode.

The only problem is sometimes I forget where we have and haven’t been. If I tally up my time living in the Bay area, it comes to almost a year and a half over the past 9 years. Half of which I’ve spent residing in the city itself, half in the woods.
​
I chose Lands End as my destination, but with a solid walk there up the coast. I parked south of the Lincoln way, the southern border of the Golden Gate Park and we walked northward to the End.

Rather than climb the steep sidewalk, I opted to go off-road and we took a path up a hill into a new park I had not expected: Sutro Heights Park.

​While Tucker and I explored the flat-topped park with evidence of buildings that once stood, statues that once must have shown in their glory days, and trees that stood tall, taking in the ocean breeze, I did not know its history. Only that it was a little bit of heaven in this already magical city.

​A little research later, I learned that Tucker and I had been strolling about the former estate of Adolf Sutro. Over hundred and thirty years ago, he purchased this land and built a rolling estate on its 22 acres, including the Sutro Baths down below. He replicated an Italian Garden (explains the statues) and had a mansion built overlooking the ocean (now the old foundations make sense.) It is a glorious view, and I wonder what it must have looked like back then. Was it all trees to the beach? No signs of human life at all?

Thanks to the internet, the wondering is fulfilled with fact.

He built a steam engine to get people from the city to Land’s End, so it must have been an unpopulated area. Now, it is part of the National Recreation area, and is tended to by neighborhood residents—because now everyone lives here.

This little hilltop paradise is well worth a visit—even an accidental one.
​
As I came down off the Heights on the northern side, I realized that we had indeed done Land’s End before. I recalled the trail once I saw the parking lot. But since we were already there… Why not?

​And so we crossed the road, walked through the parking lot, and started on the trail that would take us to the northern view—to see the Marin Headlands across the water. Although I will take Nature’s art over human’s creations any day, the Golden Gate Bridge is a piece of human art I wholly appreciate.  The designers took their cues from Mother Nature, and it’s as natural as the land and sea itself.

​Taking only a short walk about Lands End we returned up and over through Sutro Heights Park again. I stopped at a few little informational plaques, telling me where the carriage would arrive, and about the concrete lions that once held sentinel to the drive like the New York City Library (but much smaller versions.)

​Walking back along Highway 1, with the sun setting to our right, and the wilds that had been domesticated to live in the urbanity of the city to our left, I felt grateful to be able to spend time here. Every day, the dogs of San Francisco—those who live their whole lives here—get to experience this. They live and love and play and rest among these majestic places and magical hideaways.

​Tucker and I are blessed to live this life wherein we get to experience how others live for months at a time. Our life is to experience as many lives as we can in our short journeys through time. Our adventures may lead us to travel thousands of miles from one place to another; but sometimes, like today, we can experience magical adventures without ever leaving town.

Every forest has a feeling.

Some are dark and depressing, and the ferns droop in sadness. Others are playful; the sunlight dances between the leaves, and the shrubs sway with the breeze. Some places are completely silent; not even a leaf stirs on the ground. Others are filled with birds in the treetops and animals scurrying along the forest floor.

Some bring you back in time, their essence oozing ancientness and wisdom. Others feel young, as if all the trees would get up and run around a schoolyard if they weren’t rooted to their spot. There are parental woods and fun uncle forests. There is childlike whimsy in some places and a seriousness of the end of time in others.

Forests are as diverse as people—and I want to meet them all.

There is one stretch along Skyline Blvd that I have stated is where I want to live. I connect with this one section of forest. I can’t explain why. It’s like trying to explain why you’re in love with someone. You can point out certain attributes, but in the end, it’s something that can’t be put into words—it goes deeper than anything language can express. It is where I return to again and again to feel plugged in, tuned in, to be myself. It is returning home and I have found no other forest like it.

Until now.
​
This weekend we headed north over the Golden Gate bridge once more. Baltimore Canyon and Dawn Falls Trail was our destination in Larkspur, just north of Sausalito.

Driving north along their main street, it seemed familiar, but I don’t believe I had ever driven it. I had a sudden vision of going to a coffee house in a white building on this stretch of road, but I couldn’t confirm that my memory was correct. Or if perhaps the little woodland towns I’ve visited throughout the years have started to morph together in my mind.

I drove on, past a little park that was less small town park and more wooded playland with towering redwoods. I turned down a small street and found the narrow residential road that would lead us to the trailhead.

The curved road reminded me of Skylonda—the small looped street where the cabin Tucker and I had in Woodside a few years ago was. The cabins were small and each property unique. All melded into the forest around them, as if they grew from the ground organically or were slowly returning to the earth on their own.
​
The trailhead was just past the last house on a spur of the loop. The leaves on the ground covered the line wherein pavement ended and forest floor began. 

T​he trail wound up, then back down through the redwoods and oaks. The sound of the creek was heard long before we could see it. When I arrived, I expected just a rocky brook. To my surprise, there was a neighborhood across the river. A neighborhood that made me smile and sigh simultaneously. We walked along the creek, the waterway that was the result of the trail’s namesake Dawn’s Falls. The large cabins lined the river way, some with fenced in backyards, some open, but all with a stairway that led down the river.

A few children played with a yellow lab down on the rocks of the river, wielding sticks like swords and engaged in some epic adventure of their imagination’s contriving.
​
As we came to the final house on the other side of the river, there was a sign. One more pillar of civilization before diving deep into nature—along paths made by humans to be so natural, they seemed carved out by Mother Nature herself.

​The mossy green trees and redwood leaves that blanketed the trail opened the floodgates of joy into my heart. This gregarious forest welcomed Tucker and me with its charm. There was ease and earnest self that I gleaned from the forest. If this was a person, I’d like to sit down at the bar with them and listen to their stories. The running water was a steady soundtrack that ran beneath the sounds of animals above and below.

The trail began its upward ascent through the trees, around bushes, and even over a bridge. Some people hike to get to conquer a trail; I hike to be… which makes it tough to keep going sometimes; I find a place that pulls me in and I just want to sit and stay a spell.

It was a loop trail, and I saved the Falls for the return half. We climbed quickly, and found ourselves on a fire road, high above the sleepy mountain town. As I crested the hill to plant my feet on broken pavement, I spotted a teenager on a bike, pedaling toward us, his blue and white checkered flannel shirt sweeping back behind him in his self-created cycling breeze. His black and white stocky dog trotted behind him. As he went past, I stood a moment taking it in, wondering what his life was like; wondering what it was to spend his adolescence in a town like this. I wondered where he was off to; if he had some sporting practice that day, and what he did with friends on Saturday nights.

The sky wasn’t cloudy, but the perpetual mist that lies low in forests such as these make everything a little more dreamlike. It touches the imagination, opening a door to endless possibilities. I wondered if he, like me at his age, couldn’t wait to get out of his hometown. If he yearned to explore. If he didn’t yet appreciate the beauty of here, and how it not just influenced who he would become, but how it had already taken residence in his heart to always be a part of his soul.

Tucker looked up at me as they rode around the corner out of view as if he felt my mind wander and wanted to make sure he didn’t lose me.  “Where did you go?” he seemed to ask, knowing my mind had gone on its own adventure while my feet stayed still.

​I was brought back together—mind and body—and moved my feet in the direction of the boy and his dog. Every now and again, the tree line opened up and I saw houses on the sides of mountains, and the cozy town nestled in the crevices of the nurturing hills.

​While I always enjoy a sweeping view across mountain ranges and oceans, it is the little valley that draws me in. I feel safe under the canopy of redwoods. I feel at home surrounded by vegetation as far as I can see. To awake next to the river, hear its song, and walk out onto the soft earth covered in a blanket of redwood leaves: that is a morning I’d like to have.

​I did not take many photos on his hike, as one doesn’t take photos of home. They simply enjoy it. Walking along the trails, I could see myself living here—saw myself growing up here—obviously my imagination offered its images.

They say when you find your soulmate, you will know him by the fact that it feels as if you have known him your whole life, as if you grew up with him even if you met at the age of 35. I think soul-places are like that too. When you imagine being somewhere for your entire life—from birth, childhood, high school, adulthood, growing old… that is your soul place.

Like with soulmates, perhaps some people are blessed to have a few different soul-places throughout their lives. I thought in all certainty that Skyline Blvd was the only one: that little pocket of happy forest with its whimsy and sunshine. But being here, I discovered another forest where my heart feels at home. 

​The wonderful thing about places is that you need not choose one over another; you can love both equally, and spend time in both places without the other ever getting jealous. Soul places are like friends—for me, forest friends.

Different friends bring out different parts of you—and my forest friends do the same for me. Each forest or trail ignites a spark in my heart that alights a different part of my soul, allowing it to shine through and share itself with the world. The sunny Skyline Blvd will always be a home to me, but I am so grateful to have a found another friend, another forest, to come and spend time with and light up another part of soul I need to set free.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​I wondered why one trailhead was called Seagraves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​But looking north, there was only the wilds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

​After Chimney Stacks, it was difficult to think of going anywhere quite so cool. But that didn’t mean adventure wasn’t to be had. We had to get back to California, and since we were already in North Carolina, we figured we’d take the long way around to get home—up the eastern seaboard, back down and across.

While cruising up through Virginia, a friend called me and while we were chatting he said, “You should check out Natural Bridge. You’re pretty close to that.”

I looked down at the map, and sure enough I was headed almost straight for it. I had done this route many a time, but had never  heard of it.

It was 4th of July, but being a cloudy/sky-spitting sort of day, I didn’t expect too many tourists.

I was right.
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While my friend had spoken of all the little shops and museums of oddity to check out, they for the most part seemed closed. And it’s really the natural world that Tucker enjoys most, so we headed for the namesake of the attraction: the Natural Bridge.

But the attraction didn't end there. The trail kept going, so of course, we had to follow it. ​

​A small stream came from the path’s wall and next to it was a plaque informing us that this was the “Lost River.” No one has ever figured out the source or destination of this water flow.  Tucker didn’t care what its origins were—just that it was tasty.

​Tucker gets the best of both the canine and the human world. He gets to meander into the middle of the stream…

​And he gets to sit on benches made for people.

​He even spent some time contemplating the Natural Bridge from the way-back seats of the empty theatre.

​It was a quick little stop on our northern journey, and well worth the effort. Despite the sprinkling rain, it was still quite hot.

​Tucker was happy to finish up the day, cruising on a luggage cart to our air-conditioned hotel room.

The rest of our ten day journey was both relaxing and eventful. We spent some time in Massachusetts with family, where Tucker enjoyed the nearly half an acre of newly fenced lawn from which to romp.

Don't let the lying down fool you; he romped thoroughly.

​In Pennsylvania, we visited friends and had a picnic at the park

​Walked in streams,

​Knocked on Fairie Doors,

​Went to a carnival,

​And Tucker won a little stuffed animal to carry around with him.

The fun never seemed to end, but we had to be on our way.

And Tucker needed a nap after all the days of excitement.

Tucker isn't impressed with the St. Louis Arch--whatever man can do, Nature does it better (see Natural Bridge above.)

We opted not to stop at this ill-named roadside attraction.

​At a nearby convenience store, I was able to step back in time to the 1990's. But I soon returned to Tucker who waited for me in the truck.

In Texas, I finally had the wherewithal to slow down in time to exit and visit Cadillac Ranch. I have passed it numerous times, usually at 75 mph, with never enough time to slow down and take the exit. I thought ahead this time and made it an actual stop. Tucker was pretty excited about it.

​We came with no spray cans, but Tucker left his own mark on a few bushes and dusty, painted sands around the area.

​That night, we settled in at the Hotel El Rancho in New Mexico, where many a Hollywood star and crew stayed while filming in the desert.

The room was interesting, although quite warm (there is still no air conditioning after all these years). But Tucker felt the bed was adequate enough to take up the whole thing.

The next morning, we arrived early to The Petrified Forest and Painted Desert. I always seem to miss it, so was thankful for the time zone change back to an hour earlier to give us a full day to visit and still make it back to Burbank without stopping for the night.

​While the Park is dog friendly, it is not overall really warm-blooded mammal friendly. Even in the morning, the temperatures were rising. The longest hike would have been sort of fun except that it wound its way on pavement through hot desert sands. Tucker and I took the efficient tourist-stop driving route, hopping out of our air-conditioned truck for only enough time to take a look, snap a photo and be on our way.

​By midnight, we were back at home. As I unpacked the truck and put away clothes, Tucker snoozed on the couch, taking a much needed rest so he could be ready for whatever adventure lay ahead. For it seems now matter where we go, we always opt for the scenic route home.

​Tucker and I spent our second day of our trip at the cabin in the woods, writing, relaxing, and reading. We even had an unexpected guest who liked the place as much as we did:

​To balance our day of solitude amongst the trees, we ventured back out to civilization in the evening to our favorite local hangout, The Bywater.

Tucker and I had a drink or two, socialized around the nightly bonfire, then retreated back our woodland paradise for a good night’s sleep before our next hiking adventure.

The Chimneys and Rock Table are at opposite ends of the same trailhead starting point in a picnic and camping area, and with our limited time here, I decided a two for one deal was needed. Only an hour and a half away in the Linville Gorge Wilderness, I planned for us to start hiking by 10am to avoid the excessive mid-day heat. That meant leaving at 8am—a stretch for us, but we could manage.

It wasn’t our leave time that took us on an extended drive—it as Apple maps. Thanks, Apple.

As we neared the trailhead, only three miles away according to Apple maps, we reached a fork in the dirt road. One way led to “PRIVATE PROPERTY - DEAD END” and the other to “NO ACCESS TO TABLE ROCK. PRIVATE DRIVE.” Well… that’s no good.

Apple didn’t give me another option, and looking at the map, it seemed I’d have to drive a couple hours around the base of the mountain to get to the top from the north. This couldn’t be right. So I headed back down the road to the few businesses along the roadside. I was going to ask the convenience store employee, but when I spotted three firefighters hanging outside their station right next to the store, I opted to ask their advice. If you want to know where something is in town, I suspect cabbies, police, and firefighters are your top three choices for obtaining accurate directions and the quickest route.

My hypothesis was correct. They knew exactly what I was talking about and told me that Apple’s route had taken me to the road that had been closed off seven years prior. They then proceeded to give me exact directions including mileage and landmarks. I needn’t drive around the mountain, but just further down the road—however the way up was rather long.

“It’s like thirteen miles up the mountain,” one of them said.

“Well I’m already here, might as well make a go of it.”

He was right: 13.1 miles. Firefighters certainly know their fire roads.

The long winding road up the mountain was well worth it. I couldn’t imagine people making weekly trips up this way just for a picnic. I only passed one person going downhill while we were going up—which was good because the road was narrow and its edge was a mere unprotected cliff.

Of course all this meant that rather than arriving by 10am, my trusty steed took her much needed break at high noon. Even though it was two miles out and back to the Chimneys and two miles out and back to Table Rock, in case we didn’t fare well in the heat and couldn’t manage both trails, I opted to go to the Chimneys first.
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The rocky trail covered in tree roots make me feel at home. It was shaded when we began, so we trucked along at a decent pace despite the heat.

​Coming out of the woods, we found ourselves at an open vista:

​We walked a little further out onto a sloped cliff and there, my heart stopped.

​This wasn’t Yosemite, but this sight made my eyes water in awe. It was unexpected and majestic. I can only imagine what my reaction would be to El Capitan.

Although it didn’t seem hot, sweat poured off me. Tucker and I stood, me in awe and sweat, he, panting and drooling. I looked at alltrails and was surprised to see we had only gone about a half a mile. The heat had sucked our energy away.
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A thru-hiker who was heading toward the trailhead from the Chimney Stacks stopped for a moment. He said according to his books (or app… I don’t now), this was Kodachrome Overlook. I thought it was fitting, and  a wonderful place to be reminded of Paul Simon music.

The thru-hiker had been traveling a day and a half and was headed back the way he had come. I told him Table Rock was less than two miles away, but he said, Nope, this was far enough.

About half an hour later, I understood his perspective.
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He headed back the way he came, and Tucker and I followed shortly thereafter, making sure Tucker had an adequate break in the shade. We were both slow moving, not just because of the heat, but because the views were meant to be drunk slowly, to be savored, to be etched into your heart forever.

​While Nature is always beautiful to me, this is one of the most stunning places I have ever been. Unfortunately, any photo I took just didn’t do it justice. It was if it wanted to remain secret, and would only reveal its beauty to those who made the effort to experience it in person (or in dog.)

​Tucker and I climbed through rock crevices and along narrow paths, all the while feeling secure. The forest here and the land, seemed to protect us, as if they enjoyed our presence. We were welcome here to appreciate their beauty. I never felt like I could slip and fall off the mountain, even though looking at pictures and given my inferior motor skills, it seemed chances were high.

As we passed around one of the chimney stacks, I saw the thru-hiker’s pack shoved under a bush in an obscure trail that looked more like water run-off had created it, not a trailblazer. A little further down the way, I looked up and saw him high atop one of the chimneys.

I couldn’t figure out a safe way for Tucker and I to both make it up there, so we took in the view from our own path--which was glorious enough for me.

We continued along the trail until it seemed we were going downhill again. With the heat and the lack of optimism on finding anything as majestic as this, we turned around and headed back.
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I always worry about Tucker suffering from heat exhaustion. He doesn’t take the heat well, and he’ll just keep going until he finally can’t. His panting seemed harsh, so it seemed best we take a break.

I found a little camping area tucked away in a shady spot and climbed up onto the natural platform. The rock acted like a cooler and Tucker lay down, absorbing it from the rock wall and hard earth.

​I wondered how many people throughout the ages had set a fire here and slept in the mountain’s loving embrace. 

We stayed for a good twenty minutes, us both resting and me finally accepting that we would not be making it to Table Rock. We had only walked a little over a mile, but the heat made it seem like five miles already.
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On the way back, I marveled at the trail, an obstacle course for Tucker to navigate, up rocks and boulders and around trees.

​Although I prefer loops trails that keep us seeing something new around every bend, the best part of an out and back trails is turning around and experiencing where you’ve just been from a whole new perspective.

​The Linville Gorge Wilderness is a place Tucker and I are sure to return to many times. It’s a magical place in the Pisgah Forest, where rock and tree, water and sky meet to form majestic towers and stunning vistas. My feet are happy to traverse its unique landscapes and my eyes can’t get enough of the surrounding visuals. The sounds and scents—all of it—makes me want to lie down and curl up, gazing off into the distance of the mountains, feeling at home in this glorious wilderness.

​Thank you, Blue Mountains for always welcoming this girl born at the other end of your mountain range, whose manmade abode is thousands of miles from your western-most ridge. Tucker and I hope to return soon to appreciate your wonder and splendor, and will always carry a bit of your magic within our hearts wherever we go.