In November of 2019, we began a walkabout on this little bluff, then ran across the road to the trailhead at McNee Ranch, went up and up and up, caught sight of a Wisdom Tree standing sentinel over the ocean, and then headed back down as the sun set.

Grey Whale Cove’s Trail called for us to start at this same cliffside and race across Highway One to avoid oncoming semis, but once at the trailhead, our feet tread new ground, allowing us new perspective and exploration.

The hills were much greener than the last time we were here, thanks to the winter of water California was getting.

The bench was aptly placed for those winded from the initial steep incline. The north showed us the endless wilds.

And the south showed us civiliation.

We headed north.

Around the “hill” we caught more views of Highway One to the north.

But we set our sights on the wild along the trail in front of us.

The trail took a quick right, straight up the hill we had wound our way around. I can walk for days no problem, but a steep incline kills me. That first incline to the bench was nothing. For this "hill", we ascended over 320 feet within a third of a mile where the grade was 32% at its peak. There were no steps, but the slope was about the same as an extremely steep set of stairs. 

But we made it, as we always do. And as usual, the view while allowing my heart to return to its normal rhythm and for my lungs to get some air in them, was stunning.

I stood beneath that Wisdom Tree and let its oxygen renew me.

And then down we went, with views overlooking the ocean to one side and to the diversity of trees on the other--some of which seemed to be Wisdom Tree's elders who had left the bluff for the mountains.

We crossed back over Highway One and explored a little more of the bluff.

Not yet having my fill of the ocean but running out of trail, I decided we should stop at Rockaway Beach. The shops and buildings went right up to the ocean, like an Oregon-style town with no fear of tsunamis.
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We ate lunch at a little seaside diner, and then walked down the short street to the plaza and boardwalk in front of the rocky border that held the sea in.

The rising cliff marked the end of the boardwalk and as far as we could go (safely).

I’m sure we could have clamored over rocks and boulders, but the risk outweighed the reward. The view was quite good from here.

We turned around and sat for a spell, looking at the ocean in the little cove of Rockaway Beach. The ocean is vast, but we need not take it in all at once. Enjoying the coves and inlets, drinking in the views one sip at a time, we appreciate all the nuances of how the sea connects to land. It reminds us that it’s a big life out there, but it's not a challenge under threat of drowning; it's a vast beauty meant to be enjoyed one sippable moment at a time.

Every now and again, I find myself in a place that makes me feel like I’m in a fantasy novel. In this case, the nomenclature of the land, Ring Mountain, added to the feeling. I didn’t think I’d find the Ring here, but walking along the open meadow with boulders strewn about, I imagined a race of giants playing Jacks. They took stones in their hands, shook them like dice, and then tossed them across the landscape.

The land jutted out like a peninsula into the Bays, and I imagined villages set up here, overlooking the water.

As we crested the hillside along the path, the view of San Francisco in the distance made me feel like we were Dorothy and Toto seeing the Emerald City for the first time.

I wondered if before the skyscrapers, one could have seen smoke coming from the chimneys of homes and neighborhoods of the first peoples’ abodes.

Here, the land around us seemed to shift and change with each new view, as if the rocks were alive and moving when we weren’t looking.

Coming upon a particularly large boulder, far from any path, there was a sign for those who had ventured this far.

The art of the ancients was etched in stone.

The comment that they did know their meaning made me wonder: did it have to have meaning? What if someone came across an old school desk a century henceforth, and finding a child’s scribbles pondered, “What great meaning doth this hold?”

Looking out from the rock, we could see that Emerald City, and I wondered if the artists drew what they had seen so many ages ago.

Turning back to the land, it was pure Nature, these jewels of stone tossed here and there to give character and depth to the meadowland.

Even the trees took on a character of magic. They grew in harmony with the land’s slope, shaped by the winds.

The energy of this magical place was palpable. The silence made the feeling even louder. Despite the views, no human sound entered this sacred place.

Tucker studied the rocks, as if trying to find the source of magic.

He looked across the vast meadow, and I wondered if, in his mind, he too saw giants or a village of humans, their homesteads busy with life. I felt as if I could see through time as I gazed across the land.

I wondered if the stones littering the pathways were rising from the earth, or if they had fallen from above, rolled away from a glacier sliding through millennia ago.

Did the blue Bay once cover those gentle hills?

One day, could the bay fill again, and leave that Emerald City in the depths of the ocean, a new Atlantis?

We reached the end of the trail, and it was time to head back along the loop, giving us a new perspective. The trail took us to a prominent boulder, that, from afar, looked to be the head of a canine.

Up close, it took on another visage. It was no longer a dog head, but an intricate design, frozen in time.

I wondered if this was once molten lava.

Or the trunk of a fallen mammoth tree.

We travelled back down the hillside, the city no longer in view, and found even more beauty beneath the canopy of trees still standing.

Tree and stone were connected here, adding to my thought that many of these rocks were actually petrified trees.

The trees held as much magic as the stone and the earth, their character rising outward from the roots, beyond their branches’ reach.

This land was established as a preserve within my own lifetime. When I was born, it was not protected. In fact over 300 acres had been sold to a housing development company wanting to put 2100 homes and apartments on the hill. But one woman (it’s almost always a woman), Phyllis Ellman, led a movement to stop the development, buy the land, and protect it for centuries hence. It took over a decade, but in 1984, she accomplished it.

The land is still here because of her. It is not buried under buildings, or dug up and thrown elsewhere for underground parking garages. I am so grateful to her and to the community of advocates that she led, and I appreciate all those who are still this land’s stewards.

The energy here exudes of a sacred space—although every space on this planet is sacred. The magic held within the layers of earth, sprouting through the trees and emanating from the stones, is an ancient magic. Although the mountain is named for a Marin Supervisor from the turn of the 20th century (George E Ring), the nod to Tolkien seems appropriate.

Much like intuition, I cannot say whether these boulders and their energy come from within or without; but their intensity, their magic, and their sacred wisdom is the same regardless.

I suppose the same could be said of my canine guardian: his innate magic, whether from within or without, leads us on our magical explorations, and I am so thankful that he chose to share his journey with me.

Mori Point is another open space landmark along the San Francisco coast that Tucker and I have already trod. Although I am always trying to find new places to explore, as I’ve come to learn, one can go to the same place over and over, but if you take a new way there each time, then it’s a whole new experience.
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So rather than park and walk up the direct steep incline to the Point and meander along the meadows and cliffsides, we parked within a neighborhood north of the Point and took a shaded path along backyard fences that spit out onto the boardwalk along Sharp Park, the northern border of Mori Point lands.

I wanted to go up the hill to the cliffsides, but Tucker wanted to explore the new place first, so we hung a right and walked along the busy boardwalk of people and dogs.

To our east was the sensitive habitat where the rains still puddled and birds and wildlife were safely congregating.

To our west was, of course, the ocean.

We walked a half a mile toward toward civilization and then turned around before it we were reached streets, houses, and parking lots.

We stopped at our entry point to the boardwalk and I gazed south, realizing that trees were always the gateways to lands of magic.

It was a steep climb, but well worth every step for this smile.

While sitting there, a woman came up to ask if she could share the bench, I said of course and Tucker immediately took to her as if they were long last friends. He hopped up next to her to give her kisses, and she giggled in response. Tucker loves most all people, but there was something about her.

We had just had a confrontation on the boardwalk with a person who didn’t grasp the dangers of having an off-leash puppy that didn’t respond to voice control, and I was trying to shake off the negativity. As she spoke and laughed and told me about her own dog and I watched Tucker love  her, I came to the conclusion that I had been sent an angel. That’s not to say she was an entity from heaven, but that the universe sent me just what I needed to rebounded. Messengers come in all forms-people, views, interactions, animals… But I use the word angel because when recounting this tale to friends, two of them stated exactly the same thing: “Aww, you were sent an angel.”

The woman who sat next to us said her name was Jennifer. I told her mine was Stephanie. With no other prompting, she told me that whenever someone couldn’t remember her name, they alway guessed Stephanie. I told her that ever since I was a child, when people couldn’t remember my name, they guessed Jennifer—even over the phone. I’ve known a lot of Jennifers, and she’s the first one to say this.

Before I could decode the coincidence into a message, Jennifer’s husband came up to us and gave Tucker a treat. Tucker got more love and after brief introductions among us, Jennifer left to continue on her hiking journey with her husband and friend.

I sat a moment, in reverence of what the universe provides when we need it most. I could have rebounded from the conflict by sitting still and looking out over the water, but the guest star character of this angel just made it all the faster. And reminded me that there is more goodness in the world than ill. Tucker clearly recognized her from the other side, as dogs have that ability to cross between the worlds.
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I thanked the universe for this gift, took a deep breath of ocean air, and we continued on our journey across the bluff.

We had to stop while I attempted a few photos to line up with Harold & Maude’s ending sequence. I never can get it right, and there’s a clear difference in tide level between now and fifty years ago.

​But regardless of framing, it’s beautiful.

We carried on even higher up and looked out over the ocean, There, in the distance, I spied a land mass. I checked my maps, and could not find a little dot naming it, no matter how far I zoomed in. I had never seen it before, and we had traversed much of the coastline in this area. Why was it suddenly visible?

It disappeared from my view a few times, and I tried to catch it, but found it difficult. I wondered if it was a mirage. I didn’t think climate change could effect he sea level quite so quickly. With all the rains, the sea should be higher, not lower.

An older gentleman had been behind us after we left our seat at Mori Point, and while Tucker and I are slow walkers, he was even slower. We were all just taking out time to enjoy the journey.

However, when we reached our second peak, he caught up with us. We both questioned another traveller’s choice to sit on the cliff’s edge. We knew well enough that the edge can break off easily—especially after hard rains.

The man told me he had lived here his entire life. I asked him what that island was out there, and he answered without a second of doubt: “Those are the Fallones islands.”

Huh. Definite lapse of knowledge on my part, as well as for Apple Maps and AllTrails. So odd. I wondered why it only revealed itself to me now, and was perplexed about how I could lose its vision so easily, as if it had hidden itself behind the Mists of Avalon.
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I thanked him, and then Tucker and I headed inland across the hillside to get back to our trusty steed. We crossed trails we had walked before, but every view was unique to this experience.

Tucker was delighted by it all. And I felt a renewed connection to the universe. I looked up the Fallones Island and discovered that the native tribes of the Bay area called this Island of the Dead. They never travelled there, as it was home to those who had ceased living. Perhaps its disappearing and appearing acts contributed to this belief. Perhaps seeing it was an omen—of troubled times to come, or of visiting ancestors.

The universe is magical. The confrontation, the angel, the names, the man who knew the island, the island hidden beyond the veil… we’re all connected. We just need to be open to the connection to feel it and to experience it. Perhaps it’s he same with the islands, this cluster of uninhabited land masses (uninhabited except for the enormous population of wildlife and a few scientists), is only seen when you’re meant to see it. Even the first white invaders did not mention seeing this island. The Island of the Dead was as protected as Avalon.
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Every time we go for a walk, the journey is magic. We do nothing extraordinary; just place our feet on the earth and walk in the art gallery Nature has created. And we are never disappointed by the view we get. But when you open your heart and mind as well as your eyes, you’ll find that the journey is even more extraordinary than you could ever imagine.

Tucker and I have haunted the Marin Headlands a number of times. I thought I knew the trails and had step foot on all the dog friendly trails. But late last night, clicking on trailheads on alltrails and following the red lines to see if they appeared familiar, I found a trail we hadn’t yet trod.

The starting point was the same usual: the barracks and beach. But rather than follow the people upwards to the hilltop, we went northwest, along a path no one else was taking, Tucker balked at first. He didn’t see why we would go that way. So I let him a lead us back for a bit, then told him that I needed to see what was down this path. He followed me begrudgingly at first, but then realized maybe it wasn’t so bad.

The winds were fierce, as if testing if we had the drive to continue along the ragged cliff’s edge. Perhaps it was this force of nature that was giving Tucker pause.
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I told the winds I welcomed their voice, and was hear to listen to their sage advice. They calmed a bit, and allowed us to trespass, to take in the spectacular view with no human intervention.

We walked on, the vast ocean before us, and the clouds riding the breeze.

The path was more of a stream from the recent rains than a trail, but it wasn’t treacherous.

The cypress trees were the doorway, hiding the magic that lay beyond.

Beneath the cover of trees, our feet found little dry footing. But we made it through and  as the cypresses  leaned back as if drawing a curtain, we espied the main event.

An unexpected “whoa” escaped my throat as I stepped out from beneath the trees and took in the vast beauty.

Tucker seemed suspicious of whatever was in the strong winds that accosted his ears and nasal passages. But I was too joyful to notice that as my eyes drank in the view.

The flat peninsula devoid of grasses gave us views of the south and the north: To the south, where the beach and our trusty steed rested...

​To the north, where the redwood groves held their land just over the mountain peaks, taking in the ocean air and fog every morning and evening.

The colors and shapes took a hold of me, this glorious work of art by Nature.

I could stand there all day, drinking in the beauty, inhaling the magic.

But Tucker seemed done, and as his loyal partner, I had to respect his choice. He had let me go down a path he initially objected to, so now that I got what I wanted, it was his turn.

We returned the same way, exiting through the magic cypress portal and back to the land of humans.

All along this coast, there was the remnants of United States military. As we passed a half-downed fencing, I had to ask again (to no one and to no answer), why, when our military abandons a location, do they leave it looking like a zombie apocalypse, a hundred years hence?

We carried on, facing the south this time, taking in the beauty of it.

As we passed a small inlet, a fuzzy white cloud rose up beside me, drawing my attention to whence it came.

There below, as the waves crashed, sea foam fairies danced above the bedrock, springing skyward, then floating back down, rocked again by another wave, dancing and giggling to the rhythm of life.

The term “supernatural” comes to mind, and yet I had to wonder how something more super than nature could exist. Or did those who created the term just never experience places like these? For truly, taking the road less taken, you wind up in Nature so spectacular, you could never fathom anything more super than this.

Milagra Overlook: the name sounded familiar to me. And the photo of the singular tree overlooking the ocean was one I knew I had been to before. It’s astounding to me that I have cataloged so many different locations within my mind and that I carry with me a remembrance of certain trees I have met along the way. And yet at the same time, I often walk into a room and completely forget why I’m there. Such is the beauty of the human mind.

Even with the familiarities of location and name, looking at the trail path, I knew we had never journeyed that particular way to get to this tree. The trailhead of this venture was at the end of a cul de sac of a neighborhood, and I recalled our original journey to the overlook began behind a nursery. And so, because it’s the journey and the not the destination that matter most, away we went, over the Bay Bridge and across the city to the mountains overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
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Upon arrival, the grassy knoll confirmed that our feet had never tread tis particular piece of earth.

​The way up was indeed a unique trek for us. Beginning in a small grassy area, the dirt path went up through a small knoll between a few towering trees and then opened back up to another knoll. Tree cover to knoll and back again we rose in elevation until we took a break from walking to espy our first wide vista.

There was a bit more neighborhood than I like to see when I hike, but any time I gaze upon where land meets sea and sea meets sky, my heart is filled with joy.

The gravel path led up further up on the hillside overlooking the ocean. The map (and a few signs along the way) pointed out the various bunkers, cannons, and artilleries hidden within the landscape. I wondered if this entire hill was forest and humans mowed it down to fill the hills with their concrete defenses or if the mounds and knolls existed long before people walked here.
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…And long before people installed stairs.

Why are there always stairs???

​Honestly, with few exceptions, I always end up taking the side on Nature’s path rather than onward and upward on flat platforms.

The payoff was another concrete pad planted by humans for defense.

Looking out at the view, I couldn’t imagine a threat we’d need to defend. If anything, I wanted to be taken hostage by the vast beauty around me and slaughtered by nature.

When Tucker sat for his obligatory landscape photo, the breeze lifted his ear flap to whisper sweet nothings.

Onward we went, a mixture of dirt and pavement beneath our feet. The further we went, the more familiar it became and I realized where our trails met from the way we had gone before.

The blustery wind didn’t just play with Tucker’s ears; it was a rollercoaster for some playful ravens. I watched, entertained by their games in the winds.

We reached the end of the road, a trailhead at the top, and came back down the loop trail. There we found the tree from my memory—the one in the photograph. My greeting is just a nanosecond in a tree’s life, but so many of them make an indelible mark in my memory. I pondered then that perhaps it is not the mind’s memory that held our first encounter in a loving embrace, but the heart’s, and it’s that seal of love that keeps it tethered to me.

That sort of love and awe possessed people to add to Nature's art in their own way. The meditation circle on a lower mound was a human artifact blending with nature. It’s not like the barracks and concrete bunkers; it harmonized with Nature, to accent her beauty.

​We walked among the stones, felt the vibrations, and carried down the hill again.

Even with more advanced human artifacts like houses and schools, Nature’s beauty shone above and beyond. The elegant angle of the cypress tree, the shine of sun off the moving tides, the rock cliff’s where the land greets the ocean and become one.

Hiking is never about the destination. It’s about the footfalls on the earth, the breath of nature, the perspective that changes with every turn. It is the metaphor of life: it’s not getting to the end that matters; it’s how you get there that brings you joy. And every tree and every view along the way is what makes up the slideshow in your heart, the catalog of love incarnate.
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I am so grateful that no matter what the view or the trees are along the journey, that this is who I share the trail with. His smile fuels every step of the way and every beat of heart: on every hike we take and every moment of our life’s journey together. And his smile, his soul, is forever within my heart, a manifestation of love and joy that will be with me till the end of time.

Perhaps booking a place on an island wasn’t the best of ideas when California was experiencing a monsoon season. Getting to the Pacific Ocean was about a forty minute drive with no traffic over a bridge and through a city, but I didn’t want to bother if we were going to get rained out—or deal with the traffic that was created from any level of precipitation to begin with.
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And so we ventured out of our little airbnb on foot and paw to explore the island. Even with the sun peeking through the clouds at times, I had Tucker suit up most of the time so he wouldn’t be caught drenched a mile from the safety of cover. 

No dogs and no alcohol make for no fun along this beach.

Further inland, we found a coffee house where they served Tucker (because if I get a coffee, then clearly, he should get a treat as well).

And we discovered an ice cream parlor clearly made just for him.

As a true Hollywood dog, every night we needed to walk under the movie theatre’s marquee and every night, he requested entry. I explained that while he was allowed to make movies, he could not view them here; he balked at the injustice. I can’t say I disagree with him.

Ten days into the New Year, I felt like the skies would stay clear long enough for us to venture all the way back to our New Years’ Eve spot. I wanted to see what the park was like during daylight and watch the sun set over the Bay and the redwood forest I yearned to visit across the water.
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We passed a soggy, but thankfully still alive, gopher.

Looking around the park, I realized how much damage the storms had done and how many lives it may have taken. We never talk about the wildlife victims, but we should. They matter just as much as humans.  We walked away from the recovering soul, and I sent good thoughts, hoping that his family had survived the underground floods.

Tucker wasn’t allowed to touch his toes to sand or water, so we had to remain on the paved walking path that wound up the coastline. Tucker didn’t seem to mind; he certainly seemed happy enough.

There was a little teepee without explanation along the side of the path.

Mother Nature painted the sky beautifully. Her clear canvas was alive with clouds and colors.

We walked south as the sun started its decent to the horizon.

​The tiny area of sand that Tucker was allowed to trod reminded me of a set on a soundstage. 

Tucker watched the dogs walking along the sidewalk behind us while I watched the sun slide behind the hilltop redwood forest.

Storms can be catastrophic. For some, like gopher’s family, even fatal. But without storms, there is no water, and water is life. One could say water brings both life and death. Or perhaps that death is simply one chapter of life.

I am so grateful to have survived the storm, that Tucker and I have survived every storm we have encountered in our lives together. After every storm, we bear witness to the beauty left in the storm’s wake, reminding us that no matter how dark the clouds in the sky are, and no matter much rain falls, the sun shines on above us and eventually we will see it again.

I am always looking for new places to explore, but sometimes an old standby is plenty good for us. Fort Funston used to be that standby. The San Francisco theme park for dogs is acres of bluff and beach to romp free, unleashed and relatively safe from road hazards. But really, a dog can only truly enjoy it if they have perfect recall.

Tucker does not.

And so when we go with my friend with beagles who hunt gophers and return usually willingly, Tucker is tethered with an eight foot leash. Dogs all around him are free and he is not. I imagine it’s not as much fun. During our quarantine time in 2020, I discovered a little piece of heaven just south of Fort Funston where Tucker could be on leash without others running up to him or making him feel left out running free: Thorton Beach.

If you walk far enough north along the beach or on the hillside, you will actually reach Fort Funston. But we needn’t do that. This place is beauty enough for the both of us. So much beauty, that I don’t even mind the steep incline to return to the parking lot once we have had our fill and our wandering comes to an end.
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Even under a canopy of clouds, the land and sea were stunning.

This is why we love it here.

In every direction, there is beauty.

And this I why I come with Tucker: to see the beauty reflected his eyes, and shining in his smile.

For all the beautiful in the world, there is nothing more beautiful to me than this soul, who I am blessed to share this earthly journey with.

And to see him here, surrounded by equal beauty, I will never tire of it, no matter how many times we return.

Tucker and I kicked off 2023 in our favorite place: the San Francisco Bay area. The last New Years we were here was 2020. Remember that? The final NYE in Before Times. That night we walked up to Twin Peaks to watch the fireworks show over the Bay. It was actually the last time San Francisco had the fireworks show… until now.

The fireworks were back and so are we! Except rather than watch them from the city, we are stationed across the Bay. Technically it’s “East Bay”, but since Alameda is an island, I’m going to say we’re more “Mid-Bay”, albeit closer to the coast of Oakland than the peninsula.

The driving rains had been endless leading up to the evening. Flash flooding, clogged storm drains, and general soaking wetness was an issue for all of California, so I wasn’t sure if I wanted to make the late night trek to the shore, which was a little over a mile away, but really two miles to the prime spot for viewing.

The clouds cleared around 9pm so we did indeed do the walk across the sleepy island where we saw and heard few people. At a couple minutes to midnight, we were joined by some nearby apartment dwellers who came out to the beach and park to watch the light show over the Bay Bridge.

Getting in the four mile roundtrip walkabout that night did not deter us from finding another hike to begin 2023 out in the wilds.

Having been here so many times over such long periods, I was running out of new dog friendly places to go. Every East Bay forest hike review pointed out “So many ticks!”, so I avoided those. And since Tucker wasn’t allowed his beach & bluff day on Christmas, I wanted to give that to him today.

The main artery from East Bay to Half Moon Bay was shut down due to flooding, so my initial plan to head west then south down the coast was taken off the table. I had to find a coastal destination accessible via a safe road.

Searching through AllTrails, I found a new hike we hadn’t yet done. I have discovered that while AllTrails is great at keeping track of what hikes we’ve done, similar paths may appear as trails not yet taken, and since I didn’t join till 2016, there are over 2 years of hikes with Tucker unaccounted for—except here. So now I cross-reference my own blog to confirm it’s a trail not yet taken. I double-checked that it was indeed “new” to us, and off we went across the Bay.

Mussel Rock is between Thorton Beach and Mori Point, two trails we frequent for their beauty and solitude. Somehow this one had slipped by me all these years. Known as a great paragliding kickoff point, perhaps I just didn’t consider it. But now I did, and so glad I did.

The parking lot was pretty full, but we snagged a space on the side where people had simply decided was now another row of parking spots. I could understand why paragliding was a mainstay here: the winds kept the sun from being too warm.
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It being a place for take-off and landing, most of the area was wide open dirt or short meadow.

A little foliage lined the trails, and the view were beautiful.

As we watched a paraglider take off and hang on the winds, I realized another element that made the Bay area feel like home to me. For those who love nature here, they do not go into it to tame it or conquer it; they come to Nature to appreciate its beauty by experiencing it on its own terms. They surf the ocean waves, they hang on the winds over the bluff, they walk along the shoreline… they do not wish to change Nature, just be a harmonious part of it.

There wasn’t really an out and back trail, but just loops and paths that took you up and down the seaside cliff. So Tucker and I went about making sure our feet touched every inch of the trails without double-tracking too much.

There was a beach that we spied people on, but the path involved some tricky negotiating down piles of rocks. I wasn’t really up for that, and since Tucker wasn’t going into the ocean anyway, I asked that we move on to other areas.

Looking southward, we spotted the Mussel Rock and walked toward it.

At the end of the lowest trail was a beautiful rock formation that I desperately wanted to explore but could not. It was beyond the fencing, but more so it was protected by some precarious rock formations that I didn't see Tucker and I getting through unharmed. So we'd just appreciate it from afar.

After taking in the beauty from the end of thattrail, we headed back.

Tucker was still on the challenge of walking every step of every path so we took another trail up a level and went to the end.

Tucker saw what he suspected was a trail. Looked more like a runoff to me, but someone had tried using it. It took some convincing, but I finally pulled Tucker away with the assurance this was not a trail we had to take.

It is a beautiful piece of land and ocean, this Mussel Rock Park. It was once a landfill. Because not so long ago, people didn’t appreciate what they had here. They dumped their trash that still turns up in landslides and the shifting of the earth. The rock and the park are both on a fault line, so with every earthquake, the land shifts, stretching and yawning and releasing its tension. And with it, fifty year old manmade trash.
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But volunteers are cleaning it up. They’re working on fixing what those before them broke.

I find it hard to believe people would defile this place without a second thought. But times were different; there was more  open space, fewer people. We didn’t believe that we, as a species, could have such an enormous effect on the planet—to heal it or harm it.

We each have one lifetime to care for the planet, to enrich it with our joy, and to let it enrich us in return. Experience the world for the beauty it is and vow to protect it for others and for itself.

Starting the year here on the coastline where people are beginning to heal it after being abused for so long is a perfect place to begin the new year. To accept the damage we’ve done, we have to admit that we are powerful enough to do harm. And if we’re powerful enough to do harm, imagine the possibilities when we strive to make things better.

The future is unwritten. But for Tucker and me, we have some ideas of where we want the story to go, and how it will unfold. We know the locations will be stunningly beautiful, and the characters, as always, are fascinating, kind, and surprising. The people and places and moments will teach us about the world around us--and the worlds within us. There is healing to be done, and growing and blooming, and rising to the challenges we face. And above all, there is beauty and kindness, from within and without, to be shared and enjoyed and experienced.

May your new year be filled with beauty and kindness. And where you cannot see the beauty or feel the kindness around you, look within:  you might find what you've been looking for has been inside you all along.

Regardless of where we are in the world, I always make it a point to go to church on Christmas. My church: the wilderness. I’ve come to learn that Tucker’s favorite temple is the bluffs or beach. I find the forest to be my favorite venue for spiritual connection. We try to compromise and get a little bit of each so both our souls are satisfied.
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Last year, the lack of road maintenance during snowfall prevented us from reaching the glorious seaside in the Pacific Northwest. (About a mile farther along, the roads became impassable.)

This year, the blazing heat of Southern California gave me pause on spending the day close to home or along or the coast. It was only our fourth Christmas in Los Angeles together. And we wanted to get away.

Granted, we weren’t like the millions of people who began traveling only to be held up in airports and bus stations and on frozen roads due to snow, sleet, and other precipitation. We were safe at our home base and just looking for something a short drive away that would yield an air temperature below 72 degrees.

My top choice of destination was struck down due to a projected high of 78 degrees. We tend to not find a walk enjoyable once it is below 75 degrees. Actually, under 70 is perfect for us. So I looked to the east where the mountains were capped with white. I searched for a place where we could possibly encounter snow on the trails, but where our trusty steed could make it to the trailhead and back without getting stuck.

The Angeles Forest is less than an hour away. Christmas morning is a fantastic time to go, as a vast number of people are at home opening gifts, having breakfast, or celebrating with family. But come 10am, those families start venturing out. So one needs to hit the trail early.
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But "early" is not a time Tucker and I know. So while our arrival to the Mt. Hillyer trailhead was only an hour later than I wanted, we were the last vehicle to fit at the trailhead. (There are only 4 spots.)  I almost had chosen Mt. Vetter for our holiday trek as it was 4 miles instead of 6-7 miles, but it seemed uninteresting until we reached the top. Mt. Hillyer, on the other hand, was a trail of boulders and vistas. Should we not be able to make it up the 1200+ elevation gain over 2.5 miles (a challenge I never would attempt in summer, and even in December, I was unsure we’d make it), we’d have a fun walk along a trail full of character with beautiful views. And honestly, that’s what I look for in a house of spiritual connection: character and beauty.

Gone are the days when I’d hit the trail with just a folded map in my back pocket. Now I look online for those who tread before me. Especially given the challenge of elevation, I wanted to know what I was in for. Luckily, Hiking Guy had done the trail, with his turn by turn pictorial blog of the hike, I knew this is where we needed to be. And he made the AllTrails loop even better by cutting through Horse Flat Campground.

The back half of the loop on AllTrails was supposedly all pavement, and I didn’t go to the wild to walk on concrete; I came to feel the soft earth under my feet. So we started on the soft dirt trail first in case I had to pull the plug and start down the mountain before reaching the pinnacle.
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It wasn’t quite the “forest” I had envisioned since this is the Southland and thus more desert-y than forest-y. Shrubbery abounds, and the trail is quite sandy. I wondered how long ago all of this was under water.

There were also a few very cool trees, long dead but still adding their character to the trail.

There was active water, although not much. Still, nice to see a creek.

The trail took a steep upward climb immediately, and while it’s not my favorite, it does get us to the expansive views quite quickly.

Once we hit views like this, I told Tucker we could turn around at any point and I would be completely satisfied.

But we kept going because we could.

And so glad we could, because the views got even better.

It wasn’t an easy trail, but it was interesting. The boulders and rocks and expansive view of far off mountains made every sight fill my heart with a joyful peace.

I may have missed the first summit, but honestly, I don’t think it matters. We had 360 degree views from almost everywhere. I was feeling grateful to Tucker and the universe and my own body for having surmounted this challenge. It didn’t feel like the “high of 68” the weather app promised; it felt more like 74 or even higher. But once we got high enough, the wind cooled the sweat pouring off my face.

This may have been the first summit with its amazing balanced rock.

The second summit was even more magnificent.

There were plenty more boulders to negotiate, looking like they could fallor roll away at any point and yet were solid in their state.

This bush was not so lovely. As guard of the summit, it stabs you on your way in or out.

We worked our way around (being stabbed through my jeans, I don’t know how Tucker withstood any contact with just fur to protect him) to our visual reward.

Having gone as far as we could safely, Tucker and I took in the views and headed back. I stopped just past the pointy ball of pain to get some water, and Tucker took a short rest.

Then he was up and ready to go again.

Despite not wanting to walk on pavement, since Tucker was showing signs of being a bit tired, I didn’t want to return the way we came. We had to climb over some hefty obstacles and even though it seems counterintuitive, climbing up is a lot easier than climbing down safely. Plus, we had already gone that route. In an effort to materialize my philosophy of moving forward in life rather than going back to what was, I chose to continue the loop. It was a steadier decent, and it wouldn’t involve climbing over boulders.

Tucker trucked along quite quickly on the pavement. I checked to see if it was hot and it was not. So either he wanted the pavement portion of the journey over as quickly as I did, or it was simply a whole lot easier than the sand and boulder ascent. It was interesting to note how much different the hard pavement felt on my entire body, jarring with each step compared to the over three miles we had walked on Nature’s soft floors.

Rather than following All Trails long loop of pavement, I took Hiking Guy’s path down through the closed campground—which was still paved, but for a shorter distance. We took another rest once we hit the end of the loop before starting the offshoot of the lasso.

We had already done this trail going up, but sometimes looking at things from a new perspective gives you new meaning. You see things a little differently. Moving forward sometimes involves a few steps back, and as long as you don’t repeat the same exact footfalls, it’s an entirely different experience.

I caught views I hadn’t noticed before (perhaps because I was gasping for air on the way up or wiping sweat out of my eyes).

And Tucker took pause to appreciate the beauty as well.

There were still boulders and steps to negotiate, but I felt justified in my decision to go the paved route on the return. These steps took us a little longer as our weary bodies made our way downhill.

Back down on the flatland, I was surprised (and proud) to see that we had traversed 6.8 miles in just under four hours.

Tucker didn’t get his oceanside temple this Christmas, but I think he got what he needed from the experience. 

There is something about feet on the earth, eyes on the sweeping vistas, and breathing in the fresh air that brings us back to ourselves and at the same time, connects us with the vast universe. I do not go to the wilderness to tame it; I go to the wilderness to appreciate it. I do not go to the mountaintop to surmount a challenge; I go to the mountaintop to experience the vast beauty of Nature. And while every moment with Tucker I feel Home, when we're together on the trails, we're not just Home, but exactly where we belong.

Tucker and I wish you all Happy Holidays, and hope you get a chance to celebrate the Return the Light in whatever way feels right to you, wherever your heart soars.

​We might have overdone it on my birthday. Looking at my AllTrails, we ended up clocking about seven miles in our explorations. I didn’t have an alcohol-induced hangover; it was more like the day after Thanksgiving except rather than our stomachs being overfull, our day had been overfull and we were still digesting our explorations.
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But life is short, and while I wanted to rest, I couldn’t justify sleeping away the day. Tucker, however, could nap while I (slowly) got ready for the day’s adventures. 

​Mount Madonna, another crowd-sourced suggestion, was our destination for the day. It’s a county park, and Tuck is allowed pretty much everywhere.

I chose a hike with as little elevation gain as possible while still getting my redwood fix since my legs were recovering from the day before.
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Evidently not just my legs, but my eyes, were still tired, because I started on the wrong trail. I didn’t mind much, and in fact, by the time we reached the connector trail at the top and came down, I was happy that I hadn't followed the planned route. Our walk wasn’t as expected, but I think it was even better as we ended up in the deepest redwood grove on the way back down where I could truly enjoy it.

​And our trusty steed got to rest among the towering giants while she awaited our return.

It was our only hike of the day, but I had chosen our place due to its deck and view, so I wanted time to enjoy it.

Tucker needed time to sleep on it (still digesting the day before).

​Our final night under the stars was relaxing and beautiful, and certainly not a waste of time. We turned in a little early so we would be ready for the the train ride: the catalyst that had brought us here.

The Monday time slot was perfect. I was relieved to see only half a dozen cars in the parking lot an hour before boarding. 
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Tucker was well-rested and ready for adventure.

He was happy to explore the grounds and check out the trains.

But was a little perplexed once we got on. “Wait, what’s happening?”

I think he might have been over my enthusiasm—or me—as his face in our selfie looks like every teen’s face when their mom tries to get a picture with them.

​We nabbed a seat on the middle car, but up front so he could look out without being in someone else’s face. The benches faced inward, so this was the easiest way to see.

​The conductor’s stories of the redwoods and the land was a beautiful end cap to our extended weekend in the place I love so dearly. 

Tucker changed his vantage point from seat to floor for some of the trip up Bear Mountain.

​And he enjoyed the quick walkabout at the top. It was like being on a cruise ship that had landed at port—you were given a few hours to wander about and make it back before it shipped off again. Since the port was just a picnic area and we were on a train not a ship, we had fifteen minutes, not hours.

​As people milled about, checking out Cathedral Grove where they hold weddings, the team of railroad employees checked the equipment. Dixiana, the steam engine, just turned 100 on October 12th. I thought my Toyota was going strong at 24. This steam engine, now fueled with recycled oil (not coal or wood), burned cleanly, but still needed to be maintained and brakes needed to be checked before heading back down the mountain.

​We drove through the remains of the original double-decker trestle bridge that was like a spiral staircase for the train. In the 1970’s, some people who did not do their research, thought this was a logging train, and so blew up the bridge in protest, as they had nine others that week. Had they done their research, they would know that this land had never been logged; the railroad is a tourist attraction to bring people to the forest to see how beautiful it is to NOT be logged. 

While the spiral trestle hasn't been rebuilt yet, there are plenty others, made to wind around the trees so no tree loses its life to the railroad.

​The bridges, the trees, the narration, all of it was just what I wanted. And while Tucker wasn’t as excited about it as I thought he would be, he seemed to enjoy it well enough. Even the conductor said he did better than most dogs. I think it’s fantastic they allow dogs; like the Buddha retreat center that knows harmony with nature is good for dogs, this place know that being in the woods is good for dogs too. 

​But Tucker is more of a coastal dog. So after I got my final fix of redwoods, we headed down the mountain for Tucker to get some Santa Cruz sea breeze before heading back to Southern California.

​It was only West Cliff Drive, not a beach or even a trail. But Tucker showed his joy in the big smile that only comes out when we are near the ocean.

​We walked a mile up and back to the lighthouse, taking in the views and the ocean air,

​And then we bid Santa Cruz and its mountains good bye... for now. In five hours, we’d be back in our home who I’m sure appreciated the break from us. But I have no doubt we will return. I just won’t wait four months to respond to its call. Life is short, but if we truly invest in every moment, committing to adventure, then how short it is doesn’t matter; only how full we make it.