If I ever go off the grid, the most likely place you’ll find me is home: in the redwoods. Lucky for you, that narrows down the search area to only about 300 square miles in the northwest portion of the United States. Unlucky for the redwoods, their habitats have been shrinking because we humans have, in years past, taken up full campaigns to injure, harm, and destroy these majestic beasts.

People will say they were cut down for their lumber, their sapwood and bark all but impervious to fire and pest so that we could build homes. Some felled trees because it was botanical equivalent of hunter taking down a rhino. Some sort of sick pride goes into taking the life out of a beauty you yourself will never have. Maybe it’s an unconscious fear of that majesty, that timelessness. The same thing that some humans, fear, I go to explicitly to experience.

When you stand beneath the canopy of a redwood tree, you sense how small, how short, how insignificant your life must be to this being who has withstood earthquake, fire, flood, famine, and human interference for sometimes thousands of years. Your act of walking by the tree, to this tree, is the same as a fruit fly flying by your cereal bowl one summer morning when you were three years old. For the tree or you now, neither event is particularly meaningful. And yet…

Look at all you’ve done in your life. All there is to do. Your life isn’t meaningless. It’s filled with joy and tragedy, love, and laughter and every little thing you do can affect the world around you—and the world within you.

And yet, you are just a fruit fly to this redwood.

The potential that every single soul has is astounding. Stand beneath a redwood tree, and look stories up into the canopy, and think of the stories in your life, and the stories in your own imagination yet told.

This is why I come to the redwoods. To see how high one can reach into the skies when you have the support of the grove around you. To listen to the stories in the wind. To feel soft, solid forest floor beneath my feet. And to breathe in earth and rain and leaves and tree. Here I am renewed.

Clearly Tucker seems to feel the same because he was pretty excited when I told where we were going.

​As with much of our adventures, in order to get the most hiking in during daylight hours, we started our journey the afternoon before. Tucker and I literally drove off into the sunset, leaving the City of Angels behind to explore the forest around the Russian River that winds it away north of San Francisco.

The best thing about arriving at night to a new place is that you get to wake up in a whole new world as if you’ve been transported there by some unearthly means into a dream universe. Although we had a hike planned, we really didn’t need to leave the multi-tiered fenced-in backyard to experience the redwoods.

From this upper tier where I ate breakfast at a small bistro table, Tucker looked out over the edge.

He then held sentinel along the ridge, able to look out into the neighborhood below while being far from me saying, "Don't stand so close to the edge!"

After a leisurely early morning breakfast, I packed our bags for our planned short hike. California State Parks seldom allow dogs on trails. These are the people who say, “Of course your dog is allowed to camp with you! But if you go on a hike, leave in him your tent.” Um, have you ever met a dog? Or a dog owner/guardian/parent?? That’s not only not safe, but really particularly mean. It’s like inviting your recovered alcoholic friend to a winery because he might like to see the vineyard and beautiful landscape. And then have a flight of wines and finish off a bottle by yourself while he sits there with a glass of water.

It was going to be a short hike in the Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve because although dogs were allowed they had to stick to the paved areas. The paved road runs pretty much side by side with the trail like an access road along the freeway. I was a little annoyed with not having boottread hit earth, but Tucker got a little ground on the edge of the road and we saw pretty much what everyone else could see.

My heart swells with joy when I see that Tucker is just as happy to be among the redwoods as I am.

He even got to stand next to one of the oldest trees in the park.

​At one of the intersections with a dirt trail, a fallen redwood lay, its petrified roots exposed. Tucker and I watched a horde of school kids (probably campers) cross the road and then try to climb it as their teachers yelled for them not to touch.

​After seeing that, I really didn’t think there would be any harm in Tucker getting up close and personal with it—afterall, he wouldn’t disrespect it like the young humans did.

At the end of our alloted paved roadway within the Redwood Preserve, we were presented with an opportunity to go further. The ranger we had met upon entering had said that if we didn’t mind elevation we could continue up to Bullfrog Pond Campground. It would be about 10 miles round trip. The only caveat (besides the elevation) was that it was paved the whole way—and once above the treeline, very little shade.

I decided to go for it anyway. The best thing about starting the trail at the bottom is that if it gets too tough, you can always stop and it’s all downhill from there.

Tucker and I had the road/trail to ourselves for many miles. Dry grassland and green canopies blanketed the mountain tops.

​Tucker had some edge along the pavements to trod soft earth and fallen leaves.

One mile from the campground, at a turnoff for a parking lot and two trailheads (which dogs were not allowed on), Tucker and I took a break to enjoy the view.

It had gotten hotter than I had expected here. It could have been Mother Nature providing a little heat. Or it could have been my own body as it rose 1200 feet above sea level over the course of three miles.
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Either way, after consulting my four-legged partner, we decided we didn’t need to walk another two miles round trip just to get to the campground. This pinnacle was good enough for us.

Sweeping views from above the forest treetops are glorious in their own right, but now we preferred to be under the treetops, in the forest.

​On our way back down, we stopped off at Pond Farm Pottery,

It was locked off with no trespassing signs, so of course Tucker needed to see inside.

Endless miles he’s free to explore, but no, it’s the one acre of land off limits that he desperately needs to see.

For me, I just wanted to be where the treetops touched the skies.

​We walked through the grove in reverence of the beautiful giants...

... and ancient mystics...

...and then we bid farewell to the forest.

​In less than half an hour, we arrived at our next, completely different, walkabout.

​One of my coworkers who spends his holidays near the Russian River  advised that I absolutely needed to go to Goathead Beach and Shell Beach. Goathead Beach was off limits to dogs, so Shell Beach was next leg of our hiking day.

​I was not disappointed.

And this is just the trail leading to the beach.

There’s just something about it: when land not only touches sea, but the two intermingle, rocks jutting out in the ocean, the waves crashing against the cliffside. All is connected.

And then there’s my boy, my adventure dog, my soulmate of another species who is happy to be anywhere new, but especially in places like these:

Down at sea level, his affinity for rocks was satiated as it is less shell beach and more boulder beach.

It was late afternoon, and the fog began to roll in, that mysterious, magical layer of clouds whose nautical and aerial origins are unknown. It drifts in subtly, capturing the sea, then the rocks, then the cliffs.

​There were few people on this tucked away shoreline, so Tucker made himself comfortable among the rocks to watch the fog roll in.

There were no children running around screaming or even people wading into the water. It was as if we had made some pact together that we would all remain silent, to give the sea and fog the reverence it was due. 

Tucker and I sat on the beach experiencing Nature as each rock disappeared from sight in the ocean, and the ocean itself became shrouded in a haze, while it’s crashing waves could still be heard.

We let the fog wash over us, breathing in the salty air until we both felt at peace with walking away. Walking away, taking with us the peace and the timelessness of the beach:  its rocks, its sand, and its fog filled with stories from far off lands.

That evening as dinner cooked on the stove, Tucker crawled up on my lap. I occasionally lament that I missed out on Tucker's puppyhood, having met him during his second chance at life. But as he gazed up at me in this one moment, I saw that puppyhood echoed in his eyes as real as if I had been there.

There really is magic in the forests and fog of Northern California. It renews us, makes us young again, and makes us believe that anything is possible.

And that was only the first day.

It was Christmas Eve when Tucker and I crossed back into the homeland. Although I had wanted to visit a few friends along Interstate 5, my fear of getting trapped in a blizzard or skidding across the highway in an ice storm changed my initial plans. Instead, Tucker and I hung a right at Olympia, Washington and headed for the Pacific Ocean so we could have Christmas on the coast.

Seaside, Oregon is just north of Cannon Beach, Oregon, one of the dog-friendliest beach communities on the western seaboard. Between Cannon Beach and Seaside is Ecola State Park, the place I planned to spend Christmas Day hiking. Christmas is about church, and nature is my cathedral—luckily I can find them most anywhere, I only need to figure out which one will allow my canine kid to attend services with me.

I have never thought much about lodging, seeing as on our roadtrips, Tucker and I spend about 9-10 hours in each one, sometimes less. We play, have a pillow fight, eat some grub, and then sleep. I don’t like spending a lot of money for such minimal requirements as a roof over my head and a comfy bed. But in this case, not knowing if we still might confront inclement weather, I wanted a nice indoor space to spend the holiday should the need arise.
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The pictures looked perfect online, but the Google map imagery looked less than stellar. We arrived after dark, so although I could judge that indeed the interior was everything and more, I had no idea what outside would be like. Upon entering the early 1900’s beach cottage, I felt welcomed, as if the house was happy to not have to spend the holiday alone. 

I chose the upstairs bed (which was in one giant room the length and width of the bottom floor) because it had a window overlooking the ocean. All the other bedrooms (there were two more on the first floor) had no views. Tucker enjoyed the sprawling space and for a brief moment I was taken back to my childhood.

When I was little I had a Big Wheels that I would ride around on in the driveway. My mother was very clear to always tell me, “Do NOT leave the driveway.” Even though we lived on a sidestreet with no traffic other than the few neighbors who lived there, I was not allowed to cross the perimeter where blacktop ended and street began. So I would rev up and barrel all the way down the driveway at top speed (my mother’s heart racing just as quickly when she would see me do this), and then slam on the brakes at the last possible moment to be sure that front Big Wheel didn’t cross the line.

Cut to thirty-five years later: Tucker races across the large, slippery expanse of the hardwood floor in the upstairs room headed for the end that is an open stairwell leading down to the first floor. “Tucker! No! Stop!” I yell, my heart pounding as he slams on his own four-footed brakes and slides to a neat stop right at the edge of the top stair, just his front toenails dangling off the ledge. He turns his head to look back at me, big goofy grin on his face, and there it is: karma. Never doubt that the actions of your childhood lead you to exactly where you are today.

Honestly, I must have done some other things right because where I was, was stunning. This was the view I awoke to Christmas morning from my bed:

Due to getting to the grocery store ten minutes after they closed early on Christmas Eve, I did not have any big Christmas breakfast. Tuck and I had a usual one hour prep, a nice stroll down the promenade which was at our doorstep, and then we headed to Ecola State Park.
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We were only in the parking lot, and the views were already glorious.

​I had chosen a moderate hike (moderate for Americans, not Canadians… so, really, honestly, easy), which would take us down to Indian Beach which allowed dogs but wasn’t crazy crowded. I had seen signs posted saying that the trail was out to Indian Beach, but I thought that meant just perhaps one leg of it and that the rest of the trail would be fine. 

​Tucker and I descended into the fairyland forest and figured we’d just keep walking until we couldn’t.

​Although we were in the woods, views like this were between the trees:

​Evidently this tree home was worth making stairs for.

​The trail took us out in the open in a rather narrow path, but opened back up enough for me to feel secure in taking photos and not worry about Tucker sniffing something a little too far over the cliff’s edge.

​Only an hour in, we came across the obstacle that the signs had told of:

The bridge was definitely impassable--it was no longer attached to earth on the other side. But that didn’t make the hike a waste of time. I mentioned that the bridge was out to fellow hikers heading out as we headed back. They asked, “Is it worth it?” I replied, “Of course. The views until you get there are worth experiencing.”
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Had I not at least gone as far as we could, I never would have been right in this spot to experience this from this:

​Or this:

​Or this:

Just because a road is blocked some way into the future doesn’t make the journey not worth taking.

In fact, due to our shortened hike, I chose to head further south to Haystack Rock in Cannon Beach.  I tried to park close to the Rock, but it appeared to be all residential with no street parking. Again, just because a road is blocked, doesn’t mean it’s not worth going.

We drove back, parked at the nearest park, and walked. How could I complain? After all, my goal was to go for a walk.
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So, Tucker and I started rather far away from it:

With something as large as Haystack Rock, it’s hard to gain perspective as to how far away you are, or how enormous it actually is.
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Here’s a little way to judge. Those little lines in the upper-middle right on the edge of the sand line: those are human beings.

Another even closer... but people just as tiny in the middle/upper right of photo.

​Of course the entire beach was beautiful:

But Haystack Rock is a mighty impressive place:

Tucker took a quick nap in the truck while we headed back up to Seaside.

​There, we walked along the beach in Seaside, also dog-friendly. Not as dramatic as Haystack Rock, but a different experience to walk through the trails in the beach meadow...

​... out to where sand meets the sea...

... then back through the meadows...

and along the promenade.

After walking though woods, up hills and down, along the ocean and on the beach, Tucker and I turned back to our rented beach cottage to watch twilight arrive.

After dark, it was time for Christmas presents: the ones I had wrapped the night before. I tried to get a photo of Tucker next to his Christmas gifts in front of the fireplace, but he refused to get any closer. Evidently he's aware of his impulse control, and that's as close as he could get without tearing into them all. I have to respect the kid for knowing his limits.

I let him have one and put the rest away as not to tempt him. It wasn’t the most exciting Christmas, but I hope Tucker had a decent time. Christmas is for kids, and with how exhausted he was on the couch as I watched holidays movies that night, I’m guessing he had a pretty good time.

But our vacation wasn’t over yet… That was just Christmas.