After the last post, I feel the need to quote Monty Python here:

“And now for something completely different:”

Tucker and I haven’t spent a night away from our humble abode in almost six months. That’s a record for us—and not one I’m pleased with. We’re adventurers and wanderers. Home base is a lovely place to be, but it’s just a base. Our real home is the open road.

Usually it is the mountains and forests who call to me when I lie awake restless. But this time it was the ocean who called to me. I longed for the northern Californian coast with it’s dramatic cliffs and flowery bluffs.

But 48 hours wasn’t enough to drive the 300 miles north, enjoy a hike, and drive back. I had to settle for a compromise. One hundred a fifty miles north, southern California becomes northern California. At that critical juncture is the hike from Jalama Beach to Point Conception. It’s 11 miles out and back along a beach to a lighthouse. It was exactly what we needed. I packed a bag for Tuck and me, just in case our longest-hike-ever left me too tired to drive back at the end of the day.

Because we had to skirt the ocean the whole way there, the tide schedule was critical. High tide was conveniently at 9:30am before we arrived and low tide was 2:30pm, just about the time I expected to arrive at the lighthouse. The last thing I wanted was for us to be stranded on a beach, unable to get back because the tide came in. Most of the hikers who had done it on alltrails clocked it at 4-5 hours, so I gave us six, not being the fastest hikers (not the most in shape.) It was a walk at sea-level, but walking in deep sand is exhausting.
​
Road trips are fun for me to get out and see new beautiful spaces:

​But Tucker adds another joyful experience for me: watching him watch the scenery.

The smile on his face started when he saw the ocean. Near Santa Barbara as we paralleled the crashing waves, Tucker cried and whined as if the ocean had been calling him too and he was finally able to respond.

​And hour and a half later, after the road swung back inland, leaving us from the ocean, I can understand why Jamala is not crowded. I wonder how many people know about it, and those that do, if they risk the journey there. Taking a left off Highway 1 on a road with a “No outlet” sign at the beginning makes you question your judgement. The two-lane country road winds through hills and valleys for thirteen miles, narrowing like a mountain road. There are no pictures of this stretch as I needed both hands on the wheel to take the sudden tight turns and avoid careening off the cliffs into the sprawling valleys below.

The campsites were booked for the weekend, but there were still spaces for day-use folks like Tucker and me. People gathered around tents and RV’s and drank and ate. Kids played. Humans walked their excited canines on leashes through the parking lot.

As we started up over the sandy dune from pavement to beach, I saw an orange triangular object come bouncing over the dune. I didn’t know what it was and thought it was travelling unusually fast given that the wind wasn’t fierce. I turned and heard/felt a “thwap!” on my back. Huh. I continued waling until I heard a child yelling, “Wait! Lady! You saved my kite!”

I turned around to see an eight year old boy running toward me, and then looked up to see that there was indeed a kite above me. The boy fumbled with my backpack, and finally released the end of his kite from whatever it had gotten hooked on on my backpack.

For those that don’t believe all of life is in the timing, you’ve never inadvertently saved a boy’s kite by being in precisely the right place at exactly the right moment.

We crested the sand dune and before us was the glorious ocean under puffy clouds. A kiteboarder was coming for a landing, and Tucker seemed a little concerned at his awkward descent:

​“Nevermind. He’s fine.”

​Unlike Fort Funston with dogs all off leash running about and really nothing else happening, this was a beach with people doing people things but who also happened to have dogs. It was delightful. People swam and surfed; further down people fished. Some people excavated fossils cliffside.

​Most of the outcroppings on the beach weren’t rocks—yet. They were fallen trees in the fossilization stages, some with black tar on them. Whatever they were, they were fun to jump and stand on.

​Once we went a mile south on the beach, where technically it’s no longer county park property, we had the beach to ourselves.

Emboldened by the privacy, Tucker practiced a few dances moves:

​The wind was to our back on our southern journey. I only noticed its power when Tucker turned back and his ears took flight.

The ranger had said that we should see the lighthouse about a mile and a half away. The lighthouse stands on Coast Guard property so you’re not supposed to go all the way there. The bluffs above the beach were owned by cattle ranchers, but recently had been bought by the Nature Conservancy. It’s still trespassing to hike on the bluffs though, so we were to stick to the beach, which is perfectly fine, as there's plenty to sniff and see and explore.

​About five miles in, we finally came to what I could only think was our end point. The rocky cliff jutted out into the ocean and with only an hour before low tide, the waves were still crashing five feet high onto the rocks. I didn’t see how we would be able to make around it—or over it. And if we had, how many minutes would we have before it was impossible to get back without being swept away to the sea? I still didn't see a lighthouse so we had to be at least a mile away.

So (since no one reads this blog anyway, I can say this), we took the road not-supposed-to-be-travelled. It was the path on the map, and the path that most people who had seen the lighthouse had certainly taken, given the photos they took.

Tucker and I climbed up the path, and hoped we would find a quick path back down to the beach. Unfortunately, the road took us away from the cliff and deeper into the Nature Conservancy’s land. (Dear Nature Conservancy, please create a legitimate route for those us wanting to see the lighthouse to go up onto the bluff and back down again to the beach so we don’t traipse through the land you’re conserving. Thank you!)
​
If humans didn’t exist would Nature be so beautiful? Of course it would. The natural state of the world is beautiful, even the spaces where the only domesticated ones to experience it are cows and the few ranch hands who patrol every now and again.

​The small path and the surrounding flora made me think that we had truly been transported to northern California. 

​The path led us through the bluff’s stunning landscape to a paved road. Up ahead there were buildings. And a sign:

When I was told it was owned by the Coast Guard, I assumed it was a working lighthouse, not an abandoned property. So despite the sign, Tucker and I kept walking. I mean, there was no gate to open or fence to climb. Perhaps we didn't see the sign.

Side query: Why does every abandoned government property look like the zombie apocalypse just happened?

We walked on, still not seeing the lighthouse—or even the ocean since the road went uphill.
​
Finally, at the top of the hill, next to an abandoned building with a satellite dish on it, and under the hum of the wind through the electrical wires, I looked over the wall and finally found that which we walked for:

 The lighthouse at Point Conception.
​
​I recalled some photos online of people on the stairs, but at this juncture, I wasn’t going down with the obvious consequence of having to walk all the way back up again. I wasn’t tired from walking six miles, but my leg muscles were getting delayed in their response for movement that I requested. We still had five and a half miles to get back and the wind was starting its offensive against us. I thought it was battling with us only because we were high on the bluffs.

But back on the beach, the wind was no less. And now that we faced the wind, I realized just how lucky we had been to have tailwind on the way down. I urged Tucker to close his eyes every time large gusts came through, and I can only hope he did. I got a facial: sand slamming into your face at 15mph for two hours is an excellent natural exfoliant.

I spied an old toppled sea wall to take a break behind and get out of the wind. My alltrails app had stopped recording (I guess the wind was too much for it too), so my best guess is that we were about nine miles in when we finally took a break. Tucker definitely needed it:

However, the flies were too much. I didn’t see any seaweed or ocean vomit that the flies seem to love to hover about, but they loved Tucker. It took a couple of tries and a promise to stop again soon to get Tucker up while we looked for a better resting place.

Three-quarters of a mile later, we found one. Still a little windy, but no flies.
​
And an excellent view—if his eyes were open.

​Sitting here was what this walk was about. I had wanted to stop at the lighthouse, but it was far too blustery to enjoy it. I had thought I might even lose my phone when I took the picture.

​So here, now, we stopped so we could enjoy the moment. I sat and watched the pelicans, listened to the ocean, and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. 

​This was our adventure. This was the kind of thing we needed to do every day off. This is what working is for—to have the time and money to have adventures. This one only cost $13 plus the price of gas.

After our break, we continued northward, exploring areas that hadn't been there on our southward journey. Now that the tide was out, Tucker thought he found grass.

Sea lawn (aka seaweed) was all it was, but he seemed to like to stand there in the ocean, catching the scents in the breeze.

We took in the scene on our way back. Even though we had walked this path before, we had not seen it from this perspective. Sometimes you have to remember that: where you aren't is the the place you see, but the space you inhabit and experience the world from, and that makes all the difference.

We made it back, my legs fighting my commands to get through the deep sand dunes to the parking lot. Even after all that, when a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel came running out of a campsite (ironically, the one right next to the “Dogs must be kept on leash” sign), Tucker wagged his tail and seemed ready to make friends. I thought for sure he’d be too tired to deal with a social little social dog, but he rallied. I guess his ten minute nap on the beach had rejuvenated him.

Tucker napped for another hour in car until we arrived at my second spot of adventure for us. Being the start of summer, and only a mile off course of our drive home, how could I not stop here?

I had mistakenly thought it was a vineyard. Reading up on all the dog-friendly wineries in central California, I had gotten this one confused with another. It was just a tasting room on the little main strip in Summerland, California. Only one other dog was on the balcony seating, and Tucker wished to say hello, but the dog’s human didn’t care to have us engage.

​Tucker allowed me a moment to sit and sip a glass of wine, but soon wanted more than just a spot on the floor. 

He tried to climb into the chair. The rules were posted quite clearly on the balcony: “No paws on furniture.” Granted, we had ignored other signs today, but this one would be quite obvious if we didn’t heed it.
​
Tucker was not pleased and felt it very un-dog friendly of the place. How uncivilized to not allow him in a proper chair.

I asked him to try to make the best of it while I enjoyed my glass of wine.  It's hard to really enjoy yourself though when your companion is dramatically sighing and  resituating his rump every thirty seconds trying to get comfortable. 

We soon headed out and were back at our place before night fully darkened the skies. 

Within twelve hours, we had driven up part of the coast of California, walked 11 miles along the beach, visited a lighthouse, trespassed on two different properties to get there, met a few dogs, saved a child’s kite, climbed on fossilizing trees, got sand in our hair & fur, took in the clean ocean air, enjoyed a glass of vino at a winery, and drove back down the coast with the sun setting behind us.

I suppose we don’t necessarily have to be away from home overnight to have adventures.

Don’t worry about waiting up for us; we might very well be home before dark.

It is astonishing to me that driving for twenty minutes in the right direction from home can lead us here:

Clearly I’ve been driving in the wrong direction around Los Angeles for the past twenty years.
​
North Trail Canyon Road is rated as “lightly trafficked” so I was surprised to see a line of cars on either side of the entrance to the road which would ultimately lead to the trailhead. However, we never did encounter as many people as there were cars (which is disconcerning in its own way.)

​The first portion of the hike is an actual road in which people live in cabins along the sides.

Although I would never want to live here, I feel a certain kinship with its inhabitants: Los Angeles people who desperately want to get out of the city and be in nature. There were only three houses along the way to the trailhead along with one remaining fireplace and a foundation—the only footprint left of a house burned down or destroyed ages ago.

​Once on the canyon floor, the sound of water was steady, although its source was not always seen.

It was supposed to be an overcast day, so I wasn’t worried about heat. Despite the fog still laying low over the mountaintops, the blue sky and sun were harsher than I expected. I was sweating furiously, and I started to worry about Tucker. My brain told me it was only 70-75 degrees, but my body was acting as if it was 85.

​We stopped at every river crossing and I let Tucker do what I wanted to do myself: stand in the water and drink copiously from it.

I felt like we had entered another time, not just another place. Surrounded by green on the canyon floor, I looked around in the still morning and almost expected a stegosaurus to saunter out of the hills and take a place beside Tucker to drink from the stream.

It really did seem like we had been sucked into another universe, not just another time.

After meandering along the canyon floor, the trail began to rise… and rise…
There was no ultimate destination to be seen. The trail wove around the hills, its incline unknown.

​As we came around one of the many bends, I heard the sound of rushing water as clear as if it was right beside me. But the canyon can play auditory tricks. Off in the distance, was the source of the sound:

Majestic and other-worldly, in my mind I photoshopped large birds of prey dipping in and out of the falls into the picture before my eyes. (For sense of scale, off to the right of the falls on the rock are two black spots: those are people.)

Just as the opening to Land of the Lost started playing in my mind, I heard a woman’s shrill scream… followed by a brief pause and the laughter of boys.

“Did you not see that thing?!?!” the unseen female yelled at her male friends who were laughing at her. “That snake was huge! It was right there, off the trail!”

The threesome came around another bend as Tucker and I waited to make room for them to pass by. “Well I don’t think it’s there anymore after that scream,” I said to her.

She continued with, “It was huge! Just lying there on the side of the hill!”

I asked if they had been to the bottom or the top of the falls, since their attire leaned toward swimming, not hiking.

“The bottom,” she said.

I asked how to get there, since I only had directions to the top.

“Oh you’ll see, there’s a small path and then a rope to help climb down.

“Ah, a rope. I guess I’ll be sticking to the top.”

The girl had much more faith in Tucker and me than I had. “Oh, he could do it,” she said, assessing Tucker. Sure he might have the muscle, but the lack of thumbs is a major hinderance when climbing a rope.

Tucker and I continued along the path, and found that even to get to the top of the falls, one had to get down a hill. This one didn’t have a rope:

The angle was rather steep, and I started down, holding onto Tucker, the two of us almost eye level to avoid either of us spilling down the unstable hill. I heard from down below: “Oh wait, there’s someone trying to come down.”

I turned around and saw a guy there.

“Is there an easier way down?” I asked.

“Yeah, if you keep going along the trail, you can find a better spot to climb down,” he replied.

“Okay. Thanks. I think we’ll give that a try.”

I climbed back up awkwardly with Tucker and continued down the path that I had initially set out on, but thought it wouldn’t end up where I wanted.
​
In fact, it ended up in an even better place.

​The canyon stream that fed the dramatic falls meandered over rocks and here plant life flourished.

Tucker and I crossed the stream and headed back toward the falls only because that had been our original destination.

It was rather disappointing. Standing atop on a slab of rock and hearing the voices of people below wasn’t quite where we wanted to hang out. 

So we ventured back down the canyon river. We found our own little falls, back near where we had crossed the river.

As always, Tucker had to sample the fine flowing beverage...

but this time, he promptly slipped in.

​We were both equally surprised at exactly how deep the little pool was.  

​Pride and body unbroken, I helped Tucker climb up the slippery rocks and we strolled further upstream.

​We picked a spot and sat to be a part of the river. 

​​Even a little toad found it peaceful here and shared in our quietude.

When I think of Los Angeles, I think of city. But the fact is, there is far more land that is unpopulated by humans than there is concrete jungle. You just have to be willing to find it.

​Tucker and I headed back, our lungs full of clean forest air and our minds filled with the sights and sounds of the natural world.

On our trek back, Tucker took a moment. Usually it is I who stop and want to take it all in. This was Tucker’s moment and Tucker’s spot. I agreed: it was a beautiful moment in space and time:

And that’s why we do this—we hike to find that beauty that already exists around us. In the city, we find only tiny echoes: the hummingbird outside our window, the flower that grows out of a crack in a sidewalk. Out here, we are enveloped by it, a hug from Mother Nature, reminding us that no matter how long we’re away, or how far we think we are from our roots, we are always welcome home again.

Southern California winters are a bit wet. Unlike Vancouver, where if Tucker and I didn't hike in the rain, we'd simply never hike, we could wait out the storms here in Los Angeles. After a year of fires, mudslides were imminent, and being in a canyon during a possible flash flood wasn't advisable. So, sadly, we had to take a couple weeks off from our quests for Mother Nature until she'd be more welcoming to our presence.

​Pete and his mom Nicole have joined Tucker and me on our mission to find Mother Nature here in the city. Once the sun shown again, our first venture was only fifteen miles from home at Ernest E Debs Park. There, we were treated to a lake atop a mountain.

​On occasion the hills secluded us from the surrounding urban environs,

But we were still reminded that in the distance, towering skyscrapers pierced the sky, and a city like Gotham was still within sight.

​So, the next weekend we decided to go just ten miles further away. Still within Los Angeles County, and only a forty minute drive on a Sunday morning, we found a place where Mother Nature still ruled.

“Why doesn’t LA look like this where I live?” Nicole asked.
​
Even she, with her backyard retreat to Griffith Park, was envious of those who lived in the surrounding neighborhood to this:

Technically we were no longer in Los Angeles City proper, but we were still in LA County. Monrovia Canyon Park is run by the city of Monrovia and is situated in the San Gabriel Mountains. We parked in a quaint neighborhood and walked the three quarters of a mile to the park entrance. There weren’t any spots available in the tiny lot in the park, but it saved us a $6 parking fee and gave the boys and us another mile and a half of walking in the wilderness.

Our main destination was the 30 foot waterfall, but when we climbed the Bill Cull Trail and came to a fork in the road, we took the road less travelled and not on my map: the overlook.

​Far, far into the distance, like Dorothy spying the Emerald City when she first begins her journey, the City of Angeles could be seen.

​At least, we speculated it was Los Angeles. It might have been Pasadena. It didn’t matter. From where we stood, the urban jungle was worlds away.

Here, ​Tucker knighted Pete into the Order of Backyard Brindles, naming him Sir Peter of the San Gabriels.

After the ceremony concluded, we turned around and climbed back down the 500 feet of elevation to the crossroads. There we headed in the opposite direction toward the water and the wild.

There was even a proper stream to cross.

The boys took sips from the stream,

​But afterward Pete cleansed his palette with his own LA city water from home. You can take the boy out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the boy.

​After venturing through forest lands, we came upon the waterfall that had been recently fed by the rains.

One thing for me to get used to is that there is very little privacy in the woods here. Vancouver’s forests were always busy, but the crowds of people always appeared to belong. With their backpacking gear, sturdy footwear, and layers of waterproof clothing, they seemed to have simply sprouted from the forest floor.  While there are some naturally outdoorsy people in Los Angeles, many visitors are obviously just that: visitors to this strange land of nature. They come wearing fashion footwear, carry no water reserves, and talk loudly, blare music (have you not heard of headphones?), and harbor no respect for the sacredness and power of nature.

The first portion of our hike to the overlook had been quiet and peaceful. Few people ventured that way, so when we arrived at the waterfall even Pete and Tucker were a little thrown off by the crowds. We hadn’t seen many people on the trail, so they speculated that they had all magically appeared at this precise spot.

Due to the line of people and throngs of families, I didn’t foresee us being able to snag a photo where everyone else had, so this photo of Tucker would have to suffice.

​After hanging out for a brief spell, enjoying the water and trying to block out all the people in this serene landscape, we headed back on the trail...

Passing along a stream...

​Filling our view with visions of green and wild.

We walked back to our vehicles, happy to have found another oasis of Nature within the urban landscape. Hiking has always been a spiritual venture for me: my church. Now that I’m in the city, I have to get used to the fact that since there are fewer churches, the congregations will be bigger and visits from non-members will be more frequent. Instead of missing my solitude, I need to embrace my kindred spirits. Tucker and Pete always welcome new visitors to their pack. As always, dogs are leaps and bounds ahead of humans in emotional evolution. As a smart human, I'll follow close behind and never let go of the leash for they always lead me in the right direction.

I subscribe to the overall life philosophy of “Go where the dog takes you.”

Since man and dog teamed up, dogs have always led the way. We didn’t put leashes on dogs to keep them safe; we tethered them to us so they wouldn't leave us behind.

Such it is with not just the hunt in ancient times, but on this road of life. Tucker has been navigating the ship of my life since the day I met him. For the past four years, every gig has one non-negotiable element: Tucker has to be allowed in the office. We’re a package deal. And no, he’s not my emotional support dog. He’s more of my mood ring. If I am flustered and stressed, he begins futzing and itching and scratching and making a nuisance of himself. When I am calm and productive, he is napping. When I am happy and joyful, he offers up a toy for an exuberant game of tug, tail wagging and smile on this face.

Tucker is not a dog who can handle spending 12-14 hours alone in a house with one twenty minute walk a day while I’m at work. He needs a balanced, healthy dose of stimuli; people to meet and great, dogs to converse and romp with; new places to sniff and explore, and an equal amount of down time, dreaming his vivid and active doggy-dreams.

Whenever I turn down a job because my partner is not welcome, I know it is for the best. I am even sometimes justified when I later hear what a nightmare that particular job was. As for where Tucker has taken me, I can’t complain. Dog people are just more compassionate people. They understand that our jobs are jobs, not our entire lives.

I haven’t worked in Los Angeles in almost a decade. First off, I simply enjoy location work far more and get paid more lucratively for it. But the other reason, at least recently, is that none of the major studios allow dogs on the property, and few office/warehouse rentals allow them either.

And then this job came along: a television show shot mostly internationally with a couple of months in Los Angeles. I’d be based at LA Center Studios, the dog-friendliest dog friendly studio in all of LA. But I’d miss any opportunities for summer adventure jobs. No wandering around the east coast, no journeying to Canada, no cannonball run to Georgia. I’ve never spent more than four months in one shot in my own house. Even Tucker has only spent half his life with me at my permanent address.

But life has a way of being exactly the same—until it isn’t. Just one moment and all changes. One yes, and there it is: a gig at home, where Tucker and I spend every night in the house I bought five years ago and have spent all of three years in. It will be nice to be home, but my wanderlust is hard to keep bottled up. Just a week after accepting the job, someone called and said, “Hey, do you know anyone who wants to go to Wilmington, NC?” My first thought was, “Oooo! I haven’t been to Wilmington before!!” And then I realized I had already committed to be here—until the onset of Autumn.

I am trying to put the longevity of the job out of my mind and concentrate on making this like every other distant location job. I need to explore and discover this City of Angeles like I would any new town or city on location. There’s slightly more woods than Santa Fe, but certainly not as many waterfalls and shaded paths as the southern east coast, so it's going to take some work, but I will find the wild in this sprawling urban society.

In the spirit of making every weekend the same as on location, Pete’s mom Nicole invited Tucker and me to explore the trails outside her own apartment complex on President’s Day.
​
One forgets, especially working in an office that overlooks the 110 freeway and is surrounded by skyscrapers on every side, that a lot of Los Angeles does in fact look like this:

This is the Los Angeles Tucker and I set out to explore.

The trail outside her place intersected the main Griffith Park to a place known as “The Wisdom Tree.” You can see this tree from just about anywhere in Burbank. You need only gaze up at the mountain range separating the San Fernando Valley to the LA Basin, follow the rugged line across the top to the west, at the very end you’ll see one shadowy figure that from a distance, looks like a perfectly pruned Bonsai Tree.

After a fire (set accidentally by kids playing with fireworks) tore through Griffith Park, ravaging the landscape nearly a decade ago, this one tree was all that remained. No special effort was made to save it—it just SURVIVED. Its tenacity (or good luck) to not be consumed by flames has led many to sojourn up to this spot. Many of them, today.

At a round trip of 3.5 miles, the elevation gain is a grueling 1100 feet over a mile and a half or so. I thought this would deter the masses. I was wrong.

Tucker was quite pleased to be on the trails again, regardless of how many humans might be on them with him.

His friend Pete could be off leash on the first leg of the journey that wasn’t teeming with people, but since Tucker would leave me in the dust the instant he was free, Pete leashed up out of politeness to his friend.

Long before reaching the pinnacle, we encountered sweeping views of Los Angeles.

That blue patch in the middle is Lake Hollywood. As much as I would love to walk around it, it’s not the kind of lake one finds in other places in the US. The trail around it hides the lake behind chain link and wooden barriers. It is not a serene walk in the woods around a peaceful body of water.
​
Way atop our vertical climb, we came across boulders to add to the fun. Not enough to create an agility course, but enough to make Tucker smile as he climbed atop and balanced himself for a better view.

Pete and Tucker sniffed and peed, reading information placards unexperienced by human senses, and adding their own opinions in their streams of pee and by kicking dirt this way and that.

​For us humans, we enjoyed inhaling the fresh air that blew through after a week of storms and viewed the skyscape that hung just over the mountains, making shadows dance and play along the canyons.

​Up at the top, beneath the Wisdom Tree, Tucker and Pete shared a drink. (Because there is no such thing as personal space for these two—they share everything at the same exact time.)

Los Angeles isn’t just a sprawling urban metropolis. It is a place whose landscape is as diverse as its population. Los Angeles is a an urban jungle but it also towering mountains, sandy beaches, hidden canyons, and trees that defy death.

Three hours after we began our hike, we returned to the hideaway apartment beneath trees that made me feel like I was on a southern plantation.
​
Tucker and Pete napped while we humans decompressed from an afternoon in the sun.

​Los Angeles has a lot of secrets. It has undiscovered pockets, and a variety of experiences. It has been said, “The best part of LA is getting out of it.” But maybe those that say that just haven’t truly been in it.

​Tucker has led me right to my own backyard for this gig, and although I don’t know why, I don’t doubt that he will find the most amazing places and most interesting adventures to have.

After leaving Asheville, Tucker and I headed north for a Thanksgiving adventure. First, a stop in Pennsylvania with a friend where Tucker discovered that a child’s trampoline makes a fine dog bed,

to Massachusetts where Tucker enjoyed the view from my childhood bedroom.

​Then back in the truck again to cross the nation. In just under four days, we made it to California where oddly, Autumn was still in full swing on my back deck:

Luckily for us, “Friendsgiving” was delayed to December this year, giving Tucker and me the perfect excuse for a weekend getaway to San Francisco.  There Tucker endured a few holiday accessories.

​He clearly likes the Fargo style more than the elf-look.

And if he gets kisses, what’s the harm?

With so little time before the holidays, I didn’t get to arrange for a Christmas Tree (I don’t believe in chopping one down; I rent one from Living Christmas Trees), but we still had a Christmas adventure.

Like much of New Mexico, Southern California is a desert. So finding woodsy, shady trails with water can be challenging.  With a little searching, I found Sturtevant Falls 25 miles from home. The falls itself was only about 3.5 miles round trip, but Tucker and I could do a whole loop that included Mount Wilson and the falls that nearly doubled the mileage. A six mile hike was much more what I had in mind for Christmas. Nature is my church, and I was looking for the equivalent of a Christmas mass, not just a Sunday service.

It's an adage among many that "The best thing about LA is getting out of it." I agree--day trips up the coast are beautiful, and skiing in the mountains when it's 80 degrees in the city is a pretty nice perk of where I live. But sometimes you need only go twenty miles in any direction to be in a whole different universe. I don't think anyone would see this in their mind when they think of Los Angeles:

One thing that reminds you that you are close to the city is that no trail can begin as nature intended: with soft dirt beneath your feet. They all begin as paved paths as if man just had to graffiti over a perfectly lovely piece of art made by Mother Nature.

Not only is it unsightly, but it's dangerous. At the edge of the pavement, a sign warns dog owners to check the temperature of the pavement by placing the back of their hand on it. Burned pads and heat exhaustion are common for Los Angeles dogs whose owners don’t consider that their canines aren’t wearing trackshoes and shirts made of UV protectant that wick away sweat.

This particular stretch of pavement lasted for three quarters of a mile downhill. The pavement was cool to the touch as it was only 9am. The trail I had picked out had an option to avoid the paved ascent on the way back, so I didn’t need to worry once we hit natural earth at the bottom of the canyon.

Near the bottom, man's made trail cracked and splintered off, revealing Nature's original walkway.  A bridge, one of man's more useful interventions into nature, spanned across a tiny brook.

Once across, it was clear we had arrived: to faerie land. We were worlds away from the city, and now in another plane of existence entirely.

The wide path wove through groves of tall trees, under the canopy of giant ferns and alongside a bubbling brook. Cabins with no seeable driveway or pathway out except on foot were here and there in the woods on either side. They were constructed of old redwood and stones that had been mortared together with hands not machines.  The cabins looked like a natural part of the woods, as if they had just blossomed and grown right there on the spot.

They probably had. Los Angeles has a history of people escaping the city by buying land in the middle of forests or in the deep ends of canyons, constructing edifices and calling them their weekend getaways. Even in the 1930's, the best part of LA was getting out of it. But you needn't get that far away to really get out. You did, though, have to hike to get where you wanted to go. There were no roads in or out, and still aren't. That three quarters of a mile of pavement was all Nature and her loyal and faithful subjects, allowed.

Tucker took a quick journey across the brook on a fallen log, and was thrilled we didn't have to drive 3000 miles to do such a thing. It really was like we were in another world:

We meandered along the trail, taking our time to enjoy the energy of this faerie land. 

At the end of wide dirt “road,” I had three choices on where to go. I had wanted to hit the falls first and then loop upwards to the summit of Mt Wilson, and then back around. On my first attempt, I did not choose wisely. We struck up the hill, and when I reached the top, out of breath, I checked my map to see I was headed in the opposite direction. One could say the creature of the fae are a tricky bunch. Or one could say I have a horrible sense of direction. The latter is most likely true.

We double-backed and headed for my second choice. We definitely got closer to the falls, but evidently missed the turn to get to the bottom of the falls. ​From here, we viewed the 50 foot falls with ease—fifty feet down and many more feet away.

The path Tucker and I stood on was a sandy, gravel ledge about six inches wide, with one side being the sandy mountain wall and the other being a sheer drop to the cascading rocky slope below that. If I planned it right, we could dive off the ledge, bounce all the way down and land in the water—we just might not be alive at that point. Faerie folk have an amusing way of protecting their land.

Much to Tucker’s disappointment, I calculated the risk, deemed it too high, and turned ourselves around on the six inch wide ledge to head back the way we came.

Just before the trail turned away from the view of the falls, there appeared to be a small trail leading down the slope. Precarious and unstable, but a trail nonetheless. I can only assume it had been forged by hikers before me with the same idea: this was so not worth it.

​Using Tucker as my solid four-wheel drive partner, I mostly scooched on my butt the entire way down, as rocks and gravel and sand fell apart around us and rolled downhill. It might not have been the right path, but it was the right answer to how to get closer to the falls.

Ten long minutes later, we arrived at the sign facing the waterfall that stated, “PREVENT EROSION - DO NOT CLIMB UP.” There’s wasn’t a sign about us climbing down, so technically we hadn't violated any written rules. And anyway, I imagine falling down would have been a lot worse for myself and the ground beneath us than navigating our way down on purpose. Intent is everything.

​As I sat and dusted myself off, I heard and then saw three hikers above in the same place Tucker and I had just been. I heard the young man falter. “Um, guys, I don’t have a good feeling about this. I think we should turn around.” And he didn’t have a dog on a leash—he was only concerned for his own safety. I no longer felt like an old fuddy-duddy for turning back.

Pride intact, I turned my attention to the falls in front of us. Although certainly no match for North Carolina or Georgia, it was pretty impressive for the City of Angeles.

​Tucker was less impressed, and more interested in the people and dogs who were arriving. 

Since we had wandered around on the upper falls and then come down, many more hikers who started after us were just arriving. When it was no longer a serene waterfall church-like setting and more of a public park, Tucker and I headed back. Within moments we were back in the faerie-woods away from the crowd. 

Experiencing this little plot of peacefulness, 

​and then coming upon expansive views of the wilderness that surrounded us,

I was thankful for my California Christmas. It wasn’t the Oregon Coast, but it was still a place of discovery for Tucker and me.  Just as my own backyard does not feel like one imagines a desert backyard to be, southern California has many secret places to explore and surprise me.

At the trailhead, it was clear that the people from the City of Angeles had finished their homebound Christmas morning rituals. The road was lined with cars, and people waited for parking spots. As Tucker and I drove down the mountain, we saw people parking their cars more than a mile away, and trekking up to the top of the trailhead.
​
I was thankful for our early arrival. And thankful for this life I have with a loyal canine partner that I love more than life itself. Tucker is thankful for his gifts—and for the life he has here even if he didn’t get wrapped presents next the the non-working fireplace once a year. He only wishes he didn’t have to wear silly hats.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and most of all, may you celebrate and appreciate the light returning to the world in this season of darkness. It is a day of hope and a time of love.

May all your wishes come true.

When your companion is a trusting, fearless adventure dog, you end up being the one voice of reason in the relationship. Hiking to Looking Glass Rock should have raised my risk awareness, but for some reason it hadn’t dawned on me that a hike named Looking Glass Rock wasn’t to a place to view the Rock, but rather was the trail to stand atop it.

I had wanted to do it back during our Asheville tour last year, but ended up running out of time. With Georgia in the rearview mirror and a Thanksgiving roadtrip begun, our first stop was our favorite town in North Carolina for a one day stroll up a mountain.

​​Here’s a stock photo of Looking Glass Rock:

It is named so because in the winter (which is just upon us) hits, the water and snow melt into a sheet of ice on that vertical stretch of rock. Again, I wasn’t really thinking about that fact, and that my faithful companion didn’t see any risk of climbing to a place with a slippery 45 degree angle off a cliff.

​The trail itself was a meandering, upward hike of 1700 feet elevation through the woods. Autumn was taking its final breaths, so the even though we were deep in the woods, we could see out to the rolling Blue Mountains beyond. 

I can only imagine how green and cozy the trail must be in the height of summer. I wouldn’t want to hike it then, with the sweltering east coast heat. Sixty-five degrees is just the right temperature for a straight uphill journey to a mountaintop.
​
Tucker took a “this is what we’ll look like” moment about half way up the mountain to prepare himself for an even steeper rock.

The trail should have been called Stairway to Heaven. Although lacking actual stairs (which was a surprise given the strange places I’ve seen stairs—including Kennesaw battlefield), it was quite uphill the whole way. We paused for a moment when we saw the trail go downward.  A couple sat on a fallen tree, eating lunch with their dog beneath them. Tucker and I started downhill then stopped. Alltrails said we had reached our destination, but there was no sprawling vista. It didn’t seem like we had reached the end. The last thing I wanted to do with go downhill just to have to come back up with zero payout. Another couple had started down the hill while Tucker and I waited and then they returned.

“Was that the right way?” I asked.

They weren’t sure. They had turned around before reaching anywhere that seemed like a giant vertical rock face.

A couple behind me paused and we both contemplated whether or not to take the extra steps to find out for ourselves. Tucker and I had been walking for over two hours and risen over 1600 feet in three miles. We weren’t going to walk away without at least trying to find the endzone.

Tucker and I descended the trail that looked more like a slightly muddy old riverbed. The center was a deep gash in the earth two feet deep. I walked along the edges and Tucker ducked in and out depending on what terrain he felt like trying. We were walking for about ten minutes when someone came up.

“Is Looking Glass Rock down there?” I asked.

“Oh yeah!” they said, breathless from the upward climb. “Just keep going!”
​
Tucker and I did, and were rewarded with the ground flattening out. Like Alice emerging from the the woods, Tucker and I came across a small opening in the bushes, and walked through, expecting to come out in Wonderland.

​At least Wonderland was flat. I have this inexplicable feeling anytime I near the edge of something (like a bridge or cliff) that I’m going to lean forward and fall off. The pictures I took don’t give you the full impressions of the slope as I was utterly terrified to go anywhere near the edge—unlike Tucker, who wanted to race down the slippery granite to the hang this head over the edge. Once again, I wish I had Tucker’s sense of adventure and lack of awareness for mortality.

I sat down and scooched myself across the rock. Trees had been able to take root. Surely that was a sign that my inadequate human feet in manmade footwear could also get a hold on the earth near there. I was envious of the people who walked confidently down to the edge, with no feeling of suddenly pitching forward as I had the moment I stood up, even thirty yards from any actual danger.

​The views from the center of the rock were still good, even given that Autumn's peak had passed; the colors muted as the trees prepared for snowfall.

Trickles of water had become ice on the rocks, and I carefully stepped (or sat my butt down) around them.  I was ashamed for being the only one truly fearing for her life. And then I turned around and saw a dog experiencing the exact same thing.

Unlike Tucker who stood solid and proud, his elbows turned out, on the granite slope with no fear of falling but only harboring disappointment for not being able to run right up the edge, the coonhound up the rock behind me was quaking from snout to tail, hiding behind her young owner’s leg, trying to get as far up into the bushes as possible.

“Your dog looks like how I feel,” I told him.

He laughed. “She’s a scaredy-cat. That’s why we brought here—to get her to be not so scared.”
​
He dragged the poor girl down the slope a little (nowhere near the edge) and held her between his legs to brace her. He smiled, looking toward his hiking partner to take a photo of them. I saw the whale eyes… I noted the tail tucked far up underneath her… I smelled the fear… I was astonished that the little girl didn’t just turn to the man, bite him in the nuts, and run up into the hills. Dogs go beyond their own emotions for the sake of their people—and dial it back when we need them to. I felt blessed to have such an understanding companion, unlike the coonhound whose companion wasn’t respecting her limitations.

Other people walked about the rock with ease, took pictures, and stood on the edge. I know Tucker was disappointed and perhaps I was also a little disappointed in myself, but as I’ve gotten older, my aversion to risk as increased. I’m not sure if it’s age or just the fact that I have another being relying on my existence to sustain his life.

Tucker and I enjoyed the view long enough for me to stop slightly trembling from my fear. Then we stepped back through the portal in the bushes to climb back up the muddy riverbed path.
​
We paused for a moment to explore a trail that went nowhere at the top before heading back down through the woods. I gave thanks for having such an adventurous dog. 

I’d rather it be me, not him, that holds us back. He takes disappointment far better than I do (although it means I have to look at his sad, pouty face which is plenty of payback for my inadequacy.)

As we drove back through the wooded lanes, the last echoes of Autumn fading from the treetops, I wished upon a falling leaf to return to the Blueridge Mountains soon. Although it’s all one big planet, some places feel more like home than others. For Tucker and me, Asheville holds that title. Although there is a familiarity about it, I think we could spend years here and still find new places to explore. It’s like falling in love with someone: you love them for who they are, but the joy of that love is that no matter how well you think you know them, they can still surprise you.
​
I hope someday I surprise Tucker (and myself) by being able to fearlessly walk up to the cliff’s edge. I look forward to returning to Asheville to explore, and in the meantime take joy in every new discovery Tucker and I make—not only in the places we visit, but in each other.

A trip to the south just isn’t complete without at least one jaunt through a battlefield. And, honestly, given the sheer volume of battles throughout Georgia, it’s not to difficult to find yourself on a battlefield, even if by accident.

Although Tucker and I have spent an extensive amount of time over the years in Georgia, we never had visited Kennesaw Mountain on purpose or by just stumbling across it. A round trip of 6 miles and a thousand foot elevation gain sounded like a nice way to bid Georgia farewell (until next time… because there is always a next time.)
​
Starting off immediately in the autumn woods, it felt a little New Englandly with the slumbering trees, slow ascent, rock outcroppings and the entire forest littered with leaves and smelling like Fall. 

​Occasionally, a manmade plaque showed itself from beneath the leaves, indicating a location of a fallen soldier or position of a Confederate troop. Walking through the peaceful woods, it’s difficult for me to comprehend that this is where America was fought and won. A disagreement on how to treat one another; an argument of states rights; a threat of succession from the union—all of this was resolved by young men hiding in forests, muskets in hand to kill one another. Having been to battlefields that are simply flat meadows where men were gunned down line by line, a forest fight seemed a least a little less pointless. Here the boys could hide, could cover, could get ahead in this ultimate live acton, mortal game of chess.

​As Tucker looked out over the valley, I imagined how this view might have been the last thing many of those men saw before they took their last breath on this planet. It’s a beautiful place to be. But I wonder how different it was with the smoke from cannons and muskets; the cries of pain; the chaos of war itself.

I’ve never been able to comprehend physical war. We live in an age now where one can bring down an entire economy with a few well-timed keystrokes. Not one person has to lose their life. And yet war still happens.
​
Walking through the patchy sunlight, I wondered if Tucker was greeted by a ray of sunshine or a specter of a boy whose life was lost too soon. 

​I wondered if this was how arguments were fought because people valued life so little or because they valued their ideals so highly. Each side had to believe they were protecting what was right and good and honorable. Each believed the other side was going to take this landscape and destroy it with their ways of life. From a purely logical standpoint, I can reconcile a kidnapping and ransom to get one wants—it’s leverage. But I cannot reconcile using hundreds of thousands of souls in a fight in which so many lose their lives all over a disagreement of morality and politics. It makes we wonder how we came to be the most powerful species on the planet.

​Tucker looked out over the hills, knowing not what a mess we humans have made of the world. He only knows love and joy and pain and heartache (the last two I do my best to shield from him.)  He doesn’t know that his species aligned themselves with the most powerful and destructive species on the planet. He only knows that most people are good, and you get treats and love if you smile just right and do as you’re told. Sometimes you get treats just for being you.

​Today, battles are fought on the internet. A virtual reality that has so little resemblance to reality, it’s hard to even use the word. The internet does not have autumn leaves, the smell of fires in the winter, the beating heart of an eighteen year old boy who fears his life will end in a moment. This battlefield did. Cannons are still placed at the top, ready to fight back what one side consider the invaders. The other side, battled on continuing to do what they believed they were doing: rescuing the land and people from what they viewed as inhumane and unacceptable.

Tucker and I hope that a time will come when we no longer sacrifice our future for the fights of today. All lives matter, for each one is not a number but a soul with thoughts and feelings and family and emotions and destinies to play out and choices to make—right or wrong—and impacts to be made.

​The land that Tucker and I walked on was commemorated for the battle of Kennesaw Mountain. But the land itself has been there ages before and will be here ages hence. That one moment was just a blink of an eye in the universe; a grain of sand on the beaches of time. The souls that lost their earthly existence that day matter, and did not deserve their fate. They are not chess pieces; they are people. When we degenerate people to pawns for our use, we do not do them—nor ourselves— justice. We, as a species, are better than that. And we need to start living up to that.

​Tucker and I enjoyed our stroll through the woods that for many, were the last of this earth they’d ever experience. We gave our respects to those who did not make it, and know that most were pawns in another person’s battle. A grain of sand in time does matter, for without each individual grain of sand, there would be no beach.

​Perhaps one day we will evolve enough to recognize and respect that every soul mattes, regardless of race, creed, color, age, sex, gender, and species. Life matters. Be kind to one another. Be gentle. Be giving. Fight for what is right, but never use another’s life as a pawn in your own game. Instead of walking a battlefield, stroll through Nature. Give respect to those whose lives were cut short for another’s bidding, and vow it will never happens again. Life is too short, and the world is too beautiful.

Avoiding the crowds, Tucker and I went to a place we didn’t think anyone would pick out of a guidebook based on its name: Fryingpan Mountain. The crowds were a couple miles away at Mount Pisgah (perhaps because people liked their mountains to have Biblical names rather than being named after kitchenware), but alas what is in a name?
​
Of course finding the trailhead wasn’t an easy task for me. But like with the road of life, a wrong turn is seldom completely wrong. Although it wasn’t the campground I had been seeking, the parking lot afforded us this spectacular view.

Down the road a couple more miles, I turned into the campground and asked the ranger where I’d find the trail. He pointed to the sign ten yards away. Ah-ha. Too far or too close, and I lose sight.
Tucker and I trekked through forest and meadow for two miles, enjoying the serenity of just being with nature. Today I got the best of both of my favorite locations: the autumn leaves of New England, and the rolling fog of the San Francisco Bay area. The fog rolled across the trail, taking no heed to our existence, as if having a mind of its own, meandering on its way to some event we were not invited to.

As we came down off the hill, we found the parking lot where most people parked in order to get to the lookout tower. It seems a common occurrence for Tucker and me that we always take the long way around to our destination. But that’s because our destination is the hike itself, not an actual point on the trail—so the longer the hike, the longer we are right where we want to be.
As we reached the peak, a straight up hike reminiscent of Dante’s Peak in Griffith Park, most of the fog had passed through. The clouds lifted  slightly, and the world around us became visible as if the mists of Avalon had parted to reveal the mystical land.

The tower itself was off limits to dogs. (Not that that stopped some people.) I watched a young woman go up with her Bassett hound on a retractable leash. The stairs swayed beneath them, and I could hear the terror start to rise in her nervous laughter. “Okay, I’m getting nervous. Come back!” she yelled to her dog who had no qualms racing up the unprotected staircase. One mis-step, and she would have gone through the space between the stairs and fallen to the ground below. They returned safely, and I asked the dogless couple behind them, “Is going to the top even worth it?”
“No. It’s still just fog. One or two levels up is a great, but anything beyond that and you’re in the clouds.”
And so Tucker and I went one flight up, Tucker safely right in front of me. I felt the sway of the staircase and was more than content to enjoy the view from the first landing. On this side of the mountain, the mists still kept the landscape backstage, behind its curtain.

The sun peeked out from between the clouds, casting a light show on the mountains and valleys.

​The colors weren’t as vibrant as they would have been in the sunshine, but the cloud cover added a mystical element to the view. And really, seeing this makes me just as happy:

My boy’s smile lights up my life.

The journey downhill afforded us a few more glimpses of the mountains in the distance as the clouds lifted and separated, allowing the sunlight to dance across the peaks and valleys.

Tucker and I spent the evening back at the schoolhouse, filled with its history and spirits and stories. While I spoke with friends and made dinner, Tucker took to his favorite spot: right in front of the fireplace. It appears a working gas fireplace might be an order back in our California abode--even if it only gets used four days out of the year when it's below 50 degrees.

My fortieth birthday wasn’t like any of my friends’. There was no big party, no gathering at a restaurant, no big surprise, no charity event, no day at the spa or Broadway show. It was me: spending the weekend with my dog, in the woods, writing stories.

As I looked out at the glory of Nature’s season this weekend, it finally hit me why I'm so attached to it. It's not just because I began life at this time. It's not just because the first thing my olfactory nerves sensed on this planet was the smell of autumn leaves. It’s because Fall is the ultimate crossroads.

I am at the campground host at the crossroads of life—for many people and dogs, I greet and spend time with them as they chose which path to take next. The changing of the leaves is Nature’s greatest transition, her most prominent crossroads. This is where and when she shows how it all comes together—past and future. The leaves that sprout in springtime come to maturity in the summer, acting as solar panels, soaking in nutrients for the trees. But as the earth shies away from the sun, the kiss of frost upon the leaves transforms them into a brilliant blanket of color across the hillsides. They give one final performance against the skyline before they take the next step of their journey. As the winter winds start to blow, the leaves take their bow and fall to earth.

But it’s not over. Fall is not the end of a leaf's story. They cover the earth, the earth with seeds of the next generation buried deep. The leaves protect the hope of the next year, covering them in the earth from the cold and wind, snow and freezing temperatures. Their glossy colors dull only slightly, but their purpose and their journey continues.
​
Autumn isn’t the end of the journey. It’s the crossroads: a beautiful, brilliant crossroads where form and function shift while the heart remains the same. It reminds us that change isn’t scary; change is majestic and magical. Whether it’s a change of season, or the passing of a year in life, there is nothing to fear. Because we all live on, our purpose changing over time, but our heart remaining the same, blowing in the winds of time to the next place we’re needed.

We are all a product of our experiences. As we journey through life, we stop at roadside attractions, run out of gas, take a few wrong turns, make a few right turns, and overall, this shapes who we are. But I believe no matter what happens on the road of life, the foundation of ourselves remains the same. We are still that eleven year old playing D&D, or that awkward thirteen year old standing in the corner at a dance, or that exuberant six year old in the sandbox.

So to mark the fourth decade on my road of life, I went back to my foundation. When I was four years old, and even fourteen years old, my most joyous experiences were playing with my dog, wandering around in the woods, and writing stories. I haven’t really changed much. I just needed to pick which woods I wanted this weekend to take place in.

Although I love the dramatic oceanside cliffs of Oregon and the redwood forests of Northern California, I am a New England girl, born during its most magical time of year: Autumn. But I hadn’t seen the hills of red and gold and amber in almost twenty years. I knew I couldn’t make it all the way up the eastern seaboard and still be back to work Monday morning, so I did the next best thing: Tucker and I packed our bags and headed four hours north of Atlanta to our favorite eastern town: Asheville, North Carolina which echoed the other end of the Appalachian trail 2000 miles north in its fall colors.

Keeping with the New England at heart theme, I rented a place that was once a two room schoolhouse in the late 1800’s, had a second life as a tobacco warehouse, and then was left abandoned until a couple renovated it twenty year ago. It was a place of history and story and spirits.
​
Not only was it the perfect place for me, Tucker was treated as a guest equal in stature to me. He had his own set towels, blankets, and even treats.

It didn’t take long for Tucker to find his spot in front of the fire and relax.

​Arriving in the dark means the first morning is a surprise. The old schoolhouse windows looked out into the woods. 

​The building itself, although near neighbors, was secluded and private. Outside, just down the gravel road to the main paved street, I found myself on road that could have been in Tyringham, Massachusetts.

I had an idea of what trail I wanted to take in search of an echo to the Berkshire Hills in Autumn. But as I ate breakfast, I found one on alltrails I hadn’t seen before: Big Lost Cove Cliffs. I had read that this was the busiest weekend around Asheville, and hoped to avoid the crowds. I grew up in a town that only had a short breath between the summer tourists and the fall tourists—the ones we called Leaf Peepers. Oh how we hated how slow they drive, mesmerized by the trees, or ride their bikes down the middle of the road, blocking our way to work, or how they rampaged the farmers’ market before we could reap the benefits of our own local produce. And now, here I was, being a Leaf Peeper. I hoped to seem more like a local, and avoided the crowded trails.

Big Lost Cove Cliffs trailhead had parking for only four cars and was located a couple miles down an unpaved national forest road. I hoped this was enough of a deterrent to the other lead peepers. Hikers online recommended getting their early, so I figured by arriving around 11am, I would miss those people who took that advice and have the trails to myself.

The parking area was full, but luckily only six other cars lined the road near this obscure trailhead.

As I drove along the dirt road, I caught glimpses of bright red between the trees that lined the roadside. There was nowhere to pull over to let it all sink in, but I didn’t need it to. My eyes welled up with tears from the sheer beauty of the tiny glimpses I caught between the branches. I had found Fall. Real Fall. The one I hadn’t seen in almost half my lifetime—the one Tucker had never experienced at all.
​
Tucker seemed to understand what our quest was: to find Autumn. He sniffed the leaves that blanketed the trail and announced we were hot on Autumn’s trail.

​Indeed we were. A sightline provided by the utility poles showed us how deep into Autumn we were.

As we rose in elevation, I spotted the echoes of the Berkshire Hills.

It makes sense of course: although 2000 miles away, it is the same mountain range, the Appalachians. Although the trail may differ depending where along the mountain range you are, it’s the same mountain—the same foundation.

​Tucker took it all in, and I wondered what extra experience he got to have, not just seeing it, but smelling it. The scent of autumn leaves makes me smile, and my nose isn’t anywhere near as good as his. He must have been enveloped in Fall.

The cliffs were four separate rock cliffs that reached out over the valley. Tucker and I explored each one. Although they all looked out at the same set of hills, and each cliff showed us a new perspective, alighting a different beauty in each view.

​The leaves weren’t the only beauty on the mountain. The rocky cliffs themselves were works of art.

​Together rock and earth, tree and sky made a stunning mural to behold.

​Luckily, Tucker isn’t afraid heights. His boldness and ease afforded him incredible views.

We spent an indeterminable amount of time at the cliffs. Time had no meaning for us as we sat, stood, and looked out over the hills. There were a few hikers enjoying lunch, or just hanging out, all giving respect to Mother Nature’s art gallery, in awe of the beauty in this moment. That’s what makes Autumn so special—it’s ever-changing in the moment. If we came tomorrow, we would experience something different, just as we would have the day before.

When Tucker and I felt like we had had our fill of Fall from this vantage point, we made the trek back, finding new perspectives along the way, seeing beauty we had missed on the way up.
​
Big Lost Cove Cliffs is hard to say and hard to find—which hopefully will keep it a secret. Driving by Linville Falls, a well-known spot for Leaf Peepers, we saw the cars stacked along the road over a mile and a half from the trailhead. The trail itself is only a mile round trip. I don’t consider nature to be an amusement park ride, so I refuse to stand in line for it. Big Lost Cove Cliffs should remain lost, and only show itself to those who truly appreciate it—not just the cliffs, but the six mile journey there and back with portraits and murals to experience along the way.

Tucker and I returned to our storybook schoolhouse to shower, nap, and then head back out for the social part of our weekend. Now that we were renewed by being with nature, it was time to interact with humans.

Tucker was as excited as I was to return to our favorite drinking spot: The Bywater, which we last experienced Fourth of July 2016. While the summer experience was one of river-rafters and tubers, this Autumn crowd played more to my personality. As dusk turned to night, one patron gathered wood and stoked up the firepit. One by one, we all gathered around it. One person played guitar softly as if only for himself, and the rest of us heard it as if in a dream half-remembered. People chatted amongst themselves, introduced themselves, and soon there was a crowd of us all talking together. Even Tucker found a friend in another pittie mix who had come with his person.

As midnight approached, I was invited back to a house gathering with the other twenty-somethings. I’m sure Tucker would have voted to go since it was his new buddy’s home. But I wanted to be up and hiking in the morning—the morning I turned 40. Being asked to go was gift enough. I had already informed the inviter that it was my birthday and he said he thought I was around 30. You’re only as young as you’re feel—or as young as a twenty-something thinks you are when he’s drunk and it’s dark.
​
I had an amazing day of farewell to my thirties. The next day would kick off another decade. But Tucker and I would continue as we had today: spending the day perusing Mother Nature’s art galleries during her finest exhibition of the year. Because age doesn’t matter. Being 30 or 40 or even 14 again, the place I most wanted to be was the same—with my dog, in the woods, listening to Nature’s stories, ready with pen in hand to retell them to the world.

Every other day I read the description of the John's Mountain/Keown Falls hike in the guidebook as if it was an item in a catalog that I desperately wanted to buy but couldn’t afford. In this case, it wasn’t that I lacked money; I lacked the ability to get up early enough to make the hour and a half drive to Northern Georgia. It’s not Autumn here in the south, and hiking at noon isn’t the best of ideas when it’s 90 degrees out.

But finally, on a cloudy day, not getting up as early as I would have liked but deeming an overcast day with temps in the 80’s as safe enough, Tucker and I packed up the truck and headed north.
​
The beginning of the Keown Falls trail is an eloquently graveled path with stone borders.  I don’t imagine it felt great on Tucker’s feet, and I wished for an end of the man-made adornment to get back to Mother Nature’s flooring.

​We came looking for fall—the season, not the natural formation of water cascading through air, though both at once would have been amazing. Although the view was expansive there was ne’er a colored leaf to be found. All was still a brilliant green, soaking in the molecules of water from the overcast sky and ready for the moment the sun shone down again to capture every ray of light before winter.

We did enjoy a woodsy dirt path most of the way, but as we came closer to the falls (water, not season), humans had intervened to make a steep incline more biped-friendly with stairs.

Keown Falls was unlike any other falls Tucker and I have been too. It was not a waterfall, or a cascading river over rounded rocks. This was a ledge where water drained off, leaving a cave behind it in which to walk in.

Tucker and I took the stairs downwards and stood behind the waterfall—only a dribble, but I imagine in the wet season it would be a spectacular experience.

The view beyond the falls was the woods itself. It had no mountainous vista, but instead showed us the forest we were visiting.

Crumbles of rocks littered the area behind the falls. It was the perfect place for Tucker to test out his camouflage abilities.

We continued up above the falls to take a different perspective. There we met two people on horseback. I told them I had planned on going to John’s Overlook, and they warned that it was steep but a good hike. Despite being overcast and cloudy, it was a decent view.  The woman noted that there was another overlook about half way up the mile-high trek that also had a view.

I thanked her for the insight and made a decision. I could go left, 2.5 miles to the overlook, which probably wasn’t as steep, or go right one mile, and also catch the second overlook. I opted to go right.

I chose wisely.

The next overlook was indeed not on a map. We saw a little bit of color in the immediate plants surrounding us. 

​However the mountains were still blue and green in the distance.

Onward and straight upward we ascended to the main event. One last push and we crested the horizon to...

... a parking lot. Yes, we could have driven here, but that wouldn't have been fun at all. Hiking isn't about arriving at one spot to take in a view; it's about being on the journey and all the things you experience along the way. For us, John's Overlook wasn't the goal endpoint; the journey getting there and back was.

As for the view at this point in the hike, it was indeed still green as far as the eye could see.

For some reason, I think Tucker looks like an east coast dog. He blends well with the colors and landscape.

As we finished up our photoshoot, a big white truck pulled into the parking lot. An older gentleman with a white mustache, wearing a baseball cap got out, camera in hand.

We said hello, and then he said, “You hiked here?”

“Yup, sure did.” I can’t see how the level of sweat pouring off me could be excused in any other manner.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

Nope, clearly not.

Two dogs in the pickup truck started baying, and a woman in the front seat yelled at them. As I tried to tug Tucker along to the trailhead where the 2.5 mile trail that would complete the loop back to the Falls began, she stepped out.

“You hiked here?” she asked, exasperated. (I don’t think she had heard my answer over the dogs barking.) “How long of a hike is it?”

I told her it was about 2 miles up, and about 3 miles down.

She shook her head. “Maybe is my younger years.”

I started down the trail and she yelled after me, “You’re not afraid of bears, hiking alone?”

Well, no, not till you just said that. Thanks.

I shrugged. “No.”

Her husband, who was snapping pictures turned around and said, “I don’t imagine she’s afraid of much with him as her hiking partner.”

I smiled and said, “Yeah, but he’d probably try to be friends with the bear, and then I’d have a whole other problem.”

We wished each other well and I started down the trail, thinking of Mt. Mitchell where the same sort of encounter happened. Tucker and I had hiked a few beautiful miles to get there. Those who walked the 500 feet from the parking lot, seeing a disheveled woman and her panting dog, had to wonder how out of shape we were to not even be able to make it from the parking lot without extreme physical difficulty.

As soon as we were out of sight of the truck, the couple and their dogs, we came across this--far creepier than any bear in my opinion: 

I tip my hat to whoever thought of writing that to freak people out. We continued along the path which stayed on the ridgeline, offering views of the valley below between the trees.

One one of our journeys slightly off the path to catch a glimpse of the pastures below, Tucker proudly announced, "Look! Fall!"​

Indeed, those sparse leaves were all we were going to see of the season we sought.

But that didn't detract from our walk in the woods. Instead of experiencing the glorious colors of Autumn, I was reminded of the subtle beauty in all woods year round.

Every rock seems specially placed, the lichen and moss dressing them just so. The trees space themselves appropriately, and leaves of autumns past blanket the ground. 

Whoever thinks this earth is here only to be plundered by us because we are humans, has never taken a walk in the woods. Beauty exists here not because people will see it one day and enjoy it; it exists because Mother Nature is innately beautiful. The world isn't here for us to steal its elements, waste its resources, and wreak havoc on its delicate balance. It is a work of art we are to preserve, protect, and enjoy. You would never walk into an art gallery and knock over a sculpture to take a piece with you; you wouldn't dump the drink you don't feel like finishing all over the handmade woven fabric of a quilt; and you wouldn't rip a painting off the wall, stomp on it, and slice through the canvas.

Nature is art, the world her gallery. Around ever bend is a new piece to explore and experience. The way a leaf falls from the tree and lands upon a stone; the clouds caressing the tips of mountaintops as you look into the distance; the way the light plays on the forest floor, dancing with the shadows.

I had been hoping to visit during her spectacular Annual Autumn Exhibition, but we were a little early--or maybe in the wrong wing of her gallery. Tucker and I would continue searching for it, but in the meantime, we pay reverence to the art already on display.