Work kept us busy for a month and sadly away from nature. But we were reminded she was still out there as we watched the sun slip behind the Santa Monica Mountains each evening from the office hallway window.  

Our job is never as fun as being in the wilds, but Tucker always make the most of his work experience.

​Our commute involved a shuttle from the parking lot to the office, and Tucker charmed himself into sitting shotgun every day.

Tucker enjoyed the catering…

And the food trucks….

And the Teamsters even taught him how to operate a forklift.

But we finally got a day off and in the spirit of exploration, we headed even more south along the coast—someplace I wouldn’t fathom going from the San Fernando Valley due to the time it would take in traffic.
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And we needn’t even go to a “place” per se. Just the side of the road was gorgeous enough.

In the little town of Palos Verde, we found a trail that ran parallel with the road lined with multi-million dollar homes with  view.

The scrub brush wasn’t particularly special...

... ​but the views of the ocean and the bluffs certainly were.

I never thought to venture southward, as my experience with the westside wasn’t much of what I liked. It is flat beaches, lots of people, and (from my limited experience) lacking in natural architectural character. But it seems the farther south you go, the more like the north it becomes: with dramatic cliffsides, wild bluffs, and endless ocean views.

With this as our first experience, I was sure to come back to dive deeper into the southland.

Another weekend on the westside, we opted to go a little further inland, yet still on the westside, to Tuna Canyon. Located just south of Malibu on the 1, but north of it into the mountains, I was hoping for some ocean views while simultaneously being in the mountains—something one can actually pull off in California and Oregon.

While the mountains here are no woodland paradise as they are in Oregon, Tuna Canyon was a mountain (or rather the sides of the canyon were mountains), and we did get some ocean views.

Much of the trail was wide and dry, allowing the sun to cast our shades across the earth.

And then it wound through wildflowers and shrubbery...

​And poured out onto the canyon's rim,  were we could look out to the sea over the vast wilds.

The views were extensive, and in every direction, I found beauty and peace. 

But my most favorite part was what my heart reached for, the element so divine and beautiful that I felt my soul try to escape and fly northward to it: the fog.

Standing above the clouds, taking in the view of it as it rolled across the ocean and gently climbed the mountainside, my heart yearned for the redwoods.

Our current job will keep us employed and exploring the westside for at least two more months, so my heart will have to wait. For now, knowing we can catch a glimpse of that magic on walkabouts in places like these will have to keep my soul content.

After four long months of being home and working “remotely” (aka, working from the garage), Tucker and I began our new gig which was in office and away… but not really away. It’s in Santa Monica. Which for those who live in the San Fernando Valley, know it might as well be in Montana.

The commute is abysmal to impossible. So in order to stay on the job, housing was arranged for me on the westside. It is a once in a career sort of thing. While I would have preferred to be completely on distant location or able to sleep in my own bed every night, the gig is with the people I enjoy working with, which is ultimately what matters most. Who, not where, should always be the first question.

Being on the westside means that we can kinda act like we’re on distant location—taking our weekends to explore places we never would have from the valley due to the long commute. So for our first little exploration we drove a short half hour to the Malibu Bluffs.
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It didn't have the same kind of chaparral as the Carpinteria Bluffs; this was more scrub grass that appeared it may do with some more watering. 

There was some taller shrubbery to wind through on the narrow trail which made for an interesting walkabout.

Once we went close enough to the ocean, we could see the tell-tale signs of human life (ie, houses).

Tuck found a stick, so he didn’t mind much about the people factor disrupting the view.

And if we turned in the other direction, we could pretend the houses weren't just out of sight and that we were miles from civilization.

I had to wonder why people would live right up to the water like that. There couldn’t possibly be beach or land between the back door and the water.

I prefer to be a little higher up and a little farther away to appreciate the view. 

But to each his or her own. For Tucker and me, up here on the hill, among the shrubbery was just fine. The vast panorama we could experience was worth the incline hike and from here we could feel alone with Nature, which all we ever strive for when our feet hit the trail.

Tuck and I do not attend any manmade church or temple; our place of worship is the woods—or other place of wilds when the woods are off limit due to heat, fire, or snow. 

It was heat that kept us from our usual house of worship on this holiday marking Spring, the rise of the Sun (the Son), and the renewal of life. Also, Tucker seems to prefer ocean over forest anyway, so we drove to his temple of choice.

He had been having a rough go of it as of late. Due to his incessant scratching that was still undiagnosed, he had popped a hematoma. For those who don’t know what that is: it’s essentially a blood blister on the ear. A scratch or hit breaks open the capillaries between the cartilage and skin on the pinna (the floppy part) of a dog’s ear, and it creates a gap, filling with blood. It can be pretty painful. But dogs don’t know that wacking it into things repeatedly (by shaking one’s heads) or scratching it (because it feels funny) will just make it worse. Like human blood blisters, there isn’t much one can do. It just recedes on its own. If you try to drain it, it’ll just fill up again. You could also do surgery, but that seems a little excessive to me for a non-life threatening condition. He’d had a couple before in prior years. One went through numerous drainings, the other with just one draining, then receded on its own. I hoped this one would go down on its own without any draining.

So, Tucker was forced to be bonnet boy again to keep his ear still until it healed.  Donned in his blue bonnet, Tucker and I headed to our oft-frequented place by the ocean: the Carpinteria Bluffs and Tar Pits. 

There is some open meadow

A good sea breeze,

Some sea lions hanging out,

A few places where we are not allowed,

A grand view or two,

And some tar.

I had forgotten how bad the tar can be. Tuck’s paws got a little sticky, so he gave up on the walk back.

Not sure how this is in any way comfortable, except that his paws aren't sticking to anything but themselves. He looks like the main character of a fairy tale either at the beginning or the end of the story... hard to tell which.

Tucker dramatically came to life after I gave him a few moments and then we headed to a second stop I had seen on the map that looked intriguing and close by: Oak Creek Winery.

It was near closing time when we arrived, and it being Easter, there were few people there. We got a little cabana-like sitting area to ourselves with a view of the vineyard. I let Tuck take off his bonnet since I would close by to stop any major ear-wacking. He seemed to like the freedom for ears and the view.

Easter Sunday for many is about church and family. They go to church is the morning and then spend the afternoon with family. Tuck is my family, and so we spent it together in our own house of worship: the bluffs above the ocean, then sat together for a beverage, looking out over nature groomed by humans, and contemplating new beginnings. For Easter is just another way to celebrate Spring—the time when Mother Nature paints the world  anew.

Here's to the unblemished potential of the year ahead and life renewed, however you choose to honor it.

Scotts Valley is a little mountain town above Santa Cruz, deep in the woods where it smells of pine and forest. I loved it from the moment we arrived the night before.

The vet clinic was a little small town clinic with a tiny waiting room and a few small exam rooms. Tucker seemed to like Dr Scholl, but he was having his panic-like attacks throughout the entire consultation. In fact, he scratched so hard, he got a hematoma on his ear (yet another medical ailment I’d have to treat when I got back to Los Angeles).

Dr Scholl was willing to give it a go with Stelfonta, and if he couldn’t handle it, she’d abandon the procedure.

I liked her willingness, but I knew this would be Tucker’s last shot. With Stelfonta, they only recommend two injections if the first doesn't work. And with this so close to the original site, it was hard to say if it was the same one or just another that popped u nearby. I felt like we had only one shot to do it. And I wasn’t 100% confident Tucker would let her do it. He couldn’t even sit still for her to pet him.

She recommended we figure out his scratching/feet-chewing situation first (which was a new development since January), so I had some work to do with that. And I had some consideration to do if this was where I should place my bets.

It was only 10am when we finished with our consultation, leaving us all day to meander down the coast and get home for work the next day.
​
We had explored Monterey pre-pandemic, so we might have been retracing our steps a bit, but I don’t think you can see too much beautiful coastline too often.
​
So we took a stroll through Asilomar State Beach, along the boardwalk,

And placed out feet deep in the crisp sand….

And explored the tidepools….

And climbed on rocks that were works of art…

We watched the waves crash against the rocks….

And took in the fresh ocean air.

This is what life is about: experiencing—and sharing—as much beauty as you can in the little amount of time we have here in the physical world. The rocks and waves have been here long before us and will be here long after is. We are here for just a blink, a moment, and then we are gone.
​
So we take it in, and make it a part of us, an experience that shapes our future and responds to our past. Tucker and I are soulmates. We have known each other for millennia, and we are connected and intertwined for all eternity. We have been blessed to share this brief time on earth,  to experience and share in the beauty that is the physical world together. And I plan to experience as much as possible with him for as long as possible.

Destinations are good goals, but if you don’t make the journey just as important, you’ve missed a whole lot of beautiful experiences. And so while our destination was Monterey and Scotts Valley for a couple of veterinary consultations, we were going to make this trip about much more than doctor appointments.

With COVID protocols in place at all the vet specialists for the unforeseen future in Los Angeles (ie, pet parents aren’t allowed inside), combined with Tucker’s numerous health concerns that dictate some preface before examination, getting consultations in the Los Angeles area was a no-go for me. They were still acting as if pets were like vehicles to be dropped off for an oil change. And while that was a necessity in the beginning, being two years in… it was time to get real.

Luckily, up north at independent veterinary clinics, they were allowing pet parents in wearing masks and reducing indoor contact. They understood pets and their parents are much less stressed when they're together.

So I had booked two appointments to discuss re-treating Tucker with Stelfonta: an injectable cancer-killer for mast cell tumors that he had been treated with by Dr Sue Ettinger back in February 2021 in Connecticut. A new tumor had grown near the original tumor’s site on the leg. I didn’t want to drive all the way back to Connecticut now that I knew the procedure and knew ultimately it really is about one minute that’s needed to get this done. However, I needed to find the right vet who had the confidence and experience to do it, and who Tucker was comfortable enough with to get it done. If necessary, of course, I’d make the drive back to Dr Sue, but I was hoping we could resolve this a little closer to home.

And for us, Northern California is home, so why not? 

Our Monterey appointment with the oncologist Dr. Arteaga was scheduled for Monday end of day so we’d have all day to drive, hike, explore, and then go to the appointment. Our Scotts Valley appointment with Dr Scholl, a general practitioner who had used Stelfonta before, was first thing the next morning, leaving us an entire day of exploring and hiking before heading back down the coast.

Not taking out usual route up into the Bay area, we had a little more exploring through the Central California heartland. Then onto the beaches to a place we hadn’t yet been, and is supposedly quite dog friendly: Carmel. It did not disappoint.

​The stunning coastline and beautiful ocean views made for a perfect walkabout.

​There was a little beach to explore, and then we headed up onto the bluffs, which is our favorite place. Tucker can smell the ocean without getting wet, and I love the chaparral and plant life that blooms with the ocean breezes.

The trail took us through the wilds at first, a bit of one-track path with open land and sea.

But eventually we hit civilization again. The homes lines up along the coast for stunning views and fresh ocean air.

There was still a bit of wild to enjoy between the houses and the sea.

The walk back took us again away from civilization where we could enjoy nature, hearing the crashing of the waves and listening to the call of the seabirds.

With a joyous afternoon of of sea breeze and sunshine, we headed into Monterey proper for Tucker’s appointment.
​
The exam room was a lovely set up. I felt more like we were in for a therapy session than an oncology appointment. Despite a nice cozy dog bed, Tucker took his position in the chair… because always with the chair (and it was the seat closest to the treat jar on the bookcase).

Dr Arteaga was extremely kind, and having a pittie with mast cell tumors, this was personal for her. We all have to make decisions on what is best in our own situation. She treated her own dog with Stelfonta, and it worked. For Tucker, she did not want to risk it. She aimed to have 100% success rate, and with the size and location of Tucker’s tumor, she wasn’t confident it would work—or that she could do it. Tucker’s inability to be sedated is a big sticking point. Dr Sue managed it well; but she’s a rarity. Dr Sue gave Tucker the time he needed to accept the situation, and even gave him a timeout while she saw other patients before returning, having a talk with him, and finally being able to treat him. Tucker isn’t an easy patient, and finding the doctor he trusts and who trusts him, is imperative.

This vet did give me some hope. She said, “Maybe you just have to come to terms with the fact that you have a lumpy dog.” She had read Tucker’s medical history and knows the breed and risks. Because the tumors are usually low grade (but sometimes numerous) with Staffordshire Terriers, the choice to not treat is an option. It’s possible Tucker may develop many more. Of course, with each tumor, there is a risk of metastasizing--going into the organs and spreading. MCT is the great pretender: it can look like anything, act like anything, be completely benign, or cause death within a couple of months. However, sometimes the simple act of treating it (surgery, radiation, etc) can cause stress and activate more tumors into existence. It is all a gamble with no odds published.

My main concern for Tucker was the location. Without surgery as an option due to no sedation, if it gets bigger, it would impede his mobility. She suggested a course of steroids to reduce size should it come to that.

Overall, it wan’t what I wanted to hear. I wanted Tucker’s tumor to be treated and gone. I didn’t want to wonder if one day I’d wake up and he’d be unable to walk. Or that the cancer load would be too much for his body or that it would spread.

But it was what it was. I appreciated her honesty. I will never be upset with a vet who says, “I won’t do it.” I’d rather they know their limitations and stick to a standard. If she was completely confident that she could administer Stelfonta and it would work, she would do it. 
​
And so we took our leave just before sunset and then headed north toward Scotts Valley.
But the sun was still up, therefore there was still some coastline to see before night fell. Pulling off to a little parking area along the main highway, Tucker and I sat and looked out over the ocean to watch the sunset. 

I pondered what the vet had said, and thought about all we’d been through since the pandemic began. Tucker was first diagnosed in June of 2020. He underwent electro-chemotherapy, he had numerous consults inside with vets whom I never met. He had even been treated by Dr Sue while I sat in my trusty steed as a Nor-easter roared up the coast, and buried us in snow.

The fact is Tucker doesn’t know he has cancerous tumors. He feels fine. He enjoys life. All is well. The burden is on me. Any time a tumor exists, there is a chance of metastasis. It’s all a gamble. Once metastasized, there isn’t much one can do. Chemo… or supporting his body to try to keep it at bay—which is what I had been doing since everything began. But still, it is a gamble.

I hate gambling. I don’t go to Vegas, I don’t like slot machines, and I don’t like risks. This one is more than losing a little money. It’s losing Tucker. An accurate risk assessment was important, but was so finding the right vet. It’s why I drove 3000 miles through ice storms and a pandemic before vaccines Connecticut last year. Dr Sue was the only one I trusted to do this. And it may be she’s the only one again.
​
But we still had one more vet to see in the morning.
​
And so I enjoyed the moment with Tucker, as we watched the sun go down on a day of adventuring, with hopes and wishes for many more sundown to watch and many more days - and years - of adventuring ahead.

One of my many favorite things about the Bay Area is their Open Space. Not really parks, these are literally just open spaces. No houses, no buildings, just earth and sky to enjoy. I thought this was just a Northern California phenomenon.
​
So I was surprised to see the wording right here, in the San Fernando Valley.

​Deervale-Stone Canyon Park is its proper name according to the makeshift sign. There were two entrances: one at the top and one at the bottom of the trail. The one at the top, and the source of the park’s namesake was just that: at the top. So I decided to follow some other folks’ suggestions to start at the bottom. There was some wording about not parking in front of private homes (which I assumed meant the entire street), so we parked a little further down the hill on a main street, and walked up the very steep road to where we came upon an open gate between two driveways: the super secret entrance to this open space.

Once inside, it was like stepping into another world. The hard packed earth was just a strip of non-grass like a zipper holding together two side of hillside meadow.

There was not a single soul around.

The climb was steep but traveled around the hill, blunting the effect of going straight up—even it was just psychologically.

Around the bend, we spied our first side views of the valley.

It’s impossible to capture in one frame.

There is even a bench to sit upon and contemplate.

The trail continued onward and upward. Very onward. And very upward.

Meadow to shade and meadow again, we passed by so many secret hiding spots. Mulberry bushes and cypress trees created these little caves one could sit beneath and imagine oneself far from civilization.

Houses were near, but not often in view.

I guess city folks have a hard time being without their buildings; half way up the trail, trailgoers have developed this Cairn City. Busses, toys, and other objects populate the stone urban center.

On the opposite side is one giant cairn with smiling face, as if looking out over the tiny city.

Shortly after this, a woman on her way down the steep hill told me she had just seen deer right here where I stood when she was on the way up.


As I looked out over the cavern, it was fascinating to realize that such large animals like deer could make their home here. They did not need to cross streets or go near human-dwellings. This was their open space.

When you live in towns around woods, deer, coyotes, and other wildlife is common. But it always comes a surprise in such a densely human-populated area. A friend told me of her neighbor’s spotting of P-55, the resident cougar in Griffith Park. We share this earth with so many different creatures, and we assume they are unlike us. But they are more like us than we care to think on. They too simply want to live in peace, have shelter, food, and friends. They love and live and grieve and fear just like we do.
​

So when I picked up my backpack to see a millipede, while it startled me, I did not kill it or lash out in any way. (Although my instinctual scream may have inadvertently hurt its eardrums—if they have those.)

​My scream might have been louder, except I was still gasping for breath from the incredibly steep climb. I was surprised no one had installed a rope or other handrail to make it up. 

We rose to the occasion and I was pleased to see the trail somewhat level out. I could see the multi-million dollar homes up on the horizon; Deervale Street.

​When Tucker and I arrived at the end of the cul de sac, we took in the view. It certainly was a million dollar view looking out over the valley. While we didn’t earn a million bucks to get the view, I felt we earned it in the physical payout we gave to surmount the steep trail.

On our way back down, we took in the view more leisurely, catching every vantage point me could

And looking into those secret hideaways

Where trees could hold you in a loving embrace as you listened to the wind and took in the open space as other four legged and winged residents do.

I am grateful that the City of Angeles has set aside this open space—and that few people frequent it. A part of its specialness is that the number of humans at any given time is less than the number of deer, coyotes, and other wild beings who inhabit the space.

And so out of respect for those who live here, we will only return when our souls need this open space. For we have taken so much of the open land from our fellow earthly inhabitants here, we can at least leave them in peace as often as possible.

Being in the “city” again, it’s easy for me to forget that there are plenty of unexplored wild places quite near to us. We’re not desert people; the sandy, hot earth of Santa Fe just isn’t our vibe. We like the forests, the lakes, oceans, and waterfalls; the towering redwoods and the sound of the wind through the leaves.
​
While there are no redwoods nearby, there are some pretty decent substitutes for everything else we enjoy. Verdugo and Griffith, out nearest parks offer up a getaway while not being far away, and have some pretty impressive views:

But with a short gig lined up from home, it was time to get exploring as we would on location: comb through some hiking books, search on AllTrails, and then hit the trails. Winter in Los Angeles means it’s actually not life-threatening to go for a walk under the sun during mid-morning or afternoon—our two prime times for walkabouts. We will never be the early morning risers.

Thanks to the winter storms which had closed the freeway north with snow, the mountain top lakes and rivers were now full of water, running downhill to the lower elevations. Which meant: waterfalls down here.

AllTrails showed me a multi-waterfall trail only twenty minutes from home. Interestingly, it was located in the high desert. While most people said it was dried up, a few lucky folks found water right after the storms. It had been a few weeks, but I was hopeful. I wasn’t expecting Oregon-style waterfalls, but a southern California style waterfall would bring me some joy.

​I took the exit off the 14 freeway and stopped in the park-n-ride parking lot which was the only thing I could see to the right of the off ramp. It wasn’t until I got out of the vehicle that I saw had I just gone around some cars, I could have parked in the proper lot for Whitney Canyon.

The reason I seldom do canyon hikes it that it usually involves starting at the top of a mountain and descending into the canyon, which ultimately means that I have to go back up—after I’m already tired and worn out from the rest of the walk. I prefer to start at the bottom, so that should either Tucker or I tried out, the way home is all downhill.

Whitney Canyon is gracious enough to start and end on the canyon floor. There are some ups and down, but nothing excessive.

The hard-packed dirt trail was lovely. No sand to kick up even with a slight breeze, but soft enough to not feel like I was walking on pavement.

The bright green grass on the hill slopes had been invigorated by the winter rains, and the twisted trees gave the canyon an expressive and unique character.

There was a video game I used to play late at night on my old Tandy 1000, when I had finished writing for the day. I do not remember the name of the game, only that it was about a princess who was on a quest to find something. I cannot remember what the elixir even was; what sticks in my head is the music and the visual: the hillsides of vibrant green with these cypress-like trees. I am always reminded of it when in the Bar Area. Here it was again in this canyon.

The rocks we walked beside was clearly a riverbed. When the rains are long and hard, I imagine this is utterly magical. For now, it only retained the memory of what it was then and the hope for what it would be again.

About a mile in, we reached the beginning of the end of the water—the first pool.

It was actually pretty deep, and took some calculations to get Tucker and myself safely up the rock stair to the next level. It was entirely worth the effort.

Lacking water made it easy to keep on the trail, staying on dry rock and hopping over the streams.

Tucker sampled the water; he felt it was quite good.

Up again we went, finding footholds on dry rock and listening to the fall of the water as it ran over rock and sediment.

Tucker wanted to walk in the water more than did (it made it easier for him to taste it, I suppose).

Each level was more and more beautiful.

And then we came upon this pool and falls.

A couple we had passed up on the trail and was already up and out of sight. But I saw how much effort it took these twenty-somethings to get up and over. Had I been alone, I might have been able to do it. But had I been alone, I wouldn’t have been here at all. Tucker is the one who leads the way. Even when he doesn’t know it, long before we get in the car, it’s his pleasure I think about when choosing to explore a new trail. I knew he’d enjoy this one. And I also knew the two of us could not surmount that obstacle.

He appeared willing to to give it a go—finding a way up the falls to get to the next level of the stream.

But I couldn’t work out how we’d both safely get up there, without me standing knee-deep or more in the water.

And while water and rock is stunning to look it, it’s not real fun to fall in. The pool was too deep to walk through, but not really deep enough to break a fall. Slipping could involve cracking heads or breaking bones—for Tucker or me.

So while I was envious of the couple who disappeared from sight up and over the falls, I had to call it: this was the end of the trail for Tucker and me.

As we walked back, I took in the new perspective, the same one the falls has on the way down.

The high walls of the canyon framed the mountains and sky in the distance.

And here, I imagined that ages ago a band of witches stood around a cauldron, putting together a solution from which to solve the canyon’s problems. The missing piece was sacrifice, an so sacrifice they did—they turned themselves into trees, their cauldron still in the middle.

The stand today as testimony to the lives they gave, and that they will forever keep this canyon safe.

I will return to see the riverbeds full, but for now, my imagination filled in the blanks, as well as appreciated this canyon for what it was in this moment: potential—the potential to carry life from the mountain tops to the valleys, nourishing all who cross its path along the way.

The plan had simple: I would see Krystal in Marin County in the evening, then find a place to stay, and then meet up with Carolina and her beagles at Fort Funston the next morning so Tuck could romp around his favorite haunt. Then we’d drive the five hours south to Burbank.

But the universe finds plans amusing.

Or maybe just mine.

Krystal had thought some friends of hers were coming into town the following day, but they had a quick switch of plans, and were arriving that very same night. While I was invited to come over as well I was not yet comfortable being indoors maskless with people I didn’t know, drinking and eating for a prolonged period of time. Even in my plan to see only Krystal, I had pictured us sitting out on the patio. This wasn’t just for my own protection, but because I had been traveling and staying in hotels; I wanted to reduce my own potential of getting anyone else ill.

So we saw one another outside for a brief moment out on the street, for the first time in nearly two years, and made plans to meet up the next day after her guests had left. My days go from absolute nothing but long naps on the couch and reading to traveling two hundred miles, hiking protected lands, scouting burial sites, and seeing old friends all in a 12 hour timeframe.

I awoke in the morning to another change of plans. Carolina’s husband had tested positive for COVID. So, the Fort Funston romp was a no go. Later in the day, Carolina also tested positive. Although I was bummed to not see her, I was glad to see Krystal, and get an extended time with her as I had no other plans for the afternoon.

She took me to China Beach, where Tuck and I were allowed on the shores, but not in the fishing village.

It wasn’t the side of the Bay I was used to seeing, so for my first time back to the Bay since my exodus in March of 2020, it was truly a whole new experience.

There was no romping like at Fort Funston, but Tuck found a delectable stick and went to town on it.

And after a magical morning of catching up with an old friend in the safety of the outdoors, we began out southward journey--but not before catching a glimpse of the native wildlife.

Leaving here was almost as difficult as leaving Portland.

The Grapevine, the final big “hill” between Central and Southern California, was closed due to snow. There was a detour that would take an additional few hours. Or, we could continue our coastal route, which would take the same amount of time with the detour, but with a different view. I chose the coast.

But alas, that too, was blocked with afternoon traffic. So, after an eventful morning, then eight hours on the road, and still at least two hours from home, I called it a night. One more hotel room, one more night away from my own bed. So be it.

Once more, the universe proved that its yield signs aren't done to anger us, but let us slow down and enjoy ourselves. The delay and the detour gave me a chance to experience something new. Never had we gone this way before, or at least that I could remember.

As we neared the mountain range, the dog settled in to obscure the peaks.

The closer we got, the the thicker the fog became, obliterating the cloudless sky above and beyond.

As if paying homage to Oregon, California showed us that its viewpoints could be just as secretive and time-sensitive.

The sun tried to light our way, but it just wasn’t cutting through the blanket of mist.

So onward we went, until we passed the mountain summit and there in the distance, below the sun and blue sky, was the ocean once more.

After over a hundred days away, we returned to our humble abode, having given our old house a break from our antics.

​The orange trees greeted us with an abundance of fruit.

And the avocado tree showed off its newest babes. I am wishing and hoping the majority of them grow their full potential and remain on the tree till harvest this fall.

2021 was the Year Away after a Year At Home. From Connecticut to Georgia to Massachusetts to Oregon, Tuck and I had been on the road for over nine months of the year. We made it in just under the wire on New Year’s Eve to end the year at home.

But the truth is, Home is wherever we are together. Our little plot of land is our basecamp, our physical place to rest and recoup, and our project to help heal and evolve after years of abuse and neglect prior to our residency.

Our little house needs some attention and love before we leave her to rest in quiet again. Between our healing moments on the house that gives us shelter, you will find us in the nearby wilds, with a city just far enough away to be accessible, but forgotten about once we turn our back to it.

And here we will stay until the open road calls to us again.

The rain began after dark, and while I had driven southbound along the coast before, I suppose I had never taken the 101 at night—during a rainstorm.

Like a rollercoaster, once we began the harrowing ride through the redwood forests along winding roads with sharp turns and no lights, there was no getting off or turning around. Most likely had this been daylight, it wouldn’t have been so bad. In fact, I would have loved to take in the towering redwoods on either side of us. But this just seemed like punishment for leaving Oregon or for cheating on Northern California with Oregon.

We pressed on, knowing that Humboldt County isn’t very dog friendly anyway. Tucker is not allowed in the best redwood forests, except to see the parking lot or walk along the road. So missing out on daylight adventures wasn’t too much of a loss. We ended the rollercoaster ride in Fort Bragg, where Tucker and I had been for New Years at the very end of Before Times. The motel we had stayed at then was booked for the night, but we found another one close by that suited our needs.

The next morning we drove the hour southbound to Point Arena. Before making our way into the mountains to check out our potential burial site, I wanted to see Point Arena Lighthouse and explore Stornetta Lands National Monument, one of the most recent additions to this country’s protected lands, proclaimed to be so in 2014.

​Since the lighthouse was literally at the end of the road, we began there. Point Arena is not only the tallest lighthouse on the West Coast, but it is the closest point on the continental US to the islands of Hawaii. At about 2300 miles away, that’s about the same distance Tuck and I travel for our east coast adventures.

​The clouds of Oregon had followed us. While they stopped dumping on us, they still provided their character-rich heavy background to the sea and bluffs.

There were a few trails, but the open peninsula made it easy to see where I’d end up on any given trail. Being on a short timeline, I opted to extend my gratitude to having been to this place in this time, and then we headed back down the road to Strornetta, whose trails were unseen from the road and lent itself to the joy of discovery.
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Tucker quickly read up on the rules before entering.

Cows graze on this land, which is why you must keep the gates closed.

It is by far the prettiest cow pasture I have ever been to.

The rains from the night before still left their mark as puddles, but the land was so sandy there was little mud. It was more like puddles of seawater on a grassy, sandy beach.

The craters prove that land doesn’t always go all the way down; sometimes there is ocean beneath it (and maybe thereafter, turtles all the way down).

I had to wonder if the cows warned one another of this. I didn’t see a way they could get back up if they accidentally fell--even in the craters not filled with water.

Off in the distance, we could see the lighthouse we had experienced up close.

The first stream we came across was a little difficult, but not impossible to pass.

We carried on, enjoying all of Nature’s details.

​Even erosion was beautiful.

But then we came to the next stream, one not so easily passable.

Another couple was also trying to find a way across without having to take off shoes, hike up pants, and wade across. The stones made everything just a little more perilous. If you fell, the soft ground wasn’t going to catch you; the hard stone would break your fall—and you.
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With time running short anyway, I admitted defeat and we headed back across the pasture.

If you have ever seen the ads about California cows being happy, it’s because this is where they spend their days.

As we walked along the bluffs, the skies began to clear to give us that famed California sunshine.

The contrast of low hanging clouds to blue sky to green land and rocky cliffs was stunning. It was if California was reminding me that it was just as good—if not better—than its neighbor to the north.

It had a valid point.

Because Nature knows no boundaries.

I didn’t have to be in Oregon to experience similar ocean and bluffs and skies. And as the skies cleared, it was almost as if to say, “See, in California, the sun shines more often.”

​Definitely a point for California. I need to see the sun.

Tucker and I left the pasture and with still a little time left over since the stream had cut off our southern walk, we headed north toward the lighthouse along the road.

There we found the seal lions, sunbathing and lounging about.

Cows and sea lions have some of the best property on earth.

The sea lions had more of an ocean view, but the cows got the mountain view as well.

From skies to sea to mountains, this entire place was beauty.

But with the hour running short, we headed to the mountains to see the redwoods up close.

We arrived on time despite not having any cell phone service in town, and the address not existing in my decade-old GPS. It was off the beaten path, like a house I’d find down a dirt road out on Skyline Blvd.

Walking down the path to the main entrance building, we met up with the forest steward who showed us around the various trails and told us more about the property. I got to see a few of the resting places for those who had already been buried here. They were subtle, not like a tombstone, but just a small affair, the size of a maple leaf on the ground.
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There were a couple of trees I felt a connection to.

And one stump.

The stump’s sheer ancientness resonated with my soul, and when I thought of my ashes becoming a part of it, I began to tear up. I asked Tucker what he thought. He could take it or leave it.

It was at a crossroads, so I would get lots of people to come by, and it seemed fitting that I would lay my earthly remains at the crossroads, as that seems to be where I exist in life: helping foster dogs find their homes; showing up in lives of people who are finding their way... I’ve always felt like the camp host for life’s crossroads.

I couldn’t decide right then and there, as it was a big decision. There were no refunds. I could transfer to another tree in another forest if I wanted to, but that was it. Selling it (like one does with burial plots) was still not really worked out in the business structure for Better Place Forests.

I was able to place the stump on hold (which sounds super weird) to think on it. I had to consider if I really needed a destination funeral, if anyone would visit or even want to; or if I was isolating myself in death, as I often did in life. Unlike a state park, this forest wasn’t open to the public without an appointment. Freedom to move about is something I hold dear—even for others.
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So Tucker and I thanked the forest steward, and I pondered on the journey and our ultimate earthly destination as we headed down the mountain and south toward our next stop, San Francisco, to see our friends and to our city by the Bay.