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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tucker politely bowed in front of all the gifts.

​Then lowered his head in thanks.

​And then the undoing began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every forest has a feeling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​I wondered why one trailhead was called Seagraves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​But looking north, there was only the wilds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​Walked in streams,

​Knocked on Fairie Doors,

​Went to a carnival,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People should be careful when making a sweeping metaphor. For instance, stating that Panthertown Valley in North Carolina is the “Yosemite of the South” is pretty bold and should be backed up with some pretty solid evidence.

I did not find that evidence.

Not that I’ve ever been to Yosemite.

So perhaps I’ve set Yosemite standards too high. Or perhaps in the Ven diagram of the two, I simply hadn’t hiked far enough to reach the overlapping circles and was way off to the left, wondering what all the fuss was about.

Now please understand: Nature is always something to fuss about. I look forward to every footfall that doesn’t involve manmade pavement, and I appreciate the details of beauty that make up every glorious vista. But when you hear that something should be the likes of Yosemite…

I have been to the “Grand Canyon of the South” and having been to the western one, I can see the comparison. Certainly it was not miles upon miles of caverns etched through time and looking like a painting from the south rim, but it was a pretty cool canyon on a small scale in southeastern United States. I was impressed and entertained.

I will blame my disappointment of Panthertown Valley on my own expectations for Nature never disappoints, but I disappoint myself quite often. And I clearly had some pretty high expectations.

Tucker and I set ourselves up in a cabin in Fairview, North Carolina, just south of Asheville. On our first stop on our back-to-California-the-long-way-around trip, we had three full days to hike, write, explore, and rest. Panthertown Valley had gotten such excellent reviews, I chose that as our first hike. With concentric loop trails, we had the opportunity to go long or go short around the valley. We chose to start long, and ended up short.

The lower trailhead was located half way back to Georgia, but I didn’t mind the drive. The upper trailhead would take just as long to get to and it would involve having to get back up the hill once our explorations were done. I always like to start at the bottom so that the way home is downhill.

​This is a valley of waterfalls. We had plenty to choose to from, so I planned a route that would hit as many as possible.

​The first was Schoolhouse Falls. It reminded me of any other falls you’d see in Georgia or North Carolina. It was quiet with only a few people wading into the shallow, rocky waters.

Continuing along the trail, there were little sandy beaches.

And the canopy provided shade along the shale-lined trail.

​Near the pinnacle of the trail (the upper trailhead) was an overlook. Tucker and I managed up the steep incline and took a sit for a spell. Those rocky faces on the mountainside is what makes my heart melt for North Carolina. That dichotomy of soft mossy top and sheer hard, solid surface are beautiful to me.

​Even where we sat was ancient rock, accessorized here and there with a tuft of grass.

After enjoying the view, it as time to head back toward home on one of the loops that would take us downhill again. We would not go all the way to the upper trailhead.
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I chose the almost-upper loop and down Tucker and I went back under the brambles.

The trail led to rocky slope and there… there I lost the trail. While Tucker often senses the right path, he sometimes does not. We tried my way then his way, then circled back. Here’s what ultimately happened:

The “trail” we had both missed was an almost straight down dirt path with tree roots as the only steps. There was a lot of holding onto trees (always asking their permission and requesting assistance.) If this is what Yosemite is like, then sure, it’s like Yosemite.
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I prayed this was the right way because there was no way we would be able to get back up it. This was what it was once it leveled off:

​Much to my surprise, I finally heard the sound of water and the trail led us to a place we saw a waterfall below. There was a man fishing, along with a woman and her two dogs.

​We stopped for a moment to enjoy the spray from this tucked away tiny private waterfall. It was only big enough for a few people.

We bid them farewell and continued on, the trail following the stream. Although it was hard to find, we came across a few spurs that led us to the water.

The only thing better than seeing a river on a hike is being able to stand in the middle of it without getting wet.

After our precarious jaunt downhill to get to Wilderness Falls, and the steep slope we continued going down, I opted to not take the wide loop back to our trusty steed, but took a shorter route.

But once again, we missed a turnoff… or took a turnoff that wasn’t a trail. It’s hard to tell, but here’s what happened:

​Eight miles from the start, we arrived back at the parking lot, ready for a long nap. Maybe the view isn’t Yosemite but the backcountry challenge is. I can’t say. Tucker and I will just have to check out Yosemite for ourselves… although there’s not much for us to check out. Dogs are allowed on paved roads and on two hiking trails. That’s it. So I guess we’ll have to accept this as our Yosemite adventure.

For our last foray into the Georgian wilderness, I chose Blood Mountain, a rather dramatic title, but probably aptly named. The thing about the south is that there’s a lot of human history here; a lot of blood spilled in the soil. To offset the rather macabre mountain, our destination was a bit more optimistic: Preacher’s Rock.
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The story goes that in the late 1800’s a preacher used to come up here to practice his sermons. Since I consider all of the wild to be my church, I felt that going to the practice pulpit of a like-minded soul seemed a fitting conclusion to our southern tour.

​The trail upwards was reminiscent of the next stop on our journey: North Carolina. The rocky footholds in the trail and peek-a-boo views always make me feel like I’m back in the Blue Ridge Mountains. But we were only eighty miles north of Atlanta in the Chattanooga National Forest, near the tail end of the Appalachian Trail.

​Although listed as heavily trafficked, the mile walk up to Preacher’s Rock had only a few people on it. It seemed like it might rain, so perhaps that kept this congregation to a minimum today.

Arriving at the top, we stepped through the canopy of trees and bushes flanking the trail to the open rock as if we had stepped through the curtains of the wings and were not center stage. Except it wasn't us who was the main event; it was the audience of mountains as far as we could see.

The preacher had found his pulpit.

As Tucker and I looked out across the rolling hills, the grey clouds started to roll in and hang low, ready to burst at any moment. A family we were sharing the rock with were off to our left, and I heard the father say, “We have about half hour to forty-five minutes before the rain starts. We should head back down.” He was looking out at the clouds.

“How do you know that?” I asked, expecting some Boy Scout meteorology.

“The app on my phone,” he said almost questioningly as if the only other option to the knowledge would be through psychic ability.

I smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t see you look at that. I just heard you.”

His wife and I laughed. “What did you think I did?”  He licked his finger and put to the wind. “Hmm… yeah, about thirty-seven minutes.”

​Despite his app’s warning, Tucker and I bid the family farewell so we could keep walking up into the mountains. I feel safer walking under the trees in a forest than driving on the interstate in my truck during a sudden Georgia downpour. This tree seems to feel safe walking through the forest too.

​Along the trail were offshoots that led to camping areas. One of my favorite places I deemed “Vicar’s Rock”—not quite as open of a view as Preacher’s Rock, it seemed the perfect spot for pastors in training to practice their own sermons.

Evidently it was also a great place to camp.

​Around the rock was soft, cool grass that Tucker took to lying on. It was a peaceful and quiet place.

​We continued on further down the trail, but with no real goal in sight, we eventually turned back to sit and enjoy Vicar’s Rock and then back to Preacher’s Rock.

Nature doesn’t adhere to state property lines—or any property lines for that matter. It didn’t matter that I was in northern Georgia and not North Carolina. This was still my church. It's the biggest church on earth, diverse and expansive, and these little known pulpits are worth every step to get to them to hear what Mother Nature has to say.

While our trusty steed had her own much-needed spa day,Tucker and I took to the woods. The auto detail place was nice enough to give us a lift—and even pick us up later—to a park I had wanted to explore for some time. Tribble Mill Park is in Lawrenceville, a town only a few block away from the town the auto detail place is in, and according to my research, had BSL. It wasn’t a full out ban, but it did deem that pit bull type  looking dogs had to wear a muzzle at all time in public.

When Qwinnett Humane Society was going to hold their annual fundraiser within Lawrenceville city limits, I contacted them about this ordinance. I was wondering if the ordinance was not applicable for that event, or if maybe it had been revoked and I just couldn’t find it.

No explanation was given, but I was told told that Lawrenceville had no BSL requiring that certain dogs where a muzzle.

Although they are not the animal control agency, I felt I had some backup in an email if approached and told I was violating a law. So I took the risk. If the local animal rescue agency didn’t know about the law, and the city didn’t know, it must be pretty obscure. And the penalty was simply a fine if it was enforced.
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I’m so glad I took the risk. Tuck seems pretty happy with my decision too.

​We were dropped off at the entrance, (‘Your are Here”) and we walked only a matter of feet before hitting a path around a lake.

Unfortunately, the rest room I was in desperate need of was a mile walk away--on the other side of the lake. I now understood how Tucker feels when I don’t pick up his cue that he needs to go to the bathroom. We were ironically in the exact opposite situation. He, with his endless choices of places to defecate right now, and I, the human, on a uncomfortable walk through the forest to a man-made building to do my business. I was quite close to going in the woods, but I had no Kleenex, the forest cover wasn’t terribly thick, and I wasn’t familiar enough with the park to know sightline and where some child might just come bouncing through the woods off trail.

So while the first portion of our hike was not the least bit enjoyable for me, once I got relief, I began to enjoy my surroundings.

Being stuck in a office five or six days a week with no windows drains my soul. This day would fill it back up again.
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The soft earth and shaded paths we walked along took us to a lake with a wide grassy area to walk along. If Tucker had perfect recall, I would have let him off the leash to see him bound a quarter mile down the lane.

​The journey on this path was diverse. 

​The trail veered south around the edge of the lake and returned to forest once more. The lake and woods was home to many who were enjoying this Friday afternoon. A family of turtles spotted us just as I spotted them and quickly dropped into the water like SCUBA divers off the edge of a boat. Two remained, and then just one as we passed in front of them on the trail.

It was hard to believe I was so close to the city. I couldn’t hear traffic. I couldn’t see car. It was just a lake in the woods, as remote as the lake in the Santa Cruz mountains Tucker and I had visited in March.

While we walked the secluded edge of the lake, a great heron (not sure if was an actual Great Heron, but it sure was great to me) made its graceful landing into the shallow end. We kept our distance so as not to disturb this beauty, but felt blessed to witness its descent and could have stood watching it all day long.

Someone had placed a swing in on little outcropping toward the lake. Here we stood for a moment, enjoying the peaceful serenity of the open, still lake. While we had encountered benches along the way, this was the first hanging seat.

When we were about to leave, a grand blue dragonfly alighted on a tree branch in front of me. I nodded a hello and asked if I could take his picture (after telling him how beautiful he was of course.) He obliged, but I could not capture his true glory with my piddly phone.

​We walked back to the trail and continued on our flora and fauna tour. The trail took Tucker and me out into the woods, and onto the perimeter of another lake. Since we were on the far side of the park away from boat launches and picnic pavilions and even children's’ park, we had the trails to ourselves except for a few runners. It was just us, the trees, and the creatures who call this place home.

​As the day grew to a close and we had circled back almost to our original drop off point, the path turned back to pavement. There, we sat on a bench, reading and being still.

Movement is good for the soul, letting your energy out to affect to the world around you. But being still and open gives the universe a chance to respond.

It is here, in the woods, that I not only speak to nature, but it talks back, and we engage in the grand conversation about life, love, and all the beauty the universe holds.