Some hikes just stay with me long after my feet stop treading the soil, much like a book whose characters live within me long after I close the final chapter. Angel’s Rest is one of those hikes.

I knew it was a straight up climb, but it would be worth it. Having Fridays off instead of Sundays gives me the advantage of being able to do walkabouts when everyone else is at work. With some narrow sections of trail and a sheer drop off the cliff, I like lightly trafficked trails. It’s not that Tucker doesn’t like other dogs; generally he does. But dogs don’t naturally walk head on into one another unless it’s to start something. To avoid conflict, it’s best to walk in an arch toward another dog. But with a cliff on one side and a steep hill on the other, it’s tough to do that. Urban dogs who regularly walk narrow, busy sidewalks with dogs coming and going right next to them and headed toward them have lived their entire lives used to this. Tucker is not one of those dogs.
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So we were pleased to have to trail to ourselves. At one point a man in his 30’s with wild grey curls came up behind me with such stealth that Tucker and I missed him until he was only five steps behind us. Having like-minded trail-treaders who enjoy the silence is lovely, but it did give me a start.

The trail had a 1400 foot elevation gain in the 2.5 miles it would take to reach the summit. Luckily the beautiful weather (that prime 50-70 degrees) gave me an edge to make it up without dying. A dog with four separate heart issues and a middle-aged overweight woman in questionable health probably shouldn’t give this a go mid-summer. But the last week in October didn’t seem quite so risky.
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Around every bend and along every edge was a beautiful vista to behold.

Even when we weren't looking out over the river, there was beauty to behold within the forest.

​Every now and again, I’d look up to see how close the summit was, and was always surprised that it seemed so close and yet was so far away.

A couple coming down gave me some advise on finding the path once we hit the “field of boulders”. “Just go straight. There’s a human-shaped whole in the shrubbery—that’s where you need to go.”

“Human-shaped hole” made me wonder if at some point someone had crashed through like the Kool-Aid Man.
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I ended up not needing to find the hole, as two people were crossing the boulder field in my direction, so I merely headed toward them (because heading directly toward people isn’t the same thing as dogs heading toward one another). Then up we went again, to even more stunning views.

The peak was more of a rocky mesa with boulders to climb around on. I spotted one woman sitting in mediation on one of the higher boulders who I had seen at the parking lot. And as we came up over the ridge, there was the man with the wild grey curls. “Welcome!” he said with a smile, and I replied with thanks.

There’s something about being greeted at a summit with someone saying “Welcome” that adds to the magic of the moment.
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We walked on to the edge of the boulders. I could see on the app that this wasn’t the end of the trail. So we took some photos and headed into the shrubbery (no human-shaped hole to lead us). We finally came to the bench: the end point that is Angel’s Rest.

We sat for a spell, looking over the Columbia River Gorge and to Washington State. There are no states in Nature, no countries, no municipalities. All is one.

It appeared that there was a trail behind us, so Tucker and I ventured further than the little red line on the app told us to go.

It seemed we’d have to bushwhack through some rather defensive shrubs, so I called off the trek. On our way back, the man with the curly hair was headed our way.

“Is there a way back down through there?” he asked.

“I don’t see how it’s possible. Although someone mentioned there was another way by climbing up the hill from the boulder filed, so I imagine it gets you here.”

“That’s what I was told too, but I’m not seeing it. But it’s supposed to be a shortcut.”

“I don’t hike for the shortcuts,” I responded with a smile. “I hike to see and walk every inch of the journey!”
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As he headed into the violent shrubs, Tuck and I walked back to the edge to imbue the vista into our souls before heading back down—the long way around.

As we got to the boulder field again, the curly-haired man had caught up. We discussed where one might see this supposed trail upwards rather than through the “human-shaped hole”. We thought we spied the make-shift rail, where the smaller rocks had fallen away and it appeared a little more traversed. It looked mighty dangerous going up the steep incline. But he was up for it. As he leaned into the incline and started heading upward to the area without rocks, I yelled out, “Don’t die!”

To which he responded, “That’s my usual goal. So far, so good!”
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Tucker and I continued downhill, leaving the man to his own adventures. 

​Hiking is a lot like reading books. Despite being in the same place, each of our experiences are unique to us, and how we interpret them might be radically different. Yet, when we find one another on the same trail, as when we find someone who has read the same book as us, there is a connection. There’s an ease between us. I always know avid hikers compared to the tourists or first-timers as the avid hikers smile and say “Hello” when you cross their paths. They may even give words of advice, much like someone who has read a book will tell you, “Oh, no spoilers, but Chapter 11—WOW!”

And in this case they even greet you with a “Welcome”.
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Angel’s Rest is one of my favorite hikes, and while I probably won’t do it again while I’m here this time, I will revisit it. Like a well-stocked library of books, Oregon has a plethora of trails to explore, and I want to visit every one before I start to reread the classics.

For my birthday each year, I go in search of Autumn. My fortieth was most successful, as we took the short drive from Atlanta, Georgia to Asheville, North Carolina and I got the closest thing to a New England fall as I had had in half a lifetime.
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This year, I was already living in Autumn. This is the street I walk every day with Tucker for his neighborhood jaunt.

Clearly I needn’t look far to find Autumn this year. I had considered going to Silver Falls State Park, but since I had just been there the night before for the production I’m working on, the thought of driving another three hours round trip after waking up late wasn’t my favorite idea. Also, I learned that my faithful friend isn’t allowed on half of the main waterfall hike through Silver Falls. Apparently, the trails are so narrow (and cliffside) that for everyone’s protection, they do not allow dogs. Having been on a few stretches of such narrow trails, I appreciate the advice.

With Silver Falls off the list, I checked out anything else nearby. With overcast skies and rain imminent, I had to avoid possible flood-prone areas, and Tucker and I are both averse to hiking too long in the rain—especially during major downpours.

I found a quick hike only forty minutes away: Latourell Falls. While Multnomah Falls, just down the road from it, is the tallest in the state at 650 feet, Latourell’s 249 feet is nothing to scoff at. Given the less than ideal weather and that this was a "second choice" falls, I presumed there would be fewer tourists than Multnomah Falls and on any other bright and sunshiny day.

The parking lot proved my theory: very few people were out on this drizzly Friday, and there were no crowds to contend with. The bottom of the falls is actually right at the parking lot down a short trail. While this is kind of a bummer as I like to build up to the main event, it meant that after the falls, the trails would be wide open as those who came just to see the falls would not feel the need to walk any farther. 

The nice thing about a not-so-crowded tourist spot is that everyone assumes you are a tourist. And therefore, they are delighted to help you capture the moment. A kind gentleman asked if I wanted him to take Tucker's and my photo, and I happily said Yes. A birthday photo with my boy is a rare gift.

The man had incredible patience, as he took a number of shots, all of which bring me joy. Seeing Tucker and me moment by moment is actually a better portrait of us than just one in which we’re (sorta) both (sorta) looking at the camera.

Birthday photo done, we headed over the viewing bridge. Tucker did not seem terribly impressed and didn’t care to climb down into the rocks to get a closer view.

So we carried on along the narrow trail, having it all to ourselves since everyone got what they came for visually. They had no idea they were missing out on some spectacular fall colors and cool bridge above.

The trail took us out through a small neighborhood park. There, Tucker placated my need for a fun shot. It was too steep for him to get his front paws up, but I appreciate his effort.

We headed up into the forest, and as the climb took us higher, around every switchback was another view. The Columbia River and the autumn colors were vibrant and alive. No iphone or camera can truly capture the magnificence of Nature’s palette.

We found a little bench some way up, and it looked like the perfect Yearbook Photo place, so I asked Tucker to once more let me take a bunch of photos.

We tried for a shot under an enormous tree, but it was too muddy. Many of the trees here are ancient, and their energy and character are truly something to behold.

I didn’t realize we’d get to another falls (or perhaps, just the “upper falls” of Latourell Falls), so it was a lovely surprise some couple miles in.

It may not seem like much, but on heading farther down the trail, and having a human in the shot, one can see just how tall it is.

By the time we were started our descent, the clouds had had their fill and were about to runneth over. I slipped on Tucker’s rain jacket. While Tucker isn’t a fan of the rain, the jacket is more for me than him. His fur simply does not dry. A raincoat cuts down on the time I need to towel him off.

As we came back around the loop, we got one more look at Latourell Falls. The humans had dispersed; the rain was coming down steady now. Tucker wished he had come with a person who knew enough to already leave and wasn’t trying to get more photo ops. Wet ears and wet head is no fun for Tucker, as he clearly expresses.

So I took one more one more photo of the beautiful falls and we headed back to the truck for Tucker to dry off while I drove back home in the rain.

Being able to experience the beauty of the Falls and the River is an incredible birthday gift.

But sharing it with this guy is what made its indelible mark upon my heart.

Now for something completely different: No falls, very little forest, and a lot of open space. With Tucker’s disenchantment with the falls, I opted for an entirely different trail. I felt we had experienced a lot of the coast lately, so I opted to go inland. Powell Butte was touted as an excellent hike with wide open vistas and a bit of a forest trail. And of course, it was wildly popular. This meant I had to contend with humans-my least favorite element of any hike.

And contend with them I did before I even started. The parking lot is up a winding drive, and consists of three tiers of lots. All of them were full. And due to the roundabout-direction of traffic, you could be on the top tier while someone on the bottom tier exits, and not make it there before the next person up the hill snags the spot.

I didn’t want to give up, nor did I want the mile long uphill climb by parking at the bottom (which I saw a few enterprising folks doing). Instead I decided to exercise patience, and fifteen minutes later, someone left at the right time and I got their spot.
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At this point it was truly late in the day, and taking the forest route would have added some time to the hike, cutting it close to my deadline of sunset. In order to enjoy the hike and not be scrambling at the final moments like the hike was a game show, as I had done at Washington Park, I simply chose a different route—on purpose.

The beginning of the trail was wide open meadow, and despite it being October, Tucker was already panting a little. This was clearly not a mid-summer hike. At the Y in the road to go straight or head right to go down into the woods, we went straight. It was still covered by tree canopy, but it was more of a grove than a canopy. After leaving the grove, we were in wide open meadow again, as most buttes are. Being late in the day, it wasn’t terribly hot.

As we reached the center point, we came upon the main event: Mt Hood.

There truly is something about her. Every day on the way the work, as I cross the Ross Island Bridge, it is a surprise whether or not she shows. When she does, it is almost shocking: her energy and presence is so intense. Other times it’s as if she was never there, and clouds hover in the space where she should be. Sometimes it's a human versus technology battle that causes her disappearing act.

Today she stood in all her glory, and I tried to capture that intensity with a camera, but it just did no good. No matter how much I zoomed in, or how much I zoomed out, that intensity just didn’t come through in the digital print. How can I express how majestic she is? Mt Hood is forty miles from where I stood, and yet seemed to be right here on the hill with us while also being a mirage.

Legend has it that Mt Hood is Wy’east, who was in love with Loowit, the keeper of fire on the Bridge of the Gods. When he and his brother Klickitat (aka Phato) fought over Loowitlatkla, their father turned all three into mountains: Phato bowed his head as Mt Adams, Wy’east stood tall and confident as Mt Hood, and Loowitlatkla stood between them as Mt St. Helen.

Yet I have to say, the energy I feel from Mt Hood is not masculine at all. It is a powerful feminine through and through. Perhaps when St Helens erupted, she made her choice and joined Wy’east. Or perhaps Wy’East has always been the dominant feminine. Or maybe I'm just used to using a feminine pronoun with Nature's greatest works.

I eventually gave up trying to capture in print the elusive energy of Mt Hood, and we meandered across the butte to a spot to see the source of Wy’east’s love: Loowitlatkla in the form of Mt St Helens.

It’s bizarre to think that I was born before she erupted. We always think of volcanic eruptions has ancient history, and while I am on the mature side, I am certainly not yet ancient. The mountain was once 1000 feet above its current height. Lootwitlakla was true to her name "Lady of the Fire" and blew ashes and molten lava in such an explosive manner, her entire top crumbled down. That's what you get for locking up a lady in love.

Tucker and I took one more look at the separated lovers across the butte and then headed back down to the parking lot. Even from there, Mt Hood sparkled in the sunlight in all her majesty.

The energy of the mountain is palpable. There’s something about this place, this town, this stretch of land and sky that I feel is powerful and sacred. Its character and personality is authentic. And I feel connected to it. Perhaps we all do. I can’t put into words why I feel the way I do. There’s just something about that mountain…

As Tucker and I were heading back to the truck, I looked down rather up to the mountain and found that a favorite author of mine tried to put it into words for me:

More accurately, one touch of nature makes us remember that the whole world is kin. For we are all connected, from the ground to the sky and from seas to the mountains, we are one.

We got our ocean fix mid-week when we had to drive to the coast for work. Since we arrived after wrap, we had to find our crew at their hotels, making it a bit of a different adventure than I had expected. However, on the pleasant note, we got to revisit where we had spent Christmas 2015: Cannon Beach, Oregon.

After a quick jaunt on the sands, we took our lunch break, enjoying the sea breeze. When people ask why I don’t settle down and just take a job where I live or work from home, this is why. I get paid to be in places like this.

Since we had already traveled west for the week, on our day off we headed east. There is a little bit of me that still wants to hike the PCT with Tucker, but I know doing so is not in the cards. The entire length is 2661 miles. That's about what we do on a cross country road trip in a few days. Walking it is a different matter. Between his health issues and me just not being in good shape, it’s not the best of ideas. But much like the Appalachian Trail along the east coast, one can hop on and off the Pacific Crest Trail at various points.

​So Tuck and I hopped on for a short trek to Dry Creek Falls (which seems like an oxymoron of a name). The trailhead begins at the Bridge of the Gods, which is considered to be a major point along the PCT, where one crosses over from Oregon to Washington State for the final 500 miles.
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Tuck and I had our backs to the bridge as we started on the trail to the falls. Upward we went, and while there were no spectacular vistas to behold along the way, being held in the warm embrace of the forest was plenty satisfying to me. And of course, the waterfall at the end was spectacular.

I have to wonder if the spraying water, the tall rock walls of the amphitheater, the loud noise of the falls, and the overall general wetness make waterfalls like this an olfactory overload for Tucker. He didn’t seem too happy, with his tail down and ears back. But there was nothing unusual about the place. We even had it all to ourselves for a brief few minutes.

Maybe he was just tired from a long week, but since he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself, I took in the view and we headed back down to the Bridge of the Gods. 
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My general rule when it comes to activities with Tucker: whether it’s a walk in the neighborhood, an agility course, or human shenanigans (like dressing up for a calendar), if one of us isn’t having fun anymore, then we stop. It’s quite simple. Life is too short to willingly continue to do things we don’t enjoy. I know Tucker enjoys hiking; he just wasn't fond of this one. I can't say every hike has been five stars for me either, so maybe we just had a hike he wasn't in the mood for. And like the hikes that haven't been my favorite, I'll take the hike for the experience it was, and next time try something different. Not all paths are worth taking, but once on one, there's no regrets for every trail is part of the journey.

I always think I have drive far off to have an adventure. But the point of Portland was to not have to drive “away” just to get where I wanted to go: Nature. So, taking a neighbor’s advice to check out Washington Park, only seven miles from our Portland abode, we headed out in the afternoon for a short walk.
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The trail was supposed to be the Washington Park Loop, but after missing a right hand turn, we did our own thing.

The effect of going left rather than right cut out the Zoo, the Japanese Garden, and a few other of the more public, probably touristy areas. Evidently my subconscious knows where I want to be: deep in the forest. We ended up heading north rather quickly, and easily crossed the border from Washington Park to Hoyt Arboretum.

I had initially wanted to check out Pittock Mansion, which was supposed to have an excellent view of the city. However, looking at alltrails, I didn’t think I’d make it there and back by dark given our late start of the day. But with our abbreviated “loop” to a more like an a very thin oval, it appeared the mansion wasn’t that far away.

The most delightful thing about Oregon thus far is that we don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to go for a hike. We can meander through the morning, and then sometime in the afternoon head out for a walk. The temperatures are in our perfect zone: 50-70 degrees, even in mid-afternoon. That said, as winter approaches, it does get dark earlier and earlier.

We had till around 6:30pm, and as we came upon the trail crossing that read “To Pittock Mansion”, I took my chances. We could make it back in time.

It was a bit of a climb, but it meant it was all downhill on the way back. So up we went, through the woods. Up and up and across a road and up and up again. If Tuck and I could do Twin Peaks in San Francisco, we could certainly do this.

Much like Twin Peaks, while the hike up was pretty solitary, the landing point was quite busy. As usual, there was an easier, faster, and less sweaty way to get here. I always tend to choose the hard way.
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There, past the chain link fence and crowds of people was Portland proper.

And out beyond that, Mount Hood, one of the three sisters. She is magical, disappearing and reappearing at will. Sometimes twirling a ring of clouds around her like a dancer. Sometimes still and proper, taking in the sunshine and letting it glisten off her brightest whites.

Today she was unassuming, just there, as she always has been, long before man built bridges over the river that ran between us and her. There is something that keeps my eye on her at all times. She is captivating. But eventually, as the magic hour was approaching, I had to look away so we could make the descent back to our trusty steed who was napping at the base of the mountain.

There were many ways back, and I was having some difficulty figuring out which way would get us back before dark. I was trying to outrun the sun, as the sun lazily slid toward the horizon. It was winning. I was panicking.
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We stopped for a brief moment to catch a sight of Mt St Helens.

But I as tried to capture her image, I realized the sun had already slipped behind the trees, and we needed to get back soon. From the hilltop where we stood, I couldn’t seem to get my bearings on which way to go.

I stopped a couple who was coming up from one side and asked how to get back.

“You can’t miss it,” the guy said as I explained here I needed to go. He started to get into some pretty specific details on what I would see to find the right track. Finally his female companion broke in with, “You’re making it was may more confusing than it needs to be. Just head down this path, turn right, and you can’t miss it. You’re so close. Honest.”

I thanked her (and him, for his valiant effort) and Tuck and I headed across the lawn to the path they pointed to. Sure enough, only moments later, feeling rather stupid for not just trying, we found ourselves on the quickest path back to the parking lot.

Indecision is oftentimes has way worse of an outcome than the wrong decision. Especially in hiking, since really there are no wrong paths, just different ways to get to the same place. And as with all hikes and life, the point of doing it isn’t to finish but to experience and enjoy the every twist and turn of the journey along the way, always staying one step ahead of the darkness.

The alluring photos of Sitka Sedge State Park enticed me to take a drive back to the coast the very next weekend. A lake, the ocean, a forest, sand dunes: this place had it all.

But one thing I didn’t take into account was the weather. Despite spending almost all of 2021 where weather exists (like winter in Connecticut and summer in Georgia), being back on the west coast, I was suddenly in the Southern California mindframe: the sun shines every day. And while that is basically and scientifically true, it doesn’t show itself quite too often in Oregon. And much like Los Angeles, the land is transformed by the sky above.

We arrived under grey skies, but the thing about grey skies in Oregon is that it’s more of an immersive experience than just a change of lighting. You’re more “in” the clouds than below them. The color of the foliage and even the water, was muted by the grey above (and all around) us.
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We walked along the marshes first,

Then through the forest,

Then as if this was Christmas at Pismo Beach, we entered the dunes.

Eventually we made it to the beach.

The Pacific Ocean is right there. Honest. It is.

I’m sure the views are stunning when the clouds lift.

We returned on the back end of the loop to the lake, where again, had it been blue skies and sunshine, would have looked drastically different.

But this is what we saw.

Nothing wrong with it, just different. It proves that your perception isn’t just colored by your perspective but by everything around what you’re looking at. We don’t look at one thing; we absorb it all. I always wonder how Tucker perceives our hikes. He’s having an entirely different sensory experience than I am. The scents and the world he experiences I cannot even begin to imagine. For him, whether it’s cloudy or not, his imagery may not change. But with the rains, the scents take on new depths, and a breeze can scatter the smells in all directions.

Perhaps we shall return another time to experience this place under blue skies. Perhaps I will come with a different perspective as well, and the colors around me will change in light of it all.

With a good night’s rest behind us, the truck all packed up, and a 2pm appointment to sign the lease of our Portland home, Tucker and I headed to an oddly named trail: God’s Thumb via The Knoll.

There were some differing opinions on where to start the hike—all the way at the bottom that led through some streets, or closer to The Knoll, a hike that was just a stopping point on the way to God’s Thumb.

Given that it had been some time since we had extreme elevation gain in our walkabouts, I chose to get as far uphill as possible with our trusty steed before we hoofed it ourselves.

With a time commitment ninety miles away, I couldn’t lollygag through this hike, and I wanted time to enjoy the sights that took my breath away, not stop every five feet to catch my breath from the physical exertion of the climb itself.

It was as described: a straight up climb. Even my truck rested on an incline. As I came to the turn the Knoll, I relished the anticipation as we walked along the mostly flat narrow trail through the meadow.

The trail opened up to a wide expanse looking southward along the Oregon coast. The word “Knoll” didn’t do it justice.

We stayed and took it all in: the fog across the mountains, the clouds above the sea, the secret mountain lake beyond the trees.

And once we felt we had had our fill, we journeyed back into the forest to get to God’s Thumb.

Most was forest, up and down, not a consistent climb, but having already done a pretty steep hike, I worried a little every time we went downhill, wondering if I’d be able to make it back up at the end.

Once up and out of the treeline, we came to a group of hikers sitting on the grassy area overlooking the Thumb. I saw the quick descent downward which would then go up again like a rollercoaster to get to the top of the Thumb. I wasn’t sure I needed to do it, and with an appointment only a few hours away, I knew I wouldn’t be able to just run back up the hill.
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Just watching one person climb up made me hesitant--

—and seeing how tiny people looked from where I stood. The app was saying it was less than half a mile away, which on flat ground is like five minutes, and it looked like it was right there. But...

I turned to the group: “Have you guys gone out there?”

“No.”

“Nope.”

"Not this time.”

Everyone shook their heads.

“Just trying to determine if it’s worth it,” I said. I didn’t mention my fear of heights and being on a precarious pile of sand and rocks on the edge of the ocean might not be the best idea for me.

One member of the group shared a sage perspective. “I came to see God’s Thumb and I can see it from here. If I’m on it, I can’t see it.”

Valid point. Here it is. We had accomplished our goal.

I sat on the ground overlooking the Thumb and watched a few people disappear out of sight as they journeyed further. One person stopped and asked me if I knew if there was way to get to another cliff north of where we stood. Cross-referencing the actual landscape with my digital map, it certainly seemed there was, but I couldn't advise how to get there from here.

He asked if I had done the climb to the top of the Thumb. I answered that I wouldn’t be doing it; I was happy to enjoy the views from right here without any fear of slipping off the precipice into the rocky ocean below.

We stayed a little longer to take in the views and to give the hiking group a lead. For me, hiking is a solitary, spiritual experience (solitary with Tucker; he’s so much a part of me—or me a part of him—that I consider us singular). However, I do appreciate that for others it is a social occasion. I have had a few social hikes myself. But overall, I appreciate Nature without additional humans around.

We ventured down the mountain and took one more look from the Knoll before meeting back up with our trusty steed and racing back to the city. Lease signed on time and my heart at peace, we drove to our temporary lodging in a new neighborhood for us to explore: Woodstock.

Tuck makes himself at home wherever we go. Even if in this basement apartment that didn’t even have room for his crate.

I try to emulate his sense of ease in our travels. Perhaps because he’s not in charge of locating lodging, he can be a little more relaxed about it.
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For the next few days, between work and sleep we ventured around this neighborhood. One afternoon we even took the trails of higher learning. Reed College, just across the street, was more of a park than a campus. Having the city of Boston has my college campus, this was like a whole other planet.

In the first nine days in Oregon, we slept in three different beds, explored two different neighborhoods of Portland and a seaside town, worked seven of those days from various desks and couches at these temporary lodgings, and then finally got to settle into our longterm housing. Sometimes it takes a little while to find your place in life (and in Oregon), but that’s okay. Enjoy every twist and turn of the journey, knowing that each step brings you closer. And as long you don’t settle for what doesn’t seem right, you’ll eventually come upon exactly what you've been searching for: Home.

Back before hiking apps, my own sense of where a trail would lead me was in written description and maybe an old black and white photograph. I could only guess where I would end up, or what it would be like along the way. I went on the trail to experience the trail, not necessarily where the trail would lead. Although I always appreciated a sweeping vista or magical waterfall at some point.

Now I see photographs from crowd-sourcing apps before heading out and have detailed maps that track my every move and let me know if I’m off course. But there is no app for life’s many trails and paths. You just go along and if things get murky and difficult or the path becomes unclear, you just have to muddle through and keep on going. There’s no turning around on life’s trails.

After the past year and a half, with it’s mud, snow and ice (literally and figurative), I certainly didn’t expect life’s path to finally come across the trail that led to Portland. I had first heard the call of the Pacific Northwest in the early 1990’s. From the stories I had heard and the few visuals I could find, it was a place of untouched beauty, and Portland was a place of eccentric people who came to live there to be stewards of such beauty. I had heard of many a sci-fi and fantasy writer who made their home here, to listen to the wind and scribe the stories told upon the summer breeze.

So when I got the call for a little movie (with a general plot of  the perfect covid-compliant film I had been asking for since 2020) to go to Portland, Oregon, I couldn’t say No. I had finally come to the Oregon Trail (so to speak… and hopefully I wouldn’t die of dysentery before arrival).

But it appeared while I was ready to go to Portland, Portland wasn’t quite ready for Tucker and me. Searching for lodging for a couple of weeks was turning up nothing for the timeframe we needed. I changed the timeframe, hoping to get something maybe not so long or started later, and still nothing.

Three days before departure, I found an Airbnb that would at least get us till the next Saturday after arrival. I had hoped while in town, it would be easier to find a place.
Out Airbnb was a cute area of town. Much like San Francisco, Portland has various neighborhoods, each with its own personality. In the Sellwood district, dogs rode bikes and wore capes.

And people didn’t just lend out books here, but also rocks. With the right stone at the right time, anything is possible.

I probably should have borrowed a rock for some needed support on our quest for home. Because four days in, the possibilities were still nil. But I had to trust in the universe. The production office was also having trouble finding itself. I didn’t even have a location to dump my belongings or work equipment. I was circling the town without a landing place or even a place to parachute into.

The day before the end of our Airbnb, I contacted two more places. And Saturday morning, while taking Tucker for his morning walk before packing up the Airbnb, I received two calls back.

The first place was definitely in “the city”. The graffiti on the storefronts, the bars on the windows, and trash on the streets… I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t feel safe walking Tucker more than a block away. It was a cute house, but it wasn’t for us. So onto the next one.

The moment I rolled up to it, my heart leapt from my chest to embrace it. It had a Portland address, but was a little on the outskirts. The neighborhood was warm and welcoming, and the trees on the property made the house a home.

The owner showed me around the house, and the only thought in my head was, “I need to live here. This is our place.” The rent was the right price, but moreover, the place was the right place. I told him how much I loved all the trees, and he said he and wife bought this house precisely because of the trees. The wide windows and sliding glass doors, the deck, the firepit, the vegetable gardens, the fenced yard… it was my Portland home.  But he had other people interested in renting it--and for a longer term.

Without a moment's hesitation, I told him I’d give him a three month lease (even though at this point, I’d probably only need it for two). I wanted to stay to vacation here, so I put that card on the table. He said he’d get back to me.

So Tucker and I, now homeless (just another Portland experience), headed west for the weekend. If I had to pay for a hotel room, it might as well be some on oceanfront property, and we could do some exploring.

We were half way there when the owner called: he and his wife discussed it, and I seemed to be a good fit. I was elated. Tuck and I had a home! And it was THE home. But we couldn’t get in for four more days. Every cleaner in town was booked till then.
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So be it. With our Portland long term home ready, Tuck and I went to greet the ocean.

Unfortunately, with our late start due to checking out housing, we missed low tide so our beach adventure was cut a little short.

But all was well. We could get a good night’s rest, look for some short term lodging, get up early, and do a long hike in the morning before heading back to town to sign the lease.

However, even the coast wasn’t ready for us. After an hour in the truck calling various hotels, I finally found one half an hour away. It was a hundred dollars more than I wanted to spend. I asked the woman if it was an incredible place with a beautiful view and she said, “I’d like to say that, but I’m not going to lie. It’s just a hotel room overlooking the parking lot.

I had to take what I was given. Trails don’t come to an end; they keep going as long as you put one foot in front of the other. It may not be the prettiest footfall, but if the earth is stable, it'll hold you.

While the price wasn’t ideal, it was a clean, safe place to stay. And Tucker got a gift bag, so he wasn't complaining.

There was a pizza place right next door, so I could easily get food (they even brought it outside since I couldn’t go inside with Tucker), and best of all, despite us having a view of the parking lot from our room, the ocean and sunset were just a block away.

Our first week had been a bit tumultuous, but like every trail, if you just keep going, eventually the terrain and the view will change. So we kept going. Now that we had a homebase locked in and a short term airbnb lined up to carry us through a few more nights, we could get to some real exploring. The Oregon Trail may end in Oregon, but it's only so a vast more array of trails can begin.

I’ve always been one to focus on beginnings, not endings. I remember people’s birthdates, not their death dates. I know the first day I arrived somewhere or first day of a job; not the last day or the day I leave.

But 2020 was a year like no other—literally, like no other in the course of human existence, not just for me but for everyone on the planet. So I felt that this time, just this once, there needed to be a special commemoration for making it through the year, for grieving the losses, accepting the suffering, and truly having closure on such a year.
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And so Tucker and I returned to the coast, this time to Coronado Butterfly Grove (80 miles south of the last grove, but with the same expectation of not seeing any butterflies). We had walked Ellwood Mesa previously and touched upon this preserve in our meanderings then. But this was a purposeful walk, through the grove, along the mesa, to watch the sun go down on this year.

The entrance was an unassuming sign post on the side of the road in a neighborhood where kids played in their driveways and airplanes flew overhead. Tuck was excited to get out (I have no idea how he knows what we’re about to do; or maybe he’s just excited to be doing anything).
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Up over the ridge, the trail led downward again though the eucalyptus grove. Walking through the woods, we then veered westward toward the ocean.

We were back on the mesa, trekking across the open meadow, with the sounds of the ocean far ahead of us.

I wanted to make the most of our walk while not retracing too many steps. The trail system was vast, and you could cut across in a number of ways. I headed south then west then south then west until we reached the southern border of the preserve at the cliff’s edge overlooking the beach.

​Seeing the wooden fence, I recalled that we had come this way along the beach on our Ellwood Mesa hike. Now we weren’t going down to the beach, but staying on the bluff for our walkabout. I had arrived with at least two hours for walking before sundown so we could stroll slowly, enjoying every view.

There was even time to stop and play in the trees.

We walked away from the ocean a bit and re-entered the forest to get more walking in and to see it from a new perspective.

Then we returned seaside in a shorter loop to find our spot along the cliff’s edge and enjoy the magic hour.

The sun hung low on the horizon, and I watched a person playing with their dog, kicking a ball back and forth as the dog chased it and ran back. I sat with my canine companion watching another canine with their human companion.

As I witnessed the sun dip beneath the horizon, I came to the realization that I’d been looking at it all wrong. This sunset wasn’t the sun going down one more time this year; it was just the continual turn of the earth. The earth didn’t stop spinning. The sun doesn’t move; we do. We keep going no matter what. And in that turning, in that constant motion, we carry with us the losses and the suffering, as well as the joy and the hope.

Tucker lost two of his friends this year. Harlowe was his very first friend, the dog who taught him to be a production dog, to be a traveling dog, how to be a friend to other dogs and how to play nicely. He was patient with Tucker and he learned all sorts of dog stuff I will never truly understand. We were blessed to be on location with Harlowe in different cities around the US over the years and even take an agility class together in our home base of Southern California. While we hadn’t seen each other a long while, Harlowe has influenced Tucker growing up, and plays a frequent role is so many of our favorite memories of our travels.

And we lost Pete this year. Pete, who was Tucker’s best friend, his brindle brother from another mother, Pete and Tucker have been buddies for the past three years though it always seemed they may have been soul brothers long before time began.

During our Los Angeles isolation, Pete and his people were the only ones in our social bubble. We walked with them once or twice a week during the summer, and they came over and hung out on my deck; the humans drank wine and chatted, the boys played or napped, or chatted among themselves. Tucker still doesn’t know that Pete is gone; he only knows that Pete and his people don’t come around anymore. We hope one day they will again. But seeing Tucker not being with Pete is just too painful for them right now.
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Tucker and I have lost loved ones this year. But we still have each other. We still keep moving forward, keep turning as the earth does. We carry with us in our hearts those who are no longer by our side. I am ever grateful to still have Tucker by my side, in the back seat, on my lap, next to me on the couch, and in every frame I view of this world.

It has been a dark year, but because of that, the stars have shown even more brightly. We pluck them from the sky and keep them in our pocket, to bring them back out when we need them to guide us.
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I am looking forward to seeing what this next turn of the earth brings, what we do during it, and how our lives evolve and change. Tucker and I send our love to all those grieving their losses from this year. May you find peace and closure, and may you have found joy and triumphs in moments along the way. We carry all that with us long after the sun goes down and we keep on turning.

In memory of Harlowe and Pete. Thank you for being our friends. We miss you by our side, and carry you in our hearts forever more, wherever we go.

Tucker and I don’t have any real true holiday traditions for Christmas because we never know where in the world we will be. The only thing that is consistent is that we begin Christmas morning with a hike. I consider Nature to be my church, so it is my version of church service.

I usually head to the woods, and the redwoods is of course my favorite. However, being far from their natural habitat, and knowing that no other woods would give me equal pleasure, I opted to expand my church service to the sea.

We had done just about every beach and bluff around the 100 mile range away. Since it was a holiday, I thought we may be able to travel just a little bit further given even less traffic on Christmas morning. Pismo Beach looked to have the craggy outcroppings and dramatic cliffs I love, so at 180 miles away, we packed up and headed north beyond our usual beach and bluff haunts.

The hikes at Pismo were mainly beach walks, and most reviewers said that north of the campground featured RVs and roads and wasn’t anything to write home about. I wanted to check out the Monarch Grove, which seems like the half way point from south to north, so rather than starting at the Monarch Grove, I started at the southern point of the hike and headed north to the Monarch Grove figuring we could go further if it seemed interesting. But it wasn’t what I expected. Mainly because I had arrived not at Pismo Beach, but at Oceano Dunes.

Surprisingly, the booth to the California state park was actually manned (or, I should say wo-manned). I was a tad confused because the parking lot to the right was not after the booth, and there didn’t seem anywhere to go once I passed the booth. She saw the confusion on my face.

“Sorry, where do I park?” I asked.

“It’s $5 if you want to park on the beach, otherwise you can park right there,” she said pointing at the paved lot on the other side of the fence. “That’s free.”

“Why would I want to park on the beach?” I mumbled, thinking I had asked it internally, and thanked her, telling her the paved parking lot was just fine. It wasn’t that $5 was too much to spend; I just didn’t think taking my two-wheel drive truck onto sand was something I needed nor wanted to do.
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The paved lot only held a couple dozen cars, and there were plenty of empty spots.
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I had expected a bluff based on the photos people had posted, but perhaps that was in the north campground. Here, Oceano Dunes was aptly named.

From the compacted sand beach, we walked toward the ridgeline and discovered that it wasn’t a cliff but of course, a dune.

Thereby, the hike north wasn’t actually along a bluff, but through sand dunes. Each foot fall took us upwards of 6 inches deep in sand. I imagine it was rougher for Tucker who had less surface area to stay afloat. We both needed snowshoes.

A mile in, Tucker had had enough. He just came to a full stop and lied down in the sand.

I have to say, it wasn’t a bad place to be stranded with all the beauty around us. I sat down as well, and took in our surroundings while we both rested. The sand was powder soft, and almost dusty as I lifted it up and let it fall back onto the ground. I dug a little in, and felt the cool sands invigorate my fingers. Always Go Where the Dog Takes You, even if it’s stopping for a spell—you won’t be disappointed.

It was another mile and a half to the Monarch Grove, and while I enjoyed the beauty of the dunes, I was relieved for Tucker to hit solid ground again. He had to take a couple more breaks before we hit the pier, and I was worried I might wear him out before Christmas Day was even a quarter over.

There was a wooden plank bridge for a bit of the walk on the way to the Monarch Grove, but once we started seeing more people, we hopped off and and took to the sands. It wasn’t dune-like this time, and we made the walk with ease along the golf course boundary.

As we approached the switchback up the tiny hill to the Monarch Grove, a man walking down said without prompting, “In years past there were butterflies everywhere. But you can only see a few flying around today.”
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Thanks to his words, I had zero expectations. The website had photos of butterflies hanging off trees like bunches of bananas; now I was aware to not expect that. Perhaps the butterflies were being socially distant too. Only a few flew up near the tree-tops.

We took our photo at the Monarch Grove sign just to prove while monarchs might not have been there, Tucker and I had been.

Walking back across the dunes didn’t seem like an option given Tucker’s and my fitness level. So we meandered over to the beach side of the park and took a seat upon the dune to watch the beachgoers. (I watched, Tucker napped.)

The northern end didn’t look any more different than what we had already experienced, so I figured we’d walk back along the beach where the sand was compact enough for us walk on without difficulty. 

​It was, after all, compact enough for cars. Now that it was later in the day, I finally grasped the “parking on the beach” concept. People drove on and just parked right there at the waves, got out and went swimming, or had a picnic, or played a game.

Tucker and I walked southward, for the most part staying out of the way of the tire tracks that seemed to determine an unofficial roadway for motorists.

Tide was low, so in the compact sand there were pieces of sea debris strewn about: shells, rocks, seaweed… and surprisingly, I found two full sand dollars.
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I generally don’t take anything from nature. I leave every pine cone, every stone, every shell right where Nature placed it in her art exhibit. But for some reason, I was compelled to take these two. There were plenty of them smashed in across the tide line, but these two, found a few yards apart, were whole.

It wasn’t until I got back to the truck that I learned exactly what sand dollars are: sea urchins. And I also learned that it’s illegal to take them if they’re alive. A moment of panic struck me as I frantically tried to determine if I had mistakenly kidnapped two very much alive sea urchins.

From the descriptions online and the white beings in front of me, the panic ceased as I concluded these were indeed dead.

In all my life, having seen sand dollars for sale in shops and I think there was one in parent’s house (I have a vague recollection of shaking one and hearing the little pieces inside), I guess I always considered them to be fossils. Or shells. Or rock. I never thought of them as skeletons or just a deceased body.

Looking at videos of alive ones, I also concluded that I had never seen one not dead. I had never seen a deep purple, fuzzy-bottomed sea urchin making its way across the sand. I was relieved to not have damaged the eco-system but still felt guilty for taking something from the beach. I couldn’t take them back now. It seemed too late, sitting in the truck, the two sand dollars in my center console cup holders. I tried to rid myself of the guilt, and be delighted with the magic that I had actually found them.

Turning my attention to an encore hike, I searched a little online for those dramatic cliffs and rocky beaches I had yearned to see this Christmas Day and had not seen thus far.
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A quick search brought up a walk along the cliffs only a few miles north, so Tucker took a quick nap while I drove us from the beach to… well… another beach.

The parking lot wasn’t for the beach but for some cliffside tennis courts. There was a path behind the adjacent hotel that seemed to be where we could find walk along and gaze out over the cliffs. I figured we’d do a quick a walk, and then hop back in, my fix taken care of, and we’d be done.
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The sightline was exactly what I had been after today.

Tucker had look through bars to see it, but he didn’t seem to mind.

We even saw some interesting rock formations on this side of the fence.

I let Tuck sit in the hotel chairs too… cause, why not? He sits in chairs everywhere else.

And then, to my surprise, as we came to the end of the fence, I noticed a set of stairs with a “Beach Access” sign next to it. Tucker and I approached, and while it was a bit of a ways down, I didn’t think we’d have a hard time getting up later.

So down we went.
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And there it was: the cove and dramatic cliffs, and amazing rock formations time and water had created.

Tucker had a rough time on the sands. Unlike Pismo’s powdery soft sand, this was hard and completely covered in shells and rocks. After his five mile walk, his feet were already sore. I tried to find some sand sans sharp pebbles and shells, so we could walk along the water’s edge.

We were able to find some smooth rocks to walk upon and explore.

​I saw a bit of sand that didn’t look too rocky and headed up the beach to sit on some rocks and just be still a few moments.

Tucker took this moment to rest as well, happy to be off his feet for a little while.

I took in the sea, the cove, the sun, the rocks, and my precious little boy resting. Time is all we really have here, to enjoy, to love, to be. The three hour drive wasn’t wasted time. It was time with my dog, and the experience of driving up the coast. And it was time to see more of this planet with my best boy.

We stayed for a spell, walked about, and then as sunset would soon be coming, we trekked back to our trusty steed for the three hour ride home. Those three hours were for talking to family and friends, wishing them a Merry Christmas, hearing about their Christmas Day (which, for most on the east coast, was coming to a close), and reconnecting with humans again.
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Disengaging from humans to be in nature is what I need to recharge. Being isolated has been difficult this year as I love being away from humans—but only in nature. Being alone in my own house in the city… that doesn’t feel right. That’s for social time. But once in nature, the lack of humans puts life in perspective. Both Tucker and I enjoy people (Tucker probably more so because he gets belly rubs and treats from them, whereas it would be weird if I did) but we need balance too-away from humans to remember what life is all about.

When we returned, I cleaned off the sand dollars, and set them down on the counter just to make sure they wouldn’t suddenly walk away. While Tucker had his Christmas Dinner, I set out his gifts and fired up the heater in the fireplace.

I made sure to get in our 2020 Christmas photo, which Tucker kindly obliged wearing a scarf.
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Usually I only have Tucker open one or two gifts to play with the toys, and then the rest he gets throughout the next few weeks. But instead this time, I just let him have at it.
So about ten minutes after this was taken…

This was our living room:

(Shirt is care of his Aunt Carolina, who also got him a turtleneck sweater for his winter travels… and so he could fit in at any beatnik poetry reading he might be attending in the near future.)

I still contend dogs shouldn’t wear clothes—unless it’s for practical reasons (ie, a raincoat, or in this case a sweater if it’s cold). Tucker didn’t seem to mind, but he’s used to putting up with my shenanigans while he’s enjoying some other activity—like destroying his new toys, ripping open bags of treats, and hiding his presents under wrapping paper and shredding paper again.

Intrinsically, no one day is any more special than another. It is us who assign meaning to a day, and it is us who create and manifest the magic that make it special. Venturing in the dunes, driving along the coast, and ripping open gifts doesn’t need to be done just on December 25th. We could do it any day or every day. But doing it on Christmas, as the year comes to a close is just a reminder that we can do that. We can infuse magic into every day. We can make any and every moment special. Life is one day at a time, and while this year has made each day blend together and those special activities be less frequent, this Christmas is proof that every day is special when I get to spend it with my boy.

Merry Christmas one and all. May you all find magic in your every day.