It’s hard to believe we’ve been holed up here at our basecamp in Southern California for nine months. And in all that time, I haven’t written of our adventures. Not that there were many. But now that we come to the end of 2020, I’m looking back at pictures and realizing we did find some moments of joy in this, we did have take some time in nature, and eventually, while nothing will ever be the Bay area, we did find some beautiful bluffs to walk along and some sandy beaches to explore. And that's worth sharing.
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So here is the first of a few places we found along the way to spend our isolation and how we arrived at them…

Hiking in Southern California is limited by the seasons—at least for Tucker and me who don’t do physical activity well when it’s over 80 degrees. Our return in April meant we only had a couple of months before the heat would set in and we would be done with hiking till fall. I suppose we could have hiked between the hours of 4am and 6am, but that’s rather unrealistic given that we know ourselves and that we only see those hours if still up from the night before.

I had been optimistic when this all began. I encouraged people to go out and about in the wilds; to find themselves in nature. But then I figured out that most people, sadly, don’t respect nature if they’ve never been in it. I never realized there was etiquette to be observed. But once the woods and wilds became the one place anyone was allowed, everyone went. Which resulted in the worst consequence: Los Angeles closed nature.

Luckily at the end of April, just one county over where there were far fewer people and even fewer people infecting others, people were allowed to be nature. They adhered to the logical rules of being in nature: not littering, being quiet, going alone or with one other person, and being respectful. They also adhered to the new corona-virus norm: staying at least 6 feet (but preferably 6 miles) from any other human, and if close contact was required, wearing a mask. So Nature was open for recreation there.

However, they encouraged people to not stray far from home. Only go to nature you can walk to. Do not drive. To discourage this, they closed the parking lots. If you know anything of the car culture in Southern California, you know that lack of a legal parking space does little to deter people from driving or parking.

San Francisco Open Spaces had used a different and wholly effective strategy: they merely reduced the number of spots in the parking area and added barriers along the roadside to make it impossible to park unless you were lucky enough to get one of the prized spots in the lot. This kept people out. Ventura, on the other hand, closed the safe parking lots, but left open the precarious roadside (which was also cliffside in the mountains) for which one could park and walk down to the trails.
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I did not know this was the situation until I arrived, but like any good Southern California driver, I did not let a closed parking lot stop me. After all, it distinctly said the trail was open… just the parking lot was closed. There was not a single house within ten miles. I’m not sure who they expected would be trekking through without a vehicle. Or if this was a sort of like the stop smoking campaign that was really “Cigarettes are still legal, but you can’t smoke them anywhere” tactic. “You can hike here—but only by hiking TO here.

*Note, sign blocking parking lot says the park is closed Friday 2pm till Monday 6am. We took this photo at 11am Tuesday.*

I chose Circle X Ranch trail because not only was it legal to hike there, but it featured a waterfall. I wasn’t sure if we’d be able to hike to it, but seeing water on any hike in Southern California is kind of magical.

The trail was narrow, but we only passed three people—all of which (including me) put up our masks as we passed—after we smiled and said Hello of course. These were regular hikers. They were silent while walking, but shared pleasantries with those they saw.
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To be out in the wilds was spectacular after a whole month of being where the vast majority of land is concrete and the only naked earth nearby was off limits.

It didn’t feel particularly warm, but Tucker took to the water when it crossed our path. He sampled it first, determined it to be of adequate taste, and lay down in it. ​

At the closed campground and parking lot.
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It gave Tucker the opportunity to sit on places I never let him—like on tables. 

And it offered us a rest in the shade. It wasn’t terribly warm, but the climate was decidedly different from San Francisco, where we had been hiking regularly for five months.
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I still hadn’t seen the waterfall, and decided we’d keep hiking till I could see it. I didn’t think Tucker would collapse from heat exhaustion, and I’d brought an umbrella to provide shade from the sun for him.

We walked back to the stream, ​

I’m always hesitant to do any hike in which we are forced to go uphill on the walk back. I like to get the hard part out of the way. But with only 300 foot elevation change, I hoped we could do it—even with taking a month off since out last natural expedition.
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About a quarter mile away from the stream, I looked back and there it was. That stream we had crossed was the top of the waterfall. The placid pool gave no indication that it was a masterful cascade only a short bit down the canyon.

​It’s hard to really understand how tall this waterfall is, as the mountains around them are staggeringly large. We had only dipped down 300 feet from the roadside (above and out of frame) to where we stood, and the waterfall itself continued downward several hundred more feet.

Back at the top of the waterfall, Tucker lay again to cool off, but then remembered he hates being wet. Looking rather ridiculous like a footman from the 1800’s carrying a parasol for a royal princess, I followed Tucker, holding the umbrella between him and sunshine. ​

The overcast skies of the Bay were not here, and while Tucker enjoys a good sunbathe, he cannot do strenuous experience under its powerful rays. Heeding to the limitations of my partner, I succumbed to the reality that our hiking season was over—and it was only the end of April.  Without trails being open closer to home, it seemed like the universe had aligned for us to find new activities until the weather cooled off and nature was legal again—or we both learned to get up before dawn. The latter seemed impossible.
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But we’d find a way. Because nature is where we need to be to feel whole again. And it was going to be a long season ahead.

Ages ago, I had this dream for my life in which I would make movies for six to eight months out of the year, and then return to New England to work in theatre for the summers. While the dream was planted, what sprouted wasn’t quite that.

What grew to fruition is a life in which I work in movies six to nine months out of the year, and spend the rest of time hiking, writing, and involving myself in rescue in some way.  While I don’t spend my summers in New England to work in theatre, I have a habit of “wintering in the Bay area” while on jobs. When I first came out to California, I stopped in San Francisco before Los Angeles and I immediately wanted to find a way to live there. Although I was never accepted no matter how many times I applied to Pixar, I have been blessed to get a number of gigs here. All told, somewhere around year and a half I’ve lived up here over the course of nine years. While I have never spent a summer here, this is my fourth winter.
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With the mark of Spring Equinox, Tucker and I had to prepare for our inevitable return to our southern abode. I was not looking forward to leaving, but I felt it was time (and I couldn’t afford the rent any longer.) We had two weeks of hiking, writing, relaxing, talking to neighbors, going to the beach, and walking the quiet streets of our neighborhood. Los Angeles had closed their parks, beaches and trails, so returning home meant no longer being able to do that which we do. However, Tucker would have a whole yard to himself. Here, the patio offered no grass to roll in, and I was beginning to suspect he was getting nefarious messages from the dryer vent.

Our usual final walkabout is Fort Funston. On our southern drive, we stop there for a walk with my friend Carolina and her pups, then head over Skyline to bid the redwoods farewell, and perhaps grab a bite to eat at Alice’s Restaurant. Then we make the 300 mile journey straight south back to our little piece of tree-dotted land in Burbank. But Alice’s was closed, and I couldn’t see my friend. So we took our final walkabout the day before rather than the day of.

Funston on the weekend is always busy, but the cars lined up the highway from the bottom of the hill all the way past the entrance. I never park on the road since it’s a tad dangerous. Coming up to the drive that led to the entrance, I saw that the parking lot was closed. So I continued driving to Thornton Beach, but it being the weekend, the ten spaces were taken, and again, the cars lined the side of the road. So we kept driving south.

The previous weekend we had tried to go to to Wavecrest Open Space in Half Moon Bay which is down a dirt road behind a baseball field. However, because the field was closed, so was the parking lot. A few people managed to park along the road, but there were no spots left. I had thought there was a trail in from the neighborhood, so I drove back to the few streets lined with seaside bungalows. I was hesitant to park, and then came across an actual lot--at Poplar Beach. There were people everywhere. Throngs of them. It was like 4th of July.

​I did not want to be around all those people. I came for the solitude and for nature. But there was nowhere else for me to leave my trusty steed. So I tried to breathe less deeply and avoid coming in contact with people who seemed to have no recognition that we were in the middle of a pandemic. Shortly thereafter, we managed to get to the bluff where people were acres away from one another.

This time though, the side of the road yielded some spots to park by the baseball field. Half Moon Bay had closed beach parking, so we wouldn’t be running into people there. And perhaps that closure made fewer people give it a try.
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Tucker and I were so happy to be out on open land again, acres from people, miles from crowds. We’re social, but enjoy our distance in nature.

​This dog down at the beach seemed to be enjoying his solitude. Just sitting on the edge of the sea, watching the waves roll in. (I did wait to see another dog later and some humans about, so I don’t think he ventured out alone-alone.)

And this bird's whose solitary beauty backlit by the sun on its final stretch to the horizon looks at peace.

​I’ve never been much of an ocean person, but here I am. Because it’s more than just ocean. It’s cliffs, and bluffs, and sand, and flowers. I don’t sit on the beach and sunbathe; I walk above it, and on it, enjoying the salt air and sunshine.

​This is what I will miss being back in LA. While the ocean is technically only 30 miles away or less, it’s not the same. It’s not for another 100 miles north at best that you start to get that distinctive character of the California coastline.

​I am blessed to have stayed as long as I have this winter (all the way into Spring!) and can only hope we will be back again. Not being able to see friends, and not knowing when my industry will start up again, it’s hard to speculate when Tuck and I will again tread on the beaches,

​or walk along the trails of Fort Funston,

​or watch the fog roll in beneath the Bay Bridge.

​But we will.

​Because this home.

And we always come home again.

Technology has its advantages. But if you rely it on too heavily, you may find it has some major pitfalls too.

I have been hiking for years long before I had a smartphone; I had a stupid phone and a paper map. It served me well. I never cared how many miles I went, how long it would take to get anywhere, or what to expect. I walked to walk and I knew I was off course when I had a little feeling in my gut telling me I wasn’t where I should be.

Now I have my GPS-tracker app on the moment I park the truck. I look at the app rather than my surroundings to find to the trailhead. While sometimes it comes in handy, I really need to stop relying on it.

Arriving into the first parking lot I see, I realize I’ve been here before—but I had done the hike from the other end. And it wasn’t really a hike. Devil’s Slide is a paved path, and a while back my friend Carolina and I had started at the bottom and turned around here at the top. The app said I was in the right place, so I surmised that maybe Pedro’s Point, the trail I was here to take, was an offshoot of this one.

Tucker and I headed toward the trailhead for Devil’s Slide. I didn’t see any smaller trails, but from what I read it was a dirt path—and this was not a dirt path. My GPS wasn’t giving me any warning that I was off path, so we kept walking. And honestly, it's not like the view was terrible or anything.

One mile later, after descending a good portion of the “slide,” that little gut instinct told me we were completely off course. We should have hit the trail as described by now. I looked down at my phone, and noticed that the red dot indicating Me had not moved. “No Service” was in the upper left of the phone.

We were walking in the wrong direction. And this mountain filled with abandoned artillery was blocking my cell phone reception.​ We walked back up the hill, I refreshed the app, and boom, there I was, a mile away from the trailhead. We had walked in the exact opposite direction of the trail.

So, uphill we climbed, back to the truck and I wondered where the trail might be. There was a road—Highway 1—right there, which is why I hadn't looked in that direction before.  We walked to the end of the drive, turned left at the road, and there, just a a few yards away was a little tiny sign announcing the entrance to Pedro Point Headlands.

Annoyed that my gut instinct took so long to kick in, but proud that it was still there, our feet hit earth after two miles of walking a different, paved path.
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Arriving at what seemed like it could be a parking lot one day, we chose one of the four trails leading out. I consulted my app again, this time not fully trusting it, and chose the one my gut was telling me was the right path. It led through a Eucalyptus grove.

​And through probably what was once a riverbed that drained to the sea. Steep walls of meadow lined one side and a trees rose up from the other side.

I recalled some description of views and took a path I suspected might take us to one of the vista points. The map at the trailhead didn’t have quite so many paths that were on the ground, so I chose one and traveled along the narrow path etched through high meadow.

When we came to the path’s natural end, it turned out nature was thriving so much, there was little expanse to see. So we turned around and hiked back to the main trail.

Out across the ridge line, there was a mountain with two people walking a trail. I thought, “I wonder how you get there?” and looked down at where I was. I couldn’t see where the path was connected due to the rolling hills, and thought there was no way we would ever walk that far.

I was wrong.
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Tucker and I paused a moment on the peak I thought would be our turnaround spot. Sitting on a rock for a moment, Tucker even took a load off to stare off into the mountains to the southeast of us.

After a sufficient break, I rose up and we continued up and down a couple less steep valleys and peaks. It wasn’t as long as I suspected, and as we crested the final peak that would show us the direct line to that final mountain, those two people I had seen in the distance were now huffing and puffing their way back up the peak I stood on.

When the man caught his breath, I asked (while maintaining my social distance), “Is it worth it?”

He looked back at the mountain and his female companion who had taken a moment to stare at her shoes and get some more oxygen about half way up the steep incline, and smiled ever so slightly, “Oh, yeah, definitely.”

So Tucker and I headed downhill once more, and then straight back up again.

The hiker was right.
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Looking north, we saw the almost abandoned beach and town.

​To the south was Devil’s Slide—where we had been a couple hours earlier—and the sea beyond.

​There seemed to be another path along the ridge line that went out to the ocean, as if we would be riding the spine of a dragon’s tail. But when I considered that we’d have to go downhill again to go back uphill… my body rejected the idea. There was no certainty we’d get there anyway.

​We took in the view in each direction one more time. To the north.

​And to the south.

And then headed back down to go back up to continue along the ridge that bordered the sea.

​Wildflowers added dots of color to the green and brown cliffside.

And trees of mystical arrangement held sentinel.

​From ocean...

To mountains...

​We saw it all along the journey.

​When I got back to the trailhead, I took a photo of the map. It’s the symbol of this trek itself: you need to look beyond the map. While this was supposed to be just be a map of where we journeyed, it’s actually reflection of who I am… amongst the trees that hug the sea and the mountains beyond.

​I have always felt at home here in the Bay Area. The land and sea sing in harmony with my soul. Perhaps it’s because I am a part of it as much as it is a part of me. Whether it’s in the woods, along the bluff, or just gazing out at the tip of the dragon’s tail, this is where my heart belongs.

Systematically going over the Bay area map on AllTrails, I came across a bluff trail I had never noticed before: Thornton Beach. It is south of Funston, and while people noted they couldn’t get down to the beach itself, it seemed like a cool little spot to check out. I usually enjoy the bluffs over the beach anyway.

Arriving at the tiny parking lot (literally only 10 spots) with only six cars there, I knew we wouldn’t be fighting crowds. From the truck, I could not see the beach, ocean, or even a trail. Once out of the vehicle, I spotted a few trails that started just on the other side of the rope that acted as a parking barrier, so Tucker and I hopped over and started along the bluff.

Coming to the edge, I was overtaken by the panoramic vista. We stood atop a canyon ridge; down below there were a few people and dogs walking in the hollowed out canyon area. Above them, more trails led through the bluff, and beyond that, the sea. I was in awe, but pulled myself together to try to figure out how we could set foot on every inch of every path down below while not backtracking too much.

Tucker and I started down the path heading north on the first path I saw.

​Even then, choices abounded.

​Half a mile in, I realized that I had been here before: from Fort Funston! I had come from the north, taken a turn and headed down to the beach. Had I continued straight, I would have ended up right here.

​So I turned around and headed back to trails we had never tread before. Taking the western most path, we rose up on the bluff’s edge and could see south along the coast.

We looped around and headed back into the canyon, where no sea, no bluff, and no mountains could be seen. It was its own private place of magic.

​I wasn’t ready to head back up the way we had come, and I had seen some people come down from the southern edge of the ridge into the canyon. So rather than return the way we came, we took a mid-range trail, and walked south again, with the canyon to our left and the ocean to our right.

​The way I had seen a few people come down the hill I did not think would work in the same way going up. They sort of slid down the embankment in a cloud of sand. But there had been people even farther away, up on the ridge who I saw later on down below—so there had to be another way up.

Indeed there was. I was reminded of Vancouver, where this would be rated “easy” because at least there was a chain you could hang onto while scaling the side of a mountain… with a dog. This was actually the first time Tucker even turned around and was like, “Um, maybe we should skip this one?”

I went slowly, making sure he was on solid ground, and he overcame his fear. His fear had made me pause though, as he’s never frightened of anything. But I felt we could be safe, and we could feel safe as long as we didn’t look down until we were all the way up. I find it strange how hesitant I am now—even though being hesitant is actually more risky than just having the confidence to move forward swiftly.

​Doubt is a dangerous thing.

Once up on the two foot wide sandy edge, I quickly scrambled to safety with Tucker ahead of me. Taking a moment to look down across the valley rather than down the way we came up, I was filled with awe at the beauty rather than dismay that I had risked our lives.

We followed the ridge line back to the parking area and a little alcove under a tree to look from a view it from another perspective.

​Any way we looked it, this magical land was stunning. Whether we could see the ocean, or were in the canyon, or atop the bluff, or even hanging on for dear life off a chain, I couldn’t ask for a better place in which to “shelter in place.”

The great thing about being unemployed is that I get to be places other people aren’t because they’re at work. However, with more people working from home or not working at all, I needed to look a little deeper for some solitary hiking.

Sweeney Ridge seemed like a good choice. I mean, if you want to go where no one else is, an abandoned missile site is a decent option. There are three routes to get there. The first is paved. That didn’t seem fun. The second starts from behind a nursery off Highway 1, but boasts close to 1000 foot elevation gain in the first two miles--close to 700 feet in the first mile. The third route begins at a college, starting you at 700 foot elevation, meaning you only have to climb 300 feet. That seemed more my fitness level.

Sadly, though, the road to the trailhead was closed since the school itself was shuttered. If I had been alone, I probably would have gone back home. But Tucker is a like a kid: we’re on the road so there must be an exciting adventure about to happen so we can’t just turn around now. While he sat and whined, frustrated that we hadn’t even begun whatever super exciting journey we were going to embark on, I found directions to the nursery and steeled myself for the challenge.

It was surprising to see the official trail sign there at the back corner of a dirt lot that belongs to a nursery. But this is the Bay Area. They respect their open spaces and keep as much of them as they can no matter how odd the location.

Even the very first steps on the trail were straight up hill. It wasn’t a cakewalk for Tucker either.

​But the views were worth it.

​Even stopping beneath a tree, we had spectacular views.

From atop this ridge we could choose to look at the city,

​Or keep our eyes on the wild.

The missile site itself was unspectacular—slabs of concrete amongst the overgrown vegetation so high we couldn’t see the ocean. But if you’re a missile, you’re aimed for the sky, not the sea, so why bother with the view?

We continued walking south along the ridge to the “San Francisco Discovery Site.”

​The placards are quick to point out that this is not where and when it was discovered for all of humanity, but rather, this spot commemorates the place and time non-indigenous people figured out the Bay was here—thanks to the indigenous people who had known about it for thousands of years, lived here, and pointed it out to them.

​Southward, the mountains were undisturbed by human hands, and I imagined what it must have been like coming up over the mountain to see the bay and then the ocean.

There are no photographs of what communities looked like back then, or for the thousand years prior. But I’m pretty positive it was not a booming metropolis as it is now. The serenity must have been awe-inspiring.

Perhaps because of the manmade intrusions upon the landscape that exist now, I am drawn to turn around and face the ocean.

I enjoy the convenience of the city, but being in the wilderness is far more appealing. For me, social distancing is a regular part of life. I can’t be around people all the time, or even a majority of the time. I need a healthy dose of human companionship, sure, but this is where I find peace and joy.

​I don’t want to live in a city and come here to escape. I want to live here and take occasional field trips to the city for some human contact.

​Sweeney Ridge is the epitome of what I need: a balance of cityscape and wilderness, ocean and bay…. But mostly the sea and the forest.

It was only Monday, the first day of my unemployment, that it happened. I was with my friend Carolina at Fort Funston. Her beagles were frolicking in the dunes catching gophers, and Tucker was balking at the end of his eight foot leash (because no matter how long the leash is, he always wants to be a foot farther away than that.)

Carolina looked down at her phone to read a text from her husband. “David said they’re going to announce lockdown for San Francisco at 1pm.”

“Wait—they’re locking down at 1pm or their announcing the lockdown at 1pm?”

“They’re announcing it.”

It was 12:40. I wasn’t terribly concerned. Carolina, on the other hand, while calm, was trying to plan for the worst.

“You should go. Get out now while you can. I can go shopping for you or help you pack. Whatever you need. But you should go before you can’t.”

I hadn’t planned on leaving San Francisco for two weeks. My humble abode was paid for till the end of the month, and now that my job ended, I had grand plans of hiking, taking a tour of wine country, seeing friends, and writing. Now it seemed those middle two would be out of the question, but writing and hiking are solitary endeavors I could still enjoy.

There was no way I could pack up my entire place and and still be awake enough to be safe driving the six hours back to southern California.

“You don’t need to get all the way the home. Just get out of San Francisco. You can go to Santa Cruz and be fine,” Carolina suggested.

She was ready to call the beagles back and leave immediately. The announcement hadn’t even gone out yet.

“No, let’s hang out for a bit.”

I wanted to hear what they had to say, how they planned to make this happen, but I also wasn’t overly concerned that I would be jailed in San Francisco… I mean, honestly, how bad would that be anyway since I was already choosing to be there?

Carolina received text updates from her husband as we let our canine kids romp about for another forty minutes. As of midnight, the city would be shutting down and they were requesting all residents to stay at home except for essentials. It was surreal hearing that, as dozens of people and dozens upon dozens of dogs roamed about the open sand dunes and shrubbery. How would they tell everyone about this? Would anybody really listen?

We walked around the usual path and back up to the parking lot. I was still considering leaving, only because if a lockdown did extend past the end of the month, I couldn’t afford to continue renting here. I took one last picture of Tucker atop Fort Funston in case this was our last stop…

​I hugged Carolina good-bye, and drove back to my little rental house listening to the news. Hearing it first hand, I was being swayed to stay. Parks and trails were still open; I could still walk Tucker around the ‘hood. We rarely encountered people even when they weren’t being asked to stay home. Travel out of the city to get home was still allowed, so needing to leave by midnight was no longer necessary. And then I pondered: leaving tomorrow or a week from tomorrow, does it matter?

I paid for the place, and I wanted to stay. I couldn’t visit friends, but hiking and writing would be most of my days anyway. So I called my landlady and told her I would be staying until they forbid me to leave to go home—in which case I had to leave on the drop of a dime.

But I didn’t expect that to happen. After two days of being indoors, catching up on some writing, I ventured out, but didn’t want to venture far. When I first moved in, my landlady had told me there was a way to get to Glen Canyon Park through the woods from a few streets away and it was really beautiful. Since I was finally home during daylight hours, I thought we’d give it a shot. I found it on alltrails.com, and after a few wrong turns (are there really wrong turns or just a longer path?), I found the entrance.
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It was like entering a portal into a fairyland. Wildflowers bloomed along the steep incline. Butterflies  danced above. No picture could do it justice. 

​Tucker was instantly overjoyed.

I could see a few people and a couple of dogs on paths farther down into the canyon. But there was no sign of cityscape anywhere. I was in awe of this magical getaway and was disappointed that I had not ventured here earlier in my stay.
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There were a few paths to choose from from, but I didn’t feel like one would outdo another; they were all equally fantastic.

​Flowers bloomed.

​Rocky outcroppings were available for climbing.

After getting all the way to the bottom of the canyon, we headed back up on a different trail that was equally enchanting.

It’s strange to think how our daily walk back in Burbank is about the same: 2.5-3 miles, and yet there it would be along sidewalks. Here it is to a magical land where the the city seems miles away.

Before returning to the city, just over the hill, Tucker sat atop a manhole cover, and I imagined this was a secret portal that others come to and find this other world.

My home in LA is home because of the life I built there, the friends I have, my yard, my house… but if I can’t see my friends, can’t go out to dinner, or go to a bar, or sit at the coffeehouse, then the redwood forest and the bluffs above the beach is where I need to be.
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Because if you’re ordered to shelter in place, this is the place to be—at least for Tucker and me.

At this point in my life, I’ve clocked in over one full year in the Bay Area. Not all at once, and I still have yet to experience summer here but since 2011, I’ve spent a fall, part of spring, and three winters here. Only the longest tour, a seven month run, was BT (Before Tucker.) When Tucker joined me, I was excited to show him around my favorite trails—but alas, most of them he is not allowed on. As much as San Francisco is dog friendly, the percentage of hikes dogs are welcome on is actually rather low.

Overall, it seemed like we had been on most of that small percentage-unless I got up at a decent hour and drove an hour or two north. Working six or seven days a week, and no new hikes nearby that really called to me, Tucker and I have been living like a local rather than exploring new trails. We've spent our few days off visiting the places any San Francisco dog would regularly frequent:
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We walked along Chrissy Fields to Fort Mason, and got to witness the fog roll in over the bridge..

​And visited every dog’s old stand-by, Fort Funston a few times.

​We walked along the sandy dunes and down onto the beach.

​We discovered and appreciated beach art.

​And we watched the sunset.

​Although not a prime canine spot I wanted to be a little more secluded so one day we took the long drive down to Greyhound Rock Beach, where we had explored the year before.

​With the tide out, our feet touched earth and sand we never had before.

​So while we have no new trails to speak of, we have enjoyed our weeks of living like locals. Maybe we’ll even be official locals one day. Dogs here have quite the life—and humans too. There was no excitement for the newness of these places, but the beauty was—and always is—still captivating. And with a smile like this, I know Tucker isn’t complaining either.

In all the time I’ve spent here in San Francisco, I had never thoroughly explored Golden Gate Park. It’s like going to New York City and only walking on the sidewalk around Central Park. Granted, Golden Gate Park is over 1.5 square miles, so there’s a lot of ground to cover, but it seemed rather silly that I never walked it end to end right down the middle.
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So that’s just what Tucker and I intended to do.

Starting at Ocean Beach, we crossed the highway and entered the park near a windmill. We didn’t have access to inside of it, and I couldn’t capture the entire thing in one photo: we were directly under it and surrounded by trees. There were many paths to take. I wasn’t interested in soccer fields or tennis courts, so I aimed for the paths that wound their way through trees and shrubbery—not quite straight down the middle.
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Usually the non-direct route is where you find the magic--like these amazing trees that look to have spontaneously appeared out of a storybook.

​There are also some pretty cool human-made features as well.

I had wanted to walk end to end, but by the time we reached Stow Lake, only two-thirds across the park, Tucker and I had already walked over three miles. I was concerned if we walked any farther, Tuck might decide he needed a long nap on a grassy knoll before returning. So I made our new turning around point the top of Strawberry Hill—the island in the middle of Stow Lake.

With an island in the middle, though, the lake was more of moat than a proper lake. People in paddle boats rode around the waterway that encircled the hill while geese and ducks swam about and waddled along the sidewalks. I found a bridge to take us onto the island, and then we headed up to see the view.
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​There are trees everywhere—even on an island in the middle of a lake in the middle of the city. So views aren’t its primary purpose. It’s purpose is for you could be on an island in the middle of a lake in the middle of a city.

Tucker and I rested for a bit from our meandering exploration of the park. We caught our breath, and finding no new places to look about, started the journey back while not quite backtracking.

With so many trails to try, I didn’t want to just take the same route back—not even off this tiny hill. While our ascent had been up a dirt path that wound up the hill, our way down was much more steep, involving stairs, bridges, and even… a waterfall. 

The waterfall was surprise enough, but walking across the stepping stones of the waterfall’s pond, we came across a Chinese pagoda.

Golden Gate Park is a microcosm of the city itself. It seems small and compact, but if you really take the time to explore, you’ll find so many different, unique places to experience. Each area of the park has its own feel, from fairy tale forest to massive sporting arenas to calming lakes and waterfalls; just as the city has its unique neighborhoods of urban nightlife, sleepy suburbias, and beach town personalities.

That’s why I love this city—and the entire Bay area. It doesn’t try to be anything it’s not and it lives in harmony in its own diversity. If one block isn’t your thing, just walk a few more streets over. If you’re not a forest person, go to the beach. If you’re not big on the ocean, drive over and check out the bay instead. If you’re in social mood, and want to check out some eclectic stores, check out the Haight; if you want to be alone, head over the bridge and wander about the Marin Headlands.

By the time Tucker and I made it back to our trusty steed, our feet had padded around for 6.5 miles. Had we walked in a straight line from Ocean Beach across the city, we would have been half a mile from Oracle Park, right on the Bay. But when we hike, it’s not about getting to the farthest destination possible; our journey is the destination. And there’s a whole lot more to experience between the beach and bay.

​So I guess we’ll just have to keep coming back.

There were two ways back to the 101. The first was the way we came—a trip through Anderson Valley. Since we had “been there; done that,” I chose the northern route—which would take us straight through the Jackson Demonstration Forest. Although Chamberlain Falls was still two hours too far in my opinion, I looked for trailheads that were along the way.

After packing up the car, I re-entered our cabin to discover that my canine companion was not particularly impressed with the diner service.  Evidently the wait for coffee was just too long.

Leaving at our 10am check-out time, we headed north and then east, into the forest.
Although it was not Chamberlain Falls, we stopped at Chamberlain Creek Conservation Camp. It was only a mile and half of trail, but my feet were happy to tread the forest floor again.

​Being beneath the green canopy, walking across the a blanket of redwood leaves is were I feel most at home. While the sea is exciting, dramatic, and I love it as well, here is where I feel truly embraced by Mother Nature.

We spent an hour in the woods, climbing up the trail, looking through the trees, and then walking down slowly, taking in every moment of the forest life.

I didn’t see any more trailheads easily accessible, but I had had my fix. The ocean and the mountains; the bluffs and the forests: these are what I need to recharge. These places fuel my soul. Grateful for the few days of escape, I was also thankful for a job that brings me to locations like this, just on the edge of Nature’s realm, where I can easily cross the border and leave civilization entirely.

On the road home, I pulled over for one more view. I had to return to society, go to work, make money, pay my bills, and do all those human things needed to survive. But here was my reminder: that Nature’s got a whole lot more places for Tucker and me to explore, experience, and enjoy. There is no doubt: we’ll be back as soon as possible. It’s a big world and we’re going to walk as much as of it as we can within our lifetime.

Having toured most of the Fort Bragg seaside area, day two was one destination only: Mendocino.
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Mendocino was settled by some New Englanders who had come out with a logging company. With a population of less than 1000 even today, it certainly could have been a New England town—except for the vast Pacific Ocean bordering two sides of it.

It may have seemed familiar to me not just because it is reminiscent of New England but the opening of Murder, She Wrote is right here. The theme song still plays in my head, some thirty five years later.

Tucker and I walked up and down the road (one of five east-west streets in the entire town proper), referencing my alltrails map, trying to find the start of the Mendocino Headlands trail. I walked down a dirt driveway to a parking lot and found two people carrying supplies from their car to the meeting room of a church (lots of churches—just like New England.) I asked if they could direct me where to go, and the man said he’d show me after he put down his supplies. His gregarious Anatolian Shepherd was lumbering about, and Tucker made fast friends with her—as he does with all the canine locals. She seemed excited to show Tucker the trail she herself often spent her days on.

The gentleman and his dog walked us through the back field, and there, sure enough, was a narrow trail that I never would have found for fear of trespassing.
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The trail led out to the cliff’s edge where through trees, we could see the beaches below. 

​Further down the trail, the trees fell away and we got a more open view of the cove.

​Open or from within a cliff's small forest, the view was beautiful.

​We walked down onto the rocks to be closer to the sea.

Then came back up to view the stunning artwork the ocean had made in the earth.

​I can see why it’s photographed so much. Every angle was beauty.

​Stumbling upon a trail that led down to a grassy knoll, I sat down with Tucker, feeling as if I was in Ireland--or what I imagine Ireland to be like, never having been. 

​This hidden oasis with our two raven friends seemed worlds away.

​The sea had once covered this little plateau, as was evident from the wall’s chambers.

​Water washed away the earth, creating tunnels. I wondered what sea life must have been like when once this was all under water.

​I then wondered what life was like now, growing up here in a town whose population didn’t even top 900 people. The sea’s edge right here, on the cliff, a border that could not be crossed.

​The few shops and restaurants catered to the tourists, like many new England towns, and but I couldn’t see myself enjoying a life here. Tucker and I traversed the entire town in less than a day. Although touted as dog friendly, I only found two shops that Tucker was welcome. I couldn’t find enough to do to fill a day, let alone a lifetime.

Don't get me wrong: this place is stunning--some of Mother Nature's finest artwork. But since art is always about personal taste, I have to come clean and say that Fort Bragg’s dramatic rocks and cliffsides appealed to me more. It is more rugged, unpolished; it is a place to not only enjoy looking at nature, but engage in it. Here, I could look out at the sea all day. But in Fort Bragg, I could get up close, walk through it, dance in it, and find the little bit of unkempt nature that is beauty in itself.

But I am still grateful to have had a chance to explore this particular coastal work of art. Nature is diverse in her genres, and I appreciate all the medias she works in. It's just that some of her pieces I feel more connected to than others.

Tucker and I bid farewell to the Californian New England town and headed back north For our final night, we watched the sunset from our little beach and then sat beside the fire again.

Day one was bustling and active; day two was like walking through an art museum. Day three would be whatever adventures we could find along our route. We would leave the sea behind, thankful for getting to experience its beauty, and head east, back to Nature's art gallery where I feel most at home: the redwood forest.