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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Experiencing this little plot of peacefulness, 

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

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

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

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

May all your wishes come true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that the right way?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My boy’s smile lights up my life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I chose wisely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not from here, are you?”

Nope, clearly not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shrugged. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​It’s only been a week, and Tucker has already made a friend just as goofy and sweet as he is:

​This office is so dog friendly, there is even a courtyard for them to romp and play in. Of course, Tucker and Ollie prefer the challenge of a small indoor space in which to wrestle where it’s air-conditioned. 

My trusty steed acquired a mild ailment, so while she was getting fixed up, Tucker got to experience how other people ride.
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In the crew van he didn’t sit next to me or even on the floor which was quite spacious. He hopped up and took a seat behind me, you know, like any other crew member.

​When we needed to borrow a car to get home one night, our status suddenly raised to a whole new level. I put towels down in the hopes that Tucker wouldn’t scratch up the leather seats of the Chrysler 300. 

Note: there is a sunshade that rises from behind the backseat to cover the back window. Evidently, it can be activated from the backseat--make sure you figure which button that is before you take off. It's like a driving a spaceship, and the only thing worse than a backseat driver is a backseat dog who can unwittingly activate functions you didn't even know your car had. (Googling at stop lights for the rest of the ride home, I found the sequence of buttons on my dash to put it back down again.)

By the end of the week, my trusty steed sans luxury features was her old (young) self again and we were off to the mountains.
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Unbeknownst to me, it was National Public Lands Day. Parking was free, and this little critter greeted us on the first sign.

Unlike in Santa Fe, where I had to search long and hard to find trails with water, here in Georgia having one without is rare. After being so long in the desert, Tucker couldn’t believe his senses when we stood on a bridge overlooking greenery and a stream.

He was so happy to get his paws wet and taste clear water with just a hint of a few autumn leaves.

He climbed on rocks...

and looked up river by the old mill...

We climbed up to the dam.

... and discovered the dam might not be providing 100% containment anymore. Someone might want to check on that.

It is still hot here in the south, but it’s not a dry heat. There’s water everywhere not just spilling out of the cracks of dams but even in the air. The trees branches bend politely when you accidentally brush against them. The ground is soft and welcoming beneath your feet.

​This was only the first of many bridges to cross, streams to wade in, and forest trails to walk upon.

It’s been quite awhile since my last post which would correspond with our last hike—in the high deserts of New Mexico.

Since the last week in July, we returned home to sunny southern California, which albeit is a desert, is at sea level. Makes a world of difference when it comes to breathing. Tucker got comfy and relaxed back on the couch.

And was quite pleased to take in the wafting smell of freshly mowed grass and feel the cool, damp earth beneath a soft layer of lawn.

​We tried to see an outdoor movie together like we used to do, but it was all just too exciting for him. For the sake of everyone around us, we decided to call it quits and watch the DVD of the movie back home.

I’m not saying it isn’t hot in this California desert, but Tucker seems much happier to let his tongue hang out on Trex decking than on desert landscaping.

​We made the yard into an agility course.

Tucker found my sad excuse for a tire jump positively hilarious.

​Tucker even made a friend.

​Pete and him had bi-weekly playdates to run around like maniacs together and play tug.

​But our time at home was cut abruptly short when I received a call for a job. Despite my sadness in making Tucker bid farewell to his new friend for a spell, I couldn’t say no to a good job with good people.

​Tucker was so tired from spending the afternoon with Pete, he didn’t even care that I started packing our suitcases.

The next morning, Tucker and I hit the road to cover just under two thousand miles in three days.

​Much like a midnight trip to Vegas, my travelling companion was first quite excited.

And then about an hour in was bored enough to snuggle up with his owl and nap most of the way.

Apparently Arizona expects lazy dogs. I couldn’t find a dog walking sign, but here is where dogs can sit.

Right around the middle of the country, where there is a severe lack of rest stops (lots of picnic places, but nothing with restrooms and places to walk--or sit--your dog),  I passed a sign with a cross on it that read, “Inspiring Rest Stop, Next Exit!”

Tucker hadn’t peed in about five hours, and I didn’t see any harm in giving us a few minutes to stretch our legs, so I put my blinker on and headed down the off ramp.

I assumed with inspiration and a cross, that I would end up at a mission (because I live in California which is dotted with missions all up the coast.) This, however, was not a mission. A ministry yes, but not the missions I have been to with a chapel and gardens. It was more like Jesus-centric park. It had one of the largest crosses I have ever seen. In fact, it almost made me exclaim under my breath, "Jesus!"

A quick Google search informed me that it’s 19 stories high and its owner is the Cross of the Lord Jesus Christ Ministries (or perhaps that's the name of the cross.) It is the tallest thing as far as the eye can see—except for all the windmills. You thought Texas was just an oil field? Nope. It produces more wind power—clean energy—than any other state.

I am grateful they allow dogs in this well-groomed park-like setting. However, I had to keep reminding Tucker “No, don’t pee on that” whenever we came across a statue, plaque, or gravestone. This outdoor art house dedicated to the Crucifixion of Jesus Christ had fourteen stations in a circle around the cross where there were 14 gruesome depictions of the events leading up to it:

Tucker got to sit at the table for the Last Supper, something I don’t think was on his bucket list or mine, but what the hell, right?

​Just around the back of the memorial was a replica of the Tomb of Christ. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to stop Tucker before he tagged the stone, but given that he hadn’t peed on anything else, it was a quite a feat. And of course, Tucker got a photo op here too.

The final day on the road offered no grand inspirational religious experiences, but in Arkansas I got my own inspiration: just a touch of Autumn.

As a New Englander born in October, Fall is my season. The smell of leaves and wood fireplaces, the sight of the hills painted in red and gold and amber, and the chill in the air at nightfall is what I live for. I realized that this will be my first birthday spent on the east coast in almost 20 years. Granted, Atlanta is more “south” than “east coast,” but the Appalachia and the Great Smokies aren’t too far away. You can be sure that despite our southern zip code for the next couple of months, Tucker and I will be experiencing a whole lot of East Coast Autumn.

​It seems that as of late the common theme for Tucker's and my final hike in a location is stairs. A lot of them. Like Chimney Rock:

​Or this masterpiece of ice and snow in Vancouver:

But alas, there was no stair-laden hike for us in New Mexico. This state demands that you use the earth without the help of manmade materials to rise and descend in elevation.

So, in acceptance of the challenge, Tucker and I took to Williams Lake in Taos, NM, just an hour north of Santa Fe. You want elevation changes? Go to a ski resort.

The New Mexico trail guidebook listed the hike as 8 miles round trip with a 2000 foot elevation gain. AllTrails app clocked it as 4 miles and only a 1000 foot elevation gain. It seemed the book had you start the climb in Taos Village proper, whereas the app had you drive to the parking lot of the trailhead. Granted the road to the trailhead warned “4-wheel drive only” I assume they only meant in the winter. The parking lot we arrived in had plenty of 2-wheel drive sedans, sport vehicles, and trucks. There was even a restaurant a quarter mile from the parking lot, so clearly people don't walk all the way from town.
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Just the main road beyond the parking lot was stunning.

​And someone lives in this house—there’s random private property interspersed with the ski resort.

​I spotted the ski lift, and wondered if we could skip the walk and just hop on.

But I don’t imagine Tucker would stay still for the ride—he’d probably hop off, regardless of the lack of snow to cushion his fall.

The ski lift went out of sight as we veered left with nature: a stream crossing under the trail.

​Tucker tested the water and he approved.

​The path was rocky, but nice and wide. It reminded me of the Mt Mitchell trail in North Carolina—bits of rock and stone adding character to the trail.

Although this was a difficult trail in elevation gain, the hikers coming down as we went up were all pleasant, cheerful, and supportive.
“You’re almost there!”
“You can do it!”
“Not much longer!”
They all had something nice to say and a smile to fuel us onward and upward.

​The trail wound through the shaded forest, making it a little easier than if we were out in the open.

Despite being in New Mexico for almost four months, my body was still not acclimated to the low levels of useable air. ​My faithful companion was always patient while I took much-needed breaks in order for my lungs to fill up with oxygen again.

​When we emerged from the forest, we could see mountains in the distance.

​Just as AllTrails was clocking us at almost the highest elevation we came across this meadow.

I pictured the great Rock Eater from The Neverending Story sitting here eating, his crumbs of stone falling in piles all about the clearing.

A few rocks littered the trail that led us around this Rock Eater’s restaurant.

​The trail went a little downhill before rising up one final time before we came to the promised land:

In case you can’t see it:

​The rock-meadow was slightly higher than that, but it’s still an impressive height.
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Because we tend to ignore warnings such as was on the board at the trailhead: “Do not start your hike mid-day. Weather is likely to change,” and everyone else takes heed, Tuck and I had the lake to ourselves this afternoon.

And yes, the weather was likely to change, as you can see from the grey clouds above and their reflection in the water.

​Tucker and I didn’t mind. What was a little rain? We spent two months in Vancouver. And plenty of time in the south where the humidity congeals itself into torrential downpours every other day. A spattering of rain in Taos, New Mexico is nothing.

​We hung out in this peaceful little gully. Tucker was so relaxed that he didn’t even chase the chipmunk who rose up from the ground and darted off for a swim in the lake.

​I could hear a waterfall somewhere in the thick of the trees, but had no idea how to get there. With the clouds looking heavier every minute, I decided a side-hike wasn’t in the cards today.

Tucker enjoyed the rest on a rock, happy to not be climbing uphill anymore.

When we felt fulfilled, and Tucker’s big goofy smile stayed on his face, we started the trek back.

​Over the rock meadow, the clouds added another layer of beauty to the already stunning view.

Even little details in the meadow held a minute beauty all their own.

​Downhill was far easier than uphill.

Although the road is the same uphill as down, when you change direction, you change perspective and take notice to things you hadn't before.

We stopped by the stream again so Tucker could get another sip of the tasty good stuff, before we headed out.

​As I started the truck, a thunder clap filled the air just as the lightening lit up the sky. We made it down just in the nick of time.

​As we drove back down the mountain in the pelting rain, I said farewell to New Mexico and thanked the Land of Enchantment for her challenges: high elevations, violent flora, dusty lands, and occasional snowstorms followed by blistering heat. Santa Fe isn’t for everyone. It’s certainly not for this human and her non-desert dog. But we appreciate the hospitality during our four month tour here, allowing us to to find the forests and creeks hidden within the desert landscape. Perhaps next time we pass through, this land of enchantment will unveil a few more of its hidden woodsy gems to us.