Where Falcons Soar

I have this belief that most often indecision is inevitably worse than the wrong decision.  And yet, I am plagued by indecision far more than I’d like to admit. To get around it, I have learned to clear my mind and go with the first thing that shows up no matter how inconvenient and illogical it may seem. That’s how the morning started. There are so many options for hikes in Oregon, deciding which one on which day is difficult. So I calmed myself, scrolled down the list of hikes without any forethought, and Cape Falcon Lookout leapt out at me. My mind and heart were telling me that I needed some dramatic cliffs, cresting waves, and classic Oregon coast. And Cape Falcon Lookout would give me just that.

And more.
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The trail, which was 90 miles west from my doorstep, begins in the forest. Forests have always been my church, but there is something extra special--sacred--about the seaside forest. It is a woods with character and an ancientness about it that I cannot put into words. I can’t even capture it with a camera.

I tried once or twice, but the way the rays of sunlight glistened off the green moss and the leaves gently swayed in the breeze, I just couldn’t do it justice. The world around me wasn’t just an image but a visceral experience unable to be contained in pixels or on the page. It was best left to live in the hearts and minds of those who came here for themselves.
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As the trail led to the edges of the forest, the ocean with its dramatic cliffsides could be seen through the treeline.

Every now and again, there would be a place to look out, as if the treeline were walls and these spots of leaflessness were windows to peer out over the ocean.

A young woman who was ahead on the trail, real camera in hand (something I so rarely see these days), stopped every now and again and pointed out the good spots and occasionally shared her awe with us.

The main event was over two miles in to the trail’s namesake lookout, an outcropping of a cliff that looked west out to the sea and south to the coastline.
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The woman was sitting on the edge when we arrived. Another two people stood nearby.

Tucker and I turned right, where there seemed to be a narrow path through the bluff’s shrubbery. While many of the smaller paths led to precarious edges of the cliff, a couple led to more steady ground. One took us north, and there we spied the northern view.

Another took us to the very edge where it was all endless ocean.

We then turned back toward what most thought was the end point. Before we reached there though, the young woman had ventured up to where we were. 

​I had been taking photos of Tucker when she came up to us.

She asked if I wanted her take a photo of Tuck and me, and of course I said Yes. As Tucker has gotten older, I feel the need to capture any moment another person offers to take of us. Even if I don’t feel photogenic, like in this case when the wind turned my jacket hood into a second head, reminiscent of Zaphod Bebblebrox in Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

​But it was still me and my boy doing what we love best, and honestly, if we could adventure across the galaxy, we would.

She asked me if I had been here before, and I said No. I asked her the same. She said she had not. She had just flown in from Texas for a three day adventure on her own. She had done Multnomah Falls (the one that was too touristy for me in the Gorge), explored Portland proper, and now was on the coast. I wished her well on her adventure. I explored solo for many years before Tucker joined me. But I never up and left for a long weekend to the other side of the country. I respected her for that.

Later, when I turned to go, I looked back at her taking in the view of the ocean. She wiped her eye and sniffed. I wondered if it was the wind, the power of the moment, or if perhaps this venture was the salve for a broken heart.

Over the years, I have found that when there is a breakup, men tend to return home their mothers and find comfort in that stability. Women, on the other hand, pack a bag, buy the first plane ticket they can get, and trek across Western Europe for a month (or take on some other equivalent journey). Men find stillness; women find movement. It’s not a hard fast rule and there are many exceptions, I’m sure. It’s just something I’ve noticed amongst my friends.

Back before I ventured far alone, when I was waiting to find that human partner to join me on my travels, I told a friend, “I’ve always wanted to go to Ireland. I should get in a relationship, have a devastating break-up, and then go to Ireland.”

She followed my logic on its ridiculous journey, paused, and then simply stated with a shrug, “Or… you could just go to Ireland.”

The woman on the bluff had gone to Oregon. Maybe not after a devastating break-up but simply because she could. I hope she is still exploring and keeps going on solo adventures. Once I stopped waiting to find a human partner and set out on my own, life got a whole lot more interesting and no broken hearts were necessary to get there.
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Tucker and I took our last looks from Cape Falcon and then headed back down the mountain, through the woods, and to the sandy beach below.

The sun was just about setting, and we needed to get back to the roadside parking lot before it got too dark.

I am grateful to have this boy along for the journeys I have. I wouldn’t not have them if he wasn’t here, but they are far more meaningful and fun when he’s with me: crying with excitement in the truck as we near the trailhead; seeing the look of joy in his eyes and on his face when experiencing a new place; watching him try to run ahead and sniff and be everywhere all at once. He is my soul dog, loving every moment on the trails we physically take and being there every step of the way as we walk life's path together.
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I looked down at my pants before getting in the truck and saw that I had taken a bit more of the trail home with me than just memories and images.

That’s thing about adventures, whether you’re going it alone or with a companion—human or otherwise: you always take a piece home with you. Most of which you can never wash off quite as easily as a bit of mud. For every trail you take becomes a part of you and a part of your past, and will ultimately always lead you to the limitless potential of your future.