We’re taught, or perhaps it’s instinctual, that the best vantage point is from on high. Whether it’s a position of power, ego or defensive in nature, I don’t know, but I do know the views from higher ground can’t be beat. Willy and I have logged many miles climbing every hill, bluff, canyon rim and set of stairs in order to gaze down upon something. Perhaps it’s the wholeness of the view, or the potential it holds, or the effort it took to get there—those are the draws for me, at least. Seeing the Half Dome in Yosemite from across the valley is just plain better than craning your neck to look up at it from the valley floor—it took 14 miles of rigorous climbing to do it and you couldn’t wipe the satisfied grin off my face for two days after. Today, we climbed up Cape Perpetua Bluff in central Oregon for a commanding view of the coastline—about 70 miles of it—and it was breathtaking. But what about all of those miles before you get to the top?

Instead of looking up, I have begun looking down on my hikes and I have discovered a whole world of slithery, slimy fun that entertains me no end as I climb. From colorful snails to giant banana slugs, the world at my feet is a small wonder. Taking it to the sea, Willy and I have spent the past many mornings wandering tidal pools on the Oregon coast investigating colonies of anemones, starfish, crabs, barnacles, mussels and more. It’s a colorful, lively world and we didn’t have to climb a thing to see it.

I have been searching for a metaphor in all of this for my own life and all I can come up with are cringe-worthy things like, “Great things come in small packages,” or, “It’s the journey, not the destination.” Honestly, I hope that it will teach me that the hard work it takes to get somewhere amazing offers a hell of a lot on the way and that moments wasted on viewing the path as merely a means to an end are robbing me of what is directly at my feet. I guess that comes back around to living in the moment, doesn’t it?