FOMO is a thing—it’s Fear of Missing Out. It’s the stuff that social media banks on and I suffer from, gravely, to the point where it is causing my dog and me physical harm. But, it’s not social media that is doing us in, it’s those brown signs that signal a place of interest—a vista point, an historical marker, a trailhead. I have slammed the brakes of The Shroom so many times that I have a bruise on my shoulder from the seat belt and a growing case of whiplash. The poor dog has been tossed around the van’s cabin more times than I can count as I peel into graveled areas at 45 mph.

Most of my travels have been to areas where cell service is non-existent, especially on the trails we hike and where we camp. It is always a source of amusement when, dog-tired, we come out into civilization and my phone starts chirping like crazy…with social media alerts, whereas I only want to get texts from loved ones to make sure everything is OK. But a brown sign or a trail marker? I can no sooner pass those by than a 15-year-old with 20 unseen SnapChat videos. But my trails do not disappear after 10 seconds and I have to remember that, before I impale myself, or Willy. I will not “miss” this one, I am merely saving it for later, or for someone else. Honestly, Crater Lake was formed some 7,700 years ago, Hawaii 40 million years ago. They. Are. Not. Going. Anywhere. Running up to every national monument and World Heritage site for a quick shot is not my style, though laying eyes on something spectacular, even for a moment, is pretty cool. So, I am going to try and strike a balance: If it’s something that I can annoy somebody at a cocktail party with, I’ll pop in and snap a picture. If I can’t give it the time it deserves, I will keep driving and add it to my ever-growing bucket list.

I was reminded of this as I drove a scenic byway alongside the Columbia River Gorge today, where spectacular waterfalls seem to spill over every 50 feet. By the fifth fall (and Willy’s tenth in the backseat), I realized I was doing these falls a disservice—it took them millennia to form, and I was just quickly checking them off a list. In reverence to their journey, I will try and fashion mine with the knowledge that after 10 seconds, they will still be there; and they might even have more to offer later. I am not missing out, I am giving myself something to look forward to at another time.

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?

 

Most of my travels to this point (and going forward, I assure you) have been to remote places, where nature is the main attraction. I am not in search of the best sushi place in San Francisco, or the hippest vintage clothing shop in Eugene. Honestly, they hold no appeal right now. (In fact, as I sit and write this I am annoyed because the campground I am in in the Willamette Valley is teeming with people and I’m feeling claustrophobic.) Rather, I painstakingly seek out the far-flung, natural wonders, after the summer rush.

Still, no matter where I am, there are eyes on me. Take the other day: Willy and I found yet another beach with no-one on it in southern Oregon and decided to lunch there. I made up a sandwich and we went and sat on a rock. Not two minutes later, a seal popped its head up out of the surf and watched us through the whole meal. And it didn’t stop there. Two days later a young deer buck followed us for a bit along the Pacific Crest Trail. And don’t even get me started on the sea birds who are constantly eyeing us warily (it might have something to do with the fact that Willy is a master bird chaser). And the campsite squirrels and birds are downright rude about staring.

I like to think of it as a reverse zoo. Here I am in their world, trapped in my campervan, armed with only the most expensive gear money can buy. I am the curiosity, not them. Perhaps that seal went home and said, “You’ll never guess what I saw on the beach today…” And the young buck recounted the hysterical story of this clumsy creature trying to walk through the woods to all his pals. It’s nice to be a guest in their world, if not an oddity. I can only hope that I behave accordingly and not end up being gored because I wielded a selfie stick two feet from a bison (I promise, I don’t own one).

This buck followed us on the PCT.

This jay and squirrel made themselves at home at our campsite.

Today, Willy and I covered six miles of the Pacific Coast Trail (PCT) in Oregon after driving around Crater Lake. As we hiked on this unremarkable path (made worse by the fact that I had just laid eyes on a body of water so impossibly blue that anything after would, literally, pale by comparison), I started to wonder about the purpose of this blog. Is it a travelogue? Is it a journal? Is it to amuse? Is it to work my shit out? The examples I have admired, like “Maiden Voyage,” “Into the Wild,” “Wild” (the one about the very trail I was walking on) and “Eat, Pray Love,” are very different books. Some are about the journey itself—the sights, the sounds, the daily blow-by-blow of life lived to the fullest. Others are tales of self-discovery by people whose lives were going sideways or nowhere at all. These are tales of taking stock and figuring out what one’s purpose is and what truly brings happiness. In all of them, there’s misadventure, enlightenment, epiphanies, knowledge, serenity and so much more. And I want it all, including the extraordinarily happy endings most of these journeys had (no-one sets out to be a cautionary tale like “Into the Wild,” where **spoiler** the guy dies).

But my story, and my journey, have to be my own and I need to find my own voice and resist the urge to mimic those who’ve gone before me. Sure, my shit is going sideways and I love adventure—which means we have so much in common! But it’s my shit and my adventure and I shouldn’t get sidetracked chasing something that I didn’t need to in the first place. First, I need to figure out what it is that I want, and that is where my writing comes in—to help sort it all out. So bear with me, dear reader(s?), as I do just that. I will meander in my writing as I do my travels, but I promise you this, there will be misadventure, hilarity, lessons learned and who knows what else along the way. And dragons. There will always be dragons.

 

My mother once slid up next to my brother and me at a beach party and stated through clenched, smiling teeth, “Rowans do not drink beer out of bottles,” a rule I had been previously unaware of. But why? Did it label us somehow? Was drinking beer from a bottle an outward admission of drinking beer and, worse, would everyone judge us for the brand we drank? Was our beer label labeling us?

Yet, I am as guilty as most of sizing someone up in an instant by their clothes, their hairstyles, their cars, their beer. Thankfully, I’m wrong most of the time, because life would be so dull if everyone were their own clichés. Take, for example, the unwavering belief I had before I set out that the only people filling campgrounds would be older, retired couples, with astro turf “lawns” outside their RVs; where they sat, drinking beer, from a can. Sure, there are those who pull into a spot, set up an entire household, from cable TV to an inviting outdoor seating area, and never leave the comforts of their home-away-from-home for the surrounding attractions, yet they are the first ones to invite me to play cards. The other 80% of the campers are as varied as any New York City subway platform. From young, honeymooning couples, to families of three generations, I’ve met the most surprising and interesting people, all of whom have added in some way to my journey. A quick conversation at the bathrooms will inform me of a better route to my next destination. Or, a walk with my dog has led to some fascinating tidbits about skirting certain dog “rules.” As a whole, this group has so much to offer to this neophyte that I need to dismiss any initial impressions I may have had in the three seconds I’ve walked toward them, and shut up and listen. After all, I’m the 47-year-old woman, with a pierced nose and a pedicure, driving a van with mushrooms painted on it.

 

A great way to shut up and listen comes when the sun goes down. With no electricity, campgrounds grow very, very dark after eight and observing the neighbors is impossible. Sound, however, carries perfectly in the night.* Depending on proximity, I can sit and listen to dozens of conversations from around the campground and I try and imagine what the people look like, what they wear, what their ethnicity is, and the list goes on. The next morning I get my first glimpse and they are very rarely how I had pictured them the night before (I did peg the 20-something girl with dreadlocks with stunning accuracy). As a lesson in not judging a book by its cover, night-time campgrounds offer the perfect cover.

* The drawback is that there are a few campers who feel their campsites are their bubbles, like a hotel room, and fart, belch and blast music with wild abandon as if they were behind walls.

I am on Day 19 and I still haven’t left California. This mind-boggling state seems to go on forever, offering a dizzying array of wonders, in every direction. From Yosemite, I made my way back over to the Sonoma Coast. This stretch of shoreline is some of the most beautiful I have laid eyes on, and I have been to many of the world’s most renowned beaches. Sharing this awe was Willy, whom I’m pretty sure had never seen a moving, full-of-life body of water. On his first day, I took an untold amount of videos of Willy chasing seagulls and running from waves, which perhaps lent to my renewed appreciation of the coast.

We traveled, and drooled, over roads that hugged the coastline and offered photo-worthy vistas at each turn. The rock formations, the miles of uninhabited beach, the flowers, the dunes—all were worthy of a closer look. We also encountered some of the largest mussels I have ever seen and the only reason they were not harvested for a van meal later were the warning signs promising me, at best, vomiting and, at worst, seizures. I had seen enough vomiting.

 

 

From Sonoma, we traveled up to the northernmost reaches of California to the Redwoods, and that’s when things really got big. Neither photos nor words could ever convey the magnitude of these trees. As a Tolkien fan, I imagined every one to be an Ent, each with its own 2,000-year-old story to tell. Or, perhaps there were dragon nests up high, out of sight. Dr. Suess would have imagined entire worlds inside of them and he would not have been wrong. In other words, these trees were otherworldly and held so much history and possibility.

So I have decided that Texas needs to abdicate its claim. The ginormity of California is nothing to ignore, even though most Californians have no idea what lies in their back 40. What I won’t miss are the equally large costs of everything in California.

What astounds me about my travels is the good, and often strange, fortune I stumbled into during the first weeks of my adventure. First was the bike repair I needed to make. Part of my vision for the Whatever Journey involved mountain biking the majestic peaks of the West. So I purchased an expensive machine, rugged enough to handle everything I (or someone who actually bikes) could throw at it. After a few rides around my local trails in Connecticut, several of which involved rigorous hills, I had my bike shipped west. I diligently took notes on the back of some Post-Its about how to put it all back together, noting that the key tool was an Allen wrench, something I possessed in every drawer of my Ikea furniture. Needless to say, a part was missing after reassembly. So, when I arrived at my first solo campsite, I Googled the nearest bike shop. The next day, I set off, retracing the road I had traveled the day before, back down to Morro Bay. I dropped my bike and the guy said it would be 30 minutes, which gave me enough time to explore this great little seaside town, shopping at a farmer’s market and a thrift store. After retrieving the bike (only $15!), I left for the campground, except this time, I had more time to spend driving up the coast. So I stopped at one of the many vistas I had bypassed the day before and went for a long hike along the shore and sat with some seals sunbathing on nearby rocks. I couldn’t believe my slight misfortune had turned into such a beautiful day.

 

 

Second (and third), because Yosemite doesn’t allow dogs on any of its trails, Willy and I decided to head through Yosemite and over to Mammoth Lakes to visit another National Monument called the Devil’s Postpile. Three hours later, and following all of the signs, we ended up at the base area of Mammoth Mountain, which turns out to be the jumping off point for the Park. For those who don’t know, for the past 25 years I have published a trade magazine for the ski resort industry, a magazine started by my father in 1962. I knew the Devil’s Postpile would be near Mammoth, but it was a last-minute decision and a Saturday, so I decided not to visit anyone at the resort. As I wandered around the parking area looking for a space, I noticed a guy on a bike ahead of me and I thought, “No, it couldn’t be.” I followed him and, when I got close, I shouted his name. He turned. Among the hundreds of people on bikes in the base area, I managed to run into one of the owners of the resort. After catching up and marveling at the odds of bumping into one another, we parted and the pooch and I made our way up to the Monument, which I learned on the shuttle ride, contains a portion of the Pacific Crest Trail. Seriously?! I was going where Cheryl Strayed walked in “Wild,” the book that gave me my final push out the door?

 

These moments of serendipity, plus many other smaller ones, have left me, once again, humble, grateful and eager for what lies ahead.

For some reason, a maternal instinct and the need to bear children is not within me, but an animal instinct is. There have been very few moments in my life when I have not had dogs and cats by my side. I find them such amiable, uncomplicated companions whose needs and wants are few, yet their love is unconditional. Best of all, I can be just who I am and there is no judgment (well, I have had a few that have mastered The Look), but for the most part, I am enough for them.

When I left for my journey, I left behind a wonderful, faithful bevy of companions in the expert care of friends. The dog is a Shiba Inu named Mika and would have made an excellent adventure dog, except for the fact that she really can’t tolerate heat with her Husky double coat. The cats, well, they are cats and best left at home. Plus, I figured I could go without either for a few months.

Then I spent one night in that middle-of-nowhere campground and realized the error of my thinking.

Two days after that lonely night, on my way up to Yosemite, I stopped in the town of Oakdale for a bite to eat and, on a whim, I asked Siri to find an animal shelter. I drove over after lunch and found the office locked; I had missed opening hours by 30 minutes. Still, I visited the outdoor kennels and among all of the yappy little dogs and large pit bull mixes, was a small quiet black dog, who stood wagging his tail, begging me to come over. Hesitantly, I left and made the two-hour trek up to Yosemite. A couple of days into my Yosemite stay, and dead tired from a 14-mile hike the day before, I decided to head back into Oakdale to see if that little dog was still there. I had no cell service so I couldn’t call ahead, and instead went on faith. And there he was. The woman brought him out to the play yard for a one-on-one “interview” and he charmed the pants off me. Thirty minutes later, I was headed to Petco with Willy Whatever, Adventure Dog, in the passenger seat.

 

 

Willy will limit where I can go to some extent, but we’ve managed a good deal of exploring in the week that I’ve had him (we’ve broken many no-dog trail rules along the way). And he is as good a companion as I could have asked for. Willy is not a runner and prefers to stay by my side. He sleeps in, and for someone who is not a morning person, nothing pleases me more. He mostly listens to me and he loves people. Willy does have one drawback (don’t we all?)—he is not keen on co-piloting. During our first car ride up to Yosemite, I looked over and saw long strings of drool hanging from either side of his mouth. When I stopped at a turnoff to wipe his face clean, I saw vomit down the inside of the passenger door (God, I hope the rental van company isn’t reading this!). I looked at him with dismay, realizing that so much of this adventure will be inside The Shroom making our way through the West.

 

We are still experimenting with the car rides, putting him in the front or in the back, surrounding him with towels, making irresistible beds and going as slowly as possible on winding roads. While he doesn’t vomit as much, he still produces an amazing amount of drool for such a small dog. We’ll figure it out, me and Willy Whatever, the Drooling, Puking Adventure Dog. I’d rather this than no dog at all, and I wish there were more people in my life who felt the same way about me.

I am not going to even try and describe Yosemite when icons from every walk of life have photographed, written about and preserved this stunning valley (think John Muir, Ansel Adams, and Roosevelt—I confess that I forget which one). One of my goals in chronicling my travels in the West was to challenge my descriptive prose, to run out of adjectives and get creative. What can I say? Yosemite had me stumped. It really is all that.

What I did come away with were a few observations about hiking. A friend of mine said that the Panorama Trail, a nine-mile loop that showed off the best of Yosemite, was the optimal way to introduce myself to this surreal landscape. I read up on the trail at a pricey hotel the night before and saw a small footnote that said instead of taking the shuttle up to Glacier Point, where the trail starts, I could hike up Four Mile Trail and forego the buses. He also cautioned that the option was for those in “excellent shape.” I wasn’t sure about “excellent,” it’s so subjective, but I opted to give it a go. About half a mile into the The Four Mile Trail, I had already decided that I would just get to the top, have lunch and take the shuttle back down and not even attempt the Panorama Trail. The incline was constant and it dawned on me that I was sucking wind at 9,000 feet. Still, I soldiered upward and passed the time by playing a little game of mine. I travel a lot and to amuse myself in airports, I play, “Of the next 20 people who go by, who would you sleep with.” (Hey, it’s just a game to pass time!) In any case, male hikers are a handsome lot. Granted there are far fewer people on an insane climbing trail than in Chicago Ohare, but, per capita, outdoorsmen eclipse business travelers in the hotness category…by a lot.

Another funny observation I had was about trail etiquette. In the trafficked areas (read, shorter, paved trails), it’s absolute mayhem. Tourists from around the world invade personal space, walk on the wrong side of the path, and worse, clog the path by walking abreast. On the more strenuous paths, for us hikers in excellent shape, there is a measured distance when you should hail someone approaching from the opposite direction. A Hello said too early means you have to come up with something else to say while you pass. So, the trick is to time it so that pleasantries are exchanged, but brief, especially when you need all the air you can get just breathing.

After finally summiting Glacier Point and eating a late lunch, I decided that there was no way I was going to take the shuttle of shame down—the Panorama Loop was the only respectable way to go. Knowing it was late and that the hike would take four hours (it was 2 p.m.), I made haste. The views of Yosemite from Panorama did not disappoint. Sweeping vistas of the entire valley with the looming Half Dome presiding over it all were prevalent along the trail. And then there were the waterfalls. Even in the fourth year of a drought, several waterfalls still dramatically spilled water over the sides of cliffs and this trail offered spectacular views of three of them.

 

At seven I hit the valley floor, ever so pleased to have accomplished over 14 miles of rugged terrain. I texted my friend who had suggested the Panorama Trail and told him about the hike. His response was: “Dumbass, you were supposed to take the bus to Glacier Point.” This dumbass had a great night’s sleep.

Having printed out some information about the parks in Big Sur, I knew my first stop would be at the Julia Pfeiffer Park, which promised great waterfalls and hikes with views. I arrived and flashed my National Park card for the first time and, like a secret club member, was ushered through the gates. I parked, noting the location, then I realized that I would likely be the only green van with purple mushrooms on it in the parking area. I threw on some shoes for a mile round-trip journey up to a viewing area. Six miles later, I stumbled into the parking area thirsty and hungry. You see, at the viewing area there was this small path and I hardly ever fail to scramble up a small path. The small path joined a larger one, called The Loop, where I was quickly rewarded with beautiful terrain as I weaved around the mountains and across cliffs that dropped into the sea. I also learned lesson #37: When you enter the wilderness and are easily side-tracked, bring the backpack with snacks and water.

I don’t know what it is about small paths that intrigue me, but I find that I am defenseless against their call. When I’m skiing on a wide-open trail, executing arcs with controlled perfection, a small side trail into the woods will attract my attention and away I go, stumbling through the woods, nearly smacking into trees and losing control. More often than not, however, I will encounter something interesting or, at the very least, improve my tree skiing a little bit and I always come out pleased with the effort.

Small paths can really deliver the biggest bang for the buck and I like the sense of adventure they offer, where everything is beyond my control and nothing is known. Perhaps that is their draw—we spend a lot of time, as humans, making sure everything is the way it is supposed to be, of having a sense of control, and it’s exhausting and not terribly rewarding. Small paths, conversely, offer the opportunity to leave everything to chance, to abandon the wheel and let someone else do the driving and just sit back and enjoy the ride.