Chapter Two: From Vermont East to California

Meeting Myra, a new reader; hunting for Thomas Starr King's grave

From last year’s ramble up in the Marin Headlands.

I often put off writing about places, people, and landscapes we experience because they feel so perfect living lovingly in my mind. Words will only limit and never seem to do these moments justice.

Since we’ve been home, I’ve been thinking about several of these pockets of time, cherishing them while wrestling about how to package them so you can hear the music, see the light, and feel the joy.

One particular Sunday took place in the Bay Area.

On our travels, we have little to do with San Francisco because, as an off-leash trio, bustling cities are not for us. But there’s more. San Francisco is a smash-and-grab haven for thieves, and electronic billboards constantly warn drivers not to leave anything in their cars.

That’s nearly impossible for us when traveling from the Atlantic to the Pacific and back again.

We tend to stay on the northern side of the Golden Gate Bridge in charming Mill Valley.

Confession: before seeing it for the first …