Now I wanted the red-rock-warmth, the open sky and land, the cacti and the sun. I wanted an inviting land, because I felt shaken and cold.

I started the Spencer Trail hike before 7 am, when the sun cast half the land with gold and chased me on the slope.

The scorching sun streaked that Westward gold and split the rocks into a mile of shadows.

We stride into the cloud-covered forest wearing outfits reserved for the sun. I stuff my fingers in my vest and brace for the cold.

Hour-old raindrops fall from the rocky overhang and slam my very large leaf. All around me, leaves float on the stream and collect in dams.

A chorus of crunching on crisp leaves, like heavy, sporadic raindrops on a summer eve, sounds from the overgrown Dutchman’s pipevine.

“Slurp, burble, gulp,” my sister Danielle chants as the slippery mud swallows her Vibram sneakers with every step. “It’s eating me alive!”

We’ve traveled 2,000 miles to see the ocean claw at the jagged edge of everything I’ve known and the whole state glisten with winter rain.

The grey sky touches the ocean horizon, and sheer rock face drops to a cacophony of crashing waves.

We hopped back on dry land and rounded a bend. Ahead of us, a brown bear strolled toward us like a casual fellow hiker.

We’re on a mission to find something we lost, and we know exactly where to look: where the white pine recedes to chalky scree.