My father was a man of many passions. He was a minister for 65 years; he loved his God. He loved Lionel trains and always had elaborate train layouts wherever he and my mother lived. And he loved nature. It was he who every year loaded up our car with every bit of camping gear known to humankind and set off across the country to show his four children the world. It is he who gifted me with wanderlust and wonderlust, that compunction to answer the question, “I wonder what’s over there/down that road/under that rock/what that is?"

My father, who had a series of strokes last year, now spends his days in a wheelchair, sleeping. When he is awake, he rarely recognizes my sisters or mother when they visit him. Would he recognize me if I were there? He probably would not. He is in Indianapolis; I am in Los Angeles. I feel guilty, not being there, not trying to reach the father that once was, the man who loved to hike and camp and run Lionel trains in the basement on Saturday evenings.

            When I miss my dad I head outdoors. The smell of mountain air or the salt breeze off the ocean is like a massage for my psyche, caressing my raw emotions, easing the tension, restoring a sense of balance.

            This time, we headed south, to the beaches of Orange County and a state park called Crystal Cove. A picnic on the beach and a hike back through the chaparral, I hoped, would soothe my anxiety about my dad and quiet other demons pulling me six directions at once.

            Crystal Cove’s ocean front sits high atop a bluff overlooking the Pacific. At high tide, the sea licks hungrily at the sheer rock face, devouring the beach in its entirety in places. I feel like that sometimes, like my responsibilities—both real and imagined—are eroding my emotional base and threatening to wash me away.

At low tide, however, the water blanketing the beaches recedes, revealing the hidden wonders of Crystal Cove: tide pools so rich and diverse they make the ones I have explored before up at Leo Carillo look barren.

The first pool is littered with shells in a palette of colors Monet and Van Gogh would envy. Here we encounter tiny opaleye perch, darting in and out of clumps of pink coralline algae. These are the first fish I’ve seen in tidepools. Clumps of tiny diadumes cling to the rock edge. These tiny anemones live in colonies, unlike their larger green sea anemone cousins, which are solitary.

I spot the largest, most magnificent green anemone I’ve ever seen in a tide pool. This exquisite creature is nearly the breadth of my hand, Its tentacles sway easily in the water, hypnotizing me. I watch, entranced, until I hear Scott calling to me excitedly. He has found something we’ve not seen in tide pools before.

Sea slugs! California black sea hares, to be more specific. They are  beautiful. They’re not black at all, but more of an aubergine. In fact, that’s what they look like: small aubergines—eggplants—with spots on them. The first ones we see are small, only a couple inches long. But further down the beach we find sea hares that are seven or eight inches long. They move slowly through the pools, unrushed, unhurried, munching on algae, skirting anemones, flowing gently over black turban snails as if they weren’t even there.

 We come across two kelp snails, their shells wearing a sunset as brilliant as any the sky has ever boasted. One shell is empty; I examine it carefully before returning it to the water. It will make a fine home for a hermit crab. The second snail is very much alive, it’s flame orange foot clearly peeking from beneath its sunset shell.

But it is the sea hares that keep calling to me. I am transfixed by their grace as they silently slide through the crystalline waters.

I think of my father, sitting in his wheelchair in the nursing home in Indianapolis, sleeping. How he would have loved exploring these tide pools, these beaches, with his family. Because of him my summers were filled with adventure as he drove us all over the country visiting our National Parks, the mountains, the deserts, the sea. When my mom lost her sight a decade or so ago, he became an avid armchair traveler, watching the nature videos I would bring him from my travels, reading brochures and magazines about distant places, both familiar and unknown, that he would never again lay eyes on, or see for the first time. I grieved then for my dad. I grieve more now.

Last week, my dad suddenly stopped using his right arm. He continues to have TIAs, or mini-strokes. There is nothing that can be done for him at this point. The man who was my father is gone.

But as I sit at the edge of the tide pool watching the sea hares, blocking my mind to all that is around me save the water and its explosion of life, I hope that somewhere in the recesses of my father’s mind, he is still there, hiking up a mountain trail, singing one of his silly hiking songs, content that his family is hiking right there beside him.

The patch of earth between the side walkway and my house was a riot of color: deep purple, red, yellow, white, and pink, each shade more brilliant, more beautiful, than the one next to it. After months of ice and snow, of being cooped up inside the house except on the rare occasion when I was allowed to venture outside, bundled up so tightly against the wind and the cold I could barely move, it was spring, and the tulips were in bloom.

            I wandered down the path and into the back yard. The fragrance hit me first, apple blossoms, perfuming the air so sweetly I could follow my nose around the corner of the house to the tree hidden behind the garage. I giggled. It sounded like the tree was singing. Thousands of bumblebees flitted from fragrant blossom to fragrant blossom, gathering nectar, spreading pollen.

            Unfazed by the bees, I climbed up onto the picnic table beneath the tree, then into the tree itself. This was one of my favorite spots to sit. It was especially pleasant on this day, barefoot for the first time in months, hidden from sight by the riot of flowers and bumblebees.

            I sat quietly in the branches among the flowers and the bees, smelling the blossoms, listening to the tree hum, just being. Someone called my name; I did not respond. I was the tree. I was the bee. I was not who they were looking for.

            The soft white blossoms each were punctuated with the bright black and yellow stripes of the bumblebees. The hum of their wings was in perfect pitch, one single note, one ohmmmmmm. I hummed too, adjusting the hum up, then down, until I too matched their pitch. I was the bee. The bee was me. We hummed in the tree, the bees and me.

            I closed my eyes and felt for the pulse of the tree in the trunk beneath my fingertips, for surely this tree had a heart that beat like mine. The trunk warmed beneath my gentle touch as my branch swayed in the easy spring breeze. It felt like the tree was breathing. I matched the rhythm of my own breath to that of the tree. I was the tree. The tree was me. We breathed and swayed, the tree, the bees, and me.

            That was the moment that defined my place in the natural world. The moment I understood that I, a human being, was not above the other creatures of Creation. Not better than the bees and the birds and the bears. Not superior to the snakes and the snails and the swallows. I was Nature. Nature was me.

I was three years old.

 Big Bear is my happy place. It’s located high in the San Bernardino Mountains, about ninety minutes from my home. When I ache for the mountains, for crisp air and alpine meadows, Big Bear is where I want to go.

            We packed a picnic, Scott and Kat and I, and took off on a gorgeous autumn day to show my Midwestern friend this place that has become so special to us. Sure, it was chilly—Big Bear is over 7,000 feet in altitude; they’re already making snow at the ski resorts—but with the right sweaters, gloves, hats, and thermoses filled with green tea and coffee, no one cared.

            We spread our blanket on the shore of the lake. This is Scott’s and my favorite picnic place. We often come up here and stretch out on our blanket to read or write poetry, or simply nap in the sun. The food was good, but it wasn’t long before we all itched to hike along the shore, through the meadows and evergreen forests, searching for treasure.

            And there was treasure aplenty. The alpine world was gilded in gold, as if Midas himself had swept through on an autumn breeze and touched meadow and flower and tree. Subtle golds, almost brown. Brilliant golds, as gaudy as dime store jewelry. Muted golds, confident in their beauty, feeling no need to shout “I’m here!” to grab the attention of passersby.

            Who colored the world red? Not Midas … perhaps the red of the oak trees was Mother Nature’s way of showing a greedy king he didn’t corner the market on precious metals and treasure. No ruby, no garnet ever shone as brightly as the oak leaves shivering on the shores of Big Bear Lake.

            Kat found treasure in several large tufts of coyote fur. She’s an artist, and fibers and felt-making are her newest passion. She’d dreamed of fiber twice that week; that she’d found something special, somewhere. She’d told us about the dreams in the car as we wove up the mountain road toward Big Bear. And now, here, was the fiber she’d dreamed of. Not enough to make a sizeable piece of felt, but enough to work in with other wools. She’ll know it’s there.

            Kat also has a way of finding bones wherever she goes. On the woodland trail, away from the lake, she spotted catfish bones, picked clean and shining like ivory. More treasure. Was this a feast for a raccoon? Coyote? How did the fish skull end up so far from the lake?

            For me, treasure means wildlife. Today, the white pelicans usually found  on Big Bear Lake were hiding. But one tiny lizard found a place in the sun, perched on a rusty can, and soaked up the waning warm rays of the sun. Soon, the lizards will bury themselves deep underground and sleep until the sun warms the earth again in the spring. I lie flat on my belly in the dirt to photograph the little creature. As a result, I almost miss catching a glimpse of the biggest, most magnificent coyote any of us had ever seen as he trotted purposefully through the woods behind me, his coat rich and thick and shining. He looks ready for winter.

            It is growing dark; it is time to head for home. But Nature had one last gift for us, one final treasure, as we made our way down the mountain toward the valley below. The gift of a sunset, orange and purple and luminous, lighting our way as we head west toward home.

            This was our last big day, Kat’s and mine. Two days later she would board a plane and return to the flat, rich soils of Illinois. I miss her terribly, this friend who means so much to me.

            And I realize, as great a gift the treasures of Big Bear were, no gift is greater than that of a treasured friend.