My Own Summer of Love

Summer 1991. I found myself immersed in the fog of the Golden Gate. I had moved north from Los Angeles to finish my art studies at San Francisco State, drawn by the lore and mystique of the Summer of Love. The Sunset District had its own haunting beauty, but I counted 34 days in a row without seeing the sun—and I was longing for warmth, for light, for nature.

It was my roommate’s dad who first took us over the bridge to Marin County. That drive—those red arches rising through the fog, the San Francisco Bay sparkling below—felt like entering another world. We wandered through Sausalito, then still a charming arts enclave with echoes of old-world Italy, and eventually into Mill Valley, where tree-lined streets bore the names of Sycamore, Locust, and Elm. I still remember driving under a massive sycamore canopy and being utterly enchanted.

I didn’t know then that this would become my home—my place to raise a family, build a business, and root myself as an artist. But something stirred in me that day. Something deep and ancient, like I had been here before. Mill Valley was where I began to know my truest self: the one who lives for connection, who finds inspiration in the rhythm of nature, who creates from a place of presence and awe.

Back then, I was a full-fledged Deadhead, arranging my life around seeing shows. The music of the 60s—Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, and of course, the Grateful Dead—was the soundtrack of my soul. So it felt like fate that so many of those artists had lived or wandered these same hills. Marin was—and still is—steeped in that spirit of freedom, creativity, and reverence for the land.

That first summer in Marin became my own Summer of Love.

As I settled into life in Mill Valley, the trails of Mount Tam became my sanctuary. In the early days, I’d lace up my shoes and run through Matt Davis Trail like I was flying—feeling the fog on my skin, the views opening to the city, and the redwoods drawing me inward. Now, I walk it more gently, but it remains one of my most beloved trails. It offers the full spectrum of what Mount Tam has to offer: breathtaking coastal vistas, quiet shady groves, a descent into the heart of the forest. It’s a journey through light and shadow, effort and ease. It’s the trail I return to again and again—because it never fails me. It always gives me what I didn’t know I needed.

The mountain has become a place of deep retreat for me over the years. A touchstone. A teacher. When life has felt unsteady, uncertain, or overwhelming, walking on Tam has brought me clarity and grounding. I often say that the mountain holds me—and it truly does. Whether I’m following familiar paths or exploring new ones, it guides me back to myself.

One of my earliest, most tender memories of hiking up there is spotting the orange wildflower called Indian paintbrush—vibrant and fiery, standing bright in the summer sun. I used to pluck them gently and stick them on my ears like earrings, using the little sticky ends to make them stay. It felt playful, sacred. Like a ritual handed down from nature itself. I would imagine how native peoples may have adorned themselves with these same gifts from the earth. That simple act—wearing wildflowers—was maybe the earliest seed of what would become my lifelong inspiration for creating botanical inspired jewelry.

I also love hiking the Fern Creek Trail, especially on the way to the West Point Inn. While the trail doesn’t offer much in terms of waterfalls, it winds upward through rich vegetation and dappled light, and when you arrive at the Inn, the whole world seems to open. You can see for miles and breathe a little deeper.

And if you're a runner—or someone looking for a real waterfall thrill—the Cataract Trail is a must. In spring, especially after a good rain, it's a cascade lover's dream. That trail is powerful and cleansing, a full-body experience that calls you into the present moment with every step.

Mount Tam is more than a backdrop. It's a living part of my story. And as we approach the summer solstice—the longest day of the year—I find myself reflecting on the light that first brought me here. The light of freedom, creativity, youth. And the deeper, steadier light that has guided me ever since.