I've never been one to climb mountains just to say I've been there. For me, mountains are powerful metaphors, so I always approach them with forethought and intent.

What is it about water that lifts the human spirit?

Monday's hike along the upper McCloud River in far Northern California begins with a detour. We're going to start at Lower Falls and hike about three miles upstream to Lakin Dam, passing Middle Falls and Upper Falls on the way.

It pays to keep your eyes on the trail — even when it's a well-established path like the Upper Rogue River Trail. But sometimes that's not quite enough. You have to make sure you're watching the right trail.

The hike begins in the hush of a redwood cathedral and ends in the crashing surf. From dripping ferns, singing streams and frolicking elk to barking sea lions, clouds of pelicans and, if you're lucky, spouting whales and prancing porpoise pods.

Late last summer a cluster of lightning strikes ignited a series of blazes in and around the Sky Lakes Wilderness that burned about 21,000 acres. One of the fires in that complex burned across the Red Blanket Trail, a high-mountain path that skirts the border between Crater Lake National Park and the Sky Lakes.

Standing atop Hobart Bluff, I'm reminded of the four sacred mountains of the Navajo — Mount Taylor, the San Francisco Peaks, Mount Hesperus and Blanca Peak — marking the traditional boundaries of the tribe's territory in the Southwest.

From the bluffs, filled with grasses, Douglas irises and seashore lupines, the horizon stretches to a panorama of headlands, sand, offshore rocks and ocean. The clouds have broken for a moment, revealing streaks of blue behind thinning puffs of gray. Along the beach, a few dots move slowly across the sand — people braving the uncertain weather to take in the bracing sea air, the calls of shorebirds and the steady roar of the breakers.

I stand in a cluster of wildflowers — shooting stars, scarlet fritillaries and larkspurs — their violets, reds and purples dappling the gray-tan ground in a forest of Oregon white oaks. It is mid-spring, the air is cool, and I am walking with a bounce in my step at last.

I am out of breath from the climb, a cold breeze whipping across my face.