The chance of unexpected encounters is why I take walks along quiet dirt paths or along the shore. To look in the eye of a wild creature, so sure of its place in the world, for a fleeting moment that dissipates like a daydream with the padding footsteps of the coyote back into the brush or the splash of a harbor seal back beneath the waves, is both arresting and comforting.

It's the week after Christmas and I'm on vacation with my family in a tiny mountain town called Groveland, about an hour from Yosemite Valley. We're all here together — my mom, dad, sister, and our yellow lab — to slow down for a few days, away from the distractions of work, social obligations, and the internet.

“Jesus! This hill is killer!” I downshift again and try to shift my weight forward and pedal harder up the hill. To my left is the San Francisco Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge just out of view around the curve. Cars fly by as we struggle up the steady incline.