A Community Corner Submission
There’s a particular kind of night in Topanga where the moon does just enough. Not bright, not dark, just enough that your eyes begin to adjust and the canyon slowly reveals itself in layers. We’ve always loved walking in that kind of light. It asks you to slow down. To notice more. To trust your senses a little differently.
Last night, we were reminded it’s not just us doing the noticing.
It was around 8:30, walking in Entrada toward the park entrance. The plan was simple: take in that twilight glow and toss a dog bag in the trash at the trailhead. The moon carried us most of the way. Then we turned into the entrance—where the trees close in and the light drops off—and everything shifted. Cali, our 45-pound Llewellin Setter, went from relaxed to fully alert in a second. Then she lunged. Hard. She was on a 15-foot lead, which usually gives her room to explore. In that moment, it also gave her room to build speed—and force. I held on.
We couldn’t see what she could see, but we could feel it. A few steps in, shapes began to resolve—a trash can knocked over, something large just beyond where our eyes could adjust. Then the understanding landed: we weren’t alone. A mother bear and her two cubs had already clocked us. What happened next was… nothing. And that was everything.
We didn’t run. We didn’t push forward. We just backed out. The bear stayed with her cubs and headed up a trail. We walked home with a different kind of awareness. Because loving the wildness of Topanga isn’t just about appreciating it—it’s about understanding our role within it. And sometimes, that role is simply: don’t make things harder than they need to be.
For us, this has meant a few small shifts. At night, we’ll walk Cali on a 6-foot leash—not as a restriction, but as a way of moving together as one. A longer lead gives freedom, but it also creates distance, speed, and unpredictability right when you need the opposite. We’ll also wear a headlamp—not to flood the canyon or take away from the beauty of the dark, but to avoid walking blindly into it. A low beam, used gently, is enough to catch what matters: a shift in the brush, a set of eyes, a sign that something else is already there. It’s not about controlling the environment. It’s about not surprising it. Coyotes, bobcats, cougars—they all move through here differently. But the principle holds: don’t look like prey, don’t create chaos, and don’t walk in unaware. Not rules. Just good manners.
We didn’t see the bears clearly last night. Not really. But they saw us. And for a moment, we shared the same path—and chose to let each other pass. There’s something grounding in that. And something to be grateful for.
Grateful for the bear that held her ground and not more.
Grateful for instincts that showed up when they needed to.
Grateful to live in a place that is still, unmistakably, wild.
And grateful to be reminded, how to move through it a little better.
From the canyon,
Michelle
