Entering the Redwoods

This essay is dedicated to Wendall Berry.

    It was a midsummer morning in the later days of July during a road-trip across the country with a dear friend of mine we drove south on Highway 101 toward Trinidad, California.  We woke up early from a night of sleeping on couches, something accustomed from embracing life on the road. Weeks before this day we were traversing west through states, time zones, terrain as we left behind the comforts of home, beds and a guaranteed place to sleep every night. I-80 West became a familiar acquaintance leading us from the Northeast through the barren states of the Midwest until we eventually dipped south to land in Colorado. After calling Colorado home for a week our bodies again sped up to 70 miles an hour and ventured into Utah territory and continued into California. From there we stayed on Highway 101 north for nearly another four hours rolling through hills and hugging the sides of mountains as the air began to moisten and plants resembling the Jurassic age became prominent. This was the environment we embraced as our temporary home, a world where water droplets of fog collected on any plant leaf open and gracious to accept.

    On the road there is calmness between the two of us as we share the space of the car in understanding.  Our backpacks are stocked with water, snacks and first aid. In my case I carry several rolls of film and a camera, only bringing the essentials for a day hike. The air outside was moist and opaque. A peach hue bounced off of the coastline’s sand and onto the green ferns that swayed gently in the ocean breeze.  Through the speakers of the car, radio waves translate a song by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, “Ohio.” My thoughts are entertained by the irony of the song and the time period I am growing up in in The United States. I rest my head on my hand and my elbow rests on the open car window. The fresh air whips against my skin tenderly bringing scents of oak and Douglas fir into my nostrils. Suddenly the scenery shifts from rural coastal town to thick evergreen forests. Redwoods tower on either side of the two-lane highway, concrete that cuts the forest in half, a man made divider. The faces of the forest smile back at my partner and I, welcoming us with open arms and ancient secrets.

    Here we are at the entrance to Strawberry Rock a friendly exploration in the Humboldt Community Forest. One car is parked in the dirt lot aside from ours. There is no sign to delegate a trail, but trees were left parted by previous forest explorers guiding a way for future wanderers.  I step out of the car and my feet greet the ground gently, strapped in sandals able to breathe as one along with my body and the fauna surrounding me. Finally I begin to walk to the tree line. An echo of synthetic sound waves vibrates into the woods as my friend locks the vehicle, a civilized seal that wont be broken again until nightfall. There is a subtle energy that hovers around the border between the entrance to the primitive forest and the occupied space of society, I sense it. And now I leave behind communication ties to anyone on the forest’s exterior.

    My senses tighten, becoming keener to the ferns, moss and lichens growing around upon immediate entrance to the woods. As if the world is haunted by constant communication and human recognition, I become more comfortable being separated from it. Knowing that I severed the invisible chain linked to my ankle that extends from the veins of highways beyond my sight and thought and beyond the two cars stationed in the dirt parking lot, I sigh with relief. Once again my breath slows its pace, my pupils adjust fluidly and the chatter in my mind stops all together. Having come here from the far reaches of the North East I recognize that it is myself that I am impressed by. How little strain or stress I felt while traveling west by car, tied down by gravity, in comparison to the free flight of a plane. Though a plane’s flight is not free. It appears to be free but in fact is controlled and manipulated, as are the bodies traversing through time high in the clouds. Just like a place of purgatory, the body flies through the sky in and out of specified time zones to land somewhere only to snap back into reality, adjust and not fully pass over to the other side. There is nothing quite comparable to the sensory confusion the body experiences during travel. Some may deem it to be natural, but I have only come to that conclusion if the human form continues to hug the earth as it ventures to new lands.

    I move deeper into the forest, observing the compact growth of ferns among the feet of the evergreens. I delicately salute these species as they continue a lifestyle of endurance, surviving beyond a typical cycle of yearly death growing steadily in the fog. The bracken fern is a trustworthy species, occupying this territory for nearly 200 years, providing company to its towering friends that virtually touch the sky. I trust myself in the company of these organisms knowing that they survive past expectation and patiently endure the salty sea breeze and trials of time. I wonder what their interpretation of me is, am I treading on ground unwelcomed?

    I was young when I first began to seek comfort in the solitude of forests. It began with the swamplands of the Everglades, only miles from my home. By wandering away from the noise and bustle of the modern world I am granted the ability to rest, think and draw upon the teachings of my inner consciousness. But while I am here in the redwoods I am accompanied by a friend, though she is as tranquil as I am, we have yet to speak a word. Weaving through the underbrush, placing hands considerately on the rose tinted barks of grandfathers and grandmothers only to steady ourselves as we make it deeper into the forest. Nobody knows we are here but the tanbark oaks, sequoias and Douglas firs that we pass by. I imagine us to be friends, the trees, and if they could speak to me. But they do. They tell man about the world and how to treat it. But man seems to acknowledge with a clogged ear, nodding a head and mapping out a territory for the trees to remain only to clear away what lays outside of that confined space, creating a civilized park.

    By coming here I greet the unfamiliar. I vaguely know my geographical whereabouts on the map of the grand United States. But my location translates as null and void to me as I never truly know where I stand in the vast expanse of the cosmos. A slight brush on my shoulder interrupts my thoughts. My friend signals to follow her in a westward direction. I can taste the salt on my tongue as we go in direction of the shore. The faint sounds of crunching snaps my attention to my left as ferns rustle and dried leaves crunch under the light movement of a chipmunk. Or was it a shrew? Either way its knowledge of the woods is beyond my comprehension.

   I feel naked in the woods. Drawn in by instinct and curiosity; traits that reflect a human’s innate nature to explore. But what is exploration if it is only an organic action? Why in modern times do we obstruct our instinctual desires by fences and technology and shadows of achievement when we truly crave to be free and naked in what we now term as “nature”. Maybe these thoughts are not shared with the majority, but I am so concerned for those who do not yearn for the crisp intake of oxygen provided by populations of trees.

   Our path weaves in and out of clustered populations of redwoods. Some reach higher than others, all situated with roots spreading horizontally into the upper layers of sediment, these giants don’t dig deep. Like a specialized plumbing system the trees constantly utilizes an intricate cellular process to pump gallons of water to their towering branches. Scientifically, the redwoods make their own rain. After moisture collects on their leaves and branches, it drips down to the roots and replenishes their thirst. Oh, what admirable qualities and survival techniques these creatures have. I smile knowing they will outsmart me for decades to come. It is when I recognize my weaker survival traits that I notice the sound of an agricultural aircraft overhead. Almost as quickly as the sound entered my eardrums does it dissipate; leaving me with a lingering thought of the society I left hours ago.

   Soon we push past a grouping of wildflowers and merge with an enormous sandy red rock face. It is evident why someone once decided to call this cliff Strawberry Rock. The foliage along the bottom is plentiful and thriving. Some wildflowers and shrubs endure enough to climb up the rock, inviting me to follow suit. And so, I begin to scale Strawberry Rock.

    My body twists and molds with the inlets and concave surfaces. My hands tighten on bulges of rock that seem to be eroded in the form of handles just for me. It is not arm strength that allows me to reach the top of the rock, but willpower and determination to gain a view of the coast and thriving forest below. I ascend to the top, noticing that my friend follows right behind me. Then, after a couple of hours of silence we share a few words of delight. The horizon is thick with fog, scattering light across the ocean as if a watercolor artist painted it a mixture of pink and yellow. The sun is setting within the next three hours and the western coastline remains tranquil. Waves lick the sandy shore that kisses the edge of the redwood tree line in front of me. The earth below seems to be more tangible from this height in comparison to when I am walking on the dirt. If I close one eye I can trace my finger along the jagged edges of different peaks of trees. They resemble miniatures I once saw as a child in a store that sold only Christmas decorations. And that’s what the wilderness is to some, a mere decoration of the Earth. I only hope that my admiration can be translated to the forest. I wish that my walk in the woods to be perhaps untraceable and leave no negative effects on the species that call this environment home.

    After an hour upon the top of Strawberry Rock, we climb down. We voyage again through the damp rainforest, caressed by a harsh salty climate. All day I have moved among ancient organisms, making as little noise as possible. As my friend and I approach the clearing where our car is located we begin to unravel and our voices mingle once again. It is time to share our experience of the forest that was so physically close but independent in thought, A loud click echoes once again into the trees and the vehicle unlocks, a conduit that will allow us access once again into civilization. As we travel back to present time from a forest of prehistoric qualities I realize that what I am leaving is what I long for daily.