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- About Bob
 Find out what I did in your state. |
I gazed up in fascination, straining to take in the incredible sight.
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Humboldt Redwoods State Park, Calif.--I
was walking among giants.
They surrounded me, their massive bodies unmoving, silent. Only my soft breathing broke the stillness as I craned my neck, staring upward, straining to see their crowns.
But I could not. These were the tallest trees on earth, coast redwoods, and they were not going to reveal their secrets so easily. Silent sentinels, they had stood watch here for hundreds--thousands--of years, defying death, thriving despite the ravages of fire and time. I could marvel at them, I could touch their fibrous bark, I could walk around their enormous trunks and explore their hollow insides--but I would never solve the mystery of their longevity.
Better, then, just to admire them.
I was in the midst of 17,000 acres of old growth redwoods, lost in a shadowy, surreal world like nothing I had ever witnessed. The third largest state park in California, Humboldt Redwoods reportedly holds the largest remaining stand of virgin redwoods in the world, with some trees growing taller than 30-story buildings.
They towered over me, making me feel insignificant as I walked alone in their midst, breathing the sweet air, forgetting that I had another life somewhere else.
That other life had brought me to San Francisco for a conference four days prior. The press briefings and business dinners had worn me out, so after shedding my suit and tie for the last time, I had decided to get away--just rent a car and head north into territory I had never seen. And to cap off my adventure, I'd decided to visit the famed redwood forests extolled by Woody Guthrie in his classic "This Land Is Your Land."
I
crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and rolled north on coastal
Highway 1, a winding two-lane that danced along the tops of
wave-battered cliffs, offering breathtaking vistas of the
wide, blue Pacific Ocean. I passed through small seaside
communities and paused at parks like Salt Point State Park,
where I walked on the rocks alongside Gerstle Cove, admiring
the seals sunning themselves nearby.
Farther on, the Point Arena Lighthouse beckoned me in for a visit, and I climbed its 145 steps for an aerial view of the rocky shoreline. A short while later I toured the town of Mendocino, dubbed "Spendocino" by a friend of mine because of the assemblage of souvenir shops, book stores and art galleries along its main street. Still, I enjoyed the atmosphere. Strolling past ramshackle wooden houses and large Victorian dwellings, I felt as though I was in a Maine fishing village. It's no wonder the town was picked to double as Cabot Cove, Maine, on the TV show Murder She Wrote.
Darkness found me speeding inland along a mercilessly winding section of Route 1. I reached Garberville at about 9 p.m. and found one of the last available rooms in the town's dozen or so motels. After washing up, I strolled down the quiet main street. On several store windows hung signs publicizing a major protest rally to be held the next day in Carlotta, about an hour north. The owner of a patch of very old redwoods, it seemed, was about to begin logging. The protesters wanted the trees spared. I made a mental note of the location.
Raindrops pelted me in the face when I emerged from my motel room the next morning, dampening my spirits considerably. Mentally preparing for a soggy slosh through the redwood groves, I stopped into a cafe for breakfast. While waiting for my pancakes I overheard a local fellow confide in the waitress, with a grin, "Let's see how they like this rain up in Carlotta."
Had I not seen the sign the night before I would have missed the underlying story here. The man, and apparently the waitress, were of the pro-logging contingent, and were elated that the rain might spoil the protest.
Their delight, however, was short-lived. No sooner had I pulled off 101 in Phillipsville, six miles north, when the clouds cleared, revealing blue, sunny skies. Now it was my turn for elation.
I steered my car onto the well-labeled Avenue of the Giants, a quiet, two-lane road that wound for 33 miles through prime redwood territory along the banks of the Eel River. The Avenue was surrounded by Humboldt Redwoods State Park, which held the largest remaining stand of virgin redwoods in the world, covering more than 17,000 acres. The oldest recorded coast redwood--more than 2,200 years old--was found in the park.
Coast redwoods are an ancient breed. They've been around for more than 150 million years. They can only be found on a narrow belt about 40 miles wide and 450 miles long, stretching along the coasts of Oregon and northern California. This, however, had not always been the case.
In the mid-1700s coast redwoods reigned over
nearly 2 million acres. Since then some 96 percent of that
forest has been harvested, leaving just 4 percent for us to
enjoy today
Almost as soon as I hit the Avenue, a sign coaxed me to stop and check out Chimney Tree, a hollow, living redwood purported to be 1,500 years old. Someone had built a door into its shell, so I opened it and stepped inside. I found myself in a room about 15 feet across. The tree had become hollow, the story goes, in the early part of the century when some careless hunters left a fire smoldering at its base. It had burned out the middle, leaving the outside intact. I marveled for a few moments about the fact that I was inside a live tree, then I signed the guest register and stepped outside.
The immensity of Chimney Tree whetted my appetite for more redwoods. Fortunately, I didn't have to drive far to find them. I was soon enveloped by them, and I found myself crouching forward as I drove to peer up through the windshield at the tops of the massive trees. Awestruck, I had to pull over.
Stopping at one of the Avenue's more than 130 memorial
groves, I turned off my car and jumped out. The sudden
silence was shocking. Not a bird, not a breeze broke the
stillness. Slowly my head tilted upward, my wide eyes
following the tall trunks on their paths toward the sky.
Some of these monsters reached 360 feet--higher than the
Statue of Liberty, which stands a paltry 305 feet.
In wonder, I began to stroll along a trail winding amongst the trees. Within seconds the road was gone from sight and I was swallowed up by the dark forest. Ferns covered the ground, interspersed with patches of clover-like redwood sorrel. I suddenly felt I had stepped back in time and was creeping through a prehistoric forest. The thick, straight trunks disappearing into the sky could have been the legs of dinosaurs, their bodies high above. Only the swish of traffic on nearby Route 101 destroyed my illusion.
The trail carried me deeper into the forest, every bend revealing marvelous new scenes that made my jaw drop in fascination. The trees were so immense I felt like a tiny leprechaun, skittering about in search of gold. Fallen giants stretched across the forest floor, on and on until they disappeared from sight. I scrambled onto one of them and walked in a straight line for several hundred feet, the trunk getting progressively thinner, until I reached its uppermost branches. Some trees, I'd read, lie for 400 years before they are completely assimilated back into the earth.
Above, the sun peaked through the tops of the trees, a
few stray beams filtering through to touch the carpet of
brown needles on the ground and glisten off the
rain-dampened leaves of the ferns. Admiring the thick,
fibrous bark of one redwood, too tall to comprehend, I
noticed a narrow opening revealing a hollow interior. 
I
squeezed inside, then sat in the dark, silent room within,
awed that I was inside a tree that was possibly alive when
Caesar was born.
Though the average redwood is 600 years old, the oldest exceed 2,000 years. This phenomenal longevity is due chiefly to the strong defenses they have built up against their enemies. They don't burn easily, since there's no resin in their bark. Insects don't like them because of the large amounts of tannic acid they hold. Periodic flooding doesn't suffocate them, but strengthens them by bringing sediment deposits on which they thrive. Their main enemy--aside from man--is heavy wind, for despite their size, their roots are quite shallow, extending only a few feet into the soil. Instead, the roots grow laterally, intertwining with those of other trees.
The trail looped around and led me back to my car, which had since been joined by another. Its driver was about to climb in when he saw me and said hello. Then he added, "You going to Carlotta?"
"Thinking about it," I said.
"I'm heading there now. Should be a lot of people."
Wow, I thought. I could actually attend this rally and do
my bit for saving the redwoods. But I had a lot to see
first. Putting my decision
off, I journeyed onward.
In Myers Flat I stopped to check out the Shrine Drive-Thru Tree. I paid $1.50 to drive down a narrow, private road that passed right through the center of a huge redwood, 21 feet in diameter. I left the car inside the tree and got out to snap a few pictures.
The tree had definitely seen better days. It was leaning to one side and was held up by ropes and cables. Supposedly it was still alive, but it looked dead to me. I later discovered that it was one of four drive-through trees in the state. The others, presumably, looked a bit more healthy.
I stopped frequently as I made my way down the Avenue,
taking brief strolls through the many groves I encountered.
One of these, the Garden Club of America Grove, was
spectacular. I crossed the Eel River on a plank bridge and
followed the Canoe Creek Loop Trail, one of several. The
faint sound of traffic quickly disappeared as I plunged deep
into the primeval forest. The silence enveloped me.
My footsteps on the fallen needles and my quiet breathing
were the only sounds that reached my ears. The total absence
of even a bird call was disorienting. I knew there were
animals living in the trees, like marbled murrelets and
flying squirrels. But the murrelets spent their days at the
beach, and the squirrels were nocturnal.
The trail wound around fallen redwoods, passing vast pits created by their shallow, disinterred roots. I crossed a creek on a bridge formed by a downed tree, stepping carefully on the rough bark, some 30 feet above the rushing water. Around every bend appeared a scene that cried out to be photographed. It was hard to keep my camera away for more than a minute. Guthrie's famous words found their way to my lips over and over:
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"From the redwood forests to the Gulf Stream waters," I sang. "This land was made for you and me." I eventually did the inevitable and lay down at the base of some trees, staring up at their tall, straight trunks. Their branches swayed back and forth in the breeze high above. I watched clumps of needles falling slowly, drifting, taking forever to reach the ground. It was so peaceful there, so still and captivating. I lay on the ground for a very long time. |
Later I stopped in the park visitors' center for a look at its nature displays and films. I was somewhat embarrassed to see a stuffed mountain lion in one exhibit coupled with a notice warning hikers never to hike alone lest one of the big cats see you as easy prey. Oops.
Outside, while looking at rings on the cross section of a tree, a man approached me.
"You going to Carlotta?" he asked.
"Um, I was thinking about it?"
"I came up from Oakland for it. I'm running a little late." He looked at his watch. It was 2:00. "There's so much to see here."
He was right. I had several more stops to make. I put the rally out of my mind again.
Next on my agenda was the Founders Grove, dedicated to the founders of the Save-the-Redwoods League, started in 1917 to preserve primeval forests.
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I followed a well-traveled half-mile loop trail, stopping to admire the Founders Tree (346 feet) and the fallen Dyerville Giant, a 362-foot monster that had been recognized by the American Forestry Association as the Champion Coast Redwood until it toppled in 1991. A storm had knocked another tree into it, and like a domino it had come crashing down. Even lying on the ground, the tree was imposing. With a diameter of 17 feet, it weighed an estimated 1 million pounds. |
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And this is a tree I'm talking about!
After touring the grove, I was forced to make a decision. Drive to the Rockafeller Forest to see the second tallest tree in the world, or head to Carlotta for some protesting. I pictured myself taking the latter course: arriving in Carlotta, looking around uncomfortably, trying to blend in with the screaming protesters, suddenly realizing that I didn't quite understand what was being protested, getting arrested as I tried to leave.
I whimped out. I was not a protester at heart.
(Afterwards I learned that scores of people were arrested in Carlotta that day, including singer Bonnie Raitt.)
Rockefeller Forest, the literature informed me, was the world's largest remaining contiguous old-growth coast redwood forest. I followed a narrow, winding byway into its depths and parked in the Big Tree Area. I quickly located the two most notable trees: the Tallest Tree (360 feet) and the Giant Tree (once 363 feet, now 354 feet after a storm broke off its top). The former, despite its name, is not the world's tallest. There are at least 11 taller trees. The current record holder is reportedly the 367.5-foot Mendocino Tree in Montgomery State Reserve.
After
pondering the immensity of the Giant Tree for a while, I
headed deeper into the woods. Rockefeller Forest has never
been logged, so it is just as pristine today as it was 100
years ago. And, in truth, it did feel somehow more untamed
than any of the groves I had previously visited. It was
denser, somehow more forbidding.
By now the sunlight was no longer filtering through the trees as the afternoon began to wane. The coming darkness contributed to the ominous feeling emanating from the thick woods. I stopped and stared at the trail ahead of me, winding its way into the unknown.
I had seen more than I had ever imagined I would, experiencing first-hand the magic of these ancient redwoods. I was content.
Taking a last look, I turned and strolled slowly back to my car. Behind me, the forest resumed its eternal vigil of silence.
The San Francisco Examiner and The Philadelphia Inquirer.