California’s North Coast

I took my time driving down HWY 101, stopping to spend time in Jedidiah Smith Redwoods State Park. There are ten thousand acres of primeval redwood groves that protect forty-five percent of California’s remaining old growth redwoods.

California’s coast redwoods live along the fog belt. They need the fog for their survival, and flourish at elevations below two thousand feet. Trees grow three hundred feet tall or more, with a base diameter around twenty feet. The oldest coast redwoods are about two thousand years old and show no signs of dying out. They resist insects, fire, and rot to a remarkable degree, and sprout back when cut or badly burned.

The Yurok, Hupa, Karuk, Chilula, and Tolowa people inhabited the area. Tolowa descendants are still present in Northern California, and many continue to practice their traditions. European settlers depleted natural resources, causing far-reaching environmental changes.

A cooperative was created in 1994 between Jedidiah Smith, Del Norte Coast, and Prairie Creek Redwoods State and National Parks to manage their combined 105,516 acres of old growth redwoods.

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Hiking among the magnificent redwoods filled me with awe. The narrow trail winds up along the Smith River, rising from gently sloping to steep, with steps cut into the soil in some places to facilitate the climb. A wall of ferns feels silky. I’m surprised to see rhododendron in bloom along the path, as well as wild Douglas iris, and a variety of other flowering plants and berries. The new-grown tips of the redwood trees are soft and feathery.

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The sun is hot, but there is a cool breeze that rustles in the trees. I don’t know how long I’ve walked, and I’m hot and thirsty. I see a tree stump and decide to sit, rest, and drink some water. I am deep enough into the woods that I no longer hear the whoosh of the cars rushing past on the road, only the birds singing songs different from ones I’m used to hearing, and the sound the wind makes as it teases the trees. I sing a song of made up words about how beautiful the trees and sky are, and how happy I feel.

“That’s nice.” I hear someone say. I’m startled. I thought I was alone.

“More please.” I look around and realize that what I thought was a tree, was actually an extraordinarily tall person, covered with shaggy hair. “I don’t normally talk to humans, but I don’t think you’d hurt me, and you’re happy.” His voice was soft, calm. “I come to look at the river. I can stand in the trees and most people don’t see me, although they look for me.” I noticed that he did blend in with the trees. It was his stillness.

“Be careful. You are vulnerable alone in the woods,” he said.

“From wild animals?”

“No, other humans.”

“Most people are nice.” I say, and then realize that as I’d be afraid of a bear, he was afraid of humans. “Has a human ever hurt you?”

“No, but I see what they do to other creatures and to each other.”

I sat quietly beside him, letting time pass, enjoying his presence.

“What you’re looking for, I think you’ve found it.” He sighed.

The wind sighed.

I sighed.

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Rested, I hike down to the road and cross to the campground to enjoy the beach on the Smith River. There are a few kayakers on the river, and families sitting on the beach, children splashing in the water. I ponder whether the color of the water is teal or turquoise. A mother calls to her children. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk in the jungle.”

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Driving along the coast I stop at Crescent Beach. I walk the length of the beach and watch families play, running in and out of the waves, flying kites. People ride horses. Sandpipers feast along the shore at the Good Eats Café. It’s cool and windy and I let my guard down as to how intense the sun can be. I return to the motel, windblown and sunburned.

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Glass Beach at Ft. Bragg, CA is a place I’ve wanted to see for many years. The beach, once knee deep in bits of sea tumbled glass, now has only remnants of the feature that draws people here. Yet, families come with thirty-two ounce drink cups to collect what remains.