Feeling Small

The awe-factor continued, and possibly multiplied today.  Do you know how old the redwoods are?  Any clue?  I asked a ranger today how old the trees were.  The oldest one they know of is 2100 years old.  That’s right, that would date back to BC, and this is a living thing.  The average age of trees in the forest is 700-1200 years old.  Let’s put this in perspective: the Europeans had not yet discovered America, in fact England was just being united by William the Conqueror when these trees were but little saplings.

Elk at Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park

The ranger guided me to a few hikes, and I thoroughly enjoyed walking through the forest on my own today, rarely seeing people along the way, but rather enjoying the sounds of nature: chipmunks scurrying, birds singing and one snake slithering across the path.  A lush green carpet of moss and ferns is sheltered by leafy canopies that brush the sky, bringing a cool and refreshing air to the ancient forest.  Walking amongst these massive living creatures, I felt dwarfed, in fact, I thought at one point that the forest did not just seem magical, but truly was: perhaps I had been shrunk to the size of the fairies that dance here in the mornings.

For some size comparison, I walked through this "tunnel" with my hands above my head and did not scrape the tree.

I wish photographs could do these trees justice, but it is truly difficult to capture their magnificent size in one photographic image.  And it is impossible to understand their size unless given something to compare them to, so despite my tiny-five-foot-stature, I tried my best to show the true size of these ancient giants.

I am standing inside the hollow part of a tree.

The sign to this tree simply said "Big Tree" which I found very humorous amongst all of the giants!

The northern coast of California is overflowing with state parks.  So, after leaving one, I headed to another: Fern Canyon.  A rough road through the trees brought me out at the beach, near the trail head to the canyon.  The canyon floor, probably twelve feet across had a shallow creek flowing throw it, littered with fallen trees that provided for bridges and obstacles along the journey.  But it is not the floor of the canyon that people journey to see, but the walls.  Twenty-feet high, these walls are nearly solid fern; the only place where there were not ferns was covered in moss, moist from the small trickle of water cascading down the tall wall.  The air in the canyon was cool: rainforest cool and refreshing.

I drove on, hoping to secure a campsite at the next state park, but they were all full.  (Don’t worry, I am snuggled up in a room just down the road from Patrick’s Point.)  I decided to take advantage of the bright sunshine and the surroundings for a few hours, so I wandered the paths to rocky points overlooking the turquoise ocean and white clouds.  There were times on my walk that I suddenly felt as though I was walking in the clouds, when all around me was white and the cool air was moist, despite the strong coastal winds.  I also found a path down to the rocky coastline where I soaked in some sunshine while watching the waves crash onto the rocky shore, with only a ground squirrel to accompany me.

"Ladder" to the beach

Tomorrow, I’ll turn eastward, leaving the ocean behind.  I’m really looking forward to this next part of my journey, but that salt air certainly does something for the soul, and well, I’ll miss that as I journey into the center of our country, far from that salty air.

Miles: 63

Hours in the car: 2.5

Gallons: 0

States: California