Rousting the bear

Having gone to bed amongst the monumental Redwoods in the dark, we had anticipated a magnificent waking in the morning. We did not however, calculate the sum of California's daily fog, the rising sun, and the forest standing sentinal around us. The result of this equation can be seen in the picture below, a saturated dose of beauty that started our day with more vigor than the entire Starbucks chain could provide.



After clumsily attempting to pack up camp with our attention drawn upwards to the soaring beams of light instead of the work at hand, we set on our way to the Thomas H. Kuchel Visitor's Center. Our aim was a permit to the Tall Trees Trail, a limited-access 4 mile hike around the oldest growth Redwoods in the park. The trees here date to B.C. times, and with a park limit of 50 passes offered each day we wanted to ensure our early arrival in order to procure one.

The drive to the center was half an attraction in itself; the fog had not yet cleared and we hugged the sharp curves of the mountain while the silent giants scanned our eager faces with their spotlights. The drive was a ballet of shadows, not an intrusion into their secrets but a conversation about them. Once we arrived at the visitor's center we were lucky to find a solid pile of permits still available (it still being only 9:30am after all), and we listened as the guide explained how to unlock the gate, the 7 mile drive to the trailhead and subsequently, the steep 4 mile trail around the grove.

At this point anyone reading this who knows me is struggling to comprehend how the prospect of a strenuous 4 mile hike is a subject being thrown about with such nonchalance by me, someone known for their marked inability to complete any vaguely demanding physical activity. Let me be clear: I was freaking out. To say the least, I was terrified that I would get partially through this hike and need an airlift. I had never walked that distance in one take before, nor had I climbed up steep hills at the end of a hike estimated to take 2.5 hours for the *average* hiker. The only thing bartering my consent was the promise of creatures I would never again see the likes of were I not willing to make this sacrifice.

After locating the correct side-road, successfully bypassing the padlock, and making our way down the long driveway to the trailhead, we hastily arranged a day pack with a good supply of water, cameras, and vials. We then quickly assembled a couple of our new signature road trip sandwiches (cinnamon swirl white bread, peanut butter, strawberry preserves), downed them and set off on our way.

The first 1.5 miles of the walk were a steep downhill path, and every step I took down I knew I would have to take back up when the day was warmer and I was slower. Nevertheless, the woods played their part well by offering consistent distraction from these depressing thoughts, and we stopped frequently to feel the bright fiery red that lay soft and feathery on the barks of the trees. For anyone who has never felt Redwood bark, I can only describe it as a delicate clumping of shimmery red fibers that will crumble in the pressure of your fingertips. The gentleness of its texture serves a sharp contrast to its leviathan form, and gives the impression that if any one of these trees fell in the woods they truly wouldn't make a sound even if you were around to hear it.

At the end of the 1.5 mile downhill, we reached the small loop trail that belts the oldest and tallest growth like a ringlet of honor. If these trees were kings then this path was their crown, bejeweled by the speckles of awe in the eyes of those that circle them. We reveled in their midst for about 45 minutes before we unexpectedly reached our starting point, and I began mentally preparing myself for the hike back to the car.

For anyone curious how generous I will be to myself, I will be blunt: I suffered. Adam outpaced me by a longshot despite a backpack holding 2 liters of water, an SLR, spare lenses and a tripod. On a steep climb, every ounce of weight feels like a pound, and I have more than a few built in ounces to spare! Multiple times I had to stop, breathe, and drink, but as my body became more used to the idea that it had no alternate choices, my ability to recoup grew better. The ranger had told us that we would have to crawl back to the car and to be prepared, and while it wasn't quite that extreme, it felt close. Once the mirage of the car solidified at my fingertips, I felt exhuberant and invincible. I acknowledge that the ratio of my joy to the scale of the accomplishment is most likely pitiful, but I happily listened to the song my muscles were humming as we set off towards Petaluma.

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