Iron Fist

I have always been one of those people who would get disappointed when on a trip and not getting what was promised to me by a roadside sign. ‘CURVES AHEAD’ usually delivered, but ‘Now Entering SNOW ZONE’ almost never did (a hazard of driving over mountains in July, I suppose). ‘DANGER: FALLING ROCKS’ has yet to yield a cascade of falling stones all across the highway, and ‘BRAZILIAN HOT WAX’ has — well, that’s another story, really.

THE POINT IS: when I got back on the 101, heading south for Humboldt Bay as the day escaped me, I passed a sign that said ‘ELK CROSSING AHEAD NEXT 2 MILES’, and I didn’t even bother to gear myself up for disappointment. “Pfeh,” I said, “elk,” and then a minute or two later I found myself saying, “Holy shit! ELK!”

Just right there. Just that close. Eating on the side of the road by a traffic sign. I pulled my car over to the shoulder to stop and stare, mouth hanging open in awe like – well, like a tourist, I guess. They were just THERE, suddenly, grazing along the side of the road, mostly oblivious to us but every now and then looking up at we humans as if to say, “Hey, buddy, what’s the big deal? You ain’t got nothin’ else to do?”

After several minutes of internal debate which concluded with me deciding that trying to pet one and make it my friend was probably a bad idea, if only because my hotel probably wouldn’t be very understanding about the last minute addition of a roommate, I got back on the freeway and kept heading south, only to discover that the original sign had OVERdelivered, and there were elk beyond just the two miles that they’d promised. As I neared Humboldt Lagoon, squinting into the setting sun, I came around a curve and saw that there were a number of cars pulled over onto the shoulder. Just on the hunch that this might mean more elk, I pulled over along with them, and got out of my car to look at the herd of Roosevelt elk grazing in a field next to the road.

There were easily fifty elk, spread out over the entire field. Not many bothered to look at us this time. No doubt they’d given up wondering why it was that we rushed back and forth along that road all the time, only occasionally stopping to marvel at the beautiful land they spent their every day in.

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After the hidden beach, my next destination was down the 101 at the Trees of Mystery, where I was greeted by a gigantic statue of Paul Bunyan, who is either wearing a black fleece undershirt or else is showing more chest hair than I should ever want to own in this or any other lifetime. I guess this falls under the ‘roadside attraction’ category — it’s not really a theme park, although it does have a ride. It’s a hike through an area of the redwood forest wherein there are a number of interesting trees growing within a mile or so of each other. Immediately upon entering, for example, you’ll find yourself looking at the Family Tree, which has a dozen trees growing out of the same trunk. As you can see in this underexposed photo, this involves some of the trees growing horizontally out of the main trunk, and others growing vertically out of those trees and out of the branches of the main tree.

After following the path for a while and taking in the Lightning Tree and the awesome Cathedral Tree and the truly titanic Brotherhood Tree you get a chance to ride a cable car up the hill to a little platform where you can take in the sea, and tops of the trees, and all the surrounding mountains.  Oh, and an osprey nest!

This was another place I could have spent all day in, walking among the trees and breathing in that pure air, but the afternoon was dragging on and I knew that I still had a ways to go before I could call it a night.  Still, I got a few good photos.  You can see them all here.

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It seems like it was ages ago, in another life time, but it’s only been three years, really, since we stayed in a little cabin here in the redwoods, just north of Klamath. We let the owner know that it was our anniversary when we checked in, and she sized us up across the counter and smiled, and said, “You look like good people. So I’m going to let you in on a little secret that we locals keep.” She told us about the entry to a little trail just off the highway, that you’d probably miss if you didn’t know to look for it, and if you followed it through the woods for a half mile you’d come out on a little secluded stretch of beach. And so on a bright morning in June we found the trail right where the innkeeper said it would be and for a glorious hour we had a beach and blue sky all to ourselves.

It’s just me, though, this time, and it’s fall instead of summer, but I remember right where to find the trail. It turns out that although the sun is out and the sky is clear, it’s still November and it rained all day the day before, and so the path is a lot muddier this time. That, and there are giant slugs out on patrol, just looking for weary travelers. Ahh, it’s just like being back in Oregon again!

I make my way down to the beach eventually, and the only other people there are on their way out, leaving the beach to me in its entirety.

The tide is coming in, with the waves almost breaking up against the field of driftwood logs that compose most of the beach. I start snapping pictures, so intent upon my task of capturing this place that I wander into the waves, and am almost immediately broadsided across the shins by a pair of logs washing in on the waves. This turns out to feel about what you’d imagine getting hit in the shins with a flying log would feel like, unsurprisingly.

It’s noon now, and still I’m the only one on this beach, so I find a spot above the water line to stash my clothes and change into my boardshorts, and go wading out into the water. The sea has long been my element; growing up near San Diego, I was always the last one out of the water when we’d take our family trips to the beach. In my sullen teenage years I’d walk to the shore to commune with the ocean, finding my peace in the vastness of the sea, feeling as one with the ebb and flow of the tide as I breathed in and out. It has been far too long since I’ve waded into the brine of the Pacific. I soak up about a thousand dollars worth of therapy there in the breakers.

I drag myself out and walk back up the shore sooner than I’d like, mostly because I see more driftwood logs out there, and getting hit with one of those in the face wouldn’t be quite as funny as my earlier run-in with them. I walk back up to where I’d stashed my clothes, and I stand there for quite a while in just my shorts, breathing in that cleansing ocean air, feeling the California sun soak into my skin, lost in thought as I’m hypnotized all over again by the waves.

That’s probably why I don’t notice that I’m not alone on the beach anymore. A flicker of movement catches my eye, and I realize I am being spied on.

Little bastard. I change back into my clothes and head back up the trail. It’s after one o’clock now, and I’ve still got some giant redwoods to see.

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I managed to get on the road right around noon on the day after my birthday, heading south. I’d been quoted a drive-time of just under six hours by Google maps to get to Crescent City from Portland. I picked this particular destination because I had passed through there on my way to San Francisco a few years ago, and given the limited time I’d had for my trip and what I wanted to see it seemed like a reasonable place to spend the night after a day on the road. It’s just south of the Oregon border, and at the far north end of what you could really consider to be the redwood forest.

Although I’d had the optimistic-yet-unrealistic hope that I would get far enough south and west to catch the sunset on the ocean, it started to get dark as I drove through Grants Pass, and between rain and windy roads and lowered city speed limits it was after seven before I pulled into Crescent City. I was experiencing that combination of exhaustion and extremely pent-up antsiness that typically comes with taking a road trip, so after kicking around in my hotel room for an hour or so I went back out to see if there was anything worth photographing at night. I got a halfway decent shot of seagulls roosting in the marina before giving up and trying to find a restaurant that was still open after eight o’clock.

Though the forecasts had called for rain, I woke up to one of those absolutely gorgeous fall days on the coast, where the sky is blue and mist is rising from the ground every where as the rain evaporates. I drove around the beaches, coming at last to where a wall jutted out into the sea to shield the marina from waves, and despite the warnings walked out on it to breathe in that sea air that I miss so much.

I spent some time with my pants legs rolled up wading in the tide, much to the dismay of the resident gulls, before getting back in my car and driving back up along the coast to the north end of the city, near their tiny local airport.

Crescent City is a tiny town, far from anything else, and my barista actually asked if I wanted a straw for my capuccino. On this idyllic fall morning, though, I had the thought that a surfing town surrounded by redwood trees would be the kind of place I could easily spend the rest of my life.

This wasn’t my final destination, though, so I got back on the 101 and headed south a little before noon.

(I’ve got a photo set from my trip up on Flickr, I’ll be adding to it over the next few days, so keep an eye on it.)

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I am too tired to start any sort of recap just yet.  So for now I’m just going to continue to tantalize you with photos.

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