Iron Fist

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.