Day 2 (continued)
As night set in, we didn't feel quite ready to quit our journeying, so we headed into the town of Trinidad. At first appearance a small town with little more than a Chevron station and a quick mart, a few blocks in, quaint houses and criss-crossing streets revealed a charming seaside town. Still, two minutes of driving got us through all of it, which was fine, as our final destination for the day was the water. Trinidad is regarded as among the finest sections of California seashore for combing tide pools—a favorite pass-time of my mother's. Pulling into Trinidad State Beach, we found ourselves looking down on a tucked-away, rocky Neverland. With enormous rock outcroppings looming out of the water, smaller ones scattered among the waves, and many nooks and crannies created in-between, the beaches in and around Trinidad (we also went to two just south of town) crawl with surfers, scenery-admirers, and thinkers. As the sky turned that lavendar hue it gets just before going black, a lighthouse winked at me from some distant point of land, and I thought I might just sit in this chilly night-time scene for a very long time. I'm quite sure it will become one of those visual memories I keep for life.
Day 3
Jedidiah Smith Redwoods State Park is the most northern section of California's Redwood forest. Driving north almost to Oregon, you can enter the park from Crescent City, a depressing little town that suffered at the hands of a tsunami back in the 1960s, and I have to imagine it never recovered. We stayed there only long enough to get a park map and directions to our first stop, Stout Grove. The day before, in Prairie Creek, we had entered the park on a smoothly paved road that led us from guided trail to guided trail. In Jedidiah, as soon as we turned onto the road, I knew we were in for a different experience. Once paved, the road surface is now rough and beaten, covered with a thin red glaze of dried Redwoods branches. Stout Grove is, in fact, the only stop on the road; the rest of the time, you glide slowly amidst massive trees that regularly encroach on the very pavement you'd like to roll your tires along. You can get out of the car anytime you want, but you can't enter the woods; you have to be content with being engulfed in them. I felt very deep in there, lost to the outside world, far from daylight (as the dense stand of 350+ foot trees blocks most of it) or from cities or even from time. It was magical.
Day 4
Driving home, we passed through the Humboldt Redwoods, traveling down the Avenue of the Giants for most of its 32 miles. I have to say that in comparison to the two Redwood parks I'd just seen, Humboldt truly does pale. But any Redwood is impressive, especially the fallen ones that seem to go on and on and on as you walk from root ball to tip. In Humboldt, some sort of calamity brought down a veritable fleet of massive Redwoods in one area. Some are so wide that, on their sides, they still stand two or three times as tall as me. Standing beside them feels like standing beside a grounded ship—its hull exposed, rising from the ground and looking like the whole thing should rock right on over. On some, crashing into a neighbor sent splinters up the wood, separating it into what looks like gaping hunks and shards of red flesh. On others, the ancient bark is beginning to roll off the fallen trunk and onto the ground—giving the impression of serpents slithering up the wood and then off. Needless to say, I enjoyed my brief visit to Humboldt and recommend that all of you venture into these beauties at some point!
I'll close by commenting that the drive south on 101 from Humboldt to about Santa Rose is absolutely beautiful. It's all farmland and wineries, hillsides covered in scrub oak and madrone and a variety of other decidious trees that seemed astonishingly petite and delicate after what I'd just seen. Passing through Healdsburg definitely put it next on my list of places to visit. And I'll be sure to report on that if I do!
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Northern Redwoods, part 1
Reputedly, when I was four years old I hiked an entire Redwood forest without a grumble. The journey is said to have taken a full day. I, unfortunately, don't remember my good attitude or much of what I saw. But one of those mental pictures that occasionally floats into my consciousness—generally in response to a certain combination of air temperature and dampness dangling from greenery—is of a very large Redwood, which I believe I walked through, and which therefore left in my mind an association of Redwoods with wonderland. Add to that a fanaticism developed around the same age for all things Star Wars—and thus an insuppressible urge to look for Ewoks when I set foot among Redwoods—and you can imagine how readily I agreed when my mother suggested that after Thanksgiving we should drive to the northernmost of the Redwood forests in California and spend a few days exploring.
Day 1
We left early Friday morning on one of those crystal-clear, crisp days that make San Francisco a hard place to imagine not living despite the bizarre climate. We spent 9.5 hours (including a few small excursions) alternately traveling alongside the Pacific Ocean and dipping in and out of forested valleys and rises to finally reach the town of Trinidad around 6 pm. It had been a lovely day, but we were more than ready to get out of the car when we parked outside the Lost Whale Inn.
The minute we entered, I knew I would love staying here. A young couple sat at a large wooden table like you'd find in a kitchen, sipping tea and talking quietly. An older pair lounged on a sofa, flipping through magazines with their feet up as though in their own living room. A fire flickered behind the piano. (The piano!) As we shut the door, the owner greeted us with a hearty hello, handshakes that could have been hugs, and a glowing smile. As she led us around—showing us the tv room, the hot tub, the moon, the ocean, our bedrooms, the hallway table laden with packets of tea and cocoa, mugs, and hot water—it took all of three minutes for me to feel at home. Then she suggested we come downstairs for clam chowder, which we did—and which we enjoyed so much we had seconds. She also pointed out the open bottles of wine that we were free to pour from, the punch her husband had made, and the home-made cookies piled on a plate at the end of the counter. How often does one feel so content so immediately? And I haven't even mentioned how well I slept in that bed, or how the skylight in my room let me see stars just before I closed my eyes.
Day 2
Feeling about as refreshed as one can upon waking, I was excited the next day to get out into the trees. A number of large lagoons lie just behind the seashore north of Trinidad, and these we circled around slowly, enjoying watching the Pacific roll in to meet them. Shortly we entered the Prairie Creek Redwoods, where ancient trees rise with perfect verticality on all sides of you, wherever you are. You have to lean your head way back to see the tops of these 300+-foot-tall-monsters, and even then, you know you are fooling yourself to think you can really see so high. What is more readily conceivable is the girth of the trees, some of which have grown to 25 or 30 feet in diameter. Most impressive is the aptly named Big Tree, which is breathtakingly old at 1,500 years. I had a wonderful time wandering far below the tallest branches, studying bark patterns and tree groupings and wishing the sun would come out so I could take more photos. There is a magical geometry to the Redwoods that I could take in for days and days. Each trunk is vertically striated, and on the occasional tree, the channels in the bark run perfectly upward, as appallingly upright as the sun-loving trees. But on others, they twist around the tree, as though a large hand gripped the cylinder and gave it a turn; and on still others, the wales crisscross as though braided, and sometimes burls lunge out or stout branches shower a splay of needles off an otherwise barren trunk. Amidst the Redwoods, deciduous trees like alders and vine maples fill in the spaces between behemoths, and some of them drip with lichen impersonating Spanish moss. When occasionally the sun glints through the branches, the green outlines of these enshrouded trees glow yellow and capture that wondrous feeling that my mind always associates with the Redwood forest.
Though I could happily have stayed for many more hours, we ran out of trails on which to meander, and so we drove onward, exiting the main road and taking a gravelly coastal drive that I recommend to anyone even just passing through this part of the state. As the road rises, a seashore hides below; I did not know Gold Bluffs Beach existed until we stood many hundreds of feet above it—maybe even one or two thousand. Leaning over the stone wall of the overlook, we watched swells roll in from as far as a mile out. Perfectly spaced, perfectly timed, they gave the impression of choreography.
As the light dimmed, we drove back downward, exiting near the mouth of the Klamath River and returning to the Norman B. Drury scenic highway. I recommend always choosing this route over 101, which is longer and passes only new-growth conifers. The scenic highway runs right through the Redwoods and ends near a meadow positively filled with Roosevelt elk in the last light of day. As we drove home, we discovered that the elk live all over the region, grazing not only in protected areas but also in front yards and side yards and along the shoulders of roads. We enjoyed stopping every few minutes to admire them, and we were equally pleased at the opportunity the end-of-day viewings gave us to spot egrets dotting the trees and marshes.
Day 1
We left early Friday morning on one of those crystal-clear, crisp days that make San Francisco a hard place to imagine not living despite the bizarre climate. We spent 9.5 hours (including a few small excursions) alternately traveling alongside the Pacific Ocean and dipping in and out of forested valleys and rises to finally reach the town of Trinidad around 6 pm. It had been a lovely day, but we were more than ready to get out of the car when we parked outside the Lost Whale Inn.
The minute we entered, I knew I would love staying here. A young couple sat at a large wooden table like you'd find in a kitchen, sipping tea and talking quietly. An older pair lounged on a sofa, flipping through magazines with their feet up as though in their own living room. A fire flickered behind the piano. (The piano!) As we shut the door, the owner greeted us with a hearty hello, handshakes that could have been hugs, and a glowing smile. As she led us around—showing us the tv room, the hot tub, the moon, the ocean, our bedrooms, the hallway table laden with packets of tea and cocoa, mugs, and hot water—it took all of three minutes for me to feel at home. Then she suggested we come downstairs for clam chowder, which we did—and which we enjoyed so much we had seconds. She also pointed out the open bottles of wine that we were free to pour from, the punch her husband had made, and the home-made cookies piled on a plate at the end of the counter. How often does one feel so content so immediately? And I haven't even mentioned how well I slept in that bed, or how the skylight in my room let me see stars just before I closed my eyes.
Day 2
Feeling about as refreshed as one can upon waking, I was excited the next day to get out into the trees. A number of large lagoons lie just behind the seashore north of Trinidad, and these we circled around slowly, enjoying watching the Pacific roll in to meet them. Shortly we entered the Prairie Creek Redwoods, where ancient trees rise with perfect verticality on all sides of you, wherever you are. You have to lean your head way back to see the tops of these 300+-foot-tall-monsters, and even then, you know you are fooling yourself to think you can really see so high. What is more readily conceivable is the girth of the trees, some of which have grown to 25 or 30 feet in diameter. Most impressive is the aptly named Big Tree, which is breathtakingly old at 1,500 years. I had a wonderful time wandering far below the tallest branches, studying bark patterns and tree groupings and wishing the sun would come out so I could take more photos. There is a magical geometry to the Redwoods that I could take in for days and days. Each trunk is vertically striated, and on the occasional tree, the channels in the bark run perfectly upward, as appallingly upright as the sun-loving trees. But on others, they twist around the tree, as though a large hand gripped the cylinder and gave it a turn; and on still others, the wales crisscross as though braided, and sometimes burls lunge out or stout branches shower a splay of needles off an otherwise barren trunk. Amidst the Redwoods, deciduous trees like alders and vine maples fill in the spaces between behemoths, and some of them drip with lichen impersonating Spanish moss. When occasionally the sun glints through the branches, the green outlines of these enshrouded trees glow yellow and capture that wondrous feeling that my mind always associates with the Redwood forest.
Though I could happily have stayed for many more hours, we ran out of trails on which to meander, and so we drove onward, exiting the main road and taking a gravelly coastal drive that I recommend to anyone even just passing through this part of the state. As the road rises, a seashore hides below; I did not know Gold Bluffs Beach existed until we stood many hundreds of feet above it—maybe even one or two thousand. Leaning over the stone wall of the overlook, we watched swells roll in from as far as a mile out. Perfectly spaced, perfectly timed, they gave the impression of choreography.
As the light dimmed, we drove back downward, exiting near the mouth of the Klamath River and returning to the Norman B. Drury scenic highway. I recommend always choosing this route over 101, which is longer and passes only new-growth conifers. The scenic highway runs right through the Redwoods and ends near a meadow positively filled with Roosevelt elk in the last light of day. As we drove home, we discovered that the elk live all over the region, grazing not only in protected areas but also in front yards and side yards and along the shoulders of roads. We enjoyed stopping every few minutes to admire them, and we were equally pleased at the opportunity the end-of-day viewings gave us to spot egrets dotting the trees and marshes.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
The Darjeeling Limited: a subtly sweet ride
Owen C. Wilson is the type of actor who can either make a movie or make an audience want to toss things at the screen so he will shut his surfer-dude trap already. The Darjeeling Limited may have offered him the role of his life; I found him down-right endearing. The film is tender and sweet, and, with just a sprinkle of humor, inspires one to wonder if Wes Anderson had a real-life spiritual experience in India while writing this script.
The only negative: Adrien Brody's somber yet cartoonish face did not, for me, suffice to replace a larger role by Bill Murray, who is the master of quiet characters and the seeming embodiment of Anderson's outlook on the world. In my opinion, Brody has a lot of acting classes to attend before he will merge well with the Wilson-Schwartzman machine. Though what a pair of legs. His lankiness goes unrivaled.
The only negative: Adrien Brody's somber yet cartoonish face did not, for me, suffice to replace a larger role by Bill Murray, who is the master of quiet characters and the seeming embodiment of Anderson's outlook on the world. In my opinion, Brody has a lot of acting classes to attend before he will merge well with the Wilson-Schwartzman machine. Though what a pair of legs. His lankiness goes unrivaled.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Orion
I have had an attachment to the constellation Orion for as long as I can remember looking at the stars. I used to walk out into our driveway at night, round the corner of the carport, and stand beside a juniper that I had a particular fondness for because of the way it held the raindrops on the tips of its green fingers after a downpour. Right there at the start of the driveway, I was just below Orion and he above me. I would look up at him and count out the three stars of his belt before adjusting my eyes to the dark palette behind him and picking out one or two more. I knew other constellations—the dippers, of course, and Cassiopeia's chair was easy to find as well—but there was something about this hunter, this man leaping to action across the sky, that caught my attention.
There wasn't too much to the relationship back then; I just liked to leave the house at night and look up at him. Thinking about that makes me realize just how precious my home setting was, because I lived in a city, ten minutes from everything, and yet my house was surrounded by woods, and my sky was astrally lit. I lived in a city, and yet I could wander outside without my parents knowing and feel perfectly comfortable, no question of safety in my mind. I'd listen to an owl hooting or bats fluttering by; I'd watch a raccoon I knew slinking across the neighbor's lawn, heading toward cat food; I'd listen to all those trees around me shaking their leaves and soothing me toward sleep. I'd only spend five minutes out there, maybe ten, not long enough to be missed from the long, low house at the other end of which my parents slept. I'd come out and find him, take it all in, and then head for sleep.
When I was in high school, I spent a semester away from home, living on a farm in Maine. The night I arrived, I was terrified by the deep snow around me—four feet in places—and the frigid sub-zero air that made my nose hairs go rigid and turn to ice. I was nervous to enter the cabin that I would live in with nine other girls for the next four months. But it was only a few days into the experience that I realized a friend had followed me all the way to that northern forest. Walking back to the cabin one night, listening to the crunching of packed snow beneath my boots, watching the trees sway in the clear, blue light of snow-reflected-moon, thinking about a math assignment or an English essay or some science field trip we were about to undertake, I happened to look at the sky at the right moment and saw Orion perched just off the far corner of the hilltop home to which I returned. After that I took my nightly walk home slowly, often took it alone, so I could have those five minutes I used to waste just looking to whisper things to my night-time confidante.
I have never been a religious person; I have always believed that relationships with external agents—whether of the stellar or spiritual composition—are really just relationships with oneself. I may personify Orion, but I don't truly believe he is anything but an arrangement of fading gases that happen to have locked into relative place. Still, though, I appreciate the longevity of nature that constellations reveal; I appreciate the creativity of ancients—some as far back as the days of Sumerian (our first) civilization—who saw them too and named them after what they knew. But mostly I appreciate Orion for serving as one of those signposts in life that you cycle past here and there and, at each visit, are reminded to think about where you've been since the last pass.
I sometimes chuckle over what city people I am surrounded by in San Francisco, where I moved in hopes of regenerating my connection to nature, which suffered heavily from the chills of ten New England winters (during many of which I stayed mostly inside). It may be a green city, but it's a city! I tell myself, amused now by my earlier expectation. One night a friend and I made our way out of the city; how long, she commented, it had been since she'd seen a starry night. I smiled quietly, remembering something I read half a lifetime ago in a Neruda poem ("Las Estrellas"). I smiled not at her mistake but at my own knowing; you can see the stars in San Francisco any time the fog frees up the sky. And if you stand on my street, about two-thirds of the way toward the far sidewalk and two or three car lengths up the block, when you look at my house your eyes will rise, because above it Orion lingers, waiting for my next thought.
There wasn't too much to the relationship back then; I just liked to leave the house at night and look up at him. Thinking about that makes me realize just how precious my home setting was, because I lived in a city, ten minutes from everything, and yet my house was surrounded by woods, and my sky was astrally lit. I lived in a city, and yet I could wander outside without my parents knowing and feel perfectly comfortable, no question of safety in my mind. I'd listen to an owl hooting or bats fluttering by; I'd watch a raccoon I knew slinking across the neighbor's lawn, heading toward cat food; I'd listen to all those trees around me shaking their leaves and soothing me toward sleep. I'd only spend five minutes out there, maybe ten, not long enough to be missed from the long, low house at the other end of which my parents slept. I'd come out and find him, take it all in, and then head for sleep.
When I was in high school, I spent a semester away from home, living on a farm in Maine. The night I arrived, I was terrified by the deep snow around me—four feet in places—and the frigid sub-zero air that made my nose hairs go rigid and turn to ice. I was nervous to enter the cabin that I would live in with nine other girls for the next four months. But it was only a few days into the experience that I realized a friend had followed me all the way to that northern forest. Walking back to the cabin one night, listening to the crunching of packed snow beneath my boots, watching the trees sway in the clear, blue light of snow-reflected-moon, thinking about a math assignment or an English essay or some science field trip we were about to undertake, I happened to look at the sky at the right moment and saw Orion perched just off the far corner of the hilltop home to which I returned. After that I took my nightly walk home slowly, often took it alone, so I could have those five minutes I used to waste just looking to whisper things to my night-time confidante.
I have never been a religious person; I have always believed that relationships with external agents—whether of the stellar or spiritual composition—are really just relationships with oneself. I may personify Orion, but I don't truly believe he is anything but an arrangement of fading gases that happen to have locked into relative place. Still, though, I appreciate the longevity of nature that constellations reveal; I appreciate the creativity of ancients—some as far back as the days of Sumerian (our first) civilization—who saw them too and named them after what they knew. But mostly I appreciate Orion for serving as one of those signposts in life that you cycle past here and there and, at each visit, are reminded to think about where you've been since the last pass.
I sometimes chuckle over what city people I am surrounded by in San Francisco, where I moved in hopes of regenerating my connection to nature, which suffered heavily from the chills of ten New England winters (during many of which I stayed mostly inside). It may be a green city, but it's a city! I tell myself, amused now by my earlier expectation. One night a friend and I made our way out of the city; how long, she commented, it had been since she'd seen a starry night. I smiled quietly, remembering something I read half a lifetime ago in a Neruda poem ("Las Estrellas"). I smiled not at her mistake but at my own knowing; you can see the stars in San Francisco any time the fog frees up the sky. And if you stand on my street, about two-thirds of the way toward the far sidewalk and two or three car lengths up the block, when you look at my house your eyes will rise, because above it Orion lingers, waiting for my next thought.
Pondering Prince Charming
All these discussions of men and dating led a friend to ask me about my notion of Prince Charming. She wondered if I think that way. And I do, in a sense. But boy have my thoughts on it changed over time! When I was younger—a teenager, in college, even recently graduated—I imagined "the guy for me" being someone with all these various traits that seemed important to me then. He would be into nature; he would be into poetry; he would have dark hair and tower over me and he'd occasionally crack a cheshire cat grin at me; he would be an extroverted introvert like I am; he would like to talk and to be together silently; he would be an explorer, have a sense of wonder--his inner child would be alive at all times. The list went on and on.
By my late twenties, I clued in a bit, realized that I could fall for guys who lacked half my requirements and find little zing flying between me and someone who fit me to a T on paper. I did take note of certain things that always mattered: if not a love of poetry, at least an appreciation of creativity; if not an extroversion, at least an ability to listen well and communicate about the things that matter; if not a deep-seated sense of whimsy, at least, for the love of god, the ability to laugh, and laugh often, and most importantly, to laugh at himself. Over time I fine-tuned Prince Charming, realizing that in most cases the things that make him right for me and not you are broad things, not specific predilections or inherent ways.
But as I settle into me thirties, I have to admit, my image of him has broadened beyond expectation. For at this point, I have days when all I really require is a backbone; a passion; an unshaken ability to pursue a woman whether he is sure he is interested or not. That is to say, following up on my previous post, it is possible that at this point in life ALL that makes a frog into Prince Charming for me is his stepping up, stepping forward, and exploring ME, whether or not he knows right away that I'm one heck of a catch.
By my late twenties, I clued in a bit, realized that I could fall for guys who lacked half my requirements and find little zing flying between me and someone who fit me to a T on paper. I did take note of certain things that always mattered: if not a love of poetry, at least an appreciation of creativity; if not an extroversion, at least an ability to listen well and communicate about the things that matter; if not a deep-seated sense of whimsy, at least, for the love of god, the ability to laugh, and laugh often, and most importantly, to laugh at himself. Over time I fine-tuned Prince Charming, realizing that in most cases the things that make him right for me and not you are broad things, not specific predilections or inherent ways.
But as I settle into me thirties, I have to admit, my image of him has broadened beyond expectation. For at this point, I have days when all I really require is a backbone; a passion; an unshaken ability to pursue a woman whether he is sure he is interested or not. That is to say, following up on my previous post, it is possible that at this point in life ALL that makes a frog into Prince Charming for me is his stepping up, stepping forward, and exploring ME, whether or not he knows right away that I'm one heck of a catch.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Wishy Washy
During my epic acupuncture session last week, Joseph the acupuncturist repeatedly whispered a phrase as he paddled my limbs and stretched me out. I am sure that the phrase was in a language other than English, but all I could discern each time he said it was "wishy . . . washy." And what a chord that phrase strikes in my mind when I think about dating in this town.
San Francisco has been, on the one hand, a hotbed for dating and fun for many of my female friends and, on the other, a real pain in the arse. In our first year here, we got asked out just about every time we met a new guy. California men seemed completely at ease with going on dates, and some of them seemed quite charming about it. But too many of us experienced something similar: though date after date occurred, though some of these guys professed how incredible we were, though action was gotten or romance seemed afoot, in the end, we were told, "I'm just not sure..." or "I can't do this..." or "I'm not ready...." What does such an epidemic of wishy-washyness represent?
A male friend said to me recently that any guy who says he's not sure whether he wants to date a woman or just be friends with her truly only wants to be friends. I lean toward agreeing with this analysis; but what of the part-time interest these men show? What explains that? I dislike generalizing about people; I dislike the practice of reading into one person's behavior lessons learned from another's. Yet I've seen such repetition of action here in SF, both in my own dating life and in my friends', that I have to start to wonder. Is it just an east-coast-girl/west-coast-guy conflict of interest? Or is there something about life here that keeps these guys from wanting to commit? Is the problem that California so well satisfies one's desire for the good life—one's desire to live to the fullest, experience everything, always find a new adventure soon enough—that people become restless souls, that "settling down" seems the antithesis of happiness?
San Francisco has been, on the one hand, a hotbed for dating and fun for many of my female friends and, on the other, a real pain in the arse. In our first year here, we got asked out just about every time we met a new guy. California men seemed completely at ease with going on dates, and some of them seemed quite charming about it. But too many of us experienced something similar: though date after date occurred, though some of these guys professed how incredible we were, though action was gotten or romance seemed afoot, in the end, we were told, "I'm just not sure..." or "I can't do this..." or "I'm not ready...." What does such an epidemic of wishy-washyness represent?
A male friend said to me recently that any guy who says he's not sure whether he wants to date a woman or just be friends with her truly only wants to be friends. I lean toward agreeing with this analysis; but what of the part-time interest these men show? What explains that? I dislike generalizing about people; I dislike the practice of reading into one person's behavior lessons learned from another's. Yet I've seen such repetition of action here in SF, both in my own dating life and in my friends', that I have to start to wonder. Is it just an east-coast-girl/west-coast-guy conflict of interest? Or is there something about life here that keeps these guys from wanting to commit? Is the problem that California so well satisfies one's desire for the good life—one's desire to live to the fullest, experience everything, always find a new adventure soon enough—that people become restless souls, that "settling down" seems the antithesis of happiness?
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