How deeply can one love a place? As deeply as we love our people? Deeper? If it’s not the same sort of love, how do we define this emotion — this fluttering in our hearts as a spark of familiarity flares into a blaze of nostalgia? I considered this love as I turned my head away from the window on United Flight 1802. I hoped the passenger in the aisle seat wouldn't notice the tears streaked down my face. I’d have to feign allergies because I couldn’t begin to explain why I was crying.
I’d dozed off shortly after takeoff from San Jose, bright and early on Thursday morning. I’d ended up in the window seat because Beat had booked my flight for his business trip and chose that seat. I never choose window seats for myself. I prefer the freedom to stand up, stretch my aching back, relieve my bladder, and claim a few seconds of space at the rear of the plane over any semblance of views that can be had from 36,000 feet. The world doesn’t look real from up there. Even mountains look like a strange abstraction from those heights. Still, this was a short flight so I accepted my window seat and tried not to fret about all the coffee I drank before the flight. I leaned my head against the fuselage and passed out.
About an hour later, I awoke with a jolt. My scalp was smashed against the window glass; I could feel the proximity of subzero temperatures on my forehead. At first, I panicked at the thought of all of the coronaviruses I doubtlessly had rubbed my face all over. But as my eyes focused, I saw a ripple of redrock canyons and knew we were flying over Southern Utah. Despite my aversion to surface viruses, I couldn’t peel my face away. I was trying to parse out the puzzle. It wasn’t recognizable until I noticed the blue-green line through the topographic contours, like a river drawn on a map.
“That’s got to be the Colorado or the Green,” I thought. Then I saw another river and realized that one was the Colorado. The shape of the two rivers I recognized from maps I’d seen before — the frame of the White Rim. And there was Island in the Sky! I bent my neck at a 90-degree angle and saw what I was looking for directly below — the confluence overlook. The line from me to the confluence was so direct that I could see the trail leading across the plateau to the road. I could see the stark delineation of brown and green water where the two rivers met. I could see the cliffs where I always crept as close as I dared when I hiked to the overlook. I saw the jumble of rocks where Dad and I always sat down with our sandwiches, listening to the distant roar of rapids echoing through the canyon. I traced familiar shapes to the continuation of Canyonlands National Park … that must be Cyclone Canyon. That must be Devi’s Kitchen. Chesler Park? The plane was moving too fast. Abstraction was returning. Suddenly we were beside the La Sals. I saw the tiny figure of a semi-truck and realized the trail I thought I had been following was Highway 191. But that was okay. I had already visited Canyonlands. Even if only for a moment, and even if only far above it. I had been there. My eyes filled with tears.
Often I wonder whether everyone feels the same sort of affinity that I feel for places. Do other people love the world as much as I love the world? The unspoken question came to me again when Beat and I were standing in the kitchen of our friend Liehann, who used to play bikes with us when we lived in the Bay Area, but has since fathered two children and accumulated a whole bunch of responsibilities. These are rewarding life choices, but Liehann admitted he misses the stimulation of regular adventure. He misses playing bikes whenever he wants. Beat joked that we may be able to play bikes more frequently, but also we will be alone and sad when we’re 80, so there’s that.
It’s a joke that child-free people often make — simply saying out loud the quiet thoughts that most people have. “You’re going to die alone.” I usually double down and declare that it would be a small miracle if I even make it to old age — not with my genetics and ongoing difficulties with gravity. But even if I do live out many long years with no offspring to acknowledge my existence, it’s hard to imagine I’ll ever feel lonely. I’ll still have Canyonlands and Lone Peak. I’ll still have Bear Peak and Niwot Ridge. I’ll still have the Susitna River Valley and Rainy Pass and the White Mountains. Heintzleman Ridge, Mount Juneau, Mount Jumbo. Courmayeur, Grindelwald, the Valais, Aiguillette des Houches. I’ll have all of those places with which I have yet to fall in love and an infinite number of places still to explore. Even if I’m lucky enough to grow old and become infirm, I can sit down in a yard, look up at a tree, and fall in love.
When Beat asked whether I wanted to accompany him on his recent business trip to the Bay Area, I felt a tinge of guilt. I did want to go, although I couldn’t think of a reason why I should go. There were no races available that week, so mostly I was going to lurk at Liehann’s house and do the same activities I do in Colorado while Beat attended meetings and dinners. But then he suggested we take a weekend day to visit one of our favorite old friends — Old Tree.
Old Tree is a Coast Redwood that lives in Portola Redwoods State Park, deep (or at least it feels deep) in the Santa Cruz Mountains. We like to make it feel like a journey by starting near the ridge of the mountains at Skyline Drive and descending the grassy hillsides, down, down, down into the lush forest. December is a particularly nice time of year to visit because the vegetation is especially lush (unfortunately this includes the poison oak), low-angle light casts a lovely glow on the greenery, and Californians tend to think of December weather as frigid, so crowds are slim.
Liehann was only available for a ride on Sunday. So we had to make a quick turnover after our late Friday night arrival to make this run happen on Saturday morning. The weather was cold — low 40s — and foggy. Drizzle swirled through the fog, so light that we didn’t even notice it was raining until we were completely soaked. The trail was muddy and slick, and poison oak threatened to grab us around sharp corners. But oh, how wonderful it was to be back in the forest. Colorado is so brown this time of year … and even in the depth of spring, it’s rarely this shade of green. Everything was a feast for the eyes. I nearly tripped several times because I was jogging with my neck craned toward the canopy.
After a loop around the always-mysterious Peters Creek grove, we continued descending toward Old Tree. The 1,200-year-old, 300-foot giant stood as strong and sturdy as ever. Its gnarled bark scarred by ancient wildfires, cloaked in spiderwebs and moss, its base so wide that it would take at least a dozen humans to hug it, its canopy so far off the ground that it seems to have its own atmosphere … everything about Old Tree is fascinating to contemplate. When Old Tree sprouted from the ground, the Ohlone were the only people who lived in its midst. Archeological evidence of their presence before 1,000 years ago has mostly washed away with time. But Old Tree remains. Old Tree withstood centuries of storms, fires, drought, disease, colonizers with sawblades, and careless tourists. It is a stunning testament to the resilience of life.
Still, Old Tree — like all places and all things — cannot endure forever. As we continued looping through Portolla, I thought about the CZU Lightning Complex Fire of August 2020. Oh, 2020. The year the entire world was on fire. As a novel coronavirus was upending the globe, wildfire took over the West. That August, in Colorado, we had the Grizzly Creek, Cameron Peak, and East Troublesome fires turning our forests to ash and skies a noxious brown. Meanwhile, in the Santa Cruz Mountains near my former home, a 3 a.m. thunderstorm produced nearly 11,000 bolts of lightning, sparking fires throughout the drought-stricken forests. In two days, the fires expanded to more than 40,000 acres, taking out 1,500 structures. Acquaintances in Boulder Creek and Bonny Doon lost their homes. One stranger died. It was so sad. Everything about 2020 was so sad. And I couldn’t help but wonder what became of my beloved redwood groves, the groves I hiked and pedaled through during my resident years of ignorant bliss. Sure, redwood trees have evolved to withstand fire. But this level of fire? 2020s fire?
Thanks to the valiant efforts of firefighters, the Portola Redwoods escaped the 2020 fire. The same could not be said about Big Basin Redwoods, California’s oldest state park. The density of thousand-year-old trees in this watershed was so unique that the state launched its preservation and conservation efforts here in 1902. On Aug. 18, 2020, the CZU Lightning Complex Fire swept through more than 97% of the park. Historic structures that had stood since the 1930s were destroyed. The fire burned so large and hot that even the tallest redwoods were scorched from top to bottom. Undergrowth turned to ash. Overnight, the landscape became very different from what it had been for hundreds of years.
I was ambivalent about ever going back to Big Basin. Did I need another remnant of 2020 to make me feel sad? Did I need to be upset by the reality that even the places I love can be irrevocably changed? Still, after visiting Portola on Saturday, I was curious. Then an opportunity presented itself when Beat didn’t need the rental car on Monday. I had to work at 2, but I could carve out some hours in the morning to go for a run. I researched how much of the park was accessible again — not many trails, but the fireroads where I used to pedal my mountain bike were largely open to the public. I traced a 13-mile loop and set out for Big Basin.
Driving south on Highway 236, my initial reaction was the shock I had anticipated. Gone were the clover patches, the loamy soil, and lush ferns. Spikey bushes had commandeered the ground-level vegetation. Above, the thick canopy of the redwood trees was gone. Sunlight poured in from the bright blue sky. The absence of shade was vaguely upsetting. The redwoods, however, were a marvel. I had expected blackened trunks. I had read that some of these trees smoldered well into 2021. But now, a mere three years after the fire, the redwoods were well into the regrowth process. Baby branches sprouted from every square inch of the charred trunks, which made the trees look like giant green pipe cleaners. Some were bursting at the top, resembling a cartoon palm tree or toilet brush. Positively Dr. Suessian.
The forest also reminded me of the black spruce forests of Interior Alaska — gnarled and feeble-seeming trees thriving in an unforgiving landscape. These redwoods were a giant version of the taiga. After I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. I was in love.
I trekked up the steep pitch of Johansen Road, a thousand feet above the creeks that nurture the redwoods. Here live the forests that won’t recover so quickly. It was jarring to look across the open hillsides toward forests that the fire skipped as well as toothpick-dotted ridgelines that weren’t spared. Beyond that, the Pacific Ocean glimmered in the sunlight. Much about these views had changed, but the ocean still brought a flutter of familiarity. I daydreamed about churning along these sandy roads with Leah on her cross bike, exploring with Liehann, all of those solo training rides for the ambitious races I used to take on without reservation. Everything was so simple and came so effortlessly back then. Or, at least the memories are effortless. I suppose, ultimately, that’s what remains, so that’s what matters.
I continued as the road dropped off the ridge, plunging back into redwoods that seemed to still exist in their pre-2020 states. The forest held an eerie sort of quiet, like Alaska in the wintertime. Although animals have started to return to Big Basin, there’s still an absence of sound-making creatures. I hadn’t seen another person since I entered the park.
When I reached the intersection with Gazos Creek Road, I confirmed that the tree house had been destroyed. It was a beautiful tree house, spiraling up its supporting redwoods. In the winter light, it was a beautiful shade of auburn. Even though its owner once left a mean comment on my blog and accused me of broadcasting its secret location (your treehouse is at the intersection of popular trails on public land, Karen) … I was sad to see it gone. Here’s a photo I took of the treehouse in January 2014:
Strange how much this place can change in 10 years. Even stranger … I thought … is that 10 whole years have passed. Where have I been?
I continued through the world of black and green pipe cleaners, the brilliant boreal forests of Big Basin. Although my muscles felt heavy I was light on my feet, buoyed by the miracle of resilience. The world I love can change, will change, will continue to change forever. But I can still feel at home here, cycling through warm nostalgia for the past and wide-eyed fascination for the present. I’m glad I came back. I can’t wait to return.
My husband grew up in San Jose and one of his favorite places is Big Basin. We lived in Los Gatos when we first got married and would often visit Big Basin. I love that place, too. We were so sad when we heard about the fire that scorched the redwoods. But it's heartening to see your photos and read of their resilience.
The subtitle drew me in again :), I wondered...a question or a statement...how would I say it...
Glennon Doyle Melton's quote:
“Life's brutal and beautiful are woven together so tightly that they can't be separated. Reject the brutal and reject the beauty. So now I embrace both and I live well and hard and real.”