Beaches and Bluffs to the Redwood Forest

The rain began after dark, and while I had driven southbound along the coast before, I suppose I had never taken the 101 at night—during a rainstorm.

Like a rollercoaster, once we began the harrowing ride through the redwood forests along winding roads with sharp turns and no lights, there was no getting off or turning around. Most likely had this been daylight, it wouldn’t have been so bad. In fact, I would have loved to take in the towering redwoods on either side of us. But this just seemed like punishment for leaving Oregon or for cheating on Northern California with Oregon.

We pressed on, knowing that Humboldt County isn’t very dog friendly anyway. Tucker is not allowed in the best redwood forests, except to see the parking lot or walk along the road. So missing out on daylight adventures wasn’t too much of a loss. We ended the rollercoaster ride in Fort Bragg, where Tucker and I had been for New Years at the very end of Before Times. The motel we had stayed at then was booked for the night, but we found another one close by that suited our needs.

The next morning we drove the hour southbound to Point Arena. Before making our way into the mountains to check out our potential burial site, I wanted to see Point Arena Lighthouse and explore Stornetta Lands National Monument, one of the most recent additions to this country’s protected lands, proclaimed to be so in 2014.

​Since the lighthouse was literally at the end of the road, we began there. Point Arena is not only the tallest lighthouse on the West Coast, but it is the closest point on the continental US to the islands of Hawaii. At about 2300 miles away, that’s about the same distance Tuck and I travel for our east coast adventures.

​The clouds of Oregon had followed us. While they stopped dumping on us, they still provided their character-rich heavy background to the sea and bluffs.

There were a few trails, but the open peninsula made it easy to see where I’d end up on any given trail. Being on a short timeline, I opted to extend my gratitude to having been to this place in this time, and then we headed back down the road to Strornetta, whose trails were unseen from the road and lent itself to the joy of discovery.
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Tucker quickly read up on the rules before entering.

Cows graze on this land, which is why you must keep the gates closed.

It is by far the prettiest cow pasture I have ever been to.

The rains from the night before still left their mark as puddles, but the land was so sandy there was little mud. It was more like puddles of seawater on a grassy, sandy beach.

The craters prove that land doesn’t always go all the way down; sometimes there is ocean beneath it (and maybe thereafter, turtles all the way down).

I had to wonder if the cows warned one another of this. I didn’t see a way they could get back up if they accidentally fell--even in the craters not filled with water.

Off in the distance, we could see the lighthouse we had experienced up close.

The first stream we came across was a little difficult, but not impossible to pass.

We carried on, enjoying all of Nature’s details.

​Even erosion was beautiful.

But then we came to the next stream, one not so easily passable.

Another couple was also trying to find a way across without having to take off shoes, hike up pants, and wade across. The stones made everything just a little more perilous. If you fell, the soft ground wasn’t going to catch you; the hard stone would break your fall—and you.
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With time running short anyway, I admitted defeat and we headed back across the pasture.

If you have ever seen the ads about California cows being happy, it’s because this is where they spend their days.

As we walked along the bluffs, the skies began to clear to give us that famed California sunshine.

The contrast of low hanging clouds to blue sky to green land and rocky cliffs was stunning. It was if California was reminding me that it was just as good—if not better—than its neighbor to the north.

It had a valid point.

Because Nature knows no boundaries.

I didn’t have to be in Oregon to experience similar ocean and bluffs and skies. And as the skies cleared, it was almost as if to say, “See, in California, the sun shines more often.”

​Definitely a point for California. I need to see the sun.

Tucker and I left the pasture and with still a little time left over since the stream had cut off our southern walk, we headed north toward the lighthouse along the road.

There we found the seal lions, sunbathing and lounging about.

Cows and sea lions have some of the best property on earth.

The sea lions had more of an ocean view, but the cows got the mountain view as well.

From skies to sea to mountains, this entire place was beauty.

But with the hour running short, we headed to the mountains to see the redwoods up close.

We arrived on time despite not having any cell phone service in town, and the address not existing in my decade-old GPS. It was off the beaten path, like a house I’d find down a dirt road out on Skyline Blvd.

Walking down the path to the main entrance building, we met up with the forest steward who showed us around the various trails and told us more about the property. I got to see a few of the resting places for those who had already been buried here. They were subtle, not like a tombstone, but just a small affair, the size of a maple leaf on the ground.
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There were a couple of trees I felt a connection to.

And one stump.

The stump’s sheer ancientness resonated with my soul, and when I thought of my ashes becoming a part of it, I began to tear up. I asked Tucker what he thought. He could take it or leave it.

It was at a crossroads, so I would get lots of people to come by, and it seemed fitting that I would lay my earthly remains at the crossroads, as that seems to be where I exist in life: helping foster dogs find their homes; showing up in lives of people who are finding their way... I’ve always felt like the camp host for life’s crossroads.

I couldn’t decide right then and there, as it was a big decision. There were no refunds. I could transfer to another tree in another forest if I wanted to, but that was it. Selling it (like one does with burial plots) was still not really worked out in the business structure for Better Place Forests.

I was able to place the stump on hold (which sounds super weird) to think on it. I had to consider if I really needed a destination funeral, if anyone would visit or even want to; or if I was isolating myself in death, as I often did in life. Unlike a state park, this forest wasn’t open to the public without an appointment. Freedom to move about is something I hold dear—even for others.
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So Tucker and I thanked the forest steward, and I pondered on the journey and our ultimate earthly destination as we headed down the mountain and south toward our next stop, San Francisco, to see our friends and to our city by the Bay.