Return to the Redwoods, Part II

Different neighborhoods of the same city have their own energy, their own feel. Whether its the inhabitants or the houses, or the traffic patterns, or a combination of all those things and something more ethereal, the same is true of the forests. Except the houses and traffic patterns play no role. It just is the personality of that particular tract of woods.

Guernsville had a dark undertone to its personality. Deep in the woods, where the house we rented was placed, the forest was silent. At night, and especially during the day, I expect to hear the leaves rustle, woodland creatures scurry about, and the sound of birds. Inside the house I could not tell if the windows were open or closed—both situations were equally silent. There was no sound of birds in the morning. And no sound of night creatures after the sun had set.

However, sound travelled easily. Two men building a cabin a quarter of a mile down the road could be heard conversing as easily as if they sat across the dining room table from me.

Despite this, Tucker was ease. He gave no hint of feeling we would be set upon by either a very real living human murderer or, less likely, demonic goblins of the night. So I merely noted the eery silence and gave my respect to the towering trees above.

Not wanting to spend another day on pavement, Tucker and I headed north out of the silent redwood grove to Stillwater Creek Regional Park. Unlike the state parks, Sonoma County’s parks allow human and canine partners to traverse their trails together.

The road to get the park was a coastal highway, winding along the curves of the bluff overlooking the ocean. So unfortunately, I have no photos of its beauty due to the tight turns and the need to have both my hands on the wheel at all times.
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We arrived at the campground, parked, and every molecule of my body sighed in peaceful thanks as my boots hit soft forest earth.

Ah yes, this is what we came for.

Tucker was just as thankful:

​The prehistoric ferns and mosses…

​The rock-bottomed streams…

The towering trees—although not ancient now, they were new growth, to be ancient a thousand years hence...

The random little meadow…

And a schoolhouse.

Wait what?

Along the well-marked path of the park was a small cul-de-sac trail that ended in a meadow marked “Fort Ross School.” Locked up due to vandalism, we couldn't go inside, but we were able to peak into the windows to see what 1800’s schoolhouse life was like. The school was built in 1885 and perched on a bluff overlooking the village of Fort Bluff a few miles south of its current location. It was disassembled piece by piece and re-erected south of the village, in the early 20th century. Then it moved again… and again. Until it finally landed here, this little piece of history tucked away in this redwood grove on county property.

​This forest isn’t silent like Guernsville. It has the rustling of life that feels safe and protected. It retains its mystic qualities while being welcoming to outsiders, and protects any and all who come to visit.

Perhaps that openness is due to it’s approximation with the sea. A trail from the grove led straight to the ocean (crossing a man-made two-lane highway.)

A little cove, tucked away from the large expanse of ocean, was small and covered in rocks. ​It didn’t seem as comfortable for Tucker as Shell beach was, but maybe after six miles in the woods, he just didn’t care where he lay his body.

​More than other worldly, it felt other-timely. The forest itself always harkens to an age before humans. This beach seemed to go back in time too: to a simpler time when families would come to this little private cove to teach their children to swim, or teenagers snuck out of the house to meet up to drink beer and have a bonfire in this little bit of beach hugged in a loving embrace by rocky cliffsides. It was from another time.

​Perhaps it was some playful sea sprite then that hit a button on the camera to show me what Tucker would have looked like here in the 1970’s.

It was a small cove, but Tucker made sure he explored every inch of it.

By the time we reached the campground parking lot, the sprite whisked us through the decade and into the 1980’s.

From forest to beach and through decades of time, our little trek in this neighborhood was through. It was time to head back. On our southward journey, I spied the fog starting to make landfall. We had to make one more beach stop.

Goathead Beach was off limits to dog, but the beach just south of it, Blind Beach, was dog friendly. The road led to both Blind and Goathead, so I stopped at the tiny parking lot above Blind (I imagine not being able to see it from the parking lot would account for its name), and waited for one of the dozen spots to park my trusty steed.

Although we couldn’t see the beach that was our destination, Goathead was prominent in our view.

​Although the only thing separating us from Shell Beach which we enjoyed so much yesterday was an insurmountable cliff outcropping with waves crashing against it, this beach, like different forests, had its own personality. The black sands that twinkled with a rainbow of colors was still the same, but the boulders and rocks were nowhere to be found on the beach itself. Out in the ocean, though, huge cathedral sized natural monuments stood.

Rocks like this always make me think an ancient city has collapsed and these are the remnants of their fortresses.

​Petrified trees still had a few centuries to go before turning to rock, but were just as interesting to look at and sit on.

Tucker surrounded himself with them.

He lied on the soft, warm black sands as the fog rolled in.

​There is an inexplicable magic that settled overs the cliffs and beaches as the fog rolls in. As much as I enjoy a watching a glorious sunset, I love to breathe in the evening fog even more.

Tucker and I took one more deep breath, and then headed back to the silent redwood valley of Guernsville.

​The next morning, I couldn’t leave the Bay Area without truly going home first. Although I was in the redwoods, I hadn’t stopped into my own redwood neighborhood quite yet. After a brief walkabout with a friend in Marin, Tucker and I stopped for lunch at Alice’s Restaurant in Woodside, California. A sprawling lawn and wooden wraparound deck, across from a filing station, it is a pit stop for bikers and hikers, and truly feels like home. Just up the steep hill is a little path that could take us to the cabin we spent our holidays in in 2015. Built by the Masons, this cabin neighborhood had a little mystery to it, but no darkness.

​The food was good, the atmosphere even better. Here, the ocean breeze makes its way over the mountains, and the redwood trees dance in the morning and evening fog. They open up their arms and welcome Tucker and me home.

​I had lived on Skyline Blvd a few miles north of Alice's, long before Tucker sauntered in my life, and I knew from the first moment I drove the windy crest of highway, this was home. And that I would always return. There maybe be many months in between, but like good friends, time has no meaning to these trees and me. I—now we, Tucker and me—will always come home, and we know we are always welcome. Even if it’s just for a snack and a nap.