My girlfriend Anjali loves trees and this weekend I took her to see my favorites: the coast redwoods of California, the tallest and most venerable on the planet.
We drove to Big Basin Redwoods State Park, the oldest state park in California, which is accessed by curvy roads shaded intimately by pines and oaks. It feels mighty far away considering it is just an hour’s drive from the stucco-sprayed suburbs of my youth.
The wonder of a coastal redwood is that it grows straight up, true as a flagpole, to a height of more than 350 feet. It is covered by a furry bark that makes it near-impervious to forest fire, which is important if you grow to be 2,000 years old, as these trees do.
We set up camp that night at the Wastahi campground at the base of a giant redwood near a ridgetop. We awoke in the middle of the night to an urgent roar that came close and subsided, then came close again.
The answer was apparent as we looked up to the treetops framed in moonlight. A mass of air had rushed through the Santa Cruz Mountains, tripping over the trees and rustling a billion leaves. Where we lay the air was still. Other trees swung back and forth but our giant redwood was so massive and strong it barely shifted its weight.
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