Something beyond my or anyone’s control happens to people when they make their way to the redwoods and to the banks of the Smith River. It happened to Meg and I when we landed in the little hamlet of Gasquet.
All those electrons and stuff that is charged and racing from life in the city got squeezed out of us by the sound of water coursing through gorges and over rocks, and by being close to the monumental height and mass of the trees. By the time we’d walked the trail to Stony Creek, tried out Stout Grove and unknowingly set off to town on Howland Hill Road, the fight we’d mustered to drive the Bay Bridge and I-80 had up and disappeared. We’d taken our first steps away from the frenzy.
This transition and lightening seems to happen to a lot of people who come here.
Brandon and Kelly came from back east. After a couple of days of tramping under redwoods, of soaking in hot tubs and of sharing bottles of good California wine, the bliss had set in (can’t you see it?).
I’d felt it once myself.