The giant Redwoods are simply not done justice in photos. They need to be experienced for one to take in the grandeur. Just like the national parks. I grew up near a massive Sequoia grove and was always stunned when I walked through. This time, right at the edge of California and Oregon, I was quieted and humbled by these trees. Trees is too glib a word. Too small. The energy that abides among these ancient beings is not exaggerated.
There is a quiet calm that surrounds this area. The Smith River winds up against this spectacular grove and both the river and the forest are mystical. And I don't mean that in a literary way. I mean, straight up mystic vibrations. There is some imminent impression of ancient mythology when you walk amongst living trees older than many civilizations. Once you leave the place, these dreams might dissolve in the sunshine. I hope mine do not. I want to write about it more and try to get to the essence of my fascination with this spot. I want to create new mythology about these giants.
I wonder how old any of us are. Not our days crawling and walking on earth. Were we around inside the mind of God before we were born? Sometimes it seems that way. Sometimes with a person or a place, song or smell, you catch a sliver of familiarity and knowing, well beyond your actual contact.