Roadtripping 101, part III: You have died of monotony. Dysentery feels cheated.
The scenic route through the Redwood National Park is actually marked on the park maps. Right there in the middle, about three inches long, "Scenic Route." How convenient.
Making our way towards that area on the map, we passed a road sign that announced, "For elk news, tune in to elk radio 1160 AM." And that excited me the way only truly novel absurdity can. "Elk radio?" I shouted. "We are so tuning into elk radio, right now." "We are?" "Are you kidding? Yes." I flipped on the radio and brought up 1160 on the AM dial, just as the looped recording started over.
"Welcome to elk radio, 1160 AM, your source for elk-related news. The Redwood National Park is home to many herds of elk..."
And right on cue, we turned a corner, and there on our right was a herd of elk, lounging in a clearing.
"The Redwood National Park Service does not recommend pulling over along route 101 to view the elk herds..."
We pulled a massive mid-road U-turn and scooped along the gravel shoulder, coming to a halt in front of what were some very uninterested elk, and reached for our door handles.
"Do not approach elk on foot. They may become aggressive and charge with no provocation."
Ooh.
Liz and I considered this for a minute. "We should probably stay in the car," I said. She agreed. It was a little sad, because being in such close proximity to a full herd of fuzzy, deer-like animals evoked every childhood urge to see just how close I could get to them before they spooked and ran. I could imagine myself tiptoeing "stealthily" up to one and, judging from how bored they were with our abrupt arrival, maybe even managing to touch one's nose before it decided I was invading its comfort zone.
At which point it would, of course, frolic away harmlessly and Bambi-like. Right?
Right.
My inner child moped at me as we wisely contented ourselves with photography from the car, and looped back off the shoulder in search of the Scenic Route. Grumble grumble stupid elk radio.
We wound through the trees and took all the right forks, until we dead-ended in a mulchy little clearing. Everything was cast in a surreal greenish blue from the light filtering through the canopy a hundred feet above us. We cut the engine and got out.
There's a special kind of hush in a deep forest. You get the distinct feeling that everything knows you're there, but doesn't particularly care. You will come, and you will go, and it will be there, breathing deep and ancient tree breaths in the fog. That feeling is exponentially more pronounced when the trees surrounding you are the heights of office buildings, and a car length in diameter. Not only do they think you don't matter, suddenly you agree. I feel a solemnity in the midst of redwoods that is almost like being in a church: respectful silence, no small amount of awe.
We roamed the edge of the clearing, gaping up at the canopy and trying futilely to capture the feel of the place with our cameras. Liz climbed into the brush to circle and touch the trees. I just listened to the breeze, and took it all in with my eyes. I was delighted, as always, by the wood sorrel flourishing all over the place, and ran my hand along the tops and watched them bob up and down, just like I had last time I was in the redwoods, just like I had every time I was in the evergreen forests on Knoydart. It's a wonderful little constant, wood sorrel. What a happy little plant.
We stayed long enough to feel... blessed is almost the right word. We took our fill of it all, and then took our leave. We backtracked down the scenic route, found the intersection with 101, and got ourselves northward bound.
We finally appreciated what "coastal road" means once we were back on 101 in the daylight. It is, in fact, right there, on the coast. The next...several...hours were a true Pacific Northwest experience, as we forked off of 101 in favor of the faster pace of inland route 5: curvy mountain roads, with sheer cliff faces on one side, and sharp drops on the other. Often into eerily blue streams. The entry into Oregon was fairly lacking in fanfare, although we cheered for good measure.
But that unremarkable entry ended up being oddly suited for the monotony that was our Oregon trail experience. Oregon was, for all intents and purposes, a looping cartoon background of mountains covered in evergreen forests, cut by winding roads and rocky gorges. Blue silhouetted hills in the distance. Looming gray cloudcover. Drizzle. Oh look, more evergreens. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. And repeat.
And repeat.
Making our way towards that area on the map, we passed a road sign that announced, "For elk news, tune in to elk radio 1160 AM." And that excited me the way only truly novel absurdity can. "Elk radio?" I shouted. "We are so tuning into elk radio, right now." "We are?" "Are you kidding? Yes." I flipped on the radio and brought up 1160 on the AM dial, just as the looped recording started over.
"Welcome to elk radio, 1160 AM, your source for elk-related news. The Redwood National Park is home to many herds of elk..."
And right on cue, we turned a corner, and there on our right was a herd of elk, lounging in a clearing.
"The Redwood National Park Service does not recommend pulling over along route 101 to view the elk herds..."
We pulled a massive mid-road U-turn and scooped along the gravel shoulder, coming to a halt in front of what were some very uninterested elk, and reached for our door handles.
"Do not approach elk on foot. They may become aggressive and charge with no provocation."
Ooh.
Liz and I considered this for a minute. "We should probably stay in the car," I said. She agreed. It was a little sad, because being in such close proximity to a full herd of fuzzy, deer-like animals evoked every childhood urge to see just how close I could get to them before they spooked and ran. I could imagine myself tiptoeing "stealthily" up to one and, judging from how bored they were with our abrupt arrival, maybe even managing to touch one's nose before it decided I was invading its comfort zone.
At which point it would, of course, frolic away harmlessly and Bambi-like. Right?
Right.
My inner child moped at me as we wisely contented ourselves with photography from the car, and looped back off the shoulder in search of the Scenic Route. Grumble grumble stupid elk radio.
We wound through the trees and took all the right forks, until we dead-ended in a mulchy little clearing. Everything was cast in a surreal greenish blue from the light filtering through the canopy a hundred feet above us. We cut the engine and got out.
There's a special kind of hush in a deep forest. You get the distinct feeling that everything knows you're there, but doesn't particularly care. You will come, and you will go, and it will be there, breathing deep and ancient tree breaths in the fog. That feeling is exponentially more pronounced when the trees surrounding you are the heights of office buildings, and a car length in diameter. Not only do they think you don't matter, suddenly you agree. I feel a solemnity in the midst of redwoods that is almost like being in a church: respectful silence, no small amount of awe.
We roamed the edge of the clearing, gaping up at the canopy and trying futilely to capture the feel of the place with our cameras. Liz climbed into the brush to circle and touch the trees. I just listened to the breeze, and took it all in with my eyes. I was delighted, as always, by the wood sorrel flourishing all over the place, and ran my hand along the tops and watched them bob up and down, just like I had last time I was in the redwoods, just like I had every time I was in the evergreen forests on Knoydart. It's a wonderful little constant, wood sorrel. What a happy little plant.
We stayed long enough to feel... blessed is almost the right word. We took our fill of it all, and then took our leave. We backtracked down the scenic route, found the intersection with 101, and got ourselves northward bound.
We finally appreciated what "coastal road" means once we were back on 101 in the daylight. It is, in fact, right there, on the coast. The next...several...hours were a true Pacific Northwest experience, as we forked off of 101 in favor of the faster pace of inland route 5: curvy mountain roads, with sheer cliff faces on one side, and sharp drops on the other. Often into eerily blue streams. The entry into Oregon was fairly lacking in fanfare, although we cheered for good measure.
But that unremarkable entry ended up being oddly suited for the monotony that was our Oregon trail experience. Oregon was, for all intents and purposes, a looping cartoon background of mountains covered in evergreen forests, cut by winding roads and rocky gorges. Blue silhouetted hills in the distance. Looming gray cloudcover. Drizzle. Oh look, more evergreens. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. And repeat.
And repeat.