In all things of nature, there is something of the marvelous.
I turn off the Redwood Highway onto Davison Road and follow it through a meadow, cars parked on either side. Their passengers visually scout the grassy open meadow in search of Roosevelt elk. I don’t see any as I drive by, but I’m not looking for them. I moved here, to the California Redwood Coast, a year and a half ago from Colorado where throughout the years I saw plenty of elk loitering along the residential and business streets in mountain towns as if they intended to establish an elegant squatter’s settlement. It’s nice to see elk again, but my mind is set on reaching Fern Canyon.
I make a slight left onto a dirt road, and suddenly I’m in the deep old-growth forest. Immediately, the path turns narrow and steep, rocky, pockmarked, with a dappled sunlight that makes it difficult to tell whether the splotches of light amid the shadows of these tall trees are merely patches of sun or are holes that could devour my tires and send me and my SUV plunging into a hellish Wonderland, shaking hands with the White Rabbit as we tumble past each other.
The speed limit is 15 mph, and my SUV does it confidently, ready to take on more of a challenge. Me, the driver, not so much. Nine more miles of Continue reading