Woods Of Red

Spent the past four days in the Redwoods. I capitalize, so you’ll know that the Redwoods I’m talking about are the goliath ancient ones in Northern California and not just any old red-wooded trees. We packed up and drove down there on Sunday morning. By bout 3:30 or so we were wandering around these giant mossy groves, mouths open, no sound coming out, awash with the feeling that we were in a movie, Legend, maybe, or that a brontosaurus was gonna pop its head up over the canopy, maw stuffed with ferns.

Of a morning, we'd wander around in the shady forest, of an afternoon, we'd swim in Smith River—where we found what's quite possibly the king of all swimming holes. Warm water and intensely clear, not unlike the Caribbean or whatever. One of those places you'd think back on in a moment of intense agony and go, "I'm in my happy place, I'm in my happy place...."

A rare picture of a tree gnome.

Camp coffee tastes better than coffee at home. Not sure why this is.

Due to coastal fog, the sun never comes out in Crescent City. Felt like we were in Ireland or sometin.

Elves live here, if anywhere.

Lots of plaid worn in these woods—it's a prerequisite, right?