I’ve never been much for ‘no trespassing’ signs. Honestly it feels more like I’m being taunted than anything else when I come across one. The property bordering Camp Navarro is owned by a logging company that, for all my snooping, doesn’t appear to have used this land in at least five years. The roads are in very bad shape (that’s saying a lot for logging roads) and the forest is having it’s usual last laugh by slowly reclaiming the ground.
So, with no sign of anyone having patrolled these off-limits roads and it being 6am on a Sunday I headed out on what turned out to be almost a completely vertical hike. I’m the first one to damn the logging companies and the culture that created them, but that said these roads did leave me impressed that anything could even get up their steepness to bring trees down. Especially trees as tall and heavy as these. Now redwoods, when they get to be that certain hugeness, stop getting the water they need from the ground and begin relying on the fog that surrounds them. It’s one of those wonderful evolutions that makes ecosystems so specific to location and makes me incredibly grateful that this beauty can’t be found just anywhere.
Oh and it is beautiful. At a certain point in elevation- and like I have no clue what that might be as I gave up on caring about outdoor recreation data a long time ago, but anyway at one point I had hiked far enough up that I was also now in the fog. Normally as I climb higher I start feeling the enormity of where I am and what I’m just a small, temporary part of, but this day the fog trapped me in it’s tiny, grey world. Myself, a few other trees, and the road immediately in front of me are all that existed. You could draw some deep meaning out of this, I’m sure, but unless you’re a philosopher who hikes (if you ever meet a philosopher who doesn’t hike you should question their legitimacy immediately) you’re probably more inclined to just look around with a big, dumb smile on your face, take some pictures, and remark on how cool it looks.
As I did.