Yes, These are Redwoods and They are Magnificent!

Redwood Abstract

Redwood Abstract © 2013 Bo Mackison

“The redwoods, once seen, leave a mark or create a vision that stays with you always. No one has ever successfully painted or photographed a redwood tree. The feeling they produce is not transferable. From them comes silence and awe. It’s not only their unbelievable stature, nor the color which seems to shift and vary under your eyes, no, they are not like any trees we know, they are ambassadors from another time.”
~ John Steinbeck in Travels with Charley – In Search of America

Look at these trees.

Coastal redwoods stretching three hundred feet towards the clouds. Examine the details. Can you separate the grooved bark from the whispers of sequoia needles? Can you see your way to the sky? Can you hear their silence, your heart beating as you imagine standing in the red earth of ancient redwoods, peering at this generation of trees?

We hike the Cathedral Trail in Redwoods National Park.

Aptly named. Standing under the these giants, dwarfed and insignificant, this is more of a cathedral than any humanly constructed cathedral ever entered.

I creep into this time vacuum, standing with my palms pressed tightly against a tree’s bark.

I feel the heartbeat of the earth. Standing in redwood earth, crumbled mother tree from ancient days, her offspring encircle me. Nine trees in a ring, I stand and peer through leafy air, see only a suggestion of blue beyond treetops.

In rare sunlight, a potpourri of dust motes swirl about our faces. We are in the presence of the ancients, in a world we barely recognize. Silent soliloquy, the trees speak.

 In August, I stood in the redwood groves of the coastal California.

Fog Across the Water

Redwood National Park -- From West Entrance to Pacific Coast

Crashing Waves ©2013 Bo Mackison

One day many years ago a man walked along and stood in the sound of the ocean on a cold sunless shore and said, “We need a voice to call across the water, to warn ships; I’ll make one. I’ll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog that ever was; I’ll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I’ll make a sound that’s so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I’ll make me a sound and an apparatus and they’ll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life.
~ Ray Bradbury, The Fog Horn

This is the Pacific in fog.
It was cold when I walked the shore.
The waves were menacing, thrashing about.

A sign on the beach warned of sneaker waves
and the death toll tallied, victims unaware of the power of surf.
There was nothing to see in the beyond.

Fog settled low. I stood
watching the shore birds fight over specks of dinner.

The ranger at Redwoods shrugged when I said
I liked the feel of the fog, like a shroud.

“It’s always like this. Might be clearer than usual.
Never see sunlight on this beach.
Come back, the fog will be here.”

Tide was rolling in, and the motel was 50 miles south.
I decided there’d be tomorrow for more fog watching.

The next morning the skies were a startling deep blue.

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Bo Mackison is photographer, book-maker, collector of stories, naturalist, and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC.  In August, I stood on the shore of the Pacific Ocean.

Meditation – Walking Fern Canyon in Coastal Fog

Coastal Fog

Coastal Fog ©2103 Bo Mackison

“In nature, everything has a job. The job of the fog is to beautify further the existing beauties!” ~ Mehmet Murat Ildan

In fog. I am standing near swirling waters
gushing through Fern Canyon
towards the Pacific Ocean.

The creek’s container
Cliffs fifty feet high,
The creek’s container,
dressed in dripping ferns.

Sword ferns, five finger ferns.
The creek winds under fallen redwood trees,
twists along rock formations. Bubbling.

I walk east,
fording the creek on narrow wood planks.
Wet seeps through my hiking shoes,
The planks sag in the middle and frothy creek water
gushing over make-shift bridges.

My eyes follow the cliffs’ ascent,
atop there are skinny trees — not redwoods,
those giants grow further inland
— here are the skinny trees. In the fog. In swirls of dense ocean
these tree trunks gleam dark and wet.

Primeval. The scent of moist
and deep and old. An ancient call.

In Fern Canyon
the creek is the glory, the cliffs and the ferns
dripping, slurping, singing with water,
gushing life, this, nature’s glory.

Connecting with the earth and her waters.
Her message.
Take care.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bo Mackison is photographer, book-maker, collector of stories, naturalist, curator and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC.  “I believe nature offers opportunities for connection, the arts offer opportunities for self-expression, and life offers continual opportunity for growth and self-discovery.”