FERAL PARROT FAREWELL
The awesomeness of sleeping in a redwood forest cannot be overstated. Looking out our front and rear windows we saw enormous trees that ought to inspire red-barked embarrassment in their stubby Pennsylvania cousins.
Ever optimistic, Jim attempted to tackle the waffle iron this morning. But he forgot to spray it with Pam. (To his credit, he managed baking it with only slight beeping from the iron.)
Climbing into the car....again....., we began heading through the tiny village of Boulder Creek. We saw lots of homemade signs advertising firewood for sale. There is certainly no shortage of wood in this town. If one tree falls, the entire village of Boulder Creek is set for the season. Selling firewood in Boulder Creek is like people in Souderton trying to sell zucchini to their neighbors in August.
We began climbing the snaking curvy antiemetic-requiring roads toward Big Basin Redwood Forest. This kind of thing should be undertaken to the strains of something akin to Mozart. But instead, the Equinox was vibrating with the thumping chords of Billy Squier’s “Lonely is the Night.” (I somehow neglected to consider the musical tastes of the rest of my family while packing for this trip thereby foolishly leaving my IPod at home..)
The trees along the sides of the road were growing more and more massive the closer we came to Big Basin. Arriving in the lot, we all began looking straight up, our necks bent at a severe angle. We would remain pretty much in that awkward position for our entire visit with the giant timbers.
Jim was paying our fee and patiently receiving a parking tag and trail map from the kind forest ranger when I jumped in with my pathetic lack of decorum and cut to the chase. “Where’s the shortest trail with the biggest trees?” He looked down his nose at me and answered derisively, “The Redwood Trail…it only takes 30 minutes…” To his credit, he tried (but without success) to respond without allowing a strange combination of amusement and loathing to creep across his countenance. I thanked him for his expertise and Jim went back to the car to prominently display our parking pass.
Ike, Abby and I perused the information center and returned to find Jim standing very still and listening to something with great intensity. He shushed us as we approached and bade us listen too. After a short pause we heard knocking resonating from a nearby tree. Jim (in his usual manner of saying a lot with very few words) elucidated, “That may be the most determined woodpecker in the world.”
The Redwood Trail is ½ mile of astounding beauty. We hiked through majestic sequoias that just take your breath away. The rays of sun peeking down through the colossal trees were another reminder to me that the minutia of my days amounts to only dust.
The lower portions of the trees managing the most impressive girth were marked with telltale blackened rashes; charred bark from forest fires earlier endured.
Jim and Isaac were inside the trunk of a tree which was still towering, plush with green leaves, yet completely hollow inside. This coastal redwood is theorized to have overcome several fires, eventually forming its own perfect chimney effect.
The literature told us that another of the trees in that part of the forest is recorded to have smoldered and burned for 14 months before the fire actually extinguished.
See “chimney tree” below.
The “Father of the Forest” is estimated to be about 2,000 years old. The “Mother” is the tallest in Big Basin at 329 feet tall and over 70 feet around. Truly astonishing.
Our little “tree -hugger” below:
It is nearly impossible to list which parts of this trip have been my favorite, but the redwoods are definitely up there pretty high. No pun intended.
There is not enough Dramamine in the universe for the 13 miles of zig-zagging torture that was Bear Creek Road. My mint gum was my only hope, and it was agonizingly insufficient. Where the serpentine road on Coastal route 1 provided pullovers for scenic vistas, Bear Creek Road had shoulders for adventures of a more gastronomic kind. The steering wheel was in constant severe motion. And when we turned onto CA 35 and saw a sign reporting that the next 5 miles was going to be winding, I had to cry. Literally. It was like riding the Tilt-A-Whirl after just disembarking from the Spinning Tea Cups.
By the bottom of the hill, Jim was directing the car to creep along like a geriatric patient after hip surgery, yet it was still somehow too swift. It felt like Christmas morning when we pulled out of the forest and onto the nearly straight road below. Thank heaven for Highway 17.
We did some shopping and had lunch in the adorable little shopping district of Los Gatos. Since Jim and shopping aren’t really compatible, we didn’t stay too long before we were back on the road to San Francisco.
It has been an awesome nine days, but I am beat. Waking at 6:30 each morning and getting to bed after my usual early bedtime is catching up to me. I can barely contain my enthusiasm when I consider waking at 4:00 tomorrow morning to catch our 6:30 am flight. And it won’t be our last flight of the day….that one will arrive in time to get us back to Hatfield sometime after midnight. And I have to say goodbye to Isaac early tomorrow morning for at least several months. Brutal.
I had forgotten how vertical the streets of San Francisco tend to be. I suspect the Irish visited San Francisco at some point, inspiring them to pen the blessing about the “road rising up to meet you.”
While waiting near the Coit Tower for a spot to park, Jim attempted to summon the feral parrots of Telegraph Hill from his car window. He was unable to lure one, but he did catch the interest of several feral pigeons nearby…
The elevator to the top of the Coit Tower was overpriced but provided an effective way to see the whole city at once. That is, the whole city except for the Golden Gate Bridge (which remained shrouded in fog the entire time we visited.)
The Bay Bridge was much easier to spot. We traveled the length of the Bay Bridge later that night on our way to our last hotel.
Drove to the pier area and walked from Pier 39 to Ghirardelli Square.
Ate some much-anticipated sourdough, saw the sea lions, and tasted chocolate samples.
We did have 4 sightings of the famous wild parrots, the first of which was when Jim, Isaac and Aubrey exercised their leg muscles on the meandering elevation that is Lombard Street. Having experienced enough S-turns today, I sensibly waited in chocolate square.
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| I did not take this photo (OBVIOUSLY....since I was still hanging out with the Ghirardelli chocolate- photo credits for this image of Lombard Street to the land of internet images via Mase's Weblog) |
About the parrots, it is helpful that those green feathered city-dwellers announce themselves so well. They are such a raucous band of rabble-rousers, you can hear them coming before you spot them. (I actually had hoped to add a noisy little sound track of annoying parrots squawking to make the experience more REAL for you, but no sound bite I found online could do the original feathered band of hooligans proper justice.) Had the birds not been screaming wildly as they passed us several times in a streak of green, we might have missed them altogether. Once sighted, they are so speedy, I was scarcely able to snap a picture. If you look closely, you can spot one near the brown growth protruding from the bark. I concede it is challenging to distinguish the riotous bird from the palm leaves. If he had cooperatively directed his bright blue or red face toward the camera, he would have been more obvious. Okay, I realize as I'm typing, I was a bit obsessed with the whole wild bird thing. Maybe because for a month or two we've endured the heart-rending posters of a lost yellow cockatoo on telephone poles in Hatfield and I'm imagining some strange new breed of backyard bird with fancy yellow plumes protruding from their heads taking up residence in MY town. Enough about the wild parrots already.
Someone recommended a restaurant known for garlic dishes (Aubrey’s favorite food) called The Stinking Rose. But we ate too much sourdough to have an appetite for dinner.
Once we hit the hotel in Oakland that evening, we officially came to the end of my tediously premeditated itinerary. The marathon day of flying tomorrow makes me want to pout. But I am riding too high to be anything but grateful. It was a wonderful trip with some much appreciated family time. I’m a little sad that the adventure is at an end but a rather large slice of me is thrilled that our exhausting agenda is finally completed. Barring any airport calamities, tomorrow night I’ll be sleeping in my own bed, which sounds pretty heavenly at the moment.
Just imagine the the helpful dent we might have made in our debt had we chosen to stay at home. But as Jim says, we shouldn’t count the cost this time, just count our adventures. He’s a wise guy in every sense of the word. My road-weary soul is ever so thankful we opted to spend our pennies on some family memories. Seriously. California dreamin’ and nine days with my husband and kids. You just can’t put a price tag on that.
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