AMONG the GIANTS

I was walking among giants. They surrounded me, their massive bodies unmoving, silent. Only my soft breathing broke the stillness as I stared upward, straining to see their crowns.

But I could not. These were the tallest trees on Earth, coast redwoods, and they were not going to reveal their secrets so easily. They had stood watch here for hundreds--thousands--of years, defying death, thriving despite the ravages of fire and time. I could marvel at them, I could touch their fibrous bark, I could walk around their enormous trunks and explore their hollow insides--but I would never solve the mystery of their longevity.

Better, then, just to admire them.

I was in the third largest state park in California, 51,000-acre Humboldt Redwoods State Park, in the midst of 17,000 acres of old-growth redwoods. Many travelers hurrying along U.S. 101 unknowingly pass by this single most impressive stand of redwoods to be found anywhere. By all accounts I had read, Humboldt Redwoods State Park holds the largest remaining stand of virgin redwoods in the world, with some trees growing taller than 30-story buildings. Now, they towered over me, making me feel insignificant as I walked alone in their midst, breathing the sweet air, forgetting that I had another life somewhere else.

That other life had brought me to San Francisco for a conference four days earlier. The press briefings and business dinners had worn me out, so after shedding my suit and tie, I decided to get away--just rent a car and head north into territory I had never seen. And to cap off my adventure, I decided to visit the famed redwood forests extolled by Woody Guthrie in his classic folk ballad “This Land Is Your Land.”

It was late summer as I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and rolled north on coastal California Highway 1, a winding two-lane that danced along the tops of wave-battered cliffs, offering breathtaking views of the blue Pacific Ocean. I passed through small seaside communities and paused at parks such as Salt Point State Park, where I walked on the rocks alongside Gerstle Cove, admiring the seals sunning themselves nearby.

Farther on, the Point Arena Lighthouse beckoned, and I climbed its 145 steps to view the rocky shoreline. A short while later I explored Mendocino, dubbed “Spendocino” by a friend for the assemblage of souvenir shops, bookstores and art galleries along its main street. Still, I enjoyed the atmosphere. Strolling past ramshackle wooden houses and large Victorian dwellings, I felt as though I was in a Maine fishing village. It’s no wonder the town was picked to double as Cabot Cove, Maine, on long-running “Murder, She Wrote” television series.

Darkness found me speeding inland along a mercilessly winding section of Highway 1. I reached Garberville at about 9 p.m. and found one of the last available rooms in the town’s dozen or so motels. After washing up, I strolled down the quiet main street. On several store windows there were signs publicizing a major protest rally to be held the next day in Carlotta, about an hour north. The owner of a patch of very old redwoods, it seemed, was about to begin logging. The protesters wanted the trees spared. I made a mental note of the location.

*

Raindrops pelted me in the face when I emerged from my motel room the next morning, dampening my spirits considerably. Mentally preparing for a soggy slosh through the redwoods, I stopped into a cafe for breakfast. While waiting for my pancakes, I overheard a local fellow confide to the waitress, with a grin, “Let’s see how they like this rain up in Carlotta.”

Had I not seen the signs the night before, I would have missed the point. The man, and apparently the waitress, belonged to the pro-logging contingent, and were elated that the rain might dampen the protest. Their delight was short-lived. No sooner had I pulled off U.S. 101 in Phillipsville, six miles north, than the clouds cleared. Now it was my turn for elation.

I drove onto the well-labeled Avenue of the Giants Parkway, a quiet, two-lane road that winds for 33 miles through prime redwood territory along the banks of the Eel River. Surrounding the Avenue, which runs parallel to Highway 101, is Humboldt Redwoods State Park. The oldest recorded coast redwood--more than 2,200 years old--was found in the park but has since been cut down.

Coast redwoods have been around for more than 150 million years, according to the best evidence. They can only be found on a narrow belt about 40 miles wide and 450 miles long, stretching along the coasts of Oregon and Northern California. This, however, had not always been the case. In the mid-1700s, coast redwoods covered nearly 2 million acres.

In California, the coast redwoods are protected in more than 30 redwood parks scattered from near the Oregon border to Big Sur. Perhaps the best known is Redwood National Park, about 1 1/2 hours north of Humboldt Redwoods. California’s other species of redwood, the big tree or giant sequoia, is found inland, in groves on the western slope of the southern Sierra Nevada.

Almost as soon as I hit the Avenue, a sign coaxed me to stop and check out Chimney Tree, a hollow, living redwood purported to be 1,500 years old. Someone had built a door into its shell, so I opened it and stepped inside. I found myself in a room about 15 feet across. The tree had become hollow, the story goes, in the early part of the century when careless hunters left a fire smoldering at its base. It had burned out the middle, leaving the outside intact. I marveled for a few moments about the fact that I was inside a living tree, then I signed the guest register and stepped outside.

The immensity of Chimney Tree whetted my appetite for more redwoods. Fortunately, I didn’t have to drive far to find them. I was soon enveloped by them on the spectacularly scenic road, and I found myself crouching forward as I drove to peer up through the windshield at the tops of the massive trees. Awestruck, I had to pull over.

Stopping at one of the Avenue’s more than 130 memorial groves, I turned off my car and jumped out. The sudden silence was shocking. Not a bird, not a breeze broke the stillness. Slowly my head tilted upward, my wide eyes following the tall trunks on their paths toward the sky. Some of these monsters reach 360 feet--higher than the Statue of Liberty, which stands a paltry 301 feet.

In wonder, I began to stroll along a trail--a well-maintained route of beaten-down dirt and needles--winding among the trees. Within seconds the road was gone from sight, and I was swallowed up by the dark forest. Delicate ferns covered the ground, interspersed with patches of clover-like redwood sorrel. I suddenly felt I had stepped back in time and was creeping through a prehistoric forest. Only the swish of traffic on nearby U.S. 101 destroyed my illusion.

The trail--devoid of signs or other markers--carried me deeper into the forest, every bend revealing marvelous new scenes. On the ground, the fallen trees were so immense I felt like a leprechaun among giants stretched across the forest floor, on and on until they disappeared from sight. I scrambled up onto one of them and walked in a straight line for several hundred feet, the trunk getting progressively thinner, until I reached its uppermost branches. Some trees, I’d read, lie for 400 years before they are completely decomposed and assimilated back into the earth.

Above, the sun peaked through the tops of the trees, a few stray beams filtering through to touch the carpet of brown needles on the ground and glisten off the rain-dampened leaves of the ferns. Admiring the thick, fibrous bark of one redwood, too tall to comprehend, I noticed a narrow opening revealing a hollow interior. I squeezed inside, then sat in the dark, silent room within, awed that I was inside a tree that was possibly alive when Julius Caesar was born.

Though the average redwood is 600 years old, the oldest exceed 2,000 years. Engineers are fascinated with the tree’s ability to transport vast amounts of moisture up a 300-foot trunk and then release the wetness into the atmosphere at the rate of 500 gallons a day. The redwoods’ phenomenal longevity is due chiefly to the strong defenses they have built up against their enemies. They don’t burn easily, since there’s no resin in their bark. Insects don’t like them because of the large amounts of tannic acid they hold. Periodic flooding--such as the January floods that hit this area and much of Northern California--doesn’t suffocate them, but strengthens them by bringing sediment deposits on which they thrive. Their main enemy--aside from man--is heavy wind. Despite their size, redwood roots are quite shallow, extending only a few feet into the soil. Instead, the roots grow laterally.

The trail looped around and led me back to my car, which had since been joined by another. Its driver was about to climb in when he saw me and said hello. Then he added, “You going to Carlotta?”

“Thinking about it,” I said.

“I’m heading there now. Should be a lot of people.”

Wow, I thought. I could actually attend this rally and do my bit for saving the redwoods. But I had a lot to see first. Putting my decision off, I journeyed onward.

In Myers Flat I stopped to check out the Shrine Drive-Thru Tree. I paid $1.50 to drive down a narrow, private road that passed right through the center of a huge redwood, 21 feet in diameter. I left the car inside the tree and got out to snap a few pictures. The tree had definitely seen better days. It was leaning to one side and was held up by ropes and cables. Supposedly it was still alive, but it looked dead to me.

I stopped frequently as I made my way north on the Avenue, taking brief strolls through the many groves I encountered. One of these, the Garden Club of America Grove, was spectacular. I crossed the Eel River on a plank bridge and followed the Canoe Creek Loop Trail, one of several. The faint sound of traffic quickly disappeared as I plunged deep into the forest. The silence enveloped me. The trail wound around fallen redwoods, passing vast pits created by their shallow, disinterred roots. I crossed a creek on a bridge formed by a downed tree, stepping carefully on the rough bark. I eventually did the inevitable and stretched out at the base of some trees, staring up at their tall, straight trunks. Their branches swayed back and forth in the breeze high above. I watched clumps of needles falling slowly, drifting, taking forever to reach the ground.

My next stop was the Founders Grove, dedicated to the founders of the Save-the-Redwoods League, started in 1917 to preserve primeval forests. I followed a well-traveled half-mile loop trail, stopping to admire the Founders Tree (346 feet) and the fallen Dyerville Giant, a 362-foot monster. After touring the grove, I was forced to make a decision. Drive to Rockefeller Forest or head to Carlotta for some protesting. I pictured myself taking the latter course: arriving in Carlotta, looking around uncomfortably, trying to blend in with the protesters.

I wimped out. I was not a protester at heart. (I later learned that scores of people were arrested in Carlotta that day, including singer Bonnie Raitt.)

The last stop, Rockefeller Forest, is the largest memorial grove in Humboldt Redwoods and the world’s largest remaining contiguous old-growth coast redwood forest. Rockefeller Forest has never been logged. It felt more untamed than any of the groves; it was denser, somehow more forbidding. By now the sunlight was no longer filtering through the trees as the afternoon faded. The coming darkness contributed to the ominous feeling emanating from the thick woods.

I had seen more than I had ever imagined I would. Taking a last look, I turned and strolled slowly back to my car. Behind me, the silent forest resumed its eternal vigil.

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

GUIDEBOOK

Humbled in Humboldt

Getting there: To get within 60 miles of Humboldt Redwoods State Park, fly United from LAX to Eureka-Arcata Airport in Arcata, Calif. (Change planes in San Francisco to United Express turboprop). Round-trip fares begin at about $180; Avis, Enterprise, Hertz and National rental cars are available at the airport. Or fly to San Francisco for round-trip fares beginning at about $130.

Where to stay: I stayed at the Johnston Motel, 839 Redwood Drive, Garberville; telephone (707) 923-3327, where my bill for one night came to $39.60.

Below, a sampling of other lodgings, with winter rates; summer rates, usually beginning in May or June, are often substantially higher.

Eel River Redwoods/Avenue of the Giants Hostel, 70400 U.S. Highway 101, Leggett; tel. (707) 925-6425; rates $16 per person per night.

Bell Glen Bed and Breakfast in the Redwoods, same address as above hostel; tel. (800) 500-6464; $95-$130 a night per cabin.

Stonegate Villas, 65260 Drive-Through Tree Road, South Leggett; tel. (707) 925-6226; $39 per night per room.

Best Western Humboldt House Inn, 701 Redwood Drive, Garberville; tel. (707) 923-2771; $56-$70 per room; suites with kitchens $91.

Motel Garberville, 948 Redwood Drive, Garberville; tel. (707) 923-2422; $48-$52.

Myers Country Inn, 12913 Old Redwood Highway, P.O. Box 173, Myers Flat; tel. (707) 943-3259; $65 per room.

Benbow Inn, 445 Lake Benbow Drive, Garberville; tel. (707) 923-2124; $110-$130, deluxe rooms $125-$165; reopens for the season April 18.

For more information: Humboldt Redwoods State Park, P.O. Box 100, Weott, CA 95571; tel. (707) 946-2409. California Division of Tourism, P.O. Box 1499, Sacramento, CA 95812; tel. (916) 322-2881.