Redwood National Park

I’ve been looking forward to this day for a long time. I drive back up the 101 to the north into Redwood National Park. Low clouds roll in from the Pacific over the first hills. I leave the motorway at the first opportunity and head along gravel tracks right next to the coastal cliffs. Signs warn of “sneaker waves”, unexpected and unrhythmic breakers on the beach that sweep away and drown a person every year.

The redwoods only occur in isolated places in the park. I don’t think the largest concentration was in the National Park, but 50 miles north near Crescent City in the State Park directly on Highway 101. The real 2000-year-old giants are hiding here. You have to ask and look.

My small car adds to the impression of the gigantic trees. I wish for two things all day: firstly, four times as much space on the Y-axis of my camera. And secondly, an automatic scale overlay. I keep my eyes peeled for redwood seeds. They’re supposed to be as big as tomatoes, but apparently I’ve got them on my eyes right now. It would be nice to grow a small indoor redwood.

I stop for lunch in a filthy little town in the middle of the park. A Mexican is the only choice for lunch. The burrito is hairy in two ways: firstly, literally. And secondly, because its size of 10 by 25 cm seems to be modelled on the redwoods. Halfway through, I’m as stupid as a rutting moose.

In the morning I had already obtained a permit for a remote trail at the ranger station. I continue along gravel tracks up into the clouds. After 15 miles I arrive at the start of the Tall Trees Trail. This is where researchers discovered the tallest redwoods in the 1960s, 130 metres tall, and played a key role in the creation of the national park.

The trail is only 5 miles long, but very steep up and down the slope. I won’t even try to describe what I see. Maybe the pictures will tell you something, but I think even they are just shadows. Just one thing: Hannes, I understand you better now. The redwoods speak a similar language to doors in haunted castles. They groan with the weight of thousands of years. I simply remain silent.

On the way back, I don’t take the highway, but head east along a 30-mile gravel track that winds adventurously over hills and through forests. No cars, no signs, just gravel and Colin McRae. My landlord would probably stone me for this tour. I enjoy the 500 metre long cloud of dust behind me and the splashing stones on every bend. Passing prairie grass and old farms, we enter an Indian reservation.

I pick up an Indian. Everything you give, you get back. Until now, these speed limits before every bend have annoyed the hell out of me. I thought they were obligatory. My passenger corrects my opinion: everything that is yellow is only a recommendation. Ouch. I’ve probably spent a whole day slowing down for these stupid yellow signs. Never again.

In the evening, I take Waylen to a remote beach. I wanted some kitesurfing lessons. There’s just enough wind, so I show him how it’s done. After two false starts, he’s immediately hooked. Another addict :-) The sun sinks into the Pacific.

Back home, I hear Waylen’s flatmate’s harshest judgement yet on 9/11: it was all planned by the CIA. Even if nobody really believed that Bin Laden was the boss of the whole thing, nobody has ever been so clear. I don’t even have to unpack my opinion. They’re served to me on silver platters. America, I love you.