In the Belly of the Sequoia

 

One of my most mystical experiences so far? Sitting in the belly of a giant Sequoia tree the size of a small hut, meditating amid the deep, hushed silence of the old Giant Forest at Sequoia National Park. It was so quiet and still. I tried to record the sound for you, but there was, literally, nothing to capture. 

The famous General Sherman tree 

We saw several famous trees, most notably the General Sherman tree. While it's not the oldest Sequoia (which is estimated to be 3,200 years old), it is the largest tree by volume - and still growing. Behind the Sherman Tree are the General Grant, President, Lincoln, and Stagg trees. All named after men of course, though the tree itself is "monoecious" (a word I just learned, thanks Google), meaning each tree produces both male and female pinecones. So not as crazy as snakes in captivity impregnating themselves, but still pretty mind-boggling.

 

Belly of a sequoia - perfect spot to just breathe

Hard to capture their size, but these trees are, like, Trump-massive

So peaceful...

What most wowed me about these trees is how resilient they are. Everywhere, there were signs of fires, recent and not-so-recent. One 2,200 year old tree that had been cut down in the 1950s (and whose cross-section of a trunk was on display like someone's posthumous X-ray) had survived no less than 80 fires. And it would have likely still been alive today had someone not chopped it down because it was leaning too close to a park cabin. (Note: The park states that such a heinous act is not likely to happen again.)

Looking up inside the fire-ravaged Sequoia

Deer. They were everywhere and so cute.

Cool. But coming up to noon, the Giant Forest trail was getting packed and the silence was eroding quickly from screaming and skittering children. So we headed to a nearby trail called the Moro Trail. Technically, you can drive there, but the road was closed so we hiked our way in and climbed nearby Hanging Rock.

Hanging Rock. It really does look like it's "just hanging on" and the tiniest shove would send it over the ledge.

Looking into the valley from Hanging Rock.

We descended from Hanging Rock to find out that the park had opened the road. Now a hoard of cybertrucks (I see them everywhere now) and other packed vehicles disgorged multitudes young, old and in between, all eager to climb the famous Moro Rock.

Moro Rock from Hanging Rock

We joined the crowds and climbed the 350 stairs to the top. The view - Sierra Nevada peaks to the East, San Joaquin Valley to the West - is breath taking (literally for some). What impressed me most, though, was the work the park corps put into building the steps all the way to the top, right in the natural crevices of the rock face. The original stairs from early in the century had been wood, and decayed relatively rapidly, so had to be replaced by stone.

The climb was seamless and aesthetically pleasing at the same time. The stairs were a tight squeeze, yes, what with people going both up and down, but they had a landing halfway up for those afraid of heights or dizzy from altitude, and nearly everyone who tried was pretty much able to tackle it - even the elderly gentleman sporting an oxygen tube in his nose. Now that's engineering.

The Moro stairs.

At the top of Moro Rock looking West into the San Joaquin Valley.

Seeing the sequoias and the Sierra Nevada views did generate the awe the park pundits promise visitors. Ivan and I certainly gained some perspective on our own short lives, their success and tragedies both big and small. But my favourite day in Sequoia? Day 2, at the park's Lake Trail. 

Talk about perspective.

Looking out on Pear Lake at the peak

Four hours of steep climbing, gaining over 3,000 feet. Very few souls encountered, human or other. The sweet sound of babbling brooks of glacial melt underfoot. The terrifying "thock, thock thock" of a boulder falling from a peak somewhere overhead that stops us in our tracks, worried more might follow. (Fortunately, none do.) Hot sun melting the snow underfoot, ice still hiding dangerously in the shady cracks. Lakes so clear you can see the tiny fish swimming around the sunken trunks. Everywhere, the smell of pine and melt and sun. 

Can't escape the snow, even in California

Heather Lake

Lakes was my kind of trail. Like a good mentor, it was tough but rewarding, and I wanted to stay there forever, but the van was calling. (Note: if you ever go, you can stay overnight; they even have a washroom at two of the lakes. Really, the amenities in these American parks blow me away.)  To round out the whole experience, I fell asleep that night to the distinctive hoo-HOO-hoo-hoo of the Great Horned Owl. Heaven.

But our luck and time had run out. Our last morning we awoke to rain, a dying van battery and a maybe-scorpion in the women's washroom. Westwards and onwards. Only two days to the Pacific, and our much anticipated view (finally!) of the ocean.