Modern America At The Altar of Staggering Trees
All roads lead to comfortable insignificance.
At a weathered picnic table on a small patch of grass outside the Langlois Market, I sat with my dog as we ate a “world famous” hot dog. Cell service free, soaking up sun on the side of highway 101, I had already achieved much of what I wanted. I had no agenda beyond crawling down the coast, jumping between full album rotations of JJ Cale and Vince Staples, until I reached my temporary home. My weekend attempt at gaining control over my addiction to modern life was in full swing.
The hotdog lived up to the hype, their house-made mustard is the best balance of sweet and horseradish-spicy out there, and the tiny diced onions bring the patented, peeled dog to life. The Market is a model of efficiency and quality service on the southern Oregon Coast where most other operations seem only vaguely aware that they’re a business. When the woman behind the counter realized I was just ordering one dog amidst a growing line of people ordering handfuls, she moved my order up the queue. It didn’t really matter to me either way, I was checking out and here for the languid pace, but it’s nice to see some gusto in a town of 200 where a roadside stop can become a regional legend.
We all have our limits. Apparently I reached mine somewhere in between the 1,440-minute news cycle providing BREAKING NEWS stemming from maniacal posts on a social media network no one uses, and based purely in dementia; an unending run of instagram ads telling me my skin is indeed shit and it’s not my genes, it’s my lack of products; and technology forced upon me with relentless pressure, or as I was told, “using AI is no longer a request, it’s a demand.” Isn’t it nice that life is now constant reminders of doom and inadequacy?
Or, perhaps my breaking point was an algorithm drowning me in celebrity and comedian soundbites and clips that are sold as brilliance; Substack writers writing about how to write on Substack; or the LinkedIn regular sharing another non-achievement and being emboldened to do it again next week because they’re in an echo chamber of corporate sadness. It’s a river of shit, I tell you. Pick your poison. Tomato. Tomahto.
But rather than pulling the trigger on fistfuls of sedatives from a guy ready to assume the fentanyl fold, I chose the quiet appeal of the Southern Oregon & Northern California coastline. Overlooked isolation. Mountains, ocean, forest, and motherfucking Redwoods, meeting whatever meager civilization set up shop nearby. Soon I would be baptized amongst Sequoia sempervirens.
Once I arrived at my hidden, wooded home, the goal was to unplug and be one with the trees, but the quality dive just down the steep, winding road, called to me. The Hunter Creek Bar & Grill is an impeccable location. Technically in Gold Beach, a half mile from the highway, it’s nestled between the namesake creek, auto shops, and a lumber yard, making it an entirely different world than the 101 strip I’d cruised for hours earlier. Out front was an old Ford truck with blistering paint and a smattering of decals, across the road were rusting car parts laid outside chainlink fences. The surrounding hills of Doug Fir sank deeper into a coastal fog as I stepped in. Never mind that it was the first weekend of summer, the sole energy was Lynchian Northwest.
The bar was alive with just about every seat taken, a locals hang, but a few faces revealed vacationers adrift. The gruff bearded man playing pool eyeballed me upon entry. His girlfriend, of no interest to me but landing in my line of sight, seemed to be the offense. I sat at the bar hoping to get the attention of the cute bartender, but she seemed to be narrowly focused on her conversation with the man across the bar. He was more than just a customer.
Instead, the hardworking bartender clearing tables greeted me first, pouring a generous Buffalo Trace and giving me the option of a Coors Light draft or bottle. Ooh-la-la, bottle baby. Seeing what a few more rounds might open up in this place had its appeal, but my goal was to check out for the weekend, not get sucked in. I left with a $13 tab, tip included, and another hard stare, affirming that while the rest of the bar seemed friendly, the early exit was indeed the right move. I settled in for porch beers and John Prine as I stared into the thicket of cedar branches above me.
The next morning, in the parking lot of the nearest beach, an old man with a Sam Elliott mustache had started chatting up my Mom before I could even unload my dog from the backseat (my Mom had joined me for a day of tree celebration). He stood at the open trunk of his mid-90’s era black Ford Taurus, a vehicle so generic it could only be described as “a car.” He was parked next to the trail head selling agates out of his trunk.
“I’ve got them sorted by size and price … Feel free to pick any up if you want … We glanced. Would you like any?”
“Oh, I’m good, we’re just walking my son’s dog down to the beach.”
“Well, I know you’re good!” He gave us a big smile emphasizing his dad-joke cadence. “I asked if you wanted to buy any?” We all chuckled.
“I collect them early every morning, right here. If people can’t find any when they go down, I make sure they get what they were looking for.”
It was an interesting proposition, telling us to buy something he’d found for free on the beach we were en route to before he interrupted us. Perhaps he was making clear we’d find none, that he was the only beach comber here. He leaned against his car, waiting for the next beachgoers to walk past.
Weaving down 101 towards the Redwoods, we stopped off at a classic roadside espresso stand in Brookings. As my car idled in line, we overlooked a flea market setting up shop in the parking lot of Hip-Nautic Gifts. If the few shoppers of the official seaside kitsch wouldn’t spend their vacation dollars inside, perhaps they would at the plastic tables in the parking lot. Homemade wares and secondhand items of complete irrelevance to the time and place were hawked with little enthusiasm and even less fanfare. The large man selling random football jerseys, hats, and packaged & unboxed toys, remained motionless for a few minutes before opting to move his camp chair closer to his goods. The shuffle forward revealed sweatpants hugging beneath their target, a weathered crack smiled a wide, morning hello.
Another stand sold knives, which had some utility at least, though the $5 price might call any functionality into question. The third posted a sign reading, “METAL ART.” What exactly was on the table, I couldn’t tell, but hanging from the frame of her popup canopy were wind chimes – combinations of driftwood and seashells hanging off of empty liquor bottles – Absolute Vodka and Bombay Sapphire, all 750ml emptied. One of a kind beach art.
The only two customers out during that overcast morning were a slightly overweight, leathery couple, succumbing to what looked like a hard life, slowly scanning the items. Her shirt read, “angry music makes me happy,” and matched their dispirited faces. Even worse, I’ve often related to the idea of angry music bringing joy in my life. What can I say? I do love a chuggy riff and growl. But the possibility that we might share what I thought was a unique take brought me a pang of depression.
Something else became painfully clear then too. Although I was succeeding, if only briefly, in detaching from the grip of our modern, late stage capitalist world, I was beginning to feel another take hold – the bleak world of those it left behind. That rift was only growing larger, I knew, and neither felt like home. Surely these couldn’t be my only choices in this world?
The arrival at my true destination of the weekend – the Jedidiah Smith Redwoods State Park – began with a drive that goes from a nice forest highway and accelerates into a surreal tunnel of trees where everything is, at once, cartoonishly large. My midsized SUV looked childish amongst the trees and their encapsulation literally blocked the sun. The excitement from this novel feeling was fleeting as reality stepped back in.
But of course it was a circus of fuckin’ yahoos within the park – families and couples doing their best to get out of dodge and see something meaningful, even if they’d never spent their free time outdoors before. And kudos to them, but as I’d been reminded on a flight the week prior, the average person is not well versed in the common civility that comes with being in public. Somewhere above the Rocky Mountains, my seatmate seemed to realize she was getting sick. Yet, with enough time to act, she did not preempt disaster by going to the bathroom or asking her husband to retrieve a bag. Instead, in a sluggish, almost relaxed state, she puked into her hand. So yes, I knew in the back of my head that a summer weekend at a well known state park might be overrun with humans, but still, I’d hoped the isolation might weed out the dunces.
An impossible expectation, like so many of mine. Because, to get to the majestic Memorial Grove, you need only to step out of your car and be greeted by the grandeur of Coastal Redwoods. This once-in-a-lifetime outdoor experience is as doable as a drive-in movie. Kids ran and screamed, one made an incoherent song that all children sing at some point in their young life, “llaLAlaLALLLLAHH,” while others yelled conversations, some entailing super powers. A younger brother whined, “Can you turn off teleportation, I don’t think it’s fair!” “No, too late, just teleported!” immediately followed.
Just beyond, a couple managed to find the least interesting tree in the grove. It was dead, only the hollowed out base of the diminutive trunk remained (I’ve seen bigger Elms in my neighborhood). What remained was slightly taller than them, just big enough to stand inside and they eagerly found someone to take pictures of them popping out from the splitting trunk. Their photo was a memento to irony as the actual giants were cropped from their cute scene. We walked the grove in awe, and miffed. All good, I thought, we have options.
To see Grove of the Titans requires a bit more effort. But it’s still a short hike in, and we quickly saw it was a negligible improvement. The trail was lined with groups sweating through jeans negotiating what they’d do once they returned to their car. As this pattern persisted through a few switchbacks, I made up my mind to abandon the trail. Though these people would never know it, they were winning at a game they knew nothing about, a game only my arrogance could create. As they broke trail etiquette and dominated the narrow path, it was clear I was losing. But I had one more trail to see. On the map, its modest 6 mile length appeared as an epic of endurance compared to these effortless groves. There was still a chance at finding enlightenment.
But navigating a single track dirt road with cars entering from each side of the park, and few parking spaces available along that 9 miles, meant I was due for an unavoidable tantrum. I attempted to humiliate a man using only my eyes, he, driving in a way I considered improper. Staring through him left me feeling both self-satisfied and aware that I was an asshole. Never mind that, I had to continue on.
After realizing several parking spots were only mirages, I let out a few screaming fits coupled with slams on the steering wheel. But finally, following a four-point turn, we were parked. Imperfectly, but successfully. As a grown man, this behavior is an embarrassment that I don’t want my mom, or anyone else to see, but it’s that unconditional motherly understanding and forgiveness that makes it that much more likely to slip out. Sorry mom.
Now that I’d burned through my short fuse, and shed these people I had declared idiots, I could finally meet peace head-on.
It’s true, if you want to avoid people, most experiences requiring any amount of physical effort beyond flirting with a sweat, will weed out the majority. It’s both a depressing reality and a truth I lean on to ensure I get my space. This trail proved that theory, slowly dissipating the mobs until I found quiet. A deep sigh of relief.
And then the real hit of zen came, the calm produced by Coastal Redwoods, some over 2,000 years old. They create a cover of silence that echoes the early hours of a snowfall over a city. It’s a silence that makes a bird’s song sound piercingly isolated, like it’s the only noise that’s ever existed, and gives a cushion to even the gentlest breeze. These behemoths have massive diameters, and while not as wide as their cousins, the Giant Sequoias, Coastal Redwoods can still exceed 20 feet. It’s their height though that makes them true beasts, with the tallest known reaching to the sky 380 feet above. That verticality, touching and silencing airspace we can’t see or occupy, makes them magical.
I hear Redwood ‘grove‘ and think of a small group of giant trees, but here, it’s a true stand – millions of trees on thousands of acres. It’s seemingly endless once immersed, each of us hikers only there to provide proper scale for the others amongst the enormous landscape. It’s all very Jurassic. I felt unimportant, grateful, and at times, dumb. Standing amongst them is both a step closer to the meaning of life and feeling more comfortable in our absolute lack of purpose. The inane and total understanding walk hand and hand here.
Typically, I speed through hikes, why move slow when you can go fast and get to that payoff as quickly as possible? But this was different. The payoff is the whole hike – all parts are equal. I was relaxed and easy. I fell in love with different trees, but appreciating the ubiquity of something so foreign kept me in awe. Immersed in unending novelty and not numbing to it is the real joy. There’s true wonder standing in the hush created by giants. While I could have stayed for days, one half was our allotment with these Redwoods.
Upon returning to the cabin, my single digital indulgence was the World Cup group stage games being played across North America. Back to back were Ecuador v. Curacao and Japan v. Tunisia, playing in front of fans from all 48 competing countries. Despite the games being prohibitively expensive, an attempt to turn the entire stadium into a corporate suite of enshittifiers, the every(wo)man seemed to have made their way in. And they were in high spirits! Joy was emanating from North America, and dare I say, it felt like a bit of good PR for the stars and stripes?
Perhaps there was a glimmer of hope yet. But who needs hope when you have understanding whispered from a kingdom that’s been alive since before year zero, with lineage that stretches millions of years more? It told me all I needed to know. Once we step outside our flywheel of shit, creating then solving those problems ad nauseam, we are simply at the will of a planet ready to us shed for what we are, another blip amidst its timeless run. That’s life, my friend. And it means that several porch beers and a homemade meal, surrounded by trees catching an ocean breeze, is likely a closer version of truth than what’s on any phone.