Among the Giants

The people of Mendocino, Calif., need you to know what they believe. Before setting off for the day, we stopped for lunch at the lovely Mendocino Cafe. The red snapper sandwiches we had were great. The Maroon 5 live performance playing over the speakers (why?) was not. Visitors are greeted with these lovely signs in the window when they walk in.

The population of this sleepy coastal town, far from any signs of urban life, is about 570 people. Now that’s what I call librural!

We decided to break away from Highway 1 for the day, leaving the cliffside ocean views to immerse ourselves in the redwood forests. It had to be done, if only for the sake of diversity, equity, and inclusion of California’s natural features. The route is smashed between national forests and state parks. Photos can’t do justice to the 360-degree view of the endless hills and glistening river gorges cloaked by armies of trees standing guard. But I’ll give you the best I have.

I did not try to climb this rocky hillside to gain a better view.

But I did sprint across a curve in the highway to sneak this shot of an opening that caught my eye.

I used to think California was dumb for diverting half its water to “environmental” uses every year, even as residents are instructed to take shorter showers during droughts. Now, I kind of get it.

We nearly swerved off the road to see the world-famous Grandfather Tree, a majestic old-growth coastal redwood that’s pushing 1,800. (No wonder Social Security is going insolvent.) Surrounding it were animals carved from one of its fallen neighbors.

The real destination was part of the journey. In Humboldt Redwoods State Park, there is a 31-mile highway that runs parallel to Highway 101, called the “Avenue of the Giants.” It serves no logistical purpose; the trip is much slower and gets you to the same place. But we took it regardless because it winds through the largest contiguous old-growth redwood forest on Earth, with some trees exceeding 300 feet in height. It gets dark real fast once you enter.

For over an hour, we lived among the giants, listening to Fleet Foxes’ Helplessness Blues as we went along. And, unlike the other Giants that call Northern California home, these were neither anemic offensively nor culturally imperious.

We crashed for the night in Arcata, just north of Eureka. Hotel Arcata was built in 1914, and it definitely looks (and smells) like it. Outside is a cheerful courtyard populated by people whom the state refers to as “unhoused individuals.” The gentleman at the front desk advised us to bring in all our bags and boxes from the car.

Guests are given real room keys. Charming black-and-white photos of Native American fellows line the hallway. The showers are in claw-foot bathtubs, which are a bit of a climb. But the hotel makes up for it with showerheads from before the pitiful age of water-efficiency regulations. Kramer from Seinfeld would have loved it.

We dined on sushi in the hotel restaurant — directly in front of an aquarium. I thought Californians were all about humane treatment of animals. Yet here they are, violating the Geneva Convention by confining the poor things.

Next up, back to the coastline and up to Oregon. I’ll report back on whether Portlanders are truly quirky or merely nuts and high, as many of us outsiders suspect.

This is an installment in a cross-country road-trip adventure.