The Land of Giants

Sometimes it’s all about perspective. This trip  began with airport hassle. Shuttle buses were late, one connecting flight was late, we nearly missed our second connecting flight (had to speedwalk a mile through the Las Vegas airport to make it), and the car rental agency was slow. But then we found ourselves on a mountaintop, and our problems became very, very small.

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Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/s3pzQnGxPfCa4rN18

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August 24th, 2024- California Day 1

The big trees. We were FINALLY going to see the big trees. When we last visited California in 2023, our plans had been disrupted by catastrophic rainfall amounts that spring. Statistics would later show that the state received 141% of its average precipitation that year. The same heavy rains that caused a wildflower superbloom in Death Valley also washed out roads and caused several fatalities. Sequoia, Kings Canyon, and Yosemite were among the national parks that were forced to close due to flooding. Now, with the roads repaired, these parks were at the top of our list to visit in 2024.

To my delight, we chose Sequoia National Park to start with. I feel as though I ought to make a confession here. I love big trees. I’m sure my biology degree has something to do with it. Whenever we’d go on college field trips, my professors would dreamily discuss old-growth forests while wistfully gazing at a solitary big oak tree. We don’t have many big trees in Ohio. With our mild winters and humid summers, hardwood trees grow well. With the growth of trees comes logging, and with logging comes diminished forests. Gone is the fanciful great forest of pre-colonial America. Back then, it was said a squirrel could travel from the Atlantic to the Mississippi without ever touching the ground. Now, a white-tailed deer is lucky to find ample food and water without crossing over three roads and five fragmented patches of trees. 

I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, big trees. This is all to say that I have a special appreciation for the old folks of the forest. I have hugged a big sycamore on multiple occasions. I touch at least one tree on every hike we’ve ever been on. I assert that chronic nature deprivation from a corporate desk job requires such behaviors. In reality, I’m probably just a weirdo. In any event, I appreciated Sequoia National Park. Actually, I was awe-stricken by Sequoia National Park. The trees were just so BIG! 

Driving through the park, we were almost entirely silent. Seeing a sequoia for the first time is a humbling experience. Driving through an entire forest of sequoias renders one speechless. There are sequoias that cars have driven through. There are sequoias that people can walk through. Sequoias lined the roads, filled the forests, and dwarfed everything manmade in their vicinity. Their immense presence seemed to shock everyone into a worshipful silence. It didn’t seem right to speak as we wandered the trails. Most everyone else maintained the same demeanor. We ran our hands over the thick, flaky red bark of the ancient trees. We tipped our heads towards the heavens, looking to the towering branches and the Creator who made them. Our hearts were stirred within us. 

Perhaps more than most, I had many reasons to be astounded by the sequoias. I am a biologist, after all. I know how trees work. For example, do you know how water travels from the tree roots up to the top of the tree? Think about that for a minute. Imagine the machinery, power sources, and complex engineering we would need to harvest water from the soil and lift it to the top of a sequoia. It would be a feat! So, how do the trees do it? The last time I checked, sequoias don’t have generators! Instead, they rely on a very simple concept: evaporation. Every leaf loses water. Different leaves have unique adaptations to help prevent water loss, but none are perfect. As thousands of tree leaves stretch towards the sun and transpirate, a vacuum is created in the tree. This vacuum draws water upwards, all the way from the depths of the roots. It is a remarkable, simple process. There is no electricity involved. There are no pipes, sensors, or engineering. When I stood at the foot of General Sherman, the largest tree on Earth, I found it hard to wrap my mind around. At that very moment, countless tiny drops of water were sliding from cell to cell deep inside the massive tree. Eventually, they would reach the leaves, where they would leach into the brilliant blue sky. The water would cycle in wispy clouds high above the Earth. Then, it would accumulate and fall, splashing a brilliant rainbow across dark clouds as it returned to Earth’s soil. The cycle would repeat. It was unnoticed, outside of human control, and so beautifully perfect. I felt wonderfully diminished in such perfection. 

As we strolled the paths of the sequoia wonderland, we couldn’t help but notice the black, ugly scars marring many of the thick trees. These were wildfire scars, the searing slashes of previous blazes. Given the age of the trees, these scars could have been centuries old. Still, I couldn’t help but be a little sad about them. Some trees had been consumed so severely by fire that their trunks had been hollowed out, leaving wooden, charred caves behind. Yet, the tree was still standing strong. Its leaves were thick and bushy high above our heads, seemingly unbothered by the minor annoyance of a misshapen trunk. We would later learn that sequoias depend on wildfire for their continued existence. Wildfires clean up leaf litter and fallen trees from the forest floor, preventing the chance of future severe wildfires. Fires also eliminate less fire-hardy tree species in the forest, providing gaps in the tree canopy for young sequioas to grow in. Sequoias do not thrive in shade, so a thick forest hinders the continuance of the species. When a wildfire tears through the trees, the intense heat triggers sequoia cones to release their seeds. The seeds, now nestled into nutrient-rich ash and bathed in fresh sunlight, establish seedlings quickly. As the forest recovers, a new sequoia quickly grows. When it has matured, it earns a thick, spongy bark that protects it from future wildfires. And so the cycle continues.

In prehistoric times, the Native Americans understood the importance of the wildfire cycle. Tree ring records have indicated that wildfires were periodic, likely started by lightning strikes or the Native Americans themselves. When settlers entered the region, their vast sheep herds grazed down the forests, eliminating much of the leaf litter that contributed to fire fuel. The sheep, combined with fire suppression efforts by the settlers, halted the forest fires for many years. There was a gap in sequoia cycle. Young trees were smothered by shade. Seed cones never released new seeds. Eventually, science came to realize that the sequoia tree was designed to thrive in its native environment, even with the wildfire risk. Now, the National Park Service conducts prescribed burns in regions of the sequoia and redwood forests, mimicking the effects of those prehistoric fires found in tree ring records. Remarkably, these burns have been found to minimize the effects of a real, uncontrolled wildfire. By restoring nature to nature, science has found that the trees can take care of themselves. It’s almost as if they were designed that way. Huh.

As if Sequoia needs a reason to further astound its visitors, it features a spectacular landscape of granite mountains and blue-layered valleys. We climbed a granite mountain called Moro Rock to afford ourselves a view of a particularly pretty valley. It was breathtaking, simultaneously due to the magnificent hills and the high elevation. Brown hills streaked with green rambled into high peaks. At their feet, lush green valleys sheltered in the shade. Sunbeams sliced through the hazy sky, illuminating the mountains like something out of a painting. It was scenic mastery at its finest. 

As I reflect on it now, Sequoia National Park truly represented everything perfect about Earth. Its trees were prehistoric, uniquely designed to thrive in the wildfire-damaged landscape of California. Its mountains were granite, unfathomable in their mass and beauty. Even its sunset was perfection, a brilliant, eerie pink I’ve never witnessed anywhere else. One of my favorite Bible passages (paraphrased) says “Look at the lilies of the field! They’re here today and gone tomorrow, yet even Solomon in his splendor wasn’t clothed like them. If this is how God takes care of the flowers (or the sequoias), how much more will he take care of you?”

Today was a beautiful example of that. If the trees of the forest are provided the resources to grow like magnificent sequoias, how much more do we have our needs provided for too? “Mastery” is the best word to describe it all. No step was overlooked in the design of nature. No detail was too small. In the face of it all, humans are wonderfully, perfectly minimized. I like it that way. 

Hiking Trails:

Moro Rock Trail

Tunnel Log

Congress Trail to General Sherman