The Tree and Its Fee
“California Dreaming” was the song rolling around in my head, off and (mostly) on for almost two weeks. Not the Mamas and Papas version, but the grungier, more visceral Cam Cole version. Worth checking out, if you haven’t already. A one-man band, alone with his own interpretation, much as I imagined myself on this spectacular coastal section of a solo coast-to-coast road trip. Countless people before me have driven the west coast of the U.S. on Highway 101 and I’ll wager most saw a lot more of it than I did. I didn’t really take the time to get off the bike and explore much. I just wanted to ride, absorb as much as would be possible while driving past at a [dis]respectable rate of speed.
The people I saw while passing by were just part of the scenery—extras in a movie; placed there to make the experience more authentic, yet deserving of the single song soundtrack playing in my head. It was surreal and some of the most beautiful coastline I’ve ever seen. Sandy beaches, jagged cliffs, hairpins and sweepers. The giant redwood trees, which I didn’t think would interest me much, were massive and majestic. I found it incredibly humbling to be in their presence. To think of everything they’ve seen and borne witness to left me feeling small—full of wonder and awe.
There is a place that, for a moderate fee, will allow you to drive right through the base of one of these giant trees. You can even stop to have your picture taken if you like. Being a dutiful tourist, I of course waited in line for my turn, made friends with the young couple behind me while we hung out for about an hour, pulling forward a car length at a time every now and then.
It was a place for stereotypes to thrive. Large, multi-generational families with multi-generational cameras would stop for 10+ minutes while they arranged themselves in different poses. The car in the middle of the tree. Themselves in front of the car. Behind the car. Just the car. Without the car. Each person. Then the entire family. Then with their family and the other family they were traveling with. Then just the couples, then just the kids—all the while frantically yelling directions at each other to get the most natural and relaxed-looking shot.
After that madness was satisfied, the next car would drive under the tree and the whole process would start again. Then there were the angry, skinny pseudo-athletic couples who would walk to the front of the line and tell the people currently at the tree that they were taking too long and being rude, not being considerate of all the people having to wait in line. Then they’d walk back to their car telling everyone as they passed what they had just done, looking for—and receiving some—nods and muttered approvals. Then there were the overweight couples who seemed content to just sit there with their car idling in order to satisfy air-conditioning requirements while they snacked mindlessly on the goodies they brought along, congratulating themselves on their preparedness. “God Bless America for Potato Chips, Diet Soda, Air Conditioning and our Forethought” is what their silent, knowing glances at each other seemed to say.
The young family with small kids; momma would get out of the mini van and explore the forest with a toddler in each hand while da-da would wait in the hot minivan, surviving the aroma of stale orange juice, spilt milk with just a whiff of filled diaper, just in case the line moved forward a car length. He sat, tense and afraid of what the unhappy skinny couple behind him would say or do if he didn’t pull his van forward within the allotted 20 seconds.
After about 30 minutes in the hot lineup in full riding gear, keeping the bike balanced and not really having a good place to keep my helmet, I found myself wishing I was in the air-conditioned van with the couple enjoying their snacks and diet soda and nodding with eager agreement at their wise decision to be so properly prepared. I spent a total of 60 seconds (or less) getting my picture taken—which felt more like a duty than an experience by the time I reached the poor tree.
How it must hate us. To be surrounded by its majestic, silently brooding brothers while it is the centre of all this unwanted attention. Almost every car or rented minivan would bang their doors against the side of the hollowed out tree trying to get out for picture time. Seeing as the mirrors cleared by a mere inch on either side, I’m not sure how they figured the doors would open wide enough to let them out, but almost every vehicle that stopped in the middle of this poor tree would leave its mark in the form of a tiny dent, one more wound against many in the hollowed-out spectacle.
It was one of those bittersweet moments for me, to see something so strong and ancient, somehow wise and resilient, reduced to a freak show for the easily amused. I felt a little ashamed to have taken part in this frivolous event and yet, the picture of me on my bike in the middle of this massive tree with my arms spread wide almost touching the hollowed-out sides is one of my favourite pictures.
California Dreaming indeed.
