Wanderlust in the Time of Coronavirus (A GeoEx eBook)

Wanderlust in the Time of Coronavirus

Old Growth: Hiking into the Heart of Muir Woods

on the trunk, I could feel a tree pulse—perhaps it was just the echo of my own pulse, but I felt some kind of energy surging deep under my hand. I had read that the average age of the trees here is 600-800 years, and I tried to imagine what this redwood had lived through—lightning and fires, rain and floods, torrential winds, droughts, the ravages of nature and more recently, the ravages of humankind. Then I thought of the events that had transpired in its lifetime. What was happening six centuries ago? In this area, members of the Coast Miwok tribe were fishing, hunting, and gathering food as they had for thousands of years. Far to the south, the Inca and Aztec empires were developing. In China, the Ming Dynasty was thriving, and the Forbidden City was being built. In Europe, mariners were just starting to sail across the ocean, Michelangelo and Leonardo were apprentices, and Gutenberg was inventing the printing press. This tree, that I’m touching right now, was alive at that time , I thought, and my mind whirled. I stayed with that tree a long time, my hand on its trunk, then gave it a big embrace—my first outside-the-home hug in three months. I continued hiking up to Lost Trail and then along Canopy View Trail. Around noon I serendipitously came upon a bench by the side of the trail, parked my backpack, and unpacked my lunch. Along with my sandwiches and carrot sticks, I feasted on the tranquility and serenity, the sequoia-swabbed purity of the air, the bird and brook sounds and sun-baked earth and pine needle smells, the sunlight slanting through the branches, the bright patch of blue sky beyond. At one point I thought of shinrin-yoku , forest bathing, the Japanese practice that has become widely popular in the U.S. This was a perfect example of shinrin-yoku , I thought: Here I am, alone in this forest, immersed in the sense and spirit of these old growth redwoods, taking in their tranquility and timelessness, losing

The sun slanted through the high branches, where birds trilled and chirped and tra-la-loo’d. The creek burbled in the background. I stopped and inhaled the air as deeply as I could. It felt fresh and pure and lung-cleansing, and penetrated to my soul. All around me was the scent of pine needles, sun-warmed earth, lush, dewy foliage, and creek-moistened soil. I was in hiker’s heaven. I walked for an hour on the trail, over a mixture of hard- packed dirt, rocks, and gnarled roots, with wooden steps built into especially steep sections. Most of this time I was gloriously alone, and in total I saw a dozen fellow hikers.

At one point in my walk, I reached a particularly thick tree, and something emanating from it just stopped me. Mystical as it may sound, I felt that this tree had been waiting for me. I measured its girth, walking around it with my arms outstretched, and determined that it would take five adults to encircle its massive bole. I felt the ragged texture of its bark, traced the ridges and fissures in its trunk, examined a charred section that was black as a wound. I inhaled its sylvan scent, pressed my ear to hear its woody music. When I held my palm

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