Every Six Months: The Redwoods

I have one requirement for my life: every six months, I take myself Somewhere New. I’ve been doing this for more than a decade now. The practice has spanned jobs, partners, apartments, and versions of myself. Sometimes it’s a big Somewhere New, like a country. Sometimes it’s a new city, or neighborhood. There’s no rule or limit here. Rarely is it exactly at the six-month mark. But solely keeping this requirement in mind gets my body in more new spaces than I ever anticipate at the top of my year. Finances, health, and family have all impacted this practice in some way, but it remains one of the only things I know for sure. No matter what’s going on, I can do this for myself. I haven’t kept track any more officially than through my own journals and general mental tally until now.

Somewhere New creeps up on me by accident half the time and the other half I set out with intention so clear it’s as though I’ve already gone and come back. This past October was the latter—I needed to see a redwood tree. My partner, J told me early on that the redwoods are one of his favorite places. It seemed a fitting spot to celebrate going out on a date three years ago and still liking each other after. I had credit card points, a Southwest gift card, and a little bit of PTO left.

Now here’s where I make a choice with this space. I could give you the itinerary, the packing list, the driving route with recommended stops, but that’s not what I walked away from this trip with. And I think I might bore us both with the played-out suggestions, tips, and tricks. Instead, I want to tell you about the map and the cliffside.

After flying into San Francisco and momentarily marveling at their airport, we drove north to a bed and breakfast in Albion. This put us a few hours north of San Francisco with a few hours of coastal driving left to get to our destination the following day: really big trees. J assured me that the Avenue of the Giants was the place to get them. He couldn’t wait to show me the 31-mile road of looming trees cut through with slanted sunlight. And I couldn’t wait to know a place through a person, which is the best way.

As we got closer, I rolled the windows down for the type of smell you can’t get enough of. We parked and were greeted by wet leaves covered in needles and moss that left us tugging on our sweatshirts as we got out of the car at the visitor center. It was as though someone had taken my favorite cedar perfume and doused the entire state. Deep and achingly ancient, the forest yawned around us. A couple ate a picnic on a bench while a woman studied the map posted nearby. It was Saturday at noon. No one had anywhere else to be.

We grabbed a few brochures and gifts before hopping back in the car and setting out through the trees. It was easy to stop to the side for little hikes, photos, and gulps of cedar air. We kept track of where we were on the little map so as not to miss any of the points of interest, but as we kept going, I stopped checking. I didn’t want to look down anymore and the signs were clear. J put our route into the GPS.

After the third or fourth stop, the road changed. Highway lurched across our path, and we were left at an intersection—merge or keep going. J insisted we follow the GPS onto the highway, saying that the rest of the trail would pick up “over there.” I insisted that “over there” appeared to be right ahead. This did not go over well.

I didn’t know why we needed a map in the first place—it’s a 31-mile straight shot, remember—but I wasn’t the one driving and the first rule of not driving is not driving. For whatever reason, he really wanted to follow that map and as we merged onto the highway, turning our cheek to the rest of the visible Avenue, I almost laughed. I was annoyed, sure, but even more so, I was awestruck at how unmistakably modern and human the whole situation was. Here we were following a little digital arrow instead of our own eyes. We were putting all our faith in what we were told would get us to the “correct” place instead of straightening up and seeing the goal where it was—right in front of us.

Maybe your map is telling you to go to grad school, to get married or have a kid, or move, or stay at your job. Those maps are so convincing, especially when you don’t want to cause any upset. I wonder how many of them I have stubbornly followed instead of looking at the route right in front of me, however unexpected it may be.

Our map took us to a lumberyard. We silently turned around and retraced our steps to the strip of asphalt that connected us back to years of growth. We both apologized for getting annoyed, for not listening. It didn’t matter who was right, instead what mattered was that we’d both clicked back onto the right track. I let loose the anxious breath of my body telling me “no, not that way” no matter how the little GPS arrow insisted it was the right path. Isn’t it always something like that?

On our way back down to San Francisco, I had another unexpected moment of clarity. Sign after sign told us that Highway 1 would be fully restored by 2025. With the new year mere months away, the project was well underway. How lucky were we to be on this fresh new path winding through spaces that had been so well worn before? It felt like California rolled it out just for our trip and we thanked them for it.

As the not driver, I did my best to gather up every view we passed. I rode the wave of almost asking to pull over and then it being too late a multitude of times. (The bench overlooking the ocean at the end of a walk through a field still haunts me.) Eventually, as we snaked along the coast, I told J to pull over the next chance he got so we could take some photos. Turns out we had very different opinions of “next chance” as traffic got heavier and the little spots to turn off became frequent.

I could tell he was frustrated with the car in front of him, especially that close to a plummeting drop into the ocean. It didn’t seem the time to remind him that the world was out there looking right back at us. I bit my tongue until suddenly we were lurching into a parking lot at the base of a trail. He was fuming. I got out of the car and walked to the signpost. We were at Sea Crag Trail. The trail was a not-too-long loop, but one look at his face told me it wasn’t happening. Instead, I offered that we walk to the lookout, which was much closer, and back. He agreed and so we began.

It was a weird moment. Firstly, I’d never seen fog being pushed across land like that. I was completely stunned, absorbing the atmosphere around me like everything had led to this. And simultaneously I could feel his anger. I asked. He said it was the traffic, that he was having a hard time letting it go. We got quiet. He walked ahead and I took a deep breath. A past me would have pushed to talk. To fix things and be here together. Something about the fog and the sun stopped me. I watched him walk on around a bend in the path and I couldn’t help but notice a trail pushing through the grass to my right. Why not. I heard his footsteps reroute to find me as I zig zagged my way along the little path. It curved over the cliffside before opening up into a sprawl of grasses that tumbled down into beach far below.

Looking over the cliff at what I think is the most beautiful landscape I have ever seen, I could still feel him behind me. I checked over my shoulder and he was on his phone “checking the route,” he assured me. I wanted to be angry, but I knew enough to know that we only get so many of these moments. It didn’t have to be one of his too. All of us have been J on a trip and all of us have been me. Looking at it now, I see that even if he couldn’t let go for himself, he didn’t try to pull me out of it either. He stood back. He took pictures of me while I wasn’t looking. He didn’t say anything when I left the path again to follow the pressed grasses from other feet that needed that moment too. While he stood at the overlook and I continued my side quest, I turned back and took this video. Seeing him in the fog from that distance, the whole trip felt different. It’s so unlikely to know another person and maybe even more unlikely to let them be exactly who they are. To let them follow their maps no matter what, until they’re ready to look up. And wow, am I lucky to have people who do that for me.