Standing Tall

Around a fire, in the nighttime haze of Northern California's Coast, a man ponders the propensity of a felled redwood.

An airstream parked in a grove of redwoods

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Raindrops tapping on the roof, identical to the crack of a falling redwood in my mind’s eye. After a day of sun and just the first few drops, thick like only globes that have bubbled up fat in the blurring mist of our temperate coastal redwoods rainforest can, find themselves falling to the ground. The thought strikes me suddenly, frightfully. If one of these giants fell, it would be known for at least miles, but that we were underfoot when it happened never even a thought.

We would be gone in a thundering slow motion minute.

Chances are, given the century-spanning longevity of redwoods and our brief week stay here, that the coinciding of our little tin can of an Airstream and the crack of a 200′ tree finding its way to the ground would coincide are slim. Still, they do tower above, and the mind will taunt you late night around the fire into such possibilities.

Try and move your mind from it as you may, reality sinks in.

Wouldn’t it be grand to find your resting place for all eternity as soil to a forest floor, a massive redwood as your headstone?