Standing in the midst of these giant redwoods with the occassional ray of sunlight filtering through to the forest floor is an almost spirtual experience. It soothes the mind and calms the soul. By all rights, I should not be here. It was a very difficult fall, with my dad’s health issues and hospitalizations. He was still in the hospital as a result of mismanaged care, but improving now that I’d found a conscientious, competent cardiologist. My brother and sister in law stepped in to help so my husband and I could take this trip as planned. So for the first time in weeks, standing in Jediah State Park on the northern California coast next to these centuries old trees, I could finally breathe deeply and begin to unwind. I felt a kinship with these trees – like them I had weathered a storm and was still standing.
We’d flown into Medford, Oregon and headed southwest to the rugged northern California coast, spending the night in Crescent City. The next morning we awoke to fog (we soon learned that the redwoods create their own ecosystem so fog was common). Nonetheless, we drove to the harbor hoping to see the sunrise and were pleasantly surprised by a playful harbor seal popping its head above the water’s surface, watching us as intently as we were watching it.
Right on cue, the sun emerged through the mist, illuminating the waves. As if energized by the sun, flocks of seabirds lifted off the rocks along the coast, beautifully silhouetted against a backdrop of yellow light.
The harbor seals became more active in the bay as the sky lightened and the sun began to burn off the mist. We watched a pod of these graceful swimmers cavort in the bay.
A small rocky bluff rose near the end of the harbor parking lot. Hiking to the top, we watched the surf crashing against the rocks that formed the channel into the harbor. Holding onto our hats, we braved the gusting wind, marveling at the contrast between the ferocity of the coast and the serenity of the harbor. No wonder the seals preferred hanging out in the bay!
Off in the distance, its beacon discernible through the fog, was a lighthouse perched atop a small island. Battery Point Lighthouse, commissioned in 1856, is still an active light that serves as a private aid to navigation. It houses a small museum that tells the stories of the lighthouse and its keepers over time. Through the fog, we could make out a path leading to the light, so determined to explore, we jumped in the car to drive closer to the island in hopes of hiking to the light.
From the parking lot, we tramped down a short path to the beach below but were stopped by a pool of rushing water. Littered with black rocks, the disappearing beach looked volcanic; after a few minutes, we retreated up the path as waves continued to move inland.
Large waves crashed against black rocks, spewing spray into the air; it was beautiful and wild to watch and we immediately appreciated we would not be hiking to the lighthouse anytime soon. Later, we learned there is only a small window of time available to hike to the island to visit the lighthouse. Tourists needed to carefully pay attention to the tide as the water gets rough quickly as it rises.
A concrete breakwater separated the harbor from Battery Point island. We walked out on an adjacent pier inside the harbor and watched the waves crash against the breakwall, sending water cascading down its side, creating a mighty waterfall. It was humbling to watch the waves of the powerful Pacific batter the breakwall; we couldn’t help but appreciate how aptly Battery Point was named.
Chilly from the mist and spraying surf, we stopped for breakfast in a small cafe near the harbor. In the short time it took us to eat, the fog lifted, the low lying clouds disappeared, and we had a clear view of Battery Point Lighthouse against the brilliant blue sky.
We had rented kayaks for the day to explore the Smith Wilderness area. We met our outfitter at his home, fitting paddlejackets and life vests; he spotted our car at the takeout point and then drove us upriver for the start of our paddle trip. The river was calm, the day was pleasant and sunny, a perfect day for a paddle. It would take us roughly four hours to follow the river to the estuary flowing into the Pacific Ocean.
There is nothing like the joyful bliss of nature’s solitude. We had the entire river to ourselves, alternatively paddling, then floating, enjoying the sun on our upturned faces, scanning for birds and other wildlife. The river’s bank were densely forested but a couple of hours into the trip we began looking for a grassy shore to beach the kayaks. Time for lunch! Ultimately, we came ashore on what seemed to be an abandoned field for grazing livestock – although none were in sight, we did catch a faint whiff of animal manure. We unloaded our cooler lunching on cheese, crackers, fruit and nuts topped off with sparkling water and a beer for my husband.
We did not linger long after lunch – balancing on the plastic bows of our kayaks (the ground was too rocky to be sittable), was not very comfortable. As we continued paddling, we saw signs of the estuary ahead. Large flocks of seabirds, comfortably settled on small islands of sand, took flight en masse as we paddled past.
At the recommendation of our outfitter, we stopped to explore one of the larger islands in the estuary. Created by waves and currents, this island was a treasure trove of shifting sand, driftwood, shells, seaweed and an assortment of marine debris. We were once again greeted by curious harbor seals as we left the island and approached our take out point.
We paddled to shore, leaving the kayaks and equipment for our outfitter to retrieve. Nothing like a day on the water in the company of seals and seabirds to rejuventate the soul. Tomorrow, we head south down the coast to spend more time biking and hiking in the grandeur of tall trees.
October, 2023