Foggy Redwoods & Getting "Stoned" On Agate Beach

8/16, 1931, Rogue River near Agness, OR – I awoke early (you’re shocked, of course) Sunday morning with one thing on my mind. No, wait. Two things. I forgot coffee. My goal was to snag one of the “limited number” of passes that granted the bearer to enter Redwood National Park’s “Tall Trees Grove” (and understated name if there ever was one) from a trailhead a little over a mile away instead of the eight mile hike most others have to endure. I arrived at the park office at 0730, expecting it to open at a reasonable hour, say….0800. Nope. Didn’t open until 0900.

What to do? Well, since I wasn’t able to address need #2, then revert to need #1: coffee. I drove into Orick – a really, really small tow…well, you can’t really call it a town. Even “village” would be a stretch. Let’s just call it a “collection of buildings” (some of which were businesses) huddled together just south of the entrance to RNP. For my purposes, Orick was the home of the Palm Café (no explanation of the business name), where I secured breakfast (scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns) and an endless cup of coffee. Along with that, I scored a free Sunday paper (local edition, quite a hoot), and a waitress who knew – like family - everyone who came in (save me) and, like most waitresses I’ve encountered on this trip, was pretty feisty and armed with a sharp tongue. This one, though, was pretty possessive of her spoons. She was telling the guy next to me (a confirmed bachelor in his early 50’s for whom the waitress was convinced she would someday find the right woman) that a customer of questionable morals stole one of her best spoons. Then, when confronted, the customer lied about it, claiming she didn’t take the spoon. Eventually, the waitress’s evidence (and imposing presence) prevailed and the spoon was produced, no apology, no acknowledgement, nothing. “So, I’m checking everyone here for spoons as you leave,“ she warned. “Full cavity check, if necessary!”

This was not a woman to be trifled with, I decided. I kept my spoon in clear sight during the entire meal. Perhaps I’d score a spoon on my next journey through Redwood country. But, not this spoon. Not this day. Not this journey.

The cook, as good as she was at producing fine, greasy café cuisine, glared menacingly at the customers – all of them, locals and strangers – from behind the counter. Indeed, her way with grease was tasty, but I can’t recall the last time I looked at a “clean” plate (i.e., the food having been eaten) covered with so much grease. I took notice and predicted (accurately, it turns out) my digestive system would have a thing or two to say about that later.

Later, at around 8:45, the Park Service crew showed up, opened early, and I left soon afterward with the sought after pass in-hand. I was ready to rock.

My first stop in Redwoods was the Lady Bird Johnson Grove, dedicated in 1969 by then-President Richard Nixon to the ex-First Lady, in recognition of her efforts to “beautify” America and to bring more attention to the nation’s park system. The only other early visitors were two middle-aged Asian women doing their morning jog, so to say the grove was peaceful is an understatement. An almost cathedral-like silence permeated the area. Actually, the tall, straight redwoods reminded me of pillars in a cathedral, so the comparison was not just sonic.
After completing the Lady Bird grove, I moved to the Redwood Creek Overlook. Here, I ran into one of the few (though mildly) unpleasant encounters I’ve witnessed on this trip. Taking up about 70% of the small parking lot (and not in a particularly convenient way, mind you) was a monstrous RV. To make matters worse, it was running its generator, which didn’t exactly add to the otherwise pristine natural wonders surrounding the area. Inside, with windows closed (God forbid they should actually breathe fresh air) was a family eating breakfast. Their total isolation from this world-renowned monument of Mother Nature was too ironic for me, as was the noise from their generator. I must admit I entertained dark thoughts about how stupid Americans have become.

I quickly ascertained from the map at the Overlook where the Tall Trees Grove was and put a mental “You Will Be There” sticker on it.

Tall Trees Grove. Interesting name for a grove of Redwoods in Redwoods National Park, eh? Someone was a master of understatement. Well, duh! I was the second party in, based on my observations of the parking lot. The 1.5 mile trail into the grove was almost all downhill, so I knew it’d be brutal coming out. It turned out to be worth it, though (no surprise). Along the trail, there was a fairly “fresh” fallen tree blocking the trail. Normally, that would’ve been no problem. However, when a Redwood falls across your trail, you practically have to be pole vaulter to get over it. But, with some effort and the judicious choosing of what I would and would not have slung over my shoulders when I attempted the climb, I made it over. The grove itself was lush, quiet (again, a cathedral comes to mind) and inviting. The tallest trees in the park were there. I’d been tipped off by the Forest Service folks at the Center to leave the grove and walk along Redwood Creek. Not only would this allow for some great photographs, but it’d also provide some perspective of just how tall the trees were. Right they were!

While in the grove, I met an x-ray technician from Washington State and we compared notes about our professional lives and the value of regular vacations (gee, ya’ think?). He had a Labrador that seemed to be about as much into the trip as his master was. I’m sure the short walk to Redwood Creek was probably on his mind.

I spent a long time in the Grove. The peace and serenity were just what I needed, and I had more than enough opportunities both there and sitting along the creek to turns things over. It was a healthy place. On the other hand, perhaps it was the knowledge that the trail out (and, perhaps, more importantly, UP) was awaiting me. Either way, I lingered. What got sacrificed was Lost Man Trail, which subconsciously may have been a tip of hat to my mother’s intense worries – expressed before (to me) and throughout my trip (to my dear wife) – that I’d meet with some horrible fate and never come back alive.

Instead, I opted to do the coastal drive portion of the Redwoods Park, which is in the portion of the park run by the state of California. I learned quickly that meant a fee needed to be paid. A quick cost-benefit analysis resulted in the overlooked being 86’d. I’ve seen a lot of the California coast for free. Why pay for more?

That left Agate Beach. There’s a little 5 year-old girl back home who has – much to my benefit – befriended me and in her own innocent, sometimes naïve/sometimes surprisingly “wise-beyond-her-years” way has allowed the child inside me to come out and play every so often. She has a thing for agates and pretty stones. The thought of being able to bring home a bag of raw agates for her (and being treated as thought I’d brought her a bag of diamonds) was too much to overcome. So, I returned to camp, changed clothes, drove to Agate Beach and spent two hours crawling around on the beach digging up beautiful, colorful stones for my “girlfriend.” I concentrated on the colorful stones instead of the “true” translucent agates and walked away with a plastic storage bag full. I can’t wait to see the smile on her face and the look in her eyes. It was a picture perfect day on Agate Beach, so even if I’ve not been digging away in the sand and gravel, I’d have enjoyed it.

And, yeah, the Pacific is cold. REAL cold.

Afterward, I gassed up in Trinidad and bought some cheese and crackers for my
“fine dining experience” beside the fire. Thankfully, the previous night’s wood had dried up and I ended up having a great fire to complete my last day at Patrick’s Point.

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