Like I told you once before, friends and neighbors, I suffer from CNS.
Crick Neck Syndrome.
It is a condition brought about by Florida flatlanders being brought into close contact with really, really, really tall things. And then suffering pain from looking up too long.
Looking up at things like redwood trees.
Now I told you once before, friends and neighbors, about my lifelong infatuation with Spanish moss.
But I am willing to concede that there are more things in heaven and earth Horatio than Spanish moss and Ripple wine (clever double allusion to The Bard and my favorite Gordon Lightfoot song.)
Thus it was that on a recent trip to Santa Cruze I entered a forest of redwoods that towered into the heavens like…like…like…the tallest buildings in nearby San Francisco.
We took a steam-driven train out of Roaring Camp (of Bret Harte short story fame) on a narrow gauge track.
That was originally built to haul redwood logs out of the forest.
Until somebody decided that logging these defenseless giants was a sin against nature. So now instead of hauling trees out, it’s shuttling tourists in.
And that’s Jake with me.
What to say about redwoods? They are said to be the tallest trees in the world.
And the oldest. Having been hanging around for something like 240 million years.
Which would make some of em even older than Keith Richards and Willie Nelson combined.
I love the poetic allusion of redwoods in the mist.
Alas, I must fess up: This shot was taken after a plume of steam from our ancient locomotive engine permeated the surrounding forest.
So no actual mist.
Nice shot, though, huh?
For the record, I’m still a Spanish Moss Hanging Down (thanks again Gordon) kind of guy.
But I’m willing to give redwoods their due.
FreeGNV 