Can't see the forest for the trees...

Poison Oak and Redwoods
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Following Calabash Myriam, Jorge and I headed off into the wilderness of Guerneville and the Russian River. The redwoods were calling. A forest of 1000 year old trees. The girth of which were many obese USA'ians wide, and whose upper most branches tickled the under bellies of the clouds.

The forest was extraordinarily quiet, there was no wildlife in amongst the trees. A solitary woodpecker drumming out a beat in the far off distance and silence. A dead forest but for the trees bend and sway. It is disturbing how loud you are, I heard each footfall, the clink of the zip on my camera bag as it swayed on my hip, the friction of my denim flares as they brushed past each other with each step. My passing a rumble of a train in the night, neither anonymous or graceful.

A solitary woodpecker drumming out a beat in the far off distance and silence.

Thousand year old deadwood
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And so beautiful. you could almost fool yourself into thinking that you were walking in unspoilt wilderness. The canopy so thick overhead it felt like dusk despite time being at the height of the afternoon. the towering trunks, The broken branches and fallen trees swathed in moss, the air dry and cool, the smell of earth and tree and decomposing wood. And the silence.