I’ve looked at redwoods from both sides now. For decades I lived amid, hiked through and gazed up at California’s iconic trees. But it wasn’t until I ziplined to their heights that I realized that they are citizens of sky as well as earth, rooted in soil but soaring into the heavens.
“The most venerable of all living things,” naturalist John Muir called the planet’s tallest trees, “ambassadors from another time, reminding us of our place in eternity.” Their scientific name, Sequoia sempervirens, translates as “ever-green” or “ever-lasting.” As high as 30-story skyscrapers, they may live longer than 2,000 years.
Coast redwoods grow in a Goldilocks zone—not too hot or too cold, not too wet or too arid, not too near or too far from the sea—that stretches from Big Sur to the Oregon border. Resistant to fire and drought, they prefer a swirl of fog and a dash of salt in the air. But the secret to their resilience lies underground.
Rather than burrowing deep, redwood roots extend laterally a hundred feet or more from the trunk and, in an arboreal version of linking arms, intertwine. Reinforcing this connection is a subterranean network of fungi called mycorrhizae with delicate filaments that exchange nutrients and water.
According to some experts, this “wood-wide web” may aid in tree-to-tree communication. When weakened by drought, pests or injury, a redwood may send distress signals. Its neighbors respond by sharing resources or growing in ways that support the struggling tree.
Aggressive logging in the 19th and early 20th centuries devastated 90 percent of the lush redwood forests that once spanned two million acres in California. Thanks to conservation efforts, second-growth trees have thrived in protected parks and reserves. Some are “daughters” that sprouted from the roots of a mother tree to create an encircling cathedral. In these sacred spaces, silent and sweet-scented, you can almost feel the earth breathing.
Gliding through a redwood canopy has the opposite effect: It takes your breath away. But after the adrenaline rush, apprehension gives way to awe. With blue above and green below, you enter a multi-leveled kingdom teeming with life.
The sky opens, becoming bigger and brighter. Sun beams sparkle like diamonds on dew-dappled branches. Fallen leaves, decaying in branch crevices, create a rich mulch to nurture moss, lichen and other epiphytes. Wandering salamanders make their home in these sky-high gardens. In old-growth groves, endangered marbled murrelets and spotted owls nest.
Sustaining these mighty trees and their residents through dry seasons is a gift from the sea: the fog that blankets the coast in summer months. Drifting as far as 25 miles inland and rich in nitrogen and other nutrients, fog supplies much of the redwoods’ water needs. In a single season, a mature old-growth redwood can condense and store 80 inches of water,
The fog also keeps the forest damp and cool, an ideal habitat for ferns, snakes, banana slugs, moles, shrews and squirrels. In a process called fog drip, moisture condenses on redwood needles and trickles down to nourish the soil and replenish groundwater and springs.
Whether looking at redwoods from above or below, I wonder what these splendidly rugged, fire-scarred, fog-loving survivors would say to us. What timeless lessons might they impart?
Perhaps these: Root yourself firmly in the earth. Reach out and connect with your neighbors. Shelter those that are smaller and weaker. Hold fast through storms. Stand tall to feel the kiss of the fog and the warmth of the sun. And never stop reaching for the stars.
Redwoods Resources: Redwoods Alliance, Save the Redwoods, Armstrong Woods, Stewards of the Coast and Redwoods, Sempervirens Fund.
