Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks, CA
“Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.” Robert Frost’s apocalyptic observation may have merit, but in this part of California, this dichotomy of extremes lives on annually, millennially, perennially. As I travel through the wooded, mountainous areas of western Sierra Nevada, I believe more and more that the world will continue and endure, bouncing between fire and ice far after we are all gone.
However poetic these two forces of nature are, they are more than metaphorical on my journey. One of the more unfortunate things Ella and I are experiencing is that our schedule takes us to some of the parks when they are not at their best. During winter for many of the mountainous parks, roads remain closed, and many of the most popular attractions are not accessible. It is March now, and many of the roads are impassable until Memorial Day – the official start of summer. Even if the region hasn’t seen snow for weeks and temperatures have caused a nice, prolonged thaw, the roads will not be plowed for another month.
Additionally, here where wildfires have gutted so much of the land, the lack of vegetation and wet soil mean rockslides and landslides are inevitable. Snowplows move the snow and clear the roads of natural litter and debris, and as they do, they reveal repairs that need to be made – rough roads, potholes, and washouts. There is a lot of maintenance that goes into reviving winter roads in the National Parks.
I have resigned myself to the fact that I will miss some of the best parts of some of the parks we visit. The consolation is that I get to see them in their wintery, rawest form. The very best part of winter park visits is the lack of crowds. Sometimes Ella and I are the only ones visiting at that moment, and it feels serene. A close second-best part of winter park visits is the snow, which we Alabama girls don’t see enough of!
Driving from Yosemite to Kings Canyon and Sequoia, Ella and I pass a lot of burned and charred trees. Bleak and stripped stands of pine and cedar trees are the devastating result of lightning strikes that spark wildfires. These trees, some black where the bark is still clinging and some white where the bark has fallen off, look like oversized bottle brushes and pipe cleaners. Even with the devastation, the distant views of canyons and valleys are beautiful.
Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks are both situated along the same park road, almost contiguously. Except for the signs, it’s hard to know when you are leaving or entering national forestland or the adjacent parks.
As is much of the case with wintery visits, many of the side roads inside the parks were closed, not to mention Ella was not permitted on the trails. Our visit to Sequoia and Kings Canyon was limited to driving the scenic route and taking short walks at wildly natural overlooks or perfectly landscaped attractions along the way.
The first thing you notice in Kings Canyon is the beautiful, renowned sequoias. They are huge and loom high above you as you crane your neck to look at the tops. On the ground, broad, flat stumps of several of the “old guard” that have been cut down are a representation of the sheer size of these behemoths. Easily 20 to 30 feet in diameter, the stumps will take many decades, maybe centuries, to decompose and disintegrate. The sheer size of these monster trees is overwhelming and awe-inspiring.
Some of these trees have been here for thousands of years – the oldest is 3,500 years old!
They can grow to be 300 feet tall and 100 feet in circumference.
Their bark is reddish-orange and is parceled-looking, like pine but in a larger, patchwork pattern. Their branches, minimal and primarily at the very top, don’t spread out but stay close, as if trying to be unassuming and humble – absurd for a tree so huge.
And here’s the interesting thing. They need both fire and ice to survive.
Wildfires burn the surrounding trees that spread their shady branches. They also burn the underbrush that soak up resources from the soil. Fire effectively takes out the sequoias’ competition. Additionally, heat from the fire causes their cones to open, and the seeds then fall to the bare, charred soil, ensuring they have the highest chance of germination.
Ice and snow accumulate all winter while the trees are dormant. As the days begin to lengthen and temperatures get warmer, the melting snow provides the required thousand gallons of water every day for each awakening tree. If fire and ice is a theme here, so is ancient and nascent. The old and new sequoias together create an array of different shapes and sizes and provide a reminder of the continuity of life year to year, decade to decade, century to century, millennia to millennia. It is an extraordinary life for these trees, not only enduring but thriving in the extremes.
The road to the General Sherman, the world’s largest and most famous sequoia, was snowed in, but we did see the General Grant. Showcased on a beautifully landscaped, winding trail, it was massive and magnificent! Tall, thick, and powerful, it looked like a redwood on a grand scale. At the very top of the tree, each of its branches shoots upward, creating a very narrow canopy. In fact, the branches look like small trees on top of a giant stalk. It is nothing like the sprawling oaks of home. General Grant’s trunk was enormous with scorched-blackened gapes and gnarls that had been forged over three millennia of wildfires. It was jaw-dropping, eye-popping, and mind-blowing.
Amazeballs.
The hiking trails in both parks were just starting to bloom with bright green shoots and buds, so Ella and I walked where we were allowed, enjoying the glimpses and promises of spring. Ella would skirt along the edges where a little snow still lined the paths. The real show was those massive trees though, young and old.
The sun was starting to go down, so Ella and I began looking for dispersed camping. My free camping app showed a campsite at the end of the road just before the road closure on national forest land. I was so happy because it was close and there was no one else around. Both plusses in my book! It was a bit off the road and there were several flat places, just right for the kind of camping I like. We got out to walk around, and it just felt off. I could give myself no reasonable explanation why, but I just did not want to stay here. Normally I love secluded places off the beaten path, but this one activated my Spidey-senses. The online reviews were outstanding. The views were bar-none. Maybe I shorted myself here, but I decided not to stay. I still have no rationale and will never know.
There were no other immediately available desirable locations, so I decided to go on to Sequoia. It was right around sunset. As we were leaving Kings Canyon, the smartly uniformed Ranger was taking down the flag. Very ceremonially, he snapped a salute to Old Glory. Amid the snow flurries, he walked very deliberately, squaring his corners by pivoting on one foot, toward the flagpole. He lowered the flag and took his time removing it from the clips. Then with measured, slow, purposeful, marching steps, he disappeared into the Ranger station. Day is done.
The sunset views through Kings Canyon to Sequoia were lovely. The road was lined with tall sequoias and pines on both sides with steep snowy banks creating a corridor. The sun peeked out between the trees on the horizon until there was now an orange, hazy glow over the valley. Colors fade into pastel pinks and auburns. Ella and I stop every 100 feet or so to get a good view of the valley and the sunset.
There were so many burned trees on our winding road through the mountains. The hillsides were sepia colored in the setting sun. In contrast to the gorgeous sunset, the ominously burnt branches, stripped of leaves and color, gave an ethereal feel to the drive. Our twisting descent took quite some time. It was so steep we could only travel 5 mph, and the sky turned black before I knew it. The sound of crickets came and went as the car rounded looming hillsides. Ella slept soundly in the backseat. It had been a long day, and I had just about had my fill of driving on narrow, mountain roads.
The end of the day has made me thoughtful, especially about the dichotomy of extremes so well illustrated in the life of the sequoias. Robert Frost uses the fire and ice metaphors to signal the intemperate end of the world, either in torrid desire or in icy hate. The sequoias are indifferent to those emotions. In nature, fire and ice and their accompanying discomforts bring life and vibrancy despite the death and dormancy they cause. The ancient and the nascent benefit. The trees stand in one place, adapting to their surroundings, relying on the extremes, year after year for thousands of years. They are firm, unmovable, immutable. Reemergence is guaranteed.
That night Ella and I stayed in a hotel, and we were both happy to have a soft, warm bed to sleep in! All is well. Safely rest.
God is nigh.