Fall in the Redwoods

As days get shorter, I get more eager to spend time outdoors. In September, I hiked in Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park on the James Irvine Trail to Fern Canyon and back via Gold Bluffs Road and the Miners’ Ridge Trail. It is almost a loop, as Miners’ Ridge merges into James Irvine less than a mile from the Prairie Creek visitor center. (As such, the hike can be done in the reverse direction, something I plan to try.)

At 7 a.m., I took the Newton B. Drury Parkway exit from northbound U.S. Highway 101 and entered the park. Given the early hour, I expected to meet Roosevelt elk and was not disappointed; a large group of bulls was breakfasting on the south end of the meadow, on both sides of the road. I slowed down further to avoid disturbing them.

From the visitor center parking lot, I started on the James Irvine Trail. A sign warned hikers heading to Fern Canyon to be prepared, both in terms of supplies and physically. After reaching Fern Canyon, they need to hike back.

The trail was bathed in the quiet of the forest, a soothing symphony of soft noises: the murmuring of Godwood Creek, leaves rustling, high branches creaking, my steps. Amid shades of green, I observed brushstrokes of fall: the first yellow leaves, brown fern fronds. After a while, the water’s gurgling went silent as the trail moves away from the creek.

Later, as I approached Fern Canyon, I could hear Home Creek. I turned left into Fern Canyon Loop Trail, down inside the canyon: hiking along the water and across it on strategically placed wooden footbridges, hugged by the fern-draped walls was like traversing a magical realm steeped in peace. It was a treat to have it all to myself. (Since then, the footbridges in Fern Canyon have been removed for the season. To reach the beach without hiking through Fern Canyon, keep right where the James Irvine Trail intersects the Fern Canyon Loop Trail.)

At the mouth of the canyon, I heard the ocean’s rumble, then a high-pitched scream tore the air. “What was that?” I wondered, a bit shaken by the chilling sound, not human, I was sure. On the path to the beach, I saw two young women standing still, their eyes fixed on two Roosevelt elk bulls silhouetted against the light gray sky, engaged in antler-clashing. We were, and remained, at a safe distance.

The bulls separated and walked away from each other, like boxers regaining their corner at the end of a round, then turned around and started to approach each other again. The bigger one raised his head, and the blood-curdling shriek I had heard before resonated again. The opponent did not seem deterred by the vocal warning: soon they came face to face, ready to clash again.

Another visitor motioned towards an area of the beach behind us. Following his gesture, I spotted a group of female elk (cows) grazing. The picture of the mating ritual was complete.

On Gold Bluffs Road, where I started the return portion of the hike, I heard the bull’s scream several more times, high-pitched, yet coming from such a large animal — as if a baritone or bass opened his mouth and sang with a soprano voice, like Mozart’s Queen of the Night.

Later, I read that the bull’s bugle travels far, calls females and warns other bulls to stay away. It has a complex harmonic structure “best explained by a dual-source model (biphonation),” comprising a low-pitched roar and a high-pitched whistle. The fall rut (mating season) occurs late August through October.

After walking about 1.5 miles on Gold Bluffs Road, with only a few cars passing by, I turned left into the Miners’ Ridge Trail. There, to the predominant greens with brushstrokes of yellow and brown, a couple of bright colors were added to the palette: Solomon’s plume’s clusters of speckled pink and red berries were hard to miss thrust as they were towards the trail, then the cobalt blue berries of red clintonia appeared. By then the fog had burned off and the farther I hiked, the clearer the sky became, shafts of soft light conferring a festive brightness onto the berries.

I merged back into the James Irvine Trail, then finally emerged into the full sun in front of the visitor center. The parking lot where earlier my car had been the lonely presence was full. My activity tracker indicated I had hiked 12 miles.

Pure bliss, as always when I spend time in the company of the ancient trees in their environment, where the web of plants and animals weaves a magic carpet on which to travel for a few hours, forget all that is not kind, not nurturing, and give in to the sheer joy of being there with all my senses and without worries. There will be time for those — later.

Simona Carini (she/her) shares photographs of her outdoor explorations (and of food) on Instagram @simonacarini. The redwood forest appears in three of the poems included in her collection Survival Time from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, simonacarini.com.

This article appears in ‘Doing its Part’.