It’s still dark when I reach the trailhead at Jedediah Smith Redwoods. I’d hoped to be the first person at the Grove of Titans before dawn, but a single Subaru beat me to it. On the trail, in the blue-gray light, I spot a man moving mindfully along the trail with a trash picker in hand, gathering bits left behind by the previous day’s visitors. He introduces himself as Doug — a “Titaneer.” He’s driven 300 miles from Healdsburg, as he does every month, to volunteer here. “It’s the only pleasant 300-mile drive in California,” he jokes.
Doug Kerr has always loved being outdoors, but the redwoods became something deeper for him after a 2021 guided hike on the newly opened Grove of Titans trail. The grove, once heavily trampled after its coordinates were posted online years earlier, had just been protected through a multi-agency partnership and a new elevated boardwalk. During the hike, Kerr asked the guide how they planned to keep such a pristine place protected. As soon as tour leader Erin Gates mentioned the volunteer group — the Titaneers — Kerr jumped in. “I want to be a part of this,” he said. A few months later, he became Titaneer No. 1.
Though he’s visited nearly every major redwood park from Big Sur to the Oregon border, Kerr says the Grove of Titans hit him differently. “I was absolutely blown away, he says. “This is nature at its best.” What impressed him most wasn’t just the size of the colossal trees, though many stretch wider than small cabins, but the sense of intactness of the grove. “This is what a redwood forest is supposed to look like,” he tells visitors. Old-growth ecosystems tell a full story: mosses and lichens, wandering salamanders, tiny invertebrates living in canopy soil 15 stories above the ground, and the elusive marbled murrelet nesting unseen in the branches.
After the COVID pandemic sparked a renewed interest in outdoor spaces, the grove became a sensation. Last July alone, more than 40,000 visitors passed through. Even a carefully engineered boardwalk can feel the strain. “With that much foot traffic, there is wear and tear,” Kerr says. Trail maintenance crews do what they can, but staff numbers are limited. That’s where volunteers come in.
Titaneers act as interpreters, educators and the first line of care. They pick up litter, report damage, remove small hazards and answer every question imaginable. “People who break rules usually aren’t trying to destroy the place,” Kerr says. “It’s out of ignorance, not malice. A little education can be very helpful.” He has spoken with tens of thousands of visitors during his shifts — 10-hour summer days and rain-soaked winter ones. Fewer than a hundred have caused problems. “The vast majority treat it with the respect it deserves.”
The work brings unexpected moments, too. One afternoon, after taking a couple’s photo, Kerr handed back the phone — only to have it returned with a request for “just one more.” Confused, he lifted the camera again just as the man dropped to one knee. The woman burst into tears. Afterward, she asked Kerr if her partner had arranged for him to be there. Doug laughs telling the story: “Absolutely not!”
For Kerr, caring for the land is tied to childhood memories of wandering the undeveloped woods near his home in upstate New York — woods that are now houses. He wants future generations to have what he had: the freedom to explore a forest that hasn’t been erased. That sense of responsibility keeps him coming back to Titans, month after month. “I want kids today to be able to experience this kind of natural setting,” he says.
But the future weighs on him. Climate change, especially the loss of coastal fog, may pose the greatest threat these ancient trees have ever faced. Fog provides up to 40 percent of a redwood’s summer moisture, and recent decades have shown a steady decline. Kerr has read the models: if fog disappears, the southern edge of the redwoods’ range could die out first, with groves like Titans becoming the final refuge. “I hate to think it,” he says, “but it’s one scenario that could happen.”
Yet redwoods also offer hope. Their wood growth is extraordinary — even the barely perceptible millimeter rings of old-growth trees represent huge amounts of carbon stored. “They’re incredible carbon sinks,” Kerr says. Their roots can persist for tens of thousands of years, sending up new trunks long after old ones fall. One study found a living root system over 30,000 years old. “They just keep reproducing themselves and continuing life seemingly forever.”
Kerr looks wistful as he shares his secret to staying motivated in the face of climate change: “What gives me hope is that the people I talk to will become advocates. ”
If someone visits only one redwood grove in their lifetime, Kerr knows exactly which one it should be. “The Grove of Titans,” he says. “And no one has ever disagreed with me.”
Cameron Berry (he/they) is a writer and communications professional focused on the relationships between people, place and ecological resilience. He explores how stories can strengthen public understanding of conservation and community stewardship across Northern California and beyond.
This article appears in An Absence of Abalone.