When I was about eight, my grandparents brought me a gigantic and profusely illustrated book on `America's National Parks'. As a consequence, several of my childhood fantasies had for their setting the russet tinged backdrop of the Sierra Nevada. Also, one of my first general knowledge books was yet another large volume called `The Big Book of Questions and Answers'. The most intriguing image in this book was a photograph of two extremely large tree stems, with a man and a car underneath. It was captioned, `Do red giants really exist?'.
To go to the Sequoia forest and pay homage to the red giants, thus, is a task that I have looked forward to for more than 16 years. Since I am spending three weeks in Mountain View CA, it was a foregone conclusion that one of the weekends would be set aside for this excursion. However, this Thursday, I found that through the machinations of fate, the next couple of weekends would be unsuitable for the purpose. Friday was a deadline day at the company I am consulting, and I could not get away from work till 8 in the evening.
The scene shifts to Saturday morning, and the inevitable mental tussle. Is it better to brave the slings and arrows of 700 miles in a two day time frame? Or is it better to sleep, perchance to dream? Thankfully, the forces of ennui met with a temporary setback, allowing me to sally forth in pursuit of an appropriate steed for my journey.
As luck would have it, my corporate contacts carry some weight at the rental agency, which allowed me to upgrade for free to a Toyota Prius. I shall, at a later point in the narrative, gush exuberantly about the several excellent qualities of this marvel of engineering. For now, it should suffice to say that by noon on Saturday, no obstacles remained to impede my departure.
Setting out forthwith in the afternoon sun, I made good time on Hwy 101, heading towards San Jose. It was when I left the highway to venture upon the CA152 that the instructive portion of my journey can be said to have begun. Past Fresno, I headed east on the Kings Canyon Road. It was now that I realized that this trip was going to turn out to be rather more fulfilling than I had thought. The vista from the highway was absolutely stunning. In the distance the crags of the Sierra were beginning to make their presence known. The road was surrounded by orange groves on both sides, each tree laden down with its eponymous offspring. The road itself was far from dull, twisting and rolling capriciously, its undulations allowing the electric motor on my Prius to deliver more than its natural bang for my buck.
It pains me to confess that I was completely ignorant of the geography of the parks and their location while setting out. Therefore, I was surprised to find that the road was beginning to climb into the mountains, even as the daylight was beginning to fail. Driving in the mountains, however, is a great joy to me, and as the sunset came upon the day, and even as my ecologically superior conveyance bore me deeper into the heart of the Sierra Nevada, I was conscious of a great sense of pleasure stealing over me. Ahead of me lay the fulfillment of one of my childhood dreams. And even as I drove, I could not but feel pleased at the existential circumstances that were allowing me to make this journey. To be young and vigorous is a blessed state indeed!
As my car climbed into yet another turn, the trees that had heretofore obstructed my view dropped away, and I was confronted with a wondrous sight. I am certain that I have not seen many more bewitching views than the one that I now beheld. I know this, for it made me despair at not possessing a camera to capture it, a sentiment that occurs to me once in a violet moon. In the vaults of my memory, since the age of about 16, there are about a dozen images that I have consciously impressed as memories of a lifetime. My modus operandi for doing so is simply to stare at the vision until I know I will not forget it.
I spent nearly half an hour there, on top of a heap of boulders on the side of the road, staring intensely. Picture if you will, the sun setting into a sea of clouds. Those who travel by air must necessarily know what I mean by a sea of clouds - that turbulent symphony of air and water, so much more creative than its earth-bound cousin. Consider this immense sea of clouds moving and shifting around islands formed by the peaks of hills jutting out above. Lastly, allow yourself, as the observer, a vantage point far above this play of the elements and an almost hemispherical field of vision.
As I gazed intently upon this tapestry of light beams on puffs of vapor, I felt a strong meditative urge taking hold. I resisted it, and I found my mind formulating a question quite clearly, `What is so mystical about mountains? What is so cleansing about Nature? Why do man-made objects not evoke such deep emotion?' I tried to think of the answer, but could not find one that satisfied me. I left the rock in a deeply contemplative state.
I reached the entrance of Kings Canyon at about 6 in the evening, in deepening twilight. I had been keeping my eyes peeled for sequoia sightings, but none had as yet appeared. Now, as I passed into the Park, I saw my first one. I will try and recapitulate as honestly as possible, my mental processes at this juncture.
My first impulse was one of amused disbelief, a fleeting thought that my eyes had deceived me into imagining I had seen something I had wanted to see so much, and that sanity would be restored in short order. When that did not happen, the truth started dawning, in the form of the rhetorical question:"That is a TREE?" When I had slowed down and craned my neck to look at the object under consideration to my satisfaction (if not to that of my vertebrae and following drivers), this was replaced by the thought that has governed my mental botanical picture ever since: "THAT is a tree!". Other specimens of flora now appear ersatz to me in comparison with this godly apparition.
How do I describe a Giant Sequoia to you? Take the tallest, most regal of the eucalypti. Give it the ponderous girth of an old King Banyan tree. Shape its trunk with the geometrical precision typical of the coniferae and also impart to the branches and leaves an arboreal legerdemain characteristic of temperate vegetation. Lastly, impart to this fantastic creature that stolid respectability one would typically accord to a venerable old oak. That, I think, would be a fair approximation of a Giant Sequoia.
As I drove farther into the Park, and saw more Sequoia trees, I gradually became conscious of an uncanny fear. These entities do not belong in the same day and age as I. Looking at these trees made me want to look over my shoulder , lest a velociraptor lavish its attentions upon me. This unreasonable feeling stayed with me all of that evening and was never quite dispelled through the duration of my stay.
My first order of business upon entering this area was to fill up on gas. In hindsight, this was a prudent precaution, since the Park area itself does not have any pumps. At this point, it becomes necessary for me to acquaint you, gentle reader, with some of the topology of the region. Very briefly, there are two National Parks, adjoining each other, that are known for Giant Sequoia groves. One, the one where our story is situated right now, is called the Kings Canyon National Park. The other, which the story shall reach eventually, is called the Sequoia National Park. These two are connected by a road called the Generals Highway which runs for about 20 miles. However, as we shall soon see, this road is blocked up with snow during winter, and wayfarers seeking to get from one park to the other have to take a detour.
However, to return to our story, having filled up on gas, I decided to explore one of the Christian camps in the region, specifically near Hume Lake. My expedition however, rapidly assumed the appearance of an instructional lesson in ice-skating, my shoes, for all their admirable qualities, not finding any traction on the sheet ice. Rendered immobile by the inadequacy of my equipment, I was fortunate to find that the local grocery store provides for such situations in the form of excellent strap-on tracks. With a pair of these on my shoe soles, I was soon skipping around. Unfortunately, my visit with the people of the Book was not very pleasant. They looked with extreme suspicion upon my heathen person, and all the breezy insouciance that I could muster was barely sufficient to allow me some semblance of a dignified departure.
I decided to delay no further, and resolved to fulfill my primary motive of visiting Kings Canyon viz. seeing the General Grant Tree. To do this necessitated driving into the forest for a couple of miles into a clearing and then walking along a trail. I accomplished the first without much difficulty, but was stymied for want of a light source in the case of the second. There would not be much point in walking the trail in pitch darkness and coming home to the ignominy of failing to sight one of the largest living things in the world.
Some details are in order here. The General Grant tree is the second largest (by volume) tree in the world. It is also the thickest Giant Sequoia tree in the world, measuring about 40 feet in diameter at its base, and 124 feet in circumference. The largest tree in the world, the General Sherman, is in the other Park, which I would visit on the morrow. Thus, in this trip, I would have accomplished my purpose of seeing both the largest and the thickest living things in the world. The tallest, for matter of record, is a coast redwood tree called Hyperion, which I would also dearly wish to see. Its location, unfortunately, is kept a secret, to avoid the rush of stampeding tourists. Perhaps one day, I will see it.
For now, being at a bit of a loose end, I had to turn in early for want of something better to do. Having taken the precaution of packing in some of my work, I did some of it by the reading light in the car. Getting ready for bed in the back seat of the car, I checked off all the fascinating things about my situation one by one in my mind. Firstly, I was in a grove of Giant Sequoias, a couple of miles from civilization. Secondly, the night sky was bright with the Milky Way and countless stars. In fact, the last time I had seen so many stars was nearly an year ago, while camping in the Black Forest in Germany, a night that I also will cherish to my dying day. Lastly, squishing myself into the back seat of a Toyota Prius under a greatcoat, looking at the stars out of the window, with the view of the sky blocked at places by the looming hulks of three big Sequoia trees, I was feeling completely at home. All was serene, all was beautiful, sacchidananda.!
Well, I must confess, not completely. I remember that one of my last thoughts before nodding off was:"The sky tonight has a million eyes. What bliss it would be if there were a million and two." But that is a completely different story; one that is unlikely to ever be told.
It is difficult for me, given the lack of reference figures to identify with, to view my living habits with perspective. I think my nomadic existence in the past couple of years has accustomed me to living lawlessly, out of a suitcase and in complete isolation. For example, in Minneapolis, home is my lab cubicle, where I keep two pairs of clothes, a sleeping bag, an acoustic bass and a basketball. That is the span of my worldly possessions, and I intend to keep it that way. Here, in Silicon Valley, where I am working as a contractor for a month, I have a plush rented apartment on company's money, but prefer to just bed down in my office after work. Staying in an apartment, or any private place for that matter, is a skill that I find I now will have to gradually reacquaint myself with. I mention this in order to place my night's roost in the grove of sequoias some perspective. I did not go far from civilization and sleep in the back of a car driven by the spirit of adventure. I did so because that is the most natural thing for me to do.
The rest of the night was uneventful, apart from periodic adjustments of the car thermostat. Waking up at 6 in the morning, I made my way onto the Grant Tree Trail. Snow was six inches to a foot deep in most places, and my snow tracks proved to be worth their weight in gold. I found, to my regret, that I had passed up an opportunity for an adventuresome night's stay the previous night in the form of the Fallen Monarch.
The Fallen Monarch is a fallen Sequoia trunk of historic significance. It was used by Native Indians as a house, and later was used by the U.S. cavalry as a stable for their horses. Had I but known of its existence, I would not have spent the hours of the night twisted up like a pretzel in my car's back seat. Making a note of the fact for my next visit, I proceeded further. There were a couple of other notable trees on this trail, and they were all pretty substantial. Finally, I saw the General Grant.
To my surprise, I was not particularly impressed by the sight. The base was, of course, 40 feet in diameter, but somehow that did not register with me in a manner that would provoke a visceral response. I had been afraid of this - I have long known that the human eye is a poor judge of volume. I can still remember my eyes popping out in surprise in fourth grade, when I found that a cubic meter of water contains a 1000 liters. Still, this was undeniably a giant. He was about 250 feet tall as well, and one could tell that he was taller than his neighbors, because his was the only crest that was bathed in sunlight, while the others were still in shadow. Since I was the first (and only) person on the trail that day, I took the liberty of hopping over the trail fence and paying him a closer visit.
Feeling the warmth under the bark, I finally sensed the emotions that I had expected. The size of this entity was not particularly impressive by the standards of eyes long used to looking at skyscrapers and other large objects. It is with the realization that this gigantic structure is alive and probably conscious to a degree that true awe sets in. I closed my eyes as I felt the bark, and the first thoughts that came to me unbidden were in praise of Vishnu, the preserver.
Sequoia trees grow so big because their wood is resistant to decay. Even the trunks of the trees that have fallen in the last half a millennium or so still dot the landscape. The only way they die is through forest fires or from tipping over for one reason or another. In a world filled with decay and disease, here is one haven where life can smolder slowly and grow inexorably until it reaches the titanic proportions that evoke our awe now. Shiva, the destroyer, always has the last word. But with the skin of this gargantuan being under my fingers, I realized with a sense of tender affection, the incredible creativity of Vishnu - the Supreme Artist. When he is allowed to work his leela - his web of magic, the results are truly breath-taking to behold.
Nothing escapes the Destroyer's all-encompassing gaze. entropy conquers all. And yet, in the subtle gestures of the Preserver, in the hope that the fluctuation theorems bear, Life carries on indomitable. In its battle against such immense cosmic odds lies its splendor. In its persistently impudent refutation of the Universe's penchant towards senselessness lies its immense beauty. Praise for the Preserver flowed from my lips spontaneously and copiously (though I am quite sure not very melodiously!).
Walking around the circumference of the tree, I realized that I had taken all that I could meaningfully take from this place, and that it was time for me to wend my way to the other Park. Since the Generals highway, as mentioned earlier, was blocked up, it was recommended that I drive back to the entrance of Squaw valley 20 miles, then drive 40 more to hit the Hwy 198 and use that to get into Sequoia Park. However, looking at my own road map, I saw that I could use Route 245 from right outside Kings Canyon Park, and that it would save me some of the distance.
What I did not realize was that the Squaw valley route would have taken me along the plains, whereas this route would entail climbing down from the Kings Canyon ridge and then climbing back up to reach Sequoia Park. It was one of the most entertaining sessions of mountain driving that I have been blessed to encounter.
The first and most important component of what made this ride so special was, of course, the weather. It was a beautiful, balmy winter morning - absolutely clear blue skies and a benevolent sun shining down graciously. Secondly, there were absolutely no people on the road. As a matter of fact, in all that 40 mile stretch, I encountered precisely three other cars, two of them together near the end. For all practical purposes, I could have been the only person in the entire world, merrily whizzing along the twists and turns of that serpentine road as it wound down into some of the most idyllic pastoral country that I have ever seen.
But I am getting ahead of myself. The descent itself was orders of magnitude more enjoyable by virtue of the make of my car. Whereas in normal cars, going down grades is quite pleasurable, in a Prius, the experience is enhanced several-fold. Where normal cars will slow down in the occasional inclinations, causing the driver to have to pump the gas pedal a little bit, the Prius keeps accelerating through those stretches, thanks to its electric motor. For about a ten mile stretch, I did not need a drop of gas, just the occasional judicious application of brakes. Furthermore, on my way down, I was greeted by a drift of light fog, that added a surreal element to the experience until, in all honesty, it appeared to be more of a practice spin in the Need For Speed PC game than a real experience. The quietness of the car engine, combined with occasional stretches of extremely smooth road gave me on several occasions, a beautiful sense of gliding through the air that one typically feels in an aircraft right before it is about to land.
Meadows, green and pristine, dotted with cows, horses and sheep. Groves of orange trees more orange that green, tremendous fields of grain. Out of the fog, I descended into the heart of agrarian California. Years in the future, when I look back, I think there is a great probability that this will be the moment I will look back upon as the one where I accepted this country to be my own. I had thought I would never again experience the tranquility and joy that I had felt in the Himalayan foothills. I was wrong, and I rejoice beyond measure at having been proved wrong.
Rather than persist in annoying my faithful readers with further rhapsody, I think I will not describe in much greater detail my journey on 245 down to 198, thence to Sequoia Park and the last 20 miles of descent into the heart of the Giant Forest. Let me simply place on record that I truly felt like I was 2, that the whole world existed simply for my entertainment, and that it was doing a very good job of entertaining me. The tints of the Sierra Nevada, the unreality of the distant blue-hued snow-capped peaks, the solemn valley of the river Kaweah, the quaint, gabled homesteads and hand-written signboards - it was as if Nature was articulating all my deepest archetypes of beauty in one glorious sonata.
Arriving at Sequoia Park in this tranquil mood, I found that I had to, as stated earlier, drive 20 miles further to reach the famous Giant Forest. This is the largest Sequoia grove in the world, and is reputed to to contain more than 200 trees with a diameter greater than 10 feet. I was pleased to find that there was even fewer signs of commercial exploitation here than at Kings Canyon. About the only human structure in evidence was a small Giants Museum for children, and an information desk. Not finding much to excite my interest here, I drove the remaining few miles to the grove that harbors the largest living thing on Earth - the General Sherman tree.
In light of my rather composed reaction at the sight of the General Grant tree, I was expecting a similar situation to arise in the case of the Sherman tree too. It so happened that I misinterpreted a sign pointing me towards the Sherman tree and mistakenly assumed a nearer tree (at which some equally mistaken tourists were posing) to be the object in question. I was puzzled, since this tree, while quite imposing in stature, was nowhere near as imposing as the General Grant. ``What a rip-off'', I thought, ``Why even that big tree yonder is bigger than this one''.
Critics might accuse me of dramatizing my account, but this actually is how I came across the largest living thing on Earth. As soon as I had finished my mental comparison of the alleged Sherman tree with the tree in the background, I slowly realized that the tree in the background was much, much bigger than any of the others I had seen. Tramping across the snow towards it, my wits slowly realized what my eyes, falling on a signpost confirmed moments later. This was the General Sherman tree!
What a monster!
I repeated this phrase over and over again, as I attempted to come to terms with the magnitude of this vast creature. I think the fact that my expectations from the Sherman had been drastically lowered by my earlier error was largely responsible for the fact that the size of the General Sherman absolutely stunned me. Walking up to it, resting my chin against its trunk and gazing upwards, my most accessible thought was, ``This is not a tree, its a mountain.''
And thus it verily was. Its largest branch, sticking out at a height of about 150 feet, was itself much larger than most trees one would naturally expect to see. Standing a dizzy 270 feet tall, he was not as bulky at the base as the General Grant, but much more solidly built throughout. Even though the General Grant is not to be sneezed at, the difference between the two was viscerally enormous. While the General Grant impressed me no end, the Sherman tree left me giggling in stunned amazement.
I found that I was not alone in my merriment. The tree appeared to have a similar effect on several of the other onlookers. We were unanimous in the opinion that ``That is a big tree.'' The awestruck wonder in everyone's eyes was a joy to behold. I propounded my theory of Vishnu's link to the big trees to a woman nearby, who coincidentally turned out to be an erstwhile ISKCON follower.
I peregrinated gently in that magnificent grove, which houses about ten of the largest trees in the world. I returned to the Sherman, and in an extremely pretentious and vacuous gesture, tried to connect with his thoughts by placing my palm on him and removing conscious thought. Somewhat sheepishly, I withdrew. With my last sight of the Sherman tree, I summoned up all my ancestral reservoirs of animism and offered up a prayer to the Divine for the safe passage into the other life of my grandparents, who are both in frail health now, and to whom I owe as much affection as is usually due only to parents.
There was but one task left to attempt before driving back home - the ascent to Moro Rock. Having read and heard several rapturous descriptions of the view from on top, I had resolved to climb up to it. However, it turned out that the road up to the beginning of the climbing trail was blocked up with snow, and that it was not advisable to venture up.
However, a couple of snowshoers were at that very moment going up the trail, and moved by their spirit, I thought I would try it as well. Of course, I did not have snow shoes, only my pitiful basketball shoes with snow tracks on them. However, I cast caution to the winds and started following their footprints up the mountain.
It was easy going for a while, and I thought I would soon catch up with them. However, soon the snow became softer, and I got my first and extremely arduous lesson in trying to walk on snow. Clumping along as I was originally, I found that by repeatedly sinking my heels into the snow to depths of half a foot and more, I was gravely risking the structural integrity of my ankles. Thus, my first snow-walking lesson was to try and land on the balls of my feet as opposed to my heels, an action more natural while running than walking.
I made steady progress for a while, and then found that the intrepid duo who had preceded me up the mountain were returning. This worried me, since I did not know the way to Moro Rock, and I had been hoping that their footsteps would be adequate guidance for me. At this point, prudence counseled me to follow their lead and return. I tried to place my foolhardy spirit of adventure in the counter-balance, but it could not be bothered to make the effort. Then, interestingly, I thought of you, my readers.
I thought of the gutless story my ill-conceived hike would make if I were to give in at that point, and my Ego demanded that I make some efforts to prolong my struggle. So, I rested for a bit on a rock and then stepped out into pristine, unmarked snow, trying to strike out in the general direction of Moro Rock. I went along for about half a mile and then found a heartening sight - some sort of satellite dish installation. Notwithstanding my assertions to the contrary earlier in the narrative, I must confess that these signs of civilization were extremely welcome to me.
However, on consulting a signpost half-buried in the snow nearby, my worst suspicions were confirmed. I was farther from Moro Rock than at the beginning of my journey, and I had been, at least for a while, been taking a direction almost orthogonal to the real one. This stark condemnation of my orienteering skill gave me further pause, and I wondered if I should turn back.
At this point, the remnants of the foolish, feral part of my nature asserted themselves. ``What nonsense! On we go!''. So, on we went, and it was interesting going for a while. Climbing on slopes populated by sequoia trees, I was able to get a closer view of their upper sections and branch and leaf arrangements. I labored on upwards, feet sinking in the snow at every step, heart pounding with the exercise, and mind calculating the probability of my survival should I lose sight of my footprints on the way back.
Unhappily, my story does not have a heroic ending. Having labored upwards for half an hour, I found myself on top of a hill, and completely disoriented with respect to my own bearings, to say nothing of Moro Rock. At several times during my time in India, I would carry a compass with me, and pride myself of extracting myself from similar situations using elementary sky-reading. In this case, I had no compass, and thus no recourse to trigonometric salvation. I scanned the foliate slopes of the hill for possible traces of a trail, but could not find any. The rush of adrenaline subsided, I retraced my footsteps and arrived back at the Museum uneventfully. I will return to Sequoia Park in summer, and I will climb up to Moro Rock then.
With the afternoon gradually subsiding, I had to choose between idling in the Park and looking at some more trees and driving home on Monday morning, or making a dash for home, hoping to clear the mountains by the time the light failed and arrive home by 9 in the evening. The latter suggestion won out, since it would allow me to finish up this piece before the rush and tumult of the week drew me in again. So, I bid the Park and its out-sized inhabitants farewell and set out.
The return journey was as equally satisfying as the one coming in that I have rapturously detailed elsewhere. Instead of driving down Hwy 198 back to civilization, I chose to drive up the mountain road, Rte 245 once more and to return home via the Kings Canyon Road by which I had arrived. This made the trip 40 miles longer, but that was a small price to pay for the privilege of rolling up that exquisite stretch of countryside again.
One last incident occurred in the mountains, before I bid them farewell for the nonce. Driving out of Sequoia Park, while still high up, I parked my car in a turnout at a bend in the road and paused to gaze out at the Sierra Nevada in all its glory one last time. Sitting on the rock boundary at the outer edge of the road, I finally gave in to my urge and meditated. I sat there with the cool breeze and the hot sun as my sole companions, oblivious to the passage of time and cars. And here, unbidden, I received insight into the questions that had come to me the previous day.
Looking at distant mountains has always triggered odd sentiments for me. It always seems to me that they are calling me. I am quite certain that others have heard their plaint too. The one that calls you to drop what you're doing and come up higher into the mountains, deeper into the forests. I have now realized that this `call' results as a consequence of two sequential actions. First, when the human mind is confronted with existence far beyond its own length- and time-scale, it becomes aware of its mortality. That is what causes the sadness that I feel. Secondly, with the Ego thus shaken in its throne, the Spirit takes the opportunity to assert itself, and reminds the discriminative intellect that It always remains, and that the Ego's mortality is not a cause for concern, since it does not affect the true essence of Being. This results in that sense of cleansing and fulfillment that follows the pang of sadness.
Thus results the music of the mountains, a song that I have heard so clearly since I was ten years' old. Thus, indeed results all music, for is not all music a reminder of the fact that timeless beauty can be evoked in a short span of time? Thus, in its essence, results meaning out of meaninglessness, Life out of thermodynamics, Love out of Death, Being out of Un-Being. The whole story of the Universe is so simply told as a tale of two motifs - the sadness that comes of the finitude of a substructure, and its resolution through synthesis with others of its own ilk.
Hence, as epilogue to this narrative of my little journey: he meditated on a rock wall in the Sierra Nevada on a sunny afternoon, and lived happily ever after.
To go to the Sequoia forest and pay homage to the red giants, thus, is a task that I have looked forward to for more than 16 years. Since I am spending three weeks in Mountain View CA, it was a foregone conclusion that one of the weekends would be set aside for this excursion. However, this Thursday, I found that through the machinations of fate, the next couple of weekends would be unsuitable for the purpose. Friday was a deadline day at the company I am consulting, and I could not get away from work till 8 in the evening.
The scene shifts to Saturday morning, and the inevitable mental tussle. Is it better to brave the slings and arrows of 700 miles in a two day time frame? Or is it better to sleep, perchance to dream? Thankfully, the forces of ennui met with a temporary setback, allowing me to sally forth in pursuit of an appropriate steed for my journey.
As luck would have it, my corporate contacts carry some weight at the rental agency, which allowed me to upgrade for free to a Toyota Prius. I shall, at a later point in the narrative, gush exuberantly about the several excellent qualities of this marvel of engineering. For now, it should suffice to say that by noon on Saturday, no obstacles remained to impede my departure.
Setting out forthwith in the afternoon sun, I made good time on Hwy 101, heading towards San Jose. It was when I left the highway to venture upon the CA152 that the instructive portion of my journey can be said to have begun. Past Fresno, I headed east on the Kings Canyon Road. It was now that I realized that this trip was going to turn out to be rather more fulfilling than I had thought. The vista from the highway was absolutely stunning. In the distance the crags of the Sierra were beginning to make their presence known. The road was surrounded by orange groves on both sides, each tree laden down with its eponymous offspring. The road itself was far from dull, twisting and rolling capriciously, its undulations allowing the electric motor on my Prius to deliver more than its natural bang for my buck.
It pains me to confess that I was completely ignorant of the geography of the parks and their location while setting out. Therefore, I was surprised to find that the road was beginning to climb into the mountains, even as the daylight was beginning to fail. Driving in the mountains, however, is a great joy to me, and as the sunset came upon the day, and even as my ecologically superior conveyance bore me deeper into the heart of the Sierra Nevada, I was conscious of a great sense of pleasure stealing over me. Ahead of me lay the fulfillment of one of my childhood dreams. And even as I drove, I could not but feel pleased at the existential circumstances that were allowing me to make this journey. To be young and vigorous is a blessed state indeed!
As my car climbed into yet another turn, the trees that had heretofore obstructed my view dropped away, and I was confronted with a wondrous sight. I am certain that I have not seen many more bewitching views than the one that I now beheld. I know this, for it made me despair at not possessing a camera to capture it, a sentiment that occurs to me once in a violet moon. In the vaults of my memory, since the age of about 16, there are about a dozen images that I have consciously impressed as memories of a lifetime. My modus operandi for doing so is simply to stare at the vision until I know I will not forget it.
I spent nearly half an hour there, on top of a heap of boulders on the side of the road, staring intensely. Picture if you will, the sun setting into a sea of clouds. Those who travel by air must necessarily know what I mean by a sea of clouds - that turbulent symphony of air and water, so much more creative than its earth-bound cousin. Consider this immense sea of clouds moving and shifting around islands formed by the peaks of hills jutting out above. Lastly, allow yourself, as the observer, a vantage point far above this play of the elements and an almost hemispherical field of vision.
As I gazed intently upon this tapestry of light beams on puffs of vapor, I felt a strong meditative urge taking hold. I resisted it, and I found my mind formulating a question quite clearly, `What is so mystical about mountains? What is so cleansing about Nature? Why do man-made objects not evoke such deep emotion?' I tried to think of the answer, but could not find one that satisfied me. I left the rock in a deeply contemplative state.
I reached the entrance of Kings Canyon at about 6 in the evening, in deepening twilight. I had been keeping my eyes peeled for sequoia sightings, but none had as yet appeared. Now, as I passed into the Park, I saw my first one. I will try and recapitulate as honestly as possible, my mental processes at this juncture.
My first impulse was one of amused disbelief, a fleeting thought that my eyes had deceived me into imagining I had seen something I had wanted to see so much, and that sanity would be restored in short order. When that did not happen, the truth started dawning, in the form of the rhetorical question:"That is a TREE?" When I had slowed down and craned my neck to look at the object under consideration to my satisfaction (if not to that of my vertebrae and following drivers), this was replaced by the thought that has governed my mental botanical picture ever since: "THAT is a tree!". Other specimens of flora now appear ersatz to me in comparison with this godly apparition.
How do I describe a Giant Sequoia to you? Take the tallest, most regal of the eucalypti. Give it the ponderous girth of an old King Banyan tree. Shape its trunk with the geometrical precision typical of the coniferae and also impart to the branches and leaves an arboreal legerdemain characteristic of temperate vegetation. Lastly, impart to this fantastic creature that stolid respectability one would typically accord to a venerable old oak. That, I think, would be a fair approximation of a Giant Sequoia.
As I drove farther into the Park, and saw more Sequoia trees, I gradually became conscious of an uncanny fear. These entities do not belong in the same day and age as I. Looking at these trees made me want to look over my shoulder , lest a velociraptor lavish its attentions upon me. This unreasonable feeling stayed with me all of that evening and was never quite dispelled through the duration of my stay.
My first order of business upon entering this area was to fill up on gas. In hindsight, this was a prudent precaution, since the Park area itself does not have any pumps. At this point, it becomes necessary for me to acquaint you, gentle reader, with some of the topology of the region. Very briefly, there are two National Parks, adjoining each other, that are known for Giant Sequoia groves. One, the one where our story is situated right now, is called the Kings Canyon National Park. The other, which the story shall reach eventually, is called the Sequoia National Park. These two are connected by a road called the Generals Highway which runs for about 20 miles. However, as we shall soon see, this road is blocked up with snow during winter, and wayfarers seeking to get from one park to the other have to take a detour.
However, to return to our story, having filled up on gas, I decided to explore one of the Christian camps in the region, specifically near Hume Lake. My expedition however, rapidly assumed the appearance of an instructional lesson in ice-skating, my shoes, for all their admirable qualities, not finding any traction on the sheet ice. Rendered immobile by the inadequacy of my equipment, I was fortunate to find that the local grocery store provides for such situations in the form of excellent strap-on tracks. With a pair of these on my shoe soles, I was soon skipping around. Unfortunately, my visit with the people of the Book was not very pleasant. They looked with extreme suspicion upon my heathen person, and all the breezy insouciance that I could muster was barely sufficient to allow me some semblance of a dignified departure.
I decided to delay no further, and resolved to fulfill my primary motive of visiting Kings Canyon viz. seeing the General Grant Tree. To do this necessitated driving into the forest for a couple of miles into a clearing and then walking along a trail. I accomplished the first without much difficulty, but was stymied for want of a light source in the case of the second. There would not be much point in walking the trail in pitch darkness and coming home to the ignominy of failing to sight one of the largest living things in the world.
Some details are in order here. The General Grant tree is the second largest (by volume) tree in the world. It is also the thickest Giant Sequoia tree in the world, measuring about 40 feet in diameter at its base, and 124 feet in circumference. The largest tree in the world, the General Sherman, is in the other Park, which I would visit on the morrow. Thus, in this trip, I would have accomplished my purpose of seeing both the largest and the thickest living things in the world. The tallest, for matter of record, is a coast redwood tree called Hyperion, which I would also dearly wish to see. Its location, unfortunately, is kept a secret, to avoid the rush of stampeding tourists. Perhaps one day, I will see it.
For now, being at a bit of a loose end, I had to turn in early for want of something better to do. Having taken the precaution of packing in some of my work, I did some of it by the reading light in the car. Getting ready for bed in the back seat of the car, I checked off all the fascinating things about my situation one by one in my mind. Firstly, I was in a grove of Giant Sequoias, a couple of miles from civilization. Secondly, the night sky was bright with the Milky Way and countless stars. In fact, the last time I had seen so many stars was nearly an year ago, while camping in the Black Forest in Germany, a night that I also will cherish to my dying day. Lastly, squishing myself into the back seat of a Toyota Prius under a greatcoat, looking at the stars out of the window, with the view of the sky blocked at places by the looming hulks of three big Sequoia trees, I was feeling completely at home. All was serene, all was beautiful, sacchidananda.!
Well, I must confess, not completely. I remember that one of my last thoughts before nodding off was:"The sky tonight has a million eyes. What bliss it would be if there were a million and two." But that is a completely different story; one that is unlikely to ever be told.
It is difficult for me, given the lack of reference figures to identify with, to view my living habits with perspective. I think my nomadic existence in the past couple of years has accustomed me to living lawlessly, out of a suitcase and in complete isolation. For example, in Minneapolis, home is my lab cubicle, where I keep two pairs of clothes, a sleeping bag, an acoustic bass and a basketball. That is the span of my worldly possessions, and I intend to keep it that way. Here, in Silicon Valley, where I am working as a contractor for a month, I have a plush rented apartment on company's money, but prefer to just bed down in my office after work. Staying in an apartment, or any private place for that matter, is a skill that I find I now will have to gradually reacquaint myself with. I mention this in order to place my night's roost in the grove of sequoias some perspective. I did not go far from civilization and sleep in the back of a car driven by the spirit of adventure. I did so because that is the most natural thing for me to do.
The rest of the night was uneventful, apart from periodic adjustments of the car thermostat. Waking up at 6 in the morning, I made my way onto the Grant Tree Trail. Snow was six inches to a foot deep in most places, and my snow tracks proved to be worth their weight in gold. I found, to my regret, that I had passed up an opportunity for an adventuresome night's stay the previous night in the form of the Fallen Monarch.
The Fallen Monarch is a fallen Sequoia trunk of historic significance. It was used by Native Indians as a house, and later was used by the U.S. cavalry as a stable for their horses. Had I but known of its existence, I would not have spent the hours of the night twisted up like a pretzel in my car's back seat. Making a note of the fact for my next visit, I proceeded further. There were a couple of other notable trees on this trail, and they were all pretty substantial. Finally, I saw the General Grant.
To my surprise, I was not particularly impressed by the sight. The base was, of course, 40 feet in diameter, but somehow that did not register with me in a manner that would provoke a visceral response. I had been afraid of this - I have long known that the human eye is a poor judge of volume. I can still remember my eyes popping out in surprise in fourth grade, when I found that a cubic meter of water contains a 1000 liters. Still, this was undeniably a giant. He was about 250 feet tall as well, and one could tell that he was taller than his neighbors, because his was the only crest that was bathed in sunlight, while the others were still in shadow. Since I was the first (and only) person on the trail that day, I took the liberty of hopping over the trail fence and paying him a closer visit.
Feeling the warmth under the bark, I finally sensed the emotions that I had expected. The size of this entity was not particularly impressive by the standards of eyes long used to looking at skyscrapers and other large objects. It is with the realization that this gigantic structure is alive and probably conscious to a degree that true awe sets in. I closed my eyes as I felt the bark, and the first thoughts that came to me unbidden were in praise of Vishnu, the preserver.
Sequoia trees grow so big because their wood is resistant to decay. Even the trunks of the trees that have fallen in the last half a millennium or so still dot the landscape. The only way they die is through forest fires or from tipping over for one reason or another. In a world filled with decay and disease, here is one haven where life can smolder slowly and grow inexorably until it reaches the titanic proportions that evoke our awe now. Shiva, the destroyer, always has the last word. But with the skin of this gargantuan being under my fingers, I realized with a sense of tender affection, the incredible creativity of Vishnu - the Supreme Artist. When he is allowed to work his leela - his web of magic, the results are truly breath-taking to behold.
Nothing escapes the Destroyer's all-encompassing gaze. entropy conquers all. And yet, in the subtle gestures of the Preserver, in the hope that the fluctuation theorems bear, Life carries on indomitable. In its battle against such immense cosmic odds lies its splendor. In its persistently impudent refutation of the Universe's penchant towards senselessness lies its immense beauty. Praise for the Preserver flowed from my lips spontaneously and copiously (though I am quite sure not very melodiously!).
Walking around the circumference of the tree, I realized that I had taken all that I could meaningfully take from this place, and that it was time for me to wend my way to the other Park. Since the Generals highway, as mentioned earlier, was blocked up, it was recommended that I drive back to the entrance of Squaw valley 20 miles, then drive 40 more to hit the Hwy 198 and use that to get into Sequoia Park. However, looking at my own road map, I saw that I could use Route 245 from right outside Kings Canyon Park, and that it would save me some of the distance.
What I did not realize was that the Squaw valley route would have taken me along the plains, whereas this route would entail climbing down from the Kings Canyon ridge and then climbing back up to reach Sequoia Park. It was one of the most entertaining sessions of mountain driving that I have been blessed to encounter.
The first and most important component of what made this ride so special was, of course, the weather. It was a beautiful, balmy winter morning - absolutely clear blue skies and a benevolent sun shining down graciously. Secondly, there were absolutely no people on the road. As a matter of fact, in all that 40 mile stretch, I encountered precisely three other cars, two of them together near the end. For all practical purposes, I could have been the only person in the entire world, merrily whizzing along the twists and turns of that serpentine road as it wound down into some of the most idyllic pastoral country that I have ever seen.
But I am getting ahead of myself. The descent itself was orders of magnitude more enjoyable by virtue of the make of my car. Whereas in normal cars, going down grades is quite pleasurable, in a Prius, the experience is enhanced several-fold. Where normal cars will slow down in the occasional inclinations, causing the driver to have to pump the gas pedal a little bit, the Prius keeps accelerating through those stretches, thanks to its electric motor. For about a ten mile stretch, I did not need a drop of gas, just the occasional judicious application of brakes. Furthermore, on my way down, I was greeted by a drift of light fog, that added a surreal element to the experience until, in all honesty, it appeared to be more of a practice spin in the Need For Speed PC game than a real experience. The quietness of the car engine, combined with occasional stretches of extremely smooth road gave me on several occasions, a beautiful sense of gliding through the air that one typically feels in an aircraft right before it is about to land.
Meadows, green and pristine, dotted with cows, horses and sheep. Groves of orange trees more orange that green, tremendous fields of grain. Out of the fog, I descended into the heart of agrarian California. Years in the future, when I look back, I think there is a great probability that this will be the moment I will look back upon as the one where I accepted this country to be my own. I had thought I would never again experience the tranquility and joy that I had felt in the Himalayan foothills. I was wrong, and I rejoice beyond measure at having been proved wrong.
Rather than persist in annoying my faithful readers with further rhapsody, I think I will not describe in much greater detail my journey on 245 down to 198, thence to Sequoia Park and the last 20 miles of descent into the heart of the Giant Forest. Let me simply place on record that I truly felt like I was 2, that the whole world existed simply for my entertainment, and that it was doing a very good job of entertaining me. The tints of the Sierra Nevada, the unreality of the distant blue-hued snow-capped peaks, the solemn valley of the river Kaweah, the quaint, gabled homesteads and hand-written signboards - it was as if Nature was articulating all my deepest archetypes of beauty in one glorious sonata.
Arriving at Sequoia Park in this tranquil mood, I found that I had to, as stated earlier, drive 20 miles further to reach the famous Giant Forest. This is the largest Sequoia grove in the world, and is reputed to to contain more than 200 trees with a diameter greater than 10 feet. I was pleased to find that there was even fewer signs of commercial exploitation here than at Kings Canyon. About the only human structure in evidence was a small Giants Museum for children, and an information desk. Not finding much to excite my interest here, I drove the remaining few miles to the grove that harbors the largest living thing on Earth - the General Sherman tree.
In light of my rather composed reaction at the sight of the General Grant tree, I was expecting a similar situation to arise in the case of the Sherman tree too. It so happened that I misinterpreted a sign pointing me towards the Sherman tree and mistakenly assumed a nearer tree (at which some equally mistaken tourists were posing) to be the object in question. I was puzzled, since this tree, while quite imposing in stature, was nowhere near as imposing as the General Grant. ``What a rip-off'', I thought, ``Why even that big tree yonder is bigger than this one''.
Critics might accuse me of dramatizing my account, but this actually is how I came across the largest living thing on Earth. As soon as I had finished my mental comparison of the alleged Sherman tree with the tree in the background, I slowly realized that the tree in the background was much, much bigger than any of the others I had seen. Tramping across the snow towards it, my wits slowly realized what my eyes, falling on a signpost confirmed moments later. This was the General Sherman tree!
What a monster!
I repeated this phrase over and over again, as I attempted to come to terms with the magnitude of this vast creature. I think the fact that my expectations from the Sherman had been drastically lowered by my earlier error was largely responsible for the fact that the size of the General Sherman absolutely stunned me. Walking up to it, resting my chin against its trunk and gazing upwards, my most accessible thought was, ``This is not a tree, its a mountain.''
And thus it verily was. Its largest branch, sticking out at a height of about 150 feet, was itself much larger than most trees one would naturally expect to see. Standing a dizzy 270 feet tall, he was not as bulky at the base as the General Grant, but much more solidly built throughout. Even though the General Grant is not to be sneezed at, the difference between the two was viscerally enormous. While the General Grant impressed me no end, the Sherman tree left me giggling in stunned amazement.
I found that I was not alone in my merriment. The tree appeared to have a similar effect on several of the other onlookers. We were unanimous in the opinion that ``That is a big tree.'' The awestruck wonder in everyone's eyes was a joy to behold. I propounded my theory of Vishnu's link to the big trees to a woman nearby, who coincidentally turned out to be an erstwhile ISKCON follower.
I peregrinated gently in that magnificent grove, which houses about ten of the largest trees in the world. I returned to the Sherman, and in an extremely pretentious and vacuous gesture, tried to connect with his thoughts by placing my palm on him and removing conscious thought. Somewhat sheepishly, I withdrew. With my last sight of the Sherman tree, I summoned up all my ancestral reservoirs of animism and offered up a prayer to the Divine for the safe passage into the other life of my grandparents, who are both in frail health now, and to whom I owe as much affection as is usually due only to parents.
There was but one task left to attempt before driving back home - the ascent to Moro Rock. Having read and heard several rapturous descriptions of the view from on top, I had resolved to climb up to it. However, it turned out that the road up to the beginning of the climbing trail was blocked up with snow, and that it was not advisable to venture up.
However, a couple of snowshoers were at that very moment going up the trail, and moved by their spirit, I thought I would try it as well. Of course, I did not have snow shoes, only my pitiful basketball shoes with snow tracks on them. However, I cast caution to the winds and started following their footprints up the mountain.
It was easy going for a while, and I thought I would soon catch up with them. However, soon the snow became softer, and I got my first and extremely arduous lesson in trying to walk on snow. Clumping along as I was originally, I found that by repeatedly sinking my heels into the snow to depths of half a foot and more, I was gravely risking the structural integrity of my ankles. Thus, my first snow-walking lesson was to try and land on the balls of my feet as opposed to my heels, an action more natural while running than walking.
I made steady progress for a while, and then found that the intrepid duo who had preceded me up the mountain were returning. This worried me, since I did not know the way to Moro Rock, and I had been hoping that their footsteps would be adequate guidance for me. At this point, prudence counseled me to follow their lead and return. I tried to place my foolhardy spirit of adventure in the counter-balance, but it could not be bothered to make the effort. Then, interestingly, I thought of you, my readers.
I thought of the gutless story my ill-conceived hike would make if I were to give in at that point, and my Ego demanded that I make some efforts to prolong my struggle. So, I rested for a bit on a rock and then stepped out into pristine, unmarked snow, trying to strike out in the general direction of Moro Rock. I went along for about half a mile and then found a heartening sight - some sort of satellite dish installation. Notwithstanding my assertions to the contrary earlier in the narrative, I must confess that these signs of civilization were extremely welcome to me.
However, on consulting a signpost half-buried in the snow nearby, my worst suspicions were confirmed. I was farther from Moro Rock than at the beginning of my journey, and I had been, at least for a while, been taking a direction almost orthogonal to the real one. This stark condemnation of my orienteering skill gave me further pause, and I wondered if I should turn back.
At this point, the remnants of the foolish, feral part of my nature asserted themselves. ``What nonsense! On we go!''. So, on we went, and it was interesting going for a while. Climbing on slopes populated by sequoia trees, I was able to get a closer view of their upper sections and branch and leaf arrangements. I labored on upwards, feet sinking in the snow at every step, heart pounding with the exercise, and mind calculating the probability of my survival should I lose sight of my footprints on the way back.
Unhappily, my story does not have a heroic ending. Having labored upwards for half an hour, I found myself on top of a hill, and completely disoriented with respect to my own bearings, to say nothing of Moro Rock. At several times during my time in India, I would carry a compass with me, and pride myself of extracting myself from similar situations using elementary sky-reading. In this case, I had no compass, and thus no recourse to trigonometric salvation. I scanned the foliate slopes of the hill for possible traces of a trail, but could not find any. The rush of adrenaline subsided, I retraced my footsteps and arrived back at the Museum uneventfully. I will return to Sequoia Park in summer, and I will climb up to Moro Rock then.
With the afternoon gradually subsiding, I had to choose between idling in the Park and looking at some more trees and driving home on Monday morning, or making a dash for home, hoping to clear the mountains by the time the light failed and arrive home by 9 in the evening. The latter suggestion won out, since it would allow me to finish up this piece before the rush and tumult of the week drew me in again. So, I bid the Park and its out-sized inhabitants farewell and set out.
The return journey was as equally satisfying as the one coming in that I have rapturously detailed elsewhere. Instead of driving down Hwy 198 back to civilization, I chose to drive up the mountain road, Rte 245 once more and to return home via the Kings Canyon Road by which I had arrived. This made the trip 40 miles longer, but that was a small price to pay for the privilege of rolling up that exquisite stretch of countryside again.
One last incident occurred in the mountains, before I bid them farewell for the nonce. Driving out of Sequoia Park, while still high up, I parked my car in a turnout at a bend in the road and paused to gaze out at the Sierra Nevada in all its glory one last time. Sitting on the rock boundary at the outer edge of the road, I finally gave in to my urge and meditated. I sat there with the cool breeze and the hot sun as my sole companions, oblivious to the passage of time and cars. And here, unbidden, I received insight into the questions that had come to me the previous day.
Looking at distant mountains has always triggered odd sentiments for me. It always seems to me that they are calling me. I am quite certain that others have heard their plaint too. The one that calls you to drop what you're doing and come up higher into the mountains, deeper into the forests. I have now realized that this `call' results as a consequence of two sequential actions. First, when the human mind is confronted with existence far beyond its own length- and time-scale, it becomes aware of its mortality. That is what causes the sadness that I feel. Secondly, with the Ego thus shaken in its throne, the Spirit takes the opportunity to assert itself, and reminds the discriminative intellect that It always remains, and that the Ego's mortality is not a cause for concern, since it does not affect the true essence of Being. This results in that sense of cleansing and fulfillment that follows the pang of sadness.
Thus results the music of the mountains, a song that I have heard so clearly since I was ten years' old. Thus, indeed results all music, for is not all music a reminder of the fact that timeless beauty can be evoked in a short span of time? Thus, in its essence, results meaning out of meaninglessness, Life out of thermodynamics, Love out of Death, Being out of Un-Being. The whole story of the Universe is so simply told as a tale of two motifs - the sadness that comes of the finitude of a substructure, and its resolution through synthesis with others of its own ilk.
Hence, as epilogue to this narrative of my little journey: he meditated on a rock wall in the Sierra Nevada on a sunny afternoon, and lived happily ever after.
