Sequoia Speaks

Somewhere on Generals Highway, above the breath-defying switchbacks that rise more than 2,000 feet into Sequoia National Park from Hospital Rock, and beyond the intersection of Big Trees Trail and Little Deer Creek, I was overwhelmed by the massive dignity of a singular tree in a densely populated grove of mixed conifers off to the side of the winding road.

“Pull over,” I commanded. My husband complied. Bob knows better than to squabble when we’re in the midst of grandeur and I have my camera in hand. I couldn’t grasp the tree’s immensity from the confines of a car. I pointed to a small apron along the shoulder of the road. “Here.”

Slipping my camera into a pocket, I stepped out of the rental car and into the enchantment of the Land of Giants. I headed directly for the sequoiadendron giganteum that had caught my attention. It was only about 20 feet in.

Dwarfed by the sequoia’s immensity, I stood in awe, gazing first toward an unseen top, cloaked in the deepest of greens, then gingerly touching the spectacular orange-red bark. Cool and spongey, the tree seemed to invite me to linger. In acceptance, I pressed my full body into the trunk and spread my arms mere inches around a massive girth that surpassed 70 feet.

Majestic in size and robust in presence, it conveyed strength and serenity. I turned my head to the right and noticed how its distinctively regal color stood out in the grove among the greys and browns of sugar pines, white and red firs, and incense-cedars. It was as if they existed to magnify its elegance. I inhaled, closed my eyes, and rested my left cheek and ear against the noble skin of a giant.

I sensed sap surging like blood from roots buried thousands of years—yet only a few feet—deep, to a crown some 200 feet—and hundreds of years into the future—above.

Perhaps it was the breeze rustling through the companion trees, the buzzing of tiny insects, or the crinklings of critters in the piney ground cover. I don’t know. Maybe it was my own beating heart. But something archaic spoke to me. Now, I’m not going to say it was the tree, but I’m not going to say it wasn’t. I listened as I pressed myself closer. The hushed voice spoke not of history, geology, human events, or rare beauty, but of patience, endurance, and strength.

Giant sequoias are the oldest—though not the tallest—living trees on earth. That distinction goes to the redwood. But in total volume, they are the largest living beings on Earth. I pressed myself closer, as if I could touch magnificence.

The trees spring from tiny seeds that must win the trifecta of direct sunlight, adequate moisture, and the explosive release from tough, tight cones in arid conditions and deep shade. And the surefire way to get the cones to burst like popcorn is a forest inferno—a cataclysmic event. The chances of a seed growing into a mature tree are less than one in a billion. I pressed myself closer, as if I could touch immortality.

Unlike the trees named General Grant and General Sherman that draw admirers by the millions, this anonymous behemoth could claim no fame as a superlative. It was neither oldest, tallest, or widest. It was not the grandest. It wasn’t even legendary. It was simply a silent guardian of yore. I could learn from its uncommon strength, its birth under duress. I pressed myself closer, as if I could touch its stalwart humility.

I think I did. For after a moment, I stepped back. To stay longer would be to trespass.

“Thank you,” I said to Giant Sequoia and caressed its bark one more time before silently retracing my steps to the car. With the camera still stuffed in my pocket, the only images I captured were in my heart.

“You just talked to a tree,” Bob said.

“No,” I replied. “I listened.”

The General Sherman Tree is the world’s largest tree, measured by volume.
It is 275 feet tall and is over 36 feet in diameter at the base. Note the tourist in the foreground.