Clendaniel: Returning to Big Basin — a tale of hope and heartbreak

By chance, my son Cameron and I were two of the last people to hike the Skyline-to-the-Sea Trail before the CZU fire burned Big Basin Redwoods State Park.

Sunday, March 22, 2020, was a warm and sunny day. But anxiety was the order of the day in the Clendaniel abode. The pandemic lockdown was in effect, but state parks were still open. So, on a whim, thinking few people would go for a strenuous 13-mile hike, off we went. We strolled through the old-growth forest, descended into the quiet serenity of Kelly Creek, stopped to admire Berry Creek Falls and then headed to Waddell Beach for the traditional dipping of toes into the Pacific Ocean.

It was relaxing and renewing. A hike for the ages.

Little did we suspect that all state parks would be closed the following day. Or that five months later, with the lockdown still in effect, a wildfire would ravage Big Basin, closing the park for another two years after burning 97% of the park’s 18,000 acres. And shutting the Skyline-to-the-Sea Trail for the foreseeable future.

I’m 67. Given my advancing years, it’s heartbreaking to realize that I may never enjoy my favorite Bay Area hike again. And even if I do, it won’t be the same. Not in my lifetime.

That became clear last Sunday when I returned to Big Basin for the first time in 2 1/2 years. An estimated 95% of the redwoods are expected to survive. But a first-hand look at the devastation makes it obvious that a full recovery will take decades.

The experience moved me to tears. I suspect I’m not alone. Before the fire, Big Basin drew 1 million visitors every year, including hundreds of thousands from the Bay Area.

Like me, they came to experience what has aptly been called nature’s cathedral.

Walking through an old-growth forest is a humbling experience, not just for the size and beauty of the trees but also for their longevity. Big Basin’s Mother of the Forest tree is thought to be 2,500 years old. Redwoods are said to be symbols of wisdom, They call to us in ways we intuitively sense but do not fully understand.

Since Big Basin reopened July 22, I’ve wanted to return. So I scored a reservation last Sunday.

The first shock was trying to get my bearings. Gone was the historic, granite headquarters building. So was the park store where I used to buy ice cream and s’mores makings for my children.

Then came the realization that the Big Basin I had previously known was no more. That’s when I lost it. Seeing is believing. And the park I treasure would never be the same. Not for people of my generation.

But then I remembered that soon after Big Basin was first established in 1902, a fire swept through the park. The redwoods survived that fire, and with nature taking its course and the efforts of preservationists, Big Basin was in its full glory by the time I first saw it in 1985.

Now it’s our job to do everything we can to help ensure the redwoods thrive for future generations to enjoy.

It was with that thought that I started my hike along the 1 1/2 mile Dool Trail, one of two short paths open in the park.

The trail was brighter and sunnier than before. The fire had burned the redwood trees’ crowns, removing the shade that cooled the forest. But every redwood had green growth sprouting from its trunk. Tiny branches signaled the trees had survived, offering hope for the future.

“Redwoods are remarkable,” says Zane Moore, a longtime family friend, plant biologist and redwood researcher in UC Davis’ doctoral program. “When times are tough for the redwood trees, they focus on fundamentals first. They are putting all of their energy into rebuilding their crowns. That’s where they get their energy. They won’t add growth (to their girth) for several years.”

A mile into the hike, I was pleasantly surprised to see a small flock of chestnut-back chickadees. Then I heard a woodpecker and a dark-eyed junco. Other wildlife are reportedly beginning to return to the park.

And then we were startled to see a healthy banana slug along the trail. “How did you manage to survive, my friend?” I wondered, as it slithered for cover under a tiny redwood.

It was a testament to the durability of nature. “The trees and the park, like people, are resilient,” says Moore. “If we help take care of the redwoods, they will help take care of us.”