Two days ago, I took a drive from my hotel in Arcata, California to Fern Canyon, located about an hour away in Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park. Most of the drive was on the easy-to-maneuver and beautiful Redwood Highway. The last six miles, however, consisted of a slow, winding descent on a rough and dark unpaved road.
Being a person that enjoys the mornings and relishes a world that is quiet, I left my hotel early, arriving at Davison Road (the road leading to the canyon) when it was still a bit dark and overcast. Most of the available light seemed to be blocked by the Redwoods nearby, and the dust kicked up by my tires created an environment that I found eerie and difficult to apprehend.
Although I generally don't think much about the headlights on my car (other than whether I need them on or not), there have been occasions when they have revealed things in especially beautiful ways.. They do not seem to do this for illuminating especially well, but for what they hint at as they fade at the peripheries.
I recall vividly the feeling of driving one night on Highway 62 in the California desert, and became disoriented by the plants just slightly visible to me on the side of the road. I felt nearly weightless, frightened, and dizzy as I barreled down that road. I didn't feel comfortable pulling over to the side, because the shoulder, if there was one, was equally difficult to decipher. The only instance when I can recall feeling unsettled in that way was when I had used LSD.
I had a somewhat similar sensation as I drove slowly down to the canyon, the sound of loose rocks under my tires. The dirt obscured my view and covered the ferns on both sides of me. As I turned the wheel to navigate the sometimes winding road, my headlights would shine on those plants in a way that made them unrecognizable to me as things I knew existed.
It is one thing to have had no previous exposure to a thing; another to lack the sense of it being possible.
I feel the need to add here, after thinking more about this experience for the past two days, that my fear of getting a flat tire on those rocks, and lacking the confidence to change it correctly, must have certainly colored how I observed the environment that day. Knowing that I had no cellular service most certainly heightened it.
After having reached my destination, I maneuvered my body around the canyon floor a while, then started the drive back up. By this time, there was more light, and the powdery coating on the ferns just looked like dust covering plants. I could see them for what they were now, and they were recognizable as such. Less easy was to understand how they could have appeared so alien to me just an hour earlier.
Being a person that enjoys the mornings and relishes a world that is quiet, I left my hotel early, arriving at Davison Road (the road leading to the canyon) when it was still a bit dark and overcast. Most of the available light seemed to be blocked by the Redwoods nearby, and the dust kicked up by my tires created an environment that I found eerie and difficult to apprehend.
Although I generally don't think much about the headlights on my car (other than whether I need them on or not), there have been occasions when they have revealed things in especially beautiful ways.. They do not seem to do this for illuminating especially well, but for what they hint at as they fade at the peripheries.
I recall vividly the feeling of driving one night on Highway 62 in the California desert, and became disoriented by the plants just slightly visible to me on the side of the road. I felt nearly weightless, frightened, and dizzy as I barreled down that road. I didn't feel comfortable pulling over to the side, because the shoulder, if there was one, was equally difficult to decipher. The only instance when I can recall feeling unsettled in that way was when I had used LSD.
I had a somewhat similar sensation as I drove slowly down to the canyon, the sound of loose rocks under my tires. The dirt obscured my view and covered the ferns on both sides of me. As I turned the wheel to navigate the sometimes winding road, my headlights would shine on those plants in a way that made them unrecognizable to me as things I knew existed.
It is one thing to have had no previous exposure to a thing; another to lack the sense of it being possible.
I feel the need to add here, after thinking more about this experience for the past two days, that my fear of getting a flat tire on those rocks, and lacking the confidence to change it correctly, must have certainly colored how I observed the environment that day. Knowing that I had no cellular service most certainly heightened it.
After having reached my destination, I maneuvered my body around the canyon floor a while, then started the drive back up. By this time, there was more light, and the powdery coating on the ferns just looked like dust covering plants. I could see them for what they were now, and they were recognizable as such. Less easy was to understand how they could have appeared so alien to me just an hour earlier.
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