I’m standing in the middle of redwood and tan oak trees. Still, unmoving. The silence is complete and absolute. My ears implode with the absence of sound, as if I’ve just skyrocketed up a thousand feet. Hands at my sides, face turned upwards… quiet sinks slowly into my bones and replaces the white noise I rarely even notice any more. I close my eyes and suddenly, like petals opening, the external silence has layers: a raven caws; a solo woodpecker keeps his own rhythm high above the ground. I know Salamander Creek is behind my right shoulder from the faint trickle of water and the louder sound of amphibious melody. I can almost hear the earth moving.

Amidst these redwoods, I stand on the spot where I first dreamt, first walked, first spoke, first realized. There is nothing here now between the thousand-year-old trees save bits of faded wood, overgrown scotch broom, deep gouges where irreverent dirt bikers from the City have cut into the earth with their tires. The disrespect of it makes me want to scream. A small voice reminds me that they don’t know the power of this place, or its history. If they did, would they have left these scars where I was conceived? To see the earth here so torn is physical pain for me. In my heart this place will always be as it was when I was a child: full of wonder and magic and fantasy. It is a part of me. I don’t want to remember it like this. Mentally, I lower the screen of my memory, returning the terrain to how it was when I was a child. In my mind the earth is glowing and it resonates within me.

Dad walks back down to the Millsite to maneuver the camper up towards where our cabin once stood, and I head up the creek towards the spring. Right away I greet my old friends. Boulder—my first palate with swirls of dissolved sienna, umber and ochre sandstone, standing moss-strewn and more rounded in the shoulders than I remember him; Stump—old carved logging footholds a ladder to the stage of so many fantastic performances. I see the overgrown trail (aka ‘the path of grownups’) curve up the bank to the right. I continue walking up the middle of the dry stream.

I know every bend, every crook and puddle in Salamander Creek from the Rose’s cabin to the spring. Even now, when fallen trees whose roots once loomed above me now only reach my shoulder, I know exactly where I am. I know this place in my bones, better than any city or neighborhood, despite the effects of time that have changed both of us. I can close my eyes and tell you the direction even if you spin me around. This place is in my blood.

I walk slowly upstream, stopping now and then to close my eyes and listen. I hold my breath, hoping the ecosystem I have interrupted will continue despite my presence. I pick my way over familiar slabs of rock and fallen logs, noticing the decay of certain once-firm crossings. Time has reached this place. Somehow I never thought it could.

When I reach the spring, the well is dry. Further up, the corrugated sheet metal that once protected the source is cast aside and silt and leaves have clogged up this gateway into the earth. Water, most stubborn of elements, continues to trickle through the mud, finding its way gradually into the stream and eventually out to sea. I kneel and lift a handful of silt from the hole, running it through my fingers, massaging it into the kitchen cuts and scrapes on my hands. If anything could heal me, it would be this. I cover myself to my wrists, working the mud over and into my skin. It feels good, and the smell of it is primitive and familiar. I find a spot nearby in the sun, turn my face and dyed hands to the rays, and I don’t move until I can feel the mud dry and crack on my skin. My body one again has absorbed this place, made it a part of my self like it always has been. When I open my eyes, there are tiny cracked trails running over my palms like a new layer of fortune to be told. I carefully, slowly, wash my hands clean in the creek, watching the dust become mud again and sink in the water. I feel a tumultuous part of myself settle with it.

I take the trail back downstream.

Toto, we’re not in Washington anymore. That particular shade of emerald has been replaced by varying degrees of gold, brown and dark green; the sky is a different hue of blue, more subtle, more reflective of gold than the emerald of the north. There is smog. I forgot that most major cities have smog.

Everything feels so industrial, so spread out, so dependent on cars to get anywhere, both more diverse and more segregated. The cultural pockets of almost every nation are larger here, solidly sprouted, growing. Seattle feels lacking in diversity by comparison. I’m enjoying the change, the lowered cars, the Latino, African-American and Muslim culture at every turn. Makes me feel like part of something, like my local sphere of awareness has just been shot exponentially outwards. In that sense I am realizing what stepping out of Seattle will accomplish. This is my goal, isn’t it? To see the world. To become a member of international society and gain perspective on my own life. Oh, right, and to save up enough money to pay off my student loan debts and give myself a leg-up financially. To at least be able to say I have ‘savings’, not just checking account back-up.

Money, status, materialism is suddenly a major, daily part of life. It’s no surprise to feel it at full strength here: this is the birthplace of tech, home to Stanford, Berkeley, dot coms, innovation. The expanse of it makes Seattle feel like a little sister by comparison. Put in check over Skype last night, I’m also part of a different social group, spending time in a new financial and cultural sphere. Of course materialism will feel more prominent outside of my generation’s Goodwill-based fashion scene. Want a laugh? Check out this music video of ‘Thrift Shop’ by my favorite Seattle hip-hop artist, Macklemore. http://youtu.be/QK8mJJJvaes. If anyone finds adult-sized batman onesies, email me immediately. I’m a size L.

Living at home again is completely and utterly bizarre. It’s kind of like moving in with an incredibly generous roommate who knows you too well. It’s difficult to maintain independence, emotional and financial, while relying so much on the generosity of others. The internal struggle is immense. It would be so easy to slip back into childhood habits, but it’s more complicated than that now. I left Seattle with such a solid sweat-and-blood foundation of independence and strength under me, and I’m going to need that more than ever in the months ahead. As much as I want to, I can’t seem to let my guard down. A defense mechanism, surely. Letting myself freely rely on others now will just make it harder later when there is only me, myself and I, won’t it? To be clear, I couldn’t accomplish this huge change without the support of my parents. Whether or not they actually believed I would go through with it (let’s face it, they deserve their doubts), once the train started moving they have all jumped on board running. I feel grateful for my life, the opportunities I have. The people I know who love and support me, my families both here and up north. Perhaps that’s why I’m in such a great place to start this adventure: I’m not running from anything. The flight deck has been thoroughly checked and we are ready for launch. Or at least a parent-pillowed controlled leap.

And I’ve made it to California.

Last night we camped at Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park. Almost everywhere we stop Dad says, “You’ve been here before.” And while I can’t remember the time, the place is familiar on a cellular level. The giant redwoods make me feel miniscule and historically unimportant and safe, like if they can withstand so much time, so can I. I grew up in the redwoods; they were part of my consciousness as I developed a sense of it. It’s been a decade since they’ve been part of my day-to-day existence, and once again among them I revert to my childhood self. Makes me want to go build forts, pretend to live in that burned out center of the biggest tree I can find.

Think My Side of the Mountain. That was me in my head. When it’s dicey in the city, I’m always looking for hollowed-out trees.

We pull into the campground and the camp hosts are two giant elk bucks, one grazing and one sitting, making calm eye contact with me. Even in a rig like ours he is unfazed. Guess he also has a better grasp of time and transcendence than I do. That or campers feed them and I’m just a meal ticket in a giant white truck.

As we maneuver into our camp site, they lazily move out of the way, but barely. The greenest grass is right here and if we want this site, well, that’s our problem. We fight for it because the pavement is most level, and we need the refrigerator to work. It’s all relative.

Waking up this morning, the world is mist and we see our first glimpse of sun. It’s otherworldly, and indeed, I am in another world.

We drive on, and soon the Pacific (glory!) fills the windshield. The sun is blinding after days in the trees and rain. It makes my eyes water, everything sparkle, and the ocean seem even more blue than I remember. Time for a dip into the camper to make squirt sandwiches (that’s when you squirt the condiments directly from the tube) and we are back on the road—mouths full, eyes full, hearts full. Like with redwoods, I have direct strings tied from my heart to this giant body of water, holding me in place. Soon I will be looking at it from the east, while my whole life I’ve used it to subconsciously know which way was west. Strange.

We get to where we’re going, which isn’t where we set out for. That’s the nature of a wander, I guess. I take some alone time on the north shore of Lake Mendocino, and pull out my laptop on a picnic table under a giant oak tree. THUNK. Acorn bombs. I type faster. THUNK! This could potentially be worse than sitting under a pigeon-strung telephone wire. THUNK. Ok, down jacket-armor back on, laptop lid bent towards me to fend off potential ricochets. Adapting. Refusing to move. I need to be in one place for a while.

I make my first call back to Seattle. Eli has a way of getting right to the heart of what I’m thinking, and I want to process out loud, connect back to something familiar. It’s good to hear his voice. We talk about my trip, and the elk, and the books we are reading. I try to ignore how far my voice is being hurtled through space to get to him. It’s dark by now in Seattle and only just dusk here.

As the sun dips further behind the mountains, I gather myself to pack up and head up to our campsite. We are tucked in the oaks and manzanita and I know if I don’t start the climb up the hill now, I’ll have to pick my way up the campground road until I see the white blur of the camper in the darkness. Hopefully Dad has beat me back and left a light on.

When camping, the fall of the sun usually means dinner, a date with a good book, and a few more hours of sleep than I normally get. Looking forward to it. On to Oakland tomorrow.