Coast redwoods will never die
The tallest tree in the world lives six hours from Stanford, California.
But finding him is not easy. The tree’s name is Hyperion, and his home is a damp canyon in Northern California, miles away from all trails, roads, or markings. The exact location is kept hidden and a newly enforced six-month jail sentence deters nearly all trespassers.
Two years ago, right before visits to Hyperion were officially made illegal, I set out to find the giant myself. It’s a rainy November evening when I arrive at the trailhead and meet up with my friend Adin, a gentle Oregon man who shares my wilderness cravings. We have deep rivers to cross on our way to Hyperion, and Adin is one of the few people I trust to fish me out of the water if something goes wrong. I can’t quite say the same of the three backpacking newbies I brought along with me: Maxwell, Talal, and Hippolyte, all of whom share a preference for more urban habitats. But these are my best friends, and nothing makes me happier than seeing them on a trail.
It only takes about 12 minutes for our gentle stroll to turn into a crisis. The stream I had counted on being a trickle is instead a torrent. Everyone gets soaked during an attempted crossing which leads us nowhere. And everyone gets soaked again when we give up and cross back. I get some nasty looks from my friend Max, who mumbles to himself never to trust me again. It’s dark, we are all freezing, and there are fresh bear tracks all over the riverbank. But we have no choice: this is home sweet home for the night.
The following day, we venture off trail and our search for Hyperion truly begins. I’m leading the way through the brush. I had found some tips on the tree’s location from dusty corners of the internet, so I recognize an old stump, a boulder, a slope, that tell me we are on the right track.
People have followed these steps before. The Yurok, the Chilula, and their ancestors knew these forests as their home. To them, redwood meant shelter, life and sustenance. The Yurok never cut down redwood trees themselves – they always waited for them to fall. It would take about seven years, then, for a fallen tree to be carved into a canoe. And before the canoe was ever set afloat, a human heart, or some other organ, would be placed on the carved surface. The Yurok understood, maybe more intuitively than any of us, that wood is alive, and that the things we make from it should be at least as beautiful as the trees from which it came.
In 1855, redwood timber was sold for the first time in San Francisco. It was a hit. Redwood is flexible, fireproof, and rot-resistant. These qualities would be the species’ downfall. Over the next century, logging claimed 96% of all coast redwoods. Trees older than Christianity were felled in less time than it takes to roast a turkey.
My little group is silent. Part of it is nerves — we’ve strayed from the trail and will need to retrace our steps — but most of it is awe. The grove through which we’re walking defies all sense of scale and logic. Each of the trees here tops 350 feet. And Hyperion, now standing before us, is just one giant among others. Without the landmarks that tell me we’ve arrived, there’d be no way to know that we were standing under the tallest being on the surface of the Earth.
We greet the tree with open arms. Maybe just by chance, Hyperion narrowly escaped the steam saw. Some of its neighbors, mighty stumps just 500 feet away, were not so lucky. Mere weeks before Hyperion was scheduled to be felled, a room of lawmakers 2,500 miles away in Washington granted federal protection to the region known today as Redwood National Park. But this is only part of the story.
My friends hold Hyperion in their arms, and I watch him hold them back. The coast redwood’s Latin name is Sequoia sempervirens, meaning “always alive.” There is love in that name, like in the one a parent gives their child. It reminds me of those who loved redwoods before me, those people who put their bodies between the beings they loved and the claws of machines come to take them. Strangers fought for these trees, and for us to be able to see them. Without them, nothing.
I thank them for their kindness.
Will Dwyer (2023 cohort) is a Knight-Hennessy scholar pursuing a PhD in biology at Stanford. He studies plant life, its molecular underpinnings, and its complex interactions with the environment. Will is an avid writer and the lead editor of The Good Scientists. Through storytelling, he aims to share his love of the Earth with whoever will listen.
Knight-Hennessy scholars represent a vast array of cultures, perspectives, and experiences. While we as an organization are committed to elevating their voices, the views expressed are those of the scholars, and not necessarily those of KHS.
