![]() Sitting squarely on top of a small wooden bungalow across the street from Henry Cowell is a large cartoonish sign reading, “Bigfoot Discovery Museum.” I’ve noticed it before, but never had the time or inclination to investigate. It is comforting, but also eerie.Īs I trudge down the tree-lined path something catches my eye. The state’s dryness has not reached this inner sanctum, yet. The trees are still magnificent and moss covered the ground is still slick and damp with pine needles. Today in the grove, I cannot identify anything out of the ordinary. I’d sit in the old grove for a while, eat a sandwich and then stop for chai. While studying at UC Santa Cruz, I cycled up the train tracks from Santa Cruz weekly, jumping off at the sound of oncoming train whistles, and watching, precariously balanced between train and cliff, until it was safe to climb back up onto the tracks. Have the needles turned brown? Have the birds fled the trees altogether? I stop outside Henry Cowell and hike in, curious if the drought is affecting the old growth grove in ways like the Coho salmon has been choked off. Felton, a town of just over 4,000 people, has a lot to offer: the cheapest gas for miles, Pyrex-rich thrift stores, Larry’s Famous Chai and Henry Cowell State Park - home to an impressive grove of old-growth coastal redwoods. I have decided to take Highway 9, rather than the treacherous Highway 17, so that I can stop in my favorite mountain spot seven miles outside of Santa Cruz proper. The clouds expand milky and thin across the horizon in a menacing sort of way: California is in a drought, the likes of which have not been seen in over 500 years - with no water restrictions put into play, just a polite request from the governor to reduce water use by twenty percent. The day is warm and muggy, which would be normal if it weren’t February. I’m on my way back to Oakland from Santa Cruz. Thousands of creatures with both a place and a purpose rendered immobile. They are waiting, stranded in the ocean, unable to jump the many sand banks that block their way up the rivers and streams of Northern California where they spawn. ![]() ![]() NPR is telling me that the Coho salmon may go extinct.
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