"And the stars are projectors, yeah, projecting our lives down to this planet Earth." - Modest Mouse
I rode up into Henry Cowell State Park today. It's practically across the street from my house so I ride there a lot. The lowest part of the park wraps around the San Lorenzo river, lined with tall redwoods and thick fern beds. As you ascend up through the hills the dense forest gradually yields to madrone & manzanita & oaks, the wet dirt of the woods becoming loose white sand broken from the sandstone. Up on top it starts getting hot this time of year but the view over the park and out to sea is fantastic.
One of the power spots I like to ride to is this tall skeleton of a pine tree, which I call the Ghost Tree, for reasons which are hopefully apparent from the pics. It's a powerful old husk, far taller than anything else up there, frozen in time like a whisp of smoke from a forgotten past or a dessicated wand whose final spell was it's own passing. Why it hasn't fallen is beyond me. It's dead roots must run deep into those hills, reaching down below the sandstone into the red earth like the thin white fingers of an aged old wizard, straining to hold the wild blood of Life.
Today three hawks circled near the tree, held aloft by the warm currents rising from the sunburnt sand.
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