Planning for my Accidental Death

Planning for my Unexpected Death in Sequoia National Park

I’m writing this on the front porch of cabin number 1 at Grant’s Grove, King’s Canyon and Sequoia National Parks. The cabins are very quaint, with shake roofs and uneven floors. A marble dropped in the bathroom would roll right out the front door. The porch is wide and deep with chairs for those of us who can’t bear to go inside. The sky is getting dark and the Sequoias are…they are just SO BIG. AND TALL. Not sure how else to put it. They are huge, with this delightfully lightweight spongy bark that is exactly the red color of my son’s hair. The kid reported the presence of sap. Is this the time of year for sap? I wouldn’t have thought so, but I was happy he finally put his Nintendo down and went into the woods to look at the trees. So we have sap!

The Sequoias don’t look like anything else on the planet, and this place, high in the Sierra Nevadas, is also unlike anyplace else on earth. Just after the ranger station, we slowed to watch two teenaged bears show off for the tourists- they climbed about six feet up the tree trunk, then bent over, hanging by their legs, looking at the cars and people upside down. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. I felt like calling their mother to report what they were up to.

The trees live in groves, and I don’t really understand how they group themselves, since I am standing around like a fool with my mouth open, marveling at how BIG THEY ARE. I did sneak into the forest and hug some trees. My mother claims I wandered away from our family campsite when I was 3 or 4, and she found me hugging a Sequoia. I don’t remember that, but the trees today were in little groups, twos and threes, like they were having a chat. I hugged a group of three ladies, and while I was doing that, my son was peeing on one giant Sequoia he found in the grove all alone. He claimed he could not wait until we got to the visitor’s center, but I have my doubts. I think he was like a little red-headed bobcat marking his territory. I swear, sometimes boys make me want to scream. Tomorrow we are going to hike to Grant’s Tree, the National Christmas Tree, a youngster at 1800 to 2000 years old.

The mountain road was very narrow and twisty, and we climbed so high we were driving through the clouds, and they smelled like snow. My son looked at my legs- bare in shorts and flip flops, as we had spent last night in Las Vegas and I had been driving all day to get here. He suggested I might want to make a better choice next time. To pay him back, I put on his new sweatshirt from the Grand Canyon and that did the job. The air up here smells like snow and pine and redwood, and something about it resonates in my memory and makes me feel like crying. I am starting to suspect my mother’s story is true. I have smelled this smell before. Or maybe this is the air I want to smell when I die. Can we request that we be put out to pasture in one of the distant groves, and let the Sequoias watch over us when we take our final breath? I wouldn’t mind letting my final mineral deposits feed one of these trees. I can’t help but notice that the very nice porch I am sitting on is made out of a sweet-smelling, reddish colored wood. I think it would be a fair trade. I should do some research. There are probably federal laws detailing the administration of deaths in the National Parks, but frankly, King’s Canyon has places only seen by the hawks and the bears.

The kid informs me we are in the wrong place. He shows me a book in the bookstore that details the differences between the Giant Sequoias and the Coastal Redwoods. Duh! I did think they were the same tree! We ARE in the wrong place, since I was supposed to take him to see the redwoods! But I am in love with this place, and these beautiful, quiet, huge old trees with their soft bark, these trees that let everyone hug them, 3,000 years of hugs.

We got our stickers at the gift shops after I read the book that told me I was in the wrong place. We have these suitcases with aluminum sides, very sturdy, and I know it’s corny, but we put stickers on the suitcases whenever we go places. Besides the National Park stickers, which are the majority, I have one that says, “My Life is Based on a True Story,” and the kid has one that says “Boise Zombie Response Team.” He also has one that says, “I heart Key Lime Pie.” But we’ve been going to the National Parks for some time now, usually when I am close to a nervous breakdown, and the stickers range geographically from Big Bend in Texas, through the southwest—Navajo country, Arches and Canyonlands near Moab, Grand Tetons and Yellowstone, Lake Powell, Glacier, Denali, and a few others. Now we’re forging up the Sierra Nevadas. I’ve avoided California for years, thinking there were too many people. That may be a valid point, but wherever the Californians are, they did not face down that twisty little mountain road on a Tuesday in October. The park is wonderfully empty, other than the trees that have lived here for 3,000 years, and some bears that are acting up. And a mom and boy who are, for the moment, getting along.