The air is bitterly cold and the light dim this deep in the forest heart, fresh snow lays on the ground from a recent downfall and squelches under our boots as we walk. There are no sounds of civilization close enough to hear, only the woods and its inhabitants break the eerie silence, the wind rustling the leaves, a deer softly passing and an old hooting owl high above sleeping the day away.
The rough scratchy bark of the impressive Sequoia trees appears scarred with rifts and valleys upon its surface, like a road map, lines run up and down its mighty trunk. So powerfully straight and proud it stands before us, charmingly red in the sea of green. Mother natures old faithful giants of the forest world.