Sig Nordal

A leisurely stroll through this spectacular grove of Redwoods culminated my recent first outing down to northern California in search of the finest specimens possible of these magnificent trees. In the midst of scoping out the various compositions in the area, examining every tree for potential bark abstracts, and scrutinizing every fern for perfect symmetry, a sudden foreign sound echoed through the forest.

Someone was beating on a frame drum.

The area was thought to be devoid of other people, at least after passing a family walking out to the one car in the parking area while on my way in. So it was a bit of a letdown to suddenly hear an alto acoustic guitar start to pick up in rhythm to the frame drum.

And then the chanting. For the love of all that is good and pure in the world, oh my god the chanting. It was as if the most infectious ear worm you could possibly imagine was born and raised in solitary confinement in the middle of a Whole Foods. It was everything that was wrong in this world, all rolled into one patchouli scented song. And these two hippies who were leaning against one of the biggest trees in the grove, were rocking out as if they had not a care in the world.

It took me five days to forget that song with any success. I have to immediately put headphones on and crank something dark and heavy every now and then when it returns.

If this weren’t such an awesome spot, I might have been permanently scarred from ever returning to this grove by the experience.

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