No one bothered to tell me I had climbed a beanstalk. Before I could breathe, there were giants all around me. Yet, they were quiet, with a visage of green and red, and a belly full of oxygen. They were the biggest trees I had ever seen, with girths bigger than the swatting range of a grizzly. My life felt different after seeing this ... natural fairyland.

I felt guilty for every wood chopped, every paper inked, for TV, for couch surfing, and for not getting out in the wild more.

Five years ago, I came into the Redwoods without an inkling of respect. The campgrounds were full, and we felt the spoiled call of the motel. It was a sign that our band of four was not ready for Nature’s Eden. Before we headed for comfort, I got out on the side of the road for my friend to take a picture of me with a giant. Feeling cocky (thanks to cheap beer), I climbed 10 feet up and onto a thick branch. I hammed it up for my laughing friends and didn’t realize that my foot had crossed the line between matter and air. I crashed; back first, into a mattress of ferns and needles. I wasn’t injured in the least, but I got the message:

“Get your ass out of here, tiny sapling,” the mighty tree seemed to tell me. “Don’t come back until you have a little respect.”

I recalled the warning as Kirstie and I descended down onto the Northern California Coast. The clouds had created a gray skirt on the lip of the shrinking mountain. The further down we got, the bluer the underbelly. Way off in the distance, I saw the trademark shape of the Redwoods. The clouds had become a memory. Subtle sunshine and big boys became the landscape. The heat had disappeared with the clouds. The temperature read 65 degrees. It was early July, mid-day, and it felt like spring.

Then we came upon the ocean. Cold, unforgiving, and enrapturing. Juts of seastacks towered around the crushing waves. It reminded me of a persistent horde of soldiers, trying to break down one last fort. The waves would signal a small victory by lopping off a minute chunk of the stacks. The rewards of persistence will come. The stacks will crumble in a thousand or so years. The ocean will remain.

We spent the night in Eureka, an old fishing/industrial community that’s gone the way of tourism. The downtown has been remodeled into trendy shops, seafood restaurants, and bricked walkways. The center, however, has retained some of its seaside charm. The marina has become a small park, where sightseers or locals can walk the bricks, or sit by the docks and watch the boats laze by.

Eureka still seems trapped between industry commerce and the new ecologically minded consumerism. Fisherman and loggers coexist with natty dreads and tree worshippers. Nearby Humboldt State University (located in Arcata, nine miles away) is a bastion for the enviro-conscious, and one of the reasons that Eureka is looking to preserve.

Our time in Eureka was spent finding out where to go in the Redwoods. The overwhelming majority told us to head to Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park. We only had to look into the twinkled eyes of our informers to know that this was true.

Our drive to Prairie Creek was punctuated by steely blue beaches blowing kisses to the protective mountains. As we turned onto the entrance, we came across the Elk Meadow Day Use Site. On either side of us were herds of elk, snacking on the acres of foliage.

The Elk Meadow is best known for its “destruction” of a man-made site. After WWII (1948), the new Arcata Redwood Company was in full chop. The standout of the mill was the size of its deck — eight acres of pavement or the equivalent of six football fields. The whole area was home to piles of ancient felled Redwoods. Logging had begun in this forest in 1850. What started as 2 million acres has dwindled down to 4 percent of the original (3 percent preserved on public lands, 1 percent privately owned and managed). Of that amount, 45 percent of the remaining old growth is in the Redwood National and State Park.

The Elk Meadow is one of those little victories that do sprout up. The national park was created in 1968, and this new restoration dwindled timber sales. The Arcata Company subsequently shut down in 1970. In 1991, the park acquired the property, and then the deck in 1996. Workers began to cover the “sores” with three acres of wetland and 650 feet of stream channel, which were buried under the log decks. Bulldozers then dug up the continent of asphalt, and then recycled it as base material for the new parking lot and picnic areas.

The geologists then had excavators dig down to the original soils on the hillside. The retrieval was enough to fill 3,000 trucks. The whole intention was to restore the land to its pre-mill days. Before too long, a wildlife habitat had been reborn. Roosevelt elk (which had teetered at the brink of extinction) began to graze at the pastures. The resuscitated stream channel has become a rearing domicile for cutthroat trout and salmon.

After spilling off a roll of film, we headed for Gold Bluffs Beach, a campground in the interior of Prairie Creek. We lamented the fact that we would have neighbors on all sides. Car campgrounds usually are. But our neighborly instincts returned when we saw the innards of our eco-hotel. Golden banks were interspersed by the colossal Redwoods and all the plant life they protect underneath their massive canopies.

The beach to our left was absent of any humans. No blasting stereos, no lifeguard on half duty, no Jeeps trying to conquer an uncaring dune. Nothing. Just my partner and me letting the frigid ocean water lick our feet.

Near dusk, we decided to do the very short Fern Canyon loop. Only a mile from our campsite, the Fern Canyon is considered the “crown jewel” of Prairie Creek. It’s also accessible to virtually anyone. Wooden and pebbled footpaths make up the whole trail, and steps are provided for any vertical ascent. It’s also a short walk (.8 miles) through one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

Fern Canyon is like a region still trapped in the heydays of magic, elves and dragon dens. The canyon is appropriately named because the high-rise cliffs seem to be made of ferns. And these aren’t the cutesy little ones we see in WNC. Some ran the length of my body, each one dripping with the moisture that enshrouds the canyon. The Redwoods around the fern fence made the area all the more mythical. I felt the urge to throw down my knapsack, find a shiny suit of armor that I knew was hidden in one of the hollowed out trees, and dash off on some unforeseen adventure.

The real world came crashing back when we found darkness collaborating with our growling stomachs. We finished the night out on the beach, listening to a noisy surf whose audience numbered two.

Weary of human contact, we spent our second night in one of the environmental campgrounds. These are never full (even in the peak season), and they’re highly recommended for folks who don’t have time for the backcountry but desire privacy. The sites we chose were a quarter mile walk from the car. In the center (before the trails went off to three separate sites) was a convenient bear locker. Each site trail wound through the trees and onto campsites encircled in moss and a lethargic creek.

After setting up camp, we decided on the Friendship Trail/Coastal Trail Loop. The loop was a healthy eight miles, and it gave us a welcome contrast of beach and mountains. I’ve passed through many tree groves, and none have come close to what I saw back there. I expected patches, intermittent tufts of large trees complemented by many smaller ones. Within a mile, every tree was enormous. I tried to embrace them all. I knew my hug was inconsequential; it would take at least 10 of me to warmly encircle the biggest. Large plants that resembled the ancient diets of the brontosaurus tickled our legs.

This was old growth, a monument to what would have happened if we didn’t have a desire for everything wooden. I imagined how much easier it would be to breathe; how our continent’s cycle might be more in tune if there were more of these big boys around.

What is old growth? The ones in the Pacific Northwest are comprised of large conifers that age from 250 years to over a 1,000. Twenty-five conifer species are found in the ecosystem, with the largest being in the Redwoods of Northern California. Dead or alive, the Redwoods are crucial to its surroundings. The huge trunks can usually survive a fire, thanks to their ability to be reservoirs, which hold thousands of gallons. The trees’ uneven canopies are equipped for trapping moisture, even when a fog is thinned by the dry months.

Fallen logs take up to 500 years to decay, providing dozens of species with long standing homes. The phosphorous and nitrogen from the dead tree seeps into the ground, giving heaps of nutrients to the ravenous trees and saplings.

We were experiencing life uninterrupted. It’s amazing that a simple thing of even give and take sustains everything — animals, bacteria, insects, plants, and (from time to time) humans. Life, destruction and death exist the way it should be. Each is equally practical, because they all serve a greater purpose — the continued growth of the natural world.

After several hours among the sun-smothered giants, our trail rapidly descended onto a huge open savannah, which connected, to the beach. We walked maybe a half-mile when we noticed a legion of brown spots moving amongst the tall grass. I didn’t think much about it until I came within 10 feet of an 800-pound bull elk. The lifting of his mossy ferns angled and then turned in my direction. Like a cue from an orchestra director, 30 or more heads turned to attention. They were all focused on the google-eyed, pasty-hued humans that had dared traverse onto their eating table.

“Eeep!” was all I could muster. Bull elks are highly protective of their harem. Close vicinity to a bull elk can incite aggression. I cooed sweet nothings to the mammoth, and we walked back into the woods, cutting a huge path around the herd.

Just when we got out of site of the pack, we came across another, and then another. Kicked pebbles sounded like fire alarms, each harem and overseer gazing in our direction. As nervous as we were, we felt the privilege of traipsing amongst the wild beasts.

We found our way back to the car by twilight. It all seemed unreal. Everything was so huge and so alive; and our greeter at the end was the constant ocean. Never-ending, forever seeking, the ocean is always watching out for a forest that has retained its million-year personality.