The Redwood Man of Boulder Creek

Some people just don't need a lot of things to find their bliss.

Photo by Maulana on Unsplash

Every day, I'd see him walking down Highway Nine, dressed in olive drab and a small daypack on his back. Not strolling or marching. A pace somewhere in-between. Finally, I saw him in the local library. Lisa Griest, the librarian, handed him the books she had just scanned to put in that pack. Maybe there was food in there too, the market being only a block down the road.

The olive drabs hung on him in threadbare wrinkles. A scruffy, matted beard obscured his face, graying like a roan horse to match the hair that held a greenish tint to its dusty hue.

While he didn't make eye contact as he brushed by me, there was no trace of madness or malcontent in his demeanor. Just a man going about his business.

After the miasma of body odor dissipated, I peppered Lisa with questions I'd stored up since I first saw him walking about two miles from town. Holding up her hands in surrender, she said, "I really don't know much about him. I've heard he spent several years as a trial lawyer, then one day walked out of the courtroom and never returned."

"That's understandable," I nodded.

Many a corporate refugee had sought shelter in the Santa Cruz Mountains. During a train ride from Felton to the Beach Boardwalk, I spotted a few blue tarps crumpled among the redwoods along the track. This was back in the 1980s, the Ronald Reagan Era when the word "homeless" became household jargon. The Skid Row culture was listing into middle-class territory, plaguing many towns with tent encampments populated by people who no longer accepted the mortgage-burdened status quo. Many of these folks were young and able-bodied, checking out of our society's race to the bottom. They wanted something different, but there didn't seem to be a clear definition of what that would be. Called "alternative lifestyle," adherents made it up as they went along.

"What's more," Lisa continued while alphabetizing the books on the shelving cart, "I think he lives in a redwood tree up by the new school." That was only a mile from my house and where I usually saw him on the road.

Trip Advisor photo

I began fantasizing about his unique domicile. Near the entrance to Big Basin State Park, there is a gigantic redwood dubbed the "Mother of the Forest." A long, vaginal opening allows people to climb inside her round hollow belly. Inside was a hardpan dirt floor, making a dry and cozy refuge from the damp winters. A small opening opposite the "doorway" could serve as a smoke hole. The fire-resistant bark would probably contain a campfire if the camper didn't spend time getting stoned.

I imagined, at least I hoped, the man's tree would be somewhat like The Mother, caressing him in her huge, ancient self while the Anthrocene Era strided purposefully toward apocalypse. Judging by his haphazard hygiene, though, his life lacked comforts and needs that most of us take for granted. In fact, many of us get in a tizzy when the water or power isn't available. There's minimalism and then there's the Redwood Man's living conditions.

Some people seem quite happy without a lot of stuff, relishing the accomplishment of living only with what one needs. It's an exercise that people sometimes do to relieve themselves of all the piles of acquired stuff teetering over them. I guessed that this man found relief as well as comfort in purging himself of objects as well as an angst-ridden occupation. Whatever he absolutely needed could be found in the local library and grocery store. Food and books inside a cozy redwood tree.

It's been decades since I saw the Redwood Man. I wonder if he's still alive? Or has he upgraded his lifestyle to a van or RV, roaming the country with other nomads? Is he still enjoying his natural hermitage in the woods? Or did he discover a need for a more social lifestyle and the thrill of a courtroom victory?

We humans are a circular species, aren't we? What would you carry in your backpack? Or van. Or would you upgrade?

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