#Fern Canyon

[cha-nis]

Fern Canyon, The Redwoods, California

[itseyentait]

I don't have prints for this yet, but here's a design I made for a Fern Canyon postcard. It's an amazing place to visit.

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep38

Eureka, California - One Month Ago

One of the great joys of traveling alone on a motorcycle is the ability to make questionable life choices and not have to explain yourself to anyone. Want fish tacos from the greasiest spoon in Tijuana? Go for it. Cold beer at the roughest biker bar in Barstow? No one is going to stop you. Chase the dragon and have a threesome with a couple of strippers? Try to stop me.

What is my secret indulgence you ask? Shitty hotels. And not just any shitty hotels, but specifically Motel 6 shitty hotels. Why? Because it incentivizes you to spend the absolute least amount of time actually in the hotel. You see, Motel 6’s are always clean, sparsely decorated but well kept, and impossibly cheap. When you check into a Motel 6, the rooms are so devoid of character they’re more like a jail cell than a hotel room. So you immediately want to slip on a pair of walking shoes and explore the town. So that’s what I do. Are Best Westerns and Hiltons nicer? Yes! Very much so. But if I check into a nice hotel I’ll be too comfortable and just end up falling asleep in my sox while watching dirty movies on my iPad.

Motel 6, for me, is mostly a win. But there is a catch. They don’t offer breakfast, which is why I find myself sat here on a vinyl booth in a diner next to the highway in Eureka enjoying sausage, a waffle with warm maple syrup and drip coffee from a mug that looks like it has been in use since 1974. The booths are seated back to back, so every time the person behind me shifts their weight I can feel it under my seat too. It’s like being on a blow up mattress … when one goes up the other goes down.

The waitress is dropping off the bill to the person seated behind me, and as much as I try to mind my own business, I inadvertently eavesdrop on the exchange.

“Well that’s a fancy looking camera you got there. You don’t see many of them things no more on account of all these iPhones” the waitress says.

“Oh thanks” the diner replies in a pleasant, feminine voice. “It was my dad’s, he was a war correspondent in Vietnam and he handed the camera down to me in his will … when he passed.”

“Well God bless you for using it young lady, I’m sure that’s what your daddy would have wanted you to do” the waitress tells her. “So where ya headed?”

“Just going north along the coast. Going to see what I see” the diner replies.

“Well everyone stops at Paul Bunyan, but if I were you, I’d stop at Fern Canyon. It’s our little secret spot round here” the waitress advises.

“Oh, great tip!” the diner says.

“Well hey darling, that’s why I’m here … I’m working for great tips” the waitress jokes. It’s funny enough that it makes me begin to laugh but I pretend to cough quietly so that I don’t out myself for eavesdropping. I feel the vinyl booth bounce up and down a couple of times while the diner behind me wiggles out of the seat, then she walks past me to the cash register to pay her bill. I can only see her backside, but she’s a slender blonde wearing a white sweater and big clompy hiking boots with red laces. The waitress warms up my coffee and services my table, and by the time I look back at the cash register the lady in the white sweater is gone.

The Northern California coastline has notoriously cold mornings, so there’s no rush to get on the motorcycle. I enjoy my warm coffee refill, and with any luck, I’ll have a good shit before hitting the road.

—

One of the great pitfalls of traveling alone on a motorcycle is the ability to make questionable life choices and not have to explain yourself to anyone. About an hour after leaving the restaurant I’m sixty miles north of Eureka on Highway 1 and I am seriously regretting the second and third cups of coffee. I keep telling myself I’ll stop at the next little town, but around here, there are no little towns. I decide that I’m going to exit the highway at the next possible opportunity and pee right there on the offramp, in front of God and everybody, if that’s what I have to do.

As fate would have it, the next offramp is the exit to Fern Canyon. I swing the bike off of the road, then turn left at the stop sign, go under the highway and ride to a spot where the road disappears under a canopy of redwoods, where I absolutely drench a patch of sword ferns in piss. After zipping up, I take a moment to look around. The road has a very strong “Jurassic Park” vibe to it and I’m intrigued to see where it leads.

From where the bike is parked I can see that the pavement ends, so I decide to attack the road like it is a stage of the Paris-Dakar Rally. I stand on the pegs of the Ducati and burst through each corner with wide open throttle, letting the rear tire fishtail across the dirt. I’m having so much fun riding with reckless abandon that I completely forget that this a sightseeing tour. When I reach the coast there’s an empty toll booth where the mountain road meets the beach, so I roar through at full throttle and head north along the sandy beach road leaving huge roosts of sand flying behind me. “Woooo hoooooo” I’m howling to myself inside the helmet as the road drops out from underneath me and the motorcycle goes KER-SPLOOSH across a wide creek with fast moving water that is crossing the road. The bike launches up the embankment on the other side and after another few hundred yards the road comes to an abrupt end at a little dirt cul-de-sac where a few cars are parked. My adrenaline is pumping, so I park the Ducati, rip off my helmet and let out my loudest Viking war cry.

“Valhalla!!!”

The cry echoes off of the cliff wall and out onto the Pacific Ocean. “They’re hear that one in Japan” I joke to myself smugly. It’s only been 15 minutes since my pee break but coffee number three is already telling my bladder “it’s time to go” so I relieve myself next to a foot trail with a hilarious yellow caution sign depicting a tourist getting mauled by an angry elk.

In keeping with the theories that there are no roads to nowhere and there’s no such thing as the end of the road, I decide to follow the trail to see if there is actually a Fern Canyon around here somewhere. There are a few elk grazing in the meadows so I proceed with caution and after about thousand or so feet I’m relieved when a crack in the canyon wall turns out to be the entrance to Fern Canyon. There’s a fair amount of water running in and through the canyon, so there’s no actual path up the canyon. You have to rock hop across the stream from bank to bank and scurry upriver where you can. It is quickly apparent that anyone attempting ingress here must be willing to have wet feet. I’m in my only pair of motorcycle boots for the trip, so I’m doing my best to stay dry.

Fern Canyon is otherworldly. The slate walls are almost jet black and glossy from the water that is seeping out of them. Bright emerald green vines and sword ferns cover the walls in patterns that look like nature’s own fractal geometry experiment. It truly has a unique vibe unto itself. If a stegosaurus came rambling down the canyon it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. I rock-hop across the stream and then scurry upriver on each embankment and I make it about 200 feet into the canyon. I have forgotten about the terrorizing elk in the pasture because I’m having completely irrational fears of a twelve foot tall lizard appearing at the mouth of the canyon, with six inch fangs and a taste for human blood, so my heart leaps into my throat when there is movement on the horizon.

I freeze in my tracks, having momentarily convinced myself that dinosaurs could exist, even though they’ve been extinct for 65 million years. But it turns out to be the girl with the white sweater from the coffee shop. I finally get a look at her face. Perfection is an understatement. She’s has the kind of natural beauty that I just adore. She has bright intelligent eyes, with no makeup or signs of plastic surgery. Her face is pure, natural and wholesome. More “olympian” looking than “influencer.” She’s deftly hopping from rock to rock, but doesn’t flinch when her big leather waffle stompers get drenched with missteps. Her strawberry hair is dancing from side to side and she has a hand steadying the Leica camera hanging around her neck. She has the grace and poise of an athlete. I’m paralyzed with intrigue watching her as she heads toward me. She eventually gives up on criss-crossing and just stomps her big leather boots right down the middle of the creek directly toward me. When she reaches my embankment she glances up and gives me a polite “Good morning.” I smile sheepishly but can’t muster up a reply, as I am completely smitten.

She raises the camera to her face and snaps a photo of me whilst I stand there in awe of her. Is this a random act of documentation or can she sense that I’m standing here falling head of heels in love with her at first sight? She never stops moving, but she does take a glance down at my dry motorcycle boots and without skipping a beat she plunges her big leather boots into the creek and says “Keep those feet dry!” as she walks away.

[hugoina]

Fern Canyon, The Redwoods, California

[alexmurison]

Lud's Church, Peak District National Park

[housecow]

going to be devastatingly real. i don’t care about the paleozoic. i don’t care about the cambrian explosion. the carboniferous rainforest collapse is MAYBE intriguing at best and goddamn if i don’t get tired hearing about fucking lepidodendron “trees.” mesozoic and cenozoic always win >>>>

[throughthemeadowflowers]

Witches Gulch, Wisconsin

[teganorsara]

milk crates — pigeon pit

like a dog tugging on a rope I don't even know where I'd go if they let go is that a train?

[aisling-saoirse]

Above and Below, Watkins Glen, NY - July 2nd 2024

[crudlynaturephotos]

[emperornorton47]

Ferns in a frame

[waffliesinyoface]

catching up on the last few episodes, i just realized something in frieren when Fern was fighting Ehre.

in the beginning? when both Heiter and Frieren tell Fern that, if she wants to be considered a full fledged mage, she needs to be able to shoot through a boulder on the other side of he canyon?

that isn't the norm for mages, at all. that was because both of them are insane.

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep29

Her Soul On Holiday

Thursday

Highway 101 north of Eureka is a tapestry of greens, browns and blues. The route follows the rugged Northern California coastline, a grassy verdant route with swampy freshwater lagoons on the inland side of the road and sandy seawater lagoons on the beach side. Osprey and red tailed hawks keep watch over the elk filled landscape. Less than an hour into our morning ride I feel River tugging urgently on my jacket pocket. I glance over my shoulder to see her pointing excitedly toward the highway exit. She needs an emergency pee break I suppose.

I swing the motorcycle to the right at the last moment and barely make the exit. When we reach the end of the offramp River flips open the windscreen on her helmet and yells into my ear “It says Fern Canyon Loop this way.”

“So?”

“So? You dummy. The back of the first drawing is a picture of me walking through a narrow canyon filled with ferns!”

“Oh wow, do you think this could be …”

“Yes. I think this could be a clue. Let’s go check it out!”

I thumb the starter button and the Ducati roars to life. We turn left, toward the coast, and the road immediately devolves into a dusty, unimproved single lane path through a dense forest of gigantic coastal redwoods. Ferns and heavy vegetation line the road. We proceed with caution. The last thing I want to do is skid out on a patch of dirt and crash in the middle of nowhere.

After five treacherous miles we emerge from the redwood forest at an empty toll booth in the middle of nowhere, which we ignore, and continue on a straight unpaved beach-sand covered road heading due north along the coast. The bike is extremely unstable in the sand with the weight of two people onboard, so I ride the entire way in second gear with my feet off of the foot pegs near the ground to catch us (or at least attempt to catch us) if the front wheel slides out. After a few miles we come to a deep water crossing. Deep enough to give us pause. But I decide not to stop and just power through before she can protest. We splash our way across the creek, the tires dancing across the slick river-rock covered bottom and emerge unscathed on the other side. After a short distance we reach the end of the road and a little dirt parking lot. With seemingly nowhere else to go except to turn around and head back, I park the motorcycle and we hop off to stretch our legs for a minute. River decides to take off her helmet, so I follow suit.

“What the hell are we doing here?” says River.

“I don’t know. I don’t see ferns or a canyon anywhere.”

“Do you think the road in was the fern canyon? I mean, there were a ton of ferns.”

“I guess so. I don’t see anything else around here. So it must have been.”

“Sorry about that. It seems like this road was kind of a bust.”

“Well look on the bright side, we have to ride through all that crap again to get out of here.”

“Oh shit.”

The sound of splashing in the distance tells us that a car is fording the river about a quarter mile behind us, and within a moment a Subaru appears. A young Asian couple wearing bougie outdoor gear hop out of the car, toss posh little ruck sacks over their shoulders and start walking north along a barely visible foot trail near the cliff wall. They walk about an eighth of a mile, then magically disappear into the forest.

“It seems like they know something we don’t” River tells me.

“It seems you’re right.”

Curiosity piqued, we hang our helmets on the rear view mirrors and toss our motorcycle jackets over the seat follow the bougie couple north along the little path. We pass a yellow triangular sign that, quite humorously to us, depicts a tourist getting mauled by a large bull elk with the warning CAUTION AGGRESSIVE ELK. “Duly noted” River chuckles.

After about a thousand feet of hiking the trail abruptly ends at a tree line where a creek washes out the trail. The creek, as it turns out, is running out of a narrow, vertical-walled fern covered canyon that looks exactly like that back side of the first chalk drawing. River gasps when she sees it. The cognitive dissonance of knowing that I’ve been here before and having no recollection of it causes me dizziness. I bend at the waist, and put my hands on my knees as I try not to fall over.

“Oh my fucking God Floody” River says in astonishment. “This looks exactly like your drawing.” My amnesia headache returns with a vengeance as the memories fight like warriors to escape from my brain. The pain is instantly debilitating and and feel faint. “Floody, you’re as white as a ghost” River tells me. I feel beads of sweat perspiring from my forehead and I wipe them away with my forearm. I take a moment to regain my composure and evaluate my surroundings. I close my eyes and the image of the fern canyon is burned into my brain.

“Floody?” I hear River saying. I open my eyes. “Floody, can you hear me?” she says as I look at her with a gaze of confusion and bewilderment. “You’re going to pass out Floody, take my hand.” The instant River’s hand touches mine our energies unite and my universe is altered completely. I regain my balance and composure. The headache disappears completely and my eyes clamp shut. I begin channeling memories.

“River, I see you. I see you in the canyon. You’re in your white sweater and you’re hopping from rock to rock trying to keep your feet dry. You’re coming toward me down the canyon. Right here. You were right here with me.”

Astonished at what I’m saying River lets go of my hand and the headache roars back to life instantly as the memories evaporate.

“No! Don’t let go!” I yelp. “Don’t let go under any circumstances.”

I feel her fingers grasp mine and the headache disappears instantly. “River” I whisper “We have to stay connected or the memories wont come back. I’m feeding off of your energy. Hold my hand and walk with me.”

River grasps my hand tightly and we take a few steps forward, dancing from rock to rock trying to keep our feet out of the creek. It’s about two inches deep and ten feet wide, with many little islands of river rocks and fallen logs to hop from and to. We only go fifty or so feet upriver before the scene matches my memories exactly. I stop on a little bank of river rocks and my eyes instinctively clamp shut.

“River I see you. I’m standing right here, in this exact spot. You appear out of nowhere. You’re coming down the canyon toward me. I see your strawberry blonde hair, it’s parted right down the middle. I see your big sweater, and you’re wearing shorts. Like, hiking shorts. And big boots with wide red laces like they wear in the Alps. They’re leather with heavy cotton socks pushed down around your ankles.”

“There’s something around your neck. It’s a necklace or a strap or something. You’re getting closer. It’s a camera! You’ve got a camera around your neck. You look up and see me for the first time and give me a little wave with one of your hands to acknowledge me. ‘Good morning’ I hear you say as you continue navigating the rocky islands in the stream as you make your way toward me. You’re getting close. I can see everything clearly. But I can’t see your face. You’re like a ghost. The memory is blurring your face. You raise the camera and snap a photo of me. ’Keep those feet dry’ you tell me as you go past, and then you’re gone. Gone from site. Gone from the canyon. Just gone.”

I open my eyes and look at River, then I carefully release my grip of her hand. I know instinctively that the memories are free from my brain so the amnesia headache won’t return, and it doesn’t.

“You were here with me.”

“That impossible. I was in Pacific Grove.”

“No, you were here with me. I saw it. I felt it.”

“Impossible.”

“River, what are the chances that we both have amnesia? And that we both were here before?”

“Zero Floody. I can tell you everything I did for the past month while you were gone. Every single day.”

“But I saw you here, clear as day. When you held my hand just now, those were memories, clear memories, not dreams. I saw your sweater.”

“I have that sweater for sure, but not those boots, and I definitely don’t have a camera.”

We stand in silence for a minute trying to comprehend what just happened. It’s clear that I’ve been here before. Those are memories, not dreams. No dream could have that much detail. Plus, the drawing, it represents exactly what I just experienced, clear as day. But if River wasn’t here with me, then there has to be another explanation.

“Okay, so let’s say definitively that you haven’t been here before. Then there are only two other possible explanations. The first is that your spirit diverged from your physical self, and that your soul, or spirit, or whatever you want to call it was here in the canyon with me at some point in the past. Or second, is that when we join hands we have the ability to have precognition and see into the future. It makes perfect sense. When we were under the influence of magic mushrooms, we were connected via our lovemaking, and that give me ability to visualize this moment in the future.”

“No that’s impossible.”

“Why, you don’t believe in clairvoyance and psychic ability?”

“No, because if it was clairvoyance, you would have seen us standing here holding hands, not me walking down the canyon.”

“Well we’re still here, maybe that moment is still in our future. Maybe it’s going to happen in the next few moments?”

“But I can just turn around right now and go back to the parking lot. I can make sure it never happens.”

“Shit. Okay, so it’s not clairvoyance. But that’s good! That means we’ve ruled out one of the two possibilities. It means that we’re spiritually connected somehow. We have a universal bond, and when I was here the last time, your spirit was here with me. That’s why you had the camera, your spirit was on holiday from the coffee shop.”

“Floody, you sound absolutely batshit crazy right now. But it just might be crazy enough to be true.”

[silhouetteofacedar]

Halves

One of many little moments on a long journey.

AO3

The views along Washington State’s Cascade Loop are breathtaking, according to the brochures from the stand in the lobby of their motel in Chelan. Just past the pseudo-Bavarian enclave that is Leavenworth, Highway 2 hugs the curves of the Wenatchee River through Tumwater Canyon. The scenic byway is tucked between the churning waters and dramatic, towering crags of quartz crested with pines. It’s early spring, and the mountains slowly shake off their winter coats to reveal fresh leaves on the aspens and the first blooms of trillium creeping along the ground. 

Dana Scully sees none of this.

It’s an unfortunate aspect of their work as federal agents; thousands of miles traversed across the continental United States, untold hours spent in anonymous rental vehicles with mysterious odors and pilling upholstery. She knew when she joined the Bureau three years ago that the travel involved would be less than glamorous, but there’s something particularly demoralizing about viewing America the Beautiful solely through a windshield splattered with insect carcasses. 

Scully always falls asleep on long car rides; lulled into slumber by the hum of the engine, the murmur of tires on asphalt, the fact that Mulder sometimes stops talking long enough for her to drop off. She wonders if it’s because his jaw gets tired; in the relatively short time they’ve worked together she’s never known him to run out of things to say.

Her sleep thins on the edges as Mulder wakes her with a soft brush of his knuckle on the tip of her nose. She hears him say they’re still a few hours away from the Seattle field office, but he’s hungry and his long grasshopper legs need a stretch. 

Scully hums in assent, eyelids still heavy as she rearranges herself into a more upright position in the passenger seat. They’ve arrived at one of those proverbial wide spots in the road that bears a “Welcome To” sign, as though that gives it a sense of place when it boasts little more than a gas pump and a convenience store. 

Apparently, this place is called Cole’s Corner, and a hand-painted banner next to a particularly stubborn melting snow berm says there are world-famous milkshakes up ahead. 

Mulder pulls into the gravel parking lot outside what looks like a small house with pink and teal trim. A neon sign advertising banana pancakes hangs in the window.

Scully is hungry and groggy from her nap in the car, her hips and legs stiff from sitting too long.

She gathers her coat around her and slips out of the sedan, the scent of wet pine and moss filling her nose. Droplets of mist bead the shoulders of her coat, clinging to the wool. She can feel her hair creeping into fuzzy curls at the nape of her neck, coaxed into a frizz by the damp Pacific Northwest air. It’s been about a year since they were first in this part of the country together, tearing through waist-high ferns in the dark cedar groves of Bellefleur, hands outstretched. That first case together felt like a rebirth, wherein she shed her old self like her red bathrobe in candlelight in front of her strange new partner. The rich scent of damp earth and rotting logs filled her lungs as she was baptized by the cold Oregon rain, forever changed.

Heavy droplets begin to fall, and she pulls her collar tighter as they ascend the steps to the diner’s front door.

The restaurant is small but warm, every inch of the walls covered in 1950s pop culture memorabilia. A jukebox plays Buddy Holly in the corner; an Elvis-shaped clock swings its pendulum legs in time. Something greasy and heavenly is sizzling in the kitchen, the aroma pulling her in. Scully smiles softly; leave it to Mulder to stumble upon the kitschiest restaurant in the entire state of Washington.

They settle into a small corner booth with sticky grey vinyl seats. They create an odd picture at the table in the midst of hikers in denim and windbreakers; two figures of dramatically different heights draped in layers of dark fabric, heads inclined towards each other with an intimacy that can’t be easily explained. They’ve composed this images together countless times in greasy spoons across the country, travel-weary and disoriented by differing time zones. Sometimes they talk; occasionally they argue. Often they get mistaken for a couple, which irks Scully primarily because she mistakes them for one too. It’s unconscious; Mulder’s warm, firm hand on the small of her back sends messages to her weary brain that her body frequently assigns to the Boyfriend category.

Mulder has that effect on her often. He bursts through barriers, occupying space that had previously only been inhabited by intimate partners. He crams himself into her psyche, poking through neatly filed expectations and burrowing into her soul, creating his own uniquely shaped spot in her being. 

She tries not to think about it; tries not to notice his full lower lip, the charming mole on his right cheek, the way he leans in too close when he talks to her. How he curves over her, his warm voice in her ear. At the office, she feels alert and well-armed against her physical reactions, can easily take her thoughts captive before they get away from her. But when she’s drowsy, far from home, hungry, those base feelings rise faster than she can tamp them back down. He makes her feel small in the best ways and she’s in danger of losing herself in the cover of his wingspan. 

She needs caffeine.

All the waitresses at this establishment have the same name tag; hot pink with the name “Flo” etched into the plastic. A cheery, bespectacled young Flo with blond braids takes their orders, pours cups of too-strong coffee. Scully chooses a BLT, light on the mayo. Mulder orders a grilled cheese sandwich with ham and tomatoes and a cup of chicken and rice soup. 

Scully gazes out the fogging window, slowly warming and wakening in the cozy bustle of the diner. Johnny Cash sings of a ring of fire. Plates clatter in the kitchen, a spoon clinks in a chipped coffee mug. Raindrops fall.

Silence feels more friendly these days, a comfortable pause filling what little space remains between her and Mulder. Words have become only one of the many ways in which they communicate. Their hands carry on their own conversation as the waitress brings their plates; understanding and collaboration in the simple passing of a napkin or nudging the salt across the table.

Mulder picks up a half of his sandwich, toasted a golden brown and cut neatly at a diagonal. “You want a bite?” he asks, holding it out across the speckled formica tabletop, and Scully realizes that it’s the first thing he’s said aloud directly to her since they got out of the car. She hesitates, then leans forward and takes a small, crisp bite out of the corner. Their knees brush momentarily, and she sits back in the booth and considers the flavors of butter and melted cheddar on her tongue.

“Good, huh?” Mulder asks, taking a bite himself. “My dad made them this way, but not on a griddle. Open-faced in the broiler so the tomatoes could get browned.”

Scully nods, stirring her coffee and blowing on it gently. “I haven’t had a grilled cheese in years,” she muses. “It’s the perfect rainy day food.”

“We can trade halves, if you want,” he suggests.

A small smile creeps across Scully’s mouth. Her Mulder has a delightful boyish streak that she pretends not to find appealing. “Race you to the playground afterward?” she jokes. Regardless, she picks up a half of her BLT and places it on his plate, taking the remaining half of his grilled cheese. 

He flashes her a brief, dazzling smile before taking another bite of his sandwich. Scully feels her cheeks warming slightly and turns her attention to her lunch. A full Mulder smile, with bright eyes and teeth, is almost too much for her to bear. A dart of sunlight spearing through a sky blanketed with soft gray clouds. 

Maybe someday she’ll tell him how he makes her feel, how sometimes her heart tumbles in her chest at the sight of him. How his most annoying moments are simultaneously the most endearing, how she’s beginning to love him just a little in spite of herself.

Maybe he already knows.

But for now they’ll just trade portions of their lunches, pass the ketchup, pool the crumpled bills in their wallets when the check comes. Travel in silence as they drive over Steven’s Pass, the view ahead blotted by low-hanging clouds.

[gerblinbones]

why is canyon the lich....what's wrong with fern...... your could've been worse au is giving me more questions than answers and im here for it

Canyon left Billy because he was losing hope that doing good was, well, doing any good. In that respect, she’s much more powerful and resilient than he is, and on the physical level they’re near matched. Canyon is more revered than Billy in my au because of her expertise in combat and her will to do what’s right, and because of the fact that she continued to even after Billy called it quits. So what if, after all these years, she finally starts to feel worn down from the responsibility of all that? What if she starts to question her capacity to empathize with those she protects? That’s a weakness in her mind, one that grants evil access. Canyon is a useful vessel for the Lich, no doubt. (And here’s the full drawing of her :) )

Fern and Finn just have some lingering identity issues and personal biz to sort out </3 LMAO