I grew up in a small town in Northern California named Weaverville. It is located in Trinity County, which is north of anything you've ever heard of in California, most likely. Once in a while I will meet someone who has heard of Redding or Eureka, which are the two closest small cities, but mostly no one has heard of Trinity County, and I am used to saying, "No, not San Francisco...actually it's about 5 hours north of there...closer to Oregon, really."
If you are in Redding or Eureka and you'd like to drive to Weaverville, you must travel either an hour or two (respectively) on Highway 299 which is one of the most ungodly roads you'll ever hear of beginning with the word, "highway." I say ungodly because after winding left and right and rising and falling in elevation countless times, you need God's grace to keep you from losing your lunch. The term doesn't apply to all aspects of the drive however, because 299 is one of the most beautiful drives you'll ever take. If you can get past the car-sickness (which all locals accomplish around the age of 7 or so), you will feel God in smell of the pines, firs, and cedars, and you will see Him in the way the sun splashes off the lake and river waters as you drive past. You will feel Him in the tree-covered mountains that seem to hug you as you wind in and out of the dogwood-covered banks, and you will see Him in the angle of the hawk's dive if you're lucky enough to catch a glimpse or in the blank stare of the brown bear who would rather not have been seen drinking from the roadside water. Ungodly was the wrong word to use after all. It is actually almost holy.
I was born there, and lived there until I reached adulthood, and though immersed in it all those years, I only recently have started to marvel at the uniqueness of Weaverville, California's population-makeup. It is so strange that I never thought about it while I was growing up, but I suppose it's difficult to notice the unorthodox when it's all you've ever known.
There are trees everywhere. It is a heavily forested town and consequently manages to keep itself populated because of the timber industry. The majority of residents find work falling trees, clearing brush for roads, driving logging trucks or heavy machinery, running saws in the mill, surveying, or managing the forest in some way or another. A large part of the work force deals with the cutting of trees. Not all by any means, but a large percentage of these laborers also love the outdoors and are avid hunters. The typical mill-working father has short hair and a mustache and wears jeans, heavy work boots, flannel shirts and ball caps. He comes home from work and take his boots off and eats dinner with his family that is full of kids who play sports for the high school and boys who will go hunting with him on the weekend. He turns on country music when he gets in his Chevy or Ford truck with a "Support the Troops" bumper sticker as he bullets up remote dirt roads with his rifle and bow to hopefully bring home a deer for Mom to cook. Families of this fashion love the outdoors and the bonding they do on their hunting and fishing trips, the sound of their dirtbikes and quads tearing up the mountain, and the fact that they are miles away from the smog and crime that city life might bring.
Just as abundant, but perhaps less noticeable is the other part of the population who also have moved to this corner of the state because of their love of the outdoors. For lack of a better word, I will call them the "Tree-Huggers." Those who eat only what they grow in their pesticide-free gardens or purchase at the local farmer's market, and drive 4-wheel drive Subarus with "F*** Bush" bumper stickers and Bob Marley CDs in the stereos. They sign petitions against the mining of streams and the clear-cutting of trees on the mountain. They are vegans and vegetarians and would never cause harm to a single living creature in nature. They swim naked in the streams and don't shave their body hair. They also don't care if you happen to see them and would gladly share their swimming hole with you. They grow their hair long and go on arduous hikes in the back country for days on end in the summer-time, packing grains and fresh vegetables to cook in their mess kits and always using biodegradable toilet paper. They love the forest and know that it loves them. They love the tranquility they find when they lay down under the black sky and see blazing stars spangled across it. The rush of the cold water against their skin as they dive deep into the river and the sound of the crickets at night keeps them content.
The timber workers and those who hug trees peacefully coexist in Weaverville, for the most part. I don't think that they necessarily understand each other, but they continue to live together and attend the same community functions, shop at the same local stores, walk on the same sidewalks and raft on the same river. Their children go to the same school and make friends with one another and most of them never think twice about all of this. I know I never really did. Somehow, I listened as my dad's log truck pulled in the driveway, while talking on the phone to my friend who had dread locks. I wore a tie-dyed poncho on our hunting trips. I took breaks from stacking wood to play hacky-sack, and thought it was pretty normal.
Now, as I sit in my cozy Southern California bungalow, I wonder how all of that shaped me. I think of all of the kids growing up in Weaverville and wonder if they ever notice any of this. I find it fascinating that two groups of people can love the forest in entirely different ways. It seems crazy that both groups live in the same area because of this love but are simultaneously pulled apart and drawn together because of it. It seems so far away, and writing this makes me miss it. I'd better get to bed now. It's late.
