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| Talking Story with Arlo |
A Jaunt to the Sequoia Forest
By Arlo Agogo
Last Friday night, my phone lit up with a text from the Groovatrons, those neutrino sized far-out cosmic cats from the planet Funkadelia who vibe on a frequency somewhere between stardust and cool jazz.
Their elders—wise, glowing energy sources who’ve been kickin’ it since the Earth was a twinkle in the universe’s eye—had a hankerin’ to visit the Giant Sequoia Forest in California.
These elders, who were there when the mighty sequoias were just sprouts, wanted to cruise through the forest in my quantum-entangled dune buggy, feel the breeze, and dig the scene at human speed.
No hurry, no worry—just pure, joy.
They also had a plan to park in a meadow for a sunny afternoon picnic, complete with beach chairs, umbrellas, and a basket full of righteous eats.
I revved up the dune buggy, its quantum link to the redwoods hummin’ like a beatnik’s bongo drum. The Groovatrons piled in, their energy crackling, toting picnic baskets stuffed with sandwiches and pitchers of iced tea that glowed faintly with otherworldly zest.
Their elders, who became Groovatrons after walking the Earth centuries ago, weren’t here for the city’s hustle or the Decayatrons’ bad vibes.
Nah, man, they craved the pure, soul-shakin’ majesty of the sequoia forest, where trees stand taller than a poet’s dreams and older than time’s oldest riff.
We rolled into the Sequoia National Forest, the air thick with pine and possibility. The giant sequoias loomed like nature’s skyscrapers, their reddish trunks wider than a beatnik’s wildest metaphor. These trees, some pushin’ 3,000 years old, are like cosmic librarians, their rings holdin’ stories of the world’s ups and downs.
The elders, their energy swirlin’ like a psychedelic light show, pointed to a fallen sequoia nearby, its rings exposed like a vinyl record of history. “Dig this, man,” one elder said, their voice smooth as moonlight.
“These rings? They’re the Earth’s diary."
They are documenting the comedy, the chaos, and the cool of the last hundred years.
And oh, what stories those rings told! The elders spun tales as we cruised, their words paintin’ pictures wilder than a Kerouac poem. Back in the 1920s, the rings recorded the Roaring Twenties, when flappers danced under the sequoias’ shade, their Charleston moves so wild they made the trees sway.
One ring, thick with sap, held the laughter of a 1930s hobo camp, where wanderers swapped tall tales by campfire, claimin’ they saw sequoias wink at the moon.
The 1960s rings? Man, they were tie-dyed with the vibes of hippies who camped here, strummin’ guitars and preachin’ love while the trees nodded in approval.
One elder swore a 1970s ring captured the time a disco ball got hung from a sequoia branch, sparklin’ as folks boogied till dawn. Pure exaggeration? Maybe, but the forest’s magic makes you believe anything’s possible.
We parked in a meadow, the sun blastin’ golden rays.
The Groovatrons set up camp, poppin’ open umbrellas that shimmered like starlight and unfoldin’ beach chairs that looked straight outta a sci-fi flick.
The picnic spread was a sight to behold: sandwiches stacked high with avocado, peanut butter from another dimension, and sprouts that practically sang hallelujah.
The iced tea? It glowed neon green, tastin’ like sunshine and secrets. We lounged, the elders reminiscing about the forest’s youth, when they wandered these groves as mortals, feelin’ the Earth’s pulse in every root.
“The forest was young then,” one elder said, their energy pulsing like a bassline. “But these trees? They’ve grown into giants, holdin’ the world’s laughter and tears in their rings.
”Those rings, man, they kept spillin’ secrets."
A 1940s ring whispered of park rangers battlin’ a wildfire, their courage etched deep in the wood. A 1980s ring caught the echo of environmentalists chainin’ themselves to sequoias to stop loggers, their chants vibratin’ through the bark.
And a 2020s ring? It shimmered with the quiet of a world paused by pandemic, when the sequoias stood silent, watchin’ humans rethink their ways. The elders grinned, sayin’ the trees approved of mankind’s choice to let these giants live. “Smart move, humans,” they said.
“These trees are the planet’s poets, and you didn’t rip out their pages.”
The afternoon stretched on, lazy and perfect. Birds chirped, bees buzzed, and the sequoias seemed to lean in, listenin’ to our chatter. The elders glowed brighter, their connection to the forest like a Wi-Fi signal.
They marveled at the trees’ size—some trunks wider than a spaceship’s landing pad—and their staying power. “Monumental, man,” an elder said, sippin’ neon tea. “These sequoias are proof the universe knows how to throw a party that lasts millennia.”As the sun dipped low, paintin’ the sky in purples and pinks, we packed up the picnic and piled back into the dune buggy.
The ride home was smooth, the forest’s magic clingin’ to us like glitter. I slid into my desert driveway sideways, tires kickin’ up dust as the stars began to pop out.
Lookin’ up, I saw a streak of light zigzag across the sky—the Groovatrons, zippin’ back to Funkadelia. My phone buzzed with a text: “Elders are over the moon, man. Sequoias are thrivin’, and you’re one groovy cat for the ride.
Keep those trees standin’—they’ve got stories for centuries more.
”I leaned back in the buggy, starin’ at the Milky Way, feelin’ the day’s vibes settle in my soul. The sequoias, with their rings full of comedy, chaos, and cool, are more than trees—they’re time capsules, holdin’ the Earth’s wildest tales.
From flappers to hippies to elders, they’ve seen it all and kept on growin’. I grinned, knowin’ the Groovatrons were right: mankind’s done right by these giants, lettin’ them stand tall to tell their stories for hundreds of years more.
And maybe, just maybe, the next ring will hold a little bit of our groovy adventure,
--etched forever in the heart of a sequoia.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo