Into the Cloud: A Chilly Climb to Sequoia Giants

When we pulled into the foothills of Sequoia National Park, we didn’t expect our drive to the world’s largest tree to take us through an actual cloud. The Foothills Visitor Center sits at a comfortable 1,700 feet—warm, dry, and deceptively calm. But the giant sequoias live far higher. Specifically, the General Sherman Tree—the largest tree on Earth by volume—grows at around 6,500 feet. So we climbed.

Switchback after switchback, we wound our way up the mountain, surrounded by thick mist. Visibility dropped below 100 feet. So much for grand views. It felt like driving through cotton—quiet, slow, and slightly surreal.

When we finally reached the Grove, we’d climbed nearly 5,000 feet and dropped about 20 degrees in temperature. Out came the hats, gloves, and coats as we stepped out of the car and into what felt like another season. Spring in the valley. Winter in the forest.

And there they were: the sequoias. Massive. Still. Ancient.

We walked down the hill, and then in the mist emerged General Sherman, the star of the park. He's not the tallest (that title belongs to a redwood up north), and he’s missing his top (lost to lightning years ago). But what he lacks in tip-top elegance, he makes up for in sheer mass. Every year, he adds the equivalent of a full-grown tree in new wood. His base is wider than most living rooms. And somehow, even missing his upper limbs, he holds the record for the largest tree on Earth by volume. Nature doesn’t care if you’re perfect—just persistent.

We shared a moment next to it. Just stood there. Looking up. Letting the scale of it settle in.

It’s hard to imagine, but this forest—so calm today—was once under threat. Logging had begun to target these giants in the 1800s, until Sequoia became the nation’s second national park, right after Yellowstone, created with a clear purpose: to save the trees. And not just because they were big, but because they were irreplaceable. A sequoia can live over 3,000 years.

These trees are survivors. Their fibrous, cinnamon-colored bark is resistant to insects and fire. In fact, they need fire. Fires clear out the smaller trees and fungus, opening up space and nutrients for the giants to grow. They shoot up toward the sun, often reaching the height of a 25-story building. Standing beneath them, you feel very small. And very lucky.

We didn’t get a sweeping vista from 6500 feet. We didn’t hike very far. But we stood quietly next to a tree that’s older than the Roman Empire. We stepped into a grove where time moves differently.

We came. We saw. It was big.

Even without the top.