Pacific Coastal Giants: California Redwoods to Tasmanian Swamp Gums

The coastal redwoods are the giants of California’s shoreline — cousins to the colder, higher-dwelling sequoias, but with their own flair for coastal living. While General Sherman, the famous sequoia, holds the title for "largest tree by volume," these redwoods grow taller, sometimes much taller, towering above the fog and reaching toward the clouds. Sherman might reign at 6,500 feet up in the mountains, but the coastal redwoods, much closer to sea level, occupy that prime real estate of the California coastline.

Curiously, when we drove the scenic highway through Redwood National and State Parks, the highlight is the "Big Tree," not the biggest tree. It turns out the actual biggest redwood decided to plant itself inconveniently far from the main road — a solid 2,000 years ago. (Tourism wasn't exactly on its mind at the time.)  We found out by cross checking the sign with the tree’s height with online accounts of Hyperion as the tallest Redwood, which is off limits to park visitors.

It’s also a little bittersweet here. About 95% of the original old-growth redwood forest has been logged. The trees do grow back, but when we walk these trails, we’re seeing only a sliver of what once stood — a cathedral of giants, now a surviving fragment.

Since Poky wasn’t allowed on most of the National Park trails (he lobbied hard for an exception), he enjoyed surveying the parking lot kingdom, his nose pressed eagerly to every tuft of grass, longing for a romp under the towering trees. 

Inside the park, the kids raced ahead, climbing into the burned-out hollows of living redwoods — the kind of hidden worlds you dream about as a kid. Spring sunlight streamed through the canopy, painting the forest floor with shifting patches of light. Nearby, a brook babbled, birds sang, and a couple of giant banana slugs glistened like treasure hidden among the moss.

It wasn’t our first time standing among coastal giants. A year ago, almost to the day, we were deep in the forests of Tasmania, where the kids hiked beneath the tallest trees in the Southern Hemisphere (and tallest flowering trees in the world)—the Swamp Gum. They had clambered inside the trunks of those southern giants too, wide-eyed and awed. Different continent, different species — but the same feeling of wonder, of smallness, of standing inside something ancient and alive.

We made a brief stop just outside the National Park where we drove through a living redwood. With our mirrors pulled in and holding our breath that our rooftop carrier would squeeze through, we just barely fit. It was a striking contrast from the pristine preservation of the National Park.  A private rendition of preservation, with the main attraction showing surprising resilience in the face of human intervention.

We ended the day with long, barefoot runs on the northern California beaches. Wide open, wild, and windswept, they felt refreshingly familiar — a welcome echo of Tasmania’s empty, endless shores. Different coasts, same Pacific spirit — still parts that are wild, still whispering of ancient memories from the coastal giants and still promising a magical place to explore.