Many years ago, a roaring fire swept over the forested area a few miles north and west of Crescent City.

The furious blaze leaped through dry underbrush and topped out in the giant redwood trees. For days, the fire burned, wiping out centuries-old forest monarchs, driving animals from their once green domain.

Each redwood became a gigantic torch. In a holocaust of sparks, the forest regents crashed to the blackened earth as the fire consumed them. Their ashes turned to charred dust and then disappeared as the fire ebbed and died.

For a long time, the dead hills and valleys lay waste. Then, slowly, green shoots burst through the ground and in a few short years, the forest began the long task of self-restoration.

Great snaggy stumps point tortured fingers toward the sky as if to call man’s attention to their silent agony. Twisted and gnarled redwood, now silvery white with dead age, became the skeletal spires of forgotten cathedrals.

These are Del Norte’s Wonder Stumps, grim in death, yet still bearing a stoic majesty. Each Wonder Stump stands alone, a desolate, but still proud monument to the grandeur of the redwoods.

Burglar helps himself

A short time ago I had the pleasure of sitting down with Scott Alexander and got to know this classy young man that now leads the Warrior boys varsity basketball program. Alexander is starting his second season as head coach.

Scott is a 1992 graduate of Redding Christian High School in Redding. He played basketball and baseball for four years. After high school graduation he  attended Baptist College in Missouri, where he continued his basketball career.

After leaving college he returned to Redding, where he coached basketball at his old high school as a varsity assistant for two years. In 1999, Scott moved to Crescent City, where he became youth pastor of the Smith River Baptist Church.

 Scott’s sister was a senior at Del Norte at the time and  introduced Scott to Kurt Burrows, who was the Warriors varsity head coach at the time.

He let coach Burrows know he was interested in coaching and Kurt took him on as a varsity assistant for the next three years.

A bog on Hwy. 101, about a mile south of old town Bandon, was in the process of being flooded and the berries harvested. I drove past, but, despite being anxious to get to my destination, I made a U-turn and parked next to the action.

I watched a man pull a ring full of the last of the berries toward a vacuum chute that sucked the berries up – water and all – into the bed of a truck. The bed was sloped so the water could run out while the bright red berries remained in the truck.

I arrived when the harvest was basically over. They shut off the equipment and the three men prepared to depart. I realized my window of opportunity was closing fast. “Sir?” I shouted boldly addressing the oldest man in the group who seemed to be in charge. “Sir, could I buy some cranberries from you?”

The man responded with directions to a farm up Morrison Road off Hwy. 42 that had a cleaning machine and sold clean berries.

What nerve! Now we have to reposition our spotting scope!

In fact, it was a favorite parking spot of a Triplicate reporter until we started laying down the smack talk. He informed us, quite accurately, that he was enjoying a public viewpoint. And he went so far as to point out that we could go upstairs if we wanted an uninhibited angle on the sea.

Then he quit parking there.

We didn’t feel guilty. We usually have a wave and a smile for folks who happen to look inland and notice us in the window. If we’re already in the front yard, friendly chats sometimes ensue. Often the visitors are from far away and have just happened upon Pebble Beach Drive, despite the lack of signage leading to one of Crescent City’s signature attractions.

And occasionally, they’re having a peak experience like catching a full-blown sunset over the Pacific with stately Castle Rock in attendance.

How could we begrudge people this kind of beauty, even if they are parked in front of the house? Then again, if they just pulled forward about 10 feet …