Onto the Avenue — a stop on the Avenue of the Giants.
You've just left the freeway, and I want you to notice what happens in the first mile, because it is abrupt. The noise drops away. The light changes — it goes green and low and underwater. The temperature falls, often by ten or fifteen degrees, and you'll feel it come through the vents. Roll a window down for a minute even if it's cold; the smell is unmistakable, a sort of sweet damp cedar-and-earth smell that people remember for the rest of their lives.
A word on how to drive this road. The speed limit is low and it deserves to be lower. The lane is narrow, there are no shoulders to speak of, the trees come right to the pavement, and the light is so dim under the canopy that your eyes take time to adjust. Put your headlights on — right now, in the daytime — because everyone else's eyes are adjusting too, and a dark car in that green gloom is genuinely hard to see.
There are pull-outs constantly. Use them. Let the local pickup behind you go by; he's not sightseeing, he's going to work. And don't stop in the travel lane for a photograph, however tempting — that's the single most common cause of trouble on this road.
Now settle in. For the next thirty-one miles you're going to be driving through the tallest forest on earth.