Among the many pleasures of walking down city streets, none are greater than those found by peeking down some unfamiliar alley or pausing to look up. I couldn't care less whether I discover something previously unknown to all of humanity (highly unlikely) or just to me. Sitting alone in a secret garden or absorbed in the view from a stunning new vantage point, the joy's all mine, and it's a uniquely urban sort of bliss. Or so I thought, until recently.

On my first summer getaway after landing in San Francisco, six friends and I booked a house with a big sunny deck and a canoe tied out back, right on the bank of the Russian River. We swam, paddled, hiked the obligatory redwoods, sampled the local "solar powered" brew, and swam some more. We ventured north to taste wine in Anderson Valley, stroll the misty Mendocino Headlands, and comb the sands of historic Russian Gulch. We "relaxed" so much that even before it came time to leave, I felt totally and thoroughly...exhausted.

This mixed-blessing feeling of exhaustion was no stranger to me, actually, although I wasn't used to it in these exotic natural environs. Back in New York, I intentionally crafted withering schedules and over-booked my weekends. I'd routinely squeeze work, errands, yoga, dinner, a show, and a party appearance (or two) all into one hyperactive day. Afterwards, I'd plop down in bed and savor my fatigue like it was the buzz from a well-mixed cocktail (or three). No matter how tired I felt, I also felt alive. When life's pace threatened to overwhelm, I'd simply skip town or return to one of my newfound secret spots to slow down and rejuvenate.

Laid-back San Francisco could fairly be called the opposite of frenetic Manhattan, and as I've come to learn, my Northern Californian life actually flips that old rat-race cliché on its head. It's only after I leave this mellow, foggy place for the abundant nature at the city's edges that I feel that hectic vibe. This particular Russian River holiday was so chock-a-block with outdoor adventures, that when someone proposed one final jaunt mere hours before heading home--and it turned out to be no less a feat than sea-cave kayaking--I thought I'd scream.

Summoning my last few drops of inner calm, I persuaded everyone that an easy pit-stop at the "pygmy" forest in Van Damme State Park would be a better idea. These rare specimens grow to an inch in diameter and six feet tall at the most, even after a century spent standing there in the dirt. The highly acidic, shallow soil in their unique location stunts their growth and leaves them literally under-nourished. Remarkably, though, their spindly trunks may actually have 80 or more rings.

To our surprise, an actual boardwalk sat smack in the middle of the woods to protect the miniature Bishop Pine and Mendocino Cypress from foot traffic. We followed the elevated trail around its scant quarter-mile loop, like giant oafs barging in on a private affair for unnaturally thin socialites. While the elegant stature of these faux saplings looked deceivingly youthful from a distance, their silvery bark hinted at their true age up close.

This peaceful refuge worked its magic on me in minutes, evoking that familiar joy of discovery. Happily resting on a bench, I recalled those secret alleyways and street corners thousands of miles away and pondered the irony. Who knew that one day I'd think back to my days spent wandering amidst concrete, steel, and glass canyons, in order to appreciate the rare charm of a Lilliputian forest?

Photo:  Carl Ellis Photography