1991 Road Trip Day 1 Afternoon | La Honda Creek Preserve | The Red Barn That Introduced Me to America

Red Barn in green hills of La Honda Creek Preserve, California — Velvia 50 slide film landscape 1991 — La Honda Creek Preserve, CA, USA — May 1991 ·Velvia 50

ROAD TRIP 1990–1992

May 1991. Long before GPS and smartphones, this road trip began with nothing more than a folded paper map spread across the passenger seat. These are the memories of that first afternoon on the way to La Honda Creek Preserve: the phytoncides drifting through the forests of Woodside, a red barn that appeared out of nowhere, the surprising reason behind its color, and a quiet America where even sound seemed to disappear.

The Forest Welcomed Me

After passing through Four Corners in Woodside, I finally eased my foot off the accelerator. From here, the road sloped gently downhill, and the car seemed to glide into a dense forest of conifers.

I rolled the windows all the way down.

The dry California air I had grown used to changed in an instant. Cooler now, carrying a trace of moisture, it arrived with an astonishingly rich scent of green. Without thinking, I exhaled deeply, emptying my lungs of the old air, then drew in a long breath.

“Ah… this air tastes good.”

It sounded like the sort of thing everyone says, but there really wasn’t a better way to put it.

The source of that clean, invigorating fragrance is something called phytoncide—natural antimicrobial compounds released by plants as a way of protecting themselves. For humans, though, they feel less like a defense mechanism and more like a gift. The aroma drifting through conifer forests has a way of gently loosening minds stiffened by everyday stress.

Only a short drive from Silicon Valley, and suddenly you could check into a spa built entirely by nature. That, perhaps, is why road trips are so hard to give up. Accompanied by the quiet hum of engine braking, I continued descending through the green tunnel.

Frame captured from original VTR footage filmed in May 1991. The image has been preserved as close as possible to its original recorded condition. — Captured from original footage recorded during a 1991 American road trip

The Storybook Red Barn

Without warning, the curtain of deep forest opened.

In an instant, the landscape transformed into rolling hills washed in California sunlight. Fresh spring grass glowed beneath the blue sky, and standing quietly to one side of that broad panorama was her.

A vivid red barn.

“Whoa… is this a movie set?”

I caught myself saying it aloud.

The scene was almost absurdly perfect: the America of picture books and films, laid out before me without a single misplaced detail.

This was La Honda Creek Open Space Preserve, a vast protected landscape where cattle grazing still takes place today. Preserved as a symbol of that agricultural heritage is the iconic Red Barn.

I later learned that it had been built by the Weeks family around the turn of the twentieth century. More than 120 years ago. In Japan, that would place it in the Meiji era.

For those driving along California Route 84, the Red Barn is more than an old building. It is a landmark woven into the identity of the La Honda area. Local people don’t buy tickets to come here. Instead, they think, “Once I see the barn, I know I’m almost home,” or “Past that point, the next town is just ahead.” It is simply one of those landscapes that quietly anchors people’s lives.

These days, the barn serves another purpose as well. It provides habitat for rare bats. Not Batman’s secret Batcave, but a real house for bats. The peace being protected here wasn’t Gotham City’s—it was the balance of the ecosystem.

Why Does This Red Speak to Us?

I parked the car and stood looking at the barn for a while.

A strange feeling came over me.

“I’ve never been here before, so why does this seem so familiar?”

Maybe I had seen it in a movie scene. Maybe it had appeared in a picture book I read as a child. Perhaps it was tucked away somewhere in the background of an old jeans commercial. Deep in my memory, this image had already been stamped as America’s original landscape.

But why are American barns so often red?

Long ago, farmers protected newly built wooden barns with homemade paint made from linseed oil, milk, lime, and rust. There is something wonderfully humble about the fact that such kitchen chemistry preserved a shade of red that would survive for more than a century.

Over time, practicality became culture.

When Japanese people see a vermilion torii gate, they instinctively think of shrines and sacred places. In much the same way, Americans see a red barn and are reminded of the spirit of the frontier—the nostalgia of a vast rural past.

Comparing the barn in my photograph from thirty-five years ago with the version visible today on Google Street View reveals something remarkable.

Nothing has changed.

It still looks freshly painted, bright and carefully maintained.

Meanwhile, Silicon Valley transformed itself into the center of the modern world. Astronomical wealth circulates there now. Glass-walled campuses have risen across the landscape. Technology and artificial intelligence have reshaped everyday life.

Yet the Red Barn alone seems to exist outside that current of time.

It simply remains.

America, Where the Sound Had Vanished

And yet, something felt oddly out of place.
This was supposed to be a ranch barn.
But there were no cows.
No horses.
Not even a piece of farm equipment lying nearby.
Not so much as a rusting tractor.

There were only grass-covered hills moving softly in the wind, distant forests stretching toward the horizon, and a deep blue sky that seemed capable of swallowing you whole. No trace of modern life appeared anywhere in sight. Only the red barn and the open fields remained.

The grasses whispered against one another.
Birds called somewhere in the distance.
Everything else had fallen silent.

As I stood there, my sense of time slowly began to blur.
“Wait… am I really in 1991?”
Maybe this was actually a nineteenth-century ranch.
Maybe a settler in a cowboy hat would stroll over and call out, “Howdy, traveler.”
The illusion didn’t feel entirely impossible.

Only a few miles away, some of the world’s most advanced technologies were taking shape. Yet judged by the landscape alone, this was unmistakably the America of the frontier.

Even now, I sometimes imagine the Red Barn quietly greeting those who pass along Route 84.

“Welcome to America.”

Maybe This Was Where It Truly Began

I stood there for a while, letting the dry wind brush against my face, unable to take my eyes off the barn.

Then, slowly, a certainty rose from somewhere deep inside me.
“So… I really am in America.”

Not at airport immigration.
Not beneath Hollywood’s flashing neon.
Not in the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge.
But here, standing before an ordinary landscape where no one else was around.

At that moment, I felt the gears of the journey click into place.

Perhaps this muddy, imperfect, deeply lovable road trip truly began beside that red barn.

I started the engine once more.
What kind of America would be waiting around the next bend?

Continue the Journey →

▶ 1991 American West Road Trip Day1｜Road Map – Sacramento to Santa Maria

Articles from Day 1

Read the Japanese version →

Westbound, Then Skyward — Memoirs from the American West, 1990–1992 —

— Road Trip Day 1 (Afternoon) — La Honda Creek Preserve & The Red Barn (1991) —