This here is a destination spot for plenty of lonely souls still wandering the redwood forests waiting for the end of the Vietnam War. Longhairs who don't realize there isn't a draft anymore.
The Bunyan is much longer than it is wider. It is basically a log cabin. But it is a log cabin made out of a single log. The tree fell perfectly perpendicular to a straight stretch of road right outside the official national park border. Now locals park along the backside of the Bunyan hoping not to attract too much attention and loose the quaint quality to a host of Asian photography enthusiasts who can't believe their own eyes.
There is sign hanging from the neck of a stuffed Elk deer that is chained to a iron stake by the front door. "No photography of any kind."
At the far end of the bar, you see an old hippie with a blunt behind both ears next to a flower of the indian nation, half a flower. He leans in and whispers something that could never be made out from the distance at which I'm standing, but the squaw says back to him using her outdoor voice "I can't do that man. I got the lock jaw. i can't even get my mouth around half a bagel." I believe her since she is drinking her rocking rock through a straw.
The barkeep ain't Bunyan himself, but they make the poor sap dress just like him. However, this barkeep is a string bean and and ancient one at that. The lumberjack getup just doesn't cut it when it hangs loosely off his shoulders. A walking coat rack of a man holding on to the real man's clothes till he gets back.
"She can't even eat the beans. She just laps around 'em. Sort of sipping the sugar broth."
When you stand in the perfect center of the bar, both length and width wise, they say you can hear the sound of forest's birth. What in the hell, that sounds like I don't know. But, you get a shiver when you stand the spot with is marked with an a couple of oversized hubcaps. One on the roof like a halo, the other beneath your feet like a dish.