Chapter 2: the Lost Coast
Mattole Trailhead
July 23, 2019
We got a much later start than we’d intended, and it meant that we would only make a couple of miles that night before having to make camp. The sun was already just a couple feet off the horizon, and it was rapidly disappearing. Still, I was grateful to see the sun at all, so much of my walk thus far had been through damp mist and grey cloud that even a sliver of sunlight at the end of the day was a thing to be celebrated. The north half of the Lost Coast runs between the King Range mountains and the north Pacific. Due to more tectonic activity than any other location in North America, it is a constantly changing environment.
We walked across the sand in the step-slide-push fashion which was by now terribly familiar to me, but perhaps a new experience for Jeremiah. The sun burned the bracken on the coastal hills to our left in a warm glow as white capped waves crashed to our right. Quite quickly it began to darken and we cast about for an appropriate place to pitch our tent. There was a fair amount of wind and very little shelter to be had. After some searching we chose a little sandy gully which partially shielded us from the southbound wind and made the best of it. It was too windy to make dinner outdoors, so we ate rehydrated beef stroganoff in the tent, keeping the door open a little so we wouldn’t suffocate on the jetboil’s fumes.
Morning came and we packed up and began walking without breakfast. In a short while we came upon the Point Bonita lighthouse, which offered the amenities of an empty concrete shell, and a rickety, rusted spiral staircase to a flat roof above. We chose the roof, and with a little effort and a couple trips, hauled ourselves and our stuff up to it. We ate oatmeal there and enjoyed it immensely. Below us to the south stretched out a rugged coastline, countered by a clear path which typically ran a hundred yards or so inland. We observed several behemoth tree trunks, washed ashore during fierce winter squalls. Presently the tree trunks began to move and we abandoned our first theory and realized that the tree trunks were not in fact washed ashore by fierce winter squalls, but rather had washed themselves ashore somewhat more recently. Elephant seals, it turns out, have remarkably similarities to large tree trunks when sleeping.
Having sorted this out and finished our breakfast we began once again. The next several miles were our first proper taste of the Lost Coast, our experience hindered neither by fading light and a race to make camp, nor a preoccupation with breakfast. The land felt wild: it would suffer your presence, but it made no allowances for you. The coastline was rugged, jutting out into the Pacific in jetties of black rock, now covered with a spray of whitewash, now being revealed once again as the ocean inhaled before pouring forth another set of crashing waves. There was an eeriness about the place, not hostile, but not familiar. A grey mist of the sort that kept its distance but never left you alone was a constant presence. It wouldn’t encroach upon your personal space, but would hover around you on all sides just a mile or so out, obscuring any view into the future which you were walking, or the past from whence you came.
We pressed on, taking all of this in, some of it consciously, some only subconsciously, to be discovered later upon recollection. A few miles farther on and we encountered the first low-tide only zone. Several sections of the Lost Coast is passable only during low tide, a further reminder that you are only partly in control of your journey. The ocean is a gatekeeper that will let you through if you’re there on time, but has no consideration for latecomers.
We arrived at the impassable section before the tide had reached a low enough point to make crossing possible without danger, and rested on a bluff above the steep trail down to the now-underwater beach. Several others were also waiting, each of us in our different hollow on the hillside. After an hour or so Jeremiah and I began to get restless and wonder whether it was necessary to wait until the tide had gone down fully, or if we could manage by just rock hopping across the boulders at the very top of the beach. We reasoned that since the tide was on its way out, even if we did find a place that was impassable, it would only be a matter of time before it went out enough for us to continue on. With this in mind, took off, to the curiosity of the other hikers around us, who wondered how this would end for us.
It was a tenuous business, picking our steps carefully and hopping from rock to rock while avoiding the spray of an occasional overachieving wave, but we enjoyed the challenge. Presently we came to a large outcropping of rock where the beach was entirely flooded, and we considered what to do. Our options were to either wait until the tide had receded enough to get around the point or to try and climb up the loose, crumbling hillside above it. It was a tricky climb, and a fall in such a location was extremely undesirable. But we aren’t the best at waiting around, so we gave it a go anyway. Fortunately we kept our wits and our balance and made it up to the top, where we cut across the point somewhat and found our way to the quite passable beach on the other side. The beach here opened up into an expansive stretch of black sand, which, combined with the mist, gave the impression that we had walked into a land where everything was monochrome. It felt closer to what I imagine Iceland to be than California.
The tide continued to recede as we went on, and soon a broad strip of black sand had opened up before us. At the mouth of one of the many canyons which receded inland, shrouded in mist and dense forest, we saw extremely fresh bear tracks. Black bears, such as the inhabitants of the King Range are normally shy and wary of strangers, preferring to stay out of sight and out of mind rather than meet the travelers which walk through their coastline. However, shortly before beginning the trip I had heard reports of two fatal bear attacks in Alaska — and it had, very strangely, been black bears, not the more ferocious grizzlies, who were culpable. Though the overall ratio of black bear attacks is quite low, this gave us pause, and we were more wary than we’d have been otherwise.
My brother and I are both over six feet tall, and we walk quickly. We passed through the low-tide only zone while the tide was still receding, but as we came to the end of the beach we were cut off by a high wall of rock which extended out into the ocean by about twenty or thirty feet. Every sixth wave or so the ocean would recede far enough to present a thin strip of bare sand. However, we couldn’t see far enough around to know how wide the rock wall was, so we didn’t know if we’d be able to make it all the way to the next beach before the ocean crashed back onto the shore. We pondered the problem. It certainly seemed as if there had to be a beach or cove of some sort right on the other side of this rock outcropping, but it was still a risk to just run for it. We decided to wait until we saw a particularly large gap in the waves and then go for it. We watched in anticipation, gripping the shoulder straps on our packs in readiness for the sprint. A wave crashed onto the shore, spent itself and receded, but it wasn’t going to leave us a big enough gap to try and run for it, I prepared to watch the next one. Then Jeremiah was running around the edge of the outcropping. I yelled, but he was already around the corner and out of sight. The next wave was already breaking and in a matter of seconds was crashing on the base of the rocks. Jeremiah had disappeared. I shouted for him, and watched anxiously as the wave was sucked back into the heaving mass of salt foam. Jeremiah wasn’t in it, which seemed a good sign. I shouted again and this time heard a reply, though I couldn’t distinguish what was said. The next wave crashed, receded, and I ran for it. Surprisingly, I ran straight onto a beach with a stream running through it out into the ocean, and about two dozen hikers hanging out in various states of repose. Jeremiah was waiting for me above the tide line, just on the other side of the outcropping.
“Jeremiah! What were you doing? We said that we were going to go when I said “go!”, I cried.
“I thought you were going to say go”, said he, “so I went”.
“Well, next time wait until I actually /say/ “go”, alright?”
We made our way up the beach, across the stream and stepped onto what seemed the obvious path.
“Hey!”
We were being shouted at.
The trail is that way!”
I turned to assess the shouter. It was a guy we had just passed who was sitting down eating lunch, and, fortunately for us, observing the goings-on.
“The trail goes up that way”, he said, pointing directly south.
We looked and saw that he was quite correct. The sign had fallen over, but that was indeed the trail we wanted. We thanked him for correcting what may have been a mistake only rectifiable by many extra miles, and continued on.
We camped that night at Spanish Creek. It was a regular camping location for hikers, and a windy one, as evidenced by the numerous sheltering driftwood walls. We picked a favorable one and began to set up camp. It was wet and grey and I had a headache coming on. We re-hydrated our soup and ate it. We were still hungry, but I didn’t want to risk eating extra this early in the journey, so we just went to bed.
We awoke to a cold, damp morning. Grey was everywhere, and our rainfly was soaked. It was windy, too, which made the cold and the damp more acutely felt. We were able to make use of the wind by propping up several tall sticks and stretching our rainfly across them. We ate breakfast and broke down camp while our rainfly flapped about in the gale. It was dry by the time we were ready to leave.
We made good progress, navigating another low-tide zone, and making it early to our intended campsite for the night. However, when we arrived at the location where the canyon we had been aiming for was supposed to be, we were perplexed to find that there was no canyon there. This was a bit of a problem, because no canyon meant no creek running through the canyon and no water for us. We scavenged around and found a small trickle, likely a remnant of the original creek, now buried beneath several thousand tons of dirt and shale.
That afternoon we saw the sun again, and it warmed body and spirit. Clouds rolled in for the night, and we didn’t mind them, though they filtered the sun into a massive glowing orb clearly visible with the naked eye.
The next day we walked into the tiny town of Shelter Cove, located between the north and south halves of the Lost Coast. It was a brutal mile to get up to the main road, the gradient was nearly 30 percent. We were tired and hot by the time we made it to the entry to the town. We examined the one sign: a mile to the left was one group of shops and cafes, a mile to the right was the other half. Nothing looked terribly promising, and it all looked expensive. All we wanted was just a decent meal of real food before heading back onto the trail, and we had a fair distance to go that day as well. We wondered what to do — it would be either a mile left or a mile right, but once we made our choice, we would be stuck with it.
“You guys need any help?”
We turned. A woman, perhaps in her fifties, had pulled up in a new-looking compact SUV. We explained what we were looking for.
“Well, the general store is down that way, about a mile, they make a great burger. And you’ve got Italian that direction, it’s also about a mile.”
We talked for a moment. Neither Jeremiah nor I were flush with cash, in fact, we were broke, and we were hoping to spend as little as possible. The general store seemed like it would be cheaper than an Italian restaurant, and she had said the burger was great. I’d be wanting a great burger for days, so it seemed like the best option.
We thanked her for her help and said we’d probably try for the burger. She smiled, waved and began to drive away, then stopped again.
“I can give you a ride, I’m going right by there.”
My gut was calm, and she seemed to be a nice person without any latent homicidal tendencies, so we accepted. It would cut a mile off of our three mile detour for food.
The store was just a couple minutes drive away. I began having skeptical sinking feelings as soon as we saw it. It was actually the general store of a run-down, old, decrepit looking campground. We thanked her for the ride and went in to the tiny store. It was crammed with knick knacks of unimaginable awfulness. Jeremiah nearly knocked over an entire rack of mugs with his backpack. I checked for coconut water, they had none. My confidence in the place was dropping by the second.
The woman at the counter looked about as excited to see us as she would have been to see an infestation of cockroaches. We stared at the menu. The standard cheeseburger was thirteen dollars. That seemed really high for a place like this, but we were stuck here now. We both ordered the cheeseburger with an extra patty, bringing it up to sixteen dollars each.
I already had a sinking feeling in my gut about the whole detour, but it’s amazing what the chance of a truly fresh meal will do to your decision making after many days of backpackers food. Then we saw a massive cinnamon roll, which was only three bucks. We got it. Then we went outside with our cinnamon rolls to await our gourmet priced burgers. We heard our order number called out on the PA system with a complete lack of enthusiasm. I retrieved our burgers.
Eating that burger was one of the most disheartening experiences I had on the whole trip. It was one of the worst burgers I’ve ever had. I would have considered paying five dollars for it, had I known what I would be getting. To have paid sixteen when I had so little to spare, and now having to almost suffer through it made me sad. We finished them and felt gross. The bun was not toasted and disintegrated almost immediately. The patties had surely been frozen for years, and tasted a good deal like greasy rubber, and the lettuce and tomato lacked any flavor or character whatsoever. And it was getting hotter by the minute. To add insult to injury, we ate the cinnamon roll, which turned out to be as far from a good cinnamon roll as the burgers were from good burgers. Morale was low.
Then it got lower. I hadn’t been able to contact Codi or our family since we’d begun, as there simply isn’t service anywhere, but I thought maybe there’d be service here in Shelter Cove. There wasn’t. But there was wifi. I tried to connect and found that it was five dollars per gigabyte. It hurt me to the core to have to give this derelict establishment more of my money, but I knew that I should let our people know we were alive. This little shop had now sucked us for nearly forty dollars altogether. I sent a few messages and then we headed out. Sadly, we were now at the very bottom of the road, and of the mountain. Our campsite for the night, and our access to the next part of the trail, was seven miles away at the very top of the mountain. We began slogging. Then I discovered a patch of cell service, meaning my earlier purchase of exorbitantly priced wifi was actually unneeded. It was just how the day was going.
The day got hotter and hotter. We were dripping sweat. Our feet burned, our eyes hurt, our shoulders ached. We were ever-wary of cars recklessly swinging through bends at high speeds. It was quite miserable.
Fortunately, the brief amount of cell service I’d had earlier had allowed me to check my maps again, and I’d found, to my equal delight and chagrin, a location labeled “General Store” I was bemused. We had been told by the lady that the general store was where the burgers were, we thought we’d just been there. Still, it appeared to be an establishment where we might be able to purchase more water, and that was certainly a good thing.
We eventually reached it, and realized our mistake. The Shelter Cove General Store was not actually in the town of Shelter Cove. Had we known this was here we could have saved:
3 miles of walking (two of which were steeply uphill)
forty dollars
our digestive systems
much heartache
two hours.
But we didn’t know. So here we were. We were parched, and the gatorade we drank in the parking lot outside that little general store was one of the very best beverage experiences I have ever had. The pain of the day had created an environment for unparalleled appreciation of something as simple as cold liquid.
We made it to our campsite that night and spent some time attempting to make a fire. The forest was damp and green, with little dry wood to be found, but we made a small fire in the end. For a while this served to stave off the mosquitos, but we eventually abandoned the fire and moved to our tent. A slow moving stream meandered through the campground and provided a fertile breeding ground for mosquitos. For most of the trip I didn’t deal with these troublesome pests as much as one might guess. They don’t like salt or wind, and for most of my journey I was surrounded by both. Up on this densely wooded mountain, however, it was a different story.
We awoke the next morning to rays of bright sunshine streaming though the forest, it was pleasant, and reminded me how much I love camping in the mountains. True, this was a relatively short mountain, and there were not enough pines to be my ideal, but it did serve to remind me of the other kind of camping, the kind that’s more relaxing and less surviving.
The trailhead was located about a hundred yards from our tent. We ate and got on our way. The trail contoured the mountain in a series of long, yet still steep switchbacks, always going up. For a few miles we ascended, before breaking at the summit for breakfast.
The southern half of the Lost Cost is starkly different from its northern counterpart. Where the north section is predominantly wide, expansive beaches and bare cliffs falling into crashing waves, the south part of the trail is farther from the coast. It twists through the mountains, getting caught up in overgrown undergrowth and only occasionally spitting you forth onto stretches of sand bordered by ocean. You were always climbing or descending, there were precious few flat sections.
Our first day in this new terrain ended at Bear Creek Harbor. It was a few miles beyond our intended destination, but we had heard it was a beautiful site. Also, it was not, strictly speaking, a paid spot, and that appealed to our finances.
The best spot to camp was taken, so we searched around. There were a few designated sites, but the ones that were left were all lacking character, and were farther away from the ocean. After exploring the beach, we decided to just skip the established sites and set up on the sand. Not strictly within the rules, but then, on a journey like this you realize that most rules are more like guidelines anyway. Or they can be.
In any case, we set up camp and made a fire there on the beach. Jeremiah tried to toast a protein bar by re-molding it into a ball and skewering it over the flames, and was burned for his troubles. After dinner we climbed to a point to the north which jutted out into the ocean by several hundred meters, creating the bay we now were camped on the edge of. From the top we could see the sun set on a series of slopes running into the waves. The last light of the day infused the air with gold and burned the sand to dark orange and the ocean was frothed to a foamy white top. I have rarely seen a better sunset.
But after dark things became less peaceful.
In almost every case during my time on the coast, any concern over wind was either because of gusts blowing in off the water, or the southward jet stream with would shoot down the edge of the coastline. Tonight, we would experience an anomaly.
When we lay down to sleep the night was calm enough, and we had hopes of getting a solid stretch of rest. That changed abruptly two hours later. Out of seemingly nowhere, a channel of air flying at a velocity strong enough to flatten our tent on top of us exploded out of the mountains, shooting between the arms of the mountain down toward the water. We were camped directly in the bottleneck. After several minutes of silent consternation at this sudden attack, I became worried that the tent, which the wind was doing its best to crush, would snap a pole. Combined with the prospect of a miserable night getting to sleep in this gale, I ventured out into the darkness, without my contact lenses, to try and find any place that might be more out of the wind. I stumbled around in the windstorm, unable to make out more than a vague, blurred shape of bushes, trees and rocks. Fortunately, I didn’t need to be able to see to feel the force of the wind. Trying to not stumble, I found my way back to the campsite we’d passed on earlier, it was at least fifty percent more sheltered than where we were. I returned to Jeremiah and grabbed the backpacks, hauling them to the new site. Then I went back and we picked up the tent and, leaving the bedding and various small items to be jumbled and confused as they would, carried it, still fully setup, back down the trail. The fact that the tent now only rippled with the wind and wasn’t folding over on top of us illustrated the superiority of our new site. We threw our packs back in, untangled our beds as best we could, and collapsed.
The next couple days were spent going up and down and down and up. We had one quick scare when google’s GPS showed us on a completely different trail than the one we needed to be on, but we went on and it proved to be a glitch. We camped by the ocean one night, next to a stream another night, and often saw and chatted with a group of four older woman, easily in their sixties, who started before us each day, and who we’d then pass by lunchtime.
On the trail and by the fire at night, most of our time was spent discussing food. Trail hunger had now fully set in, and despite having started with more food than would fit in our bear canisters we were now hungry after every meal. Problem solving became our main thought exercise. The question: what could we eat now that wouldn’t (overly) hurt us later? We took inventory every morning and night, trying to find something else we could add to our current meal, without stealing from a future meal. In this way we found a way to have trail fondue which proved surprisingly good, heating dark chocolate bars in the jetboil, which I’d brought for their high fat content, and then dipping chunks of protein bar (which we were very tired of) into the melted chocolate.
We made it to Usal Campground a couple days later with only two dehydrated soup packets between us. To our immense relief, my dad, who was coming to pick up Jeremiah, arrived with a feast. We ate many, many pounds of food that day. The next morning my dad drove me a few miles south, around some private property, and we parted company on the coast just south of the King Range. Alone once again, I walked on.
