Backpacking the Lost Coast
...And other misadventures
July 16, 2003

Early morning view Click here for photogallery

Remember that early scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy's house is swept up by the tornado and flung wildly about by the violent Kansas winds? This scene races through my mind as I watch our two-man tent fly thirty feet into the air and then skid ninety feet east over a patch of wild raspberry bushes, nettles, and other prickly substances. I had just un-staked the tent and turned to pick up the tent storage bags for packing, and...voila, I invented a new sport: Tent Surfing. Sigh. Apparently the first lesson of the Lost Coast is to respect all things windy. Of course, later on, we learn that it also means respecting all things wet and wild, but I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.

We'd arrived at the Mattole Campground late Saturday afternoon with plans to hike the 25.1 miles of Northern California's Lost Coast from Mattole to Shelter Cove over the next three days. Following an uncomfortable heat wave in San Francisco we decided to head for the cool air of the coast, and to explore one of the country's few remaining pristine stretches of ocean coastline. Located in the King Range Conservation area, which covers 60,000 acres and extends along 35 miles of coastline between the mouth of the Mattole River and Sinkyone Wilderness State Park, the Lost Coast is a backpacker's paradise of unspoiled beaches, diverse wildlife and capricious weather patterns.

Once we'd retrieved our truant tent, removed a few thorns from assorted body parts, and chatted with the friendly park ranger (receiving a sage warning to absolutely use our bear canister at each camp), we headed out onto the trail. We'd opted to begin our hike at the northernmost trailhead in order to walk south, as recommended by several guidebooks and websites, and to avoid heavy headwinds, only to find that really, there is no escaping the wind. Immediately we were faced with massive gusts and pelted head-on with sand and small rocks. Nature's own exfoliant, apparently. Not an auspicious nor pleasant beginning to our three-day adventure, but we kept walking and hoped for the best.

The coastline was absolutely stunning and despite seeing several groups of other backpackers in the campground that morning, we were the only people on the beach for miles. We continued on, enjoying the cool, misty day, soaking in the ever-changing scenery and getting our "beach legs" underneath us. Terry and I are pretty avid hikers, having done a good deal of extended trekking, multi-day backpacking, and high altitude mountaineering, so we sort of assumed that 25 miles of walking on flat ground would be akin to a cake walk. We were wrong. Make that sorely mistaken. We quickly realized that despite the amount of effort we were putting into forward motion, we really weren't getting anywhere very fast. Even simply remaining upright became quite a challenge. The rapidly changing beach terrain had us slipping over ankle-turning scree, slogging through wet and dry sand (surprisingly equally unstable), and scrambling over boulders, tree roots and streams. We were intrigued, and occasionally frustrated.

About fives miles down the beach, we came upon the historic Punta Gorda lighthouse and stopped to rest for a bit. According to the beachcalifornia.com website, the Punta Gorda lighthouse began operating in early 1912. Plunked out in the middle of one of the most rugged and isolated stretches of coastline in Northern California (Highways 1 and 101 had to be built further inland due to the tremendously rugged nature of this region), this lighthouse was reported to be the "Alcatraz" of lighthouses, a place where employees were stationed as a punishment for misconduct. The lighthouse was closed in 1951, the property transferred to the Bureau of Land Management in 1963, and later placed on the National Register of Historic Places. Several of the original buildings were burnt decades ago, but the lighthouse and couple other ancillary buildings remain today and can be explored by the public.

Hiking a couple miles further south, we came across Seal Rock Beach, and true to its name, we encountered about thirty harbor seals and sea lions cavorting about in the sea and lounging on the rocks about 100 yards from shore. Clearly they weren't tired from walking on soft sand and boulders all day. At about mile eight we came across a break in the mountain range and decided to camp for the evening in a verdant green valley next to a good-sized stream. According to the rangers, the Lost Coast is visited each year by hundreds of backpackers and surfers alike, each seeking the ultimate hiking adventure, beach exploration or surfing experience - and they are quite willing to wait things out to get it. But, they are clearly not willing to hang out on the beach exposed to the whipping winds. Dozens of driftwood-constructed wind shelters - some coming amazingly close to being actual houses or cabins in structure - have been built along the beach, set back slightly off the ocean.

We set up camp in our little wooden home, ate some surprisingly tasty dehydrated food, found a suitable spot away from camp to place the bear canister, and fell exhausted into our sleeping bags. The next morning we stepped outside to find a gloriously clear, blue-skied morning. A few small patches of fog hung lazily about the valleys, waiting for the wind to chase them away, but otherwise it was an absolutely spectacular day. We retrieved our food, ate breakfast and headed out.

Perhaps the most striking thing about the Lost Coast is its ever-changing personality. As we walked southward and rounded each new bend in the undulating coastline we experienced an entirely new set of landscapes and climates. The hillside changed rapidly from lush, rolling pastoral lowlands to steep, jagged exposed cliffs, and from bleak, dry, hay-covered slopes to rich green Douglas Fir-lined mountains. Meanwhile the coastline and the surf turned from flat sandy beaches with tidal pools and small, rolling waves to steep, rocky shores and crashing breakers that would make any surfer decide to strap on his pack and board and make the hike. And of course, the terrain also mischievously changed shape several times a day with the tides, making for some fast scrambles and wet boots. It was amazingly beautiful.

We camped again in an impressive wind shelter, this one with two walls and a roof, on a grassy plateau about 100 yards north of another small river. As we were setting up camp another backpacker ambled by on his way north and said hello. He mentioned seeing a bear on the beach a bit south, so we took great care in readying our camp for the evening. After placing all of our remaining food into the bear-proof container, Terry deposited it about fifty yards away in a nearby wind shelter, along with our secondary food bag, thereby getting rid of all food and anything that might smell like food (including my toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant - apparently bears aren't particular about what constitutes food). We slipped into exhaustion-induced sleep and awoke to another beautiful day.

Hungry for breakfast, Terry headed over to bring back our food. After an awfully long time he returned, empty-handed. I queried him. "Umm, it's gone," he said. "Umm, WHAT?!" was my reply. Apparently the bear, and perhaps its local rabbit accomplices, had some fun the previous evening. Terry had (oh yes, we now know just how silly this was) placed the bear can inside the waterproof food bag in order to keep the bag from flying away, thereby giving the bear the equivalent of a grocery bag with handles. We didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Our stomachs rumbled. After a brief look around, while some nearby deer watched us with amusement, we decided it was long gone. Our only consolation was that, unless that bear had a screwdriver to open the can, he was also still hungry. We packed up camp quickly and headed out.

With just eight miles remaining to complete the hike, we figured we'd be done in three hours or less. Then the tide started to come in. And piles of rocks came into view. We were barely managing 2.25 miles an hour at best, and our pace slowed further as our energy ebbed. The final remaining stretch of the trail was truly fantastic, with ferocious surf, black sand beaches, and a coastline that rivals the beauty of the Olympic Peninsula in my home state of Washington, but we became less and less aware of it and more aware of how darn hungry we were. As we rounded the final bend we saw a number of day hikers and picnickers. Our hearts leapt (our stomachs, well, they didn't have much pep to them). Terry and I plotted how we easily we might be able to jump this one old couple and make off with their lunch. It wasn't pretty.

A friendly couple out strolling with their dog pointed us down the beach to a parking lot set slightly back on the hillside and gave us directions from there into town. "It's probably another 30-45 minute walk - uphill - once you hit the parking lot though," the gray-haired gentleman told us. I nearly lay down in the sand and sobbed right there.

We trudged on to the Shelter Cove trailhead - 25.1 miles exactly from start to finish. We sat for a moment on a rock, exhausted, and wondering how the hell we'd get to town to find food before getting the shuttle back to our car. Then a nice older couple came strolling up the hill from the beach and offered us a ride into town. We nearly hugged them, but then realized we'd not showered for four days, so we most gratefully and effusively thanked them, and jumped into the back of their truck. Our saviors are retired and work summers as park hosts in a variety of campgrounds up and down the west coast. Tuesdays are their day off, they told us, from their campground up near Leggett, and they were out to explore Shelter Cove for the day. A friend of theirs had recommended a small restaurant in the Shelter Cove Campground for fish and chips - did we want to come with them?

I barely remember what the fish and chips tasted like, or the brownie, the cinnamon roll, the soup, the soda, and any number of other things Terry and I devoured in a ridiculously short amount of time, but it was certainly the most welcome food I've eaten in a very long while. As we rode the ninety minutes back to our car in the Lost Coast Shuttle van, we reflected on the amazing hike we'd just completed - the spectacular scenery, the diverse wildlife, the peaceful and timeless surroundings - but mostly, we just enjoyed sitting down.

— By Diana Reid

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