Lost Coast, Part III
Gotta lot of ground to cover, as it's been a while since I've last sat down to write. Convienant as laptops may be, you still don't tend to take them with you when you're stuffing a backpack.
After finishing writing and playing with Kris's dogs Charlie and Amos (good lord, watch out for those teeth!) for a while, we hopped in the truck again and made our way over to a beach and swimming hole owned by a fellow named Chuck, one of Kris's many, many friends in Willits. Joined briefly by Chuck, and the whole time by Kris's mother and her boyfriend we swam, snorkeled, played "watermelon keepaway" and had a really delicious barbeque of chicken, hotdogs, and corn on the cob. On a brief walk, Katrina and I spotted some river otter scat, filled with the crushed remains of crab shells. Moments later we spied the otters themselves, grooming on the shore and swimming in the river -- either four or five of them all told, some juvinile, some adults. Tons of fish in the river too, and the whole time I kept thinking of spearfishing, wondering if it might be possible that it's legal for some freshwater fish. One the way back from the BBQ, I got a chance to drive the big 70's era Chevy truck that Kris has. V8 with 4 on the floor and a gas pedal that felt like you were stepping on a brick. First gear was pretty much optional, as you could just let the clutch out in second gear without touching the gas and she'd be rolling. The most exciting part of it for me was when Kris told me to go straight where we'd normally hang a left. This took us via a different road which at one point gave up being a "road" and went across a gravelly area with a stream running through it and a 3 foot high gravel bank on the far side. Unfamilar truck, in the dark, and a surprise introduction to off-roading. Damn good fun.
At the beginning I mentioned backpacks -- thankfully we had brought the backpacks. I'd been saying since before the trip that doing any "real" backpacking would be unlikely since I had scraped most the skin off the bottom of one of my toes shortly before we left, but we brought mine anyways. Before leaving Kris's place we borrowed Vanessa's backpack so that Katrina could see if it's design was lighter than the one she owns, in the off-chance that we ever got a chance to test it.
The "off-chance" has turned out the be the norm for us this trip. Tuesday afternoon, roundish 4:00 pm we arrived at our destination of a campground called Needle Rock, off of a road called Briceland Thorn road, which was itself off of Highway 101. Anyways, a little campground on the "Lost Coast" with campsites on the bluffs just above the ocean. When we arrived, there was a hint of sunshine, but the air was getting colder and the fog was getting thicker by the moment, and we had just driven about two miles down a dirt road that often required very careful attention. Greeted by a rather, uhm, special camphost with a twangy accent from god-knows-where we were told that the campsites were right over there, take that trail, behind the barn, about a quarter of a mile or so. No water, essentially backpack-only access, and oh, $15 a night. And no, they didn't have change for a twenty. Despite how I'm painting the picture it wasn't all that bad, the campsites themselves were very pretty, the ocean was close, and we hoped that the fog would lift in the morning -- and she eventually found $19 as change for a twenty.
We set up camp in a lush and wonderful campsite whose only drawback we'd realize later -- the spot for the tent wasn't flat enough to keep your bag from slowly slipping to the downhill side of the tent. All night long. Camp set up, we took a hike in the fog northward along the bluffs to the next cluster of campsites which had been our original destination, Jones Beach, which was 0.7 miles away. They were also quite nice, not a soul around, and had a path down to the ocean, which we didn't have daylight enough to take that night. It's neat hiking in the fog, especially as the light starts to fade, as it did on the way back. There's a hush to the world, and the swirling of the fog imparts a sense of motion to everything in it. We were hoping to see some elk in the area, and every bush seemed to harbor the chance of being one.
Early the next morning, the fog seemed gone, and we had a simple and quick oatmeal breakfast. While we were eating, the fog started threatening an imminant return, so we grabbed our coats and set out for a quick trip over to look down at the ocean, which as the fog stayed offshore, got extended into a trip over to Jones beach, which got extended into a quick stroll along the beach, which finally ended up being extended hike south with the intent that we'd reached a different campground that was some unknown distance away, and then walk up the road to return. The campgrounds we were bound for turned out to be unreachable by way of the beach, a realization that didn't come until we were staring at the end of the beach and at the waves crashing directly into the rocks. Walking the whole way back, a couple miles or so, by the same route didn't seem too tempting so I scrambled up one of the more approachable sections of bluff wall. Coming to the top, I found the road we had suspected was up there, but also realized that the scramble up wouldn't be altogether safe for someone scared of heights, and so made my way back down to rejoin Katrina. No other choice at hand, we started back north along the beach, enjoying the sunshine and the ocean view, with only an occassional acknowlegement of the fact that we hadn't brought a drop of fresh water with us, nor did we know what time high tide was or whether there'd be any beach to walk on when it arrived. Neither the lack of water nor the tide ever proved to be a problem, and the walk was an excellent way to spend the morning. We rested a few minutes at Jones beach, then went up the trail and returned to camp for lunch and a siesta.
That afternoon, we set out for Jones beach again, this time carrying a camelback and a backpack full of dirty dishes we intended to wash while we were there. We never quite made it to the beach, as when were were presented with the choice of turning left and decending to the ocean or going straight to follow the trail on to Whale's gulch, we chose the path less travelled. The straight path also turned out to be the narrow path, and the scenery rapidly changed from dry grassy bluffs to a lush and marshy valley sprinkled with white cedar growing tall. We had entered a stream valley, but interestingly we hadn't changed direction to do so. The valley ran parallel to the ocean for a long stretch here, tantalizingly close to it's final destination but seperated from it by a tall, narrow ridge of earth and rock. Eventually we crossed the stream, made our way up the far side, and were soon presented with an ocean view, a beach below us, and the sun setting before us. We dropped down to the sandy shore and found a comfortable spot to watch the sun sink out of sight into the ocean fog. Not quite as dramatic a sunset as some, but the timing was perfect and there was no sense in wasting the opportunity.
After finishing writing and playing with Kris's dogs Charlie and Amos (good lord, watch out for those teeth!) for a while, we hopped in the truck again and made our way over to a beach and swimming hole owned by a fellow named Chuck, one of Kris's many, many friends in Willits. Joined briefly by Chuck, and the whole time by Kris's mother and her boyfriend we swam, snorkeled, played "watermelon keepaway" and had a really delicious barbeque of chicken, hotdogs, and corn on the cob. On a brief walk, Katrina and I spotted some river otter scat, filled with the crushed remains of crab shells. Moments later we spied the otters themselves, grooming on the shore and swimming in the river -- either four or five of them all told, some juvinile, some adults. Tons of fish in the river too, and the whole time I kept thinking of spearfishing, wondering if it might be possible that it's legal for some freshwater fish. One the way back from the BBQ, I got a chance to drive the big 70's era Chevy truck that Kris has. V8 with 4 on the floor and a gas pedal that felt like you were stepping on a brick. First gear was pretty much optional, as you could just let the clutch out in second gear without touching the gas and she'd be rolling. The most exciting part of it for me was when Kris told me to go straight where we'd normally hang a left. This took us via a different road which at one point gave up being a "road" and went across a gravelly area with a stream running through it and a 3 foot high gravel bank on the far side. Unfamilar truck, in the dark, and a surprise introduction to off-roading. Damn good fun.
At the beginning I mentioned backpacks -- thankfully we had brought the backpacks. I'd been saying since before the trip that doing any "real" backpacking would be unlikely since I had scraped most the skin off the bottom of one of my toes shortly before we left, but we brought mine anyways. Before leaving Kris's place we borrowed Vanessa's backpack so that Katrina could see if it's design was lighter than the one she owns, in the off-chance that we ever got a chance to test it.
The "off-chance" has turned out the be the norm for us this trip. Tuesday afternoon, roundish 4:00 pm we arrived at our destination of a campground called Needle Rock, off of a road called Briceland Thorn road, which was itself off of Highway 101. Anyways, a little campground on the "Lost Coast" with campsites on the bluffs just above the ocean. When we arrived, there was a hint of sunshine, but the air was getting colder and the fog was getting thicker by the moment, and we had just driven about two miles down a dirt road that often required very careful attention. Greeted by a rather, uhm, special camphost with a twangy accent from god-knows-where we were told that the campsites were right over there, take that trail, behind the barn, about a quarter of a mile or so. No water, essentially backpack-only access, and oh, $15 a night. And no, they didn't have change for a twenty. Despite how I'm painting the picture it wasn't all that bad, the campsites themselves were very pretty, the ocean was close, and we hoped that the fog would lift in the morning -- and she eventually found $19 as change for a twenty.
We set up camp in a lush and wonderful campsite whose only drawback we'd realize later -- the spot for the tent wasn't flat enough to keep your bag from slowly slipping to the downhill side of the tent. All night long. Camp set up, we took a hike in the fog northward along the bluffs to the next cluster of campsites which had been our original destination, Jones Beach, which was 0.7 miles away. They were also quite nice, not a soul around, and had a path down to the ocean, which we didn't have daylight enough to take that night. It's neat hiking in the fog, especially as the light starts to fade, as it did on the way back. There's a hush to the world, and the swirling of the fog imparts a sense of motion to everything in it. We were hoping to see some elk in the area, and every bush seemed to harbor the chance of being one.
Early the next morning, the fog seemed gone, and we had a simple and quick oatmeal breakfast. While we were eating, the fog started threatening an imminant return, so we grabbed our coats and set out for a quick trip over to look down at the ocean, which as the fog stayed offshore, got extended into a trip over to Jones beach, which got extended into a quick stroll along the beach, which finally ended up being extended hike south with the intent that we'd reached a different campground that was some unknown distance away, and then walk up the road to return. The campgrounds we were bound for turned out to be unreachable by way of the beach, a realization that didn't come until we were staring at the end of the beach and at the waves crashing directly into the rocks. Walking the whole way back, a couple miles or so, by the same route didn't seem too tempting so I scrambled up one of the more approachable sections of bluff wall. Coming to the top, I found the road we had suspected was up there, but also realized that the scramble up wouldn't be altogether safe for someone scared of heights, and so made my way back down to rejoin Katrina. No other choice at hand, we started back north along the beach, enjoying the sunshine and the ocean view, with only an occassional acknowlegement of the fact that we hadn't brought a drop of fresh water with us, nor did we know what time high tide was or whether there'd be any beach to walk on when it arrived. Neither the lack of water nor the tide ever proved to be a problem, and the walk was an excellent way to spend the morning. We rested a few minutes at Jones beach, then went up the trail and returned to camp for lunch and a siesta.
That afternoon, we set out for Jones beach again, this time carrying a camelback and a backpack full of dirty dishes we intended to wash while we were there. We never quite made it to the beach, as when were were presented with the choice of turning left and decending to the ocean or going straight to follow the trail on to Whale's gulch, we chose the path less travelled. The straight path also turned out to be the narrow path, and the scenery rapidly changed from dry grassy bluffs to a lush and marshy valley sprinkled with white cedar growing tall. We had entered a stream valley, but interestingly we hadn't changed direction to do so. The valley ran parallel to the ocean for a long stretch here, tantalizingly close to it's final destination but seperated from it by a tall, narrow ridge of earth and rock. Eventually we crossed the stream, made our way up the far side, and were soon presented with an ocean view, a beach below us, and the sun setting before us. We dropped down to the sandy shore and found a comfortable spot to watch the sun sink out of sight into the ocean fog. Not quite as dramatic a sunset as some, but the timing was perfect and there was no sense in wasting the opportunity.
posted by Dan at 4:30 PM
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