Exploring the Lost Coast

photos by Bennett Barthelemy

We were having doubts at mile two, and we still had 25 to go.

The wind ceaselessly blasted sand-and-salt spray into our faces as we slogged our way south along the narrow beach. Our “trail” would completely disappear in a matter of hours. And if we were not careful, we too could be sucked into the hungry abyss. We walked the razor edge where crumbling, gray cliffs meet rolling sea.

My wife Norma and I had left the safety of the car and shouldered our temporary homes just 45 minutes before, yet it felt as though we had been strapped into them for exhausting hours. Our only company so far, had been constellations of glittering jellyfish cast ashore by the merciless surf. Behind a veneer of gauze clouds, the cold sun resembled a gunshot wound in the shoulder of the sky. Why were we here?

I had done well, rendering an image of an isolated wilderness of utopian proportions. A sanctuary of solitude without cars, concrete, roads or television. Norma didn’t believe it existed. I wasn’t certain myself, but I had heard amazing things about the Lost Coast.

It was our spring break and thoughts of full-scale debauchery in Baja or skin-fests at Malibu Beach had lost their appeal. We had agreed that three days in the absence of civilization and humanity was where we wanted to be. I told her it would be a good, relaxing first trip for the first-time backpacker — such as she was. So, like it or not, there we were.

Our first evening we set up our tent in the shadow of the Punta Gorda lighthouse. The stove hissed its way to our contentment. The smell of macaroni and cheese with tuna excited my stomach like never before. We slipped into sleep like a diver heads into deep water.

I awoke after midnight with my bladder in the pinchers of a vice. I found my headlamp and stumbled out the tent door. A moment of fear overtook me as a shape loomed only yards ahead of me.

They were interpretive plaques at the lighthouse’s foot that we had missed in our hurry to set up camp. They shared a dark history. We were sleeping amongst scores of ghosts. The plaques told of men and women who had drowned when their storm-tossed ships foundered on the rocks just below us almost 100 years ago. According to the sign, pieces of the wreckage were still visible, poking through the sand to the southwest.

I tried to envision the horror of such a night. And almost having drowned myself several times, my empathy ran deep — too deep to have a fitting sleep as the tumble of surf kept me awake. As eyes would close, I would begin to drift. I would run images of monster waves breaking across the bow of our tent, pulling us out to sea to join the unfortunate victims as they struggled in vain to reach the surface.

It was impossible to gauge the time that morning as the sun was obscured in dense fog. Even if we had a watch, we had no tidal chart, which our map showed was imperative to cross our next five-mile section of coastline.

“DO NOT ATTEMPT AT HIGH TIDE,” it flatly stated.

One year prior, an unfortunate hiker had been swept out on the same section of trail. Two friends swam to the rescue, and none of them made it back to shore alive. These thoughts were forefront in our minds, and they refused to be pushed out completely — though we did our best to cover them in this wonderland of new discovery.

The Lost Coast is filled with a rich diversity of life.

We sat mesmerized for a time until the white froth from a large sneaker wave swirled around our heels as we raced for the black boulders at the cliff’s edge as we began a five-mile section. The basketball-size rocks were not only rolling beneath our feet, but they were now slick — making footing a constant game of jump and adjust. This became exhausting with the weight of the packs. Our ankles ached terribly as we had opted for our sandals on this section, knowing our feet would be getting wet.

As we reached the head, it became apparent that we could scramble up the crumbling cliff band and avoid the submerged beach. The exposure on the cliff face was better than an espresso shot The rush of wind threatened to topple us into the water, and we had to stay focused so as not to follow the pebbles that skated from our cat-like steps to the waves below. Once on top, we changed into our hiking boots to add support to the ankles.

At the beach on the opposite side, we saw the only signs that day that backpackers had been there before us. Elaborate, multi-roomed driftwood shelters — reminiscent of a prehistoric dream — lined the small cove.

I poked my head inside one and found my romantic illusions of a bygone era shattered. A crabbing buoy and a cow skull decorated the inner sanctum. An old tennis shoe and several plastic bottles with fading Japanese characters adorned the floor.

Leading away from the structure were fresh prints, belonging to raccoon or an otter perhaps, in the wet sand. Ahead, the fog was lifting from the surrounding hills. And lit by the sun, the hills were shockingly green in contrast to our world of drab sand and muddy sea. Far up the slopes, there appeared to be a number of large animals. I was intrigued. Elk perhaps, or black-tailed deer.

Excitedly I attached the telephoto lens to my camera to get a better view. My heart sank. I felt betrayed as the large animals turned out to be obtrusive cows. What were they doing trespassing in our utopia?

Somewhat disillusioned, we decided to follow the tracks. They led to the edge of the sand and to our first, real creek crossing. Hopping rocks and logs, we kept our boots dry. I had taken a slightly different path and watched from the far side as Norma stepped on the last log that would deliver her to the bank.

She had gingerly tiptoed across the log that dropped one inch further into the water every inch she moved forward, matching her progress. Just a short leap from the creek’s edge, the log nosed violently into the thigh deep creek pitching her off into the frigid water.

Thumping and squishing, we made our way to Spanish Flat for lunch. Waterfalls spilled down the steep, verdant hillsides into a carpet of purple, yellow and red wildflowers that did their best to obscure an old two-track road — remnants of the area’s thriving ranching days. Our map informed us that in wet years, this section of coast could receive 200 inches of rain per year. Believable when you witnessed the myriad of cascades pouring, dripping and seeping every few paces southward.

We marveled at the realization that it had been 24 hours and we had not seen another human being or a single vehicle. At that moment, the unmistakable thwapping of helicopter blades as the Coast Guard buzzed us at full torque. Well, at least someone knew we were out here.

It had to have been around 5 p.m. as we approached the giant shelf, high above the ocean that led to Big Flat. It was where we had hoped to camp. We had covered over 12 miles and were exhausted. At last, human footprints were now visible in the sand. Norma remarked how they had had quite a large dog with them. I looked at the prints she was pointing at that followed alongside. A few steps further they were more distinctly formed in wetter sand.

The prints were huge and round. And even to our untrained eyes, they betrayed themselves unmistakably as belonging to a bear. We now looked immensely forward to the prospect of setting up our nylon fortress and crawling into our North Face cocoons, safe from the ravages of wild beasts. We forced ourselves to believe that bears would be too polite to violate the sacred space of a tent.

We trudged up the edges of the drainage that brought us onto the shelf where we began scouting for good campsites. We found ourselves on a huge barren swath cut through the center of the field. It reminded us of a runway. Sure enough, at the far end, a Cessna loomed.

Our quest for privacy was again attacked. Big Flat is apparently one of the best breaks in California, as all surfers know. We spent the night amongst huge bonfires, barking dogs and the popping of fireworks.

Despite our earlier fears, we found ourselves longing for the uncertainty of a risky beach traverse with the waves nipping at our heals. We had been forced to give up the idea, a day too soon, that we were totally in control of our own destinies.