The Lost Coast

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The Lost Coast Trail, Northern California

It is almost the one year anniversary of my first and so far only trip to the mysteriously named Lost Coast of California inside the King Range National Conservation Area. Therefore, I thought I would share my experience as best as I can recall—mainly because, as you will see, it was quite impossible to keep a journal of our time on the trails and because it was such an amazing and intense experience it is just difficult to describe what happened.

File on the beach, early on the journey


The characters: there is of course me, Jason J—who had recently been dubbed Man-God by a romantic interest (which is an entirely different story and I only write it now because it's funny to me); I was extremely under- and ill-prepared for the Lost Coast, and quite possibly the only one of my friends ever to suffer a nervous breakdown in the midst of such natural beauty. Then there is Jason File—our amateur backpacking guru and overall trip guide and planner; he prefers to stay/pack light, doesn't necessarily have an encyclopedic knowledge of all nature, yet this only makes traveling/hiking/backpacking with him all the more fun. Then there is Mark, who at the time of the trip was preparing to graduate from Stanford law school so he obviously was happy to be outdoors; he has all the modern amenities one can ask for on a backpacking trip—however, as you will see, like me, made a poor decision in footwear.

The trip started from Berkeley. We drove North via the Richmond/San Rafael Bridge, then through Petaluma, Santa Rosa, Healdsburg and so on. In some unimportant town we stopped to buy beer—at the time we thought it was Natural Light beer—and then without many other options ate dinner at a Taco Bell. We mused that this could end up being a bad decision, in a toilet sense.

The trip north is spectacular even at night. In the forested areas the twists and turns of the highway are endless but also there are the eerily lit up mountain walls, their light glowing like UFOs from behind the trees. We had a good soundtrack through this part of the journey; we came across a very peculiar radio station. The host seemed to be reading the news straight from the Healdsburg Gazette or some other such backwoods press. He would announce the goings-on within the town and then give his particularly wonderful insight. As much as we made fun of this radio host, he was our faithfully comedic companion throughout the final hours of the drive—you could say he was our Sancho Panza. Eventually, we had made it to the Mattole Campsite where we would camp for the night and which would be our starting point on our journey on the real Lost Coast.

The campsite seemed vast in the darkness. A long way off I could hear the sounds of the ocean. Mark, File and I unpacked a little bit, set up our tents in the dark. I had my own single man tent; I believe Mark and File slept in Mark's 3 man tent. Before we went to bed we opened some beers and realized that we were drinking Natty Ice—welcome to our frat. Then we took a good walk through the dunes towards the ocean. My sense here was not of thinking of the upcoming journey but of just being happy with two of my best friends. Each of our lives had put us in different parts of the state at this point and so we met with some irregularity; only a few years earlier, while in college at UC Santa Cruz, we had all lived together in the same house.

We woke up in the morning to a much different campsite. When we had arrived I had had no sense of other cars or people (except for one bonfire on the beach). When we awoke the parking lot of the Mattole site was full of vehicles and the voices of people/kids could be heard in all directions. After a somewhat meager breakfast (I discovered that I actually don't like cous cous), we set off.

Jason J posing as 'Man-God' at campsite south of Spanish Ridge Tr

The first bit of this portion of the Lost Coast trail is sand dunes. I had envisioned the Lost Coast trail as a more Sierra-like climb through the forest—for whatever reason—so I wore these very tough boots which I had borrowed from my dad. Within the first hour of the hike I could feel my pinky toes grating against the edge of the boots. My poor toes were in trouble.

The weather was perfect however. Chilly, sunny; the ocean was endless to our right. We stopped periodically to explore a tide pool or snap a photo or dig into some GORP; we talked about whatever crossed our minds. To our left the cliff walls rose up perhaps 3 or 4 stories. At the edge of the cliff we could see cows grazing.

Further down the trail we came to a small creek/river (which might have been called Cooksie Creek) emptying into the sea. There weren't many rock hopping options to cross it so we took off our boots and socks and waded through the water. The sky had turned gray by now. The icy water numbed the pain in my feet but then once across it was impossible to get all the sand off my feet and then back into my socks. I realized that I had not brought enough pairs of socks. If the journey continued like this I would run out of socks by the first night. Mark and File both had similar issues though they might have had more pairs of socks.

We eventually would cross a few more rivers just like this. At one particular crossing, there was a small wooden cabin. While we were crossing, we could see an old woman pull back the curtains from a window. I wonder who that woman is? Why does she live there? How did she come to live in this place?

In the early part of the hike there was also a very intriguing historical site—the Punta Gorda Lighthouse. The lighthouse is a small, two-story structure. Surrounding it, we could see the demolished foundations of the dwellings that used to serve it. We will return here later.

File approaching the Punta Gorda Lighthouse

Now for the fun; the weather was going berserk. One minute the sun would come booming from behind the clouds and we would start sweating beneath our clothes. Then it would quickly change to a fierce, biting wind, followed by small, stinging rain. Then back again to the sun and over and over. There was no reprieve from the changing weather. It became impossible to get truly comfortable. The many crossings of the rivers had soaked our socks. My pinky toes were bleeding, Mark was developing blisters on his heels from his new hiking boots. I think File was battling either the end/beginning of a cold. In short, the trip was evolving into what we had all hoped it would be. A battle between our "we can make it through anything" attitude and the Lost Coast's unforgiving weather and terrain. However, at this point, the weather was just tough to deal with, my crippled feet were just an annoyance. The degree to which File and I were soaked through was simply hilarious.

In the midst of a particularly bad downpour, we stopped along the beach and found our way into a small crevice in the cliff wall. Here we could escape the wind and rain a little bit. File and Mark smoked a cigarette and we all ate our Snicker's bar that we had packed. Well, we ate half of it. Later on in the first day we ate some skittles on a grassy cliff overlooking a giant rock in the water covered with lounging sea lions.

Snicker's and Cigarettes, File's poncho

Not only were my socks at risk but my entire pack was at risk. I had absentmindedly forgotten a poncho or any sort of water-proof covering for my pack. File covered his pack with his poncho while simultaneously wearing it. Mark's pack came equipped with its own covering. For me however we had to invent something. File took out his tent and pulled off the rain flap. The extra flaps of the tent covering had to be tied to my belt. The wind found its way through the holes and blew my covering up like a small parachute. The photographic evidence of this is hilarious to look at. I felt quite silly and mad at myself for forgetting something as simple as a poncho. In hindsight, it was hilarious.

The rain flap turned parachute

I'm not sure exactly how many miles we covered in that first day, but I would say between 8-10. We made camp just south of the Spanish Ridge Trail. The rain was still relentless but so was the constant changes in weather. For a moment it seemed the sun would break through permanently. I moved quickly to hang my clothes to dry. This didn't work at all. Quickly the rain returned and it was a lost cause. I would just have to survive in the clothes I had on. Wet socks would just be the way to go. It was also impossible to begin a fire since everything was so damp. For dinner we ate our preferred camping food which is ready made indian cuisine that you get from trader joe's in those little pouches. When preparing this type of food, the easiest and simplest way to entertain yourself is to make fart and shit jokes. That's just how it works.

Instead of setting up my one man tent, we used it to cover our packs. We all squeezed into the 3 man tent, exhausted from exertion and happiness. Our spirits were still high. We experienced one laughing fit caused by File retelling the story of his girlfriend and him attempting to camp and pitching their tent. Inside our tent, File obliviously remarked, "I told her 'I can't get it up!"

Mark looking proud at camp south of Spanish Ridge Trail

The morning was promising. It was also decision time. We could turn around and return to Mattole—which was my vote as I knew I was still ill-prepared. The other option was to travel further south then turn east and take the Kinsey Ridge Trail back north. We assumed that this upper ridge trail would be easier to go by and thus we could make it all the way back or at least most of the way back to Mattole. I should also mention we were making these decisions without a very detailed map. With the information we had, Kinsey Ridge Trail didn't seem that far from where we were and wouldn't take too long to travel. My hopes for the out-n-back route were outnumbered. We headed south and towards Kinsey Ridge.

The view south from Kinsey Ridge Trail, maybe an hour up

The Lost Coast Trail hooked up with Kinsey Ridge Trail maybe 30 minutes walk from our camp site. We turned east and into the cliffs. The initial part of the Kinsey Ridge Trail was climbing switchbacks through the forests. The trail seemed wide enough for vehicles. To me this was a good sign. It couldn't be that far from a road and a road is where we should eventually the turn north towards Mattole. As we gained elevation the weather grew colder, windier. It began to rain. And the switchbacks did not stop, we just kept climbing higher and higher. Every corner revealed a new portion of the ridge to be climbed. Eventually we were so high the rain turned to hail. Out of nowhere File realized that he had lost his beanie. It had just been on his head and now suddenly it was missing. My feet were bleeding, my legs were on fire. We had been walking uphill for close to two hours. File's troubled knee began to hurt. Mark seemed tired and unresponsive.

We stopped at two hours and ate some much needed food—basically oatmeal bars and some beef jerky. It felt good to stop and drop our packs. After eating my bar I realized that we probably hadn't packed enough food. That is, if we were forced to stay two nights versus just one other night, we would seriously have to ration our food. And still we hadn't made the assumed northern turn which would put us on the correct route back to Mattole.

We kept climbing until it began to snow. We stopped midway through a switchback, surrounded on all sides by snow. File and I looked at each other. We agreed that it was impossible. We didn't feel comfortable going further. We would have to turn around and try to make up as much time as we could. We could camp somewhere along the Lost Coast Trail and then make it a short third day. Mark agreed. We turned around and made it down Kinsey Ridge Back to the Lost Coast Tr. We had spent very nearly 3 hours attempting to get past Kinsey Ridge and it only took us about an hour to get back to the coast. Interestingly, on the way back down we found File's beanie off the side of the trail.

We passed our first campsite. We crossed a few more tiny streams. Mark didn't bother taking off his shoes any longer. By this time the blisters on his heels had scraped off. We trudged on. The weather wasn't as severe as the first day's trip but was just as schizophrenic. My feet were bursting from discomfort. I was actually becoming quite distracted by the pain. I couldn't keep up with Mark and File and stopped a few times along the rocky beach—boulders really. Eventually in the middle of a small beachy stretch I felt that I couldn't take it any longer. I was so exhausted, so much in pain that I had to stop. I had no interest in walking further. For a moment I even thought that perhaps I would just sit there and wait to die. I really did. I didn't want to move. I felt on the verge of tears. I said to File that I felt like I was going crazy. I just wanted to go home. I sat for a few minutes, regaining my composure, trying to cheer myself up. File and Mark waited patiently. Then I stood up and convinced myself that I could do it.

File and his poncho at camp south of Spanish Ridge Trail, nice weather!!

The Lighthouse was our goal. We could camp there and have an easy walk back to our car. I can't even describe the sense of relief I felt when we turned a corner and could see the Lighthouse far off in the distance. I knew we still had perhaps 2 hours of walking left to reach it but just seeing it! I knew my boots and the weather had not gotten the best of me.

We got to the lighthouse and pitched our tent inside the first story. For dinner we ate what can only be described as burrito stew (beans and salsa mixed together). I don't need to explain how much better any type of food tastes when you're out in nature. Another group of hikers came up on the lighthouse and explored around it. They had a dog with them who for whatever reason decided to stay with us into the night. We felt like this dog was our protector, our spirit animal.

The rest of the night was uneventful. We were so exhausted we couldn't do much but sit around and talk. We awoke, snapped a few pictures and then set off for Mattole.

Leaving the lighthouse, our hideout after Kinsey Ridge failure

Because the end was in sight, my feet bothered me less. And even though only two days ago we had traveled these exact same trails everything seemed foreign once again. We passed a dying sea lion. We thought it was dead but as we passed it craned its head toward us. That could have been me earlier, I thought.

Somehow we arrived to the Mattole campsite via a different trail which took us through a bowl shaped dune. Because we were inside the bowl, we couldn't see the campsite until we were almost right over it. As we approached the parking lot I just felt like laughing. I felt like I had accomplished something great. Had I simply survived this trip despite my ill-preparedness? I don't know. The feeling on that beach where I just stopped was a feeling I had never known. I had experienced something new. I had not injured myself in any permanent way so I had gained something. In my mind, nothing could be as hard as that walk.

We got to our car, unloaded our packs, opened the trunk and celebrated with Natty Ice. In a Suburu just a few feet away a young couple were having sex, windows fogging up, etc. File, Mark and I talked a little bit. We have had a good amount of funny trips (together and separate) and still this one I think stands out to us for its hilarity and intensity. I don't know if we ever plan on returning but if we do, I think we will be a little more prepared.

File, Mark, Jason J feeling victorious and just moments from Natty Ice