On the Road Indefinitely: A Dirtbag Hiker in the USA
01-02-2016
, 04:06 PM
California Coastal Trail (Part 2)
This hike was mostly split up into portions of trail hiking and road hiking. I would get anywhere from four to six days hiking only trails, then have four to six days hiking a lot of road, mainly Highway 1 (or 101 farther up the coast). After the four days of trail I got north of San Francisco, I had six days of virtually all highway.
The first day started out along Tomales Bay, with the bay to my left and cow pastures to my right. I passed by oyster farms and restaurants before the highway turned inland toward the town of Tomales (population 204), where I stopped at a deli for lunch.
Having put in some big mileage my first four days out, I was pretty exhausted. For some reason I thought I only had another eight miles to go until my stopping point for the day, Doran Region Park. When I double checked my phone and saw that I was still over fourteen miles away I was heartbroken. There was no way I was going to make it another fourteen miles that day. I angrily threw my pack on and started walking, but before I even got a hundred yards up the road a van stopped.
“Hey, do you want a ride?”
His name was Ted. He had poor hygiene, an empty van, and offered an unsolicited ride. Everything about him made me want to say no, but man I really didn’t want to walk fourteen more miles. I hopped in. It turns out he was a local in the area and was heading up the road to the grocery store. He said even though I didn’t have my thumb out he could just tell I really wanted a lift. Good read Ted. The best part about the encounter was he drove me just over six miles. I had eight miles left for the day, just like I had expected.
The broken wine bottles on the side of the road made it clear I had entered Sonoma County. I was ecstatic about the ride and the rest of the hike was a breeze. In no time at all I made it to Doran and set up camp on the small strip of land that splits up Bodega Bay and Bodega Harbor.
I woke up in desperate need of a rest day. There was another campground just four miles up the road, so I decided that was as far as I would travel. I stopped for some ice cream in the town of Bodega Bay (population 950) before getting to the campsite where I dropped my stuff, grabbed a book, and headed for the beach.
After spending the afternoon in the sun, I retired back to camp to take a hot shower and cook some food. The great thing about a lot of the California parks is that they have sites for people who hike or bike in that usually cost only five dollars a night. The bad thing about this (in most campers’ opinion) is that they tend to attract homeless people.
While I was cooking dinner, a guy my age walked into the camp and sat down on the picnic table next to mine. His name was Chris, and he was obviously a homeless traveler. We got to talking. He had spent the previous night in jail in Santa Rosa, but was in good spirits after catching a ride all the way to the coast that day. He didn’t have any money and was “down to [his] last can of beans.” I would have been very surprised if he actually had a can of beans. I gave him a couple packs of Ramen and he stayed a while. Eventually, the campground host came by and asked for five dollars. He offered her weed instead. She said no and told him he couldn’t stay. They went back and forth and I was ready to give him five bucks when she said it’s not fair to me that he stays for free. I said I didn’t mind and I liked the company and she let him stay. It would have been a bad situation for everybody if she had kicked him out.
Before I went to bed, I told him to take whatever food he wanted for breakfast. I heard him leave around 6a.m. When I opened my food bag the next morning it looked like all he had taken was a couple granola bars.
The day started with a long walk down the beach and a short trail hike before connecting with Highway 1 again. I stopped briefly at a deli in Jenner (population 107) and continued down the highway. North of Jenner the road gets very hilly and windy. Hiking this part was the first time I was a little scared to be on the road.
It was getting late in the day, right about the time to start looking for a place to set up camp, but there were no suitable options in sight. There was no seclusion. Everything was wide open. There wasn’t even any flat land to lay out a tent. I was getting worried. Luckily, I rounded a corner and saw a gift on the side of the road. An SUV hauling a trailer was pulled over, with a man and boy inspecting the trailer. I asked if they needed help. They said no. They asked if I needed a ride. I said yes.
They were a family of four: mother, father, two young kids, and a dog named Patches. The trailer was hauling building material for a new horse stable, as they had just bought their second horse. My destination wasn’t far up the road, and when they pulled over they asked if I was sure I didn’t want to go farther. It was another offer I didn’t refuse. They drove me another twenty miles or so up to the next state park with a hiker campsite. It was twenty miles of all highway that I was happy to skip.
The park was just outside Gualala (pronounced with a W sound, not G), so I stopped there to resupply and get some tacos the next morning before continuing down the road. Around mid-day, I came upon a tiny little place called Anchor Bay (population 167). It was basically four stores and a post office. However, one of the stores sold ice cream, so I figured it would be a good place to hang out for a bit. As I was getting ready to leave again a guy my age walked out of the small grocery store, saw my pack, and started asking me the usual questions; where I’m going, where I came from, etc. I oblige and he offers me a ride down the road. I strongly considered saying no at this point. I did feel bad that I hadn’t been doing much hiking the last few days, but I once again couldn’t resist skipping some more road miles.
I’ll call the guy John. He said he had to stop by his house to grab something, but I think that was just an excuse to show off the property he’d bought and was telling me about. It was about ten acres, had a great view, and was going to be completely off the grid. He had a small house built and was working on getting solar set up. The backyard had a huge garden and it was only the start. I soon learned what John did for money when his friend pulled up and sat down at a table inside, opened up a garbage bag full of weed and started trimming. John grows weed. Welcome to the Emerald Triangle.
We left soon after and John gave me a short tour of Point Arena. He knew of a great area to hike through called the Stornetta Public Lands and dropped me off there. I was really glad I had run into him as I would have likely skipped this area and stayed on the highway. It offered some of the most scenic coastline I had seen thus far and without a doubt the best stealth camp I’d yet to have.
I fell asleep after a killer sunset, and woke up to a killer sunrise. It was a spectacular morning. I had the whole area to myself. Even better, I had a long beach hike and got to finally spend some time off the road. I joined up with it later that day, but it had changed. There were wide open tracks of grassland to my left that would abruptly drop straight to the rock ocean below. In the middle of it all, I ran across some llamas (or maybe alpacas?).
Late in the day, I found myself walking up to the coolest little town I would see for the entire trip, Elk, California (population 250). It sat right on the cliffs edge, next to a cove, with Highway 1 quietly passing through. I made my proudest stealth camp yet, mostly because of how close it was to town and how hidden I was, while still having an awesome view.
I did feel a little bad about the rides I had gotten. To be fair, I had still done a good bit of hiking. It was just highway miles after all, and I did enjoy meeting the locals. I decided I’d hike as much possible, but when the opportunity presents itself I’m gonna ride on.
This hike was mostly split up into portions of trail hiking and road hiking. I would get anywhere from four to six days hiking only trails, then have four to six days hiking a lot of road, mainly Highway 1 (or 101 farther up the coast). After the four days of trail I got north of San Francisco, I had six days of virtually all highway.
The first day started out along Tomales Bay, with the bay to my left and cow pastures to my right. I passed by oyster farms and restaurants before the highway turned inland toward the town of Tomales (population 204), where I stopped at a deli for lunch.
Having put in some big mileage my first four days out, I was pretty exhausted. For some reason I thought I only had another eight miles to go until my stopping point for the day, Doran Region Park. When I double checked my phone and saw that I was still over fourteen miles away I was heartbroken. There was no way I was going to make it another fourteen miles that day. I angrily threw my pack on and started walking, but before I even got a hundred yards up the road a van stopped.
“Hey, do you want a ride?”
His name was Ted. He had poor hygiene, an empty van, and offered an unsolicited ride. Everything about him made me want to say no, but man I really didn’t want to walk fourteen more miles. I hopped in. It turns out he was a local in the area and was heading up the road to the grocery store. He said even though I didn’t have my thumb out he could just tell I really wanted a lift. Good read Ted. The best part about the encounter was he drove me just over six miles. I had eight miles left for the day, just like I had expected.
The broken wine bottles on the side of the road made it clear I had entered Sonoma County. I was ecstatic about the ride and the rest of the hike was a breeze. In no time at all I made it to Doran and set up camp on the small strip of land that splits up Bodega Bay and Bodega Harbor.
I woke up in desperate need of a rest day. There was another campground just four miles up the road, so I decided that was as far as I would travel. I stopped for some ice cream in the town of Bodega Bay (population 950) before getting to the campsite where I dropped my stuff, grabbed a book, and headed for the beach.
After spending the afternoon in the sun, I retired back to camp to take a hot shower and cook some food. The great thing about a lot of the California parks is that they have sites for people who hike or bike in that usually cost only five dollars a night. The bad thing about this (in most campers’ opinion) is that they tend to attract homeless people.
While I was cooking dinner, a guy my age walked into the camp and sat down on the picnic table next to mine. His name was Chris, and he was obviously a homeless traveler. We got to talking. He had spent the previous night in jail in Santa Rosa, but was in good spirits after catching a ride all the way to the coast that day. He didn’t have any money and was “down to [his] last can of beans.” I would have been very surprised if he actually had a can of beans. I gave him a couple packs of Ramen and he stayed a while. Eventually, the campground host came by and asked for five dollars. He offered her weed instead. She said no and told him he couldn’t stay. They went back and forth and I was ready to give him five bucks when she said it’s not fair to me that he stays for free. I said I didn’t mind and I liked the company and she let him stay. It would have been a bad situation for everybody if she had kicked him out.
Before I went to bed, I told him to take whatever food he wanted for breakfast. I heard him leave around 6a.m. When I opened my food bag the next morning it looked like all he had taken was a couple granola bars.
The day started with a long walk down the beach and a short trail hike before connecting with Highway 1 again. I stopped briefly at a deli in Jenner (population 107) and continued down the highway. North of Jenner the road gets very hilly and windy. Hiking this part was the first time I was a little scared to be on the road.
It was getting late in the day, right about the time to start looking for a place to set up camp, but there were no suitable options in sight. There was no seclusion. Everything was wide open. There wasn’t even any flat land to lay out a tent. I was getting worried. Luckily, I rounded a corner and saw a gift on the side of the road. An SUV hauling a trailer was pulled over, with a man and boy inspecting the trailer. I asked if they needed help. They said no. They asked if I needed a ride. I said yes.
They were a family of four: mother, father, two young kids, and a dog named Patches. The trailer was hauling building material for a new horse stable, as they had just bought their second horse. My destination wasn’t far up the road, and when they pulled over they asked if I was sure I didn’t want to go farther. It was another offer I didn’t refuse. They drove me another twenty miles or so up to the next state park with a hiker campsite. It was twenty miles of all highway that I was happy to skip.
The park was just outside Gualala (pronounced with a W sound, not G), so I stopped there to resupply and get some tacos the next morning before continuing down the road. Around mid-day, I came upon a tiny little place called Anchor Bay (population 167). It was basically four stores and a post office. However, one of the stores sold ice cream, so I figured it would be a good place to hang out for a bit. As I was getting ready to leave again a guy my age walked out of the small grocery store, saw my pack, and started asking me the usual questions; where I’m going, where I came from, etc. I oblige and he offers me a ride down the road. I strongly considered saying no at this point. I did feel bad that I hadn’t been doing much hiking the last few days, but I once again couldn’t resist skipping some more road miles.
I’ll call the guy John. He said he had to stop by his house to grab something, but I think that was just an excuse to show off the property he’d bought and was telling me about. It was about ten acres, had a great view, and was going to be completely off the grid. He had a small house built and was working on getting solar set up. The backyard had a huge garden and it was only the start. I soon learned what John did for money when his friend pulled up and sat down at a table inside, opened up a garbage bag full of weed and started trimming. John grows weed. Welcome to the Emerald Triangle.
We left soon after and John gave me a short tour of Point Arena. He knew of a great area to hike through called the Stornetta Public Lands and dropped me off there. I was really glad I had run into him as I would have likely skipped this area and stayed on the highway. It offered some of the most scenic coastline I had seen thus far and without a doubt the best stealth camp I’d yet to have.
I fell asleep after a killer sunset, and woke up to a killer sunrise. It was a spectacular morning. I had the whole area to myself. Even better, I had a long beach hike and got to finally spend some time off the road. I joined up with it later that day, but it had changed. There were wide open tracks of grassland to my left that would abruptly drop straight to the rock ocean below. In the middle of it all, I ran across some llamas (or maybe alpacas?).
Late in the day, I found myself walking up to the coolest little town I would see for the entire trip, Elk, California (population 250). It sat right on the cliffs edge, next to a cove, with Highway 1 quietly passing through. I made my proudest stealth camp yet, mostly because of how close it was to town and how hidden I was, while still having an awesome view.
I did feel a little bad about the rides I had gotten. To be fair, I had still done a good bit of hiking. It was just highway miles after all, and I did enjoy meeting the locals. I decided I’d hike as much possible, but when the opportunity presents itself I’m gonna ride on.
01-02-2016
, 07:35 PM
01-03-2016
, 08:48 PM
California Coastal Trail (Part 3)
After Elk, I followed the Highway to Van Damme State Park, in a place called Little River. The town was basically a market/post office/restaurant building and a fancy inn with golf and tennis. The park was just down the hill from both. I grabbed a burger from the restaurant (which looked out over the ocean) and headed down to set up camp in the hiker/biker site. There were only a couple RVers there, but I was soon joined by a man named Daniel.
Daniel looked to be about forty-five and he was a little rough around the edges. He took to me right away, eager to have some company it seemed. We went up to the market to get some food and lighter fluid because he wanted to have a fire. He bought three twenty-two ounce beers for himself. We got hiked back down, got a fire going, and I learned more about him.
Daniel was a methhead. He had been clean for almost two years. He decided to quit meth after he imagined a black man with a sword was chasing him, trying to steal his bike. To get away from the man, Daniel threw his bike off a cliff before jumping off himself. He broke his pelvis. By the time a rescue team found him, the tide was up to his chest. It’s tough to know what really happened, but he did walk with a bad limp. He claimed to have done meth every day for three years. It clearly took its toll on him.
He drank the three beers pretty quickly and soon wanted to go to the store to get more. He wouldn’t go anywhere without me, as if he were afraid to be alone. Daniel said some crazy things to me when we were together, like how there were tweakers in caves watching us, or how people walking on the Earth’s surface cause it to heat up and one day it will explode. But he said the craziest things when I retired to my tent and left him alone.
“There will be a massive ethnic cleansing soon.”
“Two thirds of the world will die before Jesus comes back.”
“I’m going to kill all the gooks that stole my family’s land.”
“I will call in an airstrike on your forehead.”
“That’s what dad said.”
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him as I fell asleep. It was no wonder the guy never wanted me to leave his side. It was tough leaving him the next day. He was clearly sad at the news and begged me to stay, but I wasn’t comfortable spending more time with him. He even said he would hike with me, forcing me to tell him I’d like to be alone. He understood. I wanted to get away from the demon inside of him the same way he did, only it was a little easier for me. He gave me a hug, and I went on my way.
I hiked through the hippie and tweaker infested town of Mendocino, where I met another methhead. Her name was Anne. She saw my backpack and asked me to sit down and talk to her. I told her what I was doing and where I was going. She gave me directions to places I already knew how to get to. The conversation ended how you would expect it to: she asked me for a dollar. I gave her two and moved on. I passed a nice campground in Caspar Beach and shelled out thirty dollars to stay. It had showers, laundry and wifi, and bus stop nearby.
The early morning bus took me to Fort Bragg, where I picked up a big resupply and used the library to file my tax return. Fort Bragg would be the last place for a good resupply before I hit the Lost Coast. Hiking out, I was sure to stop at a tourist spot called Glass Beach. It’s what’s left of an old dump site. Basically all the biodegradable mess broke down and went away, anything salvageable was scrapped, and all that was left was glass to be tumbled by the ocean, leaving it rounded and smooth to the touch. In the summer, over a thousand tourists a day stop to admire the beach glass.
From Glass Beach, there is a hiking and biking trail that used to be an old haul road for loggers. It takes you all the way down to MacKerricher State Park, about four miles away. I made the hike as the skies turned gray and the wind picked up. A storm was coming, but not yet.
I woke up the next morning with a dry tent under a gray sky. I had one more stop before heading into the Lost Coast. It was a tiny little campground at Westport-Union Landing State Beach, right on the side of the road, virtually in the middle of nowhere. I made the fifteen-mile hike there under a gray sky. I cooked dinner under a gray sky. I went to bed under a gray sky. I woke up to monster.
They call it a Pineapple Express. It is a type of storm responsible for some of the most torrential rains that have ever occurred on the West Coast. It isn’t necessarily accompanied by high winds, but this one was. I spent half the night battling my tent, trying to keep it in the state it functions best. Massive gusts of wind and buckets of rain were putting it to the ultimate test. It put up a good fight, but eventually failed. In the early morning hours two stakes were ripped from the ground, sending half the tent flailing in the wind. I grabbed by backpack and threw it down by my feet to anchor the tent again, but the damage was already done. Everything was soaked. I was defeated.
I packed up, put on my rain gear, and went to the road to put my thumb in the air. There was no traffic. I started walking. The rain was pouring down and gusts of wind sent it in every direction. One car went by. No luck. Ten minutes later a second and a third car. No luck. A car pulled up from a side road and saw me fail my third attempt at getting a ride. I must have had the saddest look on my face because the driver cleared out her front seat, pulled up, and let me in.
She was a very timid woman, probably about sixty years old. I think she was afraid of me. She told me a story about how she and a friend were hiking a section of the PCT back in the 70s when a storm forced them to bail. They had to hitchhike out. Now the circle was complete. She dropped me off at a motel in Fort Bragg, where I spent the night drying everything out and figuring out the next move. The storm wasn’t over, and the whole ordeal left me feeling a little too human.
The power was out the next morning, just like it was up and down nearly the entire northwest coast. I decided to take a mini-vacation to the driest place I knew, Las Vegas. Don’t get excited. I did absolutely nothing exciting in Vegas. I pretty much just wanted to ride buses, sit in a hotel room, watch TV, and feel protected for a while. For the past two weeks I had been completely exposed and out in the open. It’s one thing to camp in the woods, it’s another thing all together to do it amongst people. It’s an eerie feeling if you stop to think about it, and it took some getting used to. I did some laundry, went for walks, listened to music. A methhead asked to buy my socks. I had no idea why I was having so many methhead encounters. After four days I felt ready to return to the coast.
I found a forty-eight dollar flight to San Francisco and started bussing up the coast from there. Everything felt so familiar, like I had lived there my entire life. I camped out in the same place outside Gualala, and in the morning I caught the bus with all the local school kids. It was me, an old man, and about fifteen kids aged five to thirteen all on their way to school for the day. The public bus also served as their school bus.
I made it to Fort Bragg and hiked the same old haul road to MacKerricher, where I camped in the same hiker/biker site and hung out with the same camp host, a nice old lady named Mary who was glad to see I was okay after the storm. Ironically, she wished her son was doing what I was doing instead of working, and my own mother wished I were working instead of doing what I was doing. There was an incredible sunset that night.
The next day I hiked the same road to Westport-Union and camped in the same site I was at the first night of the storm. I even ate the same dinner. Only one thing was different: the sky was clear. All was calm, including me.
After Elk, I followed the Highway to Van Damme State Park, in a place called Little River. The town was basically a market/post office/restaurant building and a fancy inn with golf and tennis. The park was just down the hill from both. I grabbed a burger from the restaurant (which looked out over the ocean) and headed down to set up camp in the hiker/biker site. There were only a couple RVers there, but I was soon joined by a man named Daniel.
Daniel looked to be about forty-five and he was a little rough around the edges. He took to me right away, eager to have some company it seemed. We went up to the market to get some food and lighter fluid because he wanted to have a fire. He bought three twenty-two ounce beers for himself. We got hiked back down, got a fire going, and I learned more about him.
Daniel was a methhead. He had been clean for almost two years. He decided to quit meth after he imagined a black man with a sword was chasing him, trying to steal his bike. To get away from the man, Daniel threw his bike off a cliff before jumping off himself. He broke his pelvis. By the time a rescue team found him, the tide was up to his chest. It’s tough to know what really happened, but he did walk with a bad limp. He claimed to have done meth every day for three years. It clearly took its toll on him.
He drank the three beers pretty quickly and soon wanted to go to the store to get more. He wouldn’t go anywhere without me, as if he were afraid to be alone. Daniel said some crazy things to me when we were together, like how there were tweakers in caves watching us, or how people walking on the Earth’s surface cause it to heat up and one day it will explode. But he said the craziest things when I retired to my tent and left him alone.
“There will be a massive ethnic cleansing soon.”
“Two thirds of the world will die before Jesus comes back.”
“I’m going to kill all the gooks that stole my family’s land.”
“I will call in an airstrike on your forehead.”
“That’s what dad said.”
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him as I fell asleep. It was no wonder the guy never wanted me to leave his side. It was tough leaving him the next day. He was clearly sad at the news and begged me to stay, but I wasn’t comfortable spending more time with him. He even said he would hike with me, forcing me to tell him I’d like to be alone. He understood. I wanted to get away from the demon inside of him the same way he did, only it was a little easier for me. He gave me a hug, and I went on my way.
I hiked through the hippie and tweaker infested town of Mendocino, where I met another methhead. Her name was Anne. She saw my backpack and asked me to sit down and talk to her. I told her what I was doing and where I was going. She gave me directions to places I already knew how to get to. The conversation ended how you would expect it to: she asked me for a dollar. I gave her two and moved on. I passed a nice campground in Caspar Beach and shelled out thirty dollars to stay. It had showers, laundry and wifi, and bus stop nearby.
The early morning bus took me to Fort Bragg, where I picked up a big resupply and used the library to file my tax return. Fort Bragg would be the last place for a good resupply before I hit the Lost Coast. Hiking out, I was sure to stop at a tourist spot called Glass Beach. It’s what’s left of an old dump site. Basically all the biodegradable mess broke down and went away, anything salvageable was scrapped, and all that was left was glass to be tumbled by the ocean, leaving it rounded and smooth to the touch. In the summer, over a thousand tourists a day stop to admire the beach glass.
From Glass Beach, there is a hiking and biking trail that used to be an old haul road for loggers. It takes you all the way down to MacKerricher State Park, about four miles away. I made the hike as the skies turned gray and the wind picked up. A storm was coming, but not yet.
I woke up the next morning with a dry tent under a gray sky. I had one more stop before heading into the Lost Coast. It was a tiny little campground at Westport-Union Landing State Beach, right on the side of the road, virtually in the middle of nowhere. I made the fifteen-mile hike there under a gray sky. I cooked dinner under a gray sky. I went to bed under a gray sky. I woke up to monster.
They call it a Pineapple Express. It is a type of storm responsible for some of the most torrential rains that have ever occurred on the West Coast. It isn’t necessarily accompanied by high winds, but this one was. I spent half the night battling my tent, trying to keep it in the state it functions best. Massive gusts of wind and buckets of rain were putting it to the ultimate test. It put up a good fight, but eventually failed. In the early morning hours two stakes were ripped from the ground, sending half the tent flailing in the wind. I grabbed by backpack and threw it down by my feet to anchor the tent again, but the damage was already done. Everything was soaked. I was defeated.
I packed up, put on my rain gear, and went to the road to put my thumb in the air. There was no traffic. I started walking. The rain was pouring down and gusts of wind sent it in every direction. One car went by. No luck. Ten minutes later a second and a third car. No luck. A car pulled up from a side road and saw me fail my third attempt at getting a ride. I must have had the saddest look on my face because the driver cleared out her front seat, pulled up, and let me in.
She was a very timid woman, probably about sixty years old. I think she was afraid of me. She told me a story about how she and a friend were hiking a section of the PCT back in the 70s when a storm forced them to bail. They had to hitchhike out. Now the circle was complete. She dropped me off at a motel in Fort Bragg, where I spent the night drying everything out and figuring out the next move. The storm wasn’t over, and the whole ordeal left me feeling a little too human.
The power was out the next morning, just like it was up and down nearly the entire northwest coast. I decided to take a mini-vacation to the driest place I knew, Las Vegas. Don’t get excited. I did absolutely nothing exciting in Vegas. I pretty much just wanted to ride buses, sit in a hotel room, watch TV, and feel protected for a while. For the past two weeks I had been completely exposed and out in the open. It’s one thing to camp in the woods, it’s another thing all together to do it amongst people. It’s an eerie feeling if you stop to think about it, and it took some getting used to. I did some laundry, went for walks, listened to music. A methhead asked to buy my socks. I had no idea why I was having so many methhead encounters. After four days I felt ready to return to the coast.
I found a forty-eight dollar flight to San Francisco and started bussing up the coast from there. Everything felt so familiar, like I had lived there my entire life. I camped out in the same place outside Gualala, and in the morning I caught the bus with all the local school kids. It was me, an old man, and about fifteen kids aged five to thirteen all on their way to school for the day. The public bus also served as their school bus.
I made it to Fort Bragg and hiked the same old haul road to MacKerricher, where I camped in the same hiker/biker site and hung out with the same camp host, a nice old lady named Mary who was glad to see I was okay after the storm. Ironically, she wished her son was doing what I was doing instead of working, and my own mother wished I were working instead of doing what I was doing. There was an incredible sunset that night.
The next day I hiked the same road to Westport-Union and camped in the same site I was at the first night of the storm. I even ate the same dinner. Only one thing was different: the sky was clear. All was calm, including me.
01-05-2016
, 01:13 AM
01-06-2016
, 08:09 PM
California Coastal Trail (Part 4, The Lost Coast Trail)
It was time to hike The Lost Coast, a stretch of coast that forced Highway 1 inland to join the 101, leaving it virtually untouched by civilization. I entered by way of a rugged, narrow, steep, dirt road called Usal. The road climbed and climbed, before descending back down to a camp area with the same name. From there I caught a steep, overgrown trail back up the coastal mountains.
After about an hour of I hiking, I came across a young guy sitting in the middle of the trail with a ukulele and a camera. It took me completely by surprise, as I hadn’t expected to see anyone for the rest of the evening. He was camping down at Usal, went for a hike and just kept hiking. He hiked with me for a little ways before turning back after parting words of, “I hope [your journey] continues to unfold for you in a beautiful way.” He was very… spiritual.
It was starting to get late and I was still high up on the ridge. The designated camp sites in this area are all down in the valleys near the reliable water sources. I was good on water, so I found spot with a good view and set up camp for the night. I woke up above the clouds, nice and dry. The entire day was spent in constant elevation change. It was a grueling roller coaster of climbing up ridges before heading down into foggy valleys and back up again. I set up camp along a streamside that night. The next day started with a monster climb before a very long descent into the town of Shelter Cove (population 805).
Shelter Cove is a tourist town. It was very deserted in February, the only people there being locals. It’s the only town on the entire span of coast and it’s pretty much the halfway point to the trail. However, the vast majority of Lost Coast hikers only hike the northern section, many of them completely unaware that there is a southern section. I stopped at a local store then headed for the start of the new section, an area known as Black Sands Beach for obvious reasons.
I hiked the beach for a couple hours until I found a creek to set up camp next to. As I was cooking dinner a couple guys walked up and set up camp on the other side of the creek from me. They were really friendly and invited me to a camp fire they were going to have later. I finished up dinner, gathered some wood to burn and headed over.
It was an absolutely perfect night. We sat around the fire, passed around a flask, swapped hiking stories, and admired the stars. Their names were Jason and Dave. Jason looked really familiar to me and I finally figured it out why after asking what he did for a living. He said he was in filmmaking. I asked if he had worked on anything I would know. He said probably one, and he was right.
Jason was the writer and director of the John Muir Trail documentary Mile, Mile and a Half which has been very popular on Netflix for some time now. He claimed people had been giving him a hard time about the documentary, as the already-popular JMT had somehow exploded in popularity even more since the Netflix debut. We had talked about the JMT hours earlier and he said he was reluctant to tell me about his documentary until he had gauged my overall attitude towards hiking. He seemed to have a good sense of humor, so I of course jokingly asked him which trail he would ruin next. There were a couple ideas on his list. I better get those done soon. It was well past hiker midnight (9 p.m.) so I crossed the creek over to my side and went to bed. I had to be up early to beat high tide.
There are a couple sections of the The Lost Coast Trail that are impassable at high tide, so it’s necessary to look over the tide charts and plan accordingly. I got a late start. The tide was coming in fast and I took some stupid risks. It was clear to see that I wasn’t going to make it out of the high tide zone soon enough so I had to scramble up the unstable cliff side about twenty feet or so and wait it out. I spent close to two hours waiting, reading, and watching the power of the ocean. It was amazing to see the water carry giant fallen trees away, as if they were old Viking ships charging out to sea. When it was clear the danger was over, I started back down the beach again.
I had the next camp all to myself. Actually, Jason and Dave would be the only people I would see for the rest of the northern section of trail. High tide came later the next day, so I got to sleep in and didn’t repeat the mistakes of the day before. Eventually the beach hiking was over and the trail followed along wide open stretches of grassland, making for very easy hiking. Before long, I had made it to the Punta Gorda Lighthouse, not far from the end of the trail. I climbed around on the lighthouse for a while and finished up the Lost Coast Trail soon after.
It seemed like the past was the only thing that was lost on the Lost Coast. In the four days there I had come across remnants of history; old stone chimneys that remain from attempts at living by people who are no longer living. People had clearly been there, and aimed to leave their mark, but their footprints were washed away by the sea long ago. The only things that truly remained were an eerie feeling and an old lighthouse, sitting there like a ghost on the shore.
It was time to hike The Lost Coast, a stretch of coast that forced Highway 1 inland to join the 101, leaving it virtually untouched by civilization. I entered by way of a rugged, narrow, steep, dirt road called Usal. The road climbed and climbed, before descending back down to a camp area with the same name. From there I caught a steep, overgrown trail back up the coastal mountains.
After about an hour of I hiking, I came across a young guy sitting in the middle of the trail with a ukulele and a camera. It took me completely by surprise, as I hadn’t expected to see anyone for the rest of the evening. He was camping down at Usal, went for a hike and just kept hiking. He hiked with me for a little ways before turning back after parting words of, “I hope [your journey] continues to unfold for you in a beautiful way.” He was very… spiritual.
It was starting to get late and I was still high up on the ridge. The designated camp sites in this area are all down in the valleys near the reliable water sources. I was good on water, so I found spot with a good view and set up camp for the night. I woke up above the clouds, nice and dry. The entire day was spent in constant elevation change. It was a grueling roller coaster of climbing up ridges before heading down into foggy valleys and back up again. I set up camp along a streamside that night. The next day started with a monster climb before a very long descent into the town of Shelter Cove (population 805).
Shelter Cove is a tourist town. It was very deserted in February, the only people there being locals. It’s the only town on the entire span of coast and it’s pretty much the halfway point to the trail. However, the vast majority of Lost Coast hikers only hike the northern section, many of them completely unaware that there is a southern section. I stopped at a local store then headed for the start of the new section, an area known as Black Sands Beach for obvious reasons.
I hiked the beach for a couple hours until I found a creek to set up camp next to. As I was cooking dinner a couple guys walked up and set up camp on the other side of the creek from me. They were really friendly and invited me to a camp fire they were going to have later. I finished up dinner, gathered some wood to burn and headed over.
It was an absolutely perfect night. We sat around the fire, passed around a flask, swapped hiking stories, and admired the stars. Their names were Jason and Dave. Jason looked really familiar to me and I finally figured it out why after asking what he did for a living. He said he was in filmmaking. I asked if he had worked on anything I would know. He said probably one, and he was right.
Jason was the writer and director of the John Muir Trail documentary Mile, Mile and a Half which has been very popular on Netflix for some time now. He claimed people had been giving him a hard time about the documentary, as the already-popular JMT had somehow exploded in popularity even more since the Netflix debut. We had talked about the JMT hours earlier and he said he was reluctant to tell me about his documentary until he had gauged my overall attitude towards hiking. He seemed to have a good sense of humor, so I of course jokingly asked him which trail he would ruin next. There were a couple ideas on his list. I better get those done soon. It was well past hiker midnight (9 p.m.) so I crossed the creek over to my side and went to bed. I had to be up early to beat high tide.
There are a couple sections of the The Lost Coast Trail that are impassable at high tide, so it’s necessary to look over the tide charts and plan accordingly. I got a late start. The tide was coming in fast and I took some stupid risks. It was clear to see that I wasn’t going to make it out of the high tide zone soon enough so I had to scramble up the unstable cliff side about twenty feet or so and wait it out. I spent close to two hours waiting, reading, and watching the power of the ocean. It was amazing to see the water carry giant fallen trees away, as if they were old Viking ships charging out to sea. When it was clear the danger was over, I started back down the beach again.
I had the next camp all to myself. Actually, Jason and Dave would be the only people I would see for the rest of the northern section of trail. High tide came later the next day, so I got to sleep in and didn’t repeat the mistakes of the day before. Eventually the beach hiking was over and the trail followed along wide open stretches of grassland, making for very easy hiking. Before long, I had made it to the Punta Gorda Lighthouse, not far from the end of the trail. I climbed around on the lighthouse for a while and finished up the Lost Coast Trail soon after.
It seemed like the past was the only thing that was lost on the Lost Coast. In the four days there I had come across remnants of history; old stone chimneys that remain from attempts at living by people who are no longer living. People had clearly been there, and aimed to leave their mark, but their footprints were washed away by the sea long ago. The only things that truly remained were an eerie feeling and an old lighthouse, sitting there like a ghost on the shore.
01-10-2016
, 11:08 AM
01-25-2016
, 12:56 PM
California Coastal Trail (Part 5)
There’s a small parking lot and car-camping area at the north end of The Lost Coast Trail. It must have been the weekend because the place was packed, making it easy to find a ride into the nearest town. I hopped into a jacked up truck with a forty-something man whose name I don’t remember. He really wanted to take his truck up a steep dirt road leading to a ridge so we did that and took in some views before he dropped me off in Petrolia.
I made a small resupply at the Petrolia general store, and was sitting outside eating some ice cream when a man walked up and said, “Just to let you know, there’s kind of an unwritten rule that you can’t do that around here.” I gave him a confused look. He explained that people in the town have a problem with people hanging out by the general store and pointed me in the direction of a picnic table around the side of the building. I’m not one to cause a scene so I moved. I guess he felt kind of bad, because after he bought some groceries he walked over and sat down at the table with me.
His name was pronounced “yes hi”. I don’t know how to spell it. He apologized for running me off and explained that some of the locals had a loitering problem. When we got to talking he seemed to like me and asked me to stay and check out the town for a week. He told me he’d introduce me to people and show me all the cool things they were doing. He said there was a certain kind of person they were looking to bring to Petrolia and I fit the bill. The town had a strange us-versus-the-world-hippie vibe, if that makes any sense. There was definitely some kind of Kool-Aid being passed around and I didn’t want to stick around to drink it.
I hiked a few miles out of Petrolia, along Matthole Road, known to the locals as “Wildcat” for some reason. It is twenty-five miles from Petrolia to Ferndale, the next town up, and there is nothing but private farmland the entire way. One of my rules is to avoid camping on private land, so I was going to have to hitchhike if I didn’t want to spend all night hiking the road. There was very little traffic, but eventually a twenty-something girl named Rachel and her dog River came to a stop and I hopped in. She was a masseuse from Arcata and had just dropped off her boyfriend at the Lost Coast trailhead. She regretted not traveling more. Masseuses can get jobs all over the world at resorts, on cruise ships, etc. But there she was anchored down by a dog and a boyfriend.
After about a forty-five minute ride, Rachel dropped me off in downtown Ferndale. I was desperately hoping to find a hotel for the night, but everything was out of my price range, so I made the hike to the Humboldt County Fairgrounds where they let people stay for ten dollars a night.
My only neighbor at the fairgrounds was a man named Charlie. I’m not sure where he was from. He kept saying “the foothills.” Charlie found work in the area and struggled to find a place to live until one of his coworkers told him about the fairgrounds. He bought a small trailer and now lives there for a third of what he would have paid otherwise. The guy talked my ear off. I think he was pretty lonely living there.
The next morning, I made a road hike into Fernbridge, named after the sketchiest bridge I’ve ever crossed. It’s 1200 feet long and has no pedestrian walkway because it was built in 1911. It’s the longest, functional poured concrete bridge in the world. After surviving the bridge crossing, I hung out at a coffee shop waiting for a bus to Eureka. I booked a cheap motel room for the night and finally cleaned up, did laundry, and reorganized. Several people warned me about Eureka having a huge tweaker problem, and they were right. I hated the place when I first arrived, but after spending some time there I ended up loving it. It was a very live-and-let-live kind of place.
I ended up staying another night, not by choice. Around 4 a.m. I woke up with a right eye that was completely swollen shut. I had noticed it was a little puffy leaving Ferndale, but thought nothing of it. Now it needed medical attention. I found a free doctor for poor people. He sucked, but he gave me some Prednisone and Benadryl which had me back to normal a couple days later.
Eager to get out of civilization, I made a short bus ride to Trinidad and started hiking towards Patrick Point State Park. I was hiking down a local road when a truck pulled up driven by none other than Charlie from the Ferndale fairgrounds. We were both surprised to see each other. Apparently he had been in a diner and saw some local brochure for Patrick’s Point and decided to check it out. We did some exploring around the park. Charlie loved geology and was amazed by just about everything. Imagine Chris Farley as a geology buff and that pretty much summed up Charlie.
This was supposed to just be a filler update so I’m going to wrap it up. Charlie dropped me off and the hiker/biker camp site. I spent the next day hiking the beach and making a miserable bushwhack after trusting a bad map. I ended the day early in order to camp on the beach. Actually, it wasn’t much of a camp as I didn’t even set up my tent. I just rolled out my sleeping bag on the beach and slept under the stars.
There’s a small parking lot and car-camping area at the north end of The Lost Coast Trail. It must have been the weekend because the place was packed, making it easy to find a ride into the nearest town. I hopped into a jacked up truck with a forty-something man whose name I don’t remember. He really wanted to take his truck up a steep dirt road leading to a ridge so we did that and took in some views before he dropped me off in Petrolia.
I made a small resupply at the Petrolia general store, and was sitting outside eating some ice cream when a man walked up and said, “Just to let you know, there’s kind of an unwritten rule that you can’t do that around here.” I gave him a confused look. He explained that people in the town have a problem with people hanging out by the general store and pointed me in the direction of a picnic table around the side of the building. I’m not one to cause a scene so I moved. I guess he felt kind of bad, because after he bought some groceries he walked over and sat down at the table with me.
His name was pronounced “yes hi”. I don’t know how to spell it. He apologized for running me off and explained that some of the locals had a loitering problem. When we got to talking he seemed to like me and asked me to stay and check out the town for a week. He told me he’d introduce me to people and show me all the cool things they were doing. He said there was a certain kind of person they were looking to bring to Petrolia and I fit the bill. The town had a strange us-versus-the-world-hippie vibe, if that makes any sense. There was definitely some kind of Kool-Aid being passed around and I didn’t want to stick around to drink it.
I hiked a few miles out of Petrolia, along Matthole Road, known to the locals as “Wildcat” for some reason. It is twenty-five miles from Petrolia to Ferndale, the next town up, and there is nothing but private farmland the entire way. One of my rules is to avoid camping on private land, so I was going to have to hitchhike if I didn’t want to spend all night hiking the road. There was very little traffic, but eventually a twenty-something girl named Rachel and her dog River came to a stop and I hopped in. She was a masseuse from Arcata and had just dropped off her boyfriend at the Lost Coast trailhead. She regretted not traveling more. Masseuses can get jobs all over the world at resorts, on cruise ships, etc. But there she was anchored down by a dog and a boyfriend.
After about a forty-five minute ride, Rachel dropped me off in downtown Ferndale. I was desperately hoping to find a hotel for the night, but everything was out of my price range, so I made the hike to the Humboldt County Fairgrounds where they let people stay for ten dollars a night.
My only neighbor at the fairgrounds was a man named Charlie. I’m not sure where he was from. He kept saying “the foothills.” Charlie found work in the area and struggled to find a place to live until one of his coworkers told him about the fairgrounds. He bought a small trailer and now lives there for a third of what he would have paid otherwise. The guy talked my ear off. I think he was pretty lonely living there.
The next morning, I made a road hike into Fernbridge, named after the sketchiest bridge I’ve ever crossed. It’s 1200 feet long and has no pedestrian walkway because it was built in 1911. It’s the longest, functional poured concrete bridge in the world. After surviving the bridge crossing, I hung out at a coffee shop waiting for a bus to Eureka. I booked a cheap motel room for the night and finally cleaned up, did laundry, and reorganized. Several people warned me about Eureka having a huge tweaker problem, and they were right. I hated the place when I first arrived, but after spending some time there I ended up loving it. It was a very live-and-let-live kind of place.
I ended up staying another night, not by choice. Around 4 a.m. I woke up with a right eye that was completely swollen shut. I had noticed it was a little puffy leaving Ferndale, but thought nothing of it. Now it needed medical attention. I found a free doctor for poor people. He sucked, but he gave me some Prednisone and Benadryl which had me back to normal a couple days later.
Eager to get out of civilization, I made a short bus ride to Trinidad and started hiking towards Patrick Point State Park. I was hiking down a local road when a truck pulled up driven by none other than Charlie from the Ferndale fairgrounds. We were both surprised to see each other. Apparently he had been in a diner and saw some local brochure for Patrick’s Point and decided to check it out. We did some exploring around the park. Charlie loved geology and was amazed by just about everything. Imagine Chris Farley as a geology buff and that pretty much summed up Charlie.
This was supposed to just be a filler update so I’m going to wrap it up. Charlie dropped me off and the hiker/biker camp site. I spent the next day hiking the beach and making a miserable bushwhack after trusting a bad map. I ended the day early in order to camp on the beach. Actually, it wasn’t much of a camp as I didn’t even set up my tent. I just rolled out my sleeping bag on the beach and slept under the stars.
08-31-2020
, 06:11 AM
