The Lost Coast: A Trip Journal

Over President’s Day Weekend, my friends and I backpacked the Lost Coast Trail, a magnificent stretch of California coast in Humboldt County. It turned out to be one of the most memorable experiences of my life. Three days of trail mix and jerky with great company, three days of adventure in a rugged landscape.

Friday Night: Day 0

We arrived at the parking lot of Black Sands Beach just before midnight. It was pitch black — the rumble of the waves provided everything we could infer about our surroundings. In 60 hours, we would be emerging from the soft sands below. But at that moment, the 4 of us — me, Rich, Dennis (my roommates from last year) and Shin, Rich’s girlfriend — stretched out as best we could in the car, hoping to steal a few fitful hours of sleep.

Background

The Lost Coast exists, preserved in its rugged glory, because Highway 1 surveyors deemed it too rough to build through. The most popular route starts in the north and follows the Pacific Ocean south. It’s usually a one-way journey; backpackers park in the south and shuttle north to Mattole Beach, where the 25 mile trek back to the Black Sands Beach parking lot officially begins.

Saturday: Day 1

Winter is off-season for the Lost Coast, so our “shuttle” was actually a pickup truck driven by Owen, an older, well-traveled man. A hardy group of 3 joined us for the ride, and Owen nestled them between our bulging backpacks in the bed of the truck. 

At the Mattole Beach trailhead, we caught our first glimpse of the unique and unspoiled scenery. For as far as we could see, mountain ridges sloped sharply towards the black sands, the last bridges of land not consumed by powerful waves. I quickly grew accustomed to the sounds of the trail: the reliable crash of waves, the crunch of sand and pebble, the rhythms of the Lost Coast.

There are creeks everywhere along the trail. Some of them refuse service to those who don’t take off their shoes, requiring us to wade through, ankle deep. Although the cold water was refreshing, we sometimes preferred to keep our shoes on, so Dennis and Rich put the driftwood that abounds the shore to work.

The Lost Coast Trail covers a few terrains. It begins with soft sand. Sinking easily and caving a few inches with each step, the sand made the goings tough — but we would later come across rockier, more difficult grounds. After a mile or so, the trail curved up, blessing us with an actual dirt path. From then on, every time we walked on solid ground, it felt as if our shoes had grown springs. This particular dirt trail sprang to Punta Gorda Lighthouse, the “Alcatraz of Lighthouses”.

There are a couple of stretches along the Lost Coast Trail that are labeled impassable during high tide. We reached the first of such areas in the early afternoon, when the tide was just beginning to encroach onto the bluffs. We decided to take our chances, and forged ahead anyway.

We timed the waves, letting the water recede before advancing. Rich burst around each corner. When the coast was clear, he signaled back to us. We all got wet.

By 4, we had passed the impassable zone. By 5, we found the perfect place to spend the night, a flat stretch about 10 feet above the beach. There was evidence that we were in a popular spot everywhere — logs surrounding fire rings, a random pink shopping basket hanging like a flag. But on that day, we were the only ones there.

Rich and Shin started the fire, Dennis and I gathered large pieces of wood to block the wind. Afterwards, Shin took more of the pictures that you see all throughout this post.

Sunday, Day 2

In the morning, after oatmeal and instant coffee, we stuffed our backpacks and headed out.

From our campsite, the trail continued (thankfully) on dirt. Surrounded by green, the thin brown dirt trail was quite noticeable, making its way up and down the ridges. Following that thin brown line, with towering mountains at my left and the ocean at my right, I have never felt more like a mere footnote in a tome, a tiny speck in an abundant world.

Once or twice, the trail stopped abruptly, claimed by erosion over the cliff’s edge. A few steps to the side, a fledging trail began. In this way, wind and water are in command — and humans are left to react.

The dirt trail eventually ended, and we were back on the beach. This time around, we walked over large rocks, some the size of bowling bowls. Large rocks are the toughest terrain to navigate. They are often unstable, and I spent the whole time looking down, scanning for the right rock to step on, hoping not to twist an ankle.

We stopped for the day at another delightful spot along Shipman Creek, which was backed by a deep, tree-lined valley. As it was relatively early, we were able to really enjoy our surroundings for the first time. I went for a swim in the creek, and came out after a second — it was really cold.

The sunset that night was sublime.

At night, I fell asleep with the help of two of my favorite sounds. When the waves prepared for their next tumble onto the shore, the soothing flow of the creek filled the void.

Monday, Day 3

The final stretch.

Over the last 2 days, there were very few times where we could point to a spot on our map and say (with any confidence): oh, that’s where we are. For one, our map wasn’t very detailed. And along the Lost Coast Trail, questions like “where are we?” and “what time is it?” seem to lose their relevance.

The start of Day 3 was no different. We had only a rough idea of how long it would be until we reached the end of the journey. Our backpacks felt heavier — we were definitely weary, looking forward to a warm shower, delicious food, and last but not least, our beds.

Luckily, on that morning, we were rewarded the most beautiful scenery of entire the trip. The weather was gorgeous. For as far as we could see, mist shrouded between the mountain ridges. The ridges cut into the beach at steady intervals, like rows in a cornfield.

On the last day, we walked over soft black sand, over pebbles and rocks, large and small. We were used to it by now.

At noon, after about 3 hours, we reached the beach below the Black Sands Beach parking lot. I made sure we lingered there for a bit, soaking it all in.

Thirty minutes later, we were on the road back to San Francisco. Because of the Lost Coast Trail, my jacket now smells beef jerky, sweat and smoke.

I hope it stays that way for a while.