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Drenched to the Bone
Backpacking Northern California's Lost Coast
Non-Fiction by Gabriel Morris
The first thing I did after leaving the trailhead parking
lot at Black Sands Beach was, ironically, to take off my pack, sit
down on it-and then remove my hiking boots. The thought of
feeling the sand between my toes was just too exquisite to pass up.
I watched the crashing waves for a few moments. Then I tied my
boots to the outside of my pack, hoisted it onto my back and started
up the beach. I was feeling invigorated and ready for adventure.
The warm afternoon sun shone down upon my face, and hiking through the
sand felt like a free foot massage. My two-week backpacking trip
on the Lost Coast was off to a perfect start.
I planned to hike north the first week about twenty miles along the
beach, taking plenty of time out to enjoy the beautiful and dramatic
scenery along the way. Then I would tramp more than 3,000 feet
in elevation up the coastal range rising
abruptly out of the ocean,
and spend the second week hiking south along the ridge of the
mountains, back to my starting point.
Problem was, it was February. The Lost Coast can,
on a wet year, see more than 200 inches of annual rainfall. It's
one of the wettest places in the country. So why did I decide to
go in the middle of winter, at the peak of the rainy season?
Because I like to tempt adversity. Because I had a gut feeling
that it would stay warm and sunny for most of those two weeks.
Mostly, I realize in retrospect, because I just wasn't thinking.
The Lost Coast-including the King Range National
Conservation Area and the Sinkyone Wilderness State Park-is the
longest stretch of coastline in the continental United States without
a road alongside it. Coastal Highways 1 and 101 both turn inland
to avoid the Lost Coast, since they were unable to construct a highway
over the rugged mountain range. This has kept it for the most
part cut off from development and inaccessible to those not inclined
to foot travel, other than the small community of Shelter Cove.
And speaking of feet-and legs-for those who haven't hiked
extended distances in the sand before, be prepared for sore calves.
Boots or no boots, your legs will be feeling the strain in muscles you
may not have used in a while.
When I arrived at my first destination later that
evening, at Horse Creek five miles north of the trailhead, my calves
were burning. Almost all of the hike on this section of the Lost
Coast is directly on the beach, since the steep cliffs near the ocean
are too severe for a trail. Because of this, it is advised to
bring a tide-book along while hiking the Lost Coast, since high tides
can sometimes engulf the entire beach, leaving hikers either stranded
on the rocks or else isolated somewhere along the coast.
Still barefoot and enjoying the sand, despite my sore
legs, I unbuckled my pack, set it down on the beach and then leaned
back against it and watched the waves for a while, as the sun slowly
sank into the ocean. It was one of those moments to cherish:
sitting with my feet buried in the warm sand, watching the glowing sun
sinking into the ocean, the pristine beach stretching in both
directions, jagged mountains rising behind me, and not another soul in
sight. After the sun had set and the light began to fade, I
finally got motivated enough to pull out my tent and set it up, and
get dinner going on my camp stove. After dinner, I read by
candlelight for a while. Then I fell thankfully into a state of
blessed slumber.
The next day was, once again, gloriously sunny.
Since I was in no hurry, I decided to spend that day giving my legs a
rest, and hang out on the beach and soak up the sun. I read,
went for a day hike up the coast, and even braved the frigid waters
and did some cautious bodysurfing.
Later that evening, however, conditions changed. As
I was sitting in the sand reading my book and enjoying the sunshine, I
looked up and noticed that a front of clouds was hovering over the
ocean, moving in from the west. I did my best to ignore them.
An hour later, however, an ominous fog descended onto the beach and
engulfed me. It also started to mist slightly.
I crawled into my tent and continued reading, hoping that
it was just some light precipitation that would quickly pass.
Little did I know, however, that I had actually seen the last of the
sun for the next week. I ate some cheese and crackers for
dinner, rather than try to cook, as the mist developed into a steady
sprinkle. I fell asleep to the sound of the waves crashing
nearby and the soft sprinkling. I woke up the next morning to
full-blown rain pelting my tent.
It didn't even occur to me at that point to cancel my
trip. I'd known, of course, that rain was a likely possibility,
and I was prepared for it-or so I thought. I had a waterproof
tent and a rain jacket. That was all I'd ever needed while
backpacking. But then, I'd never hiked and camped in constant
downpour for days on end.
My quandary instead was whether to hang out in my tent
for the day and see if the storm passed, or else pack up and start
hiking through the rain. Having taken the previous day off, I
was ready to get moving. I packed my belongings, rolled up my
wet tent, pulled on my boots and rain jacket, lifted my pack onto my
back, and started hiking north through the sand. My legs were
back in full working order, and it felt good to put my muscles to the
test.
Despite the steady downpour and low-lying clouds, the
scenery around me was still gorgeous. In fact, the gray skies
almost intensified the awesome rise of the mountains to my right, and
the beauty of the ocean to my left. I also saw a few seals
playing in the waves, watching me hike along as I watched them, just
as excited and curious. I wasn't going to let the rain spoil my
trip in this unique chunk of wilderness-not yet at least.
I hiked another five miles north, to the next camping
area at Saddle Creek. Hiking was slow due to the sand, as well
as the intensifying storm. I decided to call it a day at that
point and set up my tent. I had high hopes that things would dry
out by the following day, since my tent was wet, and the belongings in
my pack were also getting damp, since I didn't have a waterproof cover
for my pack. Also, my one pair of pants was soaked through,
since I hadn't brought rain paints. I made a mental note to
remember these essential items on future trips.
The next morning, however, eerily, little had changed.
The rain seemed neither to have lessened nor increased from its steady
downpour. The storm wasn't quite strong enough to force me to
turn around. But, neither was it exactly inviting me to spend
another day slogging along the beach. I decided instead to hang
out and read in my tent, and see if the rain would finally let up that
night and give me a chance to dry out.
But the rain didn't let up the next day. Or the next. Or
the next. After three days spent huddled inside my small, damp
tent at Saddle Creek, reading my book and listening to the waves,
waiting for the storm to pass, I was bordering on stir-crazy.
Rain or no rain, I needed to get out of my suffocating tent and cover
some ground. Screw it-whatever happened next, I'd deal with it,
one way or another.
I packed up my damp belongings, took down my soaked tent,
pulled on my boots, hefted my pack onto my back, and started hiking up
the coast through the relentless storm. I hiked seven or eight
hours that day along the beach through the pouring rain. Then I
pitched my tent at Big Flat and camped for the night.
The next morning, still raining, I packed up once again
and continued hiking up the beach-despite my sore calves, and the fact
that all my gear was becoming undeniably soggy. That evening I
camped near a trailhead by the beach, where a thin trail seemed to go
straight up the side of the steep coastal mountains. This was
the point at which I would ascend the mountain range, and then turn
south along the ridge for the rest of my adventure.
In the morning, the rain was coming down harder than
ever. It was now the eighth day of my trip, and it had been
raining constantly through all of the past six days. At this
point I realized that I was in a bit of a predicament. My tent,
and my gear in general, was becoming dangerously wet, posing a serious
threat of hypothermia if the storm should continue through that night.
Although I'd managed to stay warm enough so far, more water managed to
seep into my sleeping bag with each day of hiking. And the way
things were looking outside, this day was going to be a real soaker.
I checked my map and found that the trail leading up the mountain
connected with a jeep road. This in turn eventually led to a
paved road, though still far from any outposts of civilization, it
appeared. I noted this jeep trail as a last resort, in case I
decided to change the course of my trip at the top of the ridge.
Then I packed up, and began hiking up the steep grade away from the
roar of the ocean, as the rain continued its ceaseless downpour.
I continued up the trail, rising slowly but steadily
above the ocean below, for what felt like forever. The rain
never let up, but instead increased into steady sheets, accompanied by
gusts and gales of wind that seemed intent on lifting me right off the
trail.
I hiked on and on. I stopped mid-day for a brief
lunch. Then I continued trudging up the trail, one weary, sodden
step at a time, along what was beginning to feel like a never-ending
upwards climb. As I reached the top of each ridge, there was
always another uphill stretch awaiting me.
Finally, after five or six hours, I reached the junction
for the trail that headed south along the ridge. This course
would commit me to at least another four days of hiking. I was
exhausted, soaking wet, my hands and face were chilled, and ironically
I was now out of drinking water, despite that falling all around me.
The steep angle of the grade had yielded no streams to refill my water
bottle, other than shallow rivulets of water flowing through the mud.
I unbuckled my backpack and threw it down onto the
ground. Then, I hiked down the trail a little ways, to see how
things looked over the first hill. Just as I rounded the hill, I
was hit by a sudden blast of wind that almost threw me backwards.
I took this as a clear enough sign not to attempt another four days of
hiking through the rain. Instead, I would risk the jeep trail
down to the paved road, that would hopefully lead me back to
civilization and a warm, dry bed for the night.
I double-checked my map, and guessed that it was at least
ten miles to the paved road. And this still left me in the
middle of nowhere. But I knew that I had to go the distance and
get the hell out of the storm. Fortunately, I was now at the top
of the ridge, and it would be mostly downhill hiking from there.
I tucked away the map, strapped on my pack and continued down the
trail, despite my sore legs and dripping wet clothes and gear.
I hiked on and on through the onslaught of rain. I
had no idea the time of day, with the thick, gray clouds ever-present
overhead. At one point I figured that it must be about to get
dark, and I reasoned that I should look around and find somewhere to
set up my tent, before nightfall caught me off guard. I set my
pack down on the gravel jeep trail and scouted around. But I
could find nowhere. The jeep trail was on a steep, forested
slope, and the trail itself, though plenty wide, was too rocky to lie
on all night. I had to keep going.
I pressed on as the rain continued to fall. At
least it was a slight downhill now, so that it didn't take much effort
or concentration to keep placing one foot in front of the other.
I went into a trance of sorts, a hiking meditation in which I lost all
measure of time or distance. I no longer felt my tired legs or
the water dripping down the neck of my rain jacket, soaking my shirt.
I just hiked and hiked and hiked, praying that I was actually headed
in the right direction. Finally, as the light of day was clearly
beginning to dim, I came to the paved road that had been indicated on
my map.
The problem now, however, was that I was still a long way
from anywhere. Also, I wasn't sure where the road led in either
direction, and there was absolutely no traffic.
With no time to think, I simply continued hiking along the road in
what seemed the best direction, as the sky continued to darken.
After another mile or so, I came to a fork in the road, where a small
sign pointed to the right, which said "Honeydew". I
remembered that Honeydew was an exit off Highway 101, which was where
I wanted to be. I continued right, guessing that I was around 30
miles from the main highway, and the small town of Garberville.
It was completely dark by now, and I was getting scared.
I was way beyond exhaustion, I could barely feel my legs, and I was
literally soaking wet. I was cold, despite the fact that I
hadn't stopped moving in hours, and I was certain that everything in
my pack was also fully soaked. I just kept hiking, having few
other options, waiting for a car to come along, hoping I might be able
to hitch a ride to Garberville and get a hotel room.
Finally a car came along. I put out my thumb-but it
didn't stop. Not a big surprise. Even I would be hesitant
to pick up a hitchhiker in the dark, in a driving rainstorm in the
middle of nowhere.
I continued hiking. Ten minutes later, another car
came down the road. I waved my arms this time. They
stopped, and the driver rolled down his window. I explained my
sad state of affairs to the man and his young daughter in the
passenger seat. But they said they were sorry, they were headed
home just a few miles down the road and couldn't help me. I said
thank you, they rolled up their window, and I continued trudging along
through the darkening night as they drove away and the reassuring
lights from their car faded into the distance.
I was now genuinely desperate. Having no apparent
alternatives, I began looking off the road for somewhere to set up my
tent. I just hoped that my sleeping bag wouldn't be completely
drenched. I knew that hypothermia was a very real possibility at
this point, if it wasn't already beginning to set in.
As my last thread of hope vanished and I was about to
stumble off into the dark woods, I saw another light in the distance,
and heard the engine of a vehicle approaching. I decided to wait
for the car to pass, just in case. As it came closer, I noticed
it was a big pickup truck. I waved my arms as its headlights
blinded me through the rain-and it stopped. I opened the side
door of the rusty, beat-up pickup, and sitting in the driver's seat
was a scraggly old man with a beer in his hand.
"Man, fellah, you looks like you must be wet."
he drawled, clearly drunk. He said it purely as an observation,
as if he'd pulled over merely to take a look at me, having not yet
hypothesized that I might need some help.
"Uh, yes," I said, stuttering through cold
lips, trying to speak clearly, before he drove off and left me there
to my doom. "You see, I've been camping on the Lost Coast,
but I quit because of the rain, and I just hiked all day, and I need
to get to Garberville so that I can find a hotel for the night."
"Garberville?" he said dubiously.
"Shit, that's thirty miles! Who you gonna find a ride with
out here at this time of night?" He paused for a minute and
took a sip of his beer, thinking, as if he were trying to drum up a
ride for me. "Well, heck, if all you need is a place to
stay, you can sure crash at my place. I mean, it's messy, but at least
it's warm, and I got satellite TV and a comfy couch."
I'd climbed in, my pack on my lap, before he managed to
finish his sentence. At that point I was hardly listening.
I sensed that he meant to give me a hand-and I took it. That he
was apparently drinking and driving wasn't much of a concern at that
point. I was safer with him than trying to spend that night
sleeping in the woods.
We drove a few miles down the road, where he turned onto a dirt road
and we drove for another mile. Finally, we came to a run-down,
yet cozy-looking wooden cabin.
"Well, this is my home sweet home," he said.
"Not much to brag about, but it does the job, ya know."
The cabin was actually fairly spacious inside, and he
suggested that I lay my things out around the fire so they could dry
overnight. I was struck with both horror and gratitude as I
pulled out my sleeping bag-and it was literally dripping wet,
completely soaked all the way through. I realized that I would
have been lucky to see the morning, if I'd tried to sleep out in the
storm that night.
But as it was, I cooked up some instant soup, we watched
satellite TV for a while, and then he loaned me some blankets and I
slept warm, dry and content on the couch beside the crackling fire.
The next morning, I packed up my dry clothes and sleeping bag, and the
old man drove me a little ways down the road to a pull-off. I
thanked him profusely, and then hitchhiked from there towards Highway
101-grateful to be alive, and resolving that, the next time I ventured
into the wilderness, I'd be more prepared for whatever circumstances
might be thrown my way.
Copyright GMorris 2002
Comments and feedback requested
Posted 11/29/2002
http://gabrielmorris.bravehost.com
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