Hiking the Lost Coast, CA

    The clouds bloom from under the lowering orange sun like a stampede of blue mushroom tops summersaulting over each other to reach land. I perked up on a ledge with faith in weather that it will not rain tonight, and the mushroom clouds will keep looming on the horizon fulfilling their never ending quest of land. I decided to camp under the stars, sheltered on the cliffs above the Lost Coasts Black Sand Beach. Leaving the overnight parking lot at dawn with my handkerchief stuffed in one pocket, a watch worn on a belt loop, a big floppy green knit hat, dorky zip off hiking pants, a overstuffed small backpack held together by a carabiner, and my glasses with shinny arm bling; of course a group of interesting fellas walk up and start asking me questions. Playfully, I told them I could chat all night, but I am already an hour later then planned and with the light disappearing, I bid them ado.

    That first night I made a dinner of tinctures, echinacea, red clover, dandelion root, grapefruit seed oil (ewky), St. John’s wort, in a first step to cleanse my body. I packed the wooden flute I bought four years ago in New Zealand, to get inspired musically. Yankee Doodle, being the only melody, lame. After my musically challenged attempts, I tripped out that bears were spying on me, I swear it was the tincture concoction.

    The next morning my $50 mid-rated sleeping bag was soaked with the ocean mist, those mushroom clouds must have make their way to land. I pack up, moisture and all. Bundled up in nearly all my layers, I hiked down Black Sand Beach. Round and oval black rocks of all sizes layered the beach, looking like a zen garden with displaced larger rocks on the smaller. I saw neighbors, a couple with a surf board strapped to ones back. Not being a surfer myself, I thought it would be to late in the season for being in the ocean. The beach I aimed for loomed in the distance seeming closer then it took to walk. My knee started pounding after not being taken for a walk recently and the sinking steps of walking on sand or the moving of larger stones under my clunky hiking boots didn’t help.

    Hours later I made it to Rattlesnake Ridge Trail head. A beautiful hike that started by following a river, where two crossings involved the removal of hiking boots and I slightly panicked after the second crossing due to trail lossage. 86 switchbacks is what the park ranger told me, from sea level to slightly over 4,000ft. Cleansing and first muscle usage in a while made for a slow daunting hull up the steep hill. The sun hitting thin aspen trees with their changing leaves dancing with the wind. Once on the ridge I found a camp, aka a big enough spot on the side of the trail to set up a tent. By now the winter winds found me and tried to blow me off this mountain, with a tent I slept soundly.

    The next day I had hoped to be a lot further. Day dreaming of whether I ought to treat myself to a hotel and have the longest bath in the world, waxing and face mask included. However, I was miles away from that day dream and the more I walked, I realized it’s not what I would do anyway. I summited King Mountain, and traversed the east side of the ridge. The eastward wind must have done something bad to her sister the westward wind because they were having it out something fierce and I hiked in the center. The King Crest Trail eventually turns into an old dirt road that appears still drivable to the 4wer types.

    I finally came to Buck Creek Trail head around 12:30pm and collapsed at the sign post. With a few sips of h2o and rotations of ankles, I was off down the trail. It started getting hot, the sister winds were on the east side and now I on the west, but stubbornness is a funny thing cause I know when I am doing it but I like the game, and I refused to stop and take my long underwear off and fleece sweater. When the sweat burned my eyes I stopped and striped to the appropriate attire, and peed at the side of the trail. This is when I realized that I have not seen a single person up here. Perhaps most would get a nervous feeling in their gut and maybe I did, but it thrilled me to be “away”, and I skipped down the trail (I am lying, with a soar knee, backpack, down hill, and the only one out here if I fell, no skipping).

    With in no time I was back at the beach and of course during high tide. I dramatically dropped my pack off my shoulder and laid flat on a drift tree (like driftwood but a whole tree). I listened to the wind and smiled, I saw a bird and followed, I smelled the oceans mystery, and I tasted my dried mouth then stood to get water. While fetching h2o, I notice that high tide or not I could pass at least a little further down the coast. Off I went and made it fine. Staggering is the perfect word for the last hour of my hike. The sun vanished over the horizon as she must, and only lingered the essence of her warmth in the lasting orange line above the oceans cool breeze (see last photo).

aLeXaNdRa LoVeLl