Lost Coast Trail – Mattole River to Black Sands Beach
North to South – 24.6 miles
Day 1 – 8.3 miles – Mattole River to Randall Creek
Day 2 – 9.7 miles – Randall Creek to Shipman Creek
Day 3 – 6.6 miles – Shipman Creek to Black Sands Beach
Slowly. Step, wait, step; balance, step. Head down, eyes on your feet, step, look up to the hazy California coast dropping to the fury of the winter Pacific, step; the rock you’re on wobbles, slides, and down, propped up by a hand. Struggle. A push up with forty on your back, a knee that says no, an aching body that only wants a view; affirmation.
Sand. Soft dry sand, wet firm sand, granular sand, powdery sand, sand with rocks, sand with sticks, sand with seaweed. Step, sink, step. Slow going on this section, tide is returning and your race to escape it takes on new urgency. In a few hours violent waves mercilessly pummel rock into sand. Move along.
Blocked. Stuck, knee deep and rushing; gallons upon gallons screaming for escape. You gaze up and down the stream, hoping to see something different, a log, a series of rocks, nothing. Pack off, bend down, laces untie, boots off; step. Slowly, carefully, propped by a pole, still slipping; stub a toe, a curse. Other side, trail in front, boots on, laced up, forty on your back; step.
A bluff; bright green, well fed grass, a worn trail of firm dirt to coast along. Up and down, side to side, eyes ahead; take it in, and down. Rocks. A uniform groan and it begins. Slowly. Step, wait, step; balance, step. Head down, eyes on your feet, step.
Sunday – 2 miles to Lower Canyon Lake for a dip and 8 miles out
There is just something about waking up a bit earlier to catch the stillness of the early morning light creeping through peaks and trees to illuminate the vibrant green and powder white of alpine terrain. Sitting on a rock, a stump, a blanket; stretching your arms and yawning, taking in your first cup of coffee. It’s as if the world isn’t spinning, eternity has stopped, and its just you and everything else; stone in a brisk mountain breeze, waiting for the sun’s tendrils to brush your skin.
“I know that our bodies were made to thrive only in pure air, and the scenes in which pure air is found.”
– John of the Mountains: The Unpublished Journals of John Muir, (1938)