Lost Coast Trail

I really should buy a new car. There’s only a tape deck in my ‘02 Subaru Impreza, which inexplicably stopped working a few years ago so my entertainment options are limited to what’s playing on the radio. I scan through the FM band, it’s either Jazz or Christian talk radio. Although it is Sunday, I go with Jazz. Louis Armstrong blares through the speakers drowning out the unknown hums, whines, and rattles present in all older cars. The music is quickly tuned out as my mind wanders off again. Zoning out is the best way to survive long car trips.

We’re caravaning up the 101 on our way to the Lost Coast for a mid-week backpacking trip. 25 miles of the most desolate wilderness coastline in North America. It’s a true thru-hike so we need two cars, one to stash at the end and retrieve the other from the start after finishing the walk. Sierra is somewhere behind me, she made a pitstop at a Starbucks for some hot water. There’s a stove restriction in place on account of the recent wildfires and she’s not fond of cold-soaked backpacker’s meals. I wasn’t thinking ahead, my pack is in her car so my dinner consists of wasabi almonds and AriZona green tea from a Shell stop.

The Jazz I realize has become nothing but static. I scan to find something else but the frequency rolls back around. No-man’s land. What it’s 2020 and we haven’t blanketed the globe in 5g yet?! perfect.

Sierra at camp

We wake up before dawn on account of the tides. There’s two more miles of “impassible zone” coastline we must cross before high tide, else we’re trapped. It’s misty, there’s no one else around, and we must navigate by headlamp in the early light. The beams are like lighthouse beacons cutting through the fog as we stumble over damp rocks. If feels like being underwater; the ocean has exposed itself and we caught it unaware. The normally underwater boulders have jagged edged, but polished surfaces. A sign of living a turbulent life in the inter-tidal zone.

The coastline flattens out to a black sand beach. A pristeen zen garden swept smooth by the ocean’s night shift. We have no choice but to tarnish the virgin sand, trailing footsteps off behind into the mist. Luckily, the new tide will wash away the blemish, leave no trace at its finest. A wave spills up onto the beach, foamy wash slides across the sand and disappears through the sieve. We walk a complex angle between the land and sea over cobbles and gravel. Everything is polished smooth by the endless tumbler in the surf.

The trail rises above the beach, offering a better view of the land we’ve claimed as our own, if only temporarily. Everyone and everything should carry on exactly as before, perfection is preserving something exactly as it already is. Waves roll in from miles off beyond the horizon, calls of Cthulu from the deep sea. Peletons of pelicans make their way south, traveling single-file with the wind. Their formation skims inches above the water and with expert timing catches a speed boost from an incoming wave. They’ll be hundreds of miles closer to their destination by tonight. We trudge on.

The trail finishes much like the start. We’re both happy to be done and even happier when my car starts up, first try. Guess the old Subie has life left in her, maybe I don’t quite need a new car just yet.

~Reid