Hello dampness, my old friend.
A cold mist blew across the ocean bluff, infiltrating my campsite and leaving a film of moisture across my tent and camping equipment. It was time to pack up and face the foggy day. If the weather wasn’t motivation enough, ahead of me lay several sections of the Lost Coast Trail that were only passable at low tide, and waves were already beginning to encroach upon the shore.
I scurried down to the beach with my backpack and pointed my sandals south. Soon the slopes of the King Range steepened so that escape onto land became impossible. The crashing of the waves echoed loudly against the cliffs, suggesting violent consequences for lingering on the sand too long. I could sense the rising tide as a beast at bay – restrained for now, but growing in strength.
Out in the Pacific, seals and sea lions gave up their rocky perches and plunged into the water, seeking some scaly breakfast. The tips of sea palms poked through the ocean surface, awaiting full submersion. I’d never encountered this species of kelp before; they gave the unsettling impression that a horde of Navy Seals were floating offshore, heads and snorkels protruding, waiting for their moment to invade the beach.
Sand gave way to a garden of boulders, and I spent a lot of time staring at my feet, stepping precisely upon each rock so I wouldn’t lose my balance and twist an ankle. At least the boulders had been rocked into settled positions by the waves so that they wouldn’t tip. Not so for the smaller stones at the water’s edge that were constantly bullied about by the heavy surf. The breakers rolled these rocks against each other with a crackling noise reminiscent of how my bones would sound when the waves smashed my body against the cliffs… or at least that was how it would sound if I didn’t pick up the pace a little.
I made good time until the most adorable scene stopped me in my tracks. There at the shoreline, a female sea otter ripped and gnawed at a rubbery eel, oblivious to my presence. Nearby, a pair of offspring poked their heads out from behind a rock. Waves repeatedly crashed into the pups and matted their fur; they looked cold and glum, as if they were having second thoughts about being an aquatic species.
After putting up with my camera for a half hour, the mother slid back into the water and swam away with her whiskered children. Their fur looked as slick as a rubber wetsuit as they paddled downshore in search of higher ground. Once they found a seaweed-covered haven they could rest upon, the mother climbed up, shook herself like a dog and then gave the eel to one pup to chew on while she nuzzled and fluffed the furry coat of her other offspring.
As a diversion, the otter family proved quite effective. While I’d been snapping photos, the tide had risen another foot, and I suddenly realized I might run out of beach before I could escape to the bluffs again. Reluctantly, I tore myself away from the creatures and hurried down the beach towards safety. One hour later, I had a lot less room in which to dodge the waves, but the trail leapt up to the elevated terrain of Spanish Flat before the breakers could close in completely.
The danger lay behind me now, and a long expanse of raised terraces kept me out of harm’s way while waves scoured the beaches clean. Sadly, this was also a crowded section of the trail, with several families congregating at the mouths of creeks, pitching tents next to the most reliable water sources. I even walked past a parcel of private land that contained a summer cottage and an airplane landing strip. The Lost Coast was feeling less lost by the minute.
