Along the northern California coast, sweeping ocean views are guarded by sharp, rugged cliffs where low coastal shrubs cling against the spraying sea. Rocky outcroppings dot the shoreline and stand resolutely against an unwavering barrage of wind and water. The salty air is a delicately crafted concoction of notes, a natural pairing to the ocean’s rhythmic beat.
Sitting in the van as we traveled from the trailhead where we’d left our car to the one where we’d begin our hike, we endured a winding two-hour drive along a road that cut through a primordial forest. We would complete the Lost Coast Trail as a 24-mile, point-to-point trek over three nights, finishing where we were picked up. Anticipation built as we drew closer; this had been a long time in the making, with permits secured nearly a year earlier and an itinerary planned around the tides.
Inside the Intertidal Zone
I savored the fresh, salty air as I stepped out of the van, relieved from the building car-sickness. We rebalanced our packs, ate a quick bite, and made our start. There was a schedule to keep to; our first destination was in the intertidal zone, a region that would become impassible as the tide rose.
The hike to the beach was short: a single-file path etched between low shrubs. On one side were green hills sparse with trees; on the other, the ocean and its rocky shores. From the beach, we hiked on loose sand that swallowed our feet under the weight of our packs. The sand occasionally gave way to patches of gravel and pebbles, and sometimes to sections of packed trail. Nearly 7 miles later, we arrived at Cooksie Creek, our campsite for the first night.
As twilight’s evening glow faded, the rising tide became a distant siren song calling through the night. I don’t know when I fell asleep, but I remember waking after the stars had risen and peeking my head out of the tent. In center stage was the Milky Way, a bright strip slicing open the sky. It was my first time seeing a sky free of light pollution. My one regret was not lingering longer in awe; even now, I’m not sure whether it was a fleeting dream or something I truly lived. The next two nights were cloudy, so I never had the chance to confirm.
Dancing with the fog
We emerged from our tents as the sky brightened. Without the urgency of the rising tide, we took our time getting ready. Hot breakfast included protein powder infused oatmeal and a cup of backcountry [instant] coffee. Our destination was 7 miles away at Big Creek, before the next intertidal zone.
The sand was wet and packed from the previous evening’s high tide, which made for a quick initial pace. This was short-lived, as we approached an ankle-twisting rock field. Trekking poles helped me stay balanced in the struggle against the pack’s skewed center of gravity. Ahead of us, we caught a glimpse of wisps of fog, a light accent against the dark cliffs.
Like a skittish wild animal, the fog kept its distance and dispersed out to sea as we approached. The rest of our day was spent locked in a slow dance with the fog; it would drift in close then slip away. As we approached Big Creek, our stop for the second night, the fog drew away in an abrupt finale.
We picked a spot to pitch our tents in an oasis of sand surrounded by a field of rocks and driftwood, set against the backdrop of a valley. The driftwood was bleached white from the sun and polished by the tides, scattered in broken lines that looked like the remains of streets and walls. As the light drained from the valley, we imagined ourselves sitting amongst the skeleton of a lost civilization, surrounded by remnants of a time long past. Yet amongst the wreckage I felt secure in a sanctuary of driftwood, sheltered from the darkness of the ocean.
Where the Ocean Meets the Sky
The third day was marked by a shift towards rockier terrain. The trail sometimes veered to higher ground, a brief respite from the balancing act of hopping from rock to rock. As morning progressed, the fog returned, this time a different beast. Its timid nature was replaced by a fearless hunger, consuming the landscape around us. Unable to see to the horizon and without a single soul besides our group, it felt like the Lost Coast was aptly named.
We originally intended to stop at Big Flat but decided to press forward past the final intertidal zone to Glitchell Creek for an easier final day. On the beach set far back from the reach of high tide, we set up for the night. I spent the rest of the day walking along the shore and staring out at the ocean. The fog and the water became one: were the waves moving through the mist, or was the mist moving like the tides?
A Return to Civilization
The last morning, we awoke to a moody gray. Without the sun beating down on us, it was hard to tell the time. The final day’s hike was short, with only 4 miles to Shelter Cove. Our inching towards civilization was marked with a return of signs of life. We passed a rocky tidepool with a lone red and white mottled starfish, lingering amongst the washed up kelp. Near the cliffs, we saw some bear prints preserved in the packed sand. The bear, probably long gone under cover of the haze. Back at the car, I was still in a hypnotic daze, not quite ready to leave the solitude of the Lost Coast.
We hiked the Lost Coast Trail in July, 2021. At the time, permits for the year were released all at once in October of the previous year. The Lost Coast Trail remains one of the most memorable backpacking trips I’ve gone on. However, as I’m writing this nearly 5 years later, memories become unreliable. I did my best to string together an accurate recounting of the trip based on film photos and pictures I’ve taken on my phone, but there are probably some inaccuracies. If you’re planning a trip, make sure to consult some of the many online resources: secure a permit, study the tide charts, store scented items in a bear can, and enjoy the absolute solitude.
The photos on days 1 and 2 were shot on E100 slide film. It was my second time shooting E100, and the hues definitely skew more blue/magenta. I didn’t carry any graduated ND filters, and in hindsight a lot of the sweeping landscapes had too much dynamic range to capture without blowing out highlights or shadows; definitely something to keep in mind for the future. Days 3 and 4 were captured on Portra 400, which was much more forgiving in the dynamic conditions.