The few days following my night in the Redwood Forest were a bit tiresome and involved some backtracking. So instead of undergoing the tedious labor
of scrupulously recollecting this droll, I will provide a quick and perfunctory summary. I wanted to visit the city of Redding, but due to some inconvenient roadwork I was prompted to hie back into Oregon and approach through North Cali's farmland, from a more westerly direction. This equated to several days of hitching, most of which consisted of ground I had already covered, but eventually I was back into California via a long hitch into Shasta.
During my brief stop in the town of Shasta (home to the most enormous mountain I've ever seen) I dropped into a restraunt with an All You Can Eat Fish option in which one's plate is refilled continually. Needless to say, the walking I do and the weight I carry combined with the fact of my twenty years of age and naturally overactive metabolism alotts to, for lack of a better term, the appetite of an imploding star. After paying for and devouring what I'm sure was far more than $10 worth of food (I had them refill my plate five times over the course of three hours, plus once more to go) I departed the establishment feeling like a stuffed turkey, flashing a contented grin back at the manager's murderous glare. On top of everything I doubt my unshowered, tramp-like appearance did much for her goodwill towards me.
Redding was alright, and I made a friend who was good enough to put me up for a few days and take me to church Sunday morning, where I ran into a friend from Michigan who I sort of half-knew would be there. It was refreshing. After some decent rest I moved on.
Poison. Oak. It is not native to Michigan. I had no idea what it looks like. And consequently I must have camped in a bloody lot of it somewhere along the way. Following several miserable, sleepless days of making my way back to the coast, a local pointed out the rash on my arm and made the identification. I promptly collected a bottle of the necessary salve and was given a measure of relief from then on as the affliction faded.
I'd been hearing about California's Lost Coast since Portland and was fain to investigate. The Lost Coast is a region where the coastal highways (1 and 101) divert inland, leaving hundreds of miles of untouched rural forests and coastline, and small towns. I set out into this region.
Branching almost directly off of the freeway was a long bridge over a great river, this bridge leading directly into the mountainous country. Looking to my map, I surmised this to be the main entrance into the Lost Coast and the only one for many miles. Plus, it was the most direct route to the town of Petrolia, wherein was located the Lost Coast Trailhead. What spiked my hesitation in taking this bridge by foot was the constant crossing of semi trucks paired with the bridge's nearly nonexistant shoulder, which was only a foot in width. Clearly it was not designed to accommodate foot traffic, but there was nothing for it.
It took me about ten minutes to get from one end of the bridge to the other, this thanks to its length of about a thousand feet, as well as the constant need to stop, turn sideways and set my pack over the railing as I was almost constantly passed by some bafflingly uncouth truck drivers who, usually barreling at around 30-40 mph, never saw fit to swerve even slightly and put more than six inches between my bloodless face and the speeding, thundering hauls of their enormous rigs. This was about as exhilarating as it was unnerving, and left my heart vibrating in my chest several times before I made it to the bridge's far end.
After this feat was accomplished, hitching went fairly easy as northern Californian country folk tend to be quite accommodating. It must be shared, however, that at one point I left my smartphone, practically my only piece of technology, on which every photo, note, and contact of my travels is maintained, and on which I am typing at this very moment, in some stranger's car. It had been clipped to my pack, and at some point during the manhandling of the behemoth of a bag the phone popped free of its clip. After discovering the absence of the device I stood stunned on the side of the road. I made the decision then and there to wait, exactly where I was, exactly where I'd been dropped off, and hope the man who had provided me a lift would spot the phone, put two and two together and deliver it safely to me. It was a longshot and I could only pray. And I did. A few moments later another truck stopped in front of me and the man in the cab offered me a ride up the mountain. I graciously declined and explained my predicament, and he confidently assured me that the previous driver would return and I would see my phone again. I thanked him for the encouragement and bid him good day, and not two minutes later the truck in which I'd lost my phone pulled up. I thanked the driver profusely as he handed me my cell. He was laughing. I could have wept.
Into the rolling hills of the back country I went. The Lost Coast is astonishingly pretty, probably more astonishing pretty than any other bit of California I would subsequently pass through. As far as the eye can see it's all wooded peaks of deep green, hilltop meadows and shaded dells, winding mountain roads, redwoods, and the smell of chrisp mountain air mingled with that of the sea. It was doubtless the loveliest ride I had experienced since moving along the Salmon River back in Idaho.
In short order I was dropped at the coastal town of Petrolia, and from there walked about 3 miles between occasional rides until I stood by a vast beach, its great grey dunes stretching across the miles of shoreline visible spanning north and south. South was my direction.
I was at the Lost Coast trailhead, and before me lie 25 miles of beach-walking. It was windy, on and off overcast, and there were scittery little lizard gecko thingies everywhere. Fascinating. By this time my travel pants, a pair of skinny jeans I'd owned for years and had since conducted to turn into bell bottoms riddled with patchwork (with the help of my hippy grandmother) were rather shredded and would soon require some DUI. I decided I would sit down and patch my pants as soon as I got home. By which I meant as soon as my only company were the geckos and the redwoods and the sound of the sea. I set out at 3:47pm down the path into that beautiful, treacherous land.
The going along the Lost Coast Trail was easy for some time, notwithstanding the labor expected of a burden such as I carry. The dunes were mostly shallow and could often be avoided altogether by steering myself along the wide open moores upon the cliffsides, which often sprang up running parallel to the coast. The ocean spray was pleasant in the heat of the day. Moreover it was a perfectly leisurely stroll, and near the end of the day I reached the abandoned lighthouse which marked the trail's first eight miles.
Here I tarried in the company of some hikers coming from the trail's far end. It was good natured run-of-the-mill back and forth and we shared a meal. I met a friendly squirrel who ate bits of trailmix from my hand and considered what an excellent sidekick he would make, the Pikachu to my Ash if you will. There were also some incredibly noisy seals nearby, which I had never seen outside a zoo. My investigation consisted of getting as close as I dared, flapping my arms and making noise. I concluded that they are gentle, docile creatures. They regarded me unamused.
As I began to leave the lighthouse, one of the hikers gave me a labrador, a jagged stone which shined glossily in places but retained a mostly ebony, chalk-like complexion. Her friend insisted I accept small bag of rice as the two of them were nearly to Petrolia and would not be needing it. I accepted graciously and moved on.
I camped that night on a mountainside cliff overlooking the sunset- my first ocean sunset. My situation was in a small grove of pines. My sleep was sporadic, the remnants of my poison oak affliction waking me on and off through the night, as well as the headlamps of some passing hikers.
In the morning I bathed in the cold, salty waters of the sea, and it was sweet relief.
Day two was a little tougher, the terrain consisting mostly of rocky beach; piles and piles of smooth stones, which demanded focus with every step. My food was running low as well, and so a measure of frugality was now in order. I took an easy pace and many breaks over the course of the long day, most of these breaks spent reading (Robin Hood and The Lord Of The Rings). At the end of the day I found a fine camping spot well above the tide line and fell into a deep sleep. The stars above were vivid and brilliant.
Sleeping alone in the open, far from civilization, doubtlessly comes with the ocassional bone-chilling moment. In the case of my adventure on the Lost Coast, it came in the form of some nearby rustling. It was pitch dark except for the stars, a perfectly moonless night when I awoke to the sounds. I quickly wrote it off as a deer or a chipmunk, dismissing the usual paranoid visions of bears, which campers are so prone to formulating. I flipped on my flashlight and shined it towards the source of the sound. It was a bear.
A black bear specifically, and certainly a healthy, fully grown one. I wasn't afraid. This lack of fear half-surprised me, but truth be told, I know enough about black bears to know I wasn't likely in any danger. And if I was? So be it. I had slept practically on top of my food perfectly ready to put my bear spray (or machete) to use if I had to. But I never had to. My lack of terror was clearly contrasted by the wavering creature in front of me, who barreled quickly back into the hills. I went back to sleep.
My third day on the lost coast was undoubtedly the toughest. I took an early start, before the sunrise, because I was determined to finish the trail today. Most of the walking that day was rote and over sand. I learned that sand can make ten miles feel like twenty. I was nearly completely out of food and hardly ate.
At about 10am I came to a point made impassable by the high tide. My tide chart indicated things would calm down in about three hours. Were I perhaps more confident in my swimming abilities, I might have attempted to brave the crashing whitewater. But as it stands I posses the buoyancy of a palsied rhinoceros.
Two hours later, I deemed my route passable. By now if I intended to make it to Shelter Cove, there could be no breaks.
The rest of the day consisted of one of the most profoundly uncomfortable walks of my life. Nothing to cross but sand and stones, each an only slightly favorable break from the other. Everything hurt. Everything from my knees down was soaking wet and full of sand. My eyes were heavy and my stomach was a day empty.
In spite of all this, I could not help but feel taken by the shoreline's tropical beauty. Rivers and waterfalls were plenty, each of which provided a veritable oasis and a chance to refill my camelback.
In the distance, the town of Shelter Cove came into view. The sun had almost set. In the last glimmers of twilight I stalked up to the wooden stairway that lead up into the town. After I had accomplished the strenuous labor of ascending I met a couple of people who were apparently impressed by how fast I'd finished the trail and bought me a pizza. That night I relaxed and feasted amongst the tall grass of an empty lot on a cliff by the sea. I slept there, feeling greatly accomplished.
It took me the majority of the following day to escape the Lost Coast, but once I was out, San Francisco was just a skip and a hop away. Unfortunately, it was here that I erred. I had been picked up in the Lost Coast by some pretty young lasses and found myself so preoccupied with our conversation that it was only after I had been set down and only as they drove off that I realized I had been dropped in the middle of San Francisco. Brilliant!
To clarify my not-too-thrilled feelings about my current situation; big cities are a hitchhiker's wasteland, doubly so for a moneyless hitchhiker. I had no means to pay for a ride out of town and hadn't eaten since last night's pizza. A clear mind comes of a full stomach, thus I sauntered to a nearby Starbucks and used their wifi to look up free food in SF. I didn't find much, but I did discover a bar that served free comfort food on Fridays from 12pm to 5pm. "How comforting!" I exclaimed and set out for the establishment at a strong pace.
The San Francisco cityscape is an astonishing cornucopia of modern and victorian architecture, practically every house a work of art from the distant past. There are also lots of hills. Ouch.
It wasn't until I had passed through Chinatown and made it three miles down the road that I discovered Google Maps had been glitching and I had walked three miles in the wrong direction. I was now 15 miles from the bar and 5pm was nearing. I turned with such a violent jerk that the people sharing the sidewalk around me scrambled back, but I hardly noticed. I was hungry.
I set forward with a volatile vengeance I have seldom witnessed within myself. All pain and soreness from the previous days of hiking evaporated before the unyielding bale of my relentless march. I bore forward up and down hills, through suberbs and alleys and a couple of parks with all the force and intensity of my clenced eyebrows. At 4:58 I stepped into the bar.
My spirits were dampened when I learned that the free food I sought was given out only in the months of summer. I had missed it by several weeks. I tipped my hat and departed back into the streets.
Daylight was fading. I really, really did not want to spend the night in the streets of San Francisco. I got to the nearest on ramp to try and hitch, but no one picks you up in the big city, especially at night. Eventually I was forced to admit the futility of my endeavor and began to scour the streets for a place to pitch my tent. This would prove difficult.
I was practically a bum. I knew no one, had no money, and had resigned myself to sleeping on the streets. I came upon a small hobo tent neighborhood situated on a section of soft turf. There seemed plenty of vacant space, so I casually approached a resident and made a straightforward inquiry ascertaining to the case of my temporary uptake of residence upon a nearby parcel of open sward. The refusal was expressed unanimously and simultaneously by both my direct conversationalist and his nearby hoboland countrymen. Having been fully rejected (probably due to my ignorance of the hobo political system), I shrugged and moved on.
In the end, and after hours of tireless slogging, I came upon an onramp that I might like to try for hitching in the morning. There was an expansive and, more importantly, unoccupied and out-of-the-way stretch of grass running alongside this ramp. I situated myself as inconspicuously as could be managed and pitched tent.
It rained that night, and at one point I was woken by someone speaking at my tent; "Hey! Have you seen a purple pillow?"
A flat "No." was my only response.
"Okay." And that was that.
The morning was discouraging. I felt hopeless, standing by a ramp on which every car seemed in a hurry and on which there seemed little to no room to pull over and pick me up. The temprature and wind were such that I could not decide if it was cold or comfortable. This minorly irritated me, as I am a man of extremes and would just have liked the weather to make up its mind. This went on for almost four hours until finally, when I was almost asleep on my feet, a rented minivan came to a stop for me.
I blinked in surprise. A young woman rolled down the driver side window and spoke in a thick German accent: "Get in!" She didn't have to say it twice. Her boyfriend was already out of the car, helping me shove my massive pack through the sliding door as the traffic behind assailed us with honking and cursing. I was in at once and quickly to the freeway, departing at last from San Francisco.
I do not remember the names of the young vacationing German couple who had liberated me from my seemingly ceaseless turmoil. They were very talkative and were wonderful company. They deduced I hadn't eaten recently and being as the van was packed tight with food, they quickly began to offer me loads. I ate cheerfully and we shared stories and philosophies, and as they were my 100th ride since setting out, I shared with them the cigar I had been gifted in Roseburg Oregon. A celebratory cigar for the lucky winners. When they set me down at a gas station they loaded what space there was in my pack with food while I was using the bathroom. I have seldom felt so thankful.
I stayed with some friends of a friend in San Jose and took a much needed shower before getting back on the coast and stopping in Big Sur. California's coastal highway in the Big Sur area is just as picturesque as you've seen it on TV or in any photo. Big Sur itself is a rustic little redwood town and a hub of travelers. I had stopped here because I had been told of a fabulous hot spring out in the mountains, and so after one overpriced burrito (payed for by an enthusiastic individual who described his charity as "Contributing to the pilgrimage!") I set off for Sykes Hot Springs up the Pine Ridge Trail. The trail was lovely but tough, nothing but mountains. I pitched tent at the campsite 2/3 along the 8 mile footpath and realized I had brought no food except white rice and oatmeal. Adhering to California's fire ban, I had no way to cook it. Perfect.
The next morning was spent on an empty stomach, but I didn't care. The mountains were too beautiful. Or perhaps refreshing is the word I'm looking for. Browns and greens and high-altitude air will provoke such feelings.
When I made it to the spring I found it to be of excellent quality. It was butted up against a clear river and managed by a bearded caretaker who needed a girlfriend. I soaked all day, meeting all sorts of wonderful weirdos until the sun went down and I was so hungry it hurt.
I noticed some of the people I met were using a tiny propane stove, and requested the use of it. Thus was born what I now regard as my signature survival dish: Hipster Gruel. The base ingredients are white rice and oatmeal, equal parts both. I was generously provided a flavor pack by my fellow campers. It was the best thing I've ever eaten. I slipped into a deep food coma.
The next morning I rolled again into the hot pool and spent another full day enjoying the soak. I addressed my foodlessness with a devil-may-care indifference and decided I would hike home tomorrow. When tomorrow came I soaked for another hour and was more than ready to get out of the woods and get some sustenance.
I set off back along the trail. Everything was going smoothly. I was hungrier than I've ever been, the flies were maddening, and the inclines were no kinder to my calves as I bore 60lbs on my back, but I was headed back to civilization and would eat soon enough.
Several miles along the trail I came to a place I didn't recognize. It was a campground full of redwoods. I remembered the spring's caretaker mentioning something about Redwood Campground, a further 4 miles down the trail. One look at my map and it was confirmed. I was three miles further into the forest. And alone. I bellowed at the top of my lungs. I was so frustrated.
But there was nothing for it. I took a deep breath and began stalking back the way I came. It wouldn't be out of the mountains until the next morning when I finally made it back to civilization. It was the most grueling walking I've ever done. When it was finally finished I ate 3 footlong subs (I had a coupon).
My plan now was to hitch from the coast to Sequoia National Park, so I made way inland, scoring various rides towards the Sierra Nevada.
I tend to invest myself deeply into most conversation. Thus it came to pass that during a particularly engaging bit of banter I was having with one ride, we passed beyond my exit and I was forced to spend the night camped on the outskirts of a small truck stop town 50 miles south of my destination (I had been approaching from the north). No biggy, all part of the whimsicallities of vagabonding. The less strict you make your plans the less likely they are to go wrong.
In the morning I got back to the freeway's on ramp to make my way back north. I was picked up by a Steve. Watch out for Steves.
We chatted on the way and he seemed alright. Then, out of nowhere his head began to droop, then he started twitching around, and he began to veer towards the ditch. He came close to flying off the road, but suddenly straightened up and recovered. He quickly assured me it was nothing. Based on the way he talked about his past I surmised he was either under the influence of something or feeling the aftereffects. Whatever the case, I put it out of my mind.
Then it happened again. Only this time he practically passed out and started running down traffic cones. I lunged for the wheel and pulled us to an exit where I managed to stop us on the shoulder. Steve asked me to drive. I accepted.
An hour later, I had been ditched in the middle of the city of Medesto. I had also overshot, again, miles and miles north of Sequoia National Park (it was where Steve needed to go).
At first I didn't much like Medesto. It was seedy and decrepit. But there seemed a couple decent places to hitch, so I busied myself thumbing. I had no luck. Not only that, but I was flipped off five times. I had only been flipped off once before on my trip, in Indiana. In four hours thumbing for a ride I had been flipped off five times. I decided I disliked this town, so I made the decision to run to its other end and find a place to camp by an on ramp I was sure I would find a ride at. It was a long walk.
At one point, a pitbull came charging at me from the darkness of a side street. It was growling and barking, which I didn't think was cause for great concern. I changed my mind when it flew at my face. I placed my palm on the dog's neck and thrust it away, its claw tearing the sleeve of my favorite shirt. This displeased me. When it moved to lunge again (presumably for my throat or neck) I threw a swift kick directly into the animal's snout. I didn't kick hard, but the contact was solid. It scampered whining back into the darkness. This all happened within a couple of seconds.
Now I was wary, and weary. I slept lightly that night, every wind-rustled leaf a rabid dog, stalking me.
When the morning came I positioned myself on the freeway ramp (to which I had yesterday quested) in order to flag down a ride. About two hours in I was threatened with a ticket, so my day consisted of about twenty five miles of city walking in 100+ degree weather. At one point I stopped at a church whose pastor let me shower in the church's gym (a long and much needed shower) which boosted morale. Nevertheless it was a long and wearying day and I wanted nothing more than to leave Medesto.
At about sunset I was out of the sprawl and about ready to scout a camping spot when a guy pulled over and offered me a ride. In short order I was away from Medesto and on the road to Sequoia National Park. I was dropped off at the edge of the Sierras long past dusk.
While I was extremely glad to finally be out of that accursed city, I was frightfully famished, and across the street was a small, lone pizza parlor. I took a deep breath, put on my best attempt at a charming countenance, and strolled in. I spoke to the woman at the register:
"Alright here's the deal: I'm really hungry, but I'm penniless. However, I can wash dishes, sweep floors, whatever manual labor may be done for any extra/leftover pizza you might have."
She looked at me quizzically for a second, then smiled.
"No worries!" She said "My husband's a backpacker, I know how it is. We have plenty in the back."
I have often noted my own certain proneness to emotional reaction upon receiving food when famished. When the cashier returned from the kitchen she bore a plate stacked high with about a dozen slices of pepperoni pizza. I almost choked up. What's more, the gentleman behind me in line bought me a beer and I was sent off grinning ear to ear, ravenously munching my pizza into the night. It was cool and starry and moonless, and I could see the black silhouette of the Sierras. I camped behind the sign for a local pie shop.
In the morning I was quickly picked up and brought to church (where I told my story and was fed breakfast!). Then I was picked up by a rad aussie dude who was checking out Sequoia National Park himself. He was vacationing in the states, and the two of us entered and explored the park into the evening.
I can now say Sequoia National Park is one of my favorite places in California. The giant sequoias are nothing short of magical. They are enormous, magnificent, and totally breathtaking. The forest is like a scene out of a fantasy novel, a place of ancient enchantment. And enchanted I was.
Some of these behemoths pushed 3000 years of life. Some could be passed through. Some could be touched and some were fenced off. High in the mountains of the Sierra, I felt I was walking between the mighty columns of a cathedral older than man, like passing among the pillars of heaven which held aloft the sky itself.
Eventually we came to General Sherman, not simply a giant tree, but the most massive living organism on the planet. It blew my mind. I had to touch it. I handed my friend the camera and leaped over the fence (probably made to keep my sort in line). I scampered to the tree and stood beneath it, leaning and resting against its mind-boggling girth. The outer bark of these trees possess an odd mixture of sponginess and pheltiness. When I looked up, it seemed to stretch on forever into the sky. I'll never forget it.
On our way out of the park there was a bear! A small black bear that came within petting distance of my open car window. I resisted the urge to pet it.
With Sequoia out of the way, I set myself in a general southern direction, and just my luck my Australian friend was going the same way. Thus it went, and I was now on my bold way to southern California. Tally-ho!
of scrupulously recollecting this droll, I will provide a quick and perfunctory summary. I wanted to visit the city of Redding, but due to some inconvenient roadwork I was prompted to hie back into Oregon and approach through North Cali's farmland, from a more westerly direction. This equated to several days of hitching, most of which consisted of ground I had already covered, but eventually I was back into California via a long hitch into Shasta.
During my brief stop in the town of Shasta (home to the most enormous mountain I've ever seen) I dropped into a restraunt with an All You Can Eat Fish option in which one's plate is refilled continually. Needless to say, the walking I do and the weight I carry combined with the fact of my twenty years of age and naturally overactive metabolism alotts to, for lack of a better term, the appetite of an imploding star. After paying for and devouring what I'm sure was far more than $10 worth of food (I had them refill my plate five times over the course of three hours, plus once more to go) I departed the establishment feeling like a stuffed turkey, flashing a contented grin back at the manager's murderous glare. On top of everything I doubt my unshowered, tramp-like appearance did much for her goodwill towards me.
Redding was alright, and I made a friend who was good enough to put me up for a few days and take me to church Sunday morning, where I ran into a friend from Michigan who I sort of half-knew would be there. It was refreshing. After some decent rest I moved on.
Poison. Oak. It is not native to Michigan. I had no idea what it looks like. And consequently I must have camped in a bloody lot of it somewhere along the way. Following several miserable, sleepless days of making my way back to the coast, a local pointed out the rash on my arm and made the identification. I promptly collected a bottle of the necessary salve and was given a measure of relief from then on as the affliction faded.
I'd been hearing about California's Lost Coast since Portland and was fain to investigate. The Lost Coast is a region where the coastal highways (1 and 101) divert inland, leaving hundreds of miles of untouched rural forests and coastline, and small towns. I set out into this region.
Branching almost directly off of the freeway was a long bridge over a great river, this bridge leading directly into the mountainous country. Looking to my map, I surmised this to be the main entrance into the Lost Coast and the only one for many miles. Plus, it was the most direct route to the town of Petrolia, wherein was located the Lost Coast Trailhead. What spiked my hesitation in taking this bridge by foot was the constant crossing of semi trucks paired with the bridge's nearly nonexistant shoulder, which was only a foot in width. Clearly it was not designed to accommodate foot traffic, but there was nothing for it.
It took me about ten minutes to get from one end of the bridge to the other, this thanks to its length of about a thousand feet, as well as the constant need to stop, turn sideways and set my pack over the railing as I was almost constantly passed by some bafflingly uncouth truck drivers who, usually barreling at around 30-40 mph, never saw fit to swerve even slightly and put more than six inches between my bloodless face and the speeding, thundering hauls of their enormous rigs. This was about as exhilarating as it was unnerving, and left my heart vibrating in my chest several times before I made it to the bridge's far end.
After this feat was accomplished, hitching went fairly easy as northern Californian country folk tend to be quite accommodating. It must be shared, however, that at one point I left my smartphone, practically my only piece of technology, on which every photo, note, and contact of my travels is maintained, and on which I am typing at this very moment, in some stranger's car. It had been clipped to my pack, and at some point during the manhandling of the behemoth of a bag the phone popped free of its clip. After discovering the absence of the device I stood stunned on the side of the road. I made the decision then and there to wait, exactly where I was, exactly where I'd been dropped off, and hope the man who had provided me a lift would spot the phone, put two and two together and deliver it safely to me. It was a longshot and I could only pray. And I did. A few moments later another truck stopped in front of me and the man in the cab offered me a ride up the mountain. I graciously declined and explained my predicament, and he confidently assured me that the previous driver would return and I would see my phone again. I thanked him for the encouragement and bid him good day, and not two minutes later the truck in which I'd lost my phone pulled up. I thanked the driver profusely as he handed me my cell. He was laughing. I could have wept.
Into the rolling hills of the back country I went. The Lost Coast is astonishingly pretty, probably more astonishing pretty than any other bit of California I would subsequently pass through. As far as the eye can see it's all wooded peaks of deep green, hilltop meadows and shaded dells, winding mountain roads, redwoods, and the smell of chrisp mountain air mingled with that of the sea. It was doubtless the loveliest ride I had experienced since moving along the Salmon River back in Idaho.
In short order I was dropped at the coastal town of Petrolia, and from there walked about 3 miles between occasional rides until I stood by a vast beach, its great grey dunes stretching across the miles of shoreline visible spanning north and south. South was my direction.
I was at the Lost Coast trailhead, and before me lie 25 miles of beach-walking. It was windy, on and off overcast, and there were scittery little lizard gecko thingies everywhere. Fascinating. By this time my travel pants, a pair of skinny jeans I'd owned for years and had since conducted to turn into bell bottoms riddled with patchwork (with the help of my hippy grandmother) were rather shredded and would soon require some DUI. I decided I would sit down and patch my pants as soon as I got home. By which I meant as soon as my only company were the geckos and the redwoods and the sound of the sea. I set out at 3:47pm down the path into that beautiful, treacherous land.
The going along the Lost Coast Trail was easy for some time, notwithstanding the labor expected of a burden such as I carry. The dunes were mostly shallow and could often be avoided altogether by steering myself along the wide open moores upon the cliffsides, which often sprang up running parallel to the coast. The ocean spray was pleasant in the heat of the day. Moreover it was a perfectly leisurely stroll, and near the end of the day I reached the abandoned lighthouse which marked the trail's first eight miles.
Here I tarried in the company of some hikers coming from the trail's far end. It was good natured run-of-the-mill back and forth and we shared a meal. I met a friendly squirrel who ate bits of trailmix from my hand and considered what an excellent sidekick he would make, the Pikachu to my Ash if you will. There were also some incredibly noisy seals nearby, which I had never seen outside a zoo. My investigation consisted of getting as close as I dared, flapping my arms and making noise. I concluded that they are gentle, docile creatures. They regarded me unamused.
As I began to leave the lighthouse, one of the hikers gave me a labrador, a jagged stone which shined glossily in places but retained a mostly ebony, chalk-like complexion. Her friend insisted I accept small bag of rice as the two of them were nearly to Petrolia and would not be needing it. I accepted graciously and moved on.
I camped that night on a mountainside cliff overlooking the sunset- my first ocean sunset. My situation was in a small grove of pines. My sleep was sporadic, the remnants of my poison oak affliction waking me on and off through the night, as well as the headlamps of some passing hikers.
In the morning I bathed in the cold, salty waters of the sea, and it was sweet relief.
Day two was a little tougher, the terrain consisting mostly of rocky beach; piles and piles of smooth stones, which demanded focus with every step. My food was running low as well, and so a measure of frugality was now in order. I took an easy pace and many breaks over the course of the long day, most of these breaks spent reading (Robin Hood and The Lord Of The Rings). At the end of the day I found a fine camping spot well above the tide line and fell into a deep sleep. The stars above were vivid and brilliant.
Sleeping alone in the open, far from civilization, doubtlessly comes with the ocassional bone-chilling moment. In the case of my adventure on the Lost Coast, it came in the form of some nearby rustling. It was pitch dark except for the stars, a perfectly moonless night when I awoke to the sounds. I quickly wrote it off as a deer or a chipmunk, dismissing the usual paranoid visions of bears, which campers are so prone to formulating. I flipped on my flashlight and shined it towards the source of the sound. It was a bear.
A black bear specifically, and certainly a healthy, fully grown one. I wasn't afraid. This lack of fear half-surprised me, but truth be told, I know enough about black bears to know I wasn't likely in any danger. And if I was? So be it. I had slept practically on top of my food perfectly ready to put my bear spray (or machete) to use if I had to. But I never had to. My lack of terror was clearly contrasted by the wavering creature in front of me, who barreled quickly back into the hills. I went back to sleep.
My third day on the lost coast was undoubtedly the toughest. I took an early start, before the sunrise, because I was determined to finish the trail today. Most of the walking that day was rote and over sand. I learned that sand can make ten miles feel like twenty. I was nearly completely out of food and hardly ate.
At about 10am I came to a point made impassable by the high tide. My tide chart indicated things would calm down in about three hours. Were I perhaps more confident in my swimming abilities, I might have attempted to brave the crashing whitewater. But as it stands I posses the buoyancy of a palsied rhinoceros.
Two hours later, I deemed my route passable. By now if I intended to make it to Shelter Cove, there could be no breaks.
The rest of the day consisted of one of the most profoundly uncomfortable walks of my life. Nothing to cross but sand and stones, each an only slightly favorable break from the other. Everything hurt. Everything from my knees down was soaking wet and full of sand. My eyes were heavy and my stomach was a day empty.
In spite of all this, I could not help but feel taken by the shoreline's tropical beauty. Rivers and waterfalls were plenty, each of which provided a veritable oasis and a chance to refill my camelback.
In the distance, the town of Shelter Cove came into view. The sun had almost set. In the last glimmers of twilight I stalked up to the wooden stairway that lead up into the town. After I had accomplished the strenuous labor of ascending I met a couple of people who were apparently impressed by how fast I'd finished the trail and bought me a pizza. That night I relaxed and feasted amongst the tall grass of an empty lot on a cliff by the sea. I slept there, feeling greatly accomplished.
It took me the majority of the following day to escape the Lost Coast, but once I was out, San Francisco was just a skip and a hop away. Unfortunately, it was here that I erred. I had been picked up in the Lost Coast by some pretty young lasses and found myself so preoccupied with our conversation that it was only after I had been set down and only as they drove off that I realized I had been dropped in the middle of San Francisco. Brilliant!
To clarify my not-too-thrilled feelings about my current situation; big cities are a hitchhiker's wasteland, doubly so for a moneyless hitchhiker. I had no means to pay for a ride out of town and hadn't eaten since last night's pizza. A clear mind comes of a full stomach, thus I sauntered to a nearby Starbucks and used their wifi to look up free food in SF. I didn't find much, but I did discover a bar that served free comfort food on Fridays from 12pm to 5pm. "How comforting!" I exclaimed and set out for the establishment at a strong pace.
The San Francisco cityscape is an astonishing cornucopia of modern and victorian architecture, practically every house a work of art from the distant past. There are also lots of hills. Ouch.
It wasn't until I had passed through Chinatown and made it three miles down the road that I discovered Google Maps had been glitching and I had walked three miles in the wrong direction. I was now 15 miles from the bar and 5pm was nearing. I turned with such a violent jerk that the people sharing the sidewalk around me scrambled back, but I hardly noticed. I was hungry.
I set forward with a volatile vengeance I have seldom witnessed within myself. All pain and soreness from the previous days of hiking evaporated before the unyielding bale of my relentless march. I bore forward up and down hills, through suberbs and alleys and a couple of parks with all the force and intensity of my clenced eyebrows. At 4:58 I stepped into the bar.
My spirits were dampened when I learned that the free food I sought was given out only in the months of summer. I had missed it by several weeks. I tipped my hat and departed back into the streets.
Daylight was fading. I really, really did not want to spend the night in the streets of San Francisco. I got to the nearest on ramp to try and hitch, but no one picks you up in the big city, especially at night. Eventually I was forced to admit the futility of my endeavor and began to scour the streets for a place to pitch my tent. This would prove difficult.
I was practically a bum. I knew no one, had no money, and had resigned myself to sleeping on the streets. I came upon a small hobo tent neighborhood situated on a section of soft turf. There seemed plenty of vacant space, so I casually approached a resident and made a straightforward inquiry ascertaining to the case of my temporary uptake of residence upon a nearby parcel of open sward. The refusal was expressed unanimously and simultaneously by both my direct conversationalist and his nearby hoboland countrymen. Having been fully rejected (probably due to my ignorance of the hobo political system), I shrugged and moved on.
In the end, and after hours of tireless slogging, I came upon an onramp that I might like to try for hitching in the morning. There was an expansive and, more importantly, unoccupied and out-of-the-way stretch of grass running alongside this ramp. I situated myself as inconspicuously as could be managed and pitched tent.
It rained that night, and at one point I was woken by someone speaking at my tent; "Hey! Have you seen a purple pillow?"
A flat "No." was my only response.
"Okay." And that was that.
The morning was discouraging. I felt hopeless, standing by a ramp on which every car seemed in a hurry and on which there seemed little to no room to pull over and pick me up. The temprature and wind were such that I could not decide if it was cold or comfortable. This minorly irritated me, as I am a man of extremes and would just have liked the weather to make up its mind. This went on for almost four hours until finally, when I was almost asleep on my feet, a rented minivan came to a stop for me.
I blinked in surprise. A young woman rolled down the driver side window and spoke in a thick German accent: "Get in!" She didn't have to say it twice. Her boyfriend was already out of the car, helping me shove my massive pack through the sliding door as the traffic behind assailed us with honking and cursing. I was in at once and quickly to the freeway, departing at last from San Francisco.
I do not remember the names of the young vacationing German couple who had liberated me from my seemingly ceaseless turmoil. They were very talkative and were wonderful company. They deduced I hadn't eaten recently and being as the van was packed tight with food, they quickly began to offer me loads. I ate cheerfully and we shared stories and philosophies, and as they were my 100th ride since setting out, I shared with them the cigar I had been gifted in Roseburg Oregon. A celebratory cigar for the lucky winners. When they set me down at a gas station they loaded what space there was in my pack with food while I was using the bathroom. I have seldom felt so thankful.
I stayed with some friends of a friend in San Jose and took a much needed shower before getting back on the coast and stopping in Big Sur. California's coastal highway in the Big Sur area is just as picturesque as you've seen it on TV or in any photo. Big Sur itself is a rustic little redwood town and a hub of travelers. I had stopped here because I had been told of a fabulous hot spring out in the mountains, and so after one overpriced burrito (payed for by an enthusiastic individual who described his charity as "Contributing to the pilgrimage!") I set off for Sykes Hot Springs up the Pine Ridge Trail. The trail was lovely but tough, nothing but mountains. I pitched tent at the campsite 2/3 along the 8 mile footpath and realized I had brought no food except white rice and oatmeal. Adhering to California's fire ban, I had no way to cook it. Perfect.
The next morning was spent on an empty stomach, but I didn't care. The mountains were too beautiful. Or perhaps refreshing is the word I'm looking for. Browns and greens and high-altitude air will provoke such feelings.
When I made it to the spring I found it to be of excellent quality. It was butted up against a clear river and managed by a bearded caretaker who needed a girlfriend. I soaked all day, meeting all sorts of wonderful weirdos until the sun went down and I was so hungry it hurt.
I noticed some of the people I met were using a tiny propane stove, and requested the use of it. Thus was born what I now regard as my signature survival dish: Hipster Gruel. The base ingredients are white rice and oatmeal, equal parts both. I was generously provided a flavor pack by my fellow campers. It was the best thing I've ever eaten. I slipped into a deep food coma.
The next morning I rolled again into the hot pool and spent another full day enjoying the soak. I addressed my foodlessness with a devil-may-care indifference and decided I would hike home tomorrow. When tomorrow came I soaked for another hour and was more than ready to get out of the woods and get some sustenance.
I set off back along the trail. Everything was going smoothly. I was hungrier than I've ever been, the flies were maddening, and the inclines were no kinder to my calves as I bore 60lbs on my back, but I was headed back to civilization and would eat soon enough.
Several miles along the trail I came to a place I didn't recognize. It was a campground full of redwoods. I remembered the spring's caretaker mentioning something about Redwood Campground, a further 4 miles down the trail. One look at my map and it was confirmed. I was three miles further into the forest. And alone. I bellowed at the top of my lungs. I was so frustrated.
But there was nothing for it. I took a deep breath and began stalking back the way I came. It wouldn't be out of the mountains until the next morning when I finally made it back to civilization. It was the most grueling walking I've ever done. When it was finally finished I ate 3 footlong subs (I had a coupon).
My plan now was to hitch from the coast to Sequoia National Park, so I made way inland, scoring various rides towards the Sierra Nevada.
I tend to invest myself deeply into most conversation. Thus it came to pass that during a particularly engaging bit of banter I was having with one ride, we passed beyond my exit and I was forced to spend the night camped on the outskirts of a small truck stop town 50 miles south of my destination (I had been approaching from the north). No biggy, all part of the whimsicallities of vagabonding. The less strict you make your plans the less likely they are to go wrong.
In the morning I got back to the freeway's on ramp to make my way back north. I was picked up by a Steve. Watch out for Steves.
We chatted on the way and he seemed alright. Then, out of nowhere his head began to droop, then he started twitching around, and he began to veer towards the ditch. He came close to flying off the road, but suddenly straightened up and recovered. He quickly assured me it was nothing. Based on the way he talked about his past I surmised he was either under the influence of something or feeling the aftereffects. Whatever the case, I put it out of my mind.
Then it happened again. Only this time he practically passed out and started running down traffic cones. I lunged for the wheel and pulled us to an exit where I managed to stop us on the shoulder. Steve asked me to drive. I accepted.
An hour later, I had been ditched in the middle of the city of Medesto. I had also overshot, again, miles and miles north of Sequoia National Park (it was where Steve needed to go).
At first I didn't much like Medesto. It was seedy and decrepit. But there seemed a couple decent places to hitch, so I busied myself thumbing. I had no luck. Not only that, but I was flipped off five times. I had only been flipped off once before on my trip, in Indiana. In four hours thumbing for a ride I had been flipped off five times. I decided I disliked this town, so I made the decision to run to its other end and find a place to camp by an on ramp I was sure I would find a ride at. It was a long walk.
At one point, a pitbull came charging at me from the darkness of a side street. It was growling and barking, which I didn't think was cause for great concern. I changed my mind when it flew at my face. I placed my palm on the dog's neck and thrust it away, its claw tearing the sleeve of my favorite shirt. This displeased me. When it moved to lunge again (presumably for my throat or neck) I threw a swift kick directly into the animal's snout. I didn't kick hard, but the contact was solid. It scampered whining back into the darkness. This all happened within a couple of seconds.
Now I was wary, and weary. I slept lightly that night, every wind-rustled leaf a rabid dog, stalking me.
When the morning came I positioned myself on the freeway ramp (to which I had yesterday quested) in order to flag down a ride. About two hours in I was threatened with a ticket, so my day consisted of about twenty five miles of city walking in 100+ degree weather. At one point I stopped at a church whose pastor let me shower in the church's gym (a long and much needed shower) which boosted morale. Nevertheless it was a long and wearying day and I wanted nothing more than to leave Medesto.
At about sunset I was out of the sprawl and about ready to scout a camping spot when a guy pulled over and offered me a ride. In short order I was away from Medesto and on the road to Sequoia National Park. I was dropped off at the edge of the Sierras long past dusk.
While I was extremely glad to finally be out of that accursed city, I was frightfully famished, and across the street was a small, lone pizza parlor. I took a deep breath, put on my best attempt at a charming countenance, and strolled in. I spoke to the woman at the register:
"Alright here's the deal: I'm really hungry, but I'm penniless. However, I can wash dishes, sweep floors, whatever manual labor may be done for any extra/leftover pizza you might have."
She looked at me quizzically for a second, then smiled.
"No worries!" She said "My husband's a backpacker, I know how it is. We have plenty in the back."
I have often noted my own certain proneness to emotional reaction upon receiving food when famished. When the cashier returned from the kitchen she bore a plate stacked high with about a dozen slices of pepperoni pizza. I almost choked up. What's more, the gentleman behind me in line bought me a beer and I was sent off grinning ear to ear, ravenously munching my pizza into the night. It was cool and starry and moonless, and I could see the black silhouette of the Sierras. I camped behind the sign for a local pie shop.
In the morning I was quickly picked up and brought to church (where I told my story and was fed breakfast!). Then I was picked up by a rad aussie dude who was checking out Sequoia National Park himself. He was vacationing in the states, and the two of us entered and explored the park into the evening.
I can now say Sequoia National Park is one of my favorite places in California. The giant sequoias are nothing short of magical. They are enormous, magnificent, and totally breathtaking. The forest is like a scene out of a fantasy novel, a place of ancient enchantment. And enchanted I was.
Some of these behemoths pushed 3000 years of life. Some could be passed through. Some could be touched and some were fenced off. High in the mountains of the Sierra, I felt I was walking between the mighty columns of a cathedral older than man, like passing among the pillars of heaven which held aloft the sky itself.
Eventually we came to General Sherman, not simply a giant tree, but the most massive living organism on the planet. It blew my mind. I had to touch it. I handed my friend the camera and leaped over the fence (probably made to keep my sort in line). I scampered to the tree and stood beneath it, leaning and resting against its mind-boggling girth. The outer bark of these trees possess an odd mixture of sponginess and pheltiness. When I looked up, it seemed to stretch on forever into the sky. I'll never forget it.
On our way out of the park there was a bear! A small black bear that came within petting distance of my open car window. I resisted the urge to pet it.
With Sequoia out of the way, I set myself in a general southern direction, and just my luck my Australian friend was going the same way. Thus it went, and I was now on my bold way to southern California. Tally-ho!
QUOTE OF THE WHATEVER ~
"The word adventure has gotten overused. For me, when everything goes wrong, that's when the adventure starts." -Yvon Chouinard
