Lost Coast and Punta Gorda Lighthouse

Driving to the Lost Coast Trail is always an adventure. Mattole Road, one of two thoroughfares between Hwy 101 and the ranching communities of the Mattole Valley, twists and turns along shoddy pavement as it winds itself through the coastal mountains. This drive requires a lot of patience and a strong stomach as the nauseating 30 mile drive takes almost two hours.

Monday's lingering fog is both thick and persistent. Due to the steady north wind, the north side of every hill is socked in with fog. Just staying on the road takes an extraordinary amount of focus. It's like untangling a knotted up kite string in the dark. Suddenly, a figure appears through the mist. At first I can't identify the creature, but as we approach, we notice the llama. He moves in that awkward way that llamas are known for and approaches the car, as if to ask for a ride back home. The King Range is home to cattle ranches, many of which use little more than cattle grates to keep their herds enclosed. But when we're traveling less than thirty miles per hour, it's plenty secure.

Soon we drop down on a south facing slope and the fog dissolves. Each little valley we encounter is flooded with sunshine and my fears of a completely foggy day on the coast evaporate. I stop to snap some photos, calling out to Matt as I shut the car door behind me, "Who knows if the sun will stick around!"

Just south of Cape Mendocino, the westernmost point in the Continental U.S.

With less than a mile to go to the trail, we come across a flooded roadway. Fearing that the water is too high for our small car, we park along the shoulder of the road and set off on foot, adding two miles to our trip.

The rush of the ocean waves crashing on the shore grows louder as we approach. Remnants of a recent winter storm and a King tide produce some impressive noise. On our backpacking trip a few years ago, a friend likened the sound to sleeping next to a freeway.

My body resists all movement as I struggle to stay upright and moving forward on the soft sand. The beaches here are made of black pebbles and not even running at the water's edge lowers the intensity. Fog collects on the mountainside and I wonder if the sunny beach day in my head will materialize. We cross several swollen streams, bounding over them in an attempt to keep our shoes dry as long as possible.

A small trail on the coastal bluff appears and even though it's still very sandy, it brings some relief to my angry hips. Running in the sand is so slow for how much effort it requires. 

Windy Point holds back the fog and the sky becomes noticeably brighter as we approach. Sunshine? Is that you?! I'm coming! Don't you dare run away from me!

What separates us now from our day's destination is Four Mile Creek. On a dry summer's day, this creek is small enough to hop rocks. Today it's a torrent of undetermined depth. We stand there pondering our crossing when a man appears from a cabin alongside the creek. It is just one of a handful of private lands within this rugged section of coastline. We chat a bit about the recent storm and how deep the creek might be. At first he seems like the type that lives here for the solitude and wants us to go away, but his demeanor softens as we discuss the recent weather.

Four Mile Creek and first glimpse of our day's destination.

We link arms and take tentative steps as we cross the creek. Even though the open ocean looms just feet away, I feel no fear. "At least we can still feel our feet, right?" Matt says. Crossing the glacier-fed Eagle River set the bar for scary water crossings pretty high.

Matt trots up the hill to the lighthouse as I snap some photos. I soon realize that I'm not alone. Nearly one hundred harbor seals crowd the beach awaiting the sun's arrival. It's not often I see these guys on my trail runs.

This guy might not be too healthy, but he's still really cute. This is a cropped image, I didn't get this close.

Once operated by the Coast Guard, the Punta Gorda Lighthouse was decommissioned in 1951 due to the enormous expense of manning a light station in such a remote location. Its cement lighthouse is a hollow shell of what was a very sturdy shelter, often flooding on rainy days so the only protection it provides is a break from the ever-present north wind that blows.

It's fun to explore.

Matt and I cozy up against the southern wall to munch on the homemade goodies my mom sent us and take in our first sunny view of the day. The ocean is actually pleasant to be around when you get out of the wind.

Due to our late start and having to time our run with the tides, it was already mid-afternoon when we began our trek back to the car. Golden light paints the mountains.

We decide to return via Windy Point Rd. and the coastal bluffs. Climbing a punishing 1,100 ft. in less than a mile with no switchbacks, everything hurts going uphill. The views disappear as we ascend into the clouds and I spook all the nearby cattle. Just when you think you're alone out here, there's always somebody lurking in the fog.

Where are my gummy bears when I need them?

When we finally crest the ridge after two miles of foggy climbing, the Mattole River valley appears. The road drops almost as swiftly as it rose, but at least now there are pretty things to distract me.

This is where they grow my hamburger. Happy cows come from Humboldt County.

The soft evening light clings to the mountains and the valley below. My mood improves as I try to commit this perfect view to memory.

The sun drops from the sky as we arrive at the car. The return trip via Mattole Road doesn't seem as frightening in the dark as it does in the fog, but it might be because Matt offered to drive.









10.5 mi. of the King Range and sand
2:52:57, 16:28/mi.
1 lighthouse, dozens of sea lions, some of mom’s homemade treats, and my best buddy. What more could a girl ask for?