Lost Coast Pilgrims

by Casey Stewman

A thick winter fog engulfed the slumbering town of Arcata. Inside my apartment, well away from the dark and wet cold of the January evening, I was working my way through a familiar ritual. A monotonous voice droned through my weather radio “… Buoy 6, 600 miles west of Eureka … seas 18’ at 20 seconds.” I had been monitoring the conditions closely for the last few days for just this sort of forecast. I packed my things, already relishing the journey I was about to begin. I called my friend Rich and confirmed that he still wanted to go.

I grabbed my 7’6” pintail and an extra leash, loaded up the car, and headed up toward campus to pick him up. The evening was getting on when we finally left Arcata heading south, with fog hanging over Ferndale.

A few hours later, we pulled up at the parking lot that had by now come to epitomize both the beginning and the end of so many epic adventures. Looking at the mighty Pacific we could see 15-foot pounding shore break. The tide was going to be lower in a few hours and we had a long way to go in the meantime. Hiking through coarse black sand with surfboards strapped to heavy packs, billygoating through boulder fields, dodging incoming waves at the foot of vast cliffs — this was to be our fare for the rest of the night. There are sections of the trail that become impassable at high tide.

The King Range National Conservation Area, commonly referred to as the northern component of the “The Lost Coast,” is among the most wildly beautiful of California’s pristine coastal areas. This desolate stretch of coastline is unlike any other in the world. The mountains here climb abruptly from sea level to over 4000 feet in just over two and a half miles. These nearly vertical slopes are covered in evergreen forests of Douglas-fir and madrone, with riparian corridors lined with red alder, willows and California bay. The southern half of the legendary Lost Coast region occurs along numerous reefs and beaches that extend south of Shelter Cove through the Sinkyone Wilderness.

This is the land of the Triple Junction, an offshore geologic subduction zone where the Pacific Plate, the Gorda Plate and the North American Plate all converge. Somewhere in the middle of this network is a leftover slice of
pie, the Juan de Fuca Plate. This tectonic grinding results in the continuous uplift of the King Range, which is rising at the geologically swift rate of more than a centimeter per year. Once during the large earthquake in 1964 the range lifted more than one meter overnight, leaving crustaceans, echinoderms and other sea life stranded above the normal high tide line.

The rugged nature of these mountains and coastline are not to be underestimated. Tragic stories abound from this area: one of a female hiker swept into the sea by a rogue wave never to be seen again, another of a backpacker tumbling off steep cliffs and sustaining broken bones. A few years ago some children were swept into the sea by large waves and both rescuers and victims drowned. The place is extreme and can be dangerous.

But the Lost Coast is also a wonderland of incalculable beauty—and most importantly for Rich and me, a destination for amazingly good surf.

As the moon began to set into the ocean and the dead calm of the early morning hours had set in, we reached the crest of a grassy knoll where we could rest. The calm earthy feel of the meadow stood in stark contrast to
the overwhelming pulse and clamor of the newly arrived swell, working its way over the reefs and headlands.

Sometime later, we finally got into camp and cast ourselves to the ground in a dejected heap, legs burning. At dawn we awoke, crawled from our bags, stretched, took about a second to look at the waves, and scrambled into our suits. This break really starts to wake up when the swell is overhead, and actually begins to snort and growl when it is double overhead and bigger. Lots of greats have surfed here, including the local legends. Guys like Greg Goldstein, Matt Snowden and Hugh Holt. These guys charge here when it’s huge and they’re taking off way out on the outer point. But even Tom Curren is no stranger to the place. Paddling out off the point the sets were looking double overhead plus, and the swell was really just coming on.

This wave is not for beginners: the point is laced with huge boulders, cobbles and chunks of exposed reef depending on the tide. Boils emerge in the lineup when a set is moving through. However, for those with the requisite skill, the waves are pure poetry. Huge swells stacking in from the North Pacific that wrap, tube, and grind into a sandy bay.

Outside the lineup, a few boats began to motor in. Even with a moderate crowd there is typically a sense of good will and camaraderie that envelopes the surfers in the lineup and extends to the campfires along the beach.
People don’t come here to fight over territory or have their egos stroked. They come here to get away, to plug in to the ocean, to surf.

By the end of my first session, I was just like a little kid. All bouncy and excited, feeling all warmed up after a whole bunch of ‘lippers’ and ‘roundhouses,’ I stood next to the fire and peeled off my wetsuit. At that point I was perfectly content to sit for awhile by the fire, sip something warm, and watch the next set unload on the next rotation of surfers enjoying insane rides. We watch as the tide begins to pull out, the conditions shift and a light north wind is mixing with an eastern breeze beginning to blow out of a nearby valley. People are good about that up here, rotating through sessions so it never gets that tight out on the point. Still it’s not hard to get in three sessions a day if you’re motivated.

The Lost Coast is a wilderness area that is run by the Bureau of Land Management. There are no motorized vehicles allowed into these public lands beyond designated points. You do see folks on horseback. There are also private land holdings within the public lands, and one has a small landing strip next to a private ranch house.

Most of these private holdings have not been open to public use for a long time due to the increased usage of the Lost Coast trails. In the recent past cabins were mostly left unlocked and a certain degree of trust was imparted to hikers or surfers passing through. Even with changed times there is a certain generosity of spirit that folks bring here, whether sharing food, waves, or stories around the campfire.

By the end of our day Rich and I had skirted around triple overhead sections of heaving lips, and put the pedal to the metal down more of the best waves we were ever going to surf. The day had been perfect, and from the look of the swell and the sound of the buoys, tomorrow would still be good, a little smaller but even cleaner.

Seven sessions and two days later, food mostly gone, the last granola bar and PB&J packed away in the top of the pack, we headed back out. We felt rested, revitalized, and content to be walking along one of the gnarliest
stretches of coastline under the sun. As we picked our way through endless tricky boulder gardens, we relived the previous seventy-two hours in a warm blur. Surfing this part of the Lost Coast is not for everyone, but for those up for the challenge, the experience is truly amazing. In many ways this place is like a compass that my life swirls around. Whenever I get back, I remember exactly where north is.