Not sure what I expected for this last journey. I knew it would be the northernmost stretch to Oregon, and every leg has progressively gotten gnarlier as latitude was climbed. Gone were the sunny beaches and car-filled stretches of roadside highways. Here were instead remote dunes, mountains, and trees. Lots of trees. Redwoods taller than any living organism. Parks dedicated to them. Hotels built from them. And creating a green landscape so saturated that even the blue water filling the Pacific felt insignificant. Lumber and fishing took the place of Hollywood and suntans. We were on the final 100 miles of California coastline. And rugged applied to just about every place, thing and person, we encountered.
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Day 0 - Transportation, Recon and ....
(Humboldt Bay to Trinidad) -
Day 1 - Crescent City, Pt. St. George RAIN and Oregon.
(Crescent City to Brookings, Oregon) -
Day 2 - Failures and Success. Surf-launches and WIND.
(Wilson Creek to Crescent City) - Day 3 and 4 - Big Surf, Tourist Time and Hikes.
(Land Time) - Day 5 - Wilson Creek Part Deux and South FOURTY-EVER to the Finale
(Wilson Creek to Trinidad)
I had enlisted the team this round from my Lost Coast Adventure the year before. Usually, I make an effort to have different folks along for each leg. Perhaps so my quirks do not get annoying to others. But also, in an effort to share with as many as possible this journey. But Lost Coast had proven to test me in ways physically, psychologically and emotionally I had not before encountered. It created some PTSD of hearing the wind in the middle of the night and causing heightened pulse. Anytime visibility waned on a paddle I thought back to Lost Coast. And anytime I found myself celebrating good fortune, that adventure had trained me to keep a wary eye on the horizon, because celebrating good conditions can preclude bad conditions minutes later. This next journey, Humboldt up to Oregon was FURTHER north, and therefore had to be even tougher I figured. And so, the team that helped me survive Lost Coast was called upon for one more dance. Plus, it gave Stefanie more comfort knowing my peeps were not new at the adventure life. And I needed her support as well.
Dave, Clarke, Paul. Tres amigos del norte.
So, Paul and Dave were on the text thread from before, and as early as last winter we started conversations. As early as March we started planning dates. Dave is seriously a living-the-dream paddler. Which translates to “enters all the races and events”. His resume in September/October 2025 alone included Catalina, Tahoe Crossing, Molokai Hoe and Chattajack. All of which are significant and prestigious accomplishments. So, Paul and I, grateful to have him be a part of the trip, and perhaps the only one willing to join me on the water for some of what we had planned, squeezed our way into Dave’s schedule. We also built in some lessons I have learned from adventures past: add in flexibility to the calendar to account for conditions, water and body. There is simply no way I can get 4 days of perfect easy days in a row in northern California. Too many variables. Just one easy day is actually sketchier than most. Last year proved that when Paul joined me on the last day of the paddle. Hardened by the first 5 days, it was perhaps my most enjoyed of the week. And it was still 8-10’ swells and sketchy coastlines. Paul hadn’t gained the perspective and comfort I had days prior, so he was wide-eyed like a paddler in the ocean for a first time as swells caused us to disappear from each other. So even the ‘easy’ day was out of our normal comfort zone. We knew this year would be similar.
The plan was simple: Fly up to Humboldt on Sunday, arriving midday to get in Dave’s van, and drive the entire coastline to recon spots and get eyes on the water we would be traversing. Have Monday-Friday be possible paddle days. And Saturday as an extra-credit paddle day if we come up short 10-15 miles before flying out that afternoon. The journey from Humboldt to Brookings, Oregon, or opposite if conditions dictated, was going to likely be 4 days in a perfect world. 3 if surf was too big to make one of the days broken into two. Basically, two legs were in the mid to high 20-mile ranges from safe harbor to safe harbor. OC1 canoes are great open ocean but not meant to come in and out of breaking waves. Unlike kayaks which are rugged, and surfboards which can duck-dive waves, outrigger canoes are 20’ long and weigh 20 pounds. Sneeze on one wrong and you risk a ding. The third leg, between safe harbors would be a 52-mile day. Doable...but paddling up here is already tough. Add in such a long distance, and the associated fatigue, and things can get wonky fast. I have done 46 miles, joining my friends Michael and Zoey who famously got engaged at the finish. But it was pretty taxing (the paddle not the engagement). And in stress-free conditions (aside from being offshore 13 miles and a curious shark encounter, but that is another story). So, if there was an opportunity to break the 52 miles up into two smaller chunks that was ideal. As a result, we had 5 days built in for 3 or 4 days of paddling. Flexibility and weather checks would be the norm.
This was the cover for 20 pages of maps I printed and laminated copies of for each of us. We would pore over them each night and morning at meals, studying the landscape, hazards and coastal terrain.
Day Zero – Transportation, recon and…..?
Paul and I met o’dark early and headed to the airport. Flights to SF and then Humboldt and we were going to be picked up by Dave who not only was willing to drive his van from Lake Tahoe area, so we had transportation, but also bring two canoes for him and me. This basically saved me two days of driving from San Diego on each end. 4 days total. Less time away from family and duty at home. More time to buffer paddle days in case the weather dictated we stay on land.
Coastline of Arcata/McKinleyville. Always a trip seeing where you will be paddling in the future from above.
The flights went super smooth. Paul listening to me comment repeatedly how I was really leaning into the idea of being flexible on our routes and days. Directions and timing. Being willing to flip the script and head north instead of south when winds switch, or slot a segment on a different day, could cause unease in some. But I was looking at it as a strength. We could battle sketchy headlands on a clear calm day. Have bad visibility saved for a day with minimal rocks along the course. And choose rain exposure for a shorter trek. Launch later to avoid or capture wind. Who knows what conditions might offer, but we could be flexible and plug the holes. But first thing was first, get off the plane, greet Dave, and start driving the coastline to see what we are up against.
Or so I thought!
After getting our bags, I hit up the little boy paddlers room while Paul headed out to find Dave in the pickup zone. Arcata Humboldt airport is tiny. And crowds are measured on one hand instead of the hundreds. I wandered out and saw the van with two bright shiny canoes on the rood, the sliding door was open, and in the back the boys were already deep in maps and dialog. Paul, had a look on his face that caught my eye. The kind of look that says, “Can’t wait to watch Clarke hear what Dave is about to say”.
So before I could even give Dave a hug and greet him, I am asked, “Waddya say we head straight out and knock off King Salmon to Trinidad since it’s a calm day?” Suddenly, the only part of the trip I had kinda locked in as recon day, was up in smokes. I didn’t want to immediately be the “no fricken way” guy so I heard him out. The whole time feeling my insides wriggle in contortion and building discomfort. Starting a paddle this late in the day? Without planning our gear, nutrition and rigging? Rushing off the plane to hit the water in conditions I hadn’t poured over yet? Miss the chance to actually explore the areas we’d paddle first? Iyiyiy.
Fortunately, Dave had already looked for last 24 hours at the conditions. Driven the stretch of coastline he was proposing we tackle. And he had the best argument I could hear, “why would we pass up a calm day when we have one?”. This logic basically was as sound and valid as anything I could counter. I had just been bragging to Paul about our openness and flexibility being a huge strength. And at the first chance I was being tested in this quality. So, knowing that Dave is relentless in his conditions checking, and that Paul would be super solid in helping get us on the water safely as quick as possible, and that today’s journey was the most tame of all the legs, and the shortest. I agreed. The adventure would start on day zero.
Day 0 Wind Report on our course at time of launch.
Our plan was to head north from Humboldt Bay to Trinidad Harbor. Winds were expected to manage-ably pickup out of the south/southwest, in the 15-20mph range. Quartering tailwind from the left – a helpful direction but not totally perfect. And great visibility. Another good thing we had going for us is King Salmon launch spot was a known location. We launched there last year and headed south. We knew where to park, rig and walk before entering the water. It would be the only familiar spot of the adventure. So, as we drove down there, and I grabbed and ate a pre-made sandwich from a local store, I silenced the demon voices that initially freaked me out and started to channel the stoke. Let’s paddle!
Departing from King Salmon in Humboldt Bay. 2 miles to the ocean then we head north.
Rigging and prep went perfect. And before I could think twice Paul had the canoes unloaded and dialed and Dave and I were dressed with gear in tow. We jumped on the water, made the trek out Humboldt Bay 2 miles to the ocean. The wind had already started up, but was coming from the desired direction (south-ish) as we headed north. I have only paddled this model canoe Dave brought once before, so I used the warmup to the ocean to learn its nuances and balance points. This was a concern of mine for a few weeks. And so I used an Ares foam seat on my personal canoe to get used to how it fit. But the canoe itself is different as well. And I had it rigged a little too tippy for the ama-side quartering winds we found ourselves in when we turned north to head up the coast. I was leaning left more than I would like, and surfing left to keep from getting pushed into shore too much was not as comfortable as I wish to admit. I was doing ok, but not thriving. All of a sudden, we heard a motor behind us. Getting loud quick. A boat was coming up on us, disappearing and reappearing in between the big ground swells NorCal oceans are known for. Next thing we know, the boat comes right up on us and a guy gets out to yell to us. Humboldt County Sheriff wanted to have a word with us. “Hey you two, everything ok?” We nodded and vocally told him “yes”. He said they “got a call that two kayakers had gone out too far and might be in distress. And were in turn doing a well-fare check. Looks like you guys are in pretty good shape and know what you are doing though.” We shared with him our route, listed off safety steps taken and gear carried, and he was soon waving us off and heading back home. Notifying local services each day had been part of my plan for this exact reason. To be on their radar each day with a float plan, but not require them to use resources if locals saw us going out beyond the normal confines and flat-water sanctuaries. In our rush to get on the water today though, I had forgotten this step. I would be better the rest of the week.
Once we were on our way again, we sailed on to or destination. Saw something big breach to my right and called out to Dave to "stay close!". Too small to be a whale, but grey. Maybe a dolphin...but they don't usually land like that. We kept paddling. There was some good speeds on our trek so far, but not great. Whatever help we were getting in the wind bumps was neutralized by an opposing current we figured. And we kept having to aim offshore to not get pushed in too close to the coast. We would rather line it up good later, than get punched by 12-18mph side wind at the end. Doing so however was keeping me a little uncomfortable on the new canoe and I had wished it was rigger a little heavier to keep the ama from popping up as often as it was. Dave was erroring on the left course, I was more on the right. Our GPS devices slightly out of sync with our finish spots, so finally around mile 14 of our 22-mile day, I called up to Dave to stop and get on the same page. I pointed up ahead as we were starting to get a visual of our finish line, and convinced him we could correct our course now. Or risk overshooting it altogether. So we pointed a little more east in our angle, lined up the wind better and were moving pretty good.
Anytime you see a place from the water the first time is foreign. And while I had printed out some helpful maps with shots of the finish lines, since we flipped the course today, my laminated shots and photos we carried with us were not as helpful. But we ‘thought’ we saw the headlands to aim for. However, as we got closer, we started having a real hard time seeing the harbor entrance. We were about 2 miles from the finish, and we saw red buoys in various places, but instead of navigation red-right-return buoys that are accompanied by green ones, these turned out to be hazard buoys of rocks and submerged reefs. Maritime needs to address this duplicitous coloring!
We radio’s Paul before committing anymore. He picked up, and tried to described where to go. He said to look for two anchored boats. A rock. And a red buoy. He was looking in the direction due south with his binoculars but no visual. We described our view and it did not match his in any way. I trusted my way-point and GPS however, and so we aimed for a giant rock that we thought was perhaps in line of the entrance view. Better to come up short at this point of the harbor and hug the coast than go too far, so we went right. It turns out our push to stay left had us coming in much further than Paul anticipated. And the rock blocked his view of us, as did the headlands we were outside of. We committed however to going right and after 15 minutes finally saw the visuals that Paul had been describing. The next route, and all others we spent an exorbitant amount of time setting proper routes and way-points to avoid this on our GPS’s. We finally reached the Trinidad harbor beach. Greeted by Paul, a dead pelican on the sand, and a few submerged rocks we almost paddled over and dodged at the last second. I was ready for dinner and a beer!
We locked in the gear-rinse and craft put-away. Found a nice place to eat and get ice cream. And rehashed the stories to Paul we encountered. Hit the road north to Crescent City where we found online a nice hotel two bed suite with sofa couch, right on the water. A video screen employee from New Jersey when we entered the lobby kind of freaked us out instead of a real person. But otherwise, we settled in and counted day 0 as a success.
Day One – Crescent City, Pt St George, Rain and Oregon
Our Crescent City room had a great view of the waters we would be paddling today. But it also had a great view of the rain the forecast had predicted. We were expected to get 1.5 inches today of rain. And in San Diego we call that an annual total. Dave was worried about getting cold and wet during our 26 miles of paddling on tap. He made a point to shame me for not considering more layers. So, I acquiesced and added to my apparel quiver. Laying out clothes on the bed I would be rocking up to 5 layers today. Including a rain jacket and neoprene beanie option. I was not going to get chilled from moisture! But first, we had a more important task. Coffee and breakfast. A block away from our hotel was a perfect greasy spoon diner. Which from my previous paddle stories you know, is key to my success. We walked in, found a booth. Started pouring over weather reports, surf reports, wind reports and GPS tracks. Interrupted with coffee refills and omelet bites. Eventually, after satisfying our guts, it was time to move our butts. Outside the water was pouring from the sky. We stalled a few more minutes for it to hopefully let up a bit. It did, and we quick walked to our hotel to gear up, load up the van and drive 3 blocks to our launch at the public boat ramp.
We picked our course today due to the predicted light conditions. Outside of the rain, the wind and surf were going to be the mildest of the week. Wind in the 10-13mph range and surf 4-5 foot. We just had to get around the 7 miles of rock and cliff-lined headlands from Crescent City to Point St. George...an absolutely notorious stretch. A few years ago, a friend of mine paddled this stretch with a partner, and they encountered insane winds and surf. They were heading south that day and got a late start and entered the headlands at peak wind with gusts in the 40mph range, reverb off the rocks equal in size to the big surf they were already getting from the ocean. I had heard their story first hand a few years back. And made a call a week ago to get the scoop again and make sure I picked their brain once more for warnings and tips. I took this stretch more seriously than any other stretch we would encounter. Offshore of Point St. George 5 miles is a giant sea stack with a lighthouse on it. Imagine that, a lighthouse 5 miles off-shore. So many rocks and hazards. I silently hoped the rain would mean good visibility, as sometimes it leads to less fog if the clouds are high. I didn’t want to go through this graveyard of rocks and hazards by braille. So, we picked this day, and flipped the course, to tackle the headlands first while we were fresh, and before afternoon winds could kick up. Rain be damned. It was literally the least of my concerns. Besides, I had 5 layers on.
(Picture taken 3 days after our paddle in beautiful sunshine.)
We drove down to the launch, and it was pouring. Nobody would be using the public boat ramps today. They would be fools. We got as much dressed as possible in the hotel and van. Jumped out, and the three of us did the best setup we could. A quick radio check as we launched, and we were off. I had stopped by the local Coast Guard building that morning but no answer. So, I texted the float plan to my NorCal Coast Guard contact who GPS routes, wanting to be on the same page, and began the headlands route.
Posing in the downpour before launching in all our layers. View of the headlands start from Paul "trying" to stay dry in the van with window down to get pics and good radio signal.
Our path was carefully planned, using marine maps of hazards for boats as our guide to finely weave our way around and through patches of rocks. The reverb energy was not a big factor with the distance we were from land, but close enough to see the coastline. Visibility was good, 2-3 mile perhaps, and the water was calmer than the day before. We crawled north, expecting some early ama-side onshore breeze that was a non-factor. I rigged heavier today and was getting a better feel for the canoe. No leaning left at this point to keep me dry needed. I mentally referred to the maps I had memorized of the rocks and landmarks as we approached Point St. George. The last remaining geographic point, and third westernmost of California. Headlands and points are sneaky. I never let my guard down, and I never celebrate good conditions until they are behind me or I am on land. I learned this last year on Lost Coast. Points can be calm, until they aren’t. A confluence of waters, winds, waves and currents. They stick out as exposed land forms in an ocean with an agenda that doesn’t take kindly to interruption. We see parts of them, but underwater, the land continues like a giant speed bump mountain range. I never let my guard down.
We carefully plotted our course with the GPS using marine maps.
So far though, things were good, we had a mile to go and Dave’s GPS had him yelling over to me to aim for some giant rock in our sights. Yes, aim for the rock. A few minutes later a 10 degree turn inland. 5 minutes after I made a point to look laterally. We were passing Pebble Beach Cove, our emergency landing zone for the day. Dave and I discussed that if anything didn’t feel right, this would be our last safe exit. We had evaluated the whole time, and both felt we were good to go. A quick radio call to Paul, Mr. Lucky Duck was his call sign. “Lucky Duck here. A very drenched duck” He was on land at Point St. George, getting final eyes on us for a while. Standing in the rain, getting drenched, Paul confirmed hearing that we were good to proceed past our landing zone. Before the day would be over, he would make a run to a store to upgrade his rain gear.
Exposed rocks and tide-submerged reefs are present up to 5 miles out where the Point St. George Lighthouse resides on one such rock. We were able to see the lighthouse in the distance being that we traveled so far off the coast to try and avoid some of the most dangerous areas.
Dave and I had eyes ahead on Oregon. Or at least mountain tops far far away above the clouds that were dumping on us. With Pt St George Point on our Right and the boneyard of rocks, and to our left a very very hazy figure on the horizon of a rock with a tower on it, the Pt St George Lighthouse, we crossed the headlands threshold, and into the last 10 miles of California, and then 5 miles alongside Oregon. To Brookings we go!
(View of Arched Rock South of Pt St George later in the week when it was sunny. Note the minefield of whitewater way off in the distance of breaking reefs and waves.)
While we shared with each other gratitude of our speeds, and how the headlands were manageable, we made a point to not say anything too loud that the ocean might hear as gloating. We know who the boss is. And it certainly isn’t on a 20lb canoe floating a few miles offshore with a tiny tree branch for a paddle. But now that I am here, writing to you all, I can fully tell you how relieved I was to have gotten past this point. Our speeds from a slight cross wind now benefited from our course change as we stopped going west/north west, and headed due north. The newly embraced tailwind has us moving really good. The only thing that suddenly humbled us was the rain. It started to pour now. We were watching the rain bounce off the ocean back up. It was like getting hit with each drop twice. My pants were keeping me dry, my jacket and beanie keeping my torso dry and warm, we cruised on.
There is a certain thing about paddling in the rain. You almost feel like you are doing something naughty. We spend our time on land running from car to doorway. Carry umbrellas to shield us. But out here, we are on water, and so the aspect of getting wet isn’t really something we avoid. We are jumping in the biggest puddle in the world. It’s a water sport. We prepare to fall in. We walk out in knee deep water when we launch. We wear gear made for water. And so when it hits us, instead of recoiling, we almost accept and embrace it. So we did. We embraced it. Looking at each other every few minutes to ensure we had matching course lines. We cruised north. The hillsides above played optical illusions on us as we could only see mountain tops. “Aim for the left of the tallest mountain top” “The one that looks like it has a diagonal line down the middle?” “Yes”. After another hour, we hit mile 20. 2 more miles and we should be getting the Oregon border. I ask Dave to let me know when his GPS has us cross. I am jones-ing now. 7 miles to finish and almost leaving California. Yes, we still have 52 miles of California to paddle later this week. But this is the last stretch of the state holy cow this is exciting. My heart strap was left at home this week, but pretty sure my heart rate was up. Finally, I tire of asking Dave for his check on the border, and use my miles paddled and own GPS to convince me we are there, at the border. I call to him to stop, and I sit in the rain with my GoPro and share with the viewers a little celebration of the moment, as we straddle two states. We start paddling again and 2 minutes later Dave calls over, “ok we are at the border now.” I shake my head and smile. Whether he is right, or my impatience had us right is sort of irrelevant. The water didn’t suddenly change color or get funky. In fact, even the rain was the same, so we must have been in Oregon the whole day by that logic.
Shots from the water. (L) Rain during the downpours. (C) Me celebrating when I crossed stateline. (R) Dave and I with visual of Brookings, Oregon and finishing destination in sight
The last 5 miles, our GPS reliance started to give way to visual recon as we scouted landmarks ahead. Just like the day before, we flipped the course and so images I had printed of finishing spots didn’t exist. I knew from above what the maps looked like. Engrained from my breakfast of staring at the images or each 3 mile stretch I had at that table. But above is not sea level. It never is. Coastlines play tricks on you as they get closer. Areas you didn’t see come over the horizon that are closer than what you were staring at. Definition is realized in the topography. Greys become blues become greens. Windows on building capture the now afternoon sun and reflect back to us intermittently. Then, with two miles to go, I see way up ahead a red buoy. And damnit this time it’s a navigation buoy not a warning buoy. To its left, a green one starts to materialize between swells. Dave and I call to each other the recognition. He is feeling fresh now, and I am a little tired as he pulls ahead. Always making sure to not pull to far ahead, but I am leaning into not rushing this experience. And letting that become my rationale instead of the fatigue causing me to slow. Mile 26 now done. We see the jetty rocks ahead. To the right land. To the left rocks ocean and more Oregon. Another day perhaps. But this will be my exit. I paddle by the red bell buoy, my impending presence scaring three giant sea lions who called it home. We each catch little half breaking waves at the harbor entrance. Talk to a friendly boater who asks how far out we paddled. We reply that “we came from Crescent City” and his eyes get big and he shakes his head. Dave tries telling me that we need to go right and then right again. I chuckle and say “are you sure?” I think we need to go right then left. Its pretty soon clear one of us is right. Doesn’t matter which one. We see the boat ramp ahead. And step foot in Oregon!
Last year, Dave and I showed up way beyond our expected arrival time at Shelter Cove when a 7-hour paddle took over 9 hours. Incredible headwinds and bad visibility made the trek challenging. And with minimal radio check-in access points for Paul, to say he was stressed about our well-being is an understatement. When we arrived that day, as excited as we were to see him and be done, he was on that same level, but of perturbed. Hi first words to us that day when we landed, “YOU’RE LATE!” So, today as we landed in Oregon at the finish line boat ramp, we didn’t see the white van or Paul. He had to stop and get rain-gear apparently, and was running late. Well Dave and I made a point, when Paul rolled up and got out, to greet him in the same manner, “YOUR’E LATE!” in unison. Smiles and congrats followed.
If you paddle (in the rain), you get it.
That night, we ate out at Wild River Pizza and enjoyed the second day of accomplishment, and lots of great food. We reflected on new challenges faced this round, huge landmarks crossed and reached. We drove down back to Crescent City, and did a quick drive to Wilson Creek to check out (once again) what might be our following day launch spot. It was dark when we arrived. But still painted a picture for us through sounds and the glows of our headlights shining on the surf. The waves would be tough to get through. But maybe…we could pull it off. In the meantime, we headed back to the hotel, waved to an Elk along the side of the road, and put our clothes up in the bathroom to dry before the next adventure.
Day Two – Failures and Success, Surf-launches and Wind.
We deviated from our breakfast diner this time and hit up a great bakery and coffee shop. Today the forecast challenge would focus on wind. We had explored the idea of maybe tackling the 52 miles today in one swoop but I was concerned that even if the wind was helpful and made us fast, it would require a high level of focus that with 10 hours of paddling we could not sustain. The winds were to be peaking in the afternoon in the mid-30 mph range, with gusts in the high 40s. We decided our best bet would be to get on the water and try to knock off 10-14 miles of the 52 miles before the wind got too crazy. This would make the remainder roughly 42 miles a more manageable stretch later in the week. The difficulty however was finding a safe place somewhere between the 52 miles of safe harbors to launch or come in at. And then to have to repeat it again later in the week through the surf to go the other direction. We discussed at the coffee shop, in between reading old ocean navigation books, and sitting by a pot belly stove, our surf entry options. And came up with two spots based on previous scouting reports to try today to safely launch from. Wilson Creek and Klamath River.
OC1 like ours are awesome in the open ocean. But put them in the path of breaking waves and they can buckle like an inflated paper bag meeting an open hand. Even a 2-foot wave can cause havoc. And our NorCal coastline is not commonly flat in terms of surf. Today the surf was supposed to be 4-6 foot. And our hopes were that we could find a sheltered path on the far ends of the river mouth coves. Or a deep-water channel where the water rushing back to the ocean after hitting the steep beaches would create a rip current and stifle the incoming wave enough to get out. The next two days after today would have very big surf. In the 8–12-foot range. So today was our window to get through it, and then just line up that crazy strong wind for a great downwinder.
We rolled up to Wilson Creek about 11 miles south of Crescent City and were immediately greeted by white water foam lines. We thought maybe there was a path on the right we could sneak through by paddling in the lee of a few rocks, then making a sprint. But it would take some good luck and perfect timing for one of us to make it. And for both of us to find this good fortune was a tough ask. That said we walked the length of the beach, and stared at it for an hour. But by 11am we decided the paddlers and canoes would be hard pressed to get through our possible window path. We got in the van, and headed south to Klamath River.
Landing at Klamath River spit where heavy soft sand has built up separating the angry ocean from the calm river. Here we portaged to the ocean side. Yes, that is a SharkBanz on my ankle in the third pic.
The tricky thing about the next launch possibility is that we can’t access the ocean or get a good view of it up close due to the steep terrain and river. We drove up above it to an overlook and it appeared there might be a little protection at the north end of the river mouth cove. But we are several hundred feet up above, and the waves only look an inch tall from that height. But what we saw gave us hope. Enough that we decided to head down to the boat ramp a mile upriver, paddle down river to the sand spit where the beach separates the river and the ocean, and portage over it to the ocean and launch.
Klamath River Overlook view from above. The North-end was just out of view below us but we hoped to launch at the top of the beach where the cliffs started. Plan B was the rivermouth itself and see if the opposing energy created a rip current effect to paddle through. You can see the white texture in the ocean of the disturbance. Plan C would be the far south end shown in the distance with the giant rock and hope there was some protection from surf from the geography.
The plan was to find a spot on the north end of the beach along the rock cliffs that hopefully is protected from the swells. We would launch and let Paul know we made it, since he can’t see us from the boat ramp. He would hang tight there however in case we needed to backtrack. So, we took the 30 minutes to get dressed, rig the canoes, and launched. The river is of course calm and misleading to what the ocean might present. The giant splashes of water however over the sand kept us from forgetting though. Foreboding energy came with each splash, and they kept us from getting lulled to sleep on the calm 5-minute paddle to the sand spit. We landed the canoes, carried them up and crested to the ocean. What we saw was unnerving.
From up above, we only saw 1” waves breaking really close to shore. Unlike Wilson Creek beach, where we had to paddle a good 200 yards to clear the surf zone, this looked like it was all within 20 feet of the beach. But as I have learned with northern California river spits, they can be super steep beaches. And while the waves are not super far from shore, they pack a punch. And the beach gets deep at a crazy quick pace. And so, when we snuck our first look, we saw 4–6-foot shore break. And the intervals were about 5 seconds. And after each wave went up the steep spit, it then raced back with the same energy into the ocean, sucking out and into the next wave. Oh, and that hope the north end provided some protection? That was a giant 5-foot negatory story. The slightly protected portion meant rocks would reverb the same energy south and carry us into the other waves. The final thing that really had us spooked, was because our 20-foot canoes had rudders. If we were lucky enough to climb a wave face before it breaks, the back of our canoe would be like a teeter totter and go down equally to what the front was going up. In inches of water. This would be perilous for sure. And while we "hmm"’d and "huh"’d for a few minutes hoping for some clue to getting through it, we both knew launching here would have us cooked.
I said to Dave, “hey let’s not give up on the South half. Maybe the other end and rocks provide some protection, or the river mouth itself is causing the waves to back down and be neutralized.” I was scrambling for some hope. Not yet ready to concede defeat a second time today. So as the sky opened up and the rain started, we portaged back to the river and paddled downriver south a mile along the spit. Hearing the waves crashing to our right, and seeing the water pick up pace as we got closer to its exit into the water, we decided to park the canoes pretty soon. When all of a sudden up ahead Dave saw something and yelled, “STOP!” “Followed by, “let’s park here, those are all seals, don’t want to spook them”. Sure enough, eagle eye Dave spotted 50 or so harbor seals that had beached up ahead on the bank of the spit. And in the water up ahead we could make out another 20 that were fighting to get up the river current to join the beached population, as they sunned in the overcast rainy weather. We quickly beached before getting to them but our presence had certainly been noticed. And a dozen or so made their way to the river. Careful not to disturb more, we walked over the spit to see the river mouth entering into the ocean and it was mayhem. Hectic energy colliding with hectic energy, and an equally bad place to try and paddle a canoe through. Dave was open to one more idea though. “Let’s cross the river and park on the inland side, and walk south past the river mouth to the south end and see if the giant rock sea stack offered any protection.
Shots form the inland side of the river. (L) Placing driftwood on the canoes so they don't fly off in the wind. You can make out the spray in the top left of the shorebreak raising above the 10' tall spit. (R) The driftwood we would travel across to check out the South end of the beach for possible launch options.
So we did that, and Dave wisely shared some tips about the river to keep me safe. Such as, “don’t go too far or you will get pulled downstream.” And, “pull up pointed the other way so you can reach the shore and ama is opposite shore.” As I scrambled up the steep embankment and lifted my canoe up, the wind was really whippin up. So we found some giant driftwood to put in the seats of the canoes to keep them from flying away while we walked the next part of the journey. That next part would prove to be very challenging without the canoes, which meant that should we find a launch spot safe enough we’d have tom come back, and then portage our gear and canoes across 200 yards of driftwood and cobblestones. As we made our wave step by step through this leg, I looked to the right of us where the river was now an absolute torrent. Seals, hop by hop fought the current to find some respite from the angry ocean. But this water was equally powerful, and their progress was as slow as ours was as we hop by hop fought the logs. Eventually we cleared this section and found solid footing again. Sand and beach and rocks and for another 5 minutes hiked to the end of the beach, with a giant sea stack mountain at the base that protruded from the ocean 200 feet into the air with a few trees somehow growing out of the top of its rock façade. Much to our dismay, and despite another 5 minutes of studying every possible inch, this section of coastline would not provide safe launch for us and our craft. With the rain pelting our jackets as a soundtrack, I radio’ d Paul that we would be "Heading back to the boat ramp. Klamath River Mission aborted".
The paddle of shame and pack of shame of our gear and canoes took place in a stead drizzle. Paul was eager to hear what we saw, and while we shared it with enthusiasm, defeat painted each word. We were hoping to outsmart the ocean and sneak a little of the coastline today to avoid the bit 52 miler chunk in one piece. And both spots had failed to show anything we could launch through. So once ready, we drove out of Klamath River, and back north on the 101 freeway. But, as we had done several times now on this trip, I said, “let’s look one more time at Wilson Creek”.
As we pulled up to Wilson Creek, it was nearing the time of day that was too late to consider a long paddle. But today would only be 10-12 miles, and with the crazy wind, would go by pretty fast. So at 2:00pm when we pulled into the same parking spot as before, there was still a chance for us. Except for the fact that it was literally hitting the strongest wind window of the day, which we were trying to have finished before.
We sat in the warm dry van in our warm dry clothes, and stared at the same spots we looked at before. Maybe the higher tide we were now experiencing 3 hours later would change something. The spots however still were pretty risky. But then, I saw something. More to the south, and inside a long outcropping of barely submerged rocks was a calm pocket. And to the left, it seems like all the waves were rushing up the beach and leaving in one outgoing spot. I said to the guys, “hey, look right here”, and pointed to the spot. They panned their headed left and taking turns said, “hey, that could work.” Dave started counting out loud after a set same through, he got to 30 seconds. Then 45 seconds. Paul said he was “counting too slow and should be at 50 by now”. But regardless of the cadence, in between sets the waves were not breaking along this very specific track of water. We launch in one spot, aim left for 0 yards, a hard right after a rock, and then bee line to the horizon past the waves before the net set came through. After seeing 3 lulls between sets that were all equally spaced, Dave said, “Your call Clarke. I will go if you want to give it a shot”. I sat a little longer, knowing it would be 20 minutes of prep to get ready again and the wind would only get stronger outside of this little protected creek cove. Then said, “let’s give it a shot, and if the window closes before we are ready, we all accept it and not force a launch.”
So, with our eyes peeled the entire time, we did the quickest and most efficient unload dress and prep of the week. This being our 4th of the week, and 2nd of the day, we knew where everything was and what was needed. Like a well-oiled motor, the pistons fired and we were standing on the shoreline, Paul with his camera ready, and helping us time the set. Then…Dave got the green light and launched. He made it through the first part, then the second. Did a hard right and was on his way over sets out to sea.
Dancing between options of waiting for the next lull with an inevitable set coming soon, or trying to squeeze out through the same lull Dave just did, I was struggling. I set the nose of the canoe in, looked over my shoulder to see if Paul had a “no way” head shake, which he didn’t, and decided now was my moment. I hopped on, with my very heavy gear back on my back, and paddled my fastest 500-meter sprint in my life. Paul later said he never saw me paddle so hard. But if you know one thing, you don’t want to get caught inside of a set due to lack of effort. And I had a whole day’s worth of pent-up adrenaline fueling me. And wouldn’t you know it, I cleared before the next set same in, my canoe cresting over swells and slamming down the backside. 4–6-foot Wilson Creek had been penetrated! And open ocean awaited.
You might think, that this was the highlight of the day. And my adrenaline would be in check from here on out. And most days you would be right. But lest we forget the conditions this day we were choosing to enter. Sustained winds high 20’s low 30s’s gusts in the high 40 mph range. And so, after a quick celebration over the radio with Paul and Dave and I setting some safety ground rules for the upcoming downwinder (keep each other in view, if you get ahead back off until we are together again), we were ready to turn north into the train. However Dave yelled one more thing at me, “how hard do you want to go today?” with a wry smile. I inquired, “huh?” which he replied, “its gonna be pretty good, do you want to really get after it since we have the next two days off?” And so, after a second or two I replied, “uhhh, ok”. And with those two grunted words, our next hour and 20 minutes would be some of the fastest fun on a canoe we could ask for.
Right from the start, after building all day, the troughs and valleys a canoe likes to sit in and slide down were showing themselves. Like paddling at the Columbia River Gorge, every wave had another one behind it. So don’t sweat if you miss one. And unlike the first day where I had never been on this particular canoe, I now had the rigging perfect, and was 50 miles deep into understanding how it liked to dance. And dance it did. As mentioned before I was using Dave’s canoe which was an Ares canoe from Kai Wa’a. And it was known to be one of the best surfing canoes ever designed. It was also shaped by Kai Bartlett, who is one of 4 paddlers I had dedicated this journey to that have dealt with, or were dealing with, a type of blood cancer. Each time I do an epic adventure I try to find a cause to dedicate it to. I raise awareness for an organization that is helping, and hopefully donations are made. In the past cancer, military suicide prevention, autism, and other worthy causes have been my focus. This time, a month before this trip it dawned on me that 4 really impactful paddlers had been fighting cancers of the blood. And it struck me how all of them were experts on something that I didn’t know much about, but was determined to learn more about. So Blood Cancer United was chosen (formerly Leukemia and Lymphoma Society). One of them, Kai Bartlett, was a great canoe shaper and paddler in Hawaii. And has been kind enough to let me interview several times about his new designs. And here I was on this trip, on a canoe that he designed to excel in wind and waves. And the conditions today would be some of the best I would enjoy in years.
Heartbreaking to say the least, the GoPro failed me, and instead of videos, it was a series of stills that greeted me when I got home from my trip. The hour-plus of surf footage will have to live in my mind and a few dozen action shots.
Dave and I surfed. And surfed. And surfed. He would catch a few connections and jump up ahead, then relax for a moment or two and I would then dart right back to him and up ahead. We would match “cheehoos” in the howling wind for each other, despite it being hard to hear one other. We were like fighter pilots or the blue angels darting around from ramp to ramp. The coastline, a mile to our right, was a blur. Not because of the clouds and rain but the speed we were traveling. I looked down at my GPS every so often but honestly the wind was pointed exactly where we wanted to go. No quartering in one direction, or cheating early to save effort later. In fact after 30 minutes, we saw land in front of us that we correctly saw would be our finish line. Visibility opened up, a lighthouse 8 miles ahead as a beacon, and the wind at our backs. And so much speed. 8 mph was the floor. 9 mph if I got lazy. 10mph carrying speeds when I did things right, and regularly in the 11’s and 12’s when I dropped into a Golden State nugget of power. At one point I don’t think I was single digits for over a mile. And later when I checked my data, I literally did average over 10 miles per hour for a consecutive mile long stretch.
This is a screenshot of what Paul and others could see when we activated our InReach GPS tracker. It would set a dot every ten minutes and show our distance and speed traveled. This one was especially nice, averaging over 10.19 miles per hour speed in the interval. Paul had a good idea what we were out in when he saw these speeds.
Adrenaline around 45 minutes started to wear off a bit for me though. Dave was ahead of me a few more times than I was him. And I was starting to wonder if I had shot my rifle to many times early. But just as I was starting to think I might need a nutrition bar or GU energy pack, I caught a killed wave and then three more, and zoomed so far ahead that it was again my turn to wait for Dave. And the feeling of fatigue vanished for the remainder of the day. Riding Kai’s chariot. And instead of dedicating paddling sides to him, as I often do for folks, I was dedicating moments of not paddling at all. His spirit had me gliding across the water in ways I can only describe as surreal. Like being on a ride at an amusement park. All the fear and anxiety of the conditions has disappeared and I am a little kid on a swing. The grin on my face as big as the waves I was riding.
As the ride approached its conclusion, we could make out our coastline ahead we were aiming for. The harbor, a headland. A lighthouse. A hotel with a room window looking out at the water I was on in sight. I had studied this coastline a bunch the night before, and knew what to look for. A rock jetty breakwall and behind it, Paul would be at a tiny protected beach with the van. At least I thought it was this wall ahead of me. Dave was not so sure. “Where’s the beach” he called but all I heard was “the beach”. Did he want to come in at a different location? He had joked about coming in right by our hotel at a different beach. Did he want to go there? I was having too much fun on our planned course though. And, unaware he had lost his bearings, figured if I really wanted to finish at our planned spot, I better lead the way and not deviate. So, with Paul watching from a cliff above, I came screaming into the finish line, just past the rock wall, and hooted my way into a Tokyo drift power turn left into the hidden cove where the wind was completely hidden. And Paul could now hear my hoots of joy.
That night, Mexican food in NorCal was the call for dinner. I had hit record the whole time on my GoPro after Dave early on said you better have your camera on. I teased that we should watch it all tonight after dinner. But after dinner, we all felt the long day’s effort and were in bet well before 9pm. And sadly, the GoPro malfunctioned today, and the whole week for that matter, and we were left with only still shots of the best downwinder of the trip.
Days 3 and 4 – Big surf, tourist-time and hikes
The next two days would be planned land days. The surf was huge. As predicted. And we were wise to avoid being in the ocean. 8–10-foot waves were great to look at but up here, we had no desire to push our luck with the swell that big and trying to launch again at Wilson creek to paddle down to Trinidad for 42 miles. So we instead made the most of the time to play tourist. And of course, scout out launch areas in case we needed backup plans to Wilson Creek on Friday if the swell had not sufficiently backed down. So, we hiked to Hidden Beach. Then along the coast up to Wilson creek and assessed countless beaches and cliffs that we theorized we could hand the canoe down to each other if the beach was the only viable spot. A 3-mile canoe hike was not the goal. But with only one last leg to go for all of California, we were not going to leave any stone unturned. One we finished that area, we drove down to Prairie Creek State Park and down to the water and Fern Valley. A magical place that I rank in my top 5 of most soul touching nature spots. We hiked up into a valley back and forth over a little creek, scaling logs and rocks while the cliffs around us crew steeper and steeper. Covered in ferns and green moss. Water gently pouring out of the walls and cascading into the footprints we left behind us with each step. For this hike, we were simply tourists.
Enjoying Fern Valley.
Banana Slugs.Red Frogs. Seal Carcass. Crescent City Lighthouse. Sea Lions sinking a floating dock. Dry-docked ship. So much nature and spectacle to enjoy on land.
No longer pouring over weather reports and wind apps. We enjoyed the beauty, and played on land. In addition to the beauty though, we did encounter on freaky thing. We hiked to a waterfall and saw it pierce the sky neck-breakingly high above us. I put my hand on the wall and saw a millipede. Then another, and then another. I did one of those horror movie pan-outs where suddenly the camera shows more and more of the wall, and the entire thing is alive and moving. A thousand or more millipedes covered the surface. Wriggling and writhing. I called out to the guys and they too suddenly realized we were in a freaky spot. Each of us saying “holy crap they're everywhere!” (See video below). We retreated away from the waterfall, and decided our cup of nature was full. The drive home though was relaxed.
This video combines footage from Wilson Creek on a big surf day, hikes to Hidden Creek with an otter sighting, a snake, and a million centipedes
The next day was more land time. We walked around the harbor. Surveyed where tsunamis had wiped out the town of Crescent City several times. In the harbor patrol office they explained there was a large canyon landscape that funnels water into this area, making the harbor more susceptible than other spots. We checked out cool old wooden boats. Old industry remnants like train tracks for fisherman and loggers alike. We drove up the coast to visit Pt St George that we had paddled two days before past in the rain. This time, the sun shining on huge set waves. And we could look at it without the anxiety of having to paddle through the rocks we were seeing. We had already done this part. And so I enjoyed it much more than I would have otherwise. Instead of studying courses and the currents and waves, I just took in the majestic headland and point. Various arched rocks, and sea stacks. And looked way to the north in the clouds at Oregon. Again, feeling like I could enjoy the view instead of dread it. My only journey remaining was to the south. Far in the other direction. And I was not yet ready to think about that.
Day 5 – Wilson Creek Part Deux and South Fourtey-Ever to the Finale
We woke this day knowing an early start would be key. While we had shaven off 10 miles of the remaining coastline, we still had a 42 on tap, and we are always aware that paddling close to dark is a recipe for unneeded danger. Especially in dark coastal areas with minimal lights on land to use as guides, and plenty of hazards to avoid near the shores. So we went back to our coffee shop from a few days prior, ordered breakfast burritos which we would save half for lunch while on the water. And hit the road. Today, the final day of the California coastline if everything works as planned would begin at Wilson Creek one more time. The location we evaded set waves days before and turned north into our epic down-winder. Today, we would hope for the same good fortune, and smaller surf perhaps, and then head south for the first time of the week. The conditions all week had strong south winds which was pretty out of character. Today, more traditional prevailing winds from the north west were expected. But not too strong. And hopefully, we would get good visibility too. As our course would put us offshore about 4-5 miles to create the shortest line possible and not make us paddle longer. Paddling that far without good view of land, and not hearing the roar of crashing waves makes denies us important senses. We would have our sense of feel as the ground swells would typically run right to left. And of course, our GPS trackers would be charged and running the entire time. Without those, we would certainly be hugging land the whole time.
As we left Crescent City, our home for the week, I reflected on how cool a town it was. So far from San Diego. Dotted with maritime businesses and hotels for tourists in the summer months. As well as random places like “Monuments and Headstones for Sale” on the 101. Hopefully I don’t need one of those anytime soon. But good to know where I might find one. With coffee in the belly, we drove south and I peaked through dense redwood forests hoping to catch signs of the water and conditions. We had of course been reading the apps all night and morning for today. Conditions would be 6-10mph in the morning. Building to 14-18mph in the afternoon. Manageable and helpful. Surf was 3-4 foot in the morning, dropping throughout the day to 2-3 foot by evening. Early cloud layer burning off when the wind comes up. That said, wind is always unpredictable, and the surf could still have traces of the energy days prior that had kept us on land. Anxiety of what would await us at Wilson Creek built. The twisty road, a few road construction stops, and nerves about getting eyes on the surf launch again made the 20-minute drive feel like an eternity. But finally, the van descended into the valley we would launch, we did a hard right into the parking lot, right into a spot overlooking the beach, and cast our eyes on our fate like a starving fisherman.
We had become pseudo experts on this beach in the last week. And we immediately looked to our previous exit route path and location. While the tide was different, and the swell direction a bit varied, it still looked like the best option. And honestly, it looked easier than the previous time we launched through it. Just would need to do our diligent timing and patience. We would be spared walking through the forest for miles with our gear and canoes and lowering them down a cliff to alternate launch spots. Thank goodness. And while the visibility was not perfect, the cloud layer was high enough that we could see at least a mile down the coast. All things were pointing to a safe launch. And all we had to do from there, was paddle for 8 hours. 😊
Rigging and gear prep at this point was almost second nature. Our pit crew captain Paul had us dialed in and ready. I took some time with my canoe and knelt beside it, asking silently for safe passage one last time. I stared a minute longer than usual at the ocean. This time not traversing my path or looking for rogue waves, but instead acknowledging its power and my humble guest status I would have today. I have always considered the ocean a living entity. Its inhabitants of course, but also, it’s currents and waves and temperament. Never something to underestimate. And today, one last time on this coastline I would be traveling an unknown stretch. Relying on maps, invented landmarks and mile-markers on my watch. After today, there would no longer be an aquatic unknown in California. But today I was still blind to what I would encounter. And would be relying on my experience to help me handle anything I cross paths with.
Once ready, Dave and I lined up at the shore. We timed our lull between sets. And launched. And while I again paddled with absolute ferocity to avoid any waves smashing me, the course was much smoother and smaller than before. And pretty soon we were clear of the surf line. Quick radio check with Paul, starting the watches and GPS tracks. Point canoes South. And begin! .01 down, 41.99 to go…
Dave and I tend to have different approaches on long paddle days. I like to have scripted breaks every hour, with time to eat, apply various lubes and screens, give my legs some time in the water in a different position, and enjoy the view. Dave, is not a big long stop guy. He would rather take small irregular breaks then keep going again. While we do our best to meet in the middle, there are definitely times where one of us is a little out of their norm. That said, on this final day, I was only 5 minutes in when I asked for a quick stop to ‘adjust’. My back was tight and if I didn’t get in a little stretching now, I was going to be in for a long painful day. With a history of lower back issues, 8 hours in a canoe can sometimes be a tall ask. Fitness goes a long way for me being ok, and luckily, I am pretty fit for this trip, coming off oc6 racing season and a few solid oc1 weeks building some additional core strength. But sometimes my back is just a little wonky, and today, despite a decent job stretching, it was already needing a quick break. 40 minutes in, I requested another sort of quick stretch break. When we got to the hour, I felt bad already stopping us twice so I kept going until the 1hour, 30min mark. Here I called out to Dave that we’d take a full 5minute break. Luckily, here on this rest stop, I was able to do ‘something’ that opened up my back for the remainder of the day. Whether it was kicking my legs in the water as I straddled the canoe, or leaning back in my seat an putting my legs up in front of me while I ate, something did the trick and I was super grateful. He and I ate our breakfast burritos, looked towards the coastline, and celebrated out good progress and views.
Our line of travel had started to put us further from the coast here, but we could still make out gorgeous cliffs and tree covered mountains. We passed the Klamath River around the hour mark. In the next hour we would start to be 3-5 miles offshore, as the coastline dips inland further, with sand dunes and elk meadows adjoining the Prairie Creek Park we hiked two days prior. On this break, either Dave or I noticed something in the water kind of floating towards him. “Is that a sunfish?” Pointing to a white fin clumsily floating in his direction. These prehistoric looking bony giant fish look sometimes like the dorsal of a great white shark. But they could not be further I temperament from each other. Sunfish, which can get 5 feet long, generally swim slowly as they have tiny propeller fins. And the turn even slower. This one was on the smaller side, and aiming right for Dave’s canoe. It was 5 feet away. Then 3. “That guy is going to run right into my canoe, isn’t he?” Two feet away. “I think he’s drunk”, I joked, and sure enough, it slowly stumbled the last final few inches right into Dave’s canoe front as he tried to paddle backwards while laughing. We heard a ‘clunk’ and the slow-motion collision barely altered either being. The fish surfaced on the other side, having decided to go under a little bit to clear the canoe, and went on his way. NATURE!
After this encounter, we started paddling again. Each of us aiming our canoe for our GPS lines which for the most part matched. We were pretty far offshore now, and could no longer see land. We had visibility for the most part for a mile in front of us so that was nice. But otherwise, a pretty barren trek. When you can’t see landmarks, you create other benchmarks to accomplish. Usually miles. Mile 10 is nice, as we enter double digits and 10.5 meant we were ¼ done with the paddle. Mile 14 got me to yell out “1/3 done!” which Dave acknowledged he hit a minute or so before me from starting his watch soon. Always one step ahead! Mile 21 of course is the half-way mark and so on. Any number to create a sense of accomplishment is embraced when you can’t see land for hours at a time and know you have a long way to go still. Somewhere around 2:55mark I called for a break in 5 minutes. Dave pointed out we were headed for a cloud bank and suggested we stop now while we have sunshine and are not stopped in cold. I liked his logic. And sure enough, once we started going again, we entered into a pretty bleak stretch of visibility.
A view of some of the equipment on the canoe (GPS, backup vhf radio, GPS watch, and ready to reach nutrition. On the horizon, we are about to head into an abyss of clouds where we lost visibility for awhile.
The sun disappeared here, along with the sky. We had grey water and grey clouded sky. The horizon really only the bow of my canoe. I was not concerned in these conditions, having experienced them in the past, and also because I was within sight of Dave and his bright yellow canoe. And we had duplicate GPS devices and all sorts of safety gear. But at the same time, it made me very glad that we only had one obstacle to look out for and it was on our GPS map and a few miles still ahead of us. Reading Rock. There would (theoretically) be no surprises like last year when the sound of an explosion in the way too close path we were on. As we almost paddled right into a breaking reef several miles offshore that we named “Dynamite Rock”.
Eventually the visibility improved. And Dave and I took turns spotting over rolling swells what appeared to be a big island in the distance, which we suspected was in fact “Reading Rock”. Shortly after our 4th or 5th sighting of it however, Dave yelled out and pointed to his right, “WHALE!” And sure enough, just past him was a black 20 foot long animal that came up for air, blowhole spouting, and then went down again, heading north. We held position for a few minutes hearing the blowhole of another further away, and this one following its path behind us making noise every minute or so. The animal, from its back, looked like a bottlenose dolphin in shape, but instead of grey, was super dark-practically black. And way, way longer. As long as Dave’s canoe. I later did some research and spoke with my friend Jen at NOAA who has spent countless hours studying and observing whales of all species. She concluded that it was probably a False Killer Whale. Wow how cool is that?!?
After the whale encounters, we resumed our trek to Reading Rock. The giant sea stack was getting more and more visible. And while we were definitely glad to see some sort of land again, it is always frustrating how slow it arrives when you are paddling to it. Eventually though, this midpoint landmark was close enough to see waves breaking against it. And to get a grasp on how big it really is. And then, like a chorus of dogs, we started to hear the barking of sea lions. Lots of barking. And lots of Sea Lions. Pretty soon we saw that the entire hillside was wriggling with brown furry mammals. Jockeying for position on top of this mountain which was crowned by a lighthouse shaped beacon. Probably 10 feet tall, at the height of this 100-foot rock. Hundreds of sea lions were barking. Hopping. Fighting. Sliding. And falling into the ocean below. What a collection. And those that were not lucky enough to have gotten on the landmass, were surfing waves surrounding it, and jumping up on the ledges. A hundred or so more were browning the blue water with their fur. And not to mention their feces. Boy did this is land stink. And it would take 10 minutes of paddling downwind of it before the smell would subside. Dave took some videos, and we embraced the wind that brought the smell as a sign of a helpful weather push. The clouds now were all inland. The ocean was lit up by the sun. And we had the wind at our backs. Pretty soon after the island, we hit mile 28. And of course, that means we were celebrating being 2/3 done.
The final headlands.
At this point in the paddle, the line of the coast was starting to come back out west again, and with the clear skies we were thrilled to see land again. First to the left of us, and then in front of us we started to see sea stacks and cliffs in the fuzzy blurry distance. This part of the coast, starting with Sue-Meg State Park, juts out west, and instead of beach, sand and river-mouths, is lined with tall ragged cliffs and course rocks in the water. Headlands have become sort of a test each journey for us, to see how we handle reverb and mixed currents. Unlike the headlands a few days prior, we were now gong to encounter them at the end of the day, when the wind is higher, and our fatigue at its greatest. Ut too close and the water is hectic like a washing machine. Cut too far out and you then have to dive back end at the end with the winds and waves on our ama side which makes the canoe super tippy. Plus, currents and energy just seem to get funky in these areas, with lots of eddies of circulating water. This headland would also be the biggest of the coast, 8 miles long before we get to Trinidad Head at the south end, where we will do a hard left U-turn and into the protected waters we finished at on our first paddle day. This time however from the north. Around mile 33 we did a radio call to Paul, as we got to the first of several giant sea stacks and the land to our left was surely within a visual distance to see us. This was also our emergency landing zone if needed. Agate Beach. A pretty exposed spot, and several steep staircases below the parking lot. But our last option if our bodies or the conditions needed us to come in.
“Cali Paddler to Lucky Duck”
“MISTER Lucky Duck here” with heavy sarcastic emphasis on the mister.
“We are now at the headlands, wanted to check in.”
“Well, I checked out agate beach and now am at a place called Wedding Rock. I really hope you don’t have to come in. Surf at Agate Beach is pretty big. Make-able but might end up with an extra canoe at the end of the day.”
“Glad to know its available to us but, we should be good to continue just fine to final destination of Trinidad.” I looked over as I spoke to make sure Dave agreed, and he nodded enthusiastically. His two boats after all.
After a few minutes, Paul was able to find us through the binoculars as we continued on our way south. About an hour and 15 minutes left. The headlands were beautiful. And the conditions blissful. Of all the challenging times where the afternoon turned to a nightmare, and the headlands a scary haunted stretch, this one would offer nothing but joy. Dave was following his route which had us offshore a bit. I was getting fueled with confidence and drifting closer to his left further inside. Wanted to see as close as possible all there was to see. Not letting anything go unnoticed. Since I was in college, I have had an analogy a dear friend Laura and I created together. So often in life we look take a car ride, and look ahead to our destination and goals. Or look back in the mirror to what we have seen. But far too often, we miss the chance to look out the side window. Where are we at that very moment? What are we seeing in real-time that gets shuffled into our peripheral as we power on to the next goal? I was thinking of Laura here. She passed away a few weeks back and my sadness of her passing was felt here as much as when I first heard the news from her husband Doug. I was determined to soak in everything I could these last miles. My head on a swivel as I caught pictures of a small redwood tree growing out of tall rock mountain. A curious seal in the water beside me sticking his head up curiously. Shallower now I could see seaweed and giant bull kelp below as I drifted over water full of life and beauty. Waves crashing against the cliffs, then hurtling back towards me creating little pulses of energy to harness.
My speed increased here a bit. Perhaps the building wind. Or the energy I was being fed. I started to enter a world of connection with my influences in life. People who made me who I am. People no longer with me in life but present in my soul. My Uncle Pierce who took me on my first kayak adventures and inspired this life of exploration. My dad who would always get nervous around the ocean but insisted his ashes be scattered in it and always comes to mind when I see grey whales due to special encounters on previous paddles. Grandparents. Uncles. Aunts. Friends. Co-workers. This is something I first did when I paddle my first multi-day adventure with support from Greg, Roger and Cody from Santa Barbara to Malibu. And have done many other times when I am alone on the ocean. Here I was again going down a list of influential people who have died, paddling sides and having conversations with each. But my list was so much longer than it was in 2013. Was it because I was older? Or blessed to have met more people? Eventually, I began to drift into a list of important people who are still with me. Embracing each with my thoughts, as they are in my side-widow of life. And not the rear-view mirror. My wife and family. Friends. Paddlers. Co-workers. I thought of the 4 paddlers who I had dedicated this trip to and was paddling for Blood Cancer United for. Kai Bartlett. Mike Eisert. Oscar Chalupsky. Jim Baumann. My technique was solid. My speed was flying, often finding myself doing 6.75-7.5 miles per hour speeds as I felt fresh and energized. Mile 36 became mile 40 much too fast. And instead of wishing the journey would hurry up and finish, I was becoming increasingly sad it was coming to an end. My body had no weight or fatigue. My canoe had zero resistance. It was going too fast. I was going too fast. I need this to not end just yet. Please don’t let this end just yet. Certainly there has to be another rock to get too? Another wave to ride? Why can’t I stay on this journey forever? My fever broke however as Trinidad Head came up in my sights. Dave came zipping over towards me. The final turn and I would be done. Why was I fighting my progress now?
Dave sensed the space I was in and didn’t speak much. He confirmed our GPS track matched, and that we would be turning “before that giant rock there by the red hazard buoy. He then went slightly ahead by catching a little roller of a wave. I matched his increase in speed with a decrease. And I let the pressure on my blade dissipate. I had been paddling around an hour straight at really fast time-trial speeds. Now, it was time to take my foot off the gas, let the wind and current push me in, and savor every last drop.
(L) Heading East around Trinidad Head. (C) North line now around a final rock. (R) Landed, with Paul there to greet!
The turn around the head, a giant mount of land was a really tight line for me. I wanted to see up close all the sea stars clinging to the rocks. Hundreds of them. I wanted to feel the waves push me up and then suck me out as they danced with the land. No beach here. Just cliff. The wind subsided as I was in the lee. My course was pointed east now. Heading towards more land. Glints of glass from houses above catching my eye as the afternoon sun was setting into early evening. I turned slightly north east. Now in the shadows of the rock, no longer feeling the rays of the big star up above. I took some deep breaths. Readying myself for the view of the beach. Of the white van. Of Paul wearing his bright neon hat and jacket. And of the finish. At this point, Dave had let me kind of take the lead, despite my slow rolling of stroke rate and power. I am sure after 7.5 hours he was ready to get to land, but he was kind enough to let me lead the last leg home. 400 yards or so. Heading north now. The view as we expected. When all of a sudden my chest started blaring.
My VHF radio was in my PFD front pocket. Worn on me for ease of access and so if I fall in this vital equipment is with me and not the boat. The blaring was not a voice however. But music. Loud music was playing on channel 69, our recreation channel we had used all these years. Yep, that was music all right. And I could make out ahead that Paul was holding his two hands together over his head. One hand holding the radio, the other with what was his phone. He had dialed up the Olympic theme song and was playing it into the radio for us to hear. Paddling to this for the final minute or so I was both blown away and embarrassed by the thoughtfulness. I am no Olympian, far from it. Not super fast and not super trained. But on this day, I was being greeted as someone who was accomplishing something kinda cool. And it was about the neatest gesture he could have thought to make.
I beached the canoe, calling out to Paul how cool that is, as he was now filming my final landfall. And when I went to pick up the canoe, hoping to look stoic and cool as I hoisted it over my head to walk the last stretch of beach, the bag I carry was still onboard, and strapped into the cargo netting. It fell off the now tilted canoe, and suddenly I was awkwardly balancing all these moving parts with wobbly sea legs, and had to put the canoe back down on the water to reassess. Olympic glamor was gone. And I was back to a dork who looked like he was taking his first steps. The comedy and levity was perfect. I eventually embraced Paul with a heartful, “Thank you. Love you man!”, enthusiastically greeted Dave who landed shortly after me, and the journey was over.
We took our time unrigging. Paul had stopped and picked up some Korbel Champagne, and in plastic party cups, my calorie denied body got instantly tipsy. Dave joked, “When would the Oregon trip take place?” I made a call to my wife to let her know I was safe and done. Did a little Facebook live video announcing the completion. The evening was a blur. Two cups of champagne in me now, and I proudly announced “I’m not driving us anywhere.” Roof straps cinched and double checked. Dry clothes swapped out for wet paddle gear. The van door sliding shut.
The rest of the trip was a blur. Dinner and milkshakes that night with awesome celebratory banter. Hotel check-ins. Dave leaving early in the morning to hit the road. Paul and I playing walking tourists. Eating a few last meals out, including breakfast in an old building that we later found out was an old brothel. Uber. Airplanes. Layovers. Landings. All the travel so mundane after so much adventure. For a week we were relying on holding our damp thumb to the sky to gauge the wind, and various iPhone apps of course. And now we were checking to see if flight departure boards had any updates on our timeline. Gone were swell and tide charts. Now we were looking for bags on the carousel. But despite the normalcy of it all, home is a wonderful place to come back to. Especially with the gratitude and experience of an epic adventure. 12 years in the making. 840 miles in the distance. Over 19 different legs. And hundreds of people who made it happen with support, companionship and inspiration. Humboldt California to Brookings, Oregon complete. And the last chapter written. Aquatically, and literally.
(This Epic Adventure for a Cause is dedicated to Jim Baumann, Kai Bartlett, Mike Eisert and Oscar Chalupsky. Please consider supporting Blood Cancer United and the great work they do and support those battling cancers of blood including Multiple Myeloma, Leukemia and Lymphoma.)
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Thank you to Paul Jacob and Dave Jenson for all your support and companionship on this adventure. As well as www.CoastalPaddleProducts.com and www.WestCoastPaddleSports.com for the gear support and OB Businesss Center (https://www.obbcsd.com) for years of map printing.
Team Writer Clarke Graves - If there is water, he will paddle it (regardless of craft). Clarke is a surfer turned paddler who grew up in San Diego but has traveled every corner of California enjoying its beauty and appeal. He has had the privilege of racing SUP, OC6, OC2, OC1, Prone, Dragon-boat and Surf-Ski.
One of Clarke's goals is to paddle as much shoreline in California as he can, with as many paddling friends who are willing to join him. And as of the date of this article he can now say he has done just that! If you have an idea for Clarke to write about or any questions, send it our way and we will pass it along!
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