Prologue
This adventure started long before I was a paddler. Early in my driving days I learned about the PCH Highway 1. A road that connected the famous surf-spots like Rincon and Malibu. All the way from San Diego along to the coast to Oregon. Its often inland brother the 101 would sometimes merge in and show a different roadway sign. But the two traversed our amazing state’s coastline almost in its entirety. Despite crazy mountains, rivers and valleys. Except for one stretch to the north. Well beyond San Francisco Bay. A stretch that was so wild, the engineers deemed it too rugged to try and continue. And opted inland for the route. This coastline stayed wild. Undeveloped. And now home to two wilderness regions, the King Range and the Sinkyone. Hiked by adventurists, the trail system wrapped along marijuana farms guarded by peacocks and rifles. Snakes and bears can be found on the beaches. And rarely is there a flat moment as mountains go from the sea to 4000 feet and back to the sea faster than a cloud bank can keep up with. It is a place to disappear. And if you are lucky, find yourself again. It is called the Lost Coast.
So while “driving” the coastline was my earliest goal, “exploring” it all was really at the crux of my desire. And since the road turned inland, driving this stretch was not an option. And being that I am a paddler, you can imagine the desire to see the coastline from “out there”. Over the last several years I have undertaken the life goal of paddling all of California. But I knew this stretch would pose some of the most challenging for me. Lack of access points for road support. Lack of safe beach-able landing zones. Distance from home. While California had already presented some heavy lifts for me, this one was daunting. And no amount of map planning and strategizing would prepare me for everything I would encounter. But I was not alone, and that is the only way it was able to happen.
11 months prior I was posting a previous recap to friends about paddling another stretch, Half Moon Bay to Monterey, and an accomplished paddler reached out about if I had done the Lost Coast yet. His inquiry led to shared interest, and I told him that if he was interested, I would be best served to have some company. And so then began, slow at first and accelerated by the end, the longest planning for a trip to date. What would start as 5 days and 150 miles would eventually end up 6 days and 160 miles. From Humboldt Bay south to Point Arena.
Dave Jensen is an accomplished surf-ski paddler, outrigger paddler, long distance everything paddler, cyclist, cross country skier and anything else that requires a different kind of brain which doesn’t listen to its body when it gets tired. His name triggers recognition throughout the state. And to perhaps share this with him would mean I was paddling with a stud. But as much as his on the water prowess was appreciated, it was his understanding of the logistics, planning and safety aspect that was most important. We had in-person meetings when he was in town for races (he lives 8 hours away by Lake Tahoe). We had Zoom calls. Shared maps and routes and texts. Google docs and coordinates became our language. And together started to craft this epic adventure.
Paul Clarke and Dave Usal Campground at Sunset
However, it would not be until June of this year that the final piece of the puzzle came into focus. I remember distinctly a conversation after Iron Champs race with a teammate who has helped me tremendously with learning surf-ski and steered me across many finish lines. The topic didn’t come up at that time. But in my mind the seed was planted. I needed someone who understands the water, the challenge paddlers face. Someone who is responsible, dependable, rational, and would understand that the role I would ask of him was the most selfless and important of the whole journey. The land crew. Two weeks after the race, I made a call to Paul Jacob, and presented him my trip and needs. After some discussions about what would be involved, he agreed. And our team was complete. So ensued more emails and text strings with the three of us. And planning got real. Dates were set. Itineraries formed. Float plans crafted. Maps laminated. And bags packed.
Day 0 - Arrival and Previews
The plan had me flying up and meeting Paul and Dave in Humboldt. They would scout out some possible landing spots we had seen on maps and in person previously. One of my Emergency Landing Zones (ELZ) might allow for a safe landing/takeoff spot: Centerville County Beach. Giving us the chance to split 30 miles day 1 into two smaller legs. But upon scouting and leaning on local expert Eric Stockwell, (who runs a Loleta Eric’s Guide Service that I reached out to on the internet and without having previously met became a huge help), the shore-break at this spot would likely prove too heavy to reliably land our two oc1 canoes. Which are great in open ocean but can crumble in even 2 foot breaking waves. In-person inspection proved this to be true. Maybe one of us could sneak in safely. Maybe both of us if we get lucky and time things well. But then we would also have to launch there the following day. And count on more good fortune or risk the trip ending before it really got started. So seeing it in person, before I arrived, and again after my arrival, we collectively made the call: stick to original plan and paddle all 30 on day 1 at safer entry points. And save this location as an emergency landing only spot. So after that, we drove to the next days finish line, Mattole Road and scoped out what we thought would be several safe options to come in at. Dropping waypoints on our GPSs and capturing mental images. Our next day we would come in to a spot we had seen in person and vetted. After this hour-long windy long drive, we headed back to town of Fortuna where we stayed in a hotel. Had dinner and beer at brewery, and prepared our gear and minds for the alarms we set to wake us up the next morning.
Day 01 – King Salmon Humboldt Bay to Mattole Road – 30 miles
5:30 am, alarms went off and we left the hotel with a solid plan. Starbucks for coffee and then to the launch spot of King Salmon. For this trip I had printed up jackets for each of us to wear with logos for the journey. But these were not just any jackets. They were neon yellow and black. And could be seen from a mile away. Which was the key because visibility of seeing our land crew member to greet us as safe landing spots was critical. Two yards in either direction could mean jagged rocks and mussel shells and reefs dancing with waves along our canoes. So with these jackets, we attracted a lot of attention on land. And starbucks was the first of many places where people inquired about our journey. And usually with incredulity said “yer crazy” as the details of our plan soaked into their local brains. A young lady working there shared that she paddles inside Humboldt bay but never the ocean as she gets seasick. She shared a couple landing spots to maybe add to our list she knew from fishing friends if we ran into trouble. She then handed us our coffees and we hopped back into Dave’s van to King Salmon.
Arrival here was the first time we really touched land of a place I had studied ad nauseam online with Google Maps/Earth, Surfline and topo software. So much time trying to get familiar with these places. But the internet and books are just a guide. Tide changes and storms could make a seemingly benign beach into a tempest of a spot. And this would happen many times during this trip. But for our initial launch location, this calm little beach 2 miles deep in the bay was perfect. The sun and a very full moon were in the sky handing the baton as morning broke. Seaweed high on the beach showing how much the tide had receded in the last several hours.
We rigged our canoes, and for the first of 6 days, I began a routine of gear and apparel prep. A constant checklist and dance to make sure everything was accounted for. By the end this would be routine, but on day 1, extra time was taken to ensure the next 7 hours on the water were fun and not spent wishing I remembered something needed. Paul carried my canoe with me down to the beach where Dave was setup. And with the sun creeping fully above the inland mountains, we pushed off. Paul in his bright jacket. Us in our bright jerseys and PFDs. Heading in different directions until we got to our various radio check spots and to the day’s finish line, 30 miles down the coast.
The first two miles were all flat, as we were in the huge confines of Humboldt Bay. An opposing tide had our speeds super slow (a harbinger of the week to come) and before we even entered the ocean, Dave took off his hat to accidentally flip off his sunglasses which quickly sunk. We made the trek to the ocean, giant rocks along the entrance with sea stars caught our attention. Eel grass getting stuck on our rudders and requiring several clearings. We turned left at the harbor entrance and were immediately greeted by huge ocean swells. The report had called for 6-8 foot waves that day. The ocean was alive but moving slowly. Rollers guided us south into our journey. More eel grass stops for Dave who was using a surf rudder and captures everything that floats. My rig was setup with a kelp rudder. It evaded most of the hanger-ons as designed. Not good for conditions but good for the seaweed.
The morning proved good. After about 10 miles the sun had come out fully at our level, but with high level clouds blocking the mountain tops in the distance. We came up on the beach we opted out of using the day before and got radio contact with Paul. Channel 69, “Baby Goat to Cali Paddler, do you copy?” One of many entertaining call names Paul came up with for the course of the trip. He didn’t get a visual on us but radio contact was key. The rest of the day 1 paddling was pretty easy and tame. That said, we knew the last 5 miles would be around a point, which always gets funky with conditions. Water hits and reverbs back. Currents meet and duke it out. Waves collide and temperatures drastically change and create fog visibility challenges. This point we were heading towards however was one of the most exposed we would encounter. Cape Mendocino. The westernmost part of California. “It really sticks out there” was what the gal in Starbucks had said. We approached it knowing full well it could get spicy. Our speeds throughout the day however had been decent and quick. So instead of hitting it mid afternoon when winds get really hectic, we were ahead of the storm so to speak. And looking behind us, we could see texture and clouds heading our way. We pushed on the gas pedals a bit, and made the last rounding for the day, around Sugarloaf Rock, a huge water surrounded mountain directly off the point. It was relatively tame still, and around the corner we saw the Mattole Road descend high from the mountain down to the cliffs below. We saw 3 miles ahead a white van parked along the beach. Our finish line awaited.
The building wind was stronger, but pointed perfectly to where we were going. We surfed the wind south 2 miles to another rock called Steamboat rock adjacent to where Paul had parked and intended for us to land. Slightly further north of our plan before, but deemed best by our land expert. He radioed us as we hid from the wind in the lee of Steamboat rock. Covered in bird poop, it was pretty stinky, but the protection allowed us to hear Paul on VHF walk us through the critical landing steps.
“Aim for this rock, turn a bit south, then head for me but not too far as there is a big rock to the north to avoid” Waves were breaking on either side of where we were, but nothing huge and not as often as other stretches of the beach. I went first, timed it well and despite the current pushing me a bit off-course downwind, landed safely. Dave followed 3 minutes later when another window presented itself. We were on land. Warm-clothes, cold beer, a protein drink and fig newtons awaited us. “An easy 30 miles” in the bank!
After loading up, we drove back to the hotel. Taking note before we left of the next day’s launch spot to ensure we lined it up correctly. With rocks and surf. We stopped in the old town of Ferndale where the movie The Majestic was filmed. I craved something warm and sugary to drink so we stopped for a coffee. Sometimes the universe lines things up for us and we stumbled on a kayak and canoe making workshop that had a coffee shop built into the front. A Fireplace inside. Comfy chairs. A ukulele on the wall I strummed while my mocha was prepared. Various books adorned the shelves (Walden Pond, Famous Nudes of the 20 Century, Treasure Island to name a few that caught my attention) and wooden kayaks and canoes in the mid build phase in a dark workshop. We found the special place that only surfaces when you are open to it.
The rest of the day was chill. Hotel. Shower. Giant calzones and pizzas. And strategizing over wind and surf reports while we had good internet of what to expect the next day. Reports looked extremely favorable. Setting the alarms. This time, 5:00 am with a longer drive to the start we had just come in at.
Day 2 – Mattole Road to Shelter cove - 37 miles
Another morning at Starbucks began the day as I relearned my caffeine addiction. The girl who saw us before was surprised we had returned, thinking we did it all in one day. We assured her that it was a multi-day endeavor but would be heading south next and this would be our last time in the area. While the coffee was good I craved the places the locals go to. Not the chains. I wanted the breakfast diner that John Steinbeck would revere. The locals known by first name. Coffee poured with precision and regularity into chipped cups, and swivel seats at a bar. Old newspapers pinned on the walls and menus curled at the corners from over-use. I wanted to experience the local flair and dialog of this new place. Just like I wanted the water to show me its uniqueness with cliffs and rocks and waves. I didn’t come this far for same ole same ole. Mother nature heard my call and this day would provide it.
Mattole Road at low-tide with Steamboat Rock in the distance.
We pulled in the dark at Mattole Road at 6:30am. The drive had been extremely foggy as we went over and under cloud banks. Nervousness about visibility prevailed. We eventually found the same random pullout as before under the cloud layer and able to see the ocean. Expecting the same scene that we left the day before. Boy were we in for a shock. In the moonlit sky with dawn just creeping out, the previous ocean boasting only a handful of large rocks and crashing onto sand was replaced by a moonscape of boulders, rocks and razer sharp obstacles. The place we came to know in the afternoon was now a jigsaw puzzle emptied from the box onto a table of rocks. The high tide we had before was replaced with a full-moon negative tide and a 7 foot difference in sea level. Our easy access replaced with waves weaving between canoe breaking swords. I am pretty sure we each used the words “holy” and “shit” in our own sentences as we got out of the van to examine our presumed ‘access’ to open water.
We eventually found a spot along the 2 mile road that we were comfortable launching from. And laughed at all the rocks Paul had us coming in over hours before that would make it today the worst possible choice. Rigged and ready, we each found the unbreaking channel we strategized to be perfect for our canoe to make it out of the boneyard alive. We got out of the surf line, and immediately started screaming down the coastline with winds lined up perfectly for us. In fact we even got to the first radio check-in spot (Mattole River Campground before Paul did). We were 8 miles in on a long day and flying. Just imagine how fast we would be as the projected winds would pickup even more into the 20-30mph range reports had for us. Our confidence was high as our speeds were in the 7-8mph range and quickly heading to a point up ahead and into the King Range Lost Coast. The section we would lose contact with Paul until our eventual finish line at Shelter Cove as his road would travel inland then wind back to the coast from east to west.
Having survived Cape Mendocino, I had gotten a little too confident. Every point would prove to be challenging on this adventure. And while the Cape was behind us, the hardest was yet to come. Punta Gorda (Fat Point) was coming into view ahead of us but barely as the visibility was getting pretty bad. We still had good speeds but the direction was getting more crossed up. The waves started getting higher, and the wind more swirly. As we spent miles 8-10 rounding this truly fat point, we encounter what Dave described as the “gnarliest conditions I have ever paddled in”. “Most challenging” and “biggest” were voiced a few times too as he compared this section later to anything he had encountered on Maliko Runs in Hawaii and other channel crossings. While day one had been big and rolly, these were steep and fast and confused. I had kept the kelp rudder on and was often on the verge of losing control of the canoe on waves, wishing I swapped it out. We needed to surf left to not get too far off course around the point and conditions were even bigger, but too close and we’d flirt with rocks and submerged reefs. We also needed to keep close to each other in the heavy fog. But not so close as we’d hit each other. Taking breaks now was out of the questions. Checking our GPS was dangerous, and radio calls would not be heard with the wind. We needed to stay close in eye-sight of eachother and with each wave did visual checks on the other canoe. The wind was ripping. The swell was big, and it was mixed-up. I was wondering if I could handle these conditions for the next 6 hours. And yearning for mellow boring rollers again with nice visibility. We couldn’t see land, but we could hear the waves in our left direction crashing on unseen hazards. I didn’t have a heart rate monitor here, but if I did, I was certainly in zone 5.
But after 20 plus minutes of this, things started to calm a little bit. While we couldn’t see yet, the sea state calmed enough for us to each look at our GPS and verify that we almost cleared the end of the point and the coastline would start heading inland again. We changed our course towards land ever so slightly, and began to find ourselves in the lee of the point. And then suddenly…everything got calm.
We wrapped our way towards land for a quarter mile and headed south again and it was calm enough to take a break and gather our wits. Just as we did, land started to materialize in the distance to our left. Our first view of the actual Lost Coast. King Range. Giant Mountains in the clouds with the sun above them burning through. A beach and cliffs along the shoreline with waves breaking along it. Could make out trees and bushes and colors. It was beautiful. It was rugged. It was so much better than the point we had survived!
We made our way now south. Buoyed by sunshine, but as we did we were perplexed by our speeds. The wind was supposed to be calm and for the most part it was, but even then we expected in flat water to be 5.5mph speeds. We were mid 4s! Why in the world would the current be coming from the south? Was there a giant eddy taking place? Confused water? Were we slower and tired? It didn’t make sense, but we continued on. Taking breaks every hour for sunscreen, lip-balm, Chamois But’r, food, leg and back stretching. And to pee out the coffee from the morning. Despite the slow speeds, and we kept hoping they would improve but they didn’t, we trekked on. When we would take breaks to stop we would drift backwards. Our Strava maps later showed we drifted a half mile backwards total from stopping. But at least we could see. And the coastline was amazing to stare at. HUGE mountains. Undeveloped land. I was seeing California as it originally was. From a perspective few have ever seen. My neck gracefully let me stare sideways for the next 4 hours. Taking it all in.
As would become a theme, the afternoon got tougher. While the current was slow all day, it was still calm until we got about mile 32. We had roughly six miles to go and had to get around the headlands where the water started to get unruly and a headwind built. Visibility began to suffer. And like all the other exposed land points of the trip, water got challenging. We heard crashing waves to our left again but didn’t see why. We had memorized our GPS maps but still needed to check them as the water required mental toughness similar to earlier in the morning around Punta Gorda. This time though instead of a tailwind, it was coming right at us slowing us down and popping my ama. For the next 1.5 hours, we battled forward. Crawling at a crawl of 4mph. An InReach satellite message came in from Paul to our devices, "beware the rocks at the point and go wide."
Glad we had contact. Leary of his warning. Finally, after paddling through several crazy foam sections of the water, where bubbles just kind of sat there wondering where to drift, and after serious exhaustion and tenacity, we spotted the jetty to our left. Then a mooring buoy, and the last of the rocks before we could safely turn for the last leg in. We got to the beach exhausted. 8hours 37 minutes. Waning sunlight and a fog cocktail were hovering over a protected little cove. The name Shelter Cove lived up to its name in this town that bisects the Lost Coast. Dave landed first, gave Paul a hug and said, “I love you man” in grateful exhaustion showing how relieved he was to be on land again after a harrowing day. Paul replied curtly like a worried parent, “yer late!”.
After touching land, I took a long hour to get my sea legs back. Let my back loosen up. And remember how to be vertical. My hands were shaking uncontrollably for 5 minutes until I got changed. This was a very tough day. Fortunately Paul had a campsite all setup for us. Helped us break down equipment, and found the all important bar/restaurant in town Mario’s where there were three food items on a chalk menu. Dave and I ordered two of them them. Each.
That night the fog was thick. The sound of waves, barking sea lions and a fog horn was our soundtrack. The next morning we had a new plan concocted over dinner to deviate from our original agenda. The plan had buy-in from several local fisherman who offered us insight to the landscape. Some deep into their drinks at the bar. Others more lucid. All helpful in different ways. These were the locals I was craving before. These were the characters that bring stories with their wisdom. Weathered, grissly and salty. Our new route would be shorter, and spare us the 6-8 foot surf reported at our exposed landing spot. Opting for a very remote campsite in the lost coast with dirt road access and boasting only 2-3’ surf.
Day 3 - Shelter Cove to Usal Campground – 18 miles
This finish line was not the original plan. But after the long day before, and seeing that we had landed the day before in a small craft advisory that would continue during our day 3 journey, the case was made to alter our plans. Most notably though was the initial finish line was Westport Union Landing Beach, an extremely exposed beach break with big surf on tap. 6-8 foot waves was simply not doable for us. And to launch the next day in that. A death wish. So while we had it spec’d hoping for smaller waves, the call was made on the data we had. So this day's journey became much more relaxed and shorter than originally planned.
Conditions were checked often when we had connections.
While the launch was foggy, and we couldn’t see beyond the harbor in the direction we were heading, it was pretty smooth. The small craft advisory was supposedly further out off the coast than we needed to paddle, so we kept close to the shore as the coastline allowed. Hoping to avoid the 30+mph winds offshore a few miles and chasing us as we progressed. Instead we had calm waters and that cursed slow opposing current again. The coastline of this paddle was the Sinkyone Wilderness and it did not disappoint. Absolutely gorgeous forests right up to the cliffs above us. Evidence of avalanches and pine trees holding on with stubborn roots dotted the view. We saw sea caves and blow holes with water shooting up into the air. The lost coast had gone from intimidating and spooky to inviting and pretty. We knew not to jinx it by loudly acknowledging the good conditions. But Dave and I both valued the lack of stress on this day. And after 30 and 37 miles the days before, 18 miles was just a hop, skip and jump for us today.
The last 3 miles after we turned the final corner we could see our finish line. Way up on the hill a contrasting horizontal line cut across. This was the road that Paul would drive into the site. Easily more harrowing than our day’s paddle was. And the end of the day beer would be in honor of HIS sketchy travels more than ours. After he guided us in through the surf, where our arrival had scattered a pack of skinny dipping college kids, we made our way to the van. Posted up in a random spot of sand. Mixed in with some other wild campers giving each other ample space. We later walked around and found redwood trees. Picked delicious berries. Saved a baby snake on the dirt road from imminent bird or car. Found the start of the Lost Coast trail. We made friends with neighboring campers who inquired about our journey and jackets. One of them an old Kayaker named Neal used to paddle northern California where I still have to explore. He shared tips with me on entry spots. And inquired about our adventures. Another camper, Ren, even took some drone footage of us at our site while his sweet dog Oso sniffed our canoes all afternoon, perhaps looking for some of the jellyfish we paddled through and beef jerky I kept in my dry bag.
Dinner was cans of soup. A beautiful sunset and walk on the beach. Romantic stuff for our rejuvenated trio. The next day was unknown as we only had marine radio national weather service reports and no internet for our usual wind and surf apps. So we embraced our ignorance for the future and settled in for 8pm bedtime. The sound of surf and a clear sky overhead for Usal campground. In the middle of the night, sounds of fireworks lighting up the sky and gunfire woke us briefly as the locals use this spot to get a little crazy. Alarms were set for the next day with only a 2 minute walk for our commute, and the canoes were still rigged.
Day 4 – Usal Campground to Noyo (and then Big River/Portuguese Beach?)
So by taking an easy day before, we knew we would have to pay the piper eventually. And it was 69 miles to the finish and had two planned days to do it. The initial plan was to have me and Dave paddle 30 miles to Noyo River and Harbor, and then transfer Paul into the canoe to accompany me the final 9 miles.
Today however would prove to be the kind of day that has us change our plans.
While day two was 38 miles, this one initially would be 39 (but hopefully better conditions and no opposing current). And while the first hour was glorious with speeds in the high 5’s and low 6s (MPH), the second hour got slower. High 4s to mid 5s. But it was here that we had radio contact with Paul and went by the spot we avoided coming in Westport Union. He called us on the radio, “Homebase to Cali Paddler” “Cali Paddler here” “Surf at Westport is completely un-makeable. Overhead bombs 300’ from shore. We made the right call to avoid this spot”.
Hearing this made the extra miles today seem much easier to digest. Sure it would be a grind but not as bad as huge death waves breaking canoes in half and floating to shore in pieces. We started to see shoreline as the fog cleared. Seeing the land always is a mood booster. Shortly thereafter we heard a rumble of a boat. We got close together until we saw it, and avoided its course. Then we paddled in the direction of the boat, happy to see life on the ocean but the fishermen could barely lift a hand to wave to us crazy paddlers as they were diagnosing something in the engine compartment. Guess we had the more reliable power on this day. Dave and I were chatting for hour three. Sharing with me his paddle creed which I asked him. “Keep er movin” is his go-to mantra when the goin gets tough. Don’t worry about the finish, just keep moving in the right direction and the finish will get there. This story would be useful today. Hour 3 got slower. Low to mid 4s now. He shared a story, as a headwind started to add to our misery, about once paddling down the Russian River. He and a friend were paddling at 8mph once down river. About 8 miles to do so they figured, “cool an hour to go”. Later on he checks his speed, and he’s doing 7mph with about 7 miles to go. “ok, still moving, about an hour to go”. After a mile goes by, he checks again, with the tide and wind switching his speed was 6mph. “wow, another hour to go”. This continues on in hilarity and we laugh at the story. Sadly however, our own situation is mirroring this tale.
We are at mile 20 now, and our speeds are crawling high 3s low 4s. There is a headwind like we haven’t seen before now. Dave estimated it to be 15mph as whitecaps were slamming under my ama regularly. My face getting blasted by the wind, our voices having to yell to hear one another. And while we could at least see with good visibility, the clear skies showed us enormous waves breaking along every stretch of shoreline to our left. Everything as far as the eye could see was exploding in size. Cliffs were catcher mitts and white lighting waves crashing into each one like baseballs as we slowly traversed this rugged coastline.
We were moving so slowly in the headwind that we had more time to think about worst case scenarios. Few places were safe to enter, if any before Noyo harbor. And the idea of having to suffer for an extra 9 miles after getting there at mile 30 was creeping into my head as a horrible agenda. We got to mile 25 still crawling. The wind pumping. Waves slamming. Our GPS showed Noyo somewhere up ahead, but all we saw was points ahead sticking out with spooky surf. Mile 26 we I got a message on my sat device from Paul. “I am opting out for paddling today due to conditions. If you want to keep going, bypass Noyo to Portuguese Beach.” Seeing this pretty much sealed what I was working through in my head. There was no way I was going to make an extra 9 miles today. Noyo would have me join Dave as the finish line today. Assuming I could even get there. “Keep 'er movin” rang out of my throat towards Dave. He repeated it back, “Keep 'er movin”.
It was right around this time I started to question my choice of hobby. Thinking that I wasn’t having fun. And if I should safely finish this day maybe we just wrap it up as a win and bail on the rest of the trip. Demons were in my head.
Around mile 29, we had 1 mile or so to go. At our current speed of 3mph this would be a long 20 minutes. My back was on fire from leaning left too much. The reverb off the cliffs we had started to cautiously angle towards was sending 3 foot rollers from our left, and head-high groundswell rollers from the right. With the head wind still slamming us in the face. Despite my GPS saying the Noyo Waypoint was to our left, we didn’t see anything but explosions. We passed a valley the previous mile and thought it might be our exit ramp. But it was head high waves breaking on a shoreline. We were starting to wonder if our harbor would be closed out and unsafe. Dave said that if we got to it and didn’t see a safe way in, that we “radio channel 16 and ask for coast guard guidance and escort in”. This sounds like a very appropriate move. We had sent the local coast guard our float plans the week prior. And were on their radar according to Doug, a supportive US Coast Guard contact we had through West Coast Paddle Sports. I was buoyed knowing that our finish was along a stretch they patrol. Wait…did someone say buoy?
Up in the distance, appearing irregularly in between swells was what had to be a navigation marker buoy. Well off-shore, but it looked almost...red! Could it be? My GPS had my direction arrow indicating leftish but all I still saw was cliffs and explosions. Seeing the buoy though gave us hope. We trekked forward, hoping that the harbor would not be through the breaking waves we were staring at. Yard by yard. Stroke by stroke. And then my arrow on GPS pointed dead left. Dave called out “I see a bridge!” And there, a crack in the surf appeared 100 yards wide. And a green buoy along the exploding rocks that formed the headland of the bay. Huge waves on either side suddenly seemed less daunting. We saw the barn doors were open, had a tail wind, (or at least not a headwind for the first time in 5 hours), and were on our way home to a bright neon yellow jacket standing on the beach. Our pulses came down, and we actually had a little helpful runner or two to carry our canoes home. 8 hours 11 minutes. 30.87 miles. Speed: 3.9mph. For the second time on this trip we learned a small craft advisory was issued while we were out at sea.
That night we stayed at Dave’s friend Steve’s house. Yards from the ocean. A beautiful home. Prior to going there we ate Dinner #1. Went home and showered. Then went out for Dinner #2. I don’t know how many calories I burned that day, but I was barely making a dent in what I needed to get back to normal. A Strawberry daiquiri and flan at the Mexican restaurant Los Gallitos topped me off. I slept like a rock. One that for the first time all day didn't have waves breaking on it.
Day 5 – Albion to Point Reyes
Because I didn’t do full paddle day before, we had to get creative, and add a day to the schedule. I could have maybe packed 39 into the last day but ending at Point Arena late in the day with the final headlands and least protected harbor of remaining finishes, Dave had concocted a great plan to split it up into two days. And change the coastline order up a bit. So today, we would bypass a 14 mile stretch we’d save for tomorrow, and tackle Albion to Point Arena. 25 miles. While still a big number, 25 seemed pretty easy compared to majority of our days.
This morning we found a great local restaurant called David’s Deli. We arrived at 6:01 and there was already a group of older guys waiting at the door for it to open. We followed in and headed to seats at the bar. THIS was the kind of place I was crazing. The waitress this first morning was not rude, but it was 6am and she was not the most cheery. Instead she gave the exact mood I would expect from a greasy spoon diner waitress. Focused on coffee levels and taking orders. Calling me hon. By 6:03 another gentleman came in, she greeted him oddly by saying, “Hi Phil. Sorry.” And kind of looked over in our direction then him as he took a seat at another part of the bar. I could not help but think that we had sat down in his normal seat. Knowing his name, and bringing his order without him even placing it showed he was a regular for sure. And the most distinct, and I think cool, thing, in place of his right hand, he had a cutlery attachment. Like Captain Hook but instead of curved metal, it had a spoon, knife and fork which he deftly cut his meal with and ate with more dexterity than I had at this dark hour of the morning. Phil was watching something on his phone. The table in the corner sharing fish stories. And the waitress yelling orders to the cook in the back. This was my kind of greasy spoon diner. I order a breakfast and coffee.
After filling our bellies, we head out the door in the dark to drive to Albion. This campground along the Albion River was a perfect launch spot before entering the ocean. As I was walking my boat down a ramp, I saw a big 8 inch crab in the water. Paul then called over to “watch out your rudder doesn’t hit” as I saw a pile of broken cement it was headed towards. Then wouldn’t you know, I feel a pinch on my left foot. Through my booties that damn crab had locked on with his claw my favorite toe. I yelped a little bit and kicked him off, almost hitting the rudder again on the fore-mentioned cement rocks. Paul and Dave laughed at my struggles. I waved my paddle in the air at the crab and yelled and then slowly paddled away.
The river wound out to a bay. The bay to the ocean. We headed to a navigation red buoy and I made a point to study the environment as the following day I would be landing here. We headed south for our 25 mile journey. Again speeds starting decently, but quickly deteriorating as we lined up our course. That damn current again! Today’ we opted for a straight line across a curve in the coastline. The fog was heavy and we quickly were well offshore and out of sight of any land. The sound of the waves to the left vanished. And we were about 3 miles offshore at the deepest curve of the day.
From mile 1 to mile 22 today we would be denied any clear skies or land views. By far the most calm water faced. But the calmness came from the marine layer we were carving into with each stroke. I spent time trying to figure out what is more uncomfortable. Tough visible conditions or calm blind seas. Each had its own psychological challenges. Not seeing meant we were relying on observing the immediate currents, the water colors, our technology and our ears. Our conversation this day was enjoyable and relaxed. Nothing to distract us really. We were paddling along Ten Mile Beach. A remote and expansive stretch of exposed sand. Just movin along. Dave was mid story around hour 5 when I abruptly told him to “SHHHHH!” He paused then said “what?” I “SHHHH!”d again and up to our right we both heard it. And also felt it. A rumble in the abyss in front of us. The unmistakable sound of energy colliding with something solid. And while our GPS had us still 1 mile offshore, we had come directly into the path of a huge underwater reef called Arena Rock!
After hearing it and confirming the location to avoid, Dave and I quickly changed course. We opted to go way outside and not risk being caught on the inside of what soon materialized into view. A big whitewater wave breaking in the middle of the ocean. Rising up and slamming down on seemingly nothing at all. The ocean punched itself every minute or so as we timidly and quietly coaxed a path around the noise machine. Later finding out many shipwrecks had happened at this spot, we were grateful to avoid it. That said, we were now in the last several miles of our paddle, the coastline would begin to come out to us, and with it tons of rocks and sea stacks to avoid crashing into. The mood went into sketchy vibe. And suddenly our conversation was strictly about what we were seeing in person, seeing on our GPS, and hearing with our ears. “We should be about halfway around the headlands” Dave called over after one of many GPS checks. I looked at my screen and concurred, “I have us at the same spot.” The conditions had started to get more unruly now. Because you know, headlands and points do that every fricken time. And of course since we were nearing the end of our paddle and rounding a major coastline change, nature wanted to make us sweat. We still had no visibility of the coast. We were using the sun as a guide line at this point based on GPS data and my waypoint. “Aiming for 11 o’clock of the sun”. Five minutes later, “aiming for 10 o’clock of the sun” Little by little we crept around an assumed point. Dave then switched to his phone to get a better picture, which he had saved satellite images from the day before. I referenced some laminated maps of our current location in my bag. I had fears after yesterday of crashing waves along cliffs. Closed out harbors. You name it, we feared it. Then came a message from Paul on our SatComm: “easy landing, but minimal vis. Watch for waves along cliffs”. My gps had us turn left and we once again started to see calmer waters in front of us. We heard waves on either side but our course looked clear. 400 yards away. 200 yards away. I saw a moored dingy boat. 100 yards away, I saw a pier. 50 yards away, I saw Paul on the beach in his neon jacket. Our landing would be easy. We had arrived at Point Arena!
Once on land, and navigating the rip rap rocks and beach, we did our routine of gear de-robing of canoe de-rigging. I was soaking it in today. Dave was too as this would be his last day. He told Paul, “ok buddy my job here is done, now its on you to get it done”. While I still had a portion north of us to conquer, I had visualized this spot in my head as the finish for months. I paddled out of here once and headed south for one of the biggest and rockingest downwinders of my life. On that day two locals, John Hadley and John Walsh, paddled with me in 30-40+mph seas. Today, I would come in here to calm seas. A building wind we had outrun was on the rise. And the foggy sky was burning off to reveal a beautiful long cliff-line that we had paddled blindly alongside as we finished. The scene was great. I was taking it in.
To celebrate we met up with Dave’s friends Mike and Karen Anne, who’s son Kyle worked at the pizza shop right at the finish. Three custom pizzas later with a hard cider in the belly, it was time for us to pack up and play tourist. We explored Point Arena Lighthouse, local arches and sea caves and tunnels. Debating the differences between the three. And remarked at how tame the coastline looked now that we could see it. The unknown crashing rocks were now 'seen entities' and while troublesome for a canoe, easy to spot and avoid now that we were safe on higher land and not at eye level in the mist. We stopped at various pullouts. Chase the sunset home back to Steve’s house. And staged our gear for one last paddle the following day. A final alarm clock would be set. A final push-off. And ideally, a final landing.
Day 6 – Noyo to Albion River – 15 miles
Up until now, Dave had been my water wing-man. And been absolute nails out there when the conditions and miles piled on. Just as important a role was the land support, which Paul had been ready to embrace from day one. Energy, enthusiasm, experience. I was in great company on the water and land. I was clear from the start how important the land element would be to our success. Checking in on radio with updates. Driving the van and having items prepped for us upon arrival. Helping carry canoes loaded with gear after a long time paddling. Glory might be in the surf. But I know full well that this doesn’t happen without the land support. That said, Paul had been training for weeks leading up to this to make sure if called upon, he would be up for the task of joining me on the water. Regardless of distance or conditions, I knew he would be an asset if he were on the water with me. And while he downplayed his desire to join for the water part, it was very important for me that he get a day to enjoy everything he had made happen. And this would be the day, as Dave would slot into land support and hand off the paddle to Paul.
We woke up at 5:32 this morning with the plan to again go to our new favorite breakfast spot, David’s Deli. We arrived a little later this time, 6:05am, and sure enough, Phil was there again, in what I can only assume was his usual spot. The chair at the counter I occupied the day before. We grabbed a spot at a table with padded cushion seats (my rear end was bruised and sore from 5 days on the canoe). Our waitress was different today. A little more friendly and jovial than the previous day. Her smile was sincere, and the coffee hot and ready. Menu’s handed out and we proceeded to order omelets, pancakes, fruit, hash-browns and all the things that make breakfast the best meal. As we ate, we planned the day. A little while later a gentleman came in the backdoor on a wheelchair. He got up to walk to a table and sat at the table behind me, and struggled to sit down so Dave came over to help. Grateful for the gesture, he inquired about our paddle jackets. His name was Chris and had suffered a stroke a few years back. He used to paddle kayak as a kid, and I could tell our journey was reminding him of happy times. I took my time to hear his stories, and share our enthusiasm with him. Chris was on the team by the time our conversation ended. We got up to stretch a bit before leaving, and walked around the walls where local photographs were posted. We saw countless places we had paddled. In fact every coastline shot was labelled with the name of a place on our course. The energy seeing these and meeting Chris was fueling me. The waitress smiled with refills. Paul went to use the bathroom, Dave went to the van outside. I was left alone for a second and made my way to Phil, sitting with his prosthetic knife slicing into his eggs. I softly asked, “Is your name Phil?” “yes that is me” he replied. I knew he would be curious why I was approaching him so I quickly offered, “My friends and I were in your seat I think yesterday and I heard the waitress say your name. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have an unlucky day or anything.” My smile and chuckle at the end hopefully conveyed my light-hardheartedness. He replied, “oh yes I come here every day for breakfast and lunch. If they were open I would come for dinner too.” The older gentlemen was a sentinel at the counter. His energy catapulting me in a positive way as we said good-bye and I walked out. There was something special happening. I was open to it. The pack of 4 guys in the corner gave me a wave as my neon jacket made its way out the door. I came out and there was two guys talking to Dave at the van looking at the canoes and inquiring about the journey. They gave us their “good lucks” and “fair seas” wishes as well. Only when I am truly open to it, and a guest in foreign places do these interactions come so fast and furious. But every direction had supportive people wishing us well and inquiring. The momentum was flooding us.
The diner experience reminded me of folks at home who have been sending their thoughts and support. Family and paddle friend check-ins all week. Previous adventure support crews sending texts. The final day of these adventures always finds its way into my core. In a deeper way than miles and conditions. Gratitude was overwhelming me. I said to my team as we drove onto the freeway south, “you guys feel that energy? Something special is happening”. The sun was rising. 15 miles to our start-line. 15 more miles to the finish.
Paul was gearing up and we didn’t have to rush today. Rather than feel antsy at Noyo Bay I was soaking it up and making sure he didn’t feel pressure to be anything but absolutely ready for his first time in these northern cold daunting waters. A guy came up to me while I stretched, “hey you guys paddling out into the ocean? My son does that down in southern California.” I said, “hey I am from down there, who’s your son?” He replied, “Ryan Cameron out of Newport” I blurted out that "I know Ryan!" and had in fact roomed with him for a Catalina race a few years back. He took a picture to send his son from his NorCal vacation, and once again the universe was bringing its energy. Paul and I carried canoes with Dave to the water, and we embarked.
Today was clear. It was warm. It was sunny. Visibility never been better. Everyone had been telling us this is what it was usually like up here at this time of year. Why we picked it actually. But our week had found the weather anomaly counter to the almanacs and boating experts. Winds and currents from the south. Foggy days. Colder air. But today, we found our calm sunny blue skies. But I had learned not to jinx things by celebrating the weather until I was safe on land. That said, as we exited the harbor, there was one factor that is always present up here. Big surf.
Paul being on his first day I assumed had the nerves going like I did on my day 1. Hyper alert. Quiet. Determined. And honestly going faster than my day 6 body wanted. I called up ahead, “Easy Paul! Keep that up and you will be dropping me!” He slowed and I pulled alongside. Some giant rollers came under our canoes, bigger than anything we encounter in San Diego. “The pace picked up a bit again, but the shoreline was too beautiful to miss. I told him to look left as the sun crept over giant cliffs, forests, rocks and undeveloped coastline. I sensed his waterman experience taking the reigns now, and our speed rolled into a more manageable and comfortable pace. That said, he later admitted that every time he got comfortable, the waves got bigger. And he was right. The swell was bigger than when we launched. Sets were in the 7-10 foot range, and more than a few times, his canoe would sink below the view line as a wave would separate us for a moment. But still, it was time to enjoy what we worked so hard for. The miles crept along. This stretch would be harbor to harbor. No sketchy beach exit. But as I had learned, best to be leery of the coastline being foreign to me and keep my GPS in view as way-points passed one by one.
A lighthouse called Cabrillo Point flashed at us every 15 seconds. Van Damn River. Portuguese Beach. At one point I saw a gorgeous house on the cliffs alongside us that was an architectural gem. Waves slammed cliffs but far away from us. We were well beyond the Surfline. No clouds had formed. No wind had built up. Just melodic giant rollers from right to left as we kept a mile offshore. Conversation was good. I asked Paul what his paddle creed was. He said, “Paddle the water I’m in”. Don’t worry about what lay ahead, just focus on the present effort and challenge. This was great wisdom.
10 miles of rolling ground well had gone by when all of the sudden, a dozen yards in front of us a double overhead high wave crashed on submerged rocks we were on course to intersect. I am not sure who swore more but I am pretty certain Paul and I both earned our Sailor Mouth Badge in the second that followed. We did the hardest stop and right hand turn you ever saw a canoe muster. The wave broke again with a crash and smash. This time showing a boil of white water and bubbles that stayed long enough to teach us its footprint. We went way wide around it. And were much more prepared for another deep-water wave that broke in a bed of bull kelp 30 yards further along. Much like yesterday when Dave and I were surprised by Arena Rock, this had the same stressful effect on us and the conversation got pretty quiet. At least today we could see and not just hear the hazards. Visibility was a good thing. And we resumed our trek south. I asked what Paul wanted to name our new rock. He chose “Dynamite Rock”. And thus, it was coined and shall be written.
5 miles to go, 3 miles to go 1 mile to go. I saw the Albion navigation buoy ahead and alerted Paul that we’d be turning soon. Being a stranger to these entryways however, all he saw was the breaking waves on the headlands of our entrance. Big 6 foot waves breaking on rocks and shooting up into the air does not look like a place to paddle. And here I was telling him to aim for them. Thankfully he trusted me, or my GPS, and joined me in our course adjustment heading for the exploding rocks of doom. I yelled over to him, “Don’t worry it is going to calm down in 100 yards as we get to the channel” He replied, “I don’t know about that”. I said “if it does you have to open my beer for me when we get to land.” He later said it was more like 125 yards. So my beer was opened by me.
The giant swells became rollers. Those became ripples. The ripples became flat. And we were now in the confines of Albion Bay. Wave on either side of use getting quieter. A huge bridge holding that same Pacific Coast Highway 1 that followed our coastline was directly in front of us. A symbolic sight. We were not lost anymore. The coast was found. And so was our finish.
The final mile was paddling flat water and the Albion River. Dave in all his wisdom walked away from the initial beach we were aiming for and pointed us towards the river. It had been almost 160 miles and he was making us go…farther??? The beach gave way to another little berm. Perfect for landing our canoes and probably close to the a legal parking spot. But Dave kept walking. What the heck man, this is just cruel. We allowed the incoming tide to help offset the river flow and our speed decently carried us upriver for another quarter mile. Dave had walked onto a floating dock where he waved Paul over to with me following behind. And there to greet us, which Dave knew would be, was a curious local harbor seal that had been hanging out in the area for the last 30 minutes.
Having this amazing animal curiously popping up over and over as my paddle came onto my lap was a perfect end to the day. Making eye contact with him several times, it was clear he wanted some fish. I could only offer him a Hammer Gu energy pack. He spurned my offer and disappeared underwater. I turned my attention to Dave who was smiling. Paul was on the dock washing his canoe with the rinse hose. I took a moment to close my eyes and embrace the journey. Stopped my watch. Turned off the GPS for the final time. And on the VHF radio make my final call, “Cali Paddler, signing off”
Epilogue
This journey tested me. It scared me on many different fronts. But it was a psychological effort as my body felt better than ever. Granted my back was tight and needed stretching every hour by the final day. But the 160 miles didn’t leave me broken like I feared it might other than a couple small cuts on my hands. It was my mind that had struggled. The lack of visibility one day. The hammering headwind. The sporadic coastline with rocks and breaking waves. The opposing current. No contact with land crew or roads of any kind for full days. These all screwed my mind up as much as any fatigue would affect my body. I overcame each challenge with quality company and relied on my experience to stay calm when things got sketchy. But I would be lying if I hadn’t had conversations about pulling the plug if I could just get safely to land that day. It tested me. I was humbled. As only the ocean can do. But I had found my way through the Lost Coast. And while my journey for all of California still has some big challenges, this might have been one of the toughest faced yet.
Gratitude
Thank you to Eric Stockwell Loleta Guide Service. Doug Samp USCG. Will Schmidt of AreYouInspiredYet. The locals at Mario’s in Shelter Cove. And everyone else who I picked the brains of for years about this coastline. Yasue, David, Micah, Kristen for letting us stash a car in Santa Rosa driveway. Ren for the drone footage at Usal. West Coast Paddle Sports for the cold-weather gear when I finally admitted I was cold. The Bahia Paddle Group for checking in on us every time we had cell signal. Previous adventure partners who taught me lessons in the past that I relied on here. Dave Jensen and Paul Jacob for being the greatest watermen, friends and partners to learn from and lean on. My kids for asking me with enthusiasm what animals I had seen each time we talked. And my lovely wife for continuing to support the adventures I concoct.
-Clarke
For Full Listing of Videos from the Lost Coast Trip please check out this playlist!
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. If you have an idea for Clarke to write about or any questions, send it our way and we will pass it along!
Loleta Eric - October 01, 2024
Well done!