Prologue: In which we meet the dramatis perasonae and the scene is set.
Old Lefty, Captain Jack and Lilly Lightfoot have returned with glorious images, inglorious adventures and sore feet from six nights and seven days of wilderness wandering. It all started at 4 AM on a Thursday when Jack's dad, the doughty and crafty Chris picked us up for the long ride to the trailhead. Travelling North on the beautiful Highway 101 along the course of the Eel River we took a sharp left near Weott in the Avenue of the Giants and headed out into the wooly redwooded hills, West toward the sea.
You can read the well received prequel to this story;Tsunami flotsam on the Lost Coast here. |
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The early light set up some wonderful blue moody views as we sailed along the rippled ridges toward Honeydew; a Post Office, a store and lots of dewy back country with our trademark golden hills rolling in the peach colored dawn like winter's shaggy sheep in sweet spring grass.
Nearing the town, the road winds down the steep narrow ridge in a slaloming series of crimped hairpin turns, each revealing then concealing shifting views of the valley below and the mountains beyond. Right over there a few miles away on the other side of that dawn lit slope below is a curtain of stone 3000 feet high and 26 miles long that we'll soon see from the left side, at its feet along the thinnest sliver of rocky shore; the Lost Coast Trail, leftmost portion of the Left Coast, beachezzz!
The road flattens out at the bottom of this countrified roller coaster to an old steel double arch box beam bridge with worn wood decking strutting across the Mettole River. The following two images were taken through the girders on the bridge at speed, 2 seconds and 90 degrees apart and show varying amounts of cropping, chopping, channeling tucking and rolling and otherwise editing to suit the purposes of the narrative and the fancy of the editor. In some cases maybe too much editing some would say, perhaps justly, but the intent here is not encyclopedic, so take them as you will, these images have been altered and, by the way, are (C)Larry Buzbee ;-) nee 'Old Lefty'. Please enjoy viewing them as much as I did making them. Nearly all are geotagged and can be downloaded and openend in Google Earth to see them in their native setting.
Watercolor memory, an instant's flash past window splatter and stuttering girders
Speaking of things encyclopedic (or not) and Google Earthly, those so inclined can
download this KMZ file to walk the virtual trail with us. Included is full USGS topo map coverage, geo-tagged image links, geological and historical data, our daily routes and campsites and much more (updates are in progress). As a draftsman with the finger lumps of hundreds of hours with a technical pen trailing hundreds of miles of lines of information across hundreds of fresh sheets of vellum and Imperial Blue Drafting Linen, from a time before plotters, I'm a bit of a map geek. If you too love the sheer power and fidelity of G-Earth go ahead, dig in. Novices too will find it well worth the time and effort, as long as you have a good data pipe. I'll be glad to assist and answer any technical questions on how to use the file in the comments dialog, the photography posted there by others is a fine alternative to the somewhat idiosyncratic perspective presented here, so check it out. I will also be enriching the file as I publish the later sections and will provide links there so you can keep up with new delicacies in response to readers' questions and comments.
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And so we arrive at the end of the beginning, and at the beginning of the real adventure. We find our stalwart champions loaded for bear, Capn' Jack guide and fisherman till the clap of doom, |
Lilly Lightfoot Pooch-bassador of Good Dog Will, bravehearted tenderfoot, and your obedient savant, I mean servant, yours truly, Old Lefty the wretched and unrepentant at the trailhead (you guess who is whom), poised for whatever may come and far better smelling than they will be again for many a windy day. |
If youv'e a mind to then, venture below into well charted but truly dramatic territory as we set off to round Cape Mendocino one of the westernmost projections of the lower 48 in near gale force winds, meet some surprising and sprightly spirits, build and magnificently employ Lilly Raw Paw's Megalithic (centrally heated) Doghouse and find the Heart of the Lost Coast, I no keed you, et cetera, et cetera. The Captain and his crew brought back a Blackbeard's Haul of images but a mere 90 survived the ruthless cut of Old Lefty's editorial saber and the fearsome lash of cruel Capn' Jacks art-critical knout. So, after much swashbuckling PhotoShoppery presented for your pleasure below you'll find another 44 treasures awash with scintillating and lustrous but ineffably modest commentary. The remaining half of the trove will be included in Parts 2 and 3 of this diary, likewise adorned, suborned and otherwise outrageously augmented should your criticism be more encouraging than that of the cruel cruel Captain.
In this light gentle reader you may wish to purloin then hoist, on your own petard of course, a beverage or two, quaffage as it were and sweetmeats of your choice, elevate Your Lordly Feet in comfort and splendor to better enjoy the evolution of this Voyage, or book mark it with a big red X in anticipation of a more intimate opportunity. I proudly propose that its perusal, whether prompt or postponed is sure to profoundly tittle both palette and palate alike, like a ripe red pomegranite. Ye vicarious armchair bassstids! Me feet, errr foot and peg still hurt. Arrrrr, did I just say that? Anyway, 'ware ye Liberul lubbers, beyond yon sssssSea sssssssSerpentsss havin' ssssSexsss on the sssSandsss be the Pointsss of Ssssslowwww Returnssss, graveyard of losst billable hoursss. Avasssst!
Arrrrr.......owwwww...............................................
Ar harr, got ya then did I? Well me brave Lads n' Lassies, let's find out if Timmy falls inta th' well, shall we?
Section 1; Mettole trailhead to Punta Gorda, we beats feet to meet the tide.
The visual and emotional force of the landscape is not best described in words, but I'll add a little flavor to the images where I can. Below is our first good look at the scale of things, and a taste of the 30 knot Northwest wind, blowing us along our wisely chosen path, but woe betide the hiker coming from the South that day, and most others. Down the trail and on to the shifting sands, Lilly was extatic and the views were dramatic, but the wind was whipping the sea to a froth and like to strip the flesh from any unwary calves ill-advisedly exposed to its sandblasting grit.
Lilly loves her some soft sand and chasing foam. Little does she know the pain of Gritty Paw and an excess of enthusiasm that awaits her, but yes my Padowan, learn you will.
Skies of blue and dunes of green, in our PhotoShop machine. I do not remember the brown, I remember blue and green and faraway ridges fading into the horizon.
Filtered through the eyes of an astigmatic nearsighted romantic with artistic pretentions and the occasional hankering for the the pure Zang! of black and white it looks like this to south, Punta Gorda in the distance.
Looking north with a kelp covered reef in the foreground, the image below to me has the smell of the sea and of creeping gelatinous things, mysteries upon mysteries slide about beneath that filmy surface, minuscule battles to the death and promiscuous slithering spawning abound in those murky shallows, methinks.
In the upper right quadrant of the image below, taken from the upper right quadrant of the image above above I can hear, faintly, the cries of three gulls, booming waves and wind singing over the dunes. Listen.
Lilly loops the loop again and again to cover five times our distance, at least. Like a convicted Fundamentalist, ignorance is bliss, for the time being.
Just where the Captain predicted, exactly where he had seen one, maybe the same one hauled out well above the tide line the year before we paraded jauntily into a lady's bedroom, two gentlemen and a dog. She looked sad and petulant, her voice sounded like the Pall Malls had finally gotten to her throat, bleary gaze giving the distinct impression of a superannuated floozy, a pinniped Blanche DuBois awakened too early after a long night of bad gin, smoky dives and impertinent fellows, worn nightdress all in tatters and not at all pleased to see complete strangers traipsing into her boudoir, unannounced and unintroduced and so early. I DO declayah, she does have them Betty Davis eyes, now don't she just! And in our case the kindness of strangers was sufficiently reliable, we left her huffing in the sand, disgruntled and unlovely, unmolested but forlorn.
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But some things are not forgivable. Deliberate cruelty is not forgivable! It is the one unforgivable thing, in my opinion, and the one thing of which I have never, never been guilty.
Blanche DuBois
Ahh, but perhaps we judged the Lady too harshly, perhaps she is a grieving widow, all sackcloth and ashes, garments rent, teeth gnashing, grieving for her own lost Captain, long missing at sea but recently, and just over the next dune, so recently and ignobly washed ashore. Or not. But, life and death are ever present here at the edge of the world.
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Black bears scavenge the beaches at night for scraps of life tossed ashore by the surf, grisly remnants of unseen battles beneath the waves, and brown pelicans hover, so delicately for their apparent bulk, like feathered Jackie Gleasons,
then with a flip of folding wings become sharp beaked plunging harpoons, plucking life from death out of the sea. For the unwary traveler, one freak wave, one ill timed attempt to beat the tide around a closed out point or one panicked encounter with Yogi in the dark of night can turn a pickinick into a heap o' trouble in one hot second.
A moment of Zen; Lilly, being there, then. The Dog-verse is immediate, keen and unyielding in its joy at the splash of water droplets and an ever fleeing reflection. Like her, words desert me. Haha, just kidding, you wish, or you may soon anyway.
Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water.
The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken.
Although its light is wide and great,
The moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide.
The whole moon and the entire sky
Are reflected in one dewdrop on the grass.
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Those who see worldly life as an obstacle to Dharma
see no Dharma in everyday actions.
They have not yet discovered that
there are no everyday actions outside of Dharma
Dogen (seriously)
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Diminished chords with chromatic overtones overlie an infra-sound symphony of meteorologic, geophysical and hydrologic forces interacting on time and distance scales great and small in surround sound for the wandering soul. Read here the book written in the rocks or ignore the evidence of your senses. Written there in plain language is a tale of titanic struggle, eons long and ongoing beneath your feet, true and palpable as gravity, wind, wave and stone, crumbling down the cliffs and upthrusting the ground as you walk across it, sensible as an unheard rumbling through the boots' soles, sand seated butt cheeks, and maybe the wandering soul as well. No exaggeration, the beach thrums through the boots and buttocks like the biggest boom box ever.
Even with the escalating wind at our backs, after a couple miles of soft sandy footing lugging 60 pounds of gear the magnitude of not just the landscape and the forces at play but of the task ahead begins to sink in. Neither of the two humans here are by any means mere pikers, and Lilly, absent a load and much good sense, our low information but loyal companion was as oblivious to what lay ahead as is a certain national candidate. But believe you me, lovely images of Backpacking Paradise or Presidential Glory aside the unprepared, the overconfident will encounter slick polished boulders, punishing headwinds and Rueage, Mad Rueage here, and there, just you mark my words now.
Section Two; Punta Gorda to the Lighthouse, wherein we face the Gale, inquire of a leprechaun and encounter other blithe spirits, learning their true names, strange signs and customs.
To stand here, at the very tooth of North America, just a couple miles from the locked up collision point of three tectonic plates, leaning into a 50 knot gale funneling around the headlands to take this shot was a profound elemental experience. The forces creating this place ripple back to the center of the continent, driving the uplift of every wrinkle and fold from here to the Colorado Plateau. The Grand Canyon is there because this colossal convergence is here, powered by convection currents deep in the mantle, miles below, forcing the inexorable subduction of the Pacific and the Gorda Plates beneath the grinding edge of North America. It seems to slip and grumble, awesome in the truest sense, fierce, ponderous and implacable, powers deep and and unseen buckle and heave the earth itself. Around the point and down the beach a bit the wind dies back considerably, the trail lifts up off the sand to a soft grassy terrace and a long weatherd fenceline leads both eye and foot to the shanty at the outlet of Fourmile Creek, known henceforth as John's Place, House of the Leprechaun. In the distance silhouetted against the skyline 60 feet above the tide is the outline of the Lighthouse.
This is among the westernmost residences, on land, you can find in Real Amurrica, and a fine fine address it would be to have I'd say. A bit far from the bright lights and ballyhoo, but oh baby, you should see the stars and phosphorescent surf in full moon light like John does, hear a raging winter storm come ashore here, unbraked and unrestrained by land for 4000 miles before it puts a whuppin' on the rest of the country after saying hello to John, first to know and the last to tell.
A bit tall for a Leprechaun, I kept the water between us anyway, though as you can see Capn' Jack and Lilly were not near so chary. First name John, or was it Tom, last name might have been Bombadil but I can't be sure. He said he's been there thirty seven years, though I suspect much much longer, since way back in the Third Age, before the coming of the minions of the BLM with their Rules and Regulations and Dark Rangers. Protected, apparently by some unseen aura, Tom, I mean John when asked, said he's not got much need for Stores and such. Having modernized enough though to accommodate the flow of time and creaking joints, John has two solar panels to run the ham radio and a reading light, better'n packing kerosene over the mountain, and an old car he parks on Windy Ridge 800 feet above at the end of a ten mile dirt road to the only Post Office in thirty miles over at Honeydew.
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Just imagine what stories and notions such a fellow might be persuaded to share over a driftwood fire and slug or two of grog. When asked, out of curiosity, what a man might do on all those fierce and haunted nights; "Do you paint, draw, write, play music?" He answered simply "Yes." A thousand more questions had to remain unanswered as time and the tide wait for no man or dog, such beings are subtle and quick to anger after all and we had waymaking to do. (Our erstwhile corespondent, Demeter Rising informs in the comments below that The San Francisco Chronicle recently published Johns 'true' story here. I prefer my version but it is truly excellent to both inform and be informed by the reader, one of the things I like best about the site.) Bidding adieu to our Gnomish Sprite with fond hopes of returning one day to plumb those depths further, we hove hence up over a low rise to the downs and barrows above and promptly encountered these three windblown sprites; Unity, Serenity, and....... wait for it......... |
Jim, I kid you not. Lilly, always at her best when greeting strangers ran ahead to spread cheer and communicate her and our good character and intentions. Sweet youngsters all, each had bright smiles and the red cheeked faraway eyed faces of Trailwakers. Two at least were surely daughters of the Hippie Clan, Children of the Tie Dye People, conceived perhaps to the off kilter notes of the Grateful Dead, raised on high hopes, sunshine and organic groats. And Jim, well, he looked like an Argonaut happily held captive in the Land of the Lotus Eaters, and who can blame him? A little further on we crossed and happened to take a glance down at the first of the hundreds streams, small and large that cross the path this time of year, some gushing straight from the rocks, others winding down valleys so steep and deeply cut that all beyond their beachy heads is shadow and tumbled rock. |
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Up ahead we finally met the Minions of the Dark Forces themselves, working for the Mettole Coastal Conservencey rooting out invasive species like ivy and star thistle, doing good works in remote places, pulling weeds so no one will ever see them, and perhaps getting paid to pull at the very roots of our Democracy, commie tree hugging socialist Kenyan lovers!. Hey, wait a minute, maybe Conservation and true Conservatism are the same thing. Maybe, just maybe, if we work together over the long haul doing the right thing for the Land AND the People, being noticed only when we fail and not giving much of a damn in any case we can leave the world better than we found it.
Nah. Let's let our Parks and Monuments return to the earth, let the Second Law of Thermodynamics run its course unhindered by maintenance and care. The Punta Gorda Lighthouse is a case in point, decommissioned and abandoned to the wind like the Temple of a dying civilization, filled with sand and bits of surf eroded Styrofoam.
The richly flowered grasses ripple in the wind, much to Lilly's delight as she climbs up the slope with Jack excited for the new adventure and appreciating the softer footing.
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The salt is eating the unprotected iron, a white handprint in the dark doorway speaks of mystic forces, drumming in the night, and the Lighthouse standing up in faded dignity is now put to purposes not contemplated by its builders, surely.
Theosophists have guessed at the awesome grandeur of the cosmic cycle wherein our world and human race form transient incidents. They have hinted at strange survivals in terms which would freeze the blood if not masked by a bland optimism. But it is not from them that there came the single glimpse of forbidden eons which chills me when I think of it and maddens me when I dream of it
H.P. Lovecraft 'The Call of Cthulu' |
Strange portents in the Doorway, fan mail from some flounder perhaps? Calling Daniel Jackson, calling Dr. Jackson, we need a philologist here, Stat!
A man will be imprisoned in a room with a door that's unlocked and opens inwards; as long as it does not occur to him to pull rather than push.
Ludwig Wittgenstein |
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Section 3; The Lighthouse to Cooskie Creek where we camp in a windy valley and Lilly assesses her condition.
Strange portents indeed, the interior provides clear evidence the it COULD BE that Ancient Aliens MIGHT have helped in the construction of this obviously celestially oriented megalith. Clear evidence I say, encoded in a Sacred Spiral located at the Temple's very heart, CLEARLY meant to represent the DNA molecule, knowledge humans of the time COULD NOT HAVE KNOWN, to wit; Coincidence? I think not.
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Climbing the Sacred Stair to the Upper Sanctum I find evidence of a bizarre liturgy, pinned by the wind into a corner of the circular alter, revealing revelry, perhaps abominable practices, or just poor taste in vacation reading?
Finding our legs again after this mystical and mystifying rest stop we proceed along an ever narrowing trail leading inexorably to the steeply inclined beach where constant abrasion polishes marble sized stones to a high shine and the whole notion of a stroll along the beach takes up residence in straining calves like a bitter in-law living in your basement.
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Some like the world better in black and white and shades of gray, empasizing form and texture above color and light.
Oh the cobbled shore beckons as the cliff face looms and the strand narrows to a parlous obstacle course. Stones grind in the waves and then hey! thar she blows, a grey whale cow and calf skirt the murky inshore water, blowing steam, then slip back into the water, too quick for photography.
But thar be grizzled dragons eating the horizon here, and battered Tikis gazing out to sea, and dinosaur bones in the foreground. But not a sign at all of one thing we came searching for; Japanese tsunami debris, or much debris of any kind, this Coast seems clear for now, but what will the tides bring in next year?
Signs from Kodiak are not good. How crazy will the Gods seem them?
Slogging through the slippery gravel and Henry Moore organiform boulder fields saws away at your muscles, tendons and determination as the slope of the beach increases and the cobbles rolling back with the wash of the waves sound like pebbles in a giant rain stick. The land alternately lies back in steep grassy windswept expanses then stands up in a vertical black and gray curtain of bent and twisted strata, as imposing as sea and sky, pressing the walker between its vast bulk and the rush of the waves on a narrowing swath of shoreline that diminishes alarmingly as the tide marches toward the feet of the great looming wall of stone above. Sometimes a massive boulder comes crashing down to the beach from hundreds of feet playing a bit part in the long soft drama of erosioin and gravity.
The horrible slippery gravel ultimately yields to soft sand, difficult but not nearly so punishing as the Hell of Marbles just passed through. In retrospect, this was the most difficult 1.5 miles of the total 26. I've done some mighty treks now, at altitude, at latitude, at length and with a full pack but I can say without reservation that that particular stretch of leg torture is far shorter on the pedometer than it is on the soul, muscles and bone. Nearing the end of what may look on the map like a mere 6.63 miles but is in fact, in Lost Cost Miles, a loooooong f-ing way, both the humans and the canine were happy as a long haul trucker with a good cup of coffee and nice piece of hot berry pie delivered at 3 AM by a good looking waitress who calls him "Honey" when the looming continental battlements lay back without foreshadowing to the rubble filled and stormwracked debouchment of Cooskie Creek upon the diminshing shore.
Jack's eyes light with the true fisherman's delight plumbing the piscatorial potential of the local shoals. I survey the hammock hang-up potential hidden in the jumble of mostly horizontal driftwood and eye the wash of light up the canyon. Lilly helps with the domestic arrangements by dragging branches to the fire pit despite a noticeable favoring of her front right foot. And despite it again she leaps to stalwart service when a sudden gust tears off first Jack's then my hat and a few minutes later even the blue foam ground pad, rescuing each from wind lashed oblivion in selfless (or compulsive?) fetching at its finest.
We set up camp in desultory fashion and with the Captain's excellent and improvisitory maritime engineering we wrangle a rude array of poles and logs into a serviceable frame from which to hang my finest camping possession, companion of many miles, a well used and much loved Clark North American four season wind, rain and bug proof hammock. For the first time but not the last I encouraged Jack to take a moment to lie back in the glorious cocoon of comfort.
Having been given at least 30 seconds to come to an appreciation of the varying merits of our two approaches to rest upon the trail, I booted him out summarily and in the camp couch application proceeded to remove my shoes, stream moistened socks and recline in full glory and full view as the fire took off and smoke began to swirl through the campsite. Fully exposed to the still considerable wind Lilly prepared to take a closer look to find out exactly why her paws were throbbing, not having yet drawn the line in her mind between running up and down up and down dragging every stick and bullwhip kelp she found and the condition of HER dogs, Jack scrabbled about in the rocky sand setting up his pup tent, grumbling at the prospect of lying within while SOME people would be swaying softly in the breeze, well off the irregular earth with optional beach and sunset views at the opening of the weather shield. Hmm, ahhh, who knew?
We settled in and broke out the organic trail mix dried mangoes and banana chips and discussed options for further cooling the Vodkay, finagling the fire to receive our now thawed, having transferred its chill to our opportunely packed tipple, tri-tip and spicy sausages wrapped with yams and onions in two layers of food service grade al-you-minium foil. Mmmmmmm steak and Grog on our first night out was perhaps excessive? As we contemplated such questions medical, logistical and ethical and the urgency ebbed from from all eight of our feet we saw two figures, turbaned and otherwise festively coiffed at the northern arm of the valley wall, coming round the corner not much ahead of close-out by the encroaching tide. Again for the first, but not the last time as those robust enough to slog through the whole trek, and this sentence with us will find, sartorial issues may, ahem, arise upon the trail which are memorable and worthy of comment.
David and Lucia, he of 'The City' and she of the merry smile and of Wellington New Zealand, Voyageurs together however temporarily, sat down for a nip with us before proceeding South down the crest of the bluffs to set camp above the surf in the wind and evening light themselves. Her heart was already planning a further exit, stage left (even) to Peru, "or somewhere" and he might have left his in San Francisco, I cannot say. Swapping tales of the Trail we divined that they had divined the True Meaning and Import of the Mystical Sign and Offering at the Door of the Temple; the cryptic 'J4U'. They had perhaps partaken of some Sacrament and were in any case truly animated and enjoyable companions.
The carnivorous aroma escaping our field expedient oven seemed to make them uneasy, professed vegetarians both, they retreated up the trail and we dug in to the tucker like two jolly starving swagmen with their rusty dingo, an moity foin tuckah it was too. More talk and less pictures here around the campfire in the dying light and rising wind after we laid waste to the feast, the whole idea of standing out past the shelter of the point trying to drag in some unfortunate fish was only briefly appealing to the Captain and not at all to either Lilly or myself. I updated my journal zipped into the portable office and bedroom while she began to embrace the true implications of extended periods out of doors.
Returned fruitless from the shore Jack retreated to the dubious comforts of his nylon hovel and repeated trips by us both to the Well of Truth aka stream cooled Vodka, lemon juice and mmm, I can't remember what else was stirred in there, we were induced to high flung prose and low slung humor, at which Jack pointed out the exact spot thirty feet away where last year he had confronted an overly curious mountain lion who leapt like lightening up the cliff about sixty feet when challenged and sat there giving camp that particularly feline stink eye some perhaps will know from experience with more domestic furry fellow travelers.
On that note Lilly commenced to shiver in earnest, or maybe it was just the flapping tarps and flying cinders but she was neither very happy nor very bright regarding finding shelter from the wind. I'm more used to country dogs, being one myself, and having literally been thrown in the water to learn how to swim did not give sufficient thought to her plight I'm sorry to say. Or maybe it was our choice of beverages, but in any case I woke up in a 40 knot gale at 3 AM to the somewhat disconcerting sensation of Lilly's head anxiously poking at the bottom of the hammock and whining pitifully, shaking, OY with the guilt. Not any more inclined than I had been earlier to brave the gale, I unzipped the fly, hoisted in the damn tick ridden dawg and zipped her back inside with me. Now it was her turn to be disconcerted, but the benefits clearly outweighed the costs even in pooch reckoning we made peace and settled down for a few more hours off less than optimum but better than a cold stone in the back sleep.
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The gray light of dawn comes late in this place, last of all to feel the sun tucked as it is in the shadow of the skirts of la Tierra Madre del Norte. Mercifully calmer, the 10:30 morning revealed that Lilly would need field expedient booties if she was going to perform like the day before. In the event of her condition (and our own) we decided to exercise the better part of valor and make this a short day on the gravel; 2 miles to Randall Creel on a short leash for Lilly and there we would make provision for more amenable accommodations for our tenderfoot. Breaking camp was a bleary affair, as the notorious coastal fog had settled like old Aunt Doris' cold soggy kiss upon our brow and the wind though lighter was still a draining presence. |
Section 4; Cooskie Creek to Randall Creek, a short hike and a long evening at Lilly's Megalithic (centrally heated) Dog House.
This section is less difficult though more wordy (yikes!) than some the day before, very narrow with sheer faces 1500 feet high on the left and the suddenness of open sea on the right in a bisected view from the bottom of some Grand Anti-Canyon, stone on one side but emptiness on the other, oddly disorienting as the sun consumes the mist in stages up the mountains faces and the ocean sparkles on the right hand to the far horizon.
Tectonics lifts up and erosion wears some back small portions down to the beach to be slowly ground up again, re-aggregated in the coastal margins then lifted again to sit on some remote mountainside someday, far from the sea swapping its stories with the sky and sun. The steer sheepness, umm, I mean sheer steepness of the landscape stubbornly assert that uplift here is outpacing the slow soft and patient action of rain and ice and wind. In the long run though the soft forces win out; glaciers made from snowflakes grind the mountains to dust, floods and frozen raindrops pick apart the rocks to deliver them back to the sea from which both we and the mountains ultimately spring.
This boulder can be seen in G-Earth and measures there at about 25' x 18'. The top of the erosion scar where this bad boy came from is 500' above. It surely must have made a mighty thump and grumble when it come a tumblin' down!
Roughly estimate its volume at 1291 cubic yards and given that basalt averages 2.8 tons per yard that's about 3600 tons of mass. Had it come straight down without bouncing it would have gone down kinda like this:
Speed at impact: 54.65 m/s or 196.75 km/h or 122 mph
Time until impact: 5.58 s
Energy at impact: 5,462,949,663.36 joules, or about 52,000 BTU's or 1517 kilowatt hours. That's a 10 kw generator running flat out for more than six days, all in five and a half seconds. Easily detectable on any good seismometer within 50 miles.
But Lilly Lightfoot is unconcerned with such things, focusing on the moment and her pinkening paw pads, content for the moment to dab at them with her tounge and share a sit down with her three gritty companions; the sand, Mr. Big Effin Rock and Old Lefty, the latter two having been friends in High School with similar career paths, they had significant commiserating to accomplish and so little geologic time in which to do it.
Birds profuse, some rotund and others svelte exploited every rock and mackeral along the way.
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But the beach goes on, la de da de da, the beach goes on and in fleeting course the valley flings itself upon us like a cat upon a robin. Surprise attack from the curtained cliffs! The beach head at Randall Creek is guarded by a stone sentinel detached from the gnarled bluffs behind, it stands just at the high wash of the spring waves. Having collected a slew of humongous mussels off the wet headed rocks along our brief trek we were preparing for wildcrafted entrees, piscene or bivalvular, whichever came first. The prospect of the valley beyond was as usual enticing and romantic in its gusty beauty. And the many many large flat stone sparked Lefty's Masonic and paternal instincts. |
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Heaving to with gusto, the old coot prepared to place the pavers nature had so kindly provided near to hand to construct a shelter suitable for nursing sore feet and cooking al fresco Misto di Mare and sufficiently robust to serve future hikers too.
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear, he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
Robert Louis Stevenson |
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Capn' Ahab maniacally pursued the white whale out on the shingle as Lefty's lusty efforts lugging began to rise in fine sinuous form from the sands, maintaining Lilly's interest despite her petulance at being confined to quarters on medical restraint. Wind tunnel, lintel and mantle in place, firebox stoked, burning and throwing off heat as designed Lilly figured out all on her own that placing herself just so in front of the fire, shielded from the wind and tantalizingly close to the mussel and potato stew simmering in the old percolator above was in fact not a bad way to go. Below, she signifies her approval in no uncertain terms.
Jack relentlessly flogging the waves for sign of fish. |
Just then cutting fine figures we descried two travelers coming down off the southerly bluffs and into camp; Cobol Brad and business planner Chris, members of PortlandHikers.org of Portland Oregon, Lefty's home town. Born2BBrad sported an innovation of anti-staggering utility for those suffering from Noassatall aka Man Butt; hiking suspenders, BRILLIANT! We agreed to cross-link our 'trip reports' which I'll be doing as soon as I publish, so the journey becomes connected to the outer world again. On a much tighter schedule than we they head north, Lefty and Lilly settle back as the stew bubbles to enjoy the the fruits of his labor and the fading of the day. |
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Eventually returning to camp to counsel with Lilly the Captain curls his lip at the grisly orange mysteries roiling in what could have been a perfectly good potato soup. Some folks are sooooo touchy and delicate of sensibility, nu?
Submitting to necessity, wolfing dehydrated potato and fresh mussel chowder washed down with surprisingly potent formerly dried mangoes rehydrated in the last of the vodka chased with cold creek water we reclined in Viking Splendor to watch the sun go down and ponder things sartorial and philosophical, like suspenders and speed hikers, and the apparent paucity of fish in the sea, much to the chagrin of a certain salty fellow.
A certain fellow for whom simply seeing the silvery glint of salmon fry flashing in the nearby pool backed up behind the Sentinel of the beach induced thoughts of mayhem and carnivory. The felonious consequences prevent their appearing on our grill, but not the thought. To add insult upon injury a 2 foot long eel comes slithering in from the sea, hitching itself along against the outflowing current by sticking its nasty sucker head onto the rock like some obscene inchworm, heading upstream to gorge on the salmon forbidden to us. "Arrrrrg" says the Captain, gnashing teeth, err tooth.
Watching ragged flights of brown Pelicans head home to roost as the day died we curled on our bedrolls at opposite ends of the Edifice with Lilly posted up between staring pensively into the hearth thinking only Dog knows what while administering delicate pedi-lingual therapy to her healing hooves. Sometimes a day spent not doing is a doing in itself, the best thing that can be done.
The night passes well enough for one spent on the ground and it was blessedly unnecessary to make it a one dog one again. Dawn came up like chunder and we lay out our gear to dry in the sun (Jack calls it "Lefty's yard sale") before packing up to hit the trail across Spanish Flats on the way to Big Creek, halfway point 13 miles in.
So here ends the first third of our story gentle reader. Part 2 takes us two nights and 3 days further down the coast through flats and vistas and remote airstrips to spectacular primeval landscapes filled with berries, flowers fog and critters, trash treasures and tsunami debris and Speedo Hikers. Part 3 wraps up the journey with fallen rocks bigger than Newt Gingrich's ego, new-found friends, bears, boots and cheeseburgers at the end of the world, and the Captain finally gets his fishes, all illuminated profusely.
Your forbearance is both sincerely appreciated and truly formidable if you've waded through the purple prose far enough to read these words. I'll be taking a break from composition to see how this thing lands and posting installment two in about 10 days if there's an appetite. If so, I'll promptly reveal the Secret Heart of the Lost Coast, washed to our feet as we stood in the wind the night before covered with ribbons of kelp and gleaming in the sunset, a treasure indeed and much much more;-)
Sun Jun 03, 2012 at 11:30 AM PT: Part 2 of 3 published 6/3/12 here