This was one of the craziest adventures we’ve been on in a while, perhaps ever. Many things surprised us about the Lost Coast Trail South in Sinkyone Wilderness State Park, turning what we thought would be a pretty tough adventure into a genuinely grueling one. Several things went awry right off the bat and we wound up with a full day of type two fun on this southerly stretch of the Lost Coast Trail.
Completing the Coast
Just two weeks earlier, Kent and I had enjoyed a glorious day out on the Lost Coast Trail: North. We’d faced a few difficulties, sure, but they were easy enough to solve. We felt confident that we could tackle the Lost Coast Trail: South in another nice day outing.
Though they share a name, these two Lost Coast trails are nothing alike. The northern section consists of beaches and well-traveled tracks through grassy meadows in the King Range National Conservation Area. The southern section in Sinkyone Wilderness State Park is a thicket of overgrown animal tracks, sudden sharp drop-offs and big elevation changes. The former is a beautiful day trip in good weather; the latter is humbling even in sunshine.
A startling start
We started the Lost Coast Trail: South from its southern terminus. It begins from Usal Beach in Sinkyone Wilderness State Park – a hidden gem of black sand down a windy, bumpy, unmarked dirt road off highway #1. We said goodbye to our friendly shuttle driver, and headed off on a similarly unmarked trail the led into the bushes and up.
A few minutes later, we were stopped in our tracks by a striking viewpoint high above the beach! What a perfect place to take off jackets, don sunglasses and slather on sunscreen – and take too many photos! We could see elk on the beach, and campers too. Leaving this secret spot was tricky, but our day was barely begun and we needed to keep moving.
Going downhill on the other side of this first rise, someone had taken the trouble to string up huge wooden letters that read “The Found Coast”. Whether that was joyous or cynical, there were no clues. The trail to this point had been a dirt ribbon, so Kent and I had no complaints about running into some signage.
Then we hit the next climb, which featured no trail at all. Or rather, such a multiplicity of trails that it was literally impossible to know which one was right. We had an offline map of Sinkyone Wilderness State Park, but it was really no help in this situation. All of the options were so incredibly overgrown that making progress was an absolute battle. We were literally swimming in the bush. And in that bush: stinging nettles and poison oak aplenty.
I struggled early on: in disbelief over how slow and how rough this trail was. I couldn’t help but compare it to the ease of the northern section, where all one must do is follow the curve of the beach. Here, we were so deep in the bush, we could barely see the ocean. The sun beat down on us as we slogged through this inland sea of foliage.
On the next rise, we looked back and could see Bill’s truck at the viewpoint on the other side of the beach. Knowing our driver-turned-friend would be looking for us with his binoculars, we waved cheerfully in spite of our struggles so far. Then we fought our way onward: one step backward for every two forward. We took the wrong trail so many times I lost count. A lot of our early mileage on the Lost Coast Trail: South came from backtracking. It felt like we just couldn’t make progress.
In fact, we soon realized that we’d only gone three kilometers in nearly as many hours. I began to wonder if this was a run we could complete.
Kent was also frustrated by our slow progress but we carried on. Slowly. We’d slog uphill through dense bush, losing the way often, being stabbed/poked/prickled by innumerable plants. At the top, a burst of speed coupled with a rush of relief when we found what seemed to be a definite trail. On the descent, we’d slow again as the trail crumbled away underfoot or switchbacked steeply over dramatic drops.
Although uphill was the most difficult, downhill was scarier. At one point I fell, my left leg kicking out and finding nothing but air and my right leg sliding slowly off the crumbling path. Luckily, Kent was close behind me: he responded quickly and yanked me up by my right arm. I was extra careful after that.
In the middle (of nowhere)
At one point on the Lost Coast Trail: South, the trail had been wiped off the map entirely by a landslide. A thin string of rope marked the best place to cross the cliff face. I hesitated, looking at the complete lack of footing and steep slope down to the bushes below. Then I clung to the rope with both hands and all my might. I edged my way across, leaning my right side into the dirt and shuffling along. Rocks fell away down the slope as I moved, and dirt filled my shoes. But I made it, and Kent followed!
We kept talking about eating but not doing it. I needed both hands for my poles. And Kent needed both hands for his phone, to check the map whenever we took a wrong turn.
We passed a tiny, unnamed trail camp, crossed a stream, then climbed again. A highlight of the day was when Kent spotted a big brown rump receding into the bushes. We stopped short and positioned ourselves carefully to take a look. It was two huge male Roosevelt Elk, on a trail just slightly above us! They had massive antlers, all covered in that beautiful brown velvet that looks so soft. As we regarded them, they turned to regard us. No time to grab a camera: just pure, in-the-moment magic!
The going was still pretty rough, but after around four hours, we reached a little outpost of civilization. Crossing Little Jackass Creek, we found a named redwood grove at Sally Bell. But aside from patting a few especially huge tree trunks, we had to run on through these woods to make up for lost time.
As we climbed out of the grove, we had amazing views over a beautiful, secluded beach below Mistake Point. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to pause and crush a bar, and I quickly swallowed one of mine. I could see creatures swimming in the waves beyond: we were not alone after all!
But turning back around, my perception of our stop went from scenic to scary. Kent could not catch his breath. Instead of looking at the view, he was looking at his phone, and panicking.
Mistake Point was just about 14 kilometers into what we expected to be a marathon-length or longer run. It was now 2:30 in the afternoon, and we’d covered only a third of the trail in a long five hours. Not realizing the ordeal that still lay ahead, Kent had consumed a lot of his water. His anxiety was justified, but I felt powerless to help him and his fears frightened me.
The only thing to do was carry on. Two hours of tough trail later, we reached another beach. There was a wild camp out in the open, complete with a volleyball for company and an unlikely picnic table. We paused for a few photos, to linger on the easy trails and rejoice in these traces of humankind. We’d been ‘running’ for around seven hours and felt very far from civilization.
On the map, this place is called Wheeler. It was a logging town in the late 1800s and is now a couple of ruins along with an outhouse for the beach campground. It looked like paradise, but we’d had to go through hell to get there on foot. We moved relentlessly on.
Back into the deep shade of the forest, we found a proper trail sign! It was hilarious how much we liked it. It was just so wonderfully reassuring to see this sign, even though the trail here was obvious.
Next was a massive climb through a few more named groves. We ran on a mercifully easy-to-follow track for a while, dropping down to Duffy’s Gulch. There, Kent splashed his arms with water and contemplated drinking straight from the stream.
Comforted by contact
Up on Anderson Cliff shortly after, we spotted, for the first time: a human. I couldn’t believe it, and I definitely exclaimed as much! After a short interaction (we asked about the trail condition ahead), we parted ways. Coming from the wilds of the south, Kent and I were much more eager for conversation than our fellow, solitude-seeking hiker.
Still, we’d been reassured by his very presence, as well as his words about the trail ahead. And it was true: the conditions continued to improve. As we approached Sinkyone Wilderness State Park HQ, we found ourselves on a proper trail for really the first time that day. Here the Lost Coast Trail: South was broad, it was groomed, and best of all, it was obvious. We zipped downhill towards Bear Harbor.
There, we found more humans! A friendly guy gathering wood asked about our run, and we commented that he was really lucky to be staying at such a beautiful camp. But we needed to stay in motion, so this interaction was also brief.
We jogged by two more camps as the trail broadened into a grassy dirt road. This was the old Briceland-Thorn road. A break from focusing on our feet allowed us to take in spectacular views over the shining late afternoon sea and the shapely rocks rising from it!
One rise, an argument and handful of skittles later, we reached the closed Needle Rock Visitor Center. Kent searched a cooler in the back of a parked truck for water. I went up to the center to nab a paper map of the state park for a souvenir. Then we had the briefest of sits for a very important discussion.
I thought we should change our plans and take the road out. We were now extremely low on water (Kent’s pack was dry and I had maybe 100mL left) and we were down to the last two hours of daylight. But, the road wasn’t exactly direct: it would be 29 hilly kilometers to get back to our car. My argument wasn’t that it would be shorter, just faster. I voiced my concern that the buttery trail near the visitors center may have imbued us with a false sense of confidence about the trail ahead. The only thing we knew for sure was that it would be the biggest climb of the day. We knew nothing about the trail conditions on Chamise Mountain, only that it was bound to take us longer than we predicted and we would be finishing late in the night.
Kent wanted to go for the trail, simply because it was – by far – the shortest route home. In a momentarily merry mood, he said something like, “nobody said this was going to be easy.” This bolstered my confidence about his ability to continue, but in the end it was a sign that convinced me. A big, official state park trail marker listed the distance to Chamise Mountain as a mere 6.2 miles. That, I reasoned, we could maybe do in the last light. Then we’d just have to roll downhill in the dark.
Just one more hill
So we took off down the trail, and it was truly great running for a while. We had stunning views ahead to the dramatic ridge of Chamise Mountain, and down to the sparkly sea. Herds of elk were feasting on the lush grasses near the beach, and scattered as we ran toward them. As usual, we were completely alone, and it was so quiet.
One of the things I love most about the King Range and Sinkyone State Park as well is the complete silence: there’s no traffic noise, no construction, no music or talking. Sometimes there’s wind in the trees. When you get down close to the ocean, you can hear (and feel) the surf crashing against the cliffs. Sometimes you can listen to the sounds of birds and animals, and you can hear your own footsteps and breathing. That’s it. Complete silence like that is so rare, and it’s a real gift.
We made awesome time for a minute, running through this silence. It was fun to finally be able to move at a decent clip! It also felt funny because it was like we’d suddenly decided to go for a sprint after a day’s worth of hiking. The day’s accumulated effort in my legs made itself known, but I felt refreshed, somehow.
From this point onward, I led the charge. I steeled my mind for the challenge ahead: knowing it would get dark, acknowledging that we would be thirsty, expecting the terrain to steepen and suspecting that Kent might hate me at times.
A map posted near the Needle Rock Visitor Center had warned us about Whale Gulch. Could be impassible, one footnote implied. I thought we’d better race across the stream as quick as we could while we still had some light left.
As we started the long climb up Chamise Mountain, we left the beach views behind. On the south side of the mountain, it was already quite dark. We bobbed along a riverside trail and hopped across Whale Gulch easily, although I could see how it could be a chokepoint if there had been heavy rains. On the far side, more climbing.
I pushed myself on this climb, moving at a strong pace just this side of exhaustion. Kent followed. As it continued to darken, we kept in constant aural communication, like we do. I’d ‘woop woop’, and he’d reply. If he was sighing or slow to respond, I’d ask him questions. I asked him what songs he was playing in his mind, and sang the ones echoing in my head.
In this way we slowly climbed the crest of our biggest mountain of the day. Looking behind offered awesome views of orange sunlight on the shaggy cliffs of the coast. Looking ahead, we saw an inviting golden glow through silhouetted spruces. The sun was setting. I’ve always wanted to see a sunset from the top of a mountain, but today was not the day for it. We had few glimpses back down to the coast in that direction, or at all. But the golden light surrounding us was pretty magical in itself.
A sign marked the point where we exited Sinkyone Wilderness State Park. A stretch of private land, with two cabins (one boarded up but in good repair and the other little more than a pile of bricks long discarded), lay between the state park and the King Range NCA. We had some peeks through the trees down to weed farms on nearby hills. Sometimes, we could even hear a car on the road far below. We were so close to civilization, and yet, nearing the crest of this 800 meter mountain, so far, too.
At some point, I don’t know where exactly, Kent had a second panic attack. As he hyperventilated, I put my hand on his chest and told him to look at me. I could feel his heart pounding into my palm, and I felt a pulse of nausea. I was angry at myself for leading him into any kind of danger. But, as he always does, come stomach ailments or stress, Kent rallied and did remarkably well for the rest of our run. At one point he even ate a bar!
Soon, we had to stop to switch out our sunglasses for headlamps. There were three sequential crests: Red Hill, Maripoza, and finally Chamise Mountain itself. The summits were unmarked, except by US coastal survey markers hammered into the rock. Kent said he wanted to take a picture and I was so thankful for his mastery over mind and matter both. We hadn’t known exactly what the summit would be like, so after the first one, we felt surprised to still be climbing and made our usual jokes about how this downhill involved a lot of up.
But eventually, we did begin to descend. We weren’t very quick: there were switchbacks and we consulted the map often. This was less to find the way and more just to get our bearings on what lay ahead. The sky had darkened from blue to black, and the stars were a million tiny points of light overhead. At a couple of places, we could see the lights of the tiny Shelter Cove airport to the left and knew we were getting close to this outpost of civilization on the Lost Coast.
There were a surprising number of turns on this last stretch: a viewpoint that we opted out of due to the low light level, a loop down to a campground that we also declined, and a shortcut to the road that at this point just wasn’t worth doing. In the dark of night, it was at least a little easier to be without water. The cool air made it feel like we were swimming rather than running. I stopped sweating, but never felt cold. My backpack was the lightest it had been all day, and we were approaching our destination after having done the whole route against all odds.
Which isn’t to say that we didn’t have worries. I continued to worry about Kent (himself possibly worrying quietly), and about if now would be the time when we encountered our first mountain lion (numerous and active in these parts). I sent up silent prayers that we be delivered out of the woods safely.
It’s an amazing thing to be able to run oneself into a somewhat dangerous situation but also be able to run oneself out of it. But it’s not an ability that I take for granted, and I don’t want to ever find out where the limits of it lie. So with every step a prayer and every other breath a corvid call to my love, we made our way down the mountain.
The trail leveled off. A sign pointed the way toward the Chamise Mountain trailhead. And there, gleaming in the glow of our headlamps, was Ravi! Safe and sound and waiting for us in the Hidden Valley parking lot. I was never so happy to see our dear adventuremobile. Kent and I ran our final few steps and arrived, at last, at the end of the Lost Coast Trail: South.
Afterward: Water and a ways to go home
The first thing we did was drink water, and as much of it as we could. We drained two 2L bottles in short order. I apologized to Kent for putting us both at risk. I also offered him a nap, but he declined, so we began the long drive home. It was nearly 11 pm, and we wouldn’t be in our bed until around 2 am.
Know and Go! Lost Coast Trail: South
Transportation
Your own transportation is definitely required to get around in Sinkyone Wilderness State Park. It’s location is remote: about 4 hours north of the Bay area. It’s also 2.5 hours south of Humboldt county airport in McKinleyville.
Also note that, like it’s counterpoint the Lost Coast Trail: North, this is a point-to-point trail. We used Bill’s Lost Coast Shuttle for the second time for our Lost Coast Trail: South adventure, but there are other tour operators as well. Be prepared to pay handsomely or share your ride!
Rugged 4WD vehicles can access the back roads in this park seasonally: but if you get stuck, you’ll be staying the night and then some waiting for a tow. Bikes are welcome on these roads, but it is foot traffic only on the main trail: the Lost Coast Trail: South.
Hike & Run
The Lost Coast Trail: South is less well-known than it’s northern cousin, but it is still a state park. Usal Beach and Bear Harbor do fill up on weekends and holidays, so play accordingly if you plan on staying overnight! However, staying the night would give you the chance to enjoy the silence and the stars at a more leisurely pace. That’s how most folks experience this trail: on a multi-night backpacking trip.
This section is more rugged and remote even than the stretch of Lost Coast in the King Range NCA. Come prepared with water purification equipment and lots of snacks, whether you are running or hiking. Also note that there is no cell reception, and the weather is extraordinarily changeable on this wild Pacific Coast. Plan accordingly.
It might be tough, but for the prepared, the Lost Coast Trail: South is a backcountry delight.
Stay & Eat
Stay on the the trail, if you choose! Alternatively, accommodation can be had in Shelter Cove at the northern terminus of the trail. There’s also a general store and a couple of restaurants. Bear Harbor is Sinkyone Wilderness State Park’s most popular campground for good reason – though you can also stay closer to the road near the Needle Rock Visitor Center.
People camp out at Usal Beach at the southern end of the state park, but beware: locals descend on weekends for raucous parties. It might not be the wilderness experience you were looking for, unless you nail your timing. Also, the road to get to this beach is both unmarked and potentially unsafe for normal passenger vehicles. Use caution and your own common sense if you venture this way.
Along the trail, hikers are encouraged to use pre-existing campsites. These are usually located near creeks and on the flats. Avoid camping on the beach if you want to stay safe and dry!
Bring more food than you think you need, whatever pace you plan on traveling at. More importantly, bring surplus water or a filter, or better yet: both! The Lost Coast Trail: South is going to take you longer than you think.
Other Notes
The Lost Coast Trail: South has an advantage in the sense that you don’t need to plan your trip around the tides (though NOAA tables are here, if you’re interested). Offline maps may not help you much when it comes to avoiding animal trails, but it’s important to have one saved just in case you get way off trail. I use Avenza Maps – and here’s the broad strokes from the Sinkyone Wilderness State Park brochure. You might want to consider a GPS device that can carry a map as well as send a signal out, in case of emergencies.
For your planning purposes, check out the Sinkyone Wilderness State Park website to keep abreast of any trail closures or other events that could affect your adventure.
We ran this route in June 2020. Our journey took us 48k in 12 hours and 23 minutes: very nearly a personal worst – but in exceptional circumstances. The Lost Coast Trail: South is a real wilderness challenge: a test of the mind and body and even partnership. I struggled early on with negative feelings about the experience, but I wound up enjoying the challenge. In the end, I called on my willpower and resilience – and did not come up short.
I’m proud of what we did, but luck played a big role in letting us do this safely. Great weather, a lack of dangerous wildlife encounters, a knack for finding the trail again, and all kinds of other second chances allowed us to complete this quest. Tough as it felt, I’m so grateful for our good fortune on the Lost Coast Trail: South.
Would I do this again? Perhaps surprisingly, I think we would. Was it really as tough as we thought? It seems like it would be a bit easier with an earlier start and with a water filter in tow. Another run through might be a bit of redemption for the times that we struggled on this trail.
However, we might not have the chance again any time soon. Doing any kind of adventuring on the Lost Coast requires ample time, a good weather window, and advance bookings of the shuttle. The pandemic played a role in our success: emptying the shuttles and giving us a trail to ourselves. But perhaps it hampered us too: maybe many more footsteps would have made the way more obvious, and thus quicker.
I would recommend this epic adventure: but only to the hardiest of adventurers. It’s true backcountry travel where you will need to be resourceful and remain calm in the face of frustration. But if that sounds like you, Lost Coast Trail: South is a beautifully rugged journey like no other.
Want more adventures like this? Check out other journeys nearby: the Lost Coast Trail (North) and more hikes/runs in the King Range National Conservation Area. Still more adventures await in Sinkyone Wilderness State Park.