Cape Arago

The signal light turned green and I stepped on the gas. In response, my Jeep gave a small shudder and feebly inched forward as fast as a beetle with two legs. After hearing the prognosis from the vehicle's physician, we made the hard decision to authorize a death warrant for our long-term faithful servant. Naturally, I was devastated, so much so that Dollie and I happily purchased a brand new vehicle the very same day. And as I parked my new ride at the trailhead on what will be the first of many such drives, I cheerily sung to myself "I'm a Soul man!" mostly because I'm now the proud owner of a brand new Soul.

Heigh ho, it's hundreds of hikers we go

Hiking and the driving-to thereof, are good for both my soul and Soul, and we parked with a bright cherry red splash at Sunset Bay State Park. This hike to Cape Arago and back was a South Coast Friends of the Umpqua Striders venture, which is what you call a cooperative effort between Friends of the Umpqua and sister hiking club South Coast Striders. The superb weather and scenery ensured a large turnout and all hikers present at the trailhead had plenty of old and new hiking friends with whom to bond with.

A secret beach at low tide

I've hiked in the Cape Arago area when the weather's been nasty and belligerent but on this day, it was downright balmy as the day dawned as sunny and bright as a granddaughter's smile. Lest we get too comfortable though, a chill breeze made sure to ruffle both windbreakers and the ocean's surface and at the start, I didn't see anybody hiking without jackets or extra clothing layers.

Norton Gulch lured some hikers down for a visit

With so many hikers (around 30!) what could possibly go wrong? Plenty really, but the worst of it came when the hikers in front, who did not know the route like us grizzled vets, made a right turn at the first junction and began to head down into Norton Gulch and I figured everybody just wanted to visit the gulch where it meets the sea. They made it about halfway down before stopping and asking me which way we should go. So amusing to see approximately 30 hikers turn around and backtrack on a narrow trail.

Low tide

High tide

It was low tide at the Cape Arago environs, the retreating ocean exposing reefs and rocky shoals to the airy elements. The booming waves at nearby Shore Acres are famed the world over but on this morning, they were barely making a ripple. The wind-driven whitecaps out to sea were larger than the waves lapping against the shore like a thirsty cat at a water dish. However, the ocean patiently bides its time and will once again rampage against the coastal ramparts come high tide.

Panorama of Simpson Reef 

From the gardens and viewpoints at Shore Acres, the coastal trail dipped in and out of the forest, sideswiping iconic landmarks such as Simpson Beach, before winding up at Simpson Reef Overlook. At the viewpoint, tourists and hikers alike can observe the sea lion bacchanalia and debauchery taking place on Shell Island. Replete with fishy smell, all that barking, belching, and farting was kind of like a gathering of through-hikers, but without the backpacks or hiking poles.

The forested path heading up to the Pack Trail

I'm not bragging (oh, but I am!) but I've lost weight lately and where I really notice the difference is when I'm hiking uphill. There is no direct trail from Simpson Reef Overlook to Cape Arago and one can either walk along the road to the cape, or cross the road and take the forested path leading to the Pack Trail. That particular path is a steep one but my lighter new and improved self just charged uphill, nearly as quick as a brand new Soul when the light turns green. Whew, did that ever feel good!

Lunchtime view

The coastal woods, fed by the perpetual fog at the cape, were predictably lush and verdant. The earthen track wound through the trees while numerous clumps of green ferns flanked the footpath. After reaching the Pack Trail, which is actually a gravel road, it was a short drop to Cape Arago herself, where we ate lunch while admiring the view of the sparkling sea and the rugged Oregon coast running to the south.

The sea was a bit more agitated on the way back

On the hike back to the trailhead, high tide was beginning to roll in and the waves were now a lot more entertaining than they had been earlier. We (John, Merle, and I) would see a huge wave break in spectacular explosive fashion, so cameras would be readied and then we'd wait...and wait...and wait for the next large wave. It apparently is a Cape Arago truism that waves are only spectacular when you aren't pointing a camera at them.

Pictorial definition of whitewater

The cool part about going home after the hike is I got to drive my new car all over again. Unfortunately, John and Merle took the occasion to pepper me with technical questions that I did not know the answers to, other than "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it has a motor". My ignorance of all things automotive was further exposed at my first fuel purchase when the attendant asked me to pop the gas tank lid open. Crap, how do I do that? Shaking his head in condescension and with a smirk on his face, the dude showed me where the lever was down on the floor by the seat. Hiking is so much easier!

A wall of solid rock, exposed by the low tide

For more photos of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Cut Creek/Bullards Beach Loop

During my usual wintertime pastime of browsing brochures, guidebooks, and websites, I came across a horse-trail map of Bullards Beach State Park. If I began at the Coquille River Lighthouse, I could cobble together a seven to eight mile route through the coastal woods and dunes lurking behind the beach. The allure of this route was that I had never been on the Cut Creek Trail, Northern Loop, and Tsunami Trail before, so all these routes were already pre-permeated with the alluring scent of new trail. Best of all, the terrain was fairly flat for the hernia-impaired and whatever could go wrong?

New camera took a picture of an old rock

Heh heh, a lot apparently, but more on that in a bit. First off, I was really excited about this hike because not only was this a brand new trail for me, but it was both a new trail AND a new camera! I had been having technical problems with my old camera so I ordered my accountant (to whom I'm married) to drop everything immediately and buy me a new camera, stat! That didn't work too well and I had to rephrase and resubmit so it sounded more like a politely worded request, plus I had to actually ask for permission, saying "please" and "thank you" and all that stupid polite stuff. But, after four days of impatient waiting, the camera arrived and it was now time to go play and hike. I think I was so overjoyed that I nearly ran across the dunes and capered through the woods like some of my uninhibited canine friends, hernia notwithstanding.

The mighty Coquille River

At any rate, the hike began near Bullards Beach Campground and I followed the paved trail overlooking the wide Coquille River to the Cut Creek Trailhead. Along the trail, Scotch broom heralded the coming hay fever season with a few desultory but vibrantly-colored yellow flowers. The paved pathway morphed into a soft brown trail comprised of decomposing pine needles flanked by a green coastal jungle and my new camera was immediately put to work.

Yes, this really is the trail

The Cut Creek Trail is primarily a horse trail and accordingly, begins at Bullards Beach Horse Camp. Upon entering the woods right at the start, I had to step around a puddle of water on the trail. The puddle was only an inch or two deep and I could nearly step across it with one manly stride. But that was too good to last. After the first puddle came another, and another, and another, etc. Each puddle was wider and deeper than the preceding puddle. It was kind of like a computer game in that you could brag "Hey, I made it to Puddle Level 14 today!" 

A knee-deep section of trail with a nice reflection

I'm not sure who Jack was but there is a Red Jack Trail and a Black Jack Trail that lead away from Cut Creek Trail to the beach. Both trails are about a quarter-mile long and hiking on either trail was eschewed in favor of the dubious hiking glory that awaited me on several miles of water-covered Cut Creek Trail. The surrounding terrain was heavily wooded and the thick growth made it nigh impossible to bushwhack around these puddles that now bordered on the size of small lakes. To make it worse, years of usage by the horse-riding crowd had turned the trail into an earthen trough and the puddles, just like teenagers the world over, now had a lot of lip. At some point, water began pouring into my erstwhile waterproof boots from above the ankles, making feet wet and cold. My boots were still mad at me over the Threemile Lake expedition and soon became pretty warm with justified ire. However, the icy coldness of the water kept any sweltering of feet to a minimum, but I got the point.

Trail shot (kidding!)

Suddenly, the path exited the woods and traversed a sandy track that was awesomely dry. Heh heh, that was just a joke played on me by trail-makers because the deep puddles soon resumed even if the dense woods did not. This was open marsh and beachgrass country and I found myself merrily splashing past a series of lakes and ponds that fortunately, were not part of the trail. I ran into several people exploring the dunes on horseback and while they seemed nice and all, I couldn't help but notice their steeds wading in water that nearly came up to their bellies, realizing that they were walking on the trail waiting for me in my immediate future. But after steeling my resolve and hoisting the new camera high, I bravely waded across while the riders, who had stopped to watch, applauded either my bravery or foolishness.

Pictures you take when standing in the surf

Well, after nearly three miles, it was nice to get out of all the standing water and on to the relatively dry confines of Bullards Beach. I had given up on the rest of the Northern Loop which, at a trail junction, appeared to have even more water on it than the Cut Creek Trail. Anyway, my loop route would be closed by a less taxing return on Bullards Beach. As I headed south towards the Coquille River, the day gradually changed from sunny to cloudy, and the surf transitioned to high tide. Normally, I'd run from the incoming waves but what the heck, my boots and the feet contained within were already soaking wet so what would be the point. I stayed put, letting the surf wash around my ankles while I photographed the scene. 

The North Loop was even more waterlogged!

So, to summarize, this was one wet-footed endeavor whether on beach or through woods. Sounds like a great hike to me, and don't listen to my boots! For more photos of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Dellenback Dunes (Hall Lake Route)

At December's commencement, I was well poised to reach my yearly goal of 500 miles but unfortunately, sort of ran out of gas due to weather, sore knees, and life stuff. Still, I wound up with 469 miles hiked in 2020 and that's respectable. But here we are in a brand new year and this was the first hike of the year. Brand new year but still some travails, apparently. On this particular hike at Dellenback Dunes, I felt a sharp pain somewhere "down there" that left me feeling teste, pun intended. After a post-hike round of tests and stuff, turns out I am the proud father-to-be of a brand new baby hernia which would explain the burning pain in my groin. And just to clarify, this particular burning in the groin is the kind you get when you are sixty-four years old and not the cool burning in your groin you get at say, age twenty-four. Anyway, I dispiritedly erased my 2021 goal of 500 miles off of the message board hanging in the kitchen. Hernia surgery and the requisite period of post-surgery recuperation will do that to a mileage goal.

Across the dunes we go!

Dellenback Dunes is one of those places I seem to hit pretty regularly and since I've been hiking eons, I've visited the sandy expanse an eon's worth of times. To keep from getting bored, I try to find a different route to keep the dunes interesting and while I had done the version that connects the John Dellenback Dunes Trailhead with Hall Lake several times, most of the attendees on this Friends of the Umpqua hike had not, allowing me to experience the freshness of the hike by listening to their complaints about the endless mountains of sand we were hiking up and down.

This hike provided lots of quality "Whee!" time

There are basically like five mountain ranges of sand running between trailhead and lake and the first slope is one of the steeper ones. The day was overcast, but we were all soon quite warm from the exertion of hiking up steep slopes of soft sand. On the plus side, the steep drop-off on the other side of the crest was fun to watch as hikers ran down the slopes in ebullient glee like first-graders exiting the classroom for recess. Although, nobody could match the exuberance and joy of canine friend Gus, who ran back up the slope solely for the delirious pleasure of running back down again. Me, I just calmly walked down the sandy slopes because like the day, I too am gray and chill.

Spirits of forests past

Our second "little" hill was through a ghost forest, a highlight of the hike. It's hard to imagine a forest growing in what seems to an entire Arabian peninsula of sand in Oregon. Yet, there they are, the bones of several dozen dead trees half buried in an arborescent graveyard, with the top half of the trees serving as grave marker and headstone. This arboreal necropolis is a reverential place and we stopped to mourn the trees' loss of life and generally just ponder the meaning of it all. I'm not sure how a mini-forest of evergreen trees ever managed to grow tall in the middle of all that sand but you can't argue with the spirits of the dead manifested on the crown of this sandy crest.

Our lunchtime view of Hall Lake

After several more ups and downs on several more tall alps of sand, we arrived at the slope overlooking Hall Lake and stopped to admire the vista for a bit. Hall Lake sits on the dividing line between coastal forest and stark dune and accordingly, the east side of the lake was heavily forested while on the west side, the tall dune we were eating lunch on sloped directly down to the dark waters.     

Not looking at any dang yardangs!

The Hall Lake overlook was the culmination of the 4th climb up a steep slope of sand so several of our party opted to hike return by way of that dune crest while the rest of us tackled Dune Number 5, which was the meanest one out of the whole bunch. But Dune 5 is the coolest, scenery-wise, for the combination of rain and wind had carved the damp sands on the dune crest into all sorts of sculptures (known as yardangs) resembling random pyramids and temples. Those with cameras explored the yardangs while those without lowered their heads and toiled up the steep sandy inclines, oblivious to the splendors of the sandy ramparts and revetments sited just below.

Linda leads the mad charge across the dunes

After the dune descent, we were happy to be hiking along the edge of the behind-the-beach marshes until the main body of our group grabbed the trail to the beach. Linda, Don, and I opted to return directly to the trailhead at this point. Don and I have each recently lost a close family member, so naturally in the middle of this celebration of nature and life, the main subject of our conversation was death and dying. But it was therapeutic and helped mute the increasing pain in my lower side. Stupid hernia, anyway.

A veritable Mount Rainier of sand looms on the horizon

For more photos of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Cape Arago

It was a King Tide day and at Sunset Bay State Park, Big Creek was unnaturally full of water being forced upstream by the incoming tide. In between waves, I stood next to the creek and took several photographs of the bay, keeping a wary eye on an incoming wave that just kept coming and coming without any inclination of slowing down any time soon. Bye, gotta go! I took off running and all was well until I dropped my hiking pole. Dammit, that wasn't in my carefully crafted plan for escape! I reached down and picked it up, fumbled the pole pick up, then fumbled it again. Finally, got a firm grasp on the sucker and then I really had to move as the surge roared up Big Creek, covering up where I had been standing just seconds before with about 3 to 4 feet of fast moving water. A King Tide is nothing to mess with, dudes and dudettes.

Before

After

King Tide is a non-scientific term for an abnormally high tide. Oregon gets them several times a year and Shore Acres State Park is the perfect locale for experiencing the huge waves that sometimes result. The caveat is that a high surf is also required, because it is entirely possible for a King Tide to fail to generate huge waves and it's also possible for huge waves to manifest without benefit of a King Tide. But on this day, it was the perfect storm in that the King Tide was occurring in conjunction with a heavy surf generated by stormy weather. That was all I needed to wake up before dawn and arrive at Sunset Bay bright and early, trusty camera at the ready.    

A wave really would like to smite some hikers

I was more than happy to hike up on the forested bluffs overlooking the wild ocean after my near escape at Sunset Bay. But I shouldn't have felt that secure, for the waves, after surging into the unyielding cliffs, exploded into white-watered mayhem that often rose twenty feet or so higher than the trail, which was already twenty feet or so higher than the ocean. As I hiked through the woods, I could hear the booming surf cannonading in loud blasts up and down the coast, sounding like the most prolific thunderstorm ever.

A seagull rethinks its flight plan

As the route rounded the rocky cove of Norton Gulch, exposed rocky shoals came into view and the waves breaking over them were an awesome sight. A seagull was patrolling the shoreline and was probably questioning its life choices when one large wave enveloped the bird into its watery embrace, somewhat to my amusement. The constant mist from the waves refracted sunlight which is a non-romantic and very scientific way to say there were lots of rainbows.

Fountain in the Shore Acres garden 

As stated before, Shore Acres is the place to be when the big waves put on a show, what with the strategically sited viewpoint and observation area with easy access. Accordingly, throngs of photographers and videographers were gathered there to get their own personal iconic photos and/or videos of the booming waves. Rather than brandish my sharp elbows to rudely jostle for a place in the photography queue, I figured I'd hike to the secluded bluffs south of Simpson Beach and take some photos from there. However, the trail to the beach was gated shut with a dour-faced park ranger standing by, sternly enforcing the trail-closed edict. Seems that last year during a King Tide event, somebody went down to the beach and got themselves into trouble so now the park simply closes the beach trail whenever a King Tide event occurs.

Some of that Shore Acres action

Well, that screwed up my plans and since I wasn't ready to quit hiking yet, I backtracked through the Shore Acres gardens and made my way onto the trail heading up to the World War II bunker, since I'd never been to that landmark. Built as a watch station for Japanese submarines, the ruins of the bunker have long since been swallowed up by the forest and you currently would not be able to see the ocean from the bunker, much less a submarine unless it snuck up from behind, tapped you on the shoulder, and said "Boo, I'm a submarine!"

From defending the country to this

At the bunker ruins, vandals (or graffiti artists, depending on your point of view) had redecorated the old place. To be honest, all the color on the walls in a forested setting was visually interesting and kind of on the cool side. What was not cool were the spray paint cans left behind, along with several painted trees. I think the lack of respect bothers me more than the actual artwork. At any rate, the side trip to the bunker nominally served its purpose in extending the hike's mileage to a reasonable distance.

Large waves boomed up and down the coast

It was just about high tide and the waves would be as large as they were going to get today, so I hiked up the Cape Arago Highway until a resumption of the (open) coast trail presented itself. Wave-generated sonic booms permeated the forest and grassy bluffs, and I made my way to land's end like a concertgoer drawn to the front of the mosh pit. As I was happily doing my camera thing, one wave huger than most gave me a good soaking. It was quite the show and I stayed there for a fair amount of time until it became obvious the tide was receding and the waves were shrinking. While that was disappointing, at least the hike back to Sunset Bay was less eventful than my morning visit there.

Thimbleberry leaf: I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. O'Neill

For more photos of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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South Slough

South Slough has definitely grown on me. For years I'd turned up my nose at its little five(ish) mile loop but after enjoying the incredibly lush forests, well groomed trails, and awesome slough scenery it's safe to say I've been a convert for several years now. So, when the Friends of the Umpqua penciled the reserve (the wordy formal name is South Slough National Estuarine Research Reserve) onto their calendar, I figured I'd join in, especially since a hike is so much more relaxing when one is not in charge of the outing.

A little worse for the wear but still green

It was late November, right in the middle of winter's icy commencement but you'd never know it by hiking on the South Slough trails. While thimbleberry and deer fern were well in the process of shutting down for the winter, most of the other predominant vegetation such as moss, ferns, salal, and rhododendron were very much from the green arc of the color wheel. Accordingly, green was still the dominant color along the trail and if you ignored the yellowing thimbleberry leaves, then it looked and felt a lot like spring, especially since the sun was out.

A log surrenders to the inevitable

The hike started pleasantly enough for it went downhill for the first couple of miles or so. Of course, we would pay for all that nice downhill goodness, but why worry about it now? Let's just live in the moment and enjoy the easy hiking while we can! As we angled down to the slough, directionally and relatively unimaginatively named North Creek birthed into existence when hundreds of rivulets and rills trickling down the slough's rim braided together into one stream. The babbling of creek and comrades both was a constant as we hiked down the gently sloping and heavily forested creek canyon.   

Unclear on the concept of camouflage 

The well-maintained trail was quite civilized, so much so that I began a desperate search for a fallen tree to climb over, a landslide to scramble across, or a bear to growl at; anything else to break up the overt niceness of the path. The only thing I could find that added an element of wildness to the hike was a faint side trail that led down to an overlook of the North Creek arm of South Slough (labeled as Sloughside Marsh on the printable trail map). The partial view was nice and the thick brush simultaneously scratched my arms, face, legs, and Richard-hike itch. Plus, there were some bright red coral fungi sprouting out of the damp earth, looking more at home in a Martian rock garden than on a Pacific Northwest forest floor.

Bridge crossing between marshes Sloughside and Rhodes 

Normally, the brackish waters of the slough just idly pool by with no discernible movement. However on this day, the tide was clearly and visibly waning as the slough slowly emptied its water into Coos Bay, unseen and several miles to the north. The dropping water level exposed mud flats myopically blinking their light-sensitive eyes in the bright morning sun. After crossing a gracefully arching bridge spanning the gap between marshes Sloughside and Rhodes, we reached a five-way trail junction which led to at least five choices of where to hike next.

Old pilings gradually disappear into the slough

We ended up hiking four out of the five trail offerings which is at least a B on a surprise quiz in calculus class. The Sloughside Trail, as its name suggests, follows the slough on a trail atop an old eroding and crumbling dike. Best to hike it while it still exists, kids! The view atop the old berm is epic though, as you stare downstream in the general direction of Coos Bay, which the slough empties into or fills from, depending on whether the tide is incoming or outgoing. 

It's called Tunnel Trail because...?

After eating lunch on some wooden viewing platforms on the nearby Marsh Edge Trail, we grabbed the Tunnel Trail to begin the work of closing off this loop hike. The path was a wide track flanked by thick shrubbery that arched overhead, mingling and then comingling with thick shrubbery doing the same thing from the other side. The colliding vegetation forms a tunnel for hikers to hike through (and a convenient people-trap for deer to waylay said hikers) which is why it's called the Tunnel Trail.

Welcome to the Kingdom of Sloo

Another lengthy gawk-stop took place at a two-tiered viewing platform whose decks and inter-tree walkways had me wanting to revisit my childhood and play Gobblers and Monkeys all over again. The trail exuded a fantasy novel vibe as we hiked out of a marshy arm of the slough on a mile-long zigzagging boardwalk bisecting the marsh at water level before continuing into the woods. I use the term "water level" loosely because all you could see next to the boardwalk was marsh grass, reeds, and skunk cabbage, all of which seriously encroached the wooden walkway. However, if you were to step off, you would find yourself waist deep in brackish water wondering why you ever did such a thing.

If I don't go in, the deer can't eat me

The hiking had been easy so far but our vehicles were still parked on the slough's rim and since we were at slough level, it was now time to do a little work in the form of hiking uphill. The path inclined through woods lush and green while Hidden Creek (which was not at all very well hidden) trickled musically right next to the trail. But going uphill allows hikers-cum-photographers to use photography of fungi, vegetation, and trail tunnels as the means of masking tiredness engendered by challenging gravity when walking uphill, not that I ever do any of that!

It's just a matter of perspective

For more pictures of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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Oregon Coast (Near Floras Lake)

I really should know better. It's not like this hasn't happened before. But the lesson here, dear readers, is that one should ALWAYS respect the ocean even though the respect isn't necessarily mutual. The sea is ever ready, willing, and able to merrily smite complacent or inattentive hikers, Exhibit A being this hike on a half-sunny half-stormy day.

The dividing line

Several  years ago, Dale, Lane, and I backpacked the longest continuous beach stretch of the Oregon Coast Trail and our first night was spent at a very crude and primitive campsite next to the New River. So, I figured I'd revisit the campsite by way of Floras Lake on an out-and-back beach hike. What a great idea and what could possibly go wrong?

A great start to this hike

The day was crisp and clear and the sky shone a bright blue with all the sparkling clarity winter air engenders. With a skip and a whistle, I set out on the trail and my mellow was immediately harshed by a warning sign. Literally, it was a rumpled note tacked onto the trailhead bulletin board. Sounding ominous and dire, the notice advised that the beach conditions were way too dangerous due to high surf. However, my inner paralegal noted the sign was dated yesterday and did not mention, cite, or allude to this current day, leaving me a legal loophole large enough to hike through. Based on a) nothing bad ever happens on a clear day and b) if there was a surf warning for today, the note would have said so, and c) those warnings don't ever pertain to me anyway; I decided to ignore what in hindsight, was very prescient advice.

Say bye-bye to the nice trail!

Accompanied by my own sense of delusional infallibility, I stepped around the sign and started hiking. The trail to the beach was underwater from a rain-swollen Floras Lake and I merrily splashed through the extended puddles before peeling to the north on a path I'd never been on. Halfway through a grassy expanse behind the beach foredunes, said path disappeared under several feet of standing water. Sheesh, but the grass made bushwhacking (grasswhacking?) easy and in short order, I found another path leading to the beach.

Belligerent wavery

The ocean was angry. There is no other way to describe it. The waves were booming and frankly, were somewhat on the large side. However, due to the recent storm action, the beach sloped steeply into the ocean which meant that while the waves were large, they didn't run up the beach at all, being effectively deterred by simple slope geometry and gravity (vector cross products and coefficients of static friction too, for the mathematically inclined). 

Shoreline turbulence

The fact the waves did not run far up the beach meant that I could get really close to them and take some awesome pictures of the thundering surf wanting to eat me. Laboring under the misapprehension that I was safe and secure, progress along the beach was slow while the photography was fast and furious. It was time for Master Poseidon to teach Richard a lesson.

Booming waves, as far as the eye can see

The camera was pointed northward along the coast, with my eyes and concentration totally affixed to the scene in the camera viewfinder, when a movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention. It was whitewater in the air, coming in about waist high, and moving faster than a cheetah on a rocket. My mind analyzed the situation and quickly deduced that the airborne water brigade was the leading front of a speeding wave. Obviously, my mind works slower than a speeding wave because before I could take evasive action, I was in it.

Incoming!

The violence of the onrushing water was unexpectedly shocking, for that wave enthusiastically clouted my backside like my abuelita did after catching me in a fib. My hiking pole was rudely snatched out of my right hand and I staggered like a punch-drunk boxer (or even a drunk boxer, for that matter!) in a desperate attempt to remain upright. The outcome of remaining upright was very much in question at that point. I'm proud to say that in a nanosecond, I took firm and decisive action which consisted of raising the camera skyward with my left arm while crying out to the heavens "No, not the camera!" Priorities.

The breach into the New River

The surf quickly retreated, thanks to the steep slope of the beach and I retrieved my hiking pole from where it had been deposited. From that point on, I hiked on the crest of the beach foredunes, soft sand be damned. Truth be told, the beach foredunes were not very tall, and there was a reason for that, which became evident when the New River curved close to the beach. 

The New River on a winter morn

The foredunes are formed by European beachgrass growing next to the beach. As windblown sand collects around the grasses, the dunes grow in height, eventually getting to be 15'ish feet tall. However, on the small strip of sand separating the New River from the beach, there was no grass growing at all. Why? Because the rampaging ocean had clearly breached the dune, running into the New River itself. And here I was, hiking on the precarious sandy perch between two bodies of water that could hurt me if they put their minds to it.

The Coast Range rises on the other side of the New

On the plus side, there was no impromptu hydrologic engineering while I was there and the scenery was fantastic. The wide river glinted in the morning sun and the coastal range rose up in the distance, seemingly coming close to touching the sky. On the ocean side, the noisy waves were a bright white in the early sunlight. Maybe nearly getting drowned was worth all this, but not really.

Clouds start scudding in

I didn't get very far north, not even getting remotely close to the primitive campsite. The walking was tedious, consisting of fighting for footing in soft sand and wading through hummocks of beachgrass. But no way was I going to hike down on the beach! The tide was definitely incoming and it was a logical presumption that hiking conditions would become increasingly challenging. I called it good after several miles and turned back to the south, in the direction of Floras Lake and Blacklock Point.

Not a question of if, but when the rain would start

A storm was undoubtedly blowing in from the southwest and skies quickly became dark with ominous clouds. It was time to quickly hoof it back to Floras Lake but instead, I hiked even slower, taking photo after photo of increasingly belligerent surf and cloud cover. I'm glad to report that there was no more hiker-smiting by the ocean although it did start to rain just as I reached Floras Lake.

Stormy view to Blacklock Point

So the lesson here, dear readers, is always make sure your camera is waterproof! Heed the warning signs, too.

Floras Lake as the day went gloomy

For more photos of this hike, please visit the Flickr album.

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