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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Coquille River

Didn't see that coming! At the end of my hike in the Bullards Beach State Park area, there was parked a van covered with all kinds of decals for windsurfing gear and paraphernalia. The striking combo of white van and dramatic background of dark and foreboding clouds triggered my inner photographer. The rear doors of the van were open so I casually approached the vehicle with the benign intent of politely asking the occupant for permission to take a photo. Yikes! The van was solely occupied by a pair of rabid dogs (wolfhounds from Hades, even!) that let me know vociferously and with much rabidity that my presence anywhere near the vehicle was most definitely not canine approved. I staggered backward in surprise and shock, but really, that was just the last travail on a hike that did present several other trials and tribulations. Also, it was the only travail that involved snarling and sharp teeth but then again, I wasn't hiking with my wife.

The lighthouse presides over the mouth of the Coauille River

There is no official trail along the Coquille River but one can follow a series of use paths tamped out by curious rivergoers or simply follow the wide river when the paths peter out. After shooting some photos of historical Coquille River Lighthouse, I began walking upstream on the aforementioned paths. The sun was out and the river sparkled in the morning light while the town of Bandon sprawled peaceful and quiet on the other side of the river.

Remnants of a bygone era

Bandon's been around since the 1850's or so and much of its history is that of port and harbor on the Coquille River. Once the lighthouse environs were hiked away from, I observed vestiges of that former history in the form of pilings and wooden pillars where once stood viable piers, wharves, and maybe a crab shack of ill repute or two. Notably, the tide was visibly surging upstream through the decaying pilings. Good thing I'd be well off the river banks by the time the tide actually crested.

Raccoons patrol the sandy banks of the Coquille

For the most part, hiking along the river was fairly easy. The tide was rising but not yet fully risen, the ground was firm, and the weather bright and sunny. And yes, you guessed it, that was all too good to last. Bad weather was in the afternoon forecast and by mid-morning, a dark cloud bank scudded over and that was it for the nice sunny day. Additionally, the hiking became a bit tedious when a water-filled slough entered the river at right angles to my route. Time for some bushwhacking!

One of a whole slew of sloughs

It was just a little slough, yet it was too wide to jump over and too deep to wade across, so I followed its banks inland until the watery channel petered out. Part of following the channel involved beating my way through dense patches of Scotch broom, scratchy low-growing conifers, and thorny bushes of gorse. Eventually a pile of logs provided the means of getting across the channel and I made my way back to the river, which acted like nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened at all.

"Make speed in the gathering storm..."
(Paul Kelly)

That was just the beginning. The sloughs came with increasing frequency with each one being wider and deeper which was really annoying because ahead, I could clearly see Bullards Beach Campground, my intended destination. The campground was less than a mile away but it might as well have been located on Jupiter's twelfth moon, thanks to the intervening sloughs. As I negotiated my way around each water channel, the daylight dimmed considerably thanks to increasingly dramatic clouds emoting over the coast. The wind picked up and obviously, rain would be happening at some point in the afternoon.

A waterfowl flees the scary hiker
trying to cross the water channel

What was also increasingly obvious was that the water channels would not let me get to the campground via the Coquille River. The largest slough yet pushed me well to the west and nearly all the way to the beach foredunes, which was almost where I had started this hike from. Giving up on the river-walk thing in entirety, I veered north through some scrubby hinterlands, eventually crossing the Bullards Beach roadway. From there, I grabbed the paved trail leading to the campground, the path providing nice overlooks of the wide river. However, the weather was trending toward downright belligerence, so it was deemed prudent to start heading back to the lighthouse before things got too miserable.

The wind moves sand at high velocity

After taking a sandy footpath that led to the beach, I commenced hiking south into the wind. Airborne rivers of fine particulate matter flowed just a few inches above the sand and my booted and pantsed (panted?) ankles and shins didn't care. My pace was not all that quick because the foreboding clouds were wildly photogenic in a moody and stormy way; naturally, lots of photography ensued. High tide was surging and I had to run from waves every now and then. The constant wind and surf churned up small clouds of seafoam that were spirited away by the breeze to points unknown. Hiking on the beach in stormy weather is wild, yet totally exhilarating, and I enjoyed every tempestuous minute of it. 

This van guarded by devil dogs

After an adrenaline-fueled backpedal away from that van full of snarls and growls, I heard a chuckle from in back of me. It was the wetsuited owner of the van and devil dogs, quite amused by my discomfiture. But, he did let me take my photo and that capped off a great hike and photography combo.

A storm cometh. It has been foretold.

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

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Bandon Beach

About a half mile into our hike, Daweson just had to stop and do some totally senseless and inane back flips with all the joy and enthusiasm of youth. His ebullience was contagious and there'd be no sadness or wallowing in pity for me this day, I knew there was a reason I brought him along!

Sun, land, and sky

Bandon Beach is awesome, there's no other way to put it. The scenery is world-class and hiking along the beach with its miles of rocky islands and points is one of my favorite things to do. On the day of our hike, the weather was superb, making an already great hike even better. The day could never quite make up its mind whether it was cloudy or sunny, but there was more than enough blue sky to gladden hearts and spirits. While semi-sunny, the temps were cool, just perfect for hiking, and our only small complaint was a pretty good breeze blowing in our faces on the walk back to the car.

Islands, islands, and more islands

Another plus on this day was that the tide was out for most of our hike, making all the islands accessible to curious hikers and tidepoolers alike. Although to be technical about it, should an island be referred to as an island when it really isn't an island during low tide? Does it have to be surrounded by water on all sides 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year (366 in leap year) to qualify as an island? Just asking for a friend. At any rate it was cool to be able to walk down among the islands stranded high and dry by the retreating tide.

A perfect day for hiking

As previously stated, the sun was out and the sky was blue with that crystalline clarity that only occurs on a crisp winter day. There were just enough puffy white clouds to keep the day on the sunny side while making for some nice photography as they floated above the beach. A brisk breeze kept an airborne armada of colorful kites afloat as we started. Because of the low tide, there was plenty of beach to walk on and the wet sand reflected the clouds and sun as if it were a low-resolution reflecting pond.

Before

After

                                       

Daweson jumped on a low rock at surf line and did his best one-footed Grandpa pose and I obliged by whipping out the camera. However, through the viewfinder, I could see the wave rolling in behind him and so was able to click off a photo sequence of his being overrun by the surf, complete with comically surprised expression on his face and all. There's two lessons here: never turn your back on the beach and never trust your grandfather. At any rate, his new and previously dry boots had just been properly initiated.

Elephant Island is the largest of the bunch

The last several times I've been at Coquille Point, we've had to scramble over the rocky point due to a high surf. Not today though, we were able to beach stroll around the point, and take in an up-close view of the maze of islands at the point with surging waves snaking their way in between. Elephant Rock has a large ocean-carved tunnel through it and we stopped to watch the ocean flush out the island's lower digestive tract, so to speak.

Oceal: Look at me!
Princess Elwauna: Neverrrr...!

From the point, we enjoyed a leisurely walk along the arcing bay of Bandon Beach, sited between Points Coquille and Grave. The morning sun reflected on a shimmering sea that glittered more than stage lights on a 70's hair band. The islands here resemble all sorts of things from old boots to to lobster claws to my dog leaning back to get her neck scratched. The star of the phantasmagorical collection of islands and rocks is Face Rock, the face thereof belonging to the native princess Elwauna of legend, forever forced to look away from the ocean.

Crooked Creek sparkles

Daweson's boots were just not going to dry out this day as we had to splash across Johnson Creek and later on, Crooked Creek. Both creeks are fairly sizable and although they both fan out across the beach, the main channels of each still remain an ankle-wetter. Once across Johnson Creek though, the islands thinned out a bit with the last major one, Haystack Rock, looming in the distance.

Haystock Rock afloat in a silver sea

After a mile or so on a beach littered with crab parts and other gull lunch leavings, we walked by Haystack Rock, splashed across Crooked Creek, and touched the last rock on the beach to mark our turnaround point. And back the way we had come we went. And yikes, we were catching a full face's worth of cold breeze!

Wind painting on beach sand

We hadn't really noticed the breeze on the walk out because the wind was at our backs which had been protected by our day packs. The wind was really noticeable when certain hikers who like to photograph, got down on one knee or lower; then the windblown fast-moving fine grains of sand applied a stinging dermabrasion treatment to incredibly handsome faces. But the sand on the beach was the Sistine Chapel to the wind's Michelangelo and the artwork of stripes, swirls, and tie-dye in all shades of tan was beautiful enough to justify the skin pain from the near-ground photography. I just hope everybody appreciates my facial skin's bravery and sacrifice.

Daweson braves the wind inside the cave

By this time, the tide was lazily incoming but would be still relatively low for the remainder of the hike. It did become high enough though, to force us to use the scramble route over Coquille Point. Grave Point presented no such problem, although we did take the cave tunnel through the point just for fun. The narrow passageway funneled the wind into gale force proportions as we staggered our way through.

Just gotta ruin my photo, don't you?

When we arrived at the jetty shepherding the wide Coquille River out to sea, a lone surf fisherman was plying his solitary avocation. The rock Daweson had been standing on when the wave had overrun his little perch was no longer visible, being covered up by the incoming tide. Daweson politely declined my request to reenact the morning photo. He seemed tired at the end of this hike but when I told him I'd buy him a jalapeño burger, I daresay he had enough youthful energy left that he nearly did another flip for joy. Such is the enthusiasm of the young, and that's why I brought him along.

More beach abstract art

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

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Bandon Beach 1/2019

I really should know better. It's not like this hasn't happened before. Oh wait...that was yesterday's blog about being attacked by waves near Floras Lake. On this day, the same old high surf warning was still in effect, so heeding the experience from the day prior, I led a small group scrambling over the slippery rocks at the foot of Grave Point because the incoming tide and high surf had taken our beach away. Like I said, I really should know better...but I don't.

Table Rock sets the table for this hike

The day was briskly cool as our group set out on the beach just south of the Coquille River jetty. Sun, mist, and clouds competed photogenically for sky supremacy with the sun mostly prevailing, but not always. Despite the sunlight, the day was still chill and most of us hiked with some jacket or coat on for warmth. The tide was out, but because of the high surf activity, low tide was not all that low. However, we did have plenty of beach to safely walk on while the sea seethed from a safe distance away. What a difference a day and a whole different beach can make!

Some of that amazing Bandon scenery

The high surf first affected us at Coquille Point. Normally, one can just walk around the point on the beach during low tide but on this morn, the ocean was still lapping around the point. However, a well-used short scramble route over the point delivered us to the arcing bay of Bandon Beach. The jumble of rocks and islands always delight and those of us with cameras soon found ourselves straggling behind the speed-walkers who don't care about photography at all.

A furtive peek at Cat and Kittens

Elephant Island has a tunnel boring completely through it and the ocean was busy applying vigorous colonic hydrotherapy to the island, whether the island wanted it or not. Further up the beach was Cat and Kittens, a collection of small islands beyond the waves and an unnamed rock that I euphemistically refer to as "Seal Rock" because it does resemble a seal. At any rate, an entire Noah's Ark of rocks resembling animals were strewn about the beach and surf with Princess Elwauna (mostly known as Face Rock) being the head zookeeper of it all.

Why we hike

Scenery like this is why Bandon is world-famous and why hotels, houses, and condos crowd the clifftops above the beach. It also explains the relative crowds of beach-goers like ourselves out enjoying the sand  and winter sun on a chill morning. Despite the seeming overpopulation, especially when compared to our usual hiking destinations, the scenery commands attention and it is quite easy to ignore the thundering hordes and their abodes. Needless to say, much photography ensued.

Doing the Crooked Creek dance

"Graceful" creek crossing

The recent rains had Crooked Creek full of water as it snaked in serpentine fashion across the sandy beach. Time for boots to get wet although many tried all sorts of leaps and high-steps, some more graceful than others, in a vain attempt to remain dry-footed. Me, I've just learned over the years to simply wade stoically across; it's only water, boys and girls. Still, the interpretive dancelike contortions employed to get across were amusing and much photography ensued, much to the regret of all participants.

High tide moved us up the beach

We turned around at Devils Kitchen, which is where most of the shore and offshore rockery begins to peter out. By the time we had hiked to the Kitchen and lazily consumed lunch, the low tide had become a rising tide. Accordingly, we had less beach for walking on the way back and on more than one occasion, we had to jog away from an incoming wave. On the positive side, the sneaker waves here could not even come close to matching the ferocity of the waves of the day before and thankfully, no hikers were smote on this day. The dryness of our feet were under constant threat, though.

The world's biggest candle

On the return, our group of about 10 hikers or so became strung out and per the natural order of things, I found myself hanging out near the tail end of the pack when a couple of funny things happened. We had hiked, in several instances, on the seaward side of the rocks and sea stacks on the beach when the tide was low. But now, the sea was in the process of overtaking the rocks. That didn't stop Lane from trying to walk around the front anyway and who knew the water was waist deep? Lane didn't but now he did! He had wet trousers and Lane-wet-his-pants jokes as a temporary souvenir of his excursion around the sea side of the rock.

We all should know better

The second point of amusement occurred at Grave Point where the ocean had likewise lapped up against the sheer cliffs of the point. The front (and prudent, too) portion of our hiking group left the beach on a staircase and walked on city streets to bypass the point. But, that's not how I roll! I gauged the situation and decided I could just scramble over the rockpile at the base, warily keeping an eye on the incoming waves wanting to eat me. Several hikers followed me over in blind and trusting faith. Given the situation of the day prior, where I was assaulted by a sneaker wave, you'd think I would know better, but I don't. On the plus side, all hikers got past the point safely and we didn't have to go up a steep flight of stairs either.

The ocean was riled up, to say the least

Once past Coquille Point, it was a sandy beach hike where there was less sand for us to hike on, due to the rising tide. On the seaward side of the rocky Coquille River jetty, the ocean had churned itself into a white frothy bowl of watery anger issues. Large waves rolled up the river, entertaining hikers who had scrambled up to the top of the river jetty at the end of the hike. Occasionally, a wave larger than the rest saw fit to splash us, even though we were on top. Like I said, I really should know better.

Jay tempts the wave gods

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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