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Shelter Cove to the Victorian Village of Ferndale, California

The Magnificent Lost Coast



imageYou know you’re not in Dallas anymore when the anti-Bush bumper sticker reads: “Chop His Head Off,” and the locals don’t drag the driver out of the front seat for a pummeling, but honk and cheer instead. That’s the way it was in extreme northern California a few years ago, and attitudes haven’t changed much since. So if you’re a hard-core redneck, my guess is Humboldt County won’t be your cup of tea. Like beached whales, hippies of old, and the new, have washed ashore in droves in this northwest corner of the state. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing since genuine hippies are basically harmless and friendly, but as you look around you get the feeling the county took one big hit off the community bong - and forgot to exhale.

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Even though it has a reputation as one of the most progressive (liberal) and prolific marijuana cultivation and consumption regions in the nation, there’s more to Humboldt County than its penchant for pot. Laid-back in the extreme, wet, and brimming with exceptional Victorian architecture, it is also known for its recreational and educational opportunities, earthquakes, the giant redwoods or what’s left of them, anti-redwood-logging protests, maritime tradition, black sand beaches, and teeming wildlife both on and offshore - especially gray whales that migrate north every spring. And just so we’re clear, I came for the whales, the sand and outstanding architecture, nothing more. image Back in the 1920s or 30s when the state of California was constructing fabled Highway 1 that today hugs the Sonoma and Mendocino coastline, it made a strategic decision to reroute the highway at the northern end and veer inland to Leggett rather than follow the coast and hazard the steep and rugged King Mountain Range. Consequently, this scenic mountainous block of peaks and valleys that bulges out into the Pacific Ocean is the largest undeveloped stretch of coastline in California. Known as the Lost Coast, it’s not really lost. If you have a good map you should have no problem locating the handful of roads that penetrate this wrinkled mass of hidden valleys, steep ridges and deep forests of the King Range. We began this leg of our journey at Shelter Cove, a tiny, hidden seaside resort overlooking long swaths of dark-gray and black sand. The community is sprinkled with B&Bs, inns and lodges and modest-to-upscale homes. You begin to appreciate the isolation on the approach to Shelter Cove from Garberville as you climb up and over the steep, winding crest of the King Mountains and drop quickly to the black sand beaches composed of greywacke, a soft, dark-gray sandstone. image The mountains rise straight from the coast to a height of 4,000 feet in the span of 3 miles. Congress was sufficiently impressed to designate 68,000 surrounding acres as the King Range National Conservation Area (KRNCA) in 1970, much of which is official “wilderness” and beyond the reach of development. It extends for 35 miles between the southern Sinkyone Wilderness State Park and the Mattole River up north. With towering mountains on one side and the big, churning waters of the Pacific on the other, KRNCA’s stretch of coastal trail is part of the 64-mile-long California Coastal Trail of the Lost Coast, a very popular trek for backpackers, particularly during drier summer months. Try as we did, we spotted no whales at Shelter Cove so continued north on the winding, paved back roads through a sporadic forest of Douglas fir that covers high meandering ridge lines. The road eventually plummeted to the Mattole river which courses past mile after mile of quaint working farmlands as green as green can get, all the way to diminutive Petrolia where oil was first pumped out of California circa 1865, though little evidence of that undertaking remains. Not all of the King Mountain Range is uninhabited wilderness. For whatever reason, people are tucked throughout these brushy hills and forests and valleys, forming a widely scattered community of farm houses, cabins, ranch homes and the occasional mobile dwelling; a very discreet, pastoral setting where livestock graze and fence lines follow the rolling, rich terrain. We also saw many cowboys and cowgirls on horseback rounding up cattle at the north end, which struck me as odd this close to the ocean. image Unheard of anymore in California, we heard of some fine, inexpensive beach camping near a large estuary where the Mattole empties into the wild, roaring ocean. We pretty much had the place to ourselves and spent three lovely, dry days strolling through sand dunes and listening to the magnificent slap and roar of colossal waves crashing onto the beaten shoreline while gulls circled overhead and soared with the currents that washed over lofty green foothills that rose abruptly from camp. The roaring peace was tantalizing, although we were a bit disappointed as there were no whales here either. Binoculars raised, I slowly swept the gray-green ocean in search of brown-gray specks and that telltale puff of spray where those lumbering giants surface for air, spout, and then vanish in slow monotonous succession. But there was nothing, just water and waves and small, rocky sea stacks. Twenty years ago, on a whale-watching expedition off the coast of Monterey, our big boat came illegally close to a pod of a dozen or so behemoths churning through great, rolling waves, the group bunched together and dipping in and out of the water, collectively out of sync but individually in rhythm, rising and falling in a powerful froth, their massive heads plowing through salt water in a determined push north to Alaska. What a thrill that was. What an incredible, memorable thrill I had no realistic expectation of duplicating this time around, though I knew they were out there now, somewhere, beyond the long shadow of the Lost Coast. imageOur stay was all the more serene due to a large posted sign that specifically prohibits motorized vehicles - like those ORVs that are taking over the West - and dirt bikes, from driving on the sand and across delicate beach grass and other plant life. This reasonable prohibition kept things quiet and sane. On the second day I stood atop an enormous driftwood log staring off in the distance, at peace with the world, sipping my hot cup of Bengal # tea and contemplating the muffled, gentle beach sounds, the gentle rustle of salt-scented wind through waist-high brush, the gentle rumble of the constant surf, the gentle screech of hovering gulls, and the not-so-gentle ROAR of two ATVs and a couple of motorcycles that raced onto the beach right past the “stay out” sign. For the next two hours the pack ripped back and forth and around and around and up and down the dunes, popping wheelies, spinning donuts and churning my delicate beach grass and pretty plants into mulch. imageAnd then they were gone and left me with the peace and some quiet and a profound ringing in my ears. Oh well, I thought, finding solace down by the crashing waves where I scanned the ocean once again for those elusive gray whales. But all I saw were a couple of large sea lions popping their heads up and out of the water right off shore and snorting, not 200 feet away. Then, something caught my eye just beyond the surf line where the sea lions frolicked. I focused on what I thought was a large gray-brown log, but this 30-foot log had a mind of its own and dove and rose and dove again and resurfaced and rotated its broad back, and whenever it appeared it spouted a large spray of water straight up. And I saw not one whale, but two, doing whatever whales do down there, feeding I presume, just beyond the white froth, and I studied them carefully for 15, maybe 20 minutes before they disappeared. It was a fine evening, and the next day near dusk I saw another whale, or was it the same one in the same spot, biding its time, splashing north, spouting. Life was good. image A plaque near the campsite explains that those large mounds of sand to the south are middens, ancient landfills where the Mattole and Sinkyone Native Americans, and their ancestors, discarded shells, bones and other refuse over the course of millennia. All this land was their home until the Europeans arrived and executed a form of genocide on these ancient tribes. This is no dark secret, no left-wing smear campaign. It’s a fact. It’s in the history books. And it was a dirty shame. I also learned that I was standing on one of the most active, earthquake-prone spots in North America, and having lived through a few shakers in my time, it caused me to pause and ponder such far-flung places as Haiti, Chile and Banda Aceh. Called the Mendocino Triple Junction, three tectonic plates grind together right here. Consequently, earthquakes in the area are frequent. On January 9, 2010, a 6.5 jumper shook things up pretty good, though not on a catastrophic scale, this time. The epicenter was shallow, beneath the ocean 22 miles west of the lovely Victorian town of Ferndale that got slapped around a bit, roughed up around the edges. By my calculations the temblor struck four months ago within a couple of miles of here. I turned and gazed at the terribly beautiful ocean and imagined death by tsunami; not mine, but someone else’s since I decided right then and there it was time to move on up the road. image

FERNDALE

When you step into Ferndale (population 1,400) you’re stepping back into the Victorian era, and it doesn’t even feel like a theme park. Here, Main Street has been placed on the National Register of Historic Places, and this inviting quiet town is regarded as California’s best-preserved Victorian village. Ferndale’s wealth can be traced back to the 1890s and the rich bottom lands that supported a thriving dairy industry. It was fitting that the colorful, grand old Mansions were called “butterfat palaces.” Splendidly restored and maintained, these century-old architectural delights and manicured gardens and old churches dating back to the 1800s are the backdrop to a small but rich artistic community; the town boasts a year-round theater season, and has an array of restaurants, bakeries, inns, galleries, and eclectic specialty shops. image If you’re into dead people, Ferndale takes great pride in its cemetery which overlooks rooftops and the distant ocean, a historical window offering glimpses back in time. If you’re into tundra swans, visit the Eel River Delta beginning in March for one of the largest coastal migrations anywhere. And if large, lush swaths of urban habitat of Douglas fir and maple with its many resident birds is your thing, stroll through 105-acre Russ Park off Ocean Avenue (no wheeled vehicles allowed). Maybe you’ve seen glimpses of Ferndale on the silver screen and didn’t realize it. “Outbreak” (1995) starring Dustin Hoffman was filmed in part right here, in addition to “The Majestic” (2001) featuring Jim Carrey. The magnificent Lost Coast and Ferndale’s Victorian opulence will cast a magical spell which should not be missed. A mere 45 minutes south of Eureka, it’s only five miles off Highway 101 and well worth the detour. Clippings


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John Treadwell Dunbar -- Bio and Archives

John Treadwell Dunbar is a freelance writer


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