Seals in the surf, Sinyone Wilderness
We planted and tended an apple orchard in the central New
Mexico mountains while I was growing up. It was on the far side of the Manzano
Mountains, made famous recently as one of the recurring backdrops in the TV
series "Breaking Bad". Not famous by name but by their unmistakable
profile, filmed so many times while Walter White and his former student make
meth and have epic adventures in the mesa country west of those mountains and
the Rio Grande river valley. The other side of the Manzano Mountains was remote
in the 1960's and although less so, still is today. It's main inhabitants, in
towns such as Tajique and Torreon, are descendents of the hardy settlers granted
land by Spain in what would become northern Mexico and then the United States.
After losing my first job out of college I had a choice, to
continue living in the rental house or sell my new Landcruiser. I still have
the Landcruiser.... We had inherited a
well drillers trailer at our orchard. It was a Dutchcraft manufactured in
Lancaster, Pennsylvania and perfect for a single guy on the road. Welders fixed
up the hitch on the Landcrusier and I headed out like a lunar lander to
northern California and an apprenticeship with a renowned cabinetmaker. James
Krenov was the pied piper of handmade cabinetry and fine furniture in the
1980's and his tune had caught my ear.
It was still some days until wood shavings would curl in
earnest and most of the other students were not there yet when I landed in Fort
Bragg, California one late August day, rolling the rig into the schools parking
lot. Things were quiet in the shop.
There was a bulletin board in the foyer library and on it
was a flyer "Student with trailer wanted to board at small local
farm". I had to read it twice, even three times as I couldn't quite
believe what I was reading. Then I called the number and soon was talking to
one of the nicest people I have ever met.
The farm was out on the high bluff above the Noyo river
south of town. I parked behind the barn on the edge of a small clearing,
plugged in my electric and water lines and Eureka! I was home! The spot was a
relatively short mountain bike ride from the shop. It was a great ride going in
(and a little harder coming out), swooping down a private trail onto the old
Georgia Pacific haul road that lead to the lumber mills in Fort Bragg.
Life in the shop was busy and intense. While making hand
planes and studying ways to cut up exotic planks on gigantic bandsaws a nagging
thought kept hitting the back of my mind. This was northern, northern California. Almost 200 miles north of San
Francisco the coastal highway was a narrow strip of asphalt that turned inland
not too far north of town. Beyond this turn was coastal wilderness nicknamed
"The Lost Coast". I had to go there.
The local coffee shop was animated by an old hippy with long
flowing white beard and hair. His sparkling eyes were intensely black, much
like the espresso beans from which he concocted his magic brew. He flew about
that little shop, whistling under his breath in his tennis shoes and t-shirt making
the most extreme lattes I have ever had. Newspapers and flyers of all sorts
were to be found there. While he danced about, I began reading about local indigenous
groups including the Sinkyone and the sacred ground now known by their name. Along
vertical cliffs, small creeks had carved their way to the coast, and in these
little enclaves, great redwoods grew, right at the shoreline and the legends
said that in these groves the Sinkyone buried their dead.
The shop was open on Saturday's and we were expected to be
there working. It was a shorter day than the rest of the week and we often got
off around 3. After several months of reading and buying up local maps I took
off one Saturday afternoon with a buddy and we headed north. The turn onto the
dirt track heading towards the wilderness was not marked except for spray
painted cryptic signs on the pavement. The narrow lane was just a gap in the
trees easily missed while speeding by.
We drove up that track for some time overwhelmed by the
cliff views of the Pacific ocean. Eventually we drove down onto Usal Beach, the
largest and first of many coves and the last accessible by vehicle. We parked, put
on our packs and headed out on the trail in the late afternoon light.
We hiked for hours. The trail took us high above the coast
with its pounding waves, deep into woods and out into open areas where we
climbed even more. Night fell, the moon came out, and still we hiked on. Around
2 in the morning we dropped to sea level through moist, fern covered hills into
our first great stand of Redwoods. We strolled in awe through perhaps 10 trees
towering silently into the moon-lit sky. The grove was buried deep in the
canyon where fresh water poured into the ocean. Climbing again, we came out
once more into scrub bushes along rounded ridges above the pounding surf. Exhausted
with hiking and the wonder of the place we dropped our packs, and slept right
there on the trail.
Thus, was my first encounter with the sublime Sinkyone
wilderness of Northern California.
Many years later, at a reunion of woodworkers at the school,
some of us journeyed again to Usal Beach where the trail begins into this wondrous
place. We trod above great cliffs that day before pausing for our picnic. Drunk
on friendship, primordial beauty and the bittersweet sorrow that comes in such fleeting
moments we exclaimed about the state of the world. It was September 9th, 2001.
We all flew back to our respective places in America the next day, holding dear
in our hearts these friendships and the ringing beauty of that magnificent
coast.
Mistake Point and the
Lost Coast Trail