I've been a lot of places in my life. It's one of the luckier aspects of being the son of someone in the airline industry. Since that first, child-induced urge to travel, I've experienced some off-the-wall places--some quite extracted from society.
But nothing comes even close to this last weekend on the Lost Coast.
10 hours away from Portland is a small town named Shelter Cove in Northern California. A 9 mile hike from shelter cove along the Pacific Ocean on tough rocks and loose sand will transport you to what is, quite literally, a land lost from civilization.
Surfers have known this spot for many years. It was a surfer, my friend Michelle's uncle, who with the help of a friend turned a barn into the most unique location I have ever been to.
The hike to the camp is brutal. The sand and rocks are consistently uneven. After a few miles, the ankles swell from the loose rocks and sloping sand. The feet sink with every step, so each foot forward is 3 times the effort it would be on land. On top of this, you're wearing a heavy pack which only sinks you further into the blackness of the beach.
Eleven of us set out on this adventure--all friends from college set in the ways of reconnection and youthful recalibration. There was little talk of work, much of life, and laughter. Easy laughter that drains from you when there's no reason not to laugh. We walked the beach and shifted pairings, encouraging each other along. As we struck land, we walked through golden meadows to arrive at the camp.
For nine miles, we saw nothing but rock, sand, seaweed, and the occasional hiker. Never trash, never buildings or structures, never a mechanical instrument. Suddenly, after this twisting route along the coast to come upon what may have very well been a castle felt like a hallucination. A mirage from the heat and hike. But as we walked the landing strip that had facilitated our supplies being flown in days earlier, the excitement of the camp's find was one of the most appreciated of my life. Here we were, able to share in Michelle's family's legacy--an escape known to few that could not be more separated from normal life.
A barn housed us. Mats and blankets and sleeping bags were our rest. A spa, a metal bin with wood slats at the bottom, was heated by fire underneath--a human stew of sorts. The kitchen building showed every sign of having been handmade due to the difficulties of being able to get anything pre-built into the camp. Originally built as a surfer's haven, it had every touch of the ocean life-style. Books ranging from philosophy to composting, surfboards fixed between beams in the ceiling, pictures on the walls of waves ridden and snapshots with youths standing tall next to their boards stuck in the sand as if posing with a lover.
We spent three days on that coast. Cooking our meals, drinking ourselves silly, hiking the coast, singing camp songs, playing football or frisbee...even just napping on the beach or at the house. The coast was ours and we were so very lost. Happily lost in it all.
When we left, we attempted to leave no trace of us having been there. But the truth is, once you're there, part of you stays. Part of me will always dream of that coast the way I dream of my grandparents' houses that I will never enter again. It is a space that reconstituted my thoughts of freedom and escape. I await eagerly to go back some day if the option arises, but I treated the goodbye with finality. I can never plan to be as free as I was on that coast because I never planned it hiking in. The freedom became. I awakened to the idea that we were alone and up to our own devices. Each of us was a lord of the flies, and we built our own fantastic society.
