by R. Caswell
"Lost Coast"! A place too rugged, wild, unreachable, untamable to be civilized? Visions of misty, tree-covered mountains slanting down to bluffs that drop into the ocean. Rollers cresting and breaking on remote beaches reachable only by long-forgotten Indian trails through roadless valleys.
I had stared at the map of the Lost Coast more than once this year, first during the Range of Light and a month later when van camping up the coast. This time, I thought, this time I'm going to get there, especially that road that goes south out of Shelter Cove on some maps, and not at all on others. Saturday dawned clear and windy. Departing late as usual, I bee-lined up 101 and over to Shelter Cove. I would play on the way back.
Now, this weekend, God or the state of California or the two together had given me an extra hour to use as I saw fit. I just set my watch back on Sunday morning and there it was. Magic! And what I saw fit to do was to ride a little squiggle of road that looked, on the map, to be, oh, about 25 miles long. It was Chemise Mountain Road at the north end but the southern part wore the tag "Mendocino 431".
This road couldn't be too bad since it was one of the few ways out of Shelter Cove, and certainly the most direct to Fort Bragg. Besides, the rain was 2 days ago and any puddles or mud would have dried up by now. I could then ride down the coast without the almost "backtracking" that it would take to go out to 101 and then back on Route 1.
Riding up the grade out of Shelter Cove, Chemise Mountain Road appeared on the right and that's the way I went. The road had been scraped, knocking off the tops of the washboard but leaving the low parts. The dappled sunlight through the trees made these holes hard to see and kept me sort of busy. The "Tobacco Roadish" first 6 miles provided glimpses through the trees of shacks, trailers, old cars, and an occasional real house.
At the end of this stretch was a four-way intersection. To the right was Beaver Harbor Road leading to a campground down on the shore. To the left was Briceland Road which, after 22-1/2 miles, would allow me to join the traffic on Route 101. Straight ahead was Mendocino 431 which, according to the sign, was "not maintained in the winter months". Of course, this meant that the road was maintained in the summer months which were just ending so it must be all right. Up the road I go.
Rounding a curve a half-mile in, I meet the first of the trials by water. There in front of me is a mud puddle. Not a little puddle. This puddle is from edge of the road to edge of the road and 50 feet long. The surface reflects the sunlight like a mirror but with the color of coffee with a dash of cream. It is absolutely impenetrable to the eye.
There is no way around it as the bushes are right up to the road. I don't want to turn around and miss this road so I find a stick and sidle along the edge probing the depth and character of the pool. Hmmm, only 6 inches deep and what seems to be a firm bottom. OK, This looks easy. Back on the bike, first gear, and I motor sedately trying not to raise too much of a wave. Out the other end with a sneer and up the road.
Half a mile later, another puddle about half the length of the first one. Stop, check, same result, and I'm off again. I don't stop for the third, fourth, and fifth ones. Have you heard the expression "riding for a fall"?
The waters of the right track of puddle number six are parting as expected up to about the halfway point. Suddenly the front wheel is sliding sideways down the edge of some submerged rut and twisting sideways. Down we go. The bike is still running, on its side in a half-foot of muddy water, with clouds of steam rising. The saddlebags seem to be acting like water wings. I'm in my "sudden dismount" position, sitting in the mud at the edge of the puddle with both feet in the water. I stand up, lift the bike, and walk it out. At the other side, I find no damage to the bike, the "Stitch" has kept me dry, and even my feet are dry.
How much more of this is there? I'm about 6 miles in with, I guess, another 12 miles to go. I hate to backtrack and this is not really enough to turn around for. In front are an unknown number of puddles and maybe other things but in back is being part of the herd on Route 101. Besides, what am I here for? So I go on down the road.
Now, you would think that water would puddle in low spots. The puddles on this road were in low spots, in high spots, on hills, both up and down slope, any place they felt like. I can see why the county would have trouble maintaining it in the winter.
After several more minor water crossings, appears a puddle almost as large as the first one. I choose the left track for this one avoiding what seems like a ridge running lengthwise in the other one. Almost to the end of the puddle, the front end washes out again and down I go. Like before but this time it's to the left side and the water is deeper. Water runs up my pant leg and down into my boot. I'm sitting in the water with only the miracle of Goretex keeping my butt dry. But I am muddy! Pretty muddy up to the knees, sort of muddy up to the waist, and just slightly khaki up in the splash zone. I stand up in the water, pick the bike up and just ride it out this time.
More puddles come and go but caution and dumb luck serve me well. About now, I notice that there are little white signs at the sides of the road. They might have been there all along being a little hard to see, buried in the brush as they are. The first one I see says "18.75". Does that mean I've gone 18 miles or that I have 18 miles yet to go? The answer is upcoming as the next sign announces "18.50". To me, these are reminders of how far I might have to walk out.
The road continues to climb and drop and twist and turn. A deer disappears in the trees. Occasionally an open stretch where it feels good to power up. Steep-walled washes angle across the road requiring some attention to find the easiest spots to cross. There is tree litter in the road from the strong winds of Friday's storm. The trunk of large burned-out tree has dived down the slope, landing upside-down at the road edge. Another tree angles low over the road. Always, one side of the road drops off and the other side disappears upward. The ocean appears occasionally through the trees, distant and below, as the road winds from one ridge to another, crossing high up in the valleys that drain this range.
The road drops from the ridge down into the last valley. There is flat, open land to each side where the Sinkyone state campground is. In the middle of all this space is one last puddle. This time, though, there are wide spaces on both sides and I just drive around the damn thing and on out.
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