Bikepacking down the California Coast
Words and photos by C.J. Foster
Last April, I was transitioning between jobs and scored nearly two weeks off; enough time to throw together an adventure -- something that would offer a moment to reflect, reset, and prepare for the road ahead.
I set out for the California coast. I rented a car and drove to Crescent City (20 miles shy of Oregon). This is where I would begin my real journey -- pedaling home to San Francisco -- a grand total of 420 miles and 32K of elevation, after all was said and done.
Leaving behind the city, I began to feel a quiet peace settle upon me. It was the sense that a chapter had ended and a new one was beginning. There were big changes to ruminate on, something that journeying through forests helps coax along, but still I was eager, anxious, and nervous about taking on a solo trip of this magnitude.
Day 0 (SF to Crescent City -- 355mi + 100 bonus miles due to rerouting )
Heavy rain was in the forecast; just what California needed to replenish our depleted water table and reservoirs. More roads were washed out with each downpour, serving a deterrent for this bike packing trip. Despite poor conditions, I retrieved my rental car, picked up some last minute provisions, and impulsively purchased a quality point and shoot while on a lunch pitstop at In N Out -- this wouldn’t be a road trip without it.
I crossed my fingers that the rain wouldn’t be too bad or last too long.
While on the road, worst case scenarios played out in my mind and doubts churned in my head. Questions about my fitness levels, on-the-fly bike maintenance, and my safety all nagged at me. I have taken numerous solo trips before, but I was still greeted by familiar doubts. I warded off these old friends and pushed the accelerator, willing this trip into fruition.
A landslide had occurred the night before just North of Leggett, which closed highway 1 (just North of where 101 merged with 1). I thought I could outsmart the landslide and the CHP by taking a route that I found on my phone, but the locals and tow trucks dissuaded me. There were potholes that my rental car wouldn’t negotiate successfully. A CHP officer suggested that I drive back to highway 20 and cutover to highway 5 and back on highway 36 -- an extra 7-8 hours of driving to get around one landslide. I was highly motivated to find an alternate route and was successful! There are some windy gravel mountain roads that cut through Covolo to Zenia off highway 162. They were sketchy, pocked with potholes, and many blind corners had cattle hanging around them. Nearly 4 hours and 135 miles later, I was dropped back onto 101. Just in time for a wild downpour to obscure my visibility nearly entirely for the last two hours of my drive. As the wipers whipped away, there were a few moments that I questioned if I should abort the trip and go find a B&B somewhere to lounge around and take it easy. Where’s the adventure in that though?
I made it to Crescent City after numerous bursts of sketchy downpours and 11 hours of driving. At a cheap hotel, I took the last hot shower that I’d have in several days and drank an IPA to settle all my nerves from the drive.
Day 1 (Crescent City to Clam Beach) -- 75mi/4.2k ft
https://www.strava.com/activities/948298792
When you roll out of bed and see your bike next to you, you know it’s going to be a good day. The storm had ended (for now). I returned the car at the world’s tiniest commercial airport after running a few last minute errands (patch kit and lighter are crucial). A polite and professional looking middle aged woman in a knee high skirt helped check the car back in. As I went to check the mileage a man with a mangled undercarriage came driving back up with a dumbfounded expression -- the cowling of the car was dragging on the ground, making an infernal noise. The rental car woman casually walked back in to grab a pair of tin snips. When she returned, she squatted down and removed the offending piece, then informed the man that he was all set. What service!
From there, I was free, off on my two wheels, fully supported. The day was sunny, dry, and a bit windy, but still gorgeous. The road felt solid under my self-propelled vehicle; my legs marginally ready for the physical challenges ahead. The cliffs along the ocean fell away like they had been cleaved by the great Paul Bunyan himself. The ocean would be my comfort, my well of motivation for the next several hundred miles.
The miles of coastline stretched endlessly in front of me. I rolled along undulating roads that led to tiny coastal towns; nearly forgotten, yet timeless. The forest stood sentry over the towns, over the coast, and over me.
Several hours of headwinds and roughly 40 miles in, I stopped in Klamath Falls to admire the 40 ft tall Paul Bunyan and Babe the Big Blue Ox. It dwarfed me and my bike. My hunger had built, so I indulged in a plate full of chili fries and a sandwich at a nearby cafe in False Klamath; got to love being a cyclist, you can eat anything and it’s all considered fuel for the next ride. I had been cruising at 13 MPH, slow and steady, and this would be pretty much the fixed speed that I’d be moving at most of the trip.
After lunch, there were a few decent climbs: one up to Prairie Creek Redwoods and another out towards the stunning Patricks Point. A few lagoons loomed in the distance, they distracted me well enough for about 10 miles as I rounded my way to the campground.
I landed in Clam Beach State Campground after deciding to press on passed Patricks Point (my original stopping point for the day). The tent was a small project, as it was my first time pitching this new 1p tent, which proved to be a trivial task. The hunger was driving me to skip the backpacking meal and opt for some pizza at a local joint in McKinleyville. The kids working did not care if I brown-bagged it while eating a few slices in their store -- likely not their first dirtbag cyclist. Four slices and a 22oz of IPA prepped me pretty well for passing out. There was a slow ambling pedal along the airport road that led me back to camp. A few small planes landed during the sunset and I soaked in how light everything felt, nothing was tugging at me or compelling me to do or be anywhere, I was exactly where I needed to be.
Day 2 - Clam Beach Campground to A.W. Way County Park (Mattole Road) -- 75mi/5k ft
https://www.strava.com/activities/949287569
https://www.strava.com/activities/950851373
The first light of the morning woke me and I felt rested. I wanted to get an early start on the morning since rain was in the forecast, but not until afternoon. I planned on covering a fair amount of ground before the rain came (hah). As I packed up, my camp neighbors warmly offered me a cup of coffee, they lived locally and told me they were getting ready for work -- made me reminisce about camping up at Hawk Camp back home during a work night. The kindness of strangers would be a recurring theme during my trip.
Breakfast was eaten on the bike; the convenience of a breakfast burrito and a chocolate milk on the road. It conjures up an image of a train engineer shoveling coal into his engine to keep it chugging along. The morning was beautiful, I mostly pedaled by coastal farmlands and a smattering of small towns. The headwinds were ever-present, but I felt strong nonetheless. I caught up to another cyclist in Eureka who looked like he was out bikepacking with his loaded panniers, I excitedly asked him where he was off to. He was commuting to work and wasn’t on much of a journey. I wouldn’t encounter another cyclist until my last days of riding.
The farm roads gracefully lead me to Ferndale (my halfway point for the day) where I loaded up on provisions. While visiting a grocery store, I absentmindedly left my sunglasses on a rack and left for a pastry and coffee (I retrieved them). A local who had been in the store had noticed me down the street and flatly observed “you didn’t make it very far” when he saw me in front of the bakery. I’ll call that small town humor.
The climb out of Ferndale was absolutely brutal. It felt like hitting a vertical wall and only the powers of levitation would be able to lift me up the ridgeline that I was attempting. I was desperate to move quickly, but humbled by the aggressive grade and the howling winds at the top of the climb. The threat of rain was no longer merely a threat, I donned my rain gear quickly and prayed that I’d stay dry and cool enough to finish out the next 30 miles. From Ferndale, I covered about 4.2k ft in 35 miles. Brutal with packs, brutal without them.
Needle like rain stung my face for over an hour, my amusement during this section quickly changed. A sketchy winding descent led into Capetown, where I lost one of my water bottles and I narrowly missed being crushed under a dump truck’s wheels. The trucker that was just a tad too comfortable with the roads and cyclists on them.
Following the descent into a cove, a local in a green Tacoma stopped ahead of me and dangled a construction high-visibility vest out of his truck window and stated “dude, you need this!” His name was Oliver, and again, strangers with endless kindness had been looking out for me with safety and hydration (Oliver gave me a water bottle to replace mine, it was even alkaline, for sensitive stomachs). My flickering flame was ablaze for the adventurous path again.
A few miles ahead there was the town of Petrolia with a little gem of a bar called White Rose. I saddled up at the bar to wait out the storm. A beer would revive my sense of humor and the locals were entertained by my very presence. Who bikepacks in the rain, they asked? A few randos contributed to a hot shower fund in their own amusement since AW Way Campground had a coin-op hot shower. The kindness of strangers also contributed another gift from Humboldt county too, a special little doobie hand rolled under the bar. Despite the fact that it had only been two days of pedaling, I felt the beginnings of loneliness assuaged by strangers. I was striving to stay open to any experience along this road.
The campsite was a few flat miles from The Rose (as the locals referred to it), I even turned down several ride offers, told them that this was my journey to power. The campground boasted 30 soggy sites, they were all empty, so I had my choice. The hot shower was restorative, a bit of magic for a renewal that I would need for tomorrow.
Day 3 (AW Way Campground to Wright Beach 76mi/10.3k ft via Usal Road)
https://www.strava.com/activities/950851391
https://www.strava.com/activities/951928834
There’s always an odd sense of waking up in a campground without anyone else around; it’s a bit eerie, but also deeply peaceful. Rested, I packed up and hit the road, noticing a new lovely creaking noise my bottom bracket had developed due to all of the rain.
The plan was to take Mattole Road and connect to Usal road despite most people informing me that Usal road was still closed, but I felt that I didn’t have much of a choice since the reroute due to all the highway road closures would climb up and over Garberville and add an extra 70-80 miles (I had no idea how much climbing it would add). The folks from the White Rose had informed me that the Bryceland Market would be a good place to stop for food and road intel.
Still groggy with sleep encrusted eyes, I rounded a bend, and from the shoulder of the road a blur of black streaked ahead and veered into the center of the road and turned around to face me. It was a bull, of sizable proportions! He pawed at the ground as if to feign a charge. This frightened me, but I took comfort in the fact he didn’t have horns, nor did he have testicles (minor thing noted when he ran ahead of me), but I was leery of this 1500lb bulldozer and hoping he wasn’t too aggressive. I stopped about 50 yards away from him, facing him down like it was a standoff (it felt like a David and Goliath faceoff). I first yelled at him, then rang my bell, tossed small rocks in his direction to get him to move out of the road. He wasn’t budging. Then I thought to channel my inner cowboy spirit, and boldly rode towards him, yelling at the top of my lungs “GO ON, GEEEIIT!!”. This magically compelled him to turnaround and he trotted in the direction that I was rolling in. My inner childhood cowboy was giddy and terrified all at the same time. Such power I yielded. The bull veered off the side of the road before we got to a cattle catcher and I was free from my escort/keeper. I pedaled off to safety, and continued binging on serial killer podcasts, such a odd choice for a sojourn on desolate mountain roads.
Honeydew was a good restocking point where I pounded yogurt like it was water. They had a map of the area and informed me that Usal road was still closed, but I should check in with the BLM office in King’s Range. Just outside of Honeydew, there is a massive climb that aggressively stretches up to King Peak. It humbled me. I stopped several times to give my knees a break and to lube my chain. At one mini pitstop, a local named Grant stopped to check in on me, and I informed him that I was ok, and instead of speeding off to his day, he casually chatted with me for a few minutes. I inquired about Usal road, but he didn’t know much about its current state. The next several hours were a virtual elevator of careening ridgelines, towering forests, washed out roads, and serial killer podcasts.
Dropping into Thorn Junction, I crossed paths with Grant again, he was hauling a load in his truck, and chatted with me briefly and offered up an apple juice. I was thankful for the offer, and took him up on it. Each drop was refreshing, the kindness of strangers continued.
The BLM office was down the road another mile. There was one woman with a colleague there, they both heavily advised me not to take Usal, not that it was a fool's errand, but pretty close, saying that I needed a mountain bike or something beefier than my cross bike (on semi slick 32s). They weren’t exactly too far off, but I decided Usal was my best option, considering my current location and what I could physically tolerate (at this point I was 40 miles in and nearly 5k ft climbing).
There was a awkwardly situated cafe in a lumberyard called Caffe Dolce. Their pastries and sandwiches were exceptional. Both the fuel and the rest were a much needed respite. I was surprised at how busy the cafe was. There was a constant stream of people coming out to pick up a sandwich, I surmised that they were all potentially pickers at some of the farms in Humboldt county. I overheard an Aussie gal talk about going back to the farm.
Back on the bike, there was a smell of dank herbal piney resins wafting at me, I was definitely in Humboldt county. To punctuate that point, I was nearly at Usal road, pedaling along fern laden roadways, when a women walking along the road was most certainly on a different plane than I was. She stated everything is beautiful and asked me for a hug, which I complied and listened to her delve into hyper connected beauty and how we’re all one. I was grasping for an understanding of what all she was conveying to me. I pointed her the way that she should continue walking, and hoped that somebody would return her to wherever she had come from. Bizarre.
Usal’s beginning was a formidable muddy clay-like road, deeply rutted and pocked. The mouth of the whale that would swallow me up and eventually spit me out some ~30 miles and 4k ft climbing later onto highway 1. I ignored the closed gate and passed by. There were rollers that climbed and descended into expansive groves, with each descent typically requiring me to dodge pond-like flooded sections of the road. At least 3 cars were abandoned, a Honda Civic had no chance, the two trucks, despite having 4 wheel drive, succumbed to the relentless muck.
I pushed on. I was grinding away at 6-7MPH for the next 6 hours. I had to dig deep and find humor in the pain and to not let all the beauty wane. My nerves were starting to wear and my body was feeling tired of endlessly riding the brakes and carefully choosing my line, which was even harder with a load. The risk was high since both ends of Usal road were closed and I didn’t have any phone reception. A single mechanical issue could ruin the trip, a fall was a different story… actually, I laid the bike down on one slick descent and took a tumble. I was incredibly thankful -- no mechanicals or injuries.
After a few more hours of rocking out (fittingly enough to If These Trees Could Talk) and noting the descending sun, worry began to set in. I wondered if I’d ever get through this seemingly endless road. My strength was waning, but mentally, I was committed to getting through this. After rounding one of the innumerable bends, Usal beach revealed all its glory, just in time for the sunset. This helped to steady my nerves, as I knew there should be a camp nearby. Indeed there was a camp at Usal Beach, but I was pumped and ready to bid this road farewell, so I cranked on into the night. I climbed another 2k feet and rode another 16 miles in the dark. Thankfully, I had my headlight that was charged, but unfortunately, my taillight died on me. There were just a few cars that passed me (it was 9pm on a Thur night with a highway closed just North of me, hence why I decided to commit to Usal route).
Haggard and nearly broken, I arrived at Westport-Union Campground. I had been on my bike for nearly 15 hours that day. The campsite was on a bluff, the chill winds were refreshing, and helped to cool my nerves. What a day.
Day 4 Westport-Union Landing to Russian Gulch (28mi/1.5k ft)
https://www.strava.com/activities/951928593
https://www.strava.com/activities/953575322
There’s a smile that creeps across your face knowing that you accomplished something that most people wouldn’t dare to attempt, it’s not like I rode a 24 hour endurance race, but it still something to take some level of pride in the accomplishment. As the sun crept up and the ocean sang it’s morning chorus, I couldn’t help but reflect on the tough day; my body was spent. Thankfully, there was a short road to a recovery day, as I was meeting the rest of the Coyote Bomb Squad in Russian Gulch for two chill nights of camping.
I pedaled through Westport, a quirky little coastal town (more like a hamlet), with a tiny cemetery situated on the bluffs and some funky whale mosaic fountain. I savored my breakfast sandwich from a small market run by sweet earthy ladies and then slowly rolled towards Fort Bragg. Coming into Fort Bragg, I stopped in the local coffee shop before hitting the local bike shop, Fort Bragg Cyclery, and chatted with the owner, Mark. Later, I picked up some Teknu since I had managed to hit some poison oak on Usal road. After scarfing on the best pizza in town, Piaci Pizza, and sharing a surprise beer with Mark (bike shop owner), I cruised off to the campsite to meet up with my friends.
Several days on the road riding solo can be a great time for self-reflection and really stoke the fires of your inner hobo, but there are those moments when you’re inundated with gratitude for good friends and their adventurous spirits. I was happy I didn’t have to ride any further and more importantly, elated to be around the warmth of friends and the warmth of my first campfire of the trip. The sunset on the bluffs was of epic proportions.
Day 5 Russian Gulch Exploring, Canoeing, and Hardcore Chilling
Nothing is sweeter than sleeping in and waking up to the smell of hot buttermilk blueberry pancakes cooked on cast iron. Resting, chowing, and some mellow canoeing was on the agenda for the day. We gawked at the ultra-marathoners running through our camp; a funky route, and oddly enough, the canoeing location was the finish line.
Catch a Canoe and Bicycle Too was a quirky shop filled with collectors bikes suspended in the rafters, a series of beautifully crafted “toy” rockets, which looked like they could deliver at least a marmot to outer space, all run and owned by an idiosyncratic shopkeeper. He seemed half-wizard, half rocket scientist, and likely was the most intriguing person that I had encountered while on the trip. His knowledge of photography and rockets was astounding, and he ran a bike shop and a canoe rental business too. And these weren’t just any canoes, these were real works of functional art, just like one would imagine with a beautifully crafted bike, these were easily the most beautiful water-worthy canoes I had ever seen, not to mention the fastest; replete with outriggers for stability. I can’t recommend this experience enough; anyone can manage to enjoy a languid paddle up a gentle river in one of these. On the river, there’s a calm that’s induced that coaxes one to slow down to drink in all the fresh air and sights. Even a handful of seals with pups laid around without a care in the world. A few hours worth of this and it’s like hitting reset on your body. Just mellow; nowhere to be, but right where you are.
The remainder of the day was just chilling with friends, scarfing yet another burrito, and roaming around the bluffs followed by an epic paella cooked by the birthday boy himself, Youngblade.
Day 6 Russian Gulch to Bodega Bay (102mi/6.5k ft)
https://www.strava.com/activities/955648904
These are the types of days that most riders dream about: a good deal of rest, a pancake breakfast, and an epic tailwind that would leave most vikings envious. Despite the fact that the option to hop in a car was there, I opted to pedal the remaining miles back home in 2 days. This might have been one of my favorite days of riding. The hills were fast rolling, each corner plunged down toward the ocean and climbed back up along a coastal bluff. The farmlands added to the serene and bucolic views that elicited a smile. Such a beautiful coastline, such a simple life that calls you to standstill, reflect on a slower pace of nature and the simplicity of it.
Each descent propelled me closer to home and I began to squirm a little thinking about joining the fray again. I pushed on.
Point Arena is a small town that boasts having one of the oldest lighthouses on the coast. It’s a cute and quaint little pitstop close enough for a number of motorcycle riders to reach it from the Bay. A weird sight: hippy/coastal/biker community. California is filled with contradictory juxtapositions, but that’s one of the reasons I love this state. After a solid lunch, I caught up to a crew of riders bikepacking, the only legit riders I had seen! The trio were Canadians heading down from, well, Canada and going down to LA. I was impressed with the amount of beer they were loaded with and sad to turn them down to join them. I had hoped to finally exchange some road stories with fellow riders. There was a brief stop at Salt Point with them, but I felt great from that luscious tailwind, even after 75 miles, and decided to push on to Bodega Bay, about 30 miles down the road.
I rolled into Bodega Bay around 6pm and treated myself to a quality glass of wine and a massive fillet of halibut. So perfect, so nourishing. The campsite at the dunes was a windy one, and made it challenging to sleep despite wearing earplugs. No wonder it’s a favorite spot of windsurfers. Some peculiar dreams crept in that night. Maybe the corporate lifestyle or the dread of the routine that was right around the corner.
Day 7 (Bodega Bay to Larkspur to SF 65mi/3k ft)
https://www.strava.com/activities/956749405
The morning dew hung tightly to everything in sight, it limited my vision, and would eventually morph into a full rain. Undeterred, I knew a hot bath and a cold beer was at the end of my road, but first, I needed a solid breakfast. Estero Cafe delivered. Seated just outside of Marshall, it’s a quaint little organic farm to table type of place, but felt more like a cafe that you might encounter in anytown USA with the local sheriff stopping in and a few regulars just picking up their morning joe. The mist had built up to a sprinkle after I finished my last bite, so it would be a drizzly ride home. Another 60 miles of meandering through dairy farmlands and verdant hills. A host of classic porsches from the 50s zipped along the same roads, they respected me and I certainly marveled at their classic contours.
Fairfax is always a favorite destination of mine, as many bikers can attest. There is a shared love for bikes in this upper-crust hippy town (seemingly contradictory). Gestalt was on my mind, after collecting rain in my shoes for the last 50 miles, I was ready for a beer and a sausage. Both were savored. I felt lonely and wanted to share my journey with someone like I had done the previous year after a longer tour, but nobody extended me the pleasantries. A tired and weariness settled in from the week of riding, yet there was a lingering satisfaction from knowing what I had accomplished.
I opted to take the ferry back to save a few miles and to soak up the bay and the bridge from a different perspective. The quiet Monday afternoon in the city made it feel like a distant stranger, as the streets were quiet. The city towered over the mouse in a familiar concrete cornfield. It felt good to be home; an appropriate way to close out one chapter and start a new one. The cycle continues, as does the adventure, it always will.
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