California North Coast & Redwoods
Internet . . . in fact ALL services (including phone) are spotty to non-existent for vast swaths of the northern coast. There are emergency call boxes every mile along the road so I guess this is normal. In the event of a breakdown one would have to trudge to the nearest, and hope you’d picked the right direction.
Over breakfast of Corn Flakes and Granola, we opted for the Coast road. Phoning ahead to book some overnight stays at wineries, and finding out that many County campsites had plenty of spots available. A myriad of exotic places await — Illinois Valley . . . Samoa Landing . . . Trinidad. No wonder Glen’s GPS tried sending directions for Bella Coola via Alaska! A wonderful twisty road lead out of town — shady tunnels of evergreen, arbutus and shaggy Ponderosa Pines. At the State border, Miss Google cheerfully announced, “welcome to California” seconds before a road-side sign requested we “come back to Oregon soon”. So there, with the sun shining warmly, in the 100 feet or so of no-mans-land, we ate the last of our oranges and made lemonade from the one remaining lemon. We can officially enter California. All that effort was for naught though — the customs building was shut tight with a sign saying “Closed Today, Proceed with Caution!”
More steep hills — but less than before. Rocky red cliffs one side of the road. . . the Smith River (!) tumbling and frothing its way on the other. First sighting of Redwood trees — absolutely massive – like Cathedral Grove on steroids. Made all the more impressive due to their proximity on the narrow road — one even had a chunk out of it to allow vehicles to pass!
Ocean views at Crescent City — huge rollers , their vapoury tops swept backwards. Wide sandy beach very like our own Long Beach — hardy surfers, dog walkers and people like us just sitting on a weathered log enjoying the sun . . . in our case consuming two of Creswell Bakery’s delicious pies. Met several road crews making major repairs in the off-season. Then, what we first thought was ocean mist became more evident as smoke . . . most likely from fires inland around Sacramento. Just seems odd that the wind was blowing east towards the coast. Quite patchy and thick at times as it collected in the inlets and bays. Hmm. Camping in this would not be ideal – although we do have N95 masks!
Sign “Elk Viewing” . . . Oh, too late! There they were on the side of the road munching grass happily right beside a wooden replica of an Elk. Neither seemed to mind.
Our phone call to the Humbolt County campgrounds this morning proved invaluable (especially as all State Park offices appear to close at 4:00pm.) A notice for Big Lagoon Campsite – quick, turn right! Pot-holey hump-backed road with speed signs sternly stating ’10 MPH’ . . . we’d be lucky to maintain 5! Rounding a corner, there were the 25 campsites — in among the trees and most with amazing views of the lagoon. A huge rim of sand dunes separated the ocean from lagoon . . . but you could certainly hear the waves thundering and booming on the other side. Riding down the road on a bicycle of every hue was a character one could only meet in California — the campground host! Older gent, but of indiscriminate age, long beard and a woolly hat he welcomed us in and offered us the pick of all but two campsites . . . one was already occupied with a tent . . . the other reserved for a late arrival. Shortly afterwards other campers trickled in . . . tenters . . . campers . . . fancy RV . . . one SUV came equipped with a full-sized mattress folded double on top! I hope they had a tent as well. A lady in a bright pink jacket peddled energetically around the camp, exercising her small black dog. “Hello” she exclaimed on each passing.
We’d left the trailer connected, so packing up the next morning was a piece of cake. Just as we were leaving, the camp host trundled around the corner and waved. “Can we take your photo?” He seemed quite pleased and introduced himself in a polite southern drawl, “My name is Dude . . . that’s the name my parents gave me.” Maybe he grew into the name, but it fitted perfectly! A few miles on, we spotted a young man, backpack, cell phone and skateboard, being pulled along by his dog. We’re definitely in California!
Approaching Eureka, the road was lined on the seaward side with old Eucalyptus trees. Eureka turned out to be a quaint place, filled with beautifully restored Victorian houses . . . curlicues, turrets and stained glass windows. One over-the-top building was some sort of private club, surrounded by manicured lawns, stately palms and pointy wrought iron fences with gates firmly shut. None of your Hoi Poloi welcome. Quite a contrast to the community of Samoa across the causeway. An old lumber community with rows of small company houses . . . once neglected but now being renovated and painted pleasing pastel colours. An elementary school and playground, an historical maritime museum and restaurant, all have the makings of a lovely community. Many of the small towns seem to thrive on a grid of one-way streets, and Eureka was no exception — however we managed to extricate ourselves, and chanced upon a fruit/veggie stall stacked with fresh local produce. Three kinds of oranges, pomellos, lemons, several types of onion and squash, apples, garlic. Our fridge is re-stocked. On to the Redwood State Parks.
For some obscure reason, California has leased out its State and National campsite reservations to a third party. One cannot make contact with an actual human and the website stoutly maintains that there are NO campsites available, anywhere, period. Can it really be that busy? We arrived in some trepidation . . . . would there be room? We had all 170 campsites to ourselves!! Which to choose! Cindy the volunteer Parks person (retired) zoomed up in her official golf cart . . . only too pleased to have someone to talk to and break the monotony. What she had to say about the reservations system is unprintable here. Beautiful trails, massive, and I mean MASSIVE Redwoods abound – one stump dating back 1200 years!, trickling streams dappled sunlight . . . . and we’re the only ones here . . . apart from Cindy. Oh wait . . . a pick up truck has just arrived and set up a tent waaay on the other side. Incredibly peaceful . . . . wonder if this constitutes Tree Bathing?
