Baxter Pass

Late summer in the Sierra Nevada breeds afternoon thunderstorms. Each day after lunch, great, boiling thunderheads flowed over the horizon. We took refuge inside our tents and listened to cracks and roars of thunderbolts reverberating up and down the valley like jets buzzing over our heads. Lightning bolts lit up the tent fabric from outside while simultaneous peals of thunder boomed and rolled from one end of the basin to the other. When electric shocks cracked and smoked nearby, I had second thoughts about the wisdom of trading in my fibreglass tent poles for aluminum.
Doug, Tim and I were camped on a lake peninsula in Sixty Lakes Basin in the Sierra Nevada mountains west of Independence. Tim is Doug’s son and was twelve that summer. The two of them came to fish and fished every day. I threw a hook into the water on the first day of the trip; it snagged the lake bottom, then the line tangled itself around the reel and the pole and broke. This reinforced my lifelong conviction that I was not born to fish. I was better suited to sitting underneath a tree with a book.
Our friends Mike and John-boy had hiked in with us for the first week, then they had to return to work. We stayed on for a few more days.
Living without social restraints can change people’s perspectives. Two weeks in the wilderness altered our attitude toward hygiene. It seemed okay to postpone bathing. A day did come, however, when we could no longer stand ourselves or one another. It was time to test our new portable showers.
We filled black plastic bags with water and set them in the sun to warm. After lunch, I hung my bag in a tree and stripped down. When I opened the shower nozzle, it released a trickle of water that cooled quickly as it flowed down my body in the open air. I sudsed up and scrubbed as shivering skin tried to shrink away from chilly water. After rinsing, I was clean–except for mud oozing between my toes. I waddled to the lake to wash my feet. Then I lay back on a patch of grass and waved them in the air until they were dry.
Doug had packed in a bag of beans and we decided one day to boil them up and take a break from fish. We put the beans into a pot of water in the morning and let them simmer over the fire all day. There is something we were missing about the chemistry of beans. When we put them on our plates at suppertime, they were still crunchy. But we ate them and loved them.
By the time we were ready to return to civilization, Tim had toughened up. He and I took off down the trail carrying our packs with enthusiasm while Doug, walking at a more deliberate pace, fell behind. Because of that, Doug didn’t miss the turnoff to Baxter Pass. Tim and I were well on our way to Yosemite before it occurred to me that we might be on the wrong trail. We met some hikers who had a map and showed us where we needed to go.
When we returned to the trail fork, we were behind Doug trying to catch up. He thought we were ahead of him and he was trying to catch up. While we played this game of blind tag, the sun dropped behind the western peaks and darkness came on like a falling curtain.
Tim and I looked for a place to camp. We could not see the ground but we could feel our boots sinking into mud and heard squelching noises as we walked. We shuffled through the bushes, sliding our feet so that we did not trip, until we felt firmer ground. We were tired and it was dark, so we unrolled our sleeping bags in a clear space and went to bed without supper.
In the morning our water bottles were frozen. I started the gas stove and cooked breakfast while Tim whistled for his dad. Doug had camped nearby and found us in time to share a cup of coffee.
The trail down Baxter Pass was grueling–steep and rocky and endless. The pack, which had not lightened as much as I thought, banged on my shoulders and back. Rocks rolled under our feet. The strain of downhill walking put enormous pressure on our knees and thighs. It didn’t help that Tim laughed and chattered the whole time.
When we reached our car on the valley floor, I didn’t have the strength to engage the clutch pedal. Doug drove home and I slept, dreaming of hot, steamy showers.

Mill Creek

Orange flagging fluttered upstream, tacked to the tops of survey stakes set at intervals in the brush. We were well beyond the end of any recognizable trail but the seductive hanging ribbons lured me on. Dexter barked encouragement when I stopped to catch my breath. Easy for him to say, he had four legs.
We had parked eighty miles north of San Luis Obispo on Nacimiento Ferguson Road, a half mile east of State Highway 1, south of Lucia, at a sign marking the Mill Creek trailhead.
Unfairly to legs that had not yet warmed up, the first few feet of the well-worn trail were steep and rocky. Mill Creek rippled below with the soothing white noise of running water.
The trail leveled off and turned sharply through a grove of California bay laurel, then wound up and down along the canyon wall through riparian creekside growth. Lichen-mottled gray granite rocks lay in thickets of sword and bracken fern.
Within a half mile, the trail intersected the creek and continued upstream in the shade of great redwoods, bigleaf maples and sycamore trees.
A rusted iron water valve, about a foot in diameter, lay beside the trail in a location that might have once been a mining site.
We followed the creek through thick, clover-leafed ground cover, sidestepping fallen trees and scattered branches. Dexter, with his short dog legs, scooted underneath a buckeye tree that lay across the trail. Its root ball was still covered with earth and the branches along the trunk grew vertically, reaching for the sun.
The trail became more difficult a mile from the road, following a dry, rocky streambed before turning and twice crossing the creek. The canyon was narrower here, with shorter walls that provided a more open view of the sky.
We crossed a boulder field and I clung to tree branches as the trail hugged the edge of the bank overhanging the stream. The trail turned left away from the water and entered a redwood grove where a fire ring and benches made a picturesque camping spot. On the other side of the narrow canyon, flat ground dotted with great stumps marked the place that was once a staging area for logging and milling (hence the name "Mill Creek"). A close search turned up a few redwood shingles.
Beyond this point, the trail was less distinct and required some tenacity to follow. After crossing the creek several times and scrambling over a large rockfall that was overgrown with foot-entangling vines, I was ready to give up. Then I saw a forest of orange flagging and painted stakes and a sign that said "National Forest Land Behind This Sign." Nearby was a survey benchmark beside the creek. While I sat to copy its inscription, Dexter dug a nest in the soft soil behind me, kicking pawfuls of dirt onto my pack and the back of my shirt.
More orange flagging fluttered from tree branches upstream so we pushed on. Dexter proceeded with the confident stride of a dog who knows his way and, sure enough, traces of the trail appeared from time to time. When we got to a point where we were leaping from boulder to boulder in the middle of the stream, however, I began to lose faith in my pathfinder. We crawled underneath logs and over rocks, hanging onto trees and bushes to keep from falling into the water. The orange flagging marched onward.
We climbed through a jumble of fallen trees past a small waterfall. Beyond that, the creek grew steeper as did the banks on both sides. I could no longer pretend that we were having fun or that the route was safe, and there were finally no more orange flags in sight. We turned back to the camp in the redwoods and shared a sandwich before returning to the car.
INFORMATION BOX
The redwood camp is an hour’s hike from the trailhead, about two miles. Terrain is fairly level to that point and the trail is easy to follow. There is a small parking area at the trailhead and a larger one just past it around a bend in the road. Poison oak is scarce and easily avoided. Only experienced hikers looking for a hard time should continue past this point.

Cerro Alto

I turned the binoculars slowly to capture the entire panorama. From the top of Cerro Alto Peak, I could see most of San Luis Obispo County, from the white sands of Oceano to fog-shrouded Piedras Blancas lighthouse. We were 2600 feet above the blue water of Estero Bay. A friend told me that, on crisp winter days, he can see snow-covered peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains from here.
Dexter and I had started our hike two hours earlier from Cerro Alto Campground. As we walked across the parking lot to the trailhead, someone’s cat slunk across our path. Dexter pulled at the leash. He likes cats.
A wide, well-packed trail wound up the canyon parallel to the creek below us. Dusty oaks hung overhead and provided shade. Ferns and fallen trees covered the streambed.
We crossed the creek a mile from the campground and started up the west wall of the canyon. We flickered in and out of shadow as the sun played peek-a-boo on our left. Wispy tendrils of fog blew overhead from Atascadero.
We climbed 300 feet in the next half mile. Pint-sized madro a trees and burnt-over oaks jutted from the brushy hillside. The canyon suddenly unfolded and revealed the television towers on Tassajara Peak.
A sign at a trail junction pointed to the summit. An overgrown fire road dropped left into the canyon. We turned right to climb some more.
The trail leveled and turned left around the end of the ridge. Directly ahead was the fog-covered Salinas Valley. Blue Pacific waters rounded Estero Point on our left. Cerro Alto Campground lay directly below.
We intersected another trail, one that goes directly from the camp to the summit. A sign said it was 1.2 miles to the top.
We climbed 400 feet in the next half mile. As we rounded a curve, Morro Bay appeared below. The sand spit rolled from Los Osos to the Rock. Tidal canals divided the estuary into abstract shapes. I stopped for a bit to take in the details of this grand sight.
We hiked a little farther to a trail fork. Here we faced a dilemma. Was the summit straight ahead, or should we switchback to the left? It was mankind’s oldest philosophical question–"Which way is up?"
The straight-ahead trail led to a CCCMB work bench and a scenic overlook. Central Coast Concerned Mountain Bikers (non-motorized) sponsor trail maintenance work days at Cerro Alto and at other local mountain biking areas. They have constructed new multi-use trails at Monta a de Oro and at Santa Margarita Lake in partnership with the Sierra Club, equestrian groups and bicyclists. With funding from the San Luis Obispo Bicycle Club, CCCMB places work benches and tools alongside the trails. A shovel, rake and a Macleod are provided for volunteer trail maintenance.
We returned to the trail fork and continued our climb to the summit. Twenty minutes later we were atop Cerro Alto Peak. I swept the horizon with binoculars. All of the Seven Sisters lay below, from Islay Hill to Morro Rock.
Beyond the Irish Hills, the Guadalupe sand dunes shined through fog that enveloped Pismo Beach. Cambria Air Force Station sat on a ridge south of Cambria. The white rocks of Piedras Blancas framed the lighthouse. Junipero Serra Peak, highest point in Monterey County, stood above its neighbors. Salinas Valley vineyards cascaded over foothills of the Santa Lucia Range. The Cholame Hills hid Parkfield but parts of Atascadero and Santa Margarita were visible below.
Our descent seemed steeper than the climb. Small rocks rolled like marbles beneath my boots and made the footing precarious. We took the direct route back to the campground and arrived in less than an hour. The cat was nowhere in sight. Dexter took several long looks just to make sure.
Cerro Alto Campground is located midway between Morro Bay and Atascadero on Highway 41. The trailhead is a mile off the highway at the end of the paved road. A direct route to the summit of Cerro Alto Peak begins between camping spaces 15 and 16. A longer loop trail starts opposite camping space 19. The fee for day-use parking is $5.00. Dogs must be on leash.

California Coastal Trail San Simeon Point

William Hearst and his family left us more than a castle. Across Highway 1 from the Visitors’ Center, sitting on San Simeon Bay, is William R. Hearst Memorial State Beach. This was given to the people of California by the Hearst estate in 1951.
Park hours are sunrise to sunset. Day use and parking are free. A 1000 foot pier projects into the bay, providing a nice promenade for fishing or sightseeing. California Kayak Company offers kayak tours and rentals. A picnic area has tables, barbecues and an open air shower. This is a convenient starting point for a hike around San Simeon Point.
Dogs must be kept on a six foot leash inside the park. I explained this to Dexter and told him it was just until we left the park area. I don’t know how much Dexter understands when I explain things to him, but we did give him the Readers Digest Dog IQ test once. He scored Very Smart.
At the north end of the beach, past Sebastian’s General Store, a trail leads up the bluff into a eucalyptus grove. A barbed wire fence separates a narrow pathway along the bluff’s edge from the Hearst property inland. The fence soon disappears and the trail continues along the periphery of San Simeon Point.
Within a few minutes, we entered a grove of pine trees in a grassy meadow. Their branches, hung with tufts of Spanish moss, grew in random patterns. Vines of poison oak wrapped around the trunks and reached upward toward the sunlight. Interspersed among the pines were elderly eucalyptus trees surrounded by slender shoots of offspring. The ground beneath was open and park-like. It reminded me of Point Lobos. To the left, across the tops of berry bushes, we had views across the water to Point Estero and Point Buchon.
Dexter barked to warn me that we had company. Three black Angus bulls were hanging back in the shadows of the trees and giving us wary stares. I called Dexter to my side and we kept walking.
At the tip of the point, a trail led down to a rocky ledge just above the water line. North Entrance Rock, just offshore, provided a resting perch for en route cormorants. A tiny beach, accessible only by the adventurous, was bounded on the south by an archway cut through the rocky bluff.
We walked around to the north side of the point. Steep trails led down to rocky tidepools. Another isolated beach was more accessible but also more exposed to the cold, onshore wind. We slipped and slid down the slope. There was a short jump to the coarse, wet sand. The tidepools had your standard stuff–crabs, mussels, anemones. Since the sand was wet and the tide was out, I guessed that the beach might go underwater a couple of times a day.
Continuing north, we had our first views of Piedras Blancas Lighthouse. I sniffed the air–salt and iodine, no hint yet of elephant seals. A fishing boat pitched and rolled offshore.
Most of the beach on the north side of the point is made up of striated sandstone, bent and buckled by tectonic forces so that the layers lie almost vertical.
The trail wound through low brush parallel to the cliff. At times it was forced by stiff juniper branches right to the edge of the precipice. That didn’t bother Dexter as much as it did me. At other times, it tunneled through the juniper limbs, forcing me down to dog-level in order to pass underneath.
Finally the coastal trail gave up and turned inland. It continued north through a grove of cypress trees, cutting between parallel rows like a bridle trail. At the edge of the trees, we followed the pathway onto a large, open coastal plateau. We could see the lighthouse ahead of us and cars passing by on Highway 1. We continued north, angling toward the coastline, through fragrant, flowering bushes and busy insects.
Twenty minutes of walking brought us to the south end of Windy Cove. A long stretch of sandy beach rolled north to distant, white dunes. Dexter led me to the end of a small creek where it pooled and sank into the sand. He needed to get a drink of water and soak his feet.
We had a nice view from the creek’s edge of Mr. Hearst’s twin towers on the far ridgeline. We also had closeup views of several dozen Angus bulls who were enjoying the forage around us. Dexter and I both thought this was a good time to walk back to San Simeon and see what we could rustle up for lunch.

California Coastal Trail San Simeon to Pico Point

California’s Coastal Trail, established in 1976, is a work-in-progress, made up of a variety of segment types–sometimes a footpath, sometimes a highway shoulder, occasionally long sections of pristine, sandy beach such as the three-mile stretch north of Cambria between San Simeon pier and Pico Point.
I parked at the first vista point north of Pico Creek and let Dexter out to sniff his surroundings. Before we even left the parking lot, a gang of squirrels began working together to torment the dog. One of them whistled to catch his attention, then they began a round robin of sequential whistling that had him running in circles trying futilely to catch up with the sound.
I called him to come, put him on leash and we headed for the edge of the bluff to make our way down to the water. We found no boardwalk, no stairs, no steps–just a worn path sluicing through rough dirt with rock handholds. It’s times like these that I love gravity.
When we landed on the beach, kelp-covered boulders jutted out of the sand around us, making me feel small. Brown daubs of mud nests dotted the rocky cliff and swallows swarmed like angry bees. A saltwaterfall trickled through brushy vegetation rooted in the rocky cliff and a blanket of orange nasturtiums crawled down a sloping shoulder.
The tide was out, a foot and a half below normal level, and we had lots of room to walk on wet, firm sand. Fog swirled and the sun was a faint, white disk.
Carpets of yellow, blue and orange flowers flowed over the undulating edge of the bluff.
Green, hairy plants that you normally see waving lazily at the bottom of the sea sprawled across the beach and strands of kelp lay embedded in the sand, looking like morning hair. Starfish and anemones lay exposed on the sides of rocks that would be under water in another six hours.
I spotted a leopard-marked seal dozing on a rock not far from shore and took a photograph. When I angled toward him for a closer shot, he sat up and watched me until I backed off.
North of Little Pico Creek, rising water forced us to climb onto a rocky ledge. We walked around tide pools and across mussel beds and threaded through purple and gold starfish until we were able to descend and resume walking on the sand. The fog disappeared and sunlight illuminated pools of water with startling clarity.
As we rounded a point of land, within sight of the pier, I saw a colony of seals sunbathing on an offshore rock. When I stopped to take photos, several of them slid into the water and watched me, heads rising and falling with the roll of the swell.
The waves in the lee of San Simeon Point seemed docile and subdued as they rolled quietly onto the beach. We stopped for a doggy drink at an unnamed creek that was dammed behind a sand bar into a stagnant-looking pool.
A hundred yards from the Hearst Beach parking lot, we passed a set of steps that led upward to a rusty chain link fence. I watched a solitary bicyclist amble the length of the pier in his helmet and bright jersey.
On the way back to Pico Point, we found a shelter that someone had constructed of driftwood. It lay close to the foot of the bluff above the water line and looked as if it had room for two sleeping bags inside.
Fog returned as we approached our starting point. We climbed up the bluff trail, Dexter a bit more easily than I, and settled into the car for the drive home.

California Coastal Trail Piedras Blancas

It’s easy to park at the old Piedras Blancas Motel and walk along the coastline in either direction, north to Point Sierra Nevada and Arroyo de la Cruz, or south to the lighthouse.
Cappuccino Cove coffee shop and the motel are a ghost town now, no longer serving pastries, lodging or gasoline to passing tourists. The former owners’ residence is deserted and signs are posted warning visitors that the facilities are closed for renovation.
Trust for Public Land owns the property at present but plans to transfer it to State Parks next year. It will probably become a visitors center, park headquarters and a campground, all part of the new section of San Simeon State Park that extends from Cambria to Ragged Point.
I put Dexter, my dog, on his leash and we walked to the edge of the bluff where a cable runs along the edge to protect people from the dangers of erosion. The ocean is nibbling away at land’s edge in a dramatic way at this location. One of the motel units is in danger and winter storms sometimes send waves breaking over Highway 1 nearby.
We followed an old RV camping road around a small headland down to the beach at the mouth of Arroyo del Corral where a small creek enters the sea.
Sand bars have dammed the creek and created small lagoons where harbor and elephant seals swim during the springtime. Snowy plover habitat is marked off limits in the middle of the beach.
Dexter and I followed a narrow shingle of sand south of the creek between the vertical bluff wall and the surf line. I had timed our hike for early morning low tide but it was getting late and waves were reaching farther inland as we walked.
We raced between waves around a point to the next beach and walked out on a rock that, even though it was 10 feet above water level, had fresh tide pools on top. Beneath our feet, seawater coursed through a narrow fissure, a small channel that compressed and amplified the force of the water and the sound that it made.
Dexter was not enthusiastic about walking out to the very end of the rock and tugged at me to return to the beach, barking in case I missed the message. I’m not the surest-footed gazelle in the herd so that didn’t hurt my feelings and we went back.
I found a small arroyo that provided a way for us to climb away from the rising tide to the ice plant on top of the bluff.
We followed the old route of Highway 1 to the next beach, past a reed-covered creek and a water tank. Waves boomed onto the half-mile stretch of deserted sand which, during birthing season, is covered with hundreds of elephant seals.
Dexter and I climbed up the bluff to the ice plant meadow and walked across the peninsula along the barbed wire fence that marks the Bureau of Land Management boundary.
Pods of elephant seals dozed on the beaches south of the lighthouse, making them off-limits to hikers, so we turned back, heading diagonally across the point toward the Hearst water tank. I found a faint trail through the ice plant that Dexter liked better than bouncing across the springy vegetation.
Back at the coastline we stayed in the dunes above the beach and watched surfers make their way from cars parked on the highway to the water. We passed a driftwood shelter sitting above the water line and watched a blue heron flap lazily across the dunes.
When we reached the car, I wished the coffee shop were still open and serving creamy cappuccinos and hot lattés, but a wish won’t buy you a cup of coffee, so we loaded up and drove away.

California Coastal Trail Point Sierra Nevada

Fifty miles north of San Luis Obispo, the California Coastal Trail bends away from Highway 1 in a westerly direction, following the shoreline around Point Sierra Nevada while the highway turns inland.
I parked in a wide turnout, put Dexter on leash and we followed a worn path through wiry brown grass along the edge of a bluff. The tide was out leaving an abundance of small pools in the rocks below. The gray ocean rolled in slow movement that was soothing and calming. Pelicans glided in shifting formations of kaleidoscopic patterns. The sea breeze carried the smell of sulfur, fish and salt .
We intersected a ranch road and followed it to a beach at the mouth of Arroyo de la Cruz Creek where shorebirds scurried across wet sand. Oystercatchers perched on white-coated La Cruz Rock a short distance offshore. Pelicans floated near the rock, dipping their heads under water and splashing furiously with their wings at the ocean’s surface.
The creek formed a large, freshwater lagoon behind a sand bar and the surface was alive with seagulls.
At low tide we were able to walk across a rocky shelf awash with slippery green sea grass. The next beach was covered with chopped up ribbons of kelp that were slick as wet ice to walk on.
We rounded Point Sierra Nevada on a rocky shelf, watching out for scuttling crabs as they skittered sideways to get out of our path. I skirted a pool of water that was so clear and transparent that I almost stepped into it.
Beyond the headland we walked on a long, sandy beach from which we could see all the way to Ragged Point. The ocean roared ceaselessly in the unprotected bay beside us. At the north end of the beach we wound through a thicket of white-bleached driftwood onto the grassy bluff that rose above the sand.
Dexter was excited to see gopher mounds in the meadow. Every time I stopped to take photographs, he dug frantically as if he could dig up one of the subterranean rodents through a furious will power.
We followed a cow path that was cut so deep and narrow that it was difficult to walk in. Yellow-eyed daisies grew in clumps next to glistening white morning glories. A hawk flapped into the air from behind a brush pile where it had been feasting on a field mouse.
We pushed through brush and chaparral to the edge of Arroyo de los Chinos. The walls of the ravine were steep and thick with poison oak so I didn’t try to cross.
Instead of returning along the beach, we stayed inland and walked across sand dunes toward the mouth of Arroyo de la Cruz, using La Cruz Rock as our guide.
The dunes were embroidered with pink and yellow flowers and pretty to look at, but scalloped hills and depressions made walking an energetic adventure.
I followed Dexter as he found the easiest way down to the beach south of the point and headed straight for the ocean to cool his feet. As I walked south on the sand, he walked a parallel course offshore, up to his belly in cool seawater.
We crossed the sand bar at the mouth of the creek along the edge of a willow grove and passed two places where people have camped. At the end of the beach we ascended the bluff on the ranch road and followed it back to the car.

California Coastal Trail - Ragged Point

California’s Coastal Trail (CCT), established in 1976, is a work-in-progress, made up of a variety of segment types–sometimes a footpath, sometimes a highway shoulder, occasionally long sections of pristine, sandy beach. In some places it is still no more than a state of mind, which I found out recently at Ragged Point.
CCT enters San Luis Obispo county using Highway 1 as its throughway until it reaches Ragged Point south of San Carpoforo creek (the topographic Ragged Point, not the Ragged Point Inn).
After parking on a large turnout next to Highway 1, I put Dexter on a leash and we followed a muddy trail through the fence across a meadow of berry bushes and ferns. This is private property and access is limited–the Hearst corporation allows hikers access to the beach, asking that the public stay on established paths; do not camp, build fires or smoke; and keep dogs leashed.
We passed through a row of pine trees and crossed a marine terrace covered with drab coastal scrub punctuated by colorful bursts of wild iris, poppies and open-faced daisies. At the edge of the bluff, we descended a steep trail to a narrow strand of sand and gravel–California’s coastline.
The beach was small and landlocked at both ends. We scrambled to the top of a rocky point and looked down at San Carpoforo creek where it pooled behind a sand bar. On our left, early morning sunshine spotlighted white-churning breakers marching in to shore.
Back on the bluff, we worked our way through thick brush and occasional piles of dead sticks–wood rat nests. I kept thinking that eventually we would intersect CCT and the going would get easier, but I was wrong. I tried to avoid creeping tendrils of poison oak and that meant that we sometimes made long detours, all the while trying to maintain a southerly heading.
When we reached the thin forest of pine trees that parallels the coastline, the ground underneath was clear of brush and walking was a lot easier.
On the south side of the headland, a trail descended to the base of a sea stack at the end of a long beach. Rock formations offshore spit up great plumes of spray as heavy storm swell slammed into them.
The beach was littered with rocks striated with swirls of color that looked like partially mixed paint on an artist’s palette.
A half mile south of the sea stack, we waded across Arroyo Hondo creek. Dexter thought it was great fun but he wasn’t wearing boots and socks and didn’t mind getting his feet wet.
We climbed over a knife-edged ridge and down the other side through boulders to a crescent shaped beach on a cove that was smaller and quieter than the tidal flat we had just crossed.
A tiny waterfall trickled down the cliff face and ran across the beach through a rocky channel it had carved out. Two pairs of raccoon footprints tracked through the wet sand. Cormorants perched on an orange-colored seamount that was mottled with streaks of guano. A snow-white egret flapped by, just above the water, and disappeared over the southern ridge.
The beach ended in a cul-de-sac and I climbed up a poorly defined track to the top of the bluff, clutching at clumps of poison oak to keep from sliding back down in the slick mud.
On top of the terrace, a colorful array of iris, morning glory, California poppies and purple daisies with yellow eyes spread across the green meadow all the way to Point Sierra Nevada.
We walked through the pasture, staying as close to the coastline as we could, to the headland that forms Breaker Point. Rich tide pools lay below the bluff and a nylon rope, wound around a metal stake, snaked down the cliff to the beach.
South of the point, an arroyo filled with poison oak cut across the meadow and blocked our progress. We had gone about as far as I wanted to for the day anyway, so we walked to the highway, following a cow path, and back to the car.

Buckeye Trail

Buckeye Trail 2008
Just north of Ragged Point on Highway 1 sits an abandoned set of buildings, Salmon Creek Ranger Station. A sign next to the corral lists Buckeye Camp at a distance of 3 ½ miles.
Dexter and I headed north from the ranger station paralleling the Pacific Coast Highway but well above it. The first half-mile rose rapidly, steep and badly eroded in spots. We encountered two fences with passageways constructed so as to prevent anything longer or wider than a backpacker from passing through. At the turn of each switchback, we could look back and down at Salmon Creek falls.
The trail leveled out onto a grassy plateau and revealed one of those views unique to the Santa Lucia mountains–the Pacific Ocean filling the horizon.
A bit later, we arrived at a trail fork. Soda Springs Trail descended to the left to Highway One. Buckeye Trail went right.
Following an ever-ascending contour, we wound in and out of canyons. We crossed below a high rock wall in one of the canyons, that had a pencil-thin waterfall running down its face between banks of moss.
As we continued to climb, we entered a grove of oak trees that shaded the trail and covered it with a muffling layer of leaves. The highway was out of sight and out of hearing.
We crossed live water in Soda Spring Creek, with a small pool suitable for a warm dog to cool himself.
The trail became steeper, dank and damp underneath the trees and in some places crossing unstable ground and showing signs of slipping away.
Ninety minutes from the trailhead we left the forest and topped a ridge and looked back to the south. We could see all the way to Point Buchon. Highway One wound like a serpent along the coast. A large grove of redwoods thrust out of the mountainside directly below us. Distinct in the foreground was Point Piedras Blancas and the lighthouse.
We hiked another quarter mile, through an open grove of pine trees, and rounded a headland overlooking the northern coastline. From there we could see all the way to Cape San Martín on the other side of Gorda.
At this point, the trail turned inland. As we crossed another dry creek, we met Phil.
Phil came from San Francisco and sat on a log beside the Buckeye trail playing a guitar. He had hiked in the day before and when it got too dark to continue, he pitched camp. He was getting ready to hit the trail again when we met him. We chatted, wished him good day and pressed on.
Twenty minutes later Dexter and I arrived at Buckeye Camp. A large, open meadow perched at the head of a long valley. A picnic table sat beneath a buckeye tree that was so large that several limbs curved downward and rested on the ground. A spring-fed hose ran into a bathtub and the overflow fed a green-edged stream that meandered northward.
A solitary grove of eucalyptus trees shaded the campsite. We found a warm place in the sunshine to eat our lunch.
As we finished eating, Phil strolled into camp. He looked around. He said he liked the looks of the place. He thought he’d hiked about enough for today and this looked like a good place to pitch camp.
Dexter and I bade him good-bye and hit the trail for home.