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.