Monday, July 12, 2021
- Starting Point: Bullards Beach State Park
- End Point: Floras Lake
- Daily Miles: 21.3 miles
- Cumulative OCT miles: 312.6 miles
That storm I’d been expecting yesterday finally arrived and lasted most of the night. It never poured heavily, but the tapping of the rain was a consistent backdrop of noise that lulled me to sleep each time I woke to check whether it was time to get up yet.
I was up for good by 6:30 am, even though it was barely light out. A misty drizzle was still coming down as I made my way over to the shared bathroom over by the yurts. I’ve never actually stayed in a yurt before, but they seem to be quite popular here in the Oregon State Parks.
I guess it make sense though. The biggest challenge at the coast isn’t really the cold. It’s the rain. It doesn’t matter what season it is, you can pretty much count on getting at least some of it.
When I returned to the hiker-biker camp, the cyclists were still asleep. I could hear one of them loudly snoring as I broke down my tent and moved under the overhang by the lockers to make breakfast.
I was only a few miles north of Bandon, so I kept my breakfast light. I planned to stop at a local coffee house/bakery called the Bandon Coffee this morning on my way through town. I was seriously craving a proper coffee. The instant coffee prepared in my cook pot wasn’t going to cut it on this damp, chilly morning.
With the lure of town food calling my name, I was fully packed and hiking by 7:15 am. To get to the bridge over the Coquille River, I needed to leave the state park through the main entrance on Highway 101. Yet, I wasn’t quite sure where it was located given that I’d arrived on foot from the beach.
As I made my way back to the front of the park in search of the exit, I notice tons of birds out. I barely walked 50 feet before spotting a rafter of wild turkeys walking along the edge of the roadway next to some RV campsites, and I gave them a wide berth. Meanwhile, several black ravens were perched up in the trees surrounded by Spanish Moss, and squawking at each other.
I was just walking just past the park’s entrance, when a loud voice made me jump. It was a female ranger hollering, “Have a good day,” as I walked by her booth. I was so shocked to hear a voice, or to see someone occupying the booth that early in the morning, that I completely failed to respond.
About 10 steps later, my manners finally kicked in and I returned to the booth to apologize for my rudeness. I’d been so busy looking for the park’s exit on my phone, I really hadn’t expected to encounter anyone.
Since I already had her attention, I also decided to share how much I really enjoyed Bullards Beach campground. I’ve stayed in a lot of these hiker-biker camps on my journey down the coast, and this one was definitely one of the absolute best in terms of amenities and upkeep.
I could see her beaming with pride with the compliment. I don’t think the park rangers get many compliments these days, so I hope I brightened her day.
BANDON
Back out on Highway 101, I only had to walk a few hundred feet before I could see the narrow bridge over the Coquille River. It was nearing low tide, so the mudflats of Bandon Marsh on the far side of the river were exposed.
Just beyond the bridge, I turned off the highway to follow a quieter route down Riverside Drive. It was still fairly early in the morning, but there were enough trucks out on Highway 101 that I preferred the reprieve of this alternate path into town.
The right side of the road was undeveloped because it paralleled the marshland and the floodplain. But on the left side, I spied a series of homes with larger parcels of land surrounding them.
I found one of these homes particularly amusing. The owner had several stick sculptures adorning the front of his property. There was a stick fisherman wearing a straw hat. And a stick cyclist sitting on a old bike with a helmet on.
Further down, they had stick sculptures of horses running wild and deer grazing in the yard. All told, it was pretty amusing sight to walk by this morning and put me in good spirits.
A little bit beyond, I passed a viewing platform for Bandon Marsh, which also serves as a national wildlife refuge. Colorful signs showed all the different varieties of birds that called the place home – from long-billed birds that search for food in the mud and reeds, to river otters who snack on fish swimming in the brackish river. Yet none of them were visible to me this morning.
Three miles after leaving the campground, I was wandering into the outskirts of Bandon, where I was met with bright murals of the signs of buildings. Most of these giant paintings showed marine life or seascapes, and one of them showcased all the local wildflowers on the South Oregon Coast.
My favorite mural though, was the blue whales painted on the immense concrete tanks of the waste treatment facility. I wouldn’t have wanted to be the artist painting so close to that noxious smell, but I definitely applaud the idea of sprucing up any sort of industrial eyesore.
I’d soon learn Bandon is place a lot of artists call it home. There are several small galleries in town, showcasing paintings, glass blown vases and orbs, and sculptures. There’s even an art museum by the coffee house named, “Washed Ashore,” where local artists make larger-than-life sculptures made completely from the marine debris that washes up on the beaches of the Oregon Coast.
As I walked into Old Bandon, past the quaint storefronts and Bandon Brewing (which was, of course, closed this early on a Monday morning), I found my way down to Bandon Coffee.
The line inside the tiny coffee house was a mix of tourists bundled up in their thick sweatshirts and rain coats and uniformed sailors and Coast Guardsmen from the local station.
As I waited for my turn in, I perused the glass case of baked goods. There were fresh baked bagels, cinnamon rolls with oozing icing, giant muffins, and breakfast sandwiches. But then my eyes spotted the winner. The cranberry-oatmeal breakfast cookies on the top shelf of the case.
Thanks to its mild climate, moist conditions, and acidic soil, Bandon is the cranberry capital of Oregon. Nearby family farms have been cultivating these berries commercially since the 1890s. And although Bandon won’t be putting Massachusetts or Wisconsin out of business anytime soon (Oregon only grows 5% of the nation’s cranberries), the local vendors here love to showcase the berry.
Consequently, I knew I just had to order those soft plump cranberries baked inside the dense oatmeal “breakfast” cookies that looked like they weighed at least 6 ounces each!
With my hot coffee and bag of baked treats finally in hand, I strolled down to the pier to look at the water. Colorful artwork from local school students lined the cable railings, while massive wood sculptures of mermaids and seahorses stood on the damp pier.
I continued down the quiet streets through Bandon toward the ocean and the jetty at the mouth of the river past a memorial to the native Nasomah people who once called this area their home. And over on the north side of the river, I could see Coquille River Lighthouse resting on a rocky prominence jutting into the river.
This lighthouse was considerably different that the others I’d seen farther up the Oregon Coast. Instead of a bright white tower standing beside to a diminutive four-sided outbuilding, this lighthouse’s style was a bit unconventional.
The 40-foot tower seemed to be a creamy, buttery colored stucco. And the attached building had six walls. It was shaped like an elongated hexagon with a deep red color coming half-way up the walls before it abruptly transitioned to cream. Plus, the roof appeared to be tiled instead of the traditional metal style.
All told, it was a truly distinctive-looking lighthouse that set itself apart from the six other public lighthouses I’d passed on the OCT.
BANDON BEACH
Once I made it to the mouth of the Coquille River, I crossed over driftwood and small sand dunes back down to the beach. It was currently low tide, and dozens of people were out walking on the beach this morning.
Ahead of me, giant rocks the size of buildings stood out in the ocean. While closer inland, I could walk directly past smaller rocks exposing hidden treasures and tide pools. It was one of the most wondrous marine landscapes I’ve witnessed in my life.
Even though the skies above me were gray and overcast, there was something magical about Bandon’s coastline at low tide. It was even more fantastic than Cannon Beach had been during the same time of day.
As I curved around Coquille Point, I wove my way between a rock maze where small rivers of water drained out into the wet sand each time the waves receded.
Normally, these rocks would be completely enveloped by water, but now – at low tide – I was able to inspect the hidden nooks and crannies. Algae, mussels, barnacles, orange starfish, purple starfish, green anemones, kelp… It was all simply spectacular.
Bandon Beach at low tide was a true feast for the eyes. I kept stopping every 50 feet or so to take pictures of it instead of hiking past. But I had no regrets. This might just be one of the best spots I’ve hiked on the entire OCT. Nothing else had resonated with me quite the same way.
Further down the coast, I could see narrower sharp sea stacks on the ocean’s edge. Their pointed edges rose upward like chimneys or giant shark teeth towering above me.
I could have stood there just drinking it all in until the tide returned, but I knew better. My day had barely begun and I was hoping to get at least 20 miles in before dinnertime.
As I hiked past Grave Point, all the people on the beach seemed to suddenly fade away. It was just me and the empty beach as I made my way south. But, I could see why. This section of beach didn’t hold a candle to the treasures I’d just seen.
I was just getting to Haystack Rock (yes, this is the third Haystack Rock I’ve passed on this hike) and Devil’s Kitchen when a older guy on a small 4-wheel ATV waved me over.
He wore a long-sleeved shirt with the USDA logo embroidered on the left side of his chest, so I assumed he was out there on some sort of official business.
When I got about 10 feet away, he pointed to my pack and asked me if I was hiking the Coast Trail. I replied that I was, and then he asked how far I was planning to head tonight. That seemed like an odd question, and not the type of information I give out to complete strangers. As a solo woman it’s just safer to be vague.
I told him I wasn’t really sure where I’d end up, but my goal was somewhere near Floras Lake, which was about 13 miles further south. When I mentioned Floras Lake, a look of concern rolled over this face and he pursed his lips.
“You know have a major water crossing ahead of you.” He said.
I nodded. I knew all about the New River. The river flowed north from Lake Floras, running parallel the dunes for nine miles until it made its outlet just a few mile miles south of here. Hikers were warned to cross the river at low tide, and I was trying to get there as quickly as possible.
It was half past ten now, and I knew low tide had been two hours ago, right as I was getting breakfast in town. But, high tide wasn’t until 3: 28 pm today. As long as I got to the river’s outlet by noon, I figured I’d be fine with the crossing. And I only had another two miles or so before I got there.
That’s when the guy in the USDA shirt broke the unfortunate news to me that the outlet had shifted. The river broke through a weak spot in the foredunes further south. The place where I’d thought it met the ocean was no longer the main outlet.
He shared that he’d been down to the new outlet about an hour ago and it was still low enough to cross on foot, but just barely. And the water was rising quick. It was sure to be at least thigh deep by now, he said. I’d better hurry if intended to cross it today.
NEW RIVER
Before I could ask the guy any more questions, he wished me luck and sped off north on his ATV.
Well — that news wasn’t good. And he hadn’t exactly told me how much further I needed to walk to get to the new outlet. Was it a mile south of the old crossing? Two miles? Down near Croft Lake? Or New Lake? Or the BLM campsite 10 miles ahead of me?
With no more information to go on, other than when the tide was coming in, I picked up my pace and tried to walk as quickly as possible down the wide sandy beach.
Sure enough, two miles later I reach the spot where the New River used to dump into the ocean. It was nothing more than a trickle now. If I hadn’t known from my maps that this was supposed to be a river outlet, I’d never would have suspected its significance. It was time to keep moving.
A bit further down the beach, I passed another major milestone. I’d made it to mile 300 of my thru-hike. This meant I was officially three-quarters of the way done with the OCT!
Although I would normally stop and celebrate something so significant, I barely stopped long enough to draw the number 300 in the sand and take a picture of it, before setting off again. I was on a mission right now. I’d have to wait until later to party.
I continued speed walking, refusing to stop for any breaks until I made it to the New River. In my imagination, the water was rising to impassible levels, yet there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
By 11:30 am, I still hadn’t reached the outlet. The sand was softer and more sloped now, like the kitty litter that I’d walked through back at Gleneden Beach at the end of day 6.
I worked to maintain a brisk pace, but it was difficult. My feet hurt and I was starting to get hungry. The last time I’d eaten was coffee house this morning, and now my stomach was signaling it was time to have lunch.
Yet I couldn’t stop and eat. I didn’t have time. I needed to keep my pace up until the second river outlet. The USDA guy’s warning about the river’s depth really had me concerned. Surely I had to be nearly there by now, I thought to myself.
I pulled a snack out of my pouch and chowed down on that while I walked as fast as my legs would carry me. Damn it. Why hadn’t he told me where the water was located?
As I was eating the last bit of my snack, I saw the USDA guy ride past me on his ATV again. He was heading south now, but the wind and sound of the waves had completely obscured the noise of his approach from behind me. He was already past me before I could even think to wave him down to ask for more info.
I continued speedwalking on the soft sand and fretting about the crossing ahead. Then an absurd thought popped into my head. What if he was just messing with me? What if he made it all up?
As I pondered this possibility, my pace slowed. Surely he wouldn’t do that. That would be a cruel practical joke. Besides, the physical evidence was on his side. There wasn’t a river outlet where I’d expected it to be. So, either the New River completely dried up this year (highly unlikely), or the outlet was still farther to the south.
About 20 minutes later, I saw the USDA guy riding back toward me. And as soon he got within 100 yards, I vigorously waved him down.
“How much farther to the river’s outlet?” I asked over the wind. I’d been walking for 6.5 miles since his initial warning, and I’d recently passed a sign in the sand announcing that the BLM campsite was only 3 miles ahead.
He told me I was almost there. I had maybe another mile to go. He’d just gone down there to check on the conditions for me and the river still seemed fordable. The water was rising slower than he’d expected, but the current was really strong.
His best advice was to try and cross near the wider part of the coastal fan where the river met the ocean. It would be a longer crossing, and seemed like a counterintuitive place to ford, but that’s where the river’s current would be gentler, he promised. I just needed to keep an eye on the ocean waves to make sure they didn’t surprise me.
Once again, he motored off at 15 mph, leaving me to finish the journey on my own. Why didn’t he just offer to give me a ride the rest of the way if he was so concerned about me getting across safely, I wondered. Perhaps giving hikertrash a ride on his Government ATV was prohibited. Or maybe he knew I just decline his offer anyway. So why even bother?
Just before 1pm, I finally was standing on the edge of the New River as it poured out into the ocean. The fast-moving water cut a deep channel into the sand, and I realized the USDA guy was right. It was definitely too deep to cross upstream.
So far he’d been correct about everything. So I’d follow his advice and wade across the river near the coastal fan. I pulled off my socks and shoes, and knotted the laces together before swinging them over my neck.
Then I stripped my tights off too. No matter how high I pulled the legs up, they were bound to get wet if I wore them while fording this river. Besides, there wasn’t a soul out here but me. Who cared if I crossed the river in my underwear?
The mixing of the ocean and river water was so cold, that I sucked in my breath in surprise. It immediately came up to my calves just a few steps into the stream. A few steps later, the water was above my knees and up to my lower thighs. Yet, that would be the worst of it. The water didn’t rise any higher as waves crashed and rushed in on one side of me, and the water from the river mixed into the ocean.
And in less than two minutes, I was on the opposite bank and hiking up stream looking for somewhere to sit down and get dressed again. I just prayed that the USDA guy didn’t return to “check up” on me while I sat there half naked in my underwear.
BLM CAMPSITE
The wind had been blowing all morning, and it continued to pick up after my river crossing. But there wasn’t really anywhere sheltered to sit and eat lunch. I had zero desire to pick sand out of my food, so I decided to keep walking another mile and a half until the BLM campsite and stop there.
The access to the primitive camping was well-marked from the beach, but I had to climb a trail up a steep wall to get up there first.
At the top of the cliff, a flat spot big enough for two or three tents sat amidst tall beach grasses and some driftwood logs. It was a great spot to rest, but the wind was still blowing fiercely. So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I set up my tent and climbed inside to escape the elements.
Once I had a good windbreak, it actually felt like a warm, sleepy afternoon. I stripped off my shoes and socks and stretched out inside my tent for a late lunch. It was now well past 1:30 pm now and I was famished.
Luckily, I had lots of food to solve that problem. The one thing the OCT didn’t deprive you of was easy resupply spots. I even still had the second cranberry breakfast cookie and a root beer I’d packed out of town this morning from Bandon Coffee.
After my belly was full, I decided I deserved a rest to celebrate passing the 300-mile mark earlier today. I sprawled out inside my tent for the next two hours and just chilled.
I’d been hiking at a breakneck pace ever since I first talked to the USDA guy around 10:30 this morning, and I was now less than five miles from my intended destination of Floras Lake. I had all the time in the world to just kick back and listen to a podcast in my tent.
When 3:20 pm rolled around, I decided it was time get moving. I didn’t have enough water to stay here for the night. So, I needed to continue on to Floras Lake. On the positive side, at least I didn’t have far to go. In less than two hours I’d be at my campsite for the night.
FLORAS LAKE
The next two hours were pretty unremarkable. The sand was still like kitty litter, making it difficult to walk. Plus, I was much further up the beach now that high tide had arrived.
My right knee didn’t like this situation one bit and started acting up. Pain seared up the inside of my knee from just above my kneecap to just below it. I slowed my pace even more, but kept slogging through the deep sand.
About a half hour later I saw the USDA guy again. What the…?!? How did he get all the way over here, I wondered. I know he didn’t ride his ATV across the mouth of the New River. He definitely would have got that thing stuck.
He pulled even to me with a smile on his face and said he’d been keeping an eye out for me. He’d seen some foot prints going up to the BLM campsite when he was patrolling earlier and assumed they were probably mine.
Out of curiosity, I asked him what the heck he was doing out here, and how he’d gotten to the south side of the river. He shared that he was out here patrolling the snowy plover nesting areas. His area of responsibility covered the entire beach, from Devil’s Kitchen (where he’d initially crossed paths with me) down to Floras Lake.
That’s how he knew about the New River shifting its outlet this season. It radically changed his ability to do his job. Now he had to patrol the northern half of the area on his ATV, before heading out to Highway 101 and driving down to Floras Lake to patrol the southern section.
Well, that explains a lot. I thanked him for all his info and advice and bid him good luck.
As I continued south, I could see the Cape Blanco lighthouse up on it’s headland flashing at me every 19 seconds. That is, until Blacklock Point eventually blocked it from my view. Cape Blanco would be one of tomorrow’s sites, so I knew the lighthouse meant I must be closing in on Floras Lake.
The real clue that I’d almost arrived at Floras Lake wasn’t just the lighthouse though. It was the parachutes from windsurfers and board sailors. Instead of riding the ocean waves like the people I’d seen at Whiskey Creek yesterday, these windsurfers were inland on the lake.
I suspect beginners who want to fly along the waves probably appreciate the safety of learning on a lake before trying their hand at the dangerous ocean. Lake Floras was the perfect spot to do it too. The wind here was super strong and constant.
I knew from my day hiking guidebook that Boice Cope Park was situated right on the northeast edge of Floras Lake just ahead. The county built a small campground there, along with a local kite and windsurfing school.
I decided then that the park would be tonight’s destination. Once there, I’d have easy access to fresh water, which was super scarce on this stretch of the beach. And I’d have the benefit of camping with a new type of outdoor enthusiast – the windsurfers.
As I made my way over the dunes and inland toward the lake, I was feeling the fatigue of the day in my back and legs. It had only been a bit over 21 miles, but the combination of several hours of hiking at an urgent pace, coupled with the gritty, soft kitty litter sand was wearing on me.
I had several new hotspots to deal with on both of my feet from the added friction. But first, I needed to find the campground.
I located the camp host and paid her what seemed like a king’s ransom for the night. It was $16 (after my veteran’s discount) which was double what the state parks charged for their hiker-biker sites. But it was also the last free tent site at the campground, so I felt grateful to have anything.
When I set my tent back up (for the second time of the day), I was extra vigilant on staking out the rain fly as taut as could be. If the current weather conditions were any indication, it was going to be a windy, windy night.
Highlights
- Walking along Bandon Beach at low tide, amid the massive sea stacks and tide pools , was simply amazing. It was definitely one of the best things I’ve see on the entire OCT!
- Passing mile 300 of the OCT!! Woohoo! I’m nearly there.
- Enjoying a long lunchtime siesta (with a rootbeer and baked good) at the BLM campsite north of Floras Lake. I may need to do it a bit more.
Challenges
- Speed walking to the newly formed river outlet before high tide was the most stressful thing I’ve done in a while. I’m not sure whether the BLM guy did me a favor or not.
- Trying to walk through the sand that seemed to have changed texture to something akin to kitty litter was a pain. My knees definitely aren’t liking this new terrain.
- Today was another windy day. But that was to be expected on this part of the coast – and why I’ve been seeing so many windsurfers these past two days.