Starting out along the Lost Coast Trail from the Needle Rock Visitor’s Center in Sinkyone Wilderness State Park, it was apparent that something was different. I had hiked the same trail almost exactly one year before, snapping numerous pictures of the golden bluffs. This time, though, some of the vegetation had dried and withered early, turning from the color of straw to a dark, lifeless brown.

More for you

We had driven more than 100 miles through yellowish air unnaturally thickened by wildfire smoke to reach California’s most remote coastline. And while the air was clear on this side of the ridgeline — which is why the parking lot was full — we had not escaped the drought.

That isn’t to say our hike and the rest of our weekend getaway on the Lost Coast and its only town, Shelter Cove, was not worthwhile. We ate delicious food, drank good wine and craft beer, visited landmarks, communed with nature and fell asleep to the crashing sea.
Still, there was no getting around it: Every aspect of our vacation was colored by disaster.

The trip began on Friday morning with our drive toward Shelter Cove, and as we turned off Highway 101 toward the Lost Coast, our backs to the haze of the Monument Fire, we felt ready for a getaway. My friend had never visited Shelter Cove, so I told her the story of how 50 years ago, developers built an airstrip there, flew in potential investors and convinced them to buy property. One small detail left out of their discussion: This was the most secluded area in the state, accessible only by a long and treacherous dirt road. Also, some of the plots were unbuildable or eroding into the sea.

Although the road is fully paved now, the town remains quiet and isolated, with barely any cell service, only a few businesses and a population of about 580. There are only a handful of overnight accommodations in town, so we felt lucky to have scored a suite at the Tides Inn, which is known for its seafront location and friendly innkeepers.

Because of COVID-19, though, our contactless check-in involved a key in a box and some instructions on a piece of paper. We understood why, of course (even as a vaccinated person, I’ve recently worried about catching and spreading the virus), but I missed the human contact. After unpacking a bit and preparing homemade whiskey cocktails, we set out on a coastal hike, admiring the Listerine-green waves, the barking sea lions and the Cape Mendocino Lighthouse, which stood on a 400-foot cliff and endured the wrath of the coast for more than 100 years.

That evening, we dined at Gyppo Ale Mill, a sleek brewery with excellent bar food and craft beer. On the front of our menus was a note: “We kindly ask you to be patient with us,” it read. “Due to our location and current state of the restaurant industry, we are VERY understaffed. Further, we try our best to keep everything on our menu, but please be patient if we happen to have run out of an item.” The note closed with a hiring announcement and instructions for applying.

In chatting with owner Julie Peacock, I learned that the town and restaurant have lately seen an influx of visitors, which has been tough given the staffing challenges. Meanwhile, COVID’s been causing “a bit of a rumor mill around here,” Peacock says. “One time the entire cove shut down because there was confusion between a couple getting a COVID test versus them having COVID.” That said, two staff members at Gyppo did test positive, Peacock says, and had to quarantine then test negative before returning to work. The closest hospital is 45 minutes away in Garberville.

Despite the difficulties the restaurant has faced, our flight of craft beer, deep fried cauliflower appetizer, and salmon burgers were top notch, the service was impeccable, and a patio firepit kept us toasty. Upon returning to the inn, we watched "Sister Act" on cable and felt transported to a simpler time. Then the folding waves lulled us to sleep.

Shopping for breakfast and lunch the next morning at Shelter Cove General Store, subtle signs of the apocalypse returned. When my friend asked about whether there were T-shirts for sale, an employee ignored her. When she asked a second question, same result. Another employee stepped in to assist, but we started to wonder: Would some people in this town prefer that visitors stay home? And might they have a point?

On our way out, we noticed a wildfire evacuation packet on the countertop, and soon after, drove by a sign at the fire station: “Is your to-go bag packed? Remember Paradise and Greenville.” Traveling the curvy road out of town and toward Sinkyone Wilderness, we thought about the limited ways to evacuate Shelter Cove. And how did people receive a warning without cell service?

From the busy parking lot at the trailhead, nearly all of the visitors were headed south to Bear Harbor, including a few hikers carrying surfboards. We opted to trace the coastline north instead. We walked through gullies, across bridges and over bluffs, and on one occasion spotted a herd of Roosevelt elk with offspring in tow. Down at Jones Beach, we found washed up kelp and jellyfish, and from high above some of the other beaches, we could hear giant pebbles being dragged across each other by the waves. Wsssshhh.

The hike was peaceful, and we could count the number of other hikers we encountered on two hands. Upon our return, we saw that the parking lot had filled completely, and camp host Paul Barth told us that campsites down at Bear Harbor were now fully booked. A newly refurbished barn near the visitors’ center was still available for the night, and we wished we could have stayed. But the Lost Coast’s most famous winery, Briceland Vineyards, was calling.

We hadn’t managed to book a tasting, but upon finding out we were vaccinated, co-owner Andrew Morris opened the gate. The pandemic had traumatized him, Morris explained. We took seats at tables set up 20 feet from where Morris and his wife poured wine and water and shared the story of their family’s vineyard.

We tasted sauvignon blanc, chardonnay, a couple of pinot noirs and petit verdot, which had long been used as a blending grape for Bordeaux’s world-famous wines. We bought three bottles, which I’ve been doing more and more of. Lately large alcohol purchases make me feel prepared, like at least I’ve got a plan.

That night we ate Venezuelan food at Mi Mochima, and it was so expertly prepared that we forgave the place for running out of its Saturday special — lobster empanadas — as well as its popular slow-cooked pork ribs before 6:30 p.m. The restaurant was full, and about 20 tables were in the hands of just a couple of servers, which led to complaints from some customers. We just sipped our wine and enjoyed each morsel of shrimp empanada, beef kebab, fried calamari and garlic shrimp. In the corner, a young musician strummed soulful Latin rhythms on the guitar.

Stuffed and tipsy, we made our way home and studied the preview channel, finally settling on a "Saved by the Bell" rerun where Jessie’s stepbrother comes from New York and immediately starts blackmailing everyone. We were appalled by how bad the writing was but watched anyway and found ourselves mesmerized and laughing hysterically.

The next morning, we ate breakfast on the porch, staring out at the sea, wondering how soon our hotel would be swallowed by it. When we look back on this trip in 25 years, we will know it wasn’t perfect. More than anything, though, I think we’ll want to go back.