North to Whalehead

(By Richard WiensTriplicate Editor).

Proper signage is especially important on coastal trails, which transition from deep forests to cliff-side clearings and sometimes seem to peter out all together.

If a sign is missing at a crucial spot, hikers are left to their own devices, devining a route through open ground that they hope leads back to the good stuff. Such is the fate bestowed to those who begin their northbound journey at Lone Ranch Beach a few miles past Brookings in Oregon's Boardman State Park.

Pull into the parking lot (or pack in for now – the access road off Highway 101 is closed for repairs), follow a paved path past the restrooms, and you'll find a perfectly placed Oregon Coastal Trail sign leading into the woods, over a low metal bridge and up to the beginning of a bluff – appropriate because at this point you have to pretend you know where you're going. The brush ahead is tamped down in two directions, one leading straight toward the ocean and the other turning right. The latter is the correct path, it turns out, but one of those Coastal Trail signs would be oh-so-helpful here.

My wife Laura and I found out the hard way. We choose the sea-bound path — after all, this was the Coastal Trail, or so we thought. We ended up in a labyrinth of half-trails, bushwhacking our way to a point where we either had to retreat or attempt a steep assault on Cape Ferrelo. Up we went, our reward being a web of additional half-trails.

Choosing paths of least resistance, we headed inland and eventually intersected a clearer route marked with a welcome signpost. We were back on the Oregon Coastal Trail at a spot we would've reached in maybe 10 minutes had we taken that right turn back at Lone Ranch!

Buoyed by that warm feeling that kicks in when you're no longer lost, we picked up the pace and veered into the woods of Sitka spruce. We soon arrived at the Cape Ferrelo parking area, and I couldn't help thinking how much easier it would've been to start from here, where the trail is well-marked in both directions. Regrets gave way to appreciation as we continued north into deeper, lusher woods.

It's about a mile and a half of hiking between the parking areas at Cape Ferrelo and House Rock. By the time we ascended to the latter, it was time for lunch on a bench at the House Rock viewpoint. We mused about whether that sea stack really resembled a single-family residence until better amusement arrived in the form of a group of tourists.

"Have you seen any whales?" one asked us excitedly. It turned out they'd spotted one from their previous parking perch overlooking Whalehead Beach and had headed for the higher ground of House Rock for a better view. Or maybe the name "Whalehead" had planted a seminal notion in their heads, because from up here the breaching mammal they'd seen below looked like a low rock, with the splashing surf resembling an occasional spout. Most of them accepted this revelation in good humor,

but one stuck stubbornly to the whale theory — most likely he was the one who'd made the "sighting" when they'd been at Whalehead.

Back to the journey. Like at Cape Ferrelo, House Rock's access points to the Coastal Trail are well-marked. Indeed, if you drive to the House Rock viewpoint, the scene that awaits you just a couple hundred feet north from your car is almost too good for the effort you've put in to get there.

We entered a tunnel forged of foliage and the lights went out like a solar eclipse. "Instant reward!" Laura proclaimed as we descended into a Sitka-shaded wonderland. The forest floor seemed to spread out for miles on both sides of us – impossible, of course, since we knew the ocean wasn't far off to our left. The cushy trail climbed and descended through visual delights of spruces, ferns and moss. Bridges spanned crevices that transported the gurgling runoff from recent rains.

This went on for more than a mile before we emerged from nature's darkroom and caught glimpses of Whalehead Beach far below. We'd already taken two short spurs to the left that dead-ended at ocean viewpoints. Now we came to another sign that had the potential to dramatically affect our journey.

Two words, "Beach" and "Trail," accompanied by two arrows. Was this the passage we sought to Whalehead Beach? We concluded it was, and thus began a precipitous descent that garnered our wholehearted, survival-conscious attention, step by step, switchback by switchback.

Ironically, this questionable choice of descents was marked by several Coastal Trail signs.

Tip No. 1: If you fall at this point, fall easterly.

Tip No. 2: You might want to consider the choice we eschewed and stay on the main Coastal Trail until you reach an easier access route that's actually known as Whalehead Trail, a clue we failed to pick up on.

We weren't sorry we took the more dangerous path, because it landed us on Whalehead Beach at its southern edge, with almost a mile of sand between us and Whalehead Island to the north. Why this beach's signature rock is known as an island I don't know – maybe it merits the distinction because it's home to a seabird breeding colony. We didn't even know we were looking at it for the first half-mile we walked up the beach, because it blends in with the jutting hillside behind it.

Eventually it came into focus. It resembled, if you used a little imagination, the head of a whale.

Whatever, it was the spectacular culmination of a journey made more adventurous by the lack of one sign at a pivotal juncture, and the vague wording of another.

We had a long return trip ahead of us, but at least this time we knew where we were going.