I went bikepacking on the Lost Coast because I wanted to feel small again. Out here the King Range pitches straight into the Pacific, Highway 1 ducks inland, and what’s left is a crooked web of pavement and dirt where wind writes the rules. I packed 700×45 tires, a small stove, and more stubbornness than fitness—and it turned into one of my favorite rides.
Day 1 — Ferndale → King Range (≈ 38 mi / 4,300 ft)
I rolled out from the gingerbread storefronts of Ferndale with a bakery croissant in the frame bag and fog still braided through pastures. Mattole Road tilted up so fast my coffee fizzed. Past Capetown the road finally bared its teeth—narrow lanes, damp corners under redwoods, and that metallic smell of ocean pushing inland. When the grade eased, I could hear the surf before I saw it.
By afternoon I was on Kings Peak Road—dirt, honest grades, a steady drumbeat of switchbacks. I camped on a mossy shoulder above a creek, cooked ramen fortified with cheddar and crushed chips, and fell asleep to the canyon breathing surf up to the trees.
Day 2 — Shelter Cove & Black Sands (≈ 32 mi / 3,100 ft)
Dawn delivered gulls, a cold crosswind, and a jittery descent into Shelter Cove. I topped bottles at the market, warmed my hands behind the wall, then walked the edge of Black Sands Beach—a bruise-dark ribbon under knife-steep bluffs. The waves hit hard; this is a “look, don’t swim” beach. I watched pelicans stitch the horizon and let the noise reset my head.
The climb out was all cadence and breath: sit, stand, repeat. I traded gummy bears and trail intel with two riders near a pullout; they warned me the ridge winds would bite later. They did. I tucked the tent behind a curve of firs and slept to the ocean’s long exhale.
Day 3 — Sinkyone Bluffs → Usal Ridge (≈ 41 mi / 4,900 ft)
South of Shelter Cove the road threaded the edges of Sinkyone Wilderness. It narrowed, heaved, and smelled like wet cedar. I stopped above Bear Harbor and let the view turn my heart rate down—green amphitheater, white water, black rock, and a breeze that tasted like salt and rain.
One last push brought me to Usal Ridge. The Pacific opened in widescreen, then the road tipped down toward the creek. Ferns brushed the bars, gravel pinged the downtube, and potholes appeared like punchlines. I kept it tidy—Usal Road can be ugly when wet—then rolled onto 101 with salt on my lips and that ahh of cell bars, espresso, and civilization.
