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Early one september morning, with some trepidation, I headed for Sinkyone Wilderness State Park on the Lost Coast, within one of the longest stretches of coastal wilderness in the Lower 48. With the coming of fall, male Roosevelt elk would have increasing issues with territory, hormones, and harem size. Bears would be active too, but at least I'd had enough forethought to rent a bear cannister. Two weeks earlier I had hiked 25 miles of the northern Lost Coast with a group, and on day three a bear dragged one of our tents some 20 yards before we could scare her away. This time I would be hiking 35 miles round-trip, from Bear Harbor to Usal via Hotel Gulch, then back up along the Coastal Trail, alone.

As I negotiated the treacherous one-lane dirt road to the trailhead, the words of Edward Abbey resonated clearly in my adrenalized body. "If you feel that you are not ready to die, never fear; nature will give you complete and adequate assistance when the time comes."

The region I would be backpacking is referred to as the Lost Coast because of its remoteness from major roads. It gets up to 80 inches of rain per year (San Francisco gets only about 20 inches), and is usually shrouded in fog. Half a mile from the trailhead, a raft of wild turkeys came into view, the larger males ruffling feathers and flapping wings to tell me to stay out of their way. A dozen yards farther on, a beautiful bull elk emerged from among the alders, golden except at the neck and head, which were black. I reached for my camera, ecstatic that I could get some shots from the safety of my truck. The elk kept pace with me, trotting along the ditch that paralleled the road to the parking area, stopping periodically to strike elegant poses.

I was still a bit "elk shy" from a photographic encounter last fall at Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park (where the reintroduced Sinkyone herd hails from). A massive bull had rewarded my impertinence at getting a close-up by charging me. At the penultimate second I had bolted into a thicket with a move that would have made an NFL coach proud, and I felt the blast of wind from his massive body (and antlers) as he passed by. I rounded out that day by shooting ravens on the beach.

Bennett Barthelemy's last article for Coast & Ocean was "River Renewal," in the Winter 2005-2006 issue.

This article is greatly abridged. For the complete story and directions to the park, see the print edition of Coast & Ocean.

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