I woke up that morning to a bed soaked in sweat. I had managed to contract the flu during our college reunion the weekend before, which didn’t bode well for the three day backpacking trip to come. But we’d been planning this trip for months now and it was set to be my one real chance to sleep in the great outdoors in 2019 so I wasn’t going to let a bit of a fever stop me. After filling up on a final home-cooked meal my dad drove us to the trailhead—making sure to pick up burritos on the way for our mid-hike lunch.
I have a picture of my sweaty bed from the night before our hike but was told it was too offensive.
The plan was to start hiking in the Santa Cruz mountains north of the Monterey Bay at Castle Rock State Park. From there we would hike 30 miles, one-way, to Waddell Beach. Along the way we would stop in the Waterman Gap Trail Camp, which was more remote and primitive; and the Jay Trail Camp which sits just down the road from the Big Basin Redwoods State Park headquarters.
Things got off to a great start with a gradual downhill walk amongst the fog-covered Redwoods and Oaks. We got a late start, but we were making great time so no one was worried. My Dad had decided to tag along for part of the first day’s hiking as long as he had to drop us off at the trailhead (that’s thru-hiking).
We stopped at the summit of one of the ridges overlooking the bay in the distance for our burrito lunch before saying goodbye to my Dad and continuing on. Later that day after arriving at the Waterman Gap Trail campsite Sach turned his phone on and got a text from my Dad. He’d gotten extremely lost on his way back to the car and extended his hike from a reasonable six miles round trip to a frantic 10 spent wondering where the hell he was.
On day two we made mince-meat of the 9 miles to the next campsite, even while stopping every twenty minutes to admire the redwood tree rings that lined the trail. When we arrived at the Jay Trail Camp still had time to go over to the Camp General Store for some chips and beer before sundown. Not the most rural backpacking we’d ever experienced but none of us were complaining about a cold tall-boy after a long day of hiking.
Our last day of hiking, we realized, was set to be a bit of a doozie. Goose and Sach both had flights home from San Francisco that night at around 8. But before then we needed to hike just over 10 miles, meet up with my Dad for a ride home, shower, and drive the hour-and-a-half up to the airport from my house. After some quick maths the night before, we decided that we’d be safe if we left camp by 8 a.m.
Everything was going to plan: we woke up on time, left on time, and were keeping pace for an early arrival at the beach. But when we got there—tired, hungry, and with sore feet—my Dad’s truck was right where it should be, but he was nowhere in sight. We chucked our packs in the back and ran for the ocean to cool off after the long dusty hike, resolved to wait and not stress too much. We were early, afterall.
And then 30 minutes went by with still no sign of my Dad. We were now approaching our cutoff time, and I wasn’t certain that the boys would make their flights.
Then another 30 minutes ticked by, but there wasn’t a thing we could do.
Then, finally, my Dad and his partner Vince ambled out into the parking lot, explaining how they’d meant to meet us on the trail but somehow ended up on the wrong one. Without much pomp or circumstance I said they could explain it in the car while I corralled everyone into the truck and shut the doors—we had two flights to catch.