Wolf Creek

Memories of Wolf Creek are etched in my mind forever. I will never forget my first trip. We drove north from Boonville through the giant redwoods. The bright day almost turned to night as the sun’s rays filtered to the ground below. Through miles of twisting road we drove. As quickly as we entered the giant trees, we left them behind.

The journey was just getting started. Northward we traveled through small towns that looked as if they came out of a New England travel guide. Then the road turned east, away from the coastline. The road snaked inland.

In the distance a sign shown through the foggy opening — it read “Usal Crossing.” Here the pavement turned to gravel, sharp as glass. The road was narrow and steep. You could hear the gravel cutting into the tires as we spun recklessly up the mountain grade. The road runs straight down the outermost ridge, like the spine on a great dinosaur. The vast Pacific ocean, blue green in color, was almost always in sight.

After driving for almost two grueling hours. We came to a big fluorescent orange gate. The lock was tarnished green and as big as a man’s hand. As we descended down the steep narrow road the canyon walls grew closer together. The wind swept up the narrow valley. The salt air enticed our senses. As we converged on the valley floor the fir trees were replaced by alders standing as straight and white as a picket fence.

All of a sudden the ocean came to view. It wasn't the same color as down the coast, but a deep blue like cheap turquoise. The beach was steep and from end to end only 50 yards wide. The cliffs on both sides looked like black bricks stacked one on the other. They jutted toward the sky at a perfect 90 degree angle. Everything about Wolf Creek is extreme. The sand was the size of pea gravel and black as coal. This place really excited my senses. From the rustling of the alders’ leaves to the crashing of the waves. This place made you feel alive.

Wolf Creek was once a logging town. There were thousands of people there and in the outlying area. Today all that's left are the old foundations of the town's richer people, the one's who could afford concrete. It's very strange to think how it was back then. I've been lucky enough to talk to a few old timers. They lived there when they were children. There once was a great wooden pier protruding from the center of the narrow beach. It was used to load large sailing vessels with giant redwood logs. The logs were then shipped to other locations for milling.

I feel very lucky to have known this place. There is a serene power to it, as if something greater than man is watching over this majestic stretch of coastline. This presence is not felt by me alone. Whoever enters this place will leave a changed person. I haven't been to Wolf Creek in years, but hopefully this will be the year of my return.