The Lost Coast: Why I Went Camping While the World Burns

Last weekend, Thom and I packed up our Tacoma truck and headed to the Lost Coast of California—one of the most remote and pristine places on the California coast, where Highway 1 had to turn inland and where waves crash fiercely. 

We joined four other Jeep/off-road adventurers, people who tackle trails like the Rubicon (a beast of a route, from what I’ve heard). These are serious folks. Rugged, skilled, and thankfully also warm and fun.

We camped at Usal Beach, fog drifting around us, damp air clinging to everything. I bundled up with blankets and jackets, my knit cap pulled down tight. Even as I sat around a beachside campfire wrapped in layers, I felt something start to shift inside me.

That something was a reset.

Because even in the cold, in the wet fog, even with news from the world swirling in my mind, I could hear the ocean calling me back to myself. Pelicans dove for fish. The sea roared. And I remembered how important it is to get quiet.

The next day, we caravanned along a rugged road, cliffs on one side and towering redwoods on the other.

It was like stepping into a scene from The Lord of the Rings. We ate lunch at a tiny brewery in Shelter Cove, then hunted for a campsite for the night. The perfect one eluded us at first, but eventually, we found it—under a canopy of old-growth trees, firepits ready, and a sense of nighttime settling in.

That night, we grilled peaches from our tree over the fire. I had cheese and crackers for dinner. And once again, the world slowed down. When I looked up, I could see the stars twinkling amidst the tall trees. 

It wasn’t all dreamy. The second night, I didn’t sleep well. The mattress felt hard, the sleeping bag vinyl irritated my skin, and mosquitoes made their unwelcome debut.

Camping isn’t glamorous. It’s work—packing, unpacking, dealing with cold, bugs, and the occasional bear box.

But it’s also magic.

Because where else can you look up at the stars with no light pollution? Where else do you hear birds calling through the silence and sit in awe under trees older than anyone you know?

This trip reminded me: discomfort isn’t the enemy. Discomfort is the teacher. And right now, when the world feels unbearably hard and unjust, especially with the heartbreak in Gaza—sometimes stepping into nature is the only way I can remember who I am and why I keep going.

OVER TO YOU: 

If you’re struggling right now, you’re not alone.

It’s okay to rest. It’s okay to retreat.

It’s also okay to come back stronger.

So if you’re feeling weary, hopeless, unsure what to do—step outside.

Take a break. Let the earth hold you.

Then come back and call your representatives. Start with one call: 5calls.org

Because both things matter.

We reset so we can rise again.

(Photos taken by Thomas Roberts, my travel companion and very talented husband).