One of life's finest pleasures...

A hidden gem of a California state park delivers

Don’t forget to hit the ❤️ to tell me…and Substack! you’re enjoying the journey.

Big Lagoon County Park in Northern California was Mike’s discovery from an online search of campgrounds near the Oregon border.

Bumping down a narrow, overgrown, unpaved road with the Wanderlust Retro bouncing in tow, I had doubts. Clouds threatened a storm overhead, adding pressure to the need to set up camp.

Unfortunately, we were unable to get the trailer backed into the rough, muddy campsite we’d been assigned—it was too narrow. We also didn't like its proximity to the lights and traffic of the nearby bathroom.

The camp host, an energetic red-bearded young man who resembled a Viking wearing a tie-dyed shirt, maintained a smile and good cheer as he directed us to another spot, this one closer to the lagoon, and away from the facilities. 

That said, the parking process was still challenging and required a blast of four-wheel drive in reverse to get the Retro backed up over a tree root and past a large mud puddle. Once we were slotted in, the site was snug under trees with a large stump nearby, handy for use as a table. 

(If you go to Big Lagoon, be prepared for no hookups, rough campsites, and tight parking. Tent camping would have been better at this particular campground.)

By then, we were grumpy from the stress of driving and setting up, not to mention aftereffects of the “bitter pill of disappointment” we’d been ingesting daily as we failed to nail down a house to buy on the Oregon Coast. 

Mike and I quickly went our separate ways: I to explore the nearby beach with Koa, and Mike to fish. 

Some of the charms of this rustic county park were revealed when Mike almost immediately hooked a couple of nice fat cutthroat trout in the lagoon, improving his mood considerably.

Meanwhile, I took my bike to find the beach entrance. Koa galloped along beside me as I navigated the camp’s dirt road on the bike, eventually discovering a well-maintained picnic area. This fronted a huge expanse of pebbly beach with roaring, pounding shore break on one side, and the peaceful, brackish lagoon on the other.

A lifelong beachcomber, I loved nothing more than to wander, bare feet massaged by sand and stone, as my gaze flowed over the beach’s surface, searching for interesting flotsam and jetsam.

Beach combing for me goes all the way back to early childhood, when I helped Mom pick up puka shells on the beaches of North Shore Kauai in the 1970s. She strung and sold the shell necklaces to tourists at the public parks. I spent many happy hours on my knees, hunched over in the warm yellow sand combing through the coral grains for not just pukas, but sunrise shells, a small multicolored clam much prized in Hawaii. 

Later, as an adult, sea glass became my favorite thing to collect. When I traveled, it was a fun challenge to find a beach to walk.  I filled jars with sea glass from all over the world and enjoyed doing crafts with what I brought home. Broken glass becomes an elusive piece of history made precious through years of polishing by sea and sand.

Mike had told me that this beach was known for agate collecting, though, and I was eager to find one. Northern California beaches, with their stunning variety of colored pebbles, had few shells and even fewer bits of sea glass…but maybe I’d get lucky and find an agate.

I headed down onto Big Lagoon’s massive beach, Koa cavorting beside me, and gazed around at the expanse of multicolored pebbles. I didn’t actually have a clue what agates looked like, and I couldn’t get enough bars on my phone to search them out, either. Hopefully, I’d know one when I saw one.

 I walked down close to the crashing, heavy surf, hoping that would improve my chances. There, on the wet shingle, I picked up a handful of pretty stones in a variety of colors that seemed unusual.

A couple of beer-toting men, beachcombing mostly with their toes, seemed to be looking for these treasures as well. I approached them, my finds on an open palm for inspection. “Are these agates?”

“We call those PNRs,” One of the men said, chuckling alcohol fumes into my face. “Pretty nice rocks.”