We emerged from tapestries of ferns and stepped from carpets of riverstone onto the strand, onto the lip of the park, where the ocean battered furiously upon the sand. There were grasses tenaciously clinging to what purchase they could find, in turns buffeted by the wind and the erosive storms that—eating hungrily into California—left tooth marks upon the bluffs crowned with redwoods.
In the sea were stacks, the ruins of former headlands impossibly still standing in the maelstrom. We walked to the timpani of the surf beating out a ceaseless summer rhythm. There was fog rolling inland, Klamath in my mind is forever wreathed in the fog spattered forth by the churning brine. The twisted remains of former giants lay amongst the grasses, bleached by salt and sun, a testament to the marginal nature of life where land meets sea. The bluffs were and are still, crawling with their kin. We chased the surf back and forth like children where the rogues had carved a grade into the coarse, brown sand. And there were elk, grazing, proud, and fearless upon the primeval strand.