This Lost Coast story could be told in images– of mountain-carving creeks tumbling from beneath King Peak to the sea; of dark cliffs knifing at extreme angles into black-pebble beaches; of surfers with boards strapped to their backs trudging 8 miles into the wind to find a fabled break.

This story could be told in smells– of sulfur leaking near creeks, stirring desperate dreams of secret hot springs; of a huge pot of beans and rice, which, in harmony with the leave-no-trace ethic so critical in nature this deep, either gets packed out in bellies or on shoulders; of that damp, almost-tangible scent that occupies a temperate rainforest.

But this story is told most vividly in sounds: The wind-forced creaking of the red-and-orange madrones signaling another change in microclimate; the cymbal-like crash during a rest stop as an exhausted mascot collapses on the aluminum lids and dog food in her saddlebags; the guttural shouts coming from our throats as we conjure a noise we think might scare away the animal sloshing around the river next to our tent.

Bear canisters are mandatory. So is honoring the tides. “This camp is called Bear Hollow for a reason,” the BLM ranger told us as he went over a map, later adding, “Never turn you back on the ocean– a few guys were swept out just last week.”

These rules remind hikers they’re on Mother Nature’s terms, which triggers the humility gland and demands precision in planning and execution. They also inspired us to bite off a little more wild than we could comfortably chew.

We arrived at the King Range National Conservation Area– off Highway 101 between Willits and Eureka, where bearded hitchhikers and redwood groves become increasingly more common– on a late Friday morning. We would have to cover some serious ground to complete a 22-mile loop by midday Sunday. Making it down 3,000-plus feet to the beach and then up the rocky sand in time to meet low tide early that afternoon appeared foolish. So we set out in the opposite direction– and set ourselves up for a sadomasochistic (albeit beautiful) few days.

Our 48-hour attempt and its 8,000-plus feet of elevation changes had an appropriately aggressive-sounding name: Saddle-Rattle-Buck. The Saddle Mountain segment would switchback through dynamic sequences of biodiversity (mossy rocks and stumps– damp groves– desert-like chaparral) and several ridges to reach King Peak at 4,088 feet. There the air hardens, the views sweep out faster than the brisk winds (across thickly forested mountains to the southeast and a polished Pacific to the west) and the foliage evokes hope for Big Sur’s scorched hillsides.

Up top, as in swaths throughout the King Range, skeleton bones of burnt-out Douglas fir and tan oak shoot out from a crowd of new growth at their base, the next generation of greenery providing a striking contrast against the silver trunks.

From the peak, another parallel with Big Sur is apparent: the sharp climb in altitude from the water, which opens up horizon-humbled reveries for anyone willing to scale the drainage-created trails up the range’s sharply angled aprons.

There are other resemblances: Like the Lost Coast, Big Sur also harbors revered surf spots, though nothing so frequently pinpointed for pilgrimage as Big Flat, where the coastline’s shape combined with the deep water offshore inspires surfers to hike the 16-mile round trip from Shelter Cove– and a partnership of surfers to build a house (and tiny airstrip) on a splinter of private property so they could fly in on a whim.

But there’s a difference between our Big Sur and this Big Norte. And it has claws.

From a first-night spot nestled in a creek-created canyon beneath King Peak, the King Crest Trail lifted us over the King Range once more before Rattlesnake Ridge Trail took us snaking through more fir, scrub oak, manzanita and madrone toward the faraway sparkle of Big Flat 6 trail miles away.

Given our low-tide appointment with the potentially “impassable point,” lunch took a backseat to legwork. Fortunately, each turn brought fresh motivation in the form of new broad leaves and textured trunks to take in, all back-dropped by oceanic blue. When we hit sea level, a shaded, undulating, 2-mile river walk led us to the beach, where we admired the surf and the makeshift wind shelters for five minutes and headed south.

The olive, hummus, cheese and salami lunch after reaching safety at an idyllic camp called Shipman Creek could hardly be more satisfying; the dinner that came later, after 14 miles’ trekking– including 3 extra miles added by fatigue-blurred knucklehead navigating– was almost as good, as was a chance to rest up at the mouth of Buck Creek for the 3,000-foot summit in the morning.

Only the sloshing in the creek made it awfully hard to sleep. The trail mascot was up, tense and shivering. The two of us popped upright too, and started booming sounds that no bear could find comforting (a kind of moose-giving-birth grunt-shout). Later, after we had moved our tent, slept, waken and hiked out, we practiced our bear voices. They seemed to suggest something about the biggest stretch of coastal wilderness in the country: Here, the wild comes from without and within.

For more on the King Range National Conservation Area, call 707-986-5400 or visit www.blm.gov/ca/st/en/fo/arcata/kingrange/index.html.