The Persistence of Piedra Blanca

 

Until death, it is all life.

~Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote

No matter where you go, there you are.

~The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension

The plan was...well, there was no specific plan really. We would just make it up as we went along. Let things unfold organically. Go with the flow. Ride the wave. Pierre Joseph Proudhon called it "the fecundity of the unexpected." It's an approach that literally makes my more centered half insane. She bristles at the idea of having no destination, no route, no schedule, no agenda. Me, I don't mind so much. In my daily life, I'm chained to planning and schedules and agendas and calendars and deadlines and meetings and formal processes. So cutting free from that rigidity is liberating. And I've found that things generally work out if you let them. 

So off we went into the forest like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, the aging adventurist with his head full of romantic ideas about the outdoors, and his more pragmatic side-kick. We didn't pack much. This was to be a quick and dirty outing. On the way, we stopped for over-night necessities. Burritos from La Casita in Santa Paula, beer from Transmission Brewing in Ventura. Then up the Maricopa Highway.

I've accepted more crowds in the forests these days. Another inconvenience of the pandemic. But on this day, Route 33 was surprisingly and pleasantly quiet. At Rose Valley Road we veered east and descended to the Piedra Blanca Trailhead. Here too, we found less company than we had expected. A good omen on this All Hallows' Eve. 

On the trail, we crossed Lions and Sespe Creek which both still held water this deep into the dry season. At the junction with the Sespe Creek Trail we had options. Right took us east where we might find a nice spot along the creek. Left took us west and then north toward the impressive white sandstone of Piedra Blanca. Wanting an open site with uncluttered views where we could peer deep into the abyss of the universe on this Blue Moon night, we chose the latter route. Our pace was unhurried as we had committed in advance to not go far and just enjoy a leisurely night out. 

At Piedra Blanca, we wandered without agenda up, over, and through the manzanita and white stone until a promising location to put down for the night revealed itself. For those who have ever spent a night in the outdoors with me, this is generally a painful process because of my annoying, idiosyncratic insistence on finding the absolute perfect spot. My propensity to demand campsite flawlessness is so well known by my outdoor companions that it's become a bit of a running joke amongst them. As soon as we get to this part of any trip, the furtive glances and eye-rolling always begins as I scour the surrounding area for a truly transcendent site.   

Much to the chagrin of my companion, I was no different on this occasion, but fortunately the search was short. At the top of an impressive sandstone monolith with big sky views, we found a flat depression large enough for two bags and declared this our home for the evening. Because we were  cowboy camping, set up was easy and soon enough we were hard at work on the beers we had brought  and staring at nothing in particular and everything in general.  

Words are an imperfect medium to communicate the sacred sublimity of this place. True understanding can only be gained by sensing it, feeling it, allowing it to seep into and permeate every fiber of your soul. The indigenous people that previously occupied this land (this is the historical territory of the Ventureno band of the Chumash people) certainly understood this. Or being the overly-romantic character that I am capable of being, so I'd like to imagine.  

As the sun started its descent to the horizon, and dark shadows began creeping across the landscape, we sat in the stillness as the rock turned gold and the sky turned pink. Then, the lights went out completely. And stars twinkled and glinted as diamonds in the infinite black sky. A full moon then rose and it was like daylight once again. And we realized our place in both time and space. Despite what we as a species choose to believe, we're an insignificant pin-prick in the vast, undefinable fabric of the universe; an irrelevant flash along the time-line of infinity. But this immortal place, it has always been and it will always be. That's both a disconcerting and comforting thought. 

The next morning, the sun returned to brilliance, the sandstone shone white, and the cycle of things began once again. We meandered through the area looking for nothing, exploring like children for its own sake. Then it was time to leave, our welcome worn out, our trespass threatening to become conversion. So we packed up and left to return another time with the knowledge that this immutable place will be there. It always has been and always will be. 

Ain't No Cure for the Pandemic Blues

Thorn Point and Mutau Flats

Sometimes I wonder what I'm gonna do

But there ain't no cure for the summertime blues

~Summertime Blues, Eddie Cochran

So I'll meet you at the bottom if there really is one

They always told me when you hit it you'll know it

But I've been falling so long it's like gravity's gone and I'm just floating

~Gravity's Gone, Drive By Truckers

As you can tell from looking at the large gap between posts here, I haven't been inspired to write much lately. The process has always been a laborious challenge for me, but now it's a real struggle to even put pen to paper. Being the opinionated bastard that I am, it's not that I don't have anything to say. Just ask the people around me. They know that I'm rarely at a loss for words. And they're probably grateful for the respite from my constant yammering and bloviating. But the whole thing weighs on me. The muse has abandoned me without notice and everything I try to write now feels forced and inauthentic.

But these are strange and frightening times we're living through. People are fucking dropping dead from an enemy that can't be seen or fought. We're all wearing face-masks at the grocery store for fear of contagion. I haven't shaken a stranger's hand or given someone outside of my bubble a hug in months. I'm maxed out on vacation accrual, but can't go anywhere to use it. The restaurants and malls are empty, but the trails are packed with people, graffiti, and trash. And politicians' promises notwithstanding, it don't look too much like things are going to get materially better for the average person any time soon. So yeah, things are kind of fucked up right now. For that reason, I guess my muse can be forgiven for perhaps having a case of the pandemic blues.

In an effort to get out of my funk, I decided a day in the woods would be good for my soul. So last Friday, I played hooky from work and headed for San Rafael Peak, a seldom-visited summit deep in the Sespe Wilderness. 

The Iron Hiker joined me on this adventure. The original plan, devised by the ferrous one, was to hike Hines Peak and Cream Puff from the eastern terminus of the Nordhoff Ridge fire road. To do that, we needed a permit from the Forest Service. But that plan was foiled when fires closed the entire Los Padres for a spell and permits became unavailable. Then, the normal, seasonal closure of the Nordhoff Ridge road went into effect guaranteeing that we would not be doing Hines Peak the easy way until next spring. So we went searching for a remote, uncrowded, and challenging alternative. San Rafael checked all of those boxes nicely. 

Morning Commute

Cattle Drive

We met early at the entrance to Grade Valley Road and then drove the 10+ miles south on a washboard dirt road to the Johnston Ridge Trailhead. Sunlight peaked through the forest canopy as we went and I kept an eye out for wildlife as the conditions seemed ripe for a sighting or two. Unfortunately, all we encountered was a herd of bovine blocking the road that weren't in any particular hurry to cede ground to us. But being the superior beings that we are, we dispatched the dumb beasts with a couple of blares of the horn and we were on our way. 

The trailhead parking area was vacant. We were the only ones in the forest. We gathered our gear and started off, heading southeast on a well established trail that skirts Mutau Flats to the south as it drops about 200' in elevation to Mutau Creek. The word "Mutau" features prominently in this part of the forest. Although linguistically it sounds like it could be Chumash in derivation, it's actually the last name of a cantankerous old horse rustler who homesteaded these parts. Old Man Mutau, who settled in the area that is now the flats, was a known ally to horse thieves who moved stolen horses along the Horse Thief Trail from southern Ventura County to Kern County. Mutau, whose homestead sat right along the trail, permitted rustlers to use a canyon on his homestead (appropriately named "Horse Thief Canyon") to graze purloined horses before they were moved off to Tehachapi to be sold to work crews who were constructing the railroad from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Old Man Mutau met his maker at the flats that now bear his name when was ultimately shot and killed there.

No Country for Old Men

Mutau Creek

Breathing Room

Moo-tau

Mutau Creek was still flowing some, so we splashed through and started up a minor drainage that climbed to an obvious saddle at 5,729'. Along the way, we found a mylar balloon with a bright pink boa that we would retrieve on our way out. (PSA: stop releasing mylar balloons into the air people!) At the saddle, the trail continues east, dropping into the Little Mutau Creek drainage. Here, however, we abandoned the trail, opting to go cross-county in a southerly direction over a serious of bumps that lead to San Rafael Peak. 

The Sierra Club says that the navigation along this part of the route is "difficult," but we found it to be pretty straight-forward. At one stage, we wandered slightly off-track, going too low on the northeast flank of Pt. 6,408, but we quickly righted ourselves by making a steep climb back to the ridgeline which has expansive views of Hot Springs Canyon and the Sespe Creek drainage. We then traversed one final minor bump and made the steep climb to the summit. 

Going Off the Grid

Dragon's Back

St. Raphael

Home of Hot Springs

Atop San Rafael we had 360-degree views of the entire Ventura County backcountry. Cobblestone, Topa Topa, Devil's Heart, Hines, Chief, Thorn Point, Haddock, Reyes, and Pinos are all clearly visible from summit. We logged our appearance in the summit register which dated back to 1974 and then lollygagged in the warm sun and tried not to share our snacks with a bunch of insistent hornets that magically appeared every time a plastic baggie or foil was opened.  

Then it was time to go. Days are short this time of year and light a precious commodity. We were well equipped with lighting, but really didn't want to have to rely upon it. So we retraced our steps back to the trailhead and began the long drive back to the reality of life in a pandemic. I can't say that this little adventure cured my pandemic blues or broke my writer's block, but as the old saying goes, "sometimes you just need to go off the grid and get your soul right." And my soul was right on this day. 

Cobblestone Views

Topa Topa and Devil's Heart

Summit Pano

Thorn Point, Haddock and Reyes

Going Back Home