Where the Wild Things Are

 

And when he came to the place where the wild things are
they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth
and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.
~Where the Wild Things Are, Maurice Sendak

Harmon Canyon Rattlesnakes

The Los Padres Forest Association posted a image to Instagram the other day of a juvenile rattlesnake that had been bludgeoned to death in the Harmon Canyon Preserve in Ventura. Seems a skittish visitor to the preserve saw the snake, perceived it to be a danger to himself and others, and took it upon himself to exterminate the creature for the benefit of all man and womankind. That image spurred a number of comments that mostly disapproved of visitor's actions. But predictably, there were also a handful of folks who, although professing their love of being in the wilds of Harmon Canyon, nonetheless put forth the idea that it should be ridded of dangerous animals so as to make it a more enjoyable and safe experience for them, their toddlers, and their canines.

The Untamed Outdoors is Not a Suburban Park

But here's the thing that these well-intentioned, yet misguided folks need to understand and accept. The untamed outdoors isn't a nicely manicured suburban park replete with playground equipment, water fountains, and pretty chattering moms. It isn't the climate-controlled mall. And it certainly isn't fucking Disneyland. So stop demanding it be that. There are wild things there that roar their terrible roars and gnash their terrible teeth and roll their terrible eyes and show their terrible claws. Those things can and will bite, scratch, sting and/or burrow into you. Some might even kill you. But the wilds are where these critters live. It is their home, their permanens loco. You on the other hand are merely a temporary guest there. Actually, you're not even a guest because that term implies that you have been invited and are welcomed with open claws by the local inhabitants. You have received no such invite. Instead, you have simply broken and entered without consent. You are an intruder.

Consequently, you have zero standing to demand or expect that these wild places be sanitized and/or child-proofed to either conform to your personal safety expectations or to quell your rational and irrational fears. Instead, you have an affirmative obligation to make sure that you, your child, your companions, and your animals are all adequately prepared for what you may encounter on the trail and to understand how to minimize your risk of harm. That includes watching and listening to your surroundings at all times; knowing where to walk and where not to walk; being able to identify and avoid poisonous plants like Poison Oak and Poodle Dog Bush; and having some basic knowledge about the habitat and behavior of insects, spiders, snakes, coyotes, bobcats, and mountain lions. It also means willingly accepting the possibility and risk that you may unexpectedly cross-paths with any of these things at any time. You don't necessarily have to be comfortable with that possibility, but you do need to be physically, mentally, and emotionally prepared for it.

Because we're not killing snakes to placate your squeamishness with them. We're not relocating big felines so that you can feel more comfortable while on the trail. And we're not eradicating coyotes to prevent them from feasting on the unleashed lap dog you decided to bring hiking with you. All of these creatures are an integral part of and belong in the natural world into which you decide to step. Encountering them, therefore, is a risk inherent in any visit to the great outdoors. And like it or not, it is a risk that you willingly and voluntarily assume when you go. 

The Wilds are Wild

If you don't want to assume those risks for whatever reason, then don't. It's fine. I'm not going to judge you. Remain in the safe confines of your home, yard, neighborhood, shopping center, local bar, grocery store, restaurant, movie theater, bookstore, or wherever. You'll be happy and so we the rest of us. But do not, I repeat DO NOT demand, insist, expect, suggest, lobby for, agitate for, ask, or even imply that we need to domesticate and Disney-fy the wilds for your benefit. Alleviating your fear and discomfort isn't our responsibility. Neither is ridding the wilds of the wild things that make it wild. So don't act like it is. And don't presume that those of us who like the natural world natural will give ear to any suggestions otherwise. Because that ain't happening any time soon.   

Tempted by El Diablo's Potrero

I can resist anything except temptation.
 ~Oscar Wilde, Lady Windemere's Fan

I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it.

~Mae West 

I've stared numerous times at my Tom Harrison map of the Sespe Wilderness and wondered about the Pothole Trail leading out to the Pothole, the Devil's Gateway, and the Agua Blanca drainage. That area of the Los Padres has been an intriguing blank space on my experience map for awhile now, not from lack of interest, but instead from the difficulty of accessing the trailhead. Ok, perhaps "difficulty" is the wrong descriptor here because accessing the trailhead really isn't that difficult. It's more of a significant annoyance that I have simply refused to subject myself to. That annoyance involves paying $14 to enter the Lake Piru Recreation Area, parking in the visitor's lot, and then making a 4.5 mile road-walk just to get to the trailhead so you can begin the hike. Um, thanks no. A visit to the proctologist holds significantly more interest for me than a tedious 4+ mile, one-way asphalt walk. 

Then, the other day I heard something on my local public radio station that piqued my interest. It was a story about a new parking area and trailhead for the Pothole Trail that was scheduled for opening this past weekend. The improvements are part of the recently-approved Central Coast Preservation Act that designates the 400+ mile Condor Trail as a National Recreation Trial. With the opening of this new trailhead parking area, gone are both the ridiculous entrance fee to the Lake Piru Recreation Area and the interminable road walk. Suddenly, the temptation to visit El Diablo's corner of the Los Padres was more than I could be expected to resist. So I went.

At the kiosk to the entrance to Lake Piru, I told the attendant I was going to the Pothole Trail. He gave me a special permit to hang from my rearview mirror and waived me through without dinging my wallet. Then it was a 5 mile drive on a winding, narrow, and poorly maintained yet paved road to the sparkling new parking area which is equipped with clean restrooms (for now), trash receptacles, and a temporary hand-washing station. But access to the trail itself from here is not immediately intuitive. You don't proceed west from the back of the parking area to begin this hike. Ask me how I know that. Instead, to get to the actual trail, you need to backtrack out to the road and then continue north 100 or so yards where the trail starts on the left, marked by both a new sign and an old, sun-bleached forest service sign that is obscured from the road by encroaching brush.

Lake Piru

New Parking Area

Trailhead

Because this trail was hyped on public radio where it was probably heard by all types of listeners, a word about the hike ahead is appropriate here. First, this is not a family-friendly hike or one that is appropriate for the casual hiker. From the trailhead, the climbing starts immediately and doesn't let up for a couple of miles. It is a steep, sustained, and relentless grind until you reach that boundary for the Sespe Wilderness at about the 3,200' contour. After that, it's a 1,000' drop in elevation to the Pothole itself, meaning that you are climbing both ways on this hike for a total of 3,000'+ of gain. Additionally, this is a seldom-visited and remote part of the Los Padres. If you go, make certain you are well-provisioned and know how to take care of yourself. If you get into trouble out here, ain't no one coming to assist you quickly. Finally, the initial climb to the wilderness boundary is exposed, south-facing, and shadeless. There is no water until you reach the Agua Blanca. Combine that with the fact that it gets hotter than Hades in this part of the forest, and this is probably not the best choice for a mid-to-late summer hike. In fact, barring a pre-dawn start, hiking here in the summer could be downright dangerous. Heat stroke is real y'all.

With those preliminaries out of the way, I started up the trail which initially crosses a dry meadow and then climbs steeply to the adjacent ridge. Here, Blue Point, so named for the bluish-gray rock bands that streak its south face, comes into view. Behind, and to the northeast, Whitaker Peak can also be plainly seen. The trail then continues to climb, sometimes steeply, in a northwesterly direction following the ridgeline up and over Pt. 3,016 just shy of the wilderness boundary. From a trail-building perspective, the current route really doesn't make a lot of sense. But as you climb, you'll see vestiges of the original trail skirting the numerous bumps on the ridgeline over which the current track goes right up and over. These old trail segments are now so overgrown from disuse and lack of maintenance that the more direct ridge route has ironically become the less difficult default.  

The Meadow

Blue Point (Whitaker Behind)

Original Trail Route

Current Ridge Route

Forever Ridgline

Pt. 3,016 - Wilderness Boundary Near High Point in Rear

Cobblestone and Vicinity

Just beyond Pt. 3,016, the trail enters the Sespe Wilderness which is well marked by signage. Impressive views of distant Cobblestone Mountain and the more remote reaches of the Los Padres backcountry come into focus. Being the wilderness, mechanized travel is prohibited here, but rogue motorcyclists have ignored that ban and damaged the trail considerably. Typical fucking entitlement mentality. 

From the wilderness boundary (approximately 3,200'), it is a 1,000 foot drop to the Devils Potrero which you finally catch a glimpse of as you cross a narrow saddle at about the 2,800' contour. The trail then passes by Pt. 2,716 to the north, snakes back on itself, and finally deposits you into the potrero adjacent to the the Pothole which was formed by a gigantic slide that has covered the canyon floor with sand and silt. In his excellent blog Songs of the Wilderness, James Wapotich has posted images from the mid-1990s showing the Pothole filled with water and forming a lake reputed to be 15 feet deep. 

Entrance to the Sespe Wilderness

First View of Devils Potrero

Saddle View Looking East

Unfortunately for me, I didn't get the opportunity to do anything more than look at the Pothole from afar. Due to a later start than originally intended, I gave myself a 2:30 p.m. hard stop. And by that deadline, I was just shy of the objective. I contemplated pushing on to achieve the objective, but I was solo, it was a fair distance back to the trailhead, and I didn't want to get caught too far out in the fading light even though I was prepared to contend with that type of situation. So I reluctantly turned tail and started the climb back out.

On they way down, I stopped for a couple of minutes on a protruding rock to have a snack, swill a warm beer that I had stowed in my pack, and take in the scenery I had missed on the way up. Because it was now so late in the afternoon, I had the run of the place and I sat luxuriating in the absolute silence, contemplating my return.  

Near the road, I ran into a couple just starting up. They asked me how far it was to the "look-out point." I told them that depended on what they meant by that term, but that they had a long, arduous climb ahead of them before they topped out near the wilderness boundary. Ten minutes later, as I was loading gear into my car, the couple came strolling back into the parking lot. Shortly after our encounter, they apparently realized the folly of attempting to complete the hike with such a late start. So like me, they resisted temptation to continue on, and returned to the parking lot so that they could come back on another day to give the devil his due.

Ridge View South into the Piru Creek Drainage

Roller Coaster Ridge Return Route

Piru Creek and Blue Point

Piru Locals

Irrational Desire and the Allure of New Gear

To want is to have a weakness.

~Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; 

remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.

~Epicurus

Ultimately, it is the desire, not the desired, that we love.

~Frederick Nietzsche

The other day I was looking over my aging 18 liter REI Flash pack. I bought this thing on a whim while Christmas shopping several years back not because I necessarily needed another day pack, but because the giant outdoor co-op was pushing them out the door for a mere $19.99. So a I grabbed a couple and distributed them amongst the greater wildsouthland family. How could I resist? How could anyone resist?

As day packs go, there is nothing particularly remarkable about this bag. It has dual daisy-chains on the exterior for gear, a small, zippered, mesh pocket with key-chain on the interior, a hydration sleeve that I've never used for its intended purpose, a draw-cord lid with weather-flap, but no other "organization" to speak of. The bag itself is just, well, a bag comprised of a single compartment into which gear and whatnot can be stuffed in a semi-disorganized manner. But for short and quick outings, the bag has proved pretty functional and mine has seen a decent amount of use.

Which is why I was examining it in the first place. After years of taking it into the hills, my bag is looking a bit ratty. It's original, uninspiring grey hue is trending toward the beige of the Southern California soil. It it streaked with charcoal from the charred remains of sumac and manzanita and elderberry. And an accumulation of salty rime coats the shoulder straps from a number of missions in the scorching heat. In sum, the bag isn't as attractive or appealing as it was on that December evening when I first plucked it from the rack at REI.

But aesthetics aside, the bag has held up nicely. The ripstop nylon from which it is made has proved to be impressively durable and impenetrable to thorns and needles and spikes and sticks and sharp rocks and all the other prickly, scratchy, and pokey stuff that dominates the landscape here. Save for one small puncture wound on the bottom, my bag shows no tears or rips or other failings. The $19.99 I paid for the thing has turned out to be a pretty damn good investment. 

And therein lies the problem. I troll outdoor gear companies online. I visit retail stores that sell backpacks and sleeping backs and tents and other goodies - at least I used to before COVID changed the world. I get Backpacker magazine monthly. So I see all the sexy new packs that are out there just waiting for a home. I know that there are a bunch of "new and improved" day-packs with a host of must-have features that I don't have. And damnit, bag envy demands that I have one of those new bags even though I really don't need one. 

I don't know whether that is indicative of some inherent character flaw I have, or whether I'm just easily swayed by slick marketing schemes and shiny objects, but this desire for a new day-pack when it really isn't necessary conjures an incident from my youth that suggests that perhaps I've always harbored this defect. When I was a youngster, I had a pair a olive green canvas "Keds." Other than their repulsive color, the shoes were in perfectly good condition. But somehow I had grabbed onto the idea that I really needed new pair of shoes. Of course, I knew that was complete bullshit, and that I just wanted new shoes, but I couldn't let on to either myself or my parents without destroying that delusion. So I didn't. 

The problem was that there was nothing at all wrong my green Keds. And my parents weren't visually impaired. Their eyesight was pretty damn good actually. And they certainly weren't going to open the wallet for new kicks simply to pacify my budding vanity or to placate my irrational wants. So I forced the issue. I'd deliberately wear out my Keds so that my parents would have to buy me new shoes. 

Once that sinister plan was conceived, I set out with skateboard under foot to put my scheme into action. But this proved to be no easy task because like my REI Flash pack, these things were pretty durable. Holes wouldn't suddenly appear just through normal wear. So I resorted to abnormal wear. I rubbed the heels against the concrete curb. I dragged the tops across grass and gravel. I shuffled my feet across the asphalt to scuff the bottoms. I dragged the toes along the sidewalk. 

Ultimately, after a hard day's work of this, I had managed to pretty much destroy my puke green Keds. But the destruction was unnatural. There were patches of road-rash on the heel caps; the rubber on the toe tips and outer sole were unevenly worn; and the damage to the uppers looked suspicious because, well, it was suspicious. But I felt no pangs of guilt in my conscience as I do now as I returned home that night with my shredded shoes to plead my case for necessary replacements.

Ultimately, my shenanigans were successful and I got what I wanted, even though my parents surely recognized the absurd pretense. But my petulance isn't the point here. Rather, the point is that my Keds would have lasted a long, long time had I not resorted to focused, intentional destruction. The same holds true for my REI Flash pack. Like most gear these days, it is so well made, so durable, and so long-lasting that it has already outlived my childish wants. But the sin of covetousness is no longer a good enough reason for me to go out and replace it. And hopefully I'm past engaging in conscious, premediated savagery if for no other reason than I'm the one that ultimately pays the monetary price for it. So as Epicurus warned, I won't spoil what I have by desiring what I don't have, and will continue to carry my trusty, crusty bag for as long as it holds up. Desire be damned.