They Can't All Be Winners

Entrance to Cascade Canyon

Thurman: Have you seen my advent calendar?

Willie: What the fuck is it with the advent calendar?

Willie: What are you so obsessed with that goddamn thing? The story sucks anyway.

[Feels badly for yelling at Thurman]

Willie: I think I saw it out there in the hallway.

Thurman: Really?

Willie: I think so.

[Thurman retrieves calendar]

Thurman: Looks like someone messed with my advent calendar.

Willie: What are you talking about? Let me see.

Willie: Nobody messed with it. It looks fine.

[Thurman opens calendar]

Thurman: There's a candy corn in this one.

Willie: Well they can't all be winners, can they?

~Bad Santa (2003)

There's a discernible "wart," "bump," "protuberance," or whatever you want to call it along the dramatic ridgeline leading south from the summit of Ontario Peak. It's not a recognized "peak" in its own right, but it is prominent enough in relation to the rest of the ridge to be instantly recognizable from both near and far. Peakbagger refers to it as a "provisional" peak. Everyone I know just calls it the "Turtle's Beak,"  so named because (i) it does somewhat resemble a terrapins's schnozz, and (ii) the alter-ego of the first guy reputed to climb it was named "Turtle."  

When Turtle first climbed the beak, he approached it from the north. After scaling Ontario Peak, he then dropped along the ridgeline south, roller-coastering over a series of humps before finally achieving  the objective. It was an arduous overnight affair, and along the way he encountered a sea of buckthorn and other nasty flora.

Since that first ascent, a handful of other hardy souls I know have visited the Beak. But instead of following in Turtle's gigantic footsteps, these folks discovered an alternate route that avoids the impenetrable buckthorn of Ontario's south ridge. The approach also shaves miles off the "standard" route. This "shortcut" involves going right up the steep gut of Cascade Canyon to attain the ridge immediately north of the Turtle's Beak. It's a 3,000' scramble up a wild and trail-less canyon that involves some route-finding and class 3 exposure. 

  

Cascade Canyon is a notable destination for rock-hounds. Not only can corundum crystals be found here, but it is reputably one of the few places in the United States where one can find rare lapis lazuli. Getting to the veins of the uncommon mineral is quite a challenge, however because the deposits are located in the steep, remote, and rough upper stretches of the canyon. Mining for the semi-precious stone has occurred here in the past with limited degrees of success, but those days are now gone (although the north fork of the canyon supposedly still harbors the visible remnants of one of these operations). Amateur collecting is now all that occurs here.

The Iron Hiker, an accomplished peakbagging friend a mine, determined that it was time to visit the Beak and he invited me along. He'd done his due diligence and spoken to others who had ascended Cascade Canyon before, and his plan was to essentially repeat their efforts. Always game for an adventure in the forest, I agreed to the join in on the fun. 

We met at the parking area at Barrett-Stoddard Road at 6:00 a.m. and soon headed off for parts unknown. The morning was clear and cool as we walked easily along the well-maintained fire road, crossing the still-flowing creek at North Fork Barrett Canyon and passing the intriguing Gingerbread House. Beyond the last reclusive home in the canyon and a forest service gate, the road leaves the forest's protective canopy to burst out into the open, permitting unique views of San Antonio Canyon, Sunset Peak, and Lookout Mountain.   

Views Along Barrett-Stoddard Road 

The Beak (center-right) from Barrett-Stoddard Road

Starting Up Cascade Canyon

A short distance later, we were at the obvious entrance to Cascade Canyon which didn't look particularly inviting. We paused briefly to double-check our bearings, put on our battle armor, and headed in. Initially, there were signs here and there that others had been in the canyon. Most likely rock-hounds. We followed their faint trails as best as we could until they eventually petered-out entirely. Then it was just a matter of following the drainage straight up the canyon. 

But this was no easy task. There is no established route so we were basically just feeling our way up the drainage. And the canyon is a continuous obstacle course of dislodged boulders, thick dead-fall, impenetrable brambles, spider webs, and poison oak. Progress slowed to a crawl as we climbed over and ducked under downed trees, hopped from unstable rock to unstable rock, and delicately danced and shimmied as best we could around, over and through the ubiquitous stands of poison oak. 

After what seemed like a couple of hours of moving but not making much progress, we hit a veritable wall of thorny blackberry bushes. To our right, the hillside opened up some affording an opportunity to leave the hostile canyon floor. We took that opportunity, optimistic that it would allow us to bypass the blackberry rampart. But not long after that, our hopes were cruelly dashed when we cliffed-out high above the canyon bottom. We could look down and see exactly where we wanted to be, but getting there was too treacherous. Back at the blackberry wall, we re-assessed our situation and decided it best to abandon the effort. Begrudgingly, we rock-hopped and brush-bashed our way back to Barrett-Stoddard Road.

Since it was still early and we felt the need to at least go home with a participation trophy, we continued south on Barrett-Stoddard Road to climb nearby Stoddard Peak. The road-walking was easy and chatter distracting and we were soon at the saddle that separates San Antonio and Stoddard Canyons. Here, a well-established use trail peels off to the right to ascend the short ridgeline on which Stoddard is the third knob to the south.

After passing some interesting rock formations near the middle bump, we arrived at Stoddard proper where we cooled for a bit, had some snacks, and absorbed the fine vista. There's a triangular witness post on the summit, but we didn't find a register. We did, however, find a red ant colony, some of which were of the flying variety. And the voracious little bastards didn't appreciate our presence and started stinging. Or at least they started stinging me. The Iron Hiker, apparently ill-tasting and immune from red-ant scorn, sat bemused as I stripped off clothing to rid myself of the demonic and cantankerous little pests. 

Eventually, he (and I) had had enough and we started back. The road walk went quickly, but less so than on the way out. Or so it seemed. It's always that way for some reason. Maybe it's the Christmas-Day excitement of going out that makes the miles pass so effortlessly, and the dread of returning to reality that makes them creep by so slowly. Regardless, back at the previously vacant parking area, cars now filled every available nook, cranny, crevice, space, and spot. A canyon resident was there sweeping the dirt off the "No Parking - Fire Zone" markings on the pavement and barking at scofflaws who responded with everything from indifference to disdain. I chatted with her some as she put her broom into the back of her SUV. She confirmed what I already knew: since the pandemic began, and bars, restaurants, movie theaters, bowling alleys, and other amusement establishments all closed, the canyon has been overrun by what a grumpy acquaintance of mine disparagingly calls the "filthy casuals." And it's having a real and negative impact on our open spaces. Trash, graffiti, and other urban and suburban-type fuckery is now a regular part of the outdoor experience courtesy of those who have spent the better part of their existence indoors. 

A vaccine for Covid can't be developed and deployed quickly enough so that these indoor refugees can finally get back where they belong and they really prefer to be: indoors.

The almost "standstill" speed represents the time spent in Cascade Canyon. Very slow going.

Red Mountain - Over the Hills and Far Away

Red! I want red, there's not substitute for red

Red! Paint it red, green ain't mean compared to red.

~Red, Sammy Hagar

The Memorial Day weekend. The traditional start of summer. You know, the 3-days in May when folks that don't usually spend time outdoors unpack their tents and sleeping bags and propane stoves and massive coolers and firewood and boom-boxes and other camp-life accouterments and head for the mountains or forests to temporarily squat in the dirt in close proximity to others, stay up drinking and hollering into the wee hours of the morning before passing out, and rising badly hung-over at the break of dawn to repeat the cycle. Yeah, that weekend. It's typically an unpleasantly frenetic time to be out as "irregulars" swarm the great outdoors, finally unrestrained by the cool, dim days of winter. That communal need to break out is particularly acute this year. For this is the year of COVID. Thus, and either because of self-restraint or governmental edict, most people have not ventured too far from their home turf for the last couple of months. Now their feet are itchy. And Memorial Day weekend is an opportune time to finally scratch that itch. 

Like every red-blooded, patriotic American, I wanted to scratch too. My conundrum was that I wanted none of baggage and risk that comes with rubbing feet and shoulders with a gaggle of my potentially virus-infected citizens. Or perhaps that's just an excuse. Maybe I'm really an anti-social, elitist that is just using the pandemic to justify my isolationist tendencies. I admit that possibility. Either way, what it meant for me was once again finding a place that very few people want to visit. After scouring the maps, that place appeared to be Red Mountain. 

At 3,996', Red Mountain is a relatively unsexy peak located in a sort of no-man's land of the Angeles National Forest. Sandwiched between Elizabeth Lake and San Francisquito Canyons, Red Mountain sits sentinel high above the Fish Arm of Castaic Lake which is visible to the south. There are no established trails or fire roads leading to its summit. Trip reports are difficult to find. But satellite imagery shows an obvious firebreak carved into Red's steep southern ridge that ultimately tops out on the summit. That firebreak must be courtesy of the Powerhouse Fire that burned a good chunk of the forest to the immediate north in 2013.

 

The ridge route begins from a dirt parking area along Dry Gulch Road about 0.6 miles to the east of Lake Hughes Road. It starts as a jeep road that immediately ascends a short, steep hill and then morphs into the firebreak. Shot-gun shells and sparkling broken glass litter the area which has been abused like many other easily-accessible areas of the Angeles. 

The firebreak itself is slowly being reclaimed by mother nature. Brush impedes the way forward or encroaches onto the path in several locations, although it is easily manageable. For now, a rogue motorcycle track is keeping a narrow path open and visible. In a few years or less, that track will inevitably vanish under a thick carpet of wild grasses, chamise, black mustard, yucca, and other unfriendly flora. Unless, of course, another wildfire torches the area which, in Southern California, is always a possibility.

Given its southern exposure, the route up Red's firebreak is a hot and shadeless march. It's also a steady climb from bottom to top that begins modestly, but then gets serious quite quickly. In a number of places, the slope is so mercilessly and relentlessly steep that it is difficult to maintain your footing. It's truly impressive to think about the guys who ran a dozer up this damn ridgeline to create the break.

That is not to say that it is all up. The firebreak continually roller-coasters up and down all the way to the 3,600' contour where it intersects with Red's eastern ridgeline. As a result, the track drops sharply in a number of spots before resuming its upward trajectory. Consequently, the climbing isn't done once you reach Red's summit. You get approximately 400-500' of climbing on the return as well which is a bit demoralizing. 

Lower Section of the Firebreak

One of several drops along the ascent 

About the mid-way point. Red in the background.

One of the steeps climbs on the way "down."

So with all of that glamour, who could possibly resist the allure of Red Mountain as a destination hike? As it turns out, pretty much everybody. The day I went I didn't see a single soul which was fine by me. And that appears to be the norm with this particular peak. On the flat summit, there is a large cairn that houses a summit register. That register, which dates to January, 2020 only had two other entries. One in January by the climber who originally placed the register, and a second in March of 2020. My entry made it a total of three in a five month period. Not much action for a peak that is within spitting distance of 15 million or so folks.

And in a sense, that is unfortunate because of the somewhat unique views that Red affords of the surrounding area. Looking south from Red's summit you get nice views of Castaic Lake and lower San Francisquito Canyon. To west you can see Warm Springs Mountain and its associated ridge. To the north, Lake Hughes is visible at the head of Lake Elizabeth Canyon.

Based upon the USGS and Forest Service topographic maps, there are two benchmarks on the summit of Red: "VABM 3996" and "Red." They are both supposed to be in close proximity to one another near the high point, but I wasn't successful in locating either of them. Then again, I wasn't that terribly diligent in my search either. I suppose finding those benchmarks will have to await my next visit.

After a half-hour on the summit, I started back down the eastern ridge, lost in thought and dreading the several steep climbs I knew were still ahead. Then, the terrain suddenly began to look unfamiliar and Red looked considerably more distant over my shoulder than it should have been. Trying to make sense of situation, it finally occurred to me that while I was day-dreaming, I had over-shot the firebreak. So I had to back-track up the ridge to the firebreak junction adding some additional, gratuitous climbing to the outing.

I don't normally keep stats, but on this outing I used my snazzy View Ranger app. According to it, the trek to Red is roughly 7.7 miles with approximately 2,680 feet of elevation gain. It took me 4.5 hours to make that journey which probably sounds slow, but I wasn't out to make time. I was out to spend time. Alone.  Far from the madding crowds. And you can accomplish both of those lofty objectives on the trek to Red Mountain. 

Summit Cairn

Summit Register

View West to Warm Springs Mountain

View South to Castaic Lake

View North to Lake Hughes

Elevation Profile

Coming Back to Life - Whitaker Peak

Lost in thought and lost in time

While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted

Outside the rain fell dark and slow

While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime

I took a heavenly ride through our silence

I knew the moment had arrived

For killing the past and coming back to life.

~Coming Back to Life, Pink Floyd

Like most everyone else, I've been hibernating during these dark and uncertain times of fear and death and viruses and hoarding, making more effort than usual to avoid my fellow countrymen and countrywomen. My natural anti-social tendencies and crowd-avoidance inclinations have made this less difficult for me than perhaps others, but even I've been getting the itch to get out and experience something other than my garage. The treadmill is useful and all, and I'm grateful that my wife had the foresight and the tenacity to provide for that outlet, but walking and running on a rotating belt at a maximum 10% grade while staring at a shelf stacked with unused camping gear is a sad and depressing affair. It just doesn't have the same allure as the real deal. As good as innovation and technology are, they can't replicate the sights, sounds, smells, feel, and, most importantly, the exhilaration of the trail. Bashing through thick and unforgiving brush, swatting annoying flies and ticks, dodging dangerous rattlesnakes, cursing un-Godly steep ridges, cursing the oppressive heat, cursing the bitter cold, finding a route where there is no route, worrying about whether you brought enough water, worrying about whether you'll make it back to the car before the sky goes dark, and enjoying a well-deserved summit beer after all of that are experiences that are unique to actually being out of doors. And damn do I miss every aspect of that.

So with some local governments cracking the door slightly ajar this past weekend, I took advantage and made a dash for the hills. Recognizing that literally everyone else in the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area was probably going to do the same, I strategically looked for a location that didn't have high "ooh-ahh"allure to keep away, what an acquaintance of mine disparagingly calls, the "filthy casuals." If it was shadeless, waterless, scrubby, involved some off-trail travel, and was reasonably proximate, those were all additional, positive considerations I took into account. So, after considering all of those factors, and pouring over CalTopo, I settled on Whitaker Peak near the far eastern boundary of the Angeles with the Los Padres. At just around 10 miles round trip and 1,600 feet of gain, this seemed like a decent selection to ease me back into the game.

There are actually two "Whitakers," east and west that are separated by a low ridge. At 4,102', "west Whitaker" is the location of the former Whitaker Peak Fire Lookout and is reputed to experience some of the most ferocious winds in the Angeles National Forest. Today, the summit is the unattractive host to a radio communication tower and related equipment. At the opposite end of the ridge is "East Whitaker," the actual high point at 4,148'. This eastern bump would be my destination.

The standard route to Whitaker involves a bunch of road-walking. From Templin Highway, paved Whitaker Peak Road (6N53) climbs to the ridge to intersect with another road, 6N53B. That road (partially paved, but mostly dirt) tacks southwest and ultimately takes you to the summit of "West Whitaker." An alternate route follows a single-track out of Camp Verdugo Oaks at Oak Flat to the ridge where it joins 6N53B. From there, its a long road-slog out to "West Whitaker."

Fortunately, there is an alternative to the alternative that trims some of the road off the route and allows for more enjoyable travel by trail. Looking at aerial imagery of the area, I noticed a distinct track climbing to the ridge off Templin Highway just south of the entrance to the Whitaker Peak Road. That track cut through the chaparral to ascend a minor ridge before intersecting with  and joining 6N53. Shortly after that, the trail again diverges from the road, shaves the first big hairpin turn, the parallels 6N53 to the southwest along a ridgeline. It rejoins the road at the ridgeline where 6N53 and 6N53B become one.

The trail is not immediately evident as it leaves Templin Highway, but after sniffing around some I found it. It appears to be primarily a motorcycle or perhaps an MTB route that sees enough use to be established. The lower section is quite steep in places, but that steepness subsides after you intersect with 6N53. Above that, the trail climbs enjoyably to the ridgeline where views of Canton Canyon to the south and Whitaker to the west begin to open up. As I climbed this upper section, an endangered California Condor glided by, riding thermals in the cloudless sky.

Lower Trail

I-5 from Lower Trail

Upper Trail

View South from Upper Trail

Here, the dull road walk began. The road, which is asphalt here, gently drops maybe 150' to a saddle, turns to dirt, and then starts a gradual climb toward "West Whitaker" to the south. Along the way, grand vistas to the west open up showing off Cobblestone Mountain, the Condor Sanctuary, and the seldom-visited areas of the Southern Los Padres. Turning back north, you can see Slide Mountain and the Fire Lookout tower perched atop it.

As the road nears its terminus, it skirts a low saddle along the ridgeline that separating the two Whitakers. Here, I scrambled up the embankment, attained the narrow ridge, and then bobbed and weaved my way cross-country to the summit of Whitaker proper. There is brush here and it is generally negotiable, but I did need to drop beneath the ridgeline in several places to find the path of least resistance. 

Atop the summit, I located a summit register and signed in. Whitaker doesn't see much action, and the signatures dated back to January, 2011 when the current register was first placed there. There is reputedly a benchmark at the summit as well, but I did not see it. I later learned that it is immediately adjacent to the rock pile housing the register, but that it is counter-sunk. Had I known that at the time, I probably would have put in some effort to clear the dirt away and locate it. Oh well.

The summit of Whitaker itself isn't terribly interesting or inviting. It is broad, flat, shadeless, rockless, and brushy. I borrowed a rock from the summit cairn as a seat, stripped off my sweaty shirt, and sat in the sun brushing pesky flies away as I rehydrated and enjoyed a snack. Then I retraced my steps back to my car that was parked on the wide shoulder along Templin Highway. On my way out, I passed the only person I saw all day going in my opposite direction on 6N53B.

I didn't keep stats for the day. I rarely do that as that is not my primary objective when I go out. But AllTrails says it's 9.4 miles round-trip to "West Whitaker" with 1,617 feet of elevation gain. Based upon my day out, that feels like it's in the general ballpark.

Cobblestone and the Condor Sanctuary

Whitaker from the Ridgeline

Summit Register

"West Whitaker"

Cobblestone (L) and Slide (R)

Whitaker's Summit

In the Footsteps of Grizzlies and Banditos

From a town known as Wheeling, West Virginia
Rode a boy with a six-gun in his hand
And his daring life of crime
Made him a legend in his time
East and west of the Rio Grande
~Billy Joel, The Ballad of Billy the Kid

As far as I know, legendary outlaw and bank-robber extraordinaire Billy the Kid was never in the San Gabriel Mountains. He was too busy shooting up saloons and rustling cattle and killing lawmen in Nuevo Mexico to bother coming further west. And even if he did have aspirations to visit the Golden State, those were cut short on July 14, 1881 when Lincoln County Sheriff Pat Garrett ambushed Billy in a house in Fort Sumner, New Mexico and put a bullet in his brain. Thus came the swift end for Henry McCarty aka William H. Bonney aka Billy the Kid.

But the San Gabriels didn't need Billy the Kid. It had a robust assemblage of banditos and gun-slingers and desperados all its own. One of the more notorious was the gentleman and chivalrous outlaw Tiburcio Vasquez who claimed that his crime spree was to avenge the numerous injustices committed by invading Anglos against native Californios. Vasquez and his gang were all over the San Gabriel range and several places memorialize or bear witness to that fact (e.g., Bandido and Horse Flat Campgrounds, Vasquez Creek, Vasquez Rocks).

One of Vasquez's more infamous exploits was the raid on the Repetto ranch which was located in southeast Los Angeles in what is now Monterey Park. Alexander Repetto was an Italian sheepherder who Vasquez was informed was flush with cash after having recently sold one of his flocks. So Vasquez and his boys hatched a plan to relieve Mr. Repetto of his burden. Claiming to be sheep-shearers, they came to the Repetto ranch looking for work. But Repetto was a sharp cookie with a keen eye who saw through the ruse and called Vasquez out. Admitting that he was in fact not a sheep-shearer, but a gangster, Vasquez tied Repetto to at tree, demanded $10,000 of him, and threatened to hang him if he did not comply. But Repetto didn't have the money. He had spent most of it. And what remained was on deposit at the Temple and Workman Bank in downtown Los Angeles. So an alternate plan was conceived. Vasquez would force Repetto to write a check that his nephew would carry to the bank, negotiate, and then return with the proceeds. In a piece titled "The Hunt for Tiburcio Vasquez: A Chase Through a Californio's L.A., " Robert Peterson describes what happened next:

"When Repetto's nephew arrived at the bank, he was so nervous that the banker, Francis Temple, became suspicious and contacted the Sheriff. Upon further questioning the nephew broke down and tearfully revealed the whole story. The Sheriff immediately started assembling a posse to capture Vasquez. At this point, the nephew became worried that the Sheriff's involvement might result in his uncle's death. He managed to convince the banker to give him 500 dollars in gold and returned to Repetto's house, before the posse, to give the money to Vasquez. When the Sheriff's posse approached Repetto's house, Vasquez and his men mounted up and started racing north towards present day Pasadena."

Vasquez's escape route took him up the Arroyo Seco, into Dark Canyon, up to the old Soledad Road grade at the crest (present day Grizzly Flat Road), and then down into Big Tujunga Canyon via Grizzly Flat and Vasquez Creek (roughly, the present-day Grizzly Flat Trail). The ride down to Big Tujunga was rough, steep, and overgrown with Buckthorn, and Vasquez lost a horse and his revolver on the way down. Years later, a 16-year old kid named Phil Begue from the City of Tujunga, found Vasquez's saddle and his revolver still bearing the initial "T V" cut into the barrel.

For a nice write-up of the raid by Vasquez on the Repetto ranch by legendary Southern California historian John Robinson, go here: http://www.lawesterners.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/149-DECEMBER-1982.pdf

Given its historical significance, I've wanted to see Grizzly Flat and the trail leading to it up Dark Canyon from Big Tujunga for awhile, but all the reports I had seen were that is was impassable and/or choked with poison oak. Me and poison oak ain't friendly. So I never went. Then one day, I read a report that the Grizzly Flat trail had been worked and was clear all the way to the divide. That was all the motivation I needed.

I started from Stoneyvale at Vogel Flats. The parking lot was empty save for one van near the trailhead. Two ladies in hiking gear had just come down trail and were loading their gear into the van. A good omen. As I passed them, they asked me where the trail went. They had followed it a short distance until it petered out in a tangle of growth at the stream and then turned back not seeing a way forward. A bad omen. I pushed on having to see for myself.

A short distance later I saw for myself. The path seemingly ended abruptly in a boggy, overgrown mess along Big Tujunga creek. This wasn't right. The reports I had read indicated the trail was passable. So I rock and log-hopped across the creek to left-hand side, bashed through a stand of Arundo donax, and the trail magically reappeared. From this point until the path tacks south at Silver Canyon and begins the climb to Grizzly Flat it was easy and open walking.

Then things began to get more interesting. As the trail starts to climb what I suppose is technically Dark Canyon, it gets steep, rocky, and narrow. Not impossibly steep, but steep enough to make you work. As the climb began, I looked for the Windsor benchmark (2094) without luck. It must be buried in the very thick brush that blankets the hillsides here.

Further up, stiff brush began to encroach on the trail poking and grabbing me as I passed. Then there were a number of fallen trees that had to be negotiated. Again, nothing too difficult, but enough to add some spice to the outing. But the higher I climbed, the more ducking and bending and crawling on, over, and around vegetation I had to do. Fortunately, none of it was of the poisonous oak variety. Just below and west of Grizzly Flat, in the dark and cool drainage that must be Dark Canyon (none of the maps that I've looked at are labeled), I heard rustling in the underbrush ahead. Since I was just shy of Grizzly Flat and in the deep recesses of the San Gabriels, I immediately assumed Ursus americanus californiensis. So I started hooting, hollering, and clapping my hands in a pathetic attempt to scare off the unseen beast. Then two guys came around the bend on the descent making me the fool. They didn't say anything but they knew. And I knew they knew. I asked them if they had gone all the way to the ridge, but they demurred. They said they got tired of bush-whacking so were beating a retreat back to the trailhead. Another bad omen.

Then I popped out into the clear and the sunshine at Grizzly Flat, named after the Grizzly Bears that once called the Angeles National Forest home and reputedly favored the Big Tujunga region. I've heard that before the Station Fire, Grizzly Flat was nice. Now, it is not much more than wide-spot on the trail. I stopped for a spell, investigated the water tank, hydrated, then pushed on.

Here, the trail morphs into Grizzly Flat Road so I was optimistic that the traveling would become easier. But while the way did in fact open up, and the path did become wider, forward progress definitely did not become more effortless or simple. It seems Spanish Broom, a beautiful, non-native invasive, has a particular affinity for the area and it has aggressively colonized the place. It crowded the road to the point of being almost impassable at times, and I spent the next half-hour or so ducking under, around, and through massive clumps of the offending stuff.

Finally, I reached the divide separating Big Tujunga Canyon from the Arroyo Seco. This was the exact spot where 100+ years earlier, Tiburcio Vasquez finally shook Sheriff Rowland from his tail after the Repetto Ranch raid. The spot offers expansive views down Dark Canyon and into the Big Tujunga Creek drainage. Here, I found a spot to admire the fine scenery, shed my sweat-soaked top, dry out, and contemplate the historical significance the piece of ground on which I was sitting. After I had my fill, I hoisted myself up and then retreated back into the wilds of Dark Canyon that was once the haunt of both bandits and grizzlies.