Eustace Bagge Joins the Trail Crew

Sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul.

~Edward Abbey, A Voice Crying in the Wilderness

Get away from me!

~Eustace Bagge, Courage the Cowardly Dog

I've never been much of a "joiner." What I mean is that I've never been terribly fond of becoming part of some collective "we" that assembles sporadically or regularly to accomplish some task or to engage in a communal activity. I've done that type of thing before in my life, but it's always felt unnatural, inauthentic, and slightly forced. And if I'm honest with myself, it has almost always been the consequence of some self-imposed social pressure and the silly desire to fit in, to be accepted, to be one of the "cool kids." Even if that meant suppressing my natural inclinations and/or tempering my instinctive nerdiness and unconventional world-view.

So as a young lad, I participated in scouting, first as a Cub Scout, then a Webelo, and finally a full-fledged Boy Scout. I liked the actual scouting piece of it, but not so much the group dynamic. I also found the cozy admixture of knot-tying and religious indoctrination troubling if not downright repugnant. What in God's name did staking a tent or starting a fire have to do with Jesus anyway? Nothing as far as I could tell other than keeping me in-line and on the straight-and-narrow. But I didn't really care to be on the straight-and-narrow. And neither the scouts nor "the brethren" appreciated doubters, independent-thinkers, or trouble-makers. After all, there were rules to be followed, flags to be saluted, invisible Gods to be worshipped, and serious oaths to be taken. And that wasn't me. So before I ever achieved my Eagle, I drifted away a scouting loser much to the dismay of my poor mother who must have regularly asked herself "why can't he just be like all the other good Mormon boys?"

When I got older and entered college, I followed my childhood best friend into a frat house. Our friendship was waning some at that stage, but I still looked up to him. And I was a follower. So where he went, I went. And that was into Greek life. It was a fraternity for mostly white, good-looking, athletic and popular kids from the wealthy side of town. Lots of BMWs, loafers, Polo shirts and everything that went along with that. I was somewhat surprised they even let me in the door. I'm even more surprised that I knocked in the first place. With my long hair, VW Rabbit, aversion to golf, flannel shirts, and crunchy enviro-ethics, I was an anomaly. And as soon as I was permitted entrance into the the exclusive club, I regretted what I had done. I'm sure my fraternal brothers harbored some regrets of their own. So I slunk away from the whole ridiculous scene to spend time with the hippies, dorks, and dope-smokers in the Biology department who shared my nascent enthusiasm for evolution, ecology, and systemmatics. That afforded me the opportunity to spend part of a summer in independent study sitting in a lab picking microscopic nematodes off of root knots for a tenured professor who was researching how marigolds rebuff the parasitic little roundworms. 

You could be forgiven at this stage for thinking that perhaps I'm a loner. But it's not necessarily that I'm anti-social, or that I don't like people. It's just that I'm anti-social and don't like people. Or at least I don't like lots of people doing the same fucking thing that I'm doing at the same place and time that I'm doing it. I don't need that type of camaraderie or want the social stroking. And I don't fancy the associated chaos, complexities, and cacophony that comes with group projects and outings.  

My predilection for crowd-avoidance has carried over to my outdoor activities. I don't enjoy large group hikes so rarely participate in them. They typically involve too much disappointment and compromise. Somebody's late. Someone else bails at the last minute. There's the constant stopping and waiting for the group to reassemble at every conceivable trail junction lest someone gets lost because they didn't think to look at a damn map before going out. Then the group has to wait for me because I'm older and dragging the pace down. Fuck that. I don't want to be the subject of furtive glances and frustrated whispers.

Beyond all of this, at base level I'm just a selfish bastard with my limited outdoor time. I don't want to go where you want to go. I want, to go where I want to go. And when I want to go. And how long I'll stay there. Admittedly, that's not a particularly endearing quality, but at least it's honest. But honesty only gets you so much these days, so more often than not, my hiking companions are limited to me, myself, and I. No one else can stand to be around me. I am the Eustace Bagge of the hiking world.

Because of that, I'm not exactly a prime candidate for organized trail work parties. I've done trail work and trash pick-up before, but only as a solo, guerrilla undertaking. I've cleared both Russian Thistle and Black Mustard by myself from my local trail. I've hauled many a heavy load of broken glass from the slabs in the hills near my house where teenagers escape to get inebriated and then joyously fling their empties down the sandstone rock-face to explode into a millions glittering shards. And I've picked up and carried out of the hills more candy wrappers, cups, soda cans, water bottles, buger-encrusted tissues, sweat rags, pee rags, shit rags, dog shit in baggies, and dirty undies than I can remember. But it's always been a solitary effort.  

Until recently that is. Contrary to my natural predisposition to go it alone, I've recently tried my hand at some actual, organized and officially-authorized trail work. You know, the kind of work where some government functionary pre-clears everything you intend to do, dictates the number of people that can participate, approves the types of tools that can be used, and drafts the language of the release that you must sign to prevent you from suing when you stab a Pulaski into your shin or an unseen rattlesnake sinks its fangs deep into your calf. All while sitting in an idling truck in the parking area burning fossil fuel and just waiting to hand some poor slob a ticket.  

My first go at this was in Santa Paula Canyon shortly after it was closed to the public due to over-crowding. Santa Paula Canyon has been an abused and graffiti'd trash-heap for years, but with crowds swarming the place because of the pandemic, it had become a veritable sewer. Spray-paint marked every rock, stump, and branch. Garbage was strewn hither and yon. Used diapers, feminine products, and reproductive prophylactics were not an uncommon sight. New use trails all through the canyon bottom spontaneously appeared. In short, the place quickly went to hell, but the Forest Service, perpetually short on money and man-power, was ill-equipped and/or unwilling to assume the mantle of responsibility and do anything about it. 

Enter Santa Paula local Ellie Mora aka mtnbabe aka Los Padres badass who took control. She solicited and obtained the Forest Service's blessing, organized a clean-up, secured the necessary tools, and then recruited help. Fortuitously and fortunately, I ended up being part of that help. I was joined by a bunch of other like-minded, yet much younger forest regulars as well as local Boy Scout Troop 111. Over the course of several outings, the group scrubbed or covered-over graffiti, removed multiple dumpster loads of some of the most disgusting garbage imaginable, reconfigured and improved trails, trimmed evil poison oak, and broke down and removed rock dams from the creek-bed. Very dirty, difficult, yet immensely satisfying work. Especially when your regular routine is to sit behind a desk for nine hours a day staring at a screen and getting a pasty fluorescent light tan. Getting grimey is good for the soul.

Then this past weekend, Ellie organized another work party in conjunction with the Los Padres Forest Association. This time, we would be working the nature trail at Wheeler Gorge just north of Ojai along Highway 33. As I drove up Grimes Canyon at 7 a.m. and then began the swirly drop into the Santa Clara River valley I could already feel the heat coming on. The weather gods had guessed it was going to be 102 and it felt like they were going to be right. Clad in long pants, long sleeves, and work boots to keep the itchy and poisonous plants at bay, the dread began welling up in me.

Forty-five minutes later I was at Wheeler Gorge with the rest of the work crew. After demonstrating the the proper use of the mcleod, Ellie informed everyone that we would be segregating into two different groups: one group would work the upper trail in the scorching sun, and the other group would work creekside in the shade ripping out poison oak. Make your choice, heat or poison oak. I pondered this "damned if you do, damned if you don't" proposition and decided I'd take the heat. I had just recovered from a nasty bout with poison oak and I wanted no part of that again. Then Ellie said she also needed a couple of volunteers to walk the creek and bust rock dams. No one raised their hand so I jumped at it. A third option that didn't involve heat or poison oak? Mama didn't raise no fool. 

For the next three and half hours, my work companion (code name Bear Woman) and I splished and splashed through the N. Fork of Matilija Creek finding artificial rocks dams and then dismantling them. This involved lifting and moving an endless number of heavy rocks, tree trunks, and other material from the creek and redistributing it elsewhere so that the creek could again flow freely. It's surprising how much effort some folks will go to in order to build these annoying things in the first place. It involves some degree of engineering, a lot of time, and a lot of muscle power. Just for a trailside pool.

Anyway, when we finished our task, we committed to head up trail to let Ellie know we were done. At that moment, she suddenly appeared on the rise above us to tell us her crew was finished as well. So we all picked our way through the forest back to where we began and called it a day before the real sweltering heat set in.  

So does this mean that I'm now cured of my group-phobia? Am I jonesing to go on a hike with 20 others? Not really. I'm still pretty much a cranky old lone wolf. I'll continue to do my own, unauthorized thing. But when it comes to trail work, I definitely have no aversion to linking up with what I consider to be the next generation of local Los Padres hot-shots and stewards. When it comes to them, I've become a "joiner."

Old Man Yells at COVID-19 Trail Refugees

Trail Panties - WTF?

Like the rest of y'all, I'm under house arrest these days per orders from Gov. Gavin Newsome. Under his orders, we're all required to lay low at home and not go out except to engage in "essential activities." The list of activities that are considered "essential" is pretty obvious and includes buying groceries, going to the pharmacy, and seeking emergency medical assistance. I'm also pretty sure it includes hiking.

So last Saturday afternoon I broke from quarantine for some outdoor physical activity and to rejuvenate my withering soul. In an effort to minimize my travel, I opted for my local trailhead where I've hiked hundreds of time before instead of a more far-flung and "interesting" destination. Normally, this trailhead is pretty uncrowded even though it is easily accessible and immediately adjacent to the sprawl of the suburbs. 5-10 cars in the parking lot is typical, slightly more during the day on the weekends.

But on this particular day, when I arrived at the trailhead late afternoon, I was shocked at what I saw. The parking lot was stuffed with cars beyond capacity and there were folks crawling all over the hills and social distancing together. There was literally no place to park. Dejected, I turned tail and headed for a less popular trailhead 15 minutes away in a neighboring community. I'd never seen more than a car or two at this particular trailhead so I figured it was a decent bet for a chance of solitude far from the madding hordes. But even here, I found 11 cars parked and numerous casual hikers heading into the hills. Coroanavirus refugees all, no doubt.

As much as it frustrates me because I'm basically a selfish bastard who feel that "my" space is now being invaded, I get it. Working from home, kids out of school, restaurants, bars, malls, and movie theaters all closed. After a while, staring at the walls will cause even the homiest of home bodies to contemplate slitting their wrists. And getting outdoors and into the hills is a perfect antidote for those otherwise dark and self-destructive thoughts and urges. We that have been doing this for a very, very long time already know this. But, the people suddenly bum-rushing the trails now are not hikers. They are mall-walkers at heart. I don't necessarily say that disparagingly, but by and large, these folks are only out on the trail because they have no other options. Once this crises passes and the malls re-open, they'll happily abandon the wild places to us weirdos and introverts and things will go back to normal.

One of the glaring issues associated with newbies hitting the trails is that a good number of them aren't really outdoor enthusiasts. As a result, they aren't aware of and have little appreciation for trail etiquette. Neither are they instilled with an outdoor ethic that guides their behavior while out on the trail. So, as a public service announcement to those folks (and candidly, for others who go out frequently and ought to know better, but apparently don't), I offer up these useful trail tips for your next outing outside.

1. Pack it in, pack it out. This one is pretty simple. At least in concept. You carry something out into the hills, you bring it back out. In practice, however, this simple to understand principle is often not observed. So it bears repeating here: don't be a lazy asshole and leave your plastic water bottle or candy wrapper or beer can trailside or tucked strategically under some rock for someone else to deal with. Your mom isn't coming by later to clean up after you so be an adult, pick up your shit, and carry it out.

2. Pick up after your animal. This is a corollary to commandment no. 1 above. If you take your dog out on the trail, be prepared to pick up its shit. The trails are not your own personal dog park and the rest of us aren't amused by having to side-step little poo packets left on the path by your little (or big) bundle of fur. And do not, I repeat, DO NOT, pick up your dog's shit, put it in a little plastic baggie, and then leave that baggie on the trail as if you're going to come by later and carry it out. We all understand that game and know that that is just for show. So stop the pretense. And another thing. Stop bringing your dog on trails that are clearly marked "no dogs." I'm a rabid dog-lover. But Jesus Christ people. There are places where your dog shouldn't be: grocery stores, office buildings, restaurants, the dentist's office, and trails marked "no dogs."

3.  Don't leave your snot, sweat, and pee rags on the trail. What the actual fuck is with people leaving buger-encrusted, urine soaked, and shit-stained tissues trailside? How disgusting can you be to take a piss, wipe your crotch, and then drop the pee rag on the trail for all the world to see? If you must pee on the trail, air your crotch out naturally. Or if you insist on wiping yourself, bring a little plastic baggie and use it to pack your pee rag out. The same holds true for sweat rags. If you must wipe perspiration from your brow with a tissue, fine, but don't leave that sweaty, disgusting artifact on or near the trail. Better yet, bring a bandana along and use that instead. It's multi-functional and washable. And for the love of God and decency, don't take a big dump near the trail, wipe your ass, and then leave the mess for the rest of us to deal with. It's fucking disgusting and so are you if you do that.

4. Yield to uphill hikers. This is trail etiquette 101. Uphill hikers are working harder than you if you're coming down. They have the right of way. Give it to them unless they defer to you.

5. Hike single file. I get that you're out with your besties and want to chatter and catch up on all the latest gossip while you hike, but please do so single-file if the trail is narrow. If you're walking shoulder-to-shoulder in a group, you're not leaving space for others, particularly those going uphill (see commandment no. 4 above). This isn't the mall. Don't act like it is.

6. Keep your music to yourself. In my humble view, if you insist on listening to music while you hike, you're missing the point. But that's really none of my business. What is my business is being forced to listen to your shitty music while I'm in the hills. So if you can't walk out of the house without Cardi B or 2 Chainz as your incessant backdrop, bring your ear buds along. And use them. That is why God invented them after all. The rest of us don't think you're bitchin' because you have music on blast while you're hiking. We just think you're a self-indulgent douche (think the Harley-Davidson South Park episode).

Brubb Brub Brrrubbb Brub!

7. Nature doesn't need a paint job. Look, there's a time and place for graffiti. That time and place is in the urban core on the side of buildings, billboards, light posts, and whatnot. Not on the trail. So don't feel compelled to leave your brightly-colored mark on rocks and tree trunks and trail signs like a dog marking its territory. Nature doesn't give a shit about your little tagging crew. And neither do the rest of us.

8. Switchbacks are not made to be cut. On trails that switch back and forth up a steep hillside, you may be tempted to cut the switchbacks in favor of the more direct route. Don't do that. Cutting switchbacks creates erosion which fucks up the trail, kills vegetation, and can cause rocks and debris to dislodge onto hikers below. And at the end of the day, it really doesn't save you any time. If you're really that concerned about getting back to your house or car a few seconds earlier than you might otherwise, then just consider staying home in the first place.

9. Don't trample wildflowers to be an IG influencer. You want that perfect shot to post to Instagram. You're an "ooh, ahhh" junkie. I get it. I have an IG account too and regularly post content. But you know what? The outdoors is a big goddamn place. There's plenty of available vantage points from which to take pics which don't require you to run roughshod over the native vegetation. So use those vantage points and leave some flowers for everyone else to enjoy. The world wasn't made for just you.

10.  Follow the Golden Rule. No, not that Golden Rule silly  This Golden Rule: Don't be a dick. That is somewhat encapsulated in commandments 1-9 above, but it is worth stating explicitly. Acknowledge your fellow trailmates. Say hello. Help folks out if it looks like they need it. Be respectful of others. This ain't brain surgery folks. Go out and enjoy the outdoors, but make sure your enjoyment doesn't encroach upon or negatively affect others.

Well, that's all I've got for you. I'll yell at a cloud or kids on my lawn in another post. In the meantime, stay safe. Don't touch your face with your virus-infected hands. Keep your social distance. And for the love of Christ, don't hoard toilet paper. We ain't running out of that stuff any time soon.