Looping Through the Ventura River Preserve

 

The core of mans' spirit comes from new experiences.

~Christopher McCandless (aka Alexander Supertramp)

Old age should burn and rave at close of day.

~Dylan Thomas, Do Not go Gentle into that Good Night

Preliminaries - Old Man Walking

The other day I was stopped at a red light in my suburban neighborhood. As I was waiting for the light to change, a silver-haired gentlemen walking a fluffy white pooch passed in front of me in the cross-walk. It wasn't exactly an unusual site. I see it regularly and usually give it no mind. The sidewalks where I live are alive both morning and afternoon with 50 and 60-somethings in relaxed-fit trousers sedately walking lap dogs and carrying little plastic bags of poo. I guess it's all part of the normal and expected progression of things. Go to college, get a job, have kids, achieve some sort of professional success, bid farewell to your kids as they fledge from the nest, buy a cute little Shih Tzu or Yorkie or Maltese or Chihuahua to fill the void, and then start sauntering around the neighborhood with your canine companion as you slide toward retirement and a more dormant existence.

Unfortunately, I've now joined this baggy pants-wearing, dog-walking demographic. Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I've been "conscripted" into this army-of-the-aged. Because I'm certainly not itching to voluntarily join this club any time soon. It feels like giving up. A death sentence that involves rusting away at the kitchen table with a crossword puzzle in front of you while staring at the world through a double-pane of glass. Or, as old Captain Bildad did in Moby Dick as he piloted the Pequod out of Nantucket and into the open Atlantic as it embarked on a multi-year journey in quest of the white whale, forlornly lingering about the deck and delaying good-byes before reluctantly returning to the tranquility, safety, and boredom of the harbor. Fuck that. I don't want to feel Captain Bildad's sad tug of desire and twinge of regret. I watched my father and father-in-law voluntarily relinquish their passion to the quiet life and it murdered their spirits. 

That is to say that I don't plan to give up so easily. When I go down, I'm gonna go down swinging. Or, to put it in less hyperbolic terms, I plan to hike trails, bag peaks, swim icy mountain lakes, and sleep on a mat beneath the glittering heavens until the laws of the physical world tell me that I can no longer do that. That doesn't necessarily mean that every outing will or even has to be an epic, white-knuckled, risk-filled adventure. At 58, I recognize my limitations. So for me, it involves simply exploring as many outdoor places as I am able in the time I have.

  

The Ventura River Preserve

To that end, last weekend, I decided to check out the trails of the Ventura River Preserve. The Preserve, which is owned and managed by the Ojai Valley Land Conversancy ("OVLC"), sits on land adjacent to the Ventura River that was once part of the historic Rancho El Nido. Seemingly like every other big parcel of undeveloped property worth saving in Southern California, the Preserve was once slated to be developed as an exclusive community and golf course for the well-heeled until it was rescued from that abhorrent fate by OVLC in the late 90s.

Now, Rancho El Nido is a place for outdoor enthusiasts instead of wealthy duffers wearing loud pants and berets. And for the hiker, there is a variety of short and medium-length options to choose from. I had read recommendations to ascend Willis Canyon and then return by way of Rice Canyon for the views the latter affords. But I wanted something longer so decided to loop counter-clockwise through the Preserve on a route that allowed me to see as much of it as possible in one big swoop. 

The Loop

There are three trailheads for the Preserve - the Old Baldwin Trailhead, the Riverview Trailhead, and the Oso Trailhead. I started at the latter midday and began my way up Rice Canyon. Almost immediately, I scared up three deer that bounded off into the brushy hillside at my approach. Although it was late November, it was warm. Sitting in the low foothills of the kiln that is the Ojai Valley, these are hot trails. But in the inner sanctum of the canyon where oak and sycamore proliferate, there was shade. And there was a surprising amount of lush green. The hibernating plant life in drought-stricken California yearns for moisture, and with the recent rains we received has exploded in a lusty and joyous celebration of renewed life. When, if ever again, we get normal winter precipitation, I can imagine these canyons transforming into a verdant Shangri-La. 

I had originally planned to take the Kennedy Ridge Trail as a detour before rejoining Rice further up canyon. But the bottom-lands were so pleasant and inviting, I just stayed the course. Ultimately, the path (really an old ranch road) climbs to a saddle before loosing elevation again as it descends to El Nido Meadow, which I think is a bit of a misnomer. It's not really a "meadow" in the traditional sense of the word, or at least it didn't look like one to me. But whatever you want to call El Nido, it is shady, beautiful and inviting, and I lingered here a bit before starting the stout climb westward toward the Preserve high point. 

At the top of the climb, the path levels out as you make a semi-circle to the junction with the Oso Ridge Trail. Along this stretch, I noticed Hummingbird Sage (Salvia spathacea) growing on the cool north-facing slopes in great proliferation. Later on, I would see the same thing along the Fern Grotto Trail and in the bowels of Willis Canyon. In all my years trodding the trails, I never recall seeing such an orgy of Hummingbird Sage. It must be a stunning site when it is all in bloom.

At the Preserve high point, you get expansive looks at Rancho Matilija and Lake Casitas to the south and the Ojai Valley to the east. The trail then follows the undulations of the Oso Ridge downward to the junction with the Allan Jacobs Trail named for none other than Allan Jacobs. Here, the path tacks north as it gently zig-zags back up to the Chaparral Crest Trail before returning once again to the floor of Willis Canyon by way of the leafy Fern Grotto Trail. You close the loop by following verdant Willis Canyon to its mouth, and then returning to the trailhead following the flat Orange Grove Trail north along the river.

Back at the car, I decided to return home by way of idyllic upper Ojai Valley instead of the citified 101 corridor. On my way in a few hours earlier, everyone who fled to Santa Barbara from Los Angeles for the weekend was already returning south, snarling traffic through Ventura and The Nard. I had no interest in being a part of that. Bad juju for the soul. Plus, taking the alternate route provided the perfect excuse to stop at The Summit for a Pineapple Coconut milkshake. I don't know if The Summit makes the world's best milkshakes, but it sure seems that way after spending a couple of hours wandering the hills. 

Total mileage for this loop was 8 miles with an elevation gain of 1,538 feet.

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."

Divide Peak: To Infinity and Beyond

Mouth of North Fork Matilija Canyon 

A recent trip report by David R reminded me that it had been years since I'd been up beautiful Murietta Canyon just north of Ojai. I used to ride this canyon on a fairly regular basis when I lived in Ventura, but after moving further east in 1998, I hadn't been back and it was bumming me out. So on Sunday morning, I  made a return visit to my old stomping grounds to get reacquainted with this magical place.

My objective for the day was Divide Peak, a 4,707' bump along the Santa Ynez Mountains that separates the Ojai Valley from the coast and affords incredible views of the Santa Barbara Channel and the Channel Islands. From road's end in Matilija Canyon, the route is about a 4.5 mile road walk up scenic Murietta Canyon, a steep 1.5 mile scramble up the Monte Arido Trail, and then a 0.8 mile amble along Divide Peak Road to the summit. You can avoid some of the road walk (and shave a bit of mileage) in lower Murietta Canyon by taking a foot-path that leads to Murietta Trail Camp and then rejoins the main fire road at 34.498565, -119.402450. 

North Fork Matilija Canyon

View Down Matilija Canyon from Murietta Road

Scenic Murietta Canyon

The day was unusually warm for late November and the road felt steeper than it should have felt. I wore a halo of flies as I made my way up Murietta Canyon, grateful that I had grabbed my bug net at the last moment before leaving the house. But the canyon was quiet, colorful, and completely vacant. I had the run of the place.

The walk up Murietta Canyon is pretty straightforward. Get on the road and walk uphill. The road up the canyon climbs gently at first but steepens further up as you approach the saddle. There, you have options. You can tack right and continue north up to Old Man Mountain and beyond on the Monte Arido Fire Road. You can continue west on the fire road which descends into Juncal Canyon and into the upper Santa Ynez River drainage. Or you can turn south and ascend 1,200 feet on the Monte Arido Trail to the Divide Peak Fire Road and the crest of the Santa Ynez Mountains.

Jameson Reservoir from the Monte Arido Trail

Juncal Canyon from Upper Monte Arido Trail

Murietta Trail from Upper Monte Arido Trail

Old Man Mountain and Monte Arido

The path for this latter option is not immediately obvious, but it is not difficult to find. Simply scale the southern embankment just beyond where the Monte Arido Fire Road joins the saddle and the way forward will come into focus. Initially, the trail follows what appears to be an abandoned road bed and the going is easy. Eventually, however, that road bed peters out at which stage the trail climbs steeply and directly up the spine of the ridge. Not being in prime adventuring condition, I struggled here, but the expanding views into Juncal and Murietta Canyons distracted me and pushed me forward. I took a breather at flat spot along the ridgeline straddling the two canyons that would make a very fine spot to spend the night.

After a final stiff climb, the Monte Arido Trail intersects the Divide Peak Fire Road. You'll know you're done with the climb when you arrive at a large sandstone boulder with a cairn atop it. To get to Divide Peak, turn right and follow the sandy and relatively flat road for approximately 0.8 miles. The summit can be attained by climbing steeply up very loose rogue motorcycle trails that scar Divide's north-eastern flank. The easier and less frustrating alternative, however, is to wrap around Divide's northern side on the fire road and then come back at the summit from the west.

As far as summits go, Divide's is somewhat underwhelming. It's basically broad, flat, and exposed humpback. But the views of the Santa Barbara Channel and the Oxnard Plain are unmatched. On the day I was there, I could clearly see Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz, and Anacapa Islands. I could also plainly see Santa Catalina Island floating in the Pacific almost 100 miles away.   

The trail register is located in a water-bottle canister tucked into a rock-pile just northeast of Divide's high-point. I could not located a benchmark. I sat on the rock pile for a spell enjoying a burrito and the sound of the breeze. 

Back at the Monte Arido Trail junction, I contemplated attacking the Santa Ynez Mountains high point which sits at 4,864' and approximately 3/4 mile east of the junction. But that is all I did. I knew I didn't have enough gas in the tank or water in my bottles so I began the long walk back and committed to return to explore this area on another day.   

Divide Peak Summit Canister. Big Ass Ham.

View South from Divide Peak

Oil Platforms in the Santa Barbara Channel

Anacapa Island from Divide Peak

To Infinity and Beyond

Lake Casitas from Divide Peak. This Drought is Real Yo.