The Pursuit of Awe

 

Just beyond the creek crossing, the Old Cabin Trail folds back onto itself like a protein molecule and begins climbing out of the cool green of Upper Sycamore Canyon. It’s a gorgeous winter morning so the trail is crowded, but the overwhelming majority of the hikers don’t make this hairpin turn. They don’t have much interest in what’s up the hill. They’re only here for the ephemeral waterfall that feeds the creek. A curiosity in this hyper-arid landscape to be certain. I’ve seen it myself. So the conga line continues in a straight trajectory toward the base of the falls just up canyon. I make the hard right and start ascending. Immediately the hordes fall away and I’m alone on the trail. As I prefer. 

I realize that might sound anti-social. I’m also aware of the potential danger of a solitary outing. I’m following in the footsteps of 22 year-old Zachary Zernick whose story is fresh on my mind. Zachary walked this exact same trail the week prior and never returned home. Search and Rescue found his body at the base of cliff where he is believed to have accidentally fallen to his death. It’s obviously sad and tragic that this kid was struck down before his life really even began. But I’d like to believe that Zachary knew and understood the risks of going it alone before he ever went out. Hopefully I’m not wrong about that, but most folks who have spent any appreciable amount of time hiking solo do. That doesn’t mean they have a death wish. Or that they are presumptively negligent. They simply accept, even if society doesn’t, that inherent risk of death or injury is the price of admission for a bit of solitude.

The trail is wonderfully damp and cool as I climb. A slight coastal breeze blows up canyon. That is not the typical experience. This is sharp and inhospitable country. For a good portion of the year, these hillsides are a tangle of thorny, skeletal chaparral. When the heat is up, the plant life here falls into a quiet dormancy. Leaves curl up, flower petals wither, and seeds drop to the ground in anticipation of the wet season to hopefully come. Muted olive, sandstone, slate, and rust, the favored palette of homeowners' associations everywhere, predominate. But when the winter months arrive with rain, the landscape transforms into something very different. The thirsty flora suddenly explodes in what John Muir called a “shaggy exuberance.” Soft green California Sage and its aromatic Black cousin spring to life. Orangey California poppies start popping. Chaparral Bush Mallow blooms a gorgeous pink and peach. Giant Coresopsis, which looks like a meth-addled minx ten months out of the year, unexpectedly becomes a beautiful and seductive temptress. It’s a super-bloom of visual and olfactory magnificence.

I pass a few pairs of hikers on their way down and nod to them as we file past each other. I do this instinctively and robotically because they’re just background noise. I see them, I am aware of their presence, but I filter them out. I’m too mesmerized by my natural surroundings to be concerned with social engagement and pleasantries. I have that every day. I’m here for escape from that. And escape I shall. 

A short distance further, the trail levels out and splits. The left branch descends to the old Danielson cabin site and memorial. The right fork continues to climb to the junction with the Old Boney Trail. Most folks that come this way turn left. I tack right and keep climbing through tunnels of California lilac that are humming with ravenous hornets and honey bees. I’ve arrived at a détente of sorts with these buzzing arthropods. I don’t interfere with their day-drinking of nectar and they don’t sting the shit out of me. It’s a fair accommodation that works reasonably well for both of us. One day, I hope to arrive at a similar understanding with ticks.

A half mile later, I hit the crest just below Pt. 1,918 where the path levels briefly. A short use trail here puts you on the high-point before continuing as the Western Ridge Trail to the summit of Tri-Peaks. The news reports don’t say, but my suspicion is that this was Zachary Zernik’s chosen path. I’ve been to Pt. 1,918 several times previously so don’t feel compelled to do it again. Instead, I commit to explore the Old Boney Trail as it descends the southern flanks of Sycamore Canyon.

The climbing is done for now and as I continue west, I begin to give back some of the elevation I just gained. That means the walking is easy here and I’m able to move quickly as I descend to the junction with the Fossil Trail. Along the way, I get really nice looks at Sycamore Canyon, Mugu Peak, and the Oxnard Plain. I even get a peek-a-boo view of the Channel Islands. I pass a couple along this stretch and catch another, older couple where the Old Boney and the Fossil Trails intersect.

By its evocative name, the Fossil Trail sounds like a compelling and exciting romp. One immediately imagines coming upon the fossilized remains of all sorts of prehistoric creatures large and small. The reality is something significantly more mundane. The namesake fossils comprise a handful of shells embedded in a short rocky section in the middle of the trail. It’s cool. It’s just not spectacular by any measure. The promise is over-sold. 

I’ve never been beyond this point on the Old Boney Trail so ask the couple whether they are familiar with what lies ahead. They eye me suspiciously, grunt that they are taking the Fossil Trail, and then turn away to filter me out. I suppose I deserve it. They’re apparently not here for social engagement and pleasantries either. 

So I take the plunge and continue west to see what there is to see. The “plunge” metaphor here is appropriate in that the trail is somewhat overgrown and I find myself pushing through a bit of brush. This stretch of Old Boney clearly doesn’t see the same traffic as other sections of the trail and the native flora is taking advantage. But the brush begins to cede ground again when the trail tops out on a low ridge that begins a mellow descent to the Backbone Trail. From this point forward, it’s a pleasant downhill stroll.

Now the land feels wild and remote. I can no longer see Sycamore Canyon. It isn’t that far away, but it’s out of view, behind a larger ridge to the north. It may as well be a million miles away. To the immediate south is the sandstone escarpment of Boney Mountain and the Tri Peaks. And I’m alone on the trail. The only sound is the crunch of my feet on the path. There is no other noise to filter. Silence and solitude sit heavy on the landscape.

So does the thrum. That enigmatic and palpable trembling of the universe that rings in your ears and vibrates your soul. A subtle reminder that ultimate reality is very different than you imagine. I can’t hear the hum today, but I can feel it. Lurking beneath the silence in quivering anticipation. I embrace the rhythm and allow my personal waves to align with those around me. In the world of physics, they call that constructive interference and it results in wave amplification. I ride the amplified waves all the way to the junction with the Backbone Trail where California Poppies are starting to bloom. It’s such a stunningly beautiful sight that I prostrate myself on the trail for a bug’s compound-eye view.  

It hasn’t rained for weeks, but remarkably the water is still flowing down the unnamed drainage leading to the Danielson Group Camp. In all the years I’ve walked these hills, I never recall seeing conditions like this. But as I continue down the canyon, the reason becomes evident. The placid little stream that is currently making things so enjoyable must have been an angry torrent just weeks prior. The bottomlands are clogged with flood debris and large swaths of the trail have been obliterated. Route-finding isn’t terribly difficult, but I suspect it will be some time before he trail proper is restored to its former self.

At Danielson I sit at one of the many empty picnic tables to gear up for the long walk up the ribbon of asphalt that is colloquially known as the Black Bitch. A boisterous flock of feral Nanday Parakeets keeps me company. It sounds exotic I know. And it is if you’re using the term “exotic” as a pejorative. These bright-green birds don’t belong here. They’re invaders who have escaped captivity and are now procreating with the zeal of fecund Catholic couples who believe that birth control is sinful. As a result, these pretty birds from the interior jungles of South America are a noisy thing in the Mediterranean environment of the Santa Monica Mountains. 

I’m back with people as I begin my walk out. The thrum has gone mute. Or maybe it has just been forcibly drowned out by the white noise of hikers, bikers, and the occasional park ranger pick-up truck. Either way, no amount of filtering can change that dynamic. I accept that. Even welcome it. Because if the quivering of the universe was commonplace, it would be neither mysterious nor magical. Solitary treks to seldomly-visited places in search of it wouldn’t be so lustrous. I’m a selfish bastard that wants to hold onto that. So here, in the designated white noise zone, I’m quite accepting of the heterogeneous mixture of chatter, commotion, and hubbub. As long as the contagion doesn’t spread to become a white noise pandemic that murders the élan vitale, I can still trod these trails in the pursuit of awe.

Zuma Canyon Loop: Hiking the Bu

 

It seems of late that I perhaps have wandered off path some. From a focus perspective, I've found myself bush-whacking and rock-hopping through a tangle of posts that stray from the original vision of this blog. That's not necessarily a bad thing. As Neil Young famously quipped after the success of his tune Heart of Gold, "this song put me in the middle of the road. Traveling there soon became a bore so I headed for the ditch. A rougher ride, but I met more interesting people there." So sometimes following an odd strand and allowing things to develop organically instead of by deliberate design has its rewards. Even if it means plowing through dead-fall and poison oak and yucca. Other times, doing that just gets you dehydration, ticks, and an itchy rash. 

I've had enough ticks and poison oak in my time that I'm going to avoid that and get out of the proverbial ditch, at least for today, Instead, I'm staying in the middle of the road and sticking to a plain, vanilla trail report. No navel-gazing (or at least limited navel-gazing). No asides (or at least limited asides). No pontificating (or at least limited pontificating). No curse words (or at least limited curse words). And no bitching (is that a curse word?). Well, I may do some bitching. As a grumpy, old curmudgeon that's my job.

So anyway, there was a time when I was going to the Angeles National Forest every single weekend to explore. The ANF was new to me then so every outing was an exciting adventure. But eventually, all the driving wore me down and I finally hit a wall. If hiking meant a 70 mile drive to the trailhead, I wasn't interested. So I stopped going, opting instead for more hyper-local, yet ultimately shorter trails. Sometimes those "trails" even ended up being the NordicTrack elliptical sitting in my garage. Physically satisfying, yet soul-crushing.

On Sunday, I sought to change that dynamic a bit by getting out for a good, long jaunt in the hills. But because it was one of those hot, summer November days we have here in Southern California, going inland wasn't that appealing. So I looked to the Santa Monica Mountains where I figured it would be cooler. It was, but not by much.

The track I settled on was the "Zuma Canyon Loop." The route starts at the top of Busch Drive in Malibu, ascends the Zuma Ridge Trail, drops into Zuma Canyon via the Zuma-Edison Road, climbs back out to the Zuma Canyon Connector trail, descends and joins Kanan-Edison Road, returns to the bottom of Zuma Canyon by way of the Ocean View Trail, and then returns to the trailhead on the Zuma-Loop Trail. Total mileage for the loop is approximately 10.6. The app I use (View Ranger) registered 4,100 feet of gain. AllTrails says total gain is 2,755 feet. Neither is probably accurate, but the gain did feel like it was significantly greater than 2,755.

There is very little shade on this route. There is a bit in the bowels of Zuma Canyon along the dry creek-bed where Sycamore trees grow, and then there's the occasional Laurel Sumac that you can shelter beneath. Otherwise, it's an dry, hot slog. For that reason, it isn't an optimal summertime day-hike. It's also not one of those hikes where you carry nothing but a single 20 oz. plastic water bottle that you discard trailside. I carried a bladder containing 3 liters and essentially drained it.

Zuma Ridge Trail

The Zuma Ridge Trail is somewhat of a misnomer. The term "trail" normally conjures up images of narrow single-track, but in this particular instance, the trail is actually a roadbed that climbs steadily northward out of the small parking area at the trailhead. The climb isn't particularly steep at any point in time, but it is sustained, and flat areas before the junction with the Zuma-Edison Road are few and far between. If the climb isn't enough for you, opportunity exist along the way to bag a couple of unnamed "peaks" (e.g., Peak 1260, Peak 1791, and a few other unmarked bumps).  

As you continue to climb, the views of the mighty Pacific get more impressive. On a clear day, the Palos Verdes Peninsula, Santa Catalina Island, Santa Barbara Island, San Nicholas Island, and the remaining Channel Islands are all visible. On the day I went, you could also see a number of container ships sitting in the Santa Barbara Channel waiting their turn to off-load containers full of iPhones and automobiles and television sets and clothing and other "stuff" at the Port of Los Angeles. A number of squid boats were also congregated just off the coast where the soft-bodied molluscs were apparently boiling. 

At approximately 3.2 miles, you reach the intersection with the Zuma-Edison Road that comes in from the right. Here, you have a couple of options. You can continue up the Zuma Ridge Trail to Buzzard's Roost. You can turn around,  return to your car, and go have a cold beer. Or you can continue with the loop by descending Zuma-Edison Road. If you choose the latter option, make sure you have enough juice in both the tank and your water bottles. This is the point of no return. There is no way out of the canyon bottom that doesn't involve either a 1,000 climb or an off-trail sufferfest. 

Zuma-Edison Road

The Zuma-Edison Road descends quickly into Zuma Canyon as you give back most of the elevation you just gained. Once again, you're walking a maintained fire road that is used to access Edison's towers that host the high-tension wires that hang across the canyon. As you continue to loose elevation, you get more nice looks at the Buzzard's Roost, this time from the east. At the last tower on the descent, the maintenance stops and the road deteriorates into a defacto trail until you reach the next tower on the other side. At the bottom of the canyon, the path crosses dry Zuma Creek where Sycamore trees provide some shade relief from the unrelenting sun. There is no established trail along the creek in the canyon-bottom, but it is feasible to rock-hop and brush-bash down-canyon back to the trailhead at Bonsall Drive. Not knowing the conditions, I decided against launching off on such an exciting adventure, opting instead for the long, boring road walk up the other side to the junction with the Zuma Canyon Connector Trail.  

Zuma Canyon Connector Trail

Just beyond the crest of the high-point on the other side of the canyon, the Zuma Canyon Connector Trail intersects the road. The trail is obvious, and the junction is marked with a sign telling you dogs and motorcycles are not permitted, but there are no other marking telling you that this, in fact, is the Zuma Canyon Connector. Even though I wasn't entirely certain that was the correct route, the single-track was so inviting after all the road-walking I'd done, that I didn't really care. The trail was heading generally in the right direction so I crossed my fingers, hoped for the best, and launched off down the path. This is a really enjoyable stretch of the route as you roller-coaster along the undulating ridgeline and catch nice views of the Malibu coastline.

Down trail, I ran into a pleasant young lady that was on her way up. Because it was late afternoon and I told her she still had a long way to go, she turned around and we walked back to the bottom of Zuma Canyon together. We continued along the trail until it merged with and became the Kanan-Edison Road. About 1.3 miles later, we branched off and descended dusty Ocean View Trail which is heavily used by equestrians. In fact, on the descent, crossed paths with a train of about 10 equestrians who were coming up trail as we were going down.

When the trail ultimately bottoms out in Zuma Canyon, you might hope and think you're finished. But you'd be mistaken if you believed that. That's because you still have another half-mile to go. And it's all uphill which is disheartening. It's isn't steep, but after grinding for 10 miles, it's not necessarily what you want to encounter.

Here, my hiking companion, who was parked at the Zuma Canyon trailhead, offered to give me a lift back to my car where I started. That was an enticing offer and I briefly contemplated accepting. But I figured that would be cheating (because it would be cheating), so I graciously declined and began the crawl up the Zuma Loop Trial back to where I started. Ultimately, that was a good decision because the trail is well maintained and the ascent gentle, so the climb really wasn't as bad as I had imagined. 

A short while later I was back at the trailhead as the afternoon shadows began to get long. My total time out was about 4.5 hours which included a few stops along the way to goof around and explore.

La Jolla Canyon: Those Were The Days

 

Yesterday

All my troubles seemed so far away

Now it looks as though they're here to stay

Oh, I believe in yesterday.

~The Beatles (Yesterday)

Think I'm going down to the well tonight

and I'm gonna drink till I get my fill

And I hope that when I get old

I don't sit around thinking about it

but I probably will

Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture

a little of the glory of

Well time slips away and leaves you nothing mister

but boring stories of 

glory days.

~Bruce Springsteen (Glory Days)

Boy, the way Glen Miller played

songs that made the hit parade

Guys like us we had it made

those were the days.

~Those Were the Days (All in the Family theme song)

La Jolla Canyon Trail - Those Were the Days

You young whipper-snappers probably won't recall this, but way back in the olden times, well before the rona ruined everything, and we all had to walk to school and then back home again barefoot in the snow up hill both ways, you could hike into the La Jolla Valley by going straight up La Jolla Canyon. You heard my right. You could actually start at the parking lot near the Ray Miller trailhead and march right up the canyon past the falls, through what I called the Truffula Tree forest (a hillside covered with Giant Coreopsis - it was spectacular in the spring) and into the valley. There was an established trail and everything. There was no need to stitch together a long and circuitous route over fire roads. There was no ridiculously steep ascent up the over-crowded Chumash trail. And there was no illegal off-trail ridgeline hijinks required to get into the valley. You just went straight up the gut. Easy. Efficient. A thing of beauty.

One night back in those good old days when we were camping at the walk-in campsite, I realized that I had left my stove in the trunk of my car. So my boy and I strapped on headlamps and walked back via the La Jolla Canyon trail to retrieve it. An hour and one-half later we were slurping down piping hot ramen back in camp under an oddly purple sky. You could do stuff like that back then because the route through the canyon was open and passable. It allowed for those types of missteps.

But as Bob Dylan famously warned, the times they are a-changin.' And not for the better. I'm no Q-Anon conspiracy theorist or anything, but I've always had this uncomfortable suspicion that the California Department of Parks ("CDP") would rather see the recreating public recreate elsewhere. Thus, they continually take action (or no action as the case may be) that makes it more challenging if not downright impossible for folks to actually access and use the very public lands CDP is tasked with (mis)managing. You want to sit on the beach? That'll be $12 please. What's that you say? You'll just park along PCH and walk down the the beach instead? Ha! We had Cal Trans install "No Parking" signs all up and down the PCH. So hand over the cash. You want to walk that trail? Oh, so sorry, you can't do that. But it's all for your safety you know.  

The Hand of God Closes La Jolla Canyon

In terms of La Jolla Canyon, my distrustful little mind believes that permanently closing off that route has been a bureaucratic fever dream of the CDP for some time. The problem always was how to actually accomplish that without causing a total shit-storm by the public. And then during the winter of 2015 came a miracle, the hand of God from the skies. A drenching storm blasted the coast causing major flooding and scouring the canyon. In the process, portions of the La Jolla Canyon trail were obliterated thus making it impassable to the average hiker. And just like that, the trail was closed and access terminated. Six years running, and the trail remains closed with no apparent plans to re-open it any time in the foreseeable future.

I've got mixed feeling about this. On the one hand, I'm annoyed to the point of apoplexy by CDP's administrative foot-dragging. In no reasonable scenario should it take six-plus fucking years to restore and re-open a trail. I don't care how damaged it is. And CDP's predictable and well-worn excuse that it lacks sufficient resources to get the job done is as tired as Trump's bullshit claims that the presidency was stolen from him. Even if CDP's whining about insufficient resources is true, a brigade of volunteers could probably bang the job out in a couple of months. The National Forest Service does this type of thing all the time with great success. And CDP already regularly relies upon volunteer organizations like the Santa Monica Mountains Trails Council ("SMMTC") for free labor. In fact, SMMTC has already been working the upper stretches of the La Jolla Canyon trail from the northern junction of the valley road to the junction with the Valley Loop Trail. So it would seem that what we have here is simply a lack of will by CDP. Or perhaps something more nefarious.

On the other hand, the continued closure has probably saved the canyon from destruction by the throngs of pandemic refugees who have just recently "discovered" places that the hiking community has known about for decades. It's a virtual certainty that had La Jolla Canyon been open the last 18 months, the area leading up to and around the falls would have been a hot mess of graffiti, discarded masks, beer cans, and used tissues. As I type this, I realize that probably sounds a tad elitist. Y'all probably are thinking "Oh, we see how it is Wildsouthland. You want the trail open for you, but not for anybody else." To which I might reply, "Well yeah!" But seriously, I don't mind other folks using their public lands. I just expect them to obey the Golden Rule that we are all supposed to live our lives by: Don't be trail dick! That means don't spray-paint your lame-ass name/initials/gang insignia/directional arrows/whatever on every available rock and tree. Don't cut switch-backs to save yourself 3 seconds on your way back to the car. If you're in that big of a rush to get back to your television, your couch and a bag of Doritos, maybe just stay home in the first place. Don't leave your nauseating pee rags/sweat rags/snot rags/shit rags along the trail for the rest of us to have to see and smell. This isn't your bathroom and your mommy isn't coming by later to pick up after you. Don't bring your dog on trails where dogs are not permitted and then leave little green plastic bags of poo trailside for the rest of us to clean up. God invented dog parks for this purpose. And if you happen to ride, stop being a self-indulgent asshole by poaching "hiking-only" trails. The vast majority of public lands are multi-use and already open to bikers. You don't need to fuck up the miniscule percentage of trails that are reserved for those who prefer to journey on two legs.

La Jolla Canyon Post-Mortem

So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, waxing nostalgic about the La Jolla Canyon trail. I'd like to believe that the current state of affairs is not the new "normal." That at some point in time, CDP will demand that its rangers stop playing Paul Blart, exit their idling pick-up trucks, cinch their belts up over their substantial guts, and do some actual trail work. But I don't know whether that is going to happen. It certainly hasn't happened the last six years. So I guess that unless and until that time arrives, all we're unfortunately left with when it comes to the La Jolla Canyon trail is boring stories of the glory days. 

Sycamore Canyon and The Open Space Imperative

Who needs wilderness? Civilization needs wilderness. The idea of wilderness preservation is one of the fruits of civilization, like Bach's music, Tolstoy's novels, scientific medicine, novocaine, space travel, free love, the double martini, the secret ballot, the home and private property, the public park and public property, freedom of travel, the Bill of Rights, peppermint toothpaste, beaches for nude bathing, the right to own and bear arms, the right to not own and bear arms, and a thousand other good things one could name, some of them trivial, most of them essential, all of them vital to that great, bubbling, disorderly, anarchic, unmanageable diversity of opinion, expression, and ways of living which free men and women love, which is their breath of life, and which the authoritarians of church and state and war and sometimes even art despise and always have despised. And feared.

~Edward Abbey, Freedom and Wilderness, Wilderness and Freedom

To those devoid of imagination, a blank place on a map is a useless waste; to others, the most valuable part.

~Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There

There exists in contemporary American society a school of thought that teaches the pernicious idea that we the people hold title to far too much green and brown land. Too much open space where flora and fauna and freedom and frivolity and fun and fantasy can flourish. Whether in the form of regional parks, state parks, national parks, national forests, national recreation areas, national monuments, state beaches, national shorelines, conservation areas, or designated wilderness, the thinking is that all of this available land, locked up as it is by an overbearing government, is simply being wasted. "Wasted" in this context meaning that the land isn't being fully exploited for financial gain by private industry - loggers, miners, farmers, ranchers, the oil industry, the energy industry, dam builders, home builders, gold course designers, solar power generators, and the like. This idea, which is incessantly peddled by the monied interests, reinforced by their political mouth-pieces, and generally accepted as Gospel truth by an alarming portion of the population, is hard-coded into the American psyche, an artifact of 19th century expansionism and the arrogant notion of "Manifest Destiny." It is particularly prevalent in the West where, fortunately, we still have large tracts of publicly-owned land to argue over.  

But if this never-ending pandemic has shown us anything, it is the utter absurdity of this well-worn and tired idea. Not only do we not have too much public, open space to cavort in, we have far too little of this most-valuable commodity for a stressed population that needs an unconfined place for both therapeutic and not-so-therapeutic activities. Hiking, biking, running, camping, bird-watching, exploring, finding oneself, losing oneself, hunting, fishing, drinking beer, smoking weed, skinny-dipping, fucking. All of this, good and bad, legal and illegal, is part of the palliative of the public-lands prescription. That probably sounds a bit hyperbolic and overly-opinionated. But that's only because it's a bit hyperbolic and overly-opinionated. But it also happens to be absolutely and infallibly true.

How do I know this you might ask? Well, because I've seen it with my own eyeballs. Repeatedly. At my local trailhead. In the Angeles National Forest. In the Los Padres National Forest. In the Santa Monica Mountains. In the Sierra. And most recently, on a foray into Sycamore Canyon and it's reliably more serene offshoot, Serrano Canyon. 

It was a magnificent winter day for an outing outdoors and my soul was begging for the chance to escape the mundane confines of my suburban yard which, because of the pandemic, has been mowed and trimmed and clipped and edged and mulched and weeded and watered and planted and swept to perfection. Being the stereotypical dad that I am, I like my yard to look presentable. But it's gotten to the point that I now wander my yard aimlessly, clippers at the ready, searching for unruly twigs to snip, errant weeds to yank, and any other landscaping imperfections to remedy. I then retreat to the house for about 30 minutes or so, only to return to the yard again with my clippers just in case some botanical menace has happened to spring up and take hold during my brief absence. 

So on this day, I determined to escape the pathetic prison of domesticity, and my self-imposed, quasi-exile from trailheads beyond my community, and venture out into the world. I would penetrate Serrano Canyon in Pt. Mugu State Park, glory in its glory, search for Red-Legged Frogs in the remnant pools along the now dry creek-bed, frighten myself into imagining that every bird hopping around in the leaf litter was a ferocious mountain lion waiting to pounce, lollygag and luxuriate in the soft winter grass of the Serrano Valley, listen attentively to the ancient silence, and pretend that I was a noble Chumash tribesman on a vision-quest. And I fancied that I would engage in this bit of conceit without really having to see, hear, or share space with many (or any) of my fellow countrymen and women.   

But those silly delusions faded into oblivion when I encountered a teeming mass of humanity clogging the coast and filling the folds, crevices, and recesses of the range that immediately fronts the Pacific. It began at at the Chumash Trail trailhead and continued unabated to Sycamore Cove. Thousands of automobiles jammed the roadway as folks desperately searched for a place to stop roadside and disembark. Those that succeeded, sat in their cars, windows down and eyes closed as the sun warmed their faces and the cool, salty breeze washed over them. Others stood at the water's edge, absorbing the blue sky and the bluer ocean whose horizon is punctuated by Anyapax and the three saints. Still others scrambled down to the sand carrying towels and umbrellas and coolers and other beach paraphernalia to find a place next to the roaring and foamy surf. Even the "lesser" beaches, the ones littered with rocks or other ocean-borne detritus, were fully occupied.

Past Thornhill-Broome, cars lined the PCH all the way to Sycamore Cove. At the great sandhill, hordes of kids and adults and seniors crawled up and down the dunes like hungry ants on sugar. At Sycamore Cove, a line of cars was queued-up at the entrance on a fool's errand to get a parking space that did not exist. On the opposite side of the road, a sign at Sycamore Canyon indicated that the lot there was similarly "full." Paradise has never been easily attainable, but on this day, attainment was virtually impossible.

Dejected, I turned around and contemplated just going back home to pout. But on a pass going north, I spied someone pulling out of a legal spot on the other side of the road. Despite high demand, these legal spots along the PCH are in shorter supply these days ever since CalTrans posted "No Parking" sign all up and down the coast. It's a dirty and sinister ploy which foists upon "we the people" the Hobson's Choice between the paid lots or a ticket. Either way, you pay the king's ransom for the privilege of stepping onto your public land. I made a dangerous U-turn and pulled in to the open spot before anyone else could. Fuck the state of California and its sordid and transparent revenue-generating schemes. 

Away from the coast, within the shaded confines of Sycamore Canyon proper, the automobile was replaced by the bicycle. Here, a steady stream of cycling enthusiasts cruised up and down the canyon in groups of two, three, four, and more. Sycamore Canyon has always been an attractive haven for cyclists, but on this day, the bi-pedal traffic was uncharacteristically heavy. A good distance up the valley, I ducked into the wilderness, Serrano Canyon, which is closed to bikes and is too distant for most casual hikers. Here, the traffic by-and-large finally subsided. 

This is no way to run a public-land asylum. Every inch of the public domain everywhere is being lovingly mauled to death by the American public and foreign visitors. There simply isn't enough room for us to all get away from each other. And the problem is not unique to Southern California. Our national parks are literally being overwhelmed with visitation spiking significantly nationwide. It has gotten to the point that we now have lotteries that you must enter and win in order to experience some of our more high-profile and eye-popping places (e.g., Mt. Whitney, the cable route to Half Dome, etc.). These are the types of places that Mark Kenyon has said "physically move you, creating a tightening in the chest, a loss of breath, or a tingling along the spine."

But politicians of a particular persuasion don't want you to believe what your lying eyes are showing you. Instead, they want you to buy off on the notion that we actually have way too much public land, especially wilderness which Senator Mike Lee (R-UT) dismissively refers to as the "royal forest." Invoking the bogeyman of feudalism, Mr. Lee and his adherents attempt to leverage the specter of craft beer-swilling, artisanal coffee-drinking "elites" to encourage the idea that such lands are neither intended for, nor open to the the archetypal everyman. 

I'm not sure that I know what an "elite" looks like, especially on the trail, and I didn't realize that the litmus test for being an "elite" was avoiding Miller Beer and Folgers coffee, but I do know this to be complete and utter bullshit. Putting aside for the moment the fact that only 5% of the land in America is designated as wilderness (2.7% if you exclude Alaska), and 18% of national forest lands are designated wilderness, the folks I have seen and shared the backcountry with have been quite a varied group - young, old, white, black, Hispanic, Asian, conservative, progressive, on horseback, on foot, armed, unarmed, well-equipped, ill-equipped, formally-educated, uneducated, seemingly wealthy, and seemingly less-wealthy. We're all there, bumping into each other and enjoying the outdoors that Mr. Lee fantasizes has been locked-up for use only by the "elites."

Edward Abbey once said "better a cruel truth than a comfortable delusion." So regardless of whatever label you want to pin on the people using the outdoors, here's the cruel truth: there isn't sufficient wild, undeveloped, open space to comfortably support the number of "elites" and "non-elites" who want to enjoy it. And we can't simply create more land out of thin air or whole cloth or whatever idiom you want to use. Another cruel truth. So what we're left with is making certain that we preserve the limited open space that we fortunately still have. Because barring an unimaginable loss of life beyond what we have already experienced due to the pandemic, or a radical reconfiguration of our ideas and attitudes about procreation, we're going to want and need that open, public land for both our physical well-being and our mental health. Because as Henry David Thoreau said, in "wildness is the preservation of the world."

Embracing My Inner Nerd

California Poppies

Gilbert: I just wanted to say that I'm a nerd, and I'm here tonight to stand up for the rights of other nerds. I mean uh, all our lives we've been laughed at and made to feel inferior. And tonight, those bastards, they trashed our house. Why? Cause we're smart? Cause we look different? Well, we're not. I'm a nerd, and uh, I'm pretty proud of it.

Lewis: Hi, Gilbert. I'm a nerd too. I just found that out tonight. We have news for the beautiful people. There's a lot more of us than there are of you. I know there's alumni here tonight. When you went to Adams you might've been called a spazz, or a dork, or a geek. Any of you that have ever felt stepped on, left out, picked on, put down, whether you think you're a nerd or not, why don't you just come down here and join us. Okay? Come on.

Gilbert: Join us cause uh, no one's gonna really be free until nerd persecution ends.

~Revenge of the Nerds (1984)

I remember the first time it dawned on me just how much I was missing when I began moving across the land on a bicycle instead of in an automobile. At 60 miles per hour, you see the forest but you miss the trees. On a bike, time slows down and space constricts revealing surprising and wonderful details about the landscape that otherwise would go unnoticed. Getting out of the car and onto a bike is like stepping up to an image that from afar looks like the Mona Lisa, but upon closer scrutiny reveals that is actually a mosaic of a thousand miniature images of George W. Bush.

That effect and realization were amplified when I climbed off the bike and started exploring my surroundings as my creator (whoever and/or whatever that might be) intended: on two feet. Crawling slowly across the land like an insect instead of rolling over it on two wheels, I was able to see and hear slices of life and evidence of the geologic and historical past that I’d completely missed before. The shed skin of a rattlesnake. Camouflaged scorpions the color of dirt. Fossils of ancient sea creatures embedded in sedimentary rock. A tarantula hawk dragging a tarantula carcass to its nest. A fox slipping silently into the trail side brush.

From another perspective, my understanding and appreciation of the local biota also came into sharper focus after I began my campaign of botanical disobedience. I suddenly noticed the incredible richness, diversity, and vibrancy of the plant community that makes up the chaparral ecosystem. Far from being uniformly dull, dry, prickly, and generally brown, I discovered that this native plant community is colorful, vibrant, varied, and incredibly compelling. Fascinated by this realization, I embraced my inner nerd and began in earnest trying to identify some of the plant life I was seeing. Beyond wanting to understand something about the land that I use with a high degree of frequency, I wanted to know who the interlopers were. I wanted to know who belonged and who didn’t.

So I started taking photographs of interesting or beautiful plants I was seeing. Then I’d come home and scour the Calflora website in hopes of making an identification. It’s not as easy as I thought. There’s a bazillion plant species that grow in Southern California and subtle differences in color, flower size, flower shape, leave configuration, elevation, and geographic location can make a definitive identification challenging. Then of course there are sub-species that look exactly alike which adds to the complexity of the whole affair. Finally, the pictures posted online never look exactly like the plant I’m looking at. Either the color is off or the angle is weird or the lighting is different or the perspective is dissimilar or the photograph was taken during a different season or whatever. So there’s always a margin for identification error.

Heading into mid-summer, I would have thought that the blooming season was pretty much over. But despite the lack of moisture, there’s actually still a lot going on out there. If you look, you’ll see that the hills are still dotted with yellow and red and orange and purple and and pink and white and green. Below are examples of a few of the natives that I’ve come across recently. Yeah, I’m a nerd, and uh, I’m pretty proud of it.

Blue Elderberry ~ Sambucus nigra ssp. caerulea

Blue Elderberry is a shrub that is native to California. It is recognizable by it blue-to-dark purple berries that appear mid-summer. The native Chumash are reputed to have used its hollow branches for clapper sticks. I always scrunch some leaves between my fingers when I pass an Elderberry so I can smell their wonderfully nutty aroma.

Plummer’s Mariposa Lily ~Calochortus plummerae

The beautiful and delicate Plummer’s Mariposa Lily is both native and endemic to California. It effectively exists only in 5 counties in Southern California: Ventura, Los Angeles, San Bernardino, Riverside, and Orange. Calflora categorizes it as rare on account of its limited range. If you live in one of those counties, go see it now. It’s going off.

Soap Plant ~ Chlorogalum pomeridianum var. pomeridianum

Soap Plant or Soaproot is a perennial herb native to California. It is not endemic to California, but its range doesn't extend far beyond the Golden State's borders. You'll know this plant by its spindly appearance and startling white flowers. The native Chumash peoples used this plant to make soap and brushes. They also stirred crushed bulbs of this plant into pools which stupefied fish that then floated to the surface. 

Narrow-leaved Milkweed ~ Asclepias fascicularis

Narrow-leaved Milkweed is probably the single-most important plant for Monarch butterflies. The plant plays host to Monarch larva which consume the plant before they pupate. Narrow-leaved Milkweed is native to California, but not endemic, although its range is limited to the western United States.

Smallseed Sandmat ~ Euphorbia polycarpa

Also known as Prostrate Spurge, Smallseed Sandmat is an odd little plant with an ugly name, but beautiful white flowers and vibrant green leaves. The plant, which oozes a sticky white substance, likes dry and/or sandy areas. Native peoples apparently applied the plant to scorpion and snake bites and chewed its roots to promote vomiting, to loosen bowels, and for stomach troubles. Smallseed Sandmat is native, but not endemic to California.

Chaparral Bush Mallow ~ Malacothamnus fasciculatus

Another native to California, the Chaparral Bush Mallow is a shrub commonly found in the chaparral ecosystem. It has violet, cup-shaped flowers and irregular green leaves. Chaparral Bush Mallow is not endemic to California, but one variation (nesioticus) is a rare plant that is endemic to Santa Cruz Island and is federally listed as an endangered species because only approximate 120 individual plants remain. 

Scarlet Larkspur ~ Delphinium cardinal

This bright-red, gorgeous beauty loved by hummingbirds for obvious reasons has a darker side. Native peoples are reputed to have used the roots of this plant, and its cousin, Blue Larkspur (Delphinium parryi) to drug their opponents and poison cattle. They also used the flowers as a remedy for head lice, scabies, and other conditions. Scarlet Larkspur is native, but not endemic to California. It is blooming right now so go see it!

Cardinal Catchfly ~ Silene laciniata ssp. laciniata

Cardinal Catchfly is another strikingly dramatic, crimson beauty that is currently in bloom. This perennial herb, with its distinctive starburst flower, is native to California. The "catchfly" name derives from the sticky, hairy glands on the stem and leaves that occasionally traps unwary insects. 

Sacapellote ~ Acourtia microcephala

Also known as the California Desert Peony, Sacapellote is a native herb endemic to Southern California. It is typically found on shrubby and wooded slopes, and is prominent after fires. You'll know this plant by its clustered pinkish/purplish flowers which alternate with white, fuzzy bristles (referred to as pappus). After the petals drop, seeds are disbursed when the pappus are carried away by the winds.

Golden Yarrow ~ Eriophyllum confertiflorum var. confertiflorum

Sometimes referred to as the Woolly Sunflower, Golden Yarrow is a late-spring/summer blooming shrub that is native to California. It's striking, golden flowers form a tightly clustered dome atop an erect stem. Golden Yarrow can be found from the San Francisco Bay Area to Baja and in a variety of plant communities from chaparral to coastal sage scrub to southern oak woodland. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the fantastic Golden Yarrow.

Clustered Tarweed ~ Deinandra fasciculata

Known by its alternate name, Slender Tarweed, this ubiquitous annual herb is native to California, although not endemic. Often found in dense populations, this sun-loving plant is one of several that gives the Southern California hills their golden hue. From an ethnobotanic standpoint, tarweed was used by the native peoples of Santa Barbara, Ventura, and Santa Ynez to make pinole, one of their staple foods. Tarweed roots were also eaten by the Miwok who considered it an important part of their diet.

Chalk Dudleya ~ Dudleya pulverulenta

This is one of my absolute favorite plants. It's so distinctive, and weird, and chalky. Aptly named for its coating of powdery surface wax that reflects light and acts as a water repellent, this California native is typically found growing on steep, rocky slopes where fog is common. You can find the Chalk Dudleya outside of California, but it is confined to Western North America. Sorry East-coasters.

Vinegarweed ~ Trichostema lanceolatum

This is another odd, but interesting plant. Rub it's hairy leaves between your fingers and then smell them. Gross! A member of the mint family that also goes by the name terpentine weed and camphor weed, this plant's name derives from the strong vinegar-like odor it emits. The unpleasant smell is propionic acid, a phytotoxin that the plant releases to kill or injure competing plant species. This bad-smelling boy is native to California, but not endemic. But if you want stinky fingers, you'll have to travel to western North America because is isn't found beyond there.

Yerba Mansa ~ Anemopsis californica

Yerba Mansa is unique among this group of plants in that it is an aquatic perennial herb that is only found in an around wet creek banks and ever-wet cienegas. Given the aridity of Southern California, it's distribution is therefore necessarily limited. A native to California, Yerba Mansa was an important plant to a number of tribes California, the Great Basin, and the Southwest who used its root for medicinal purposes. Even Spanish settlers to California recognized Yerba Mansa's healing properties and used it as a linament for skin problems and as a tea for blood disorders. You'll know Yerba Mansa by its pretty white flowers, gigantic green leaves, and conehead-like protuberance.

Caterpilar Phacelia ~ Phacelia cicutaria var. hispida

Caterpillar Phacelia is an annual herb that is native to California. It's coiled, hair-like structures (inflorescence) which resemble a caterpillar make this plant unmistakable. This particular species of phacelia (there are many) can be found, sometimes in very large populations, mostly in chaparral communities, and frequently in burned areas or on rocky slopes. 

Humboldt Lily ~ Lilium humboldtii ssp. ocellatum

When we were kids, we used to say "first the worst, second the same, last the best of all the game." We said that when we got chosen last for whatever activity we were doing to convince ourselves we weren't total losers. Of course, it wasn't true in those instances...we were total losers. But in this case, that is certainly not the case. The stunningly gorgeous Humbodlt Lily is indeed "best of all the game." I've always called these beauties "Tiger Lilies," but I've discovered just recently (with a nudge from a couple of knowledgeable Instagramers) that the "Tiger Lily" is a distinct species of lily (there are actually two tiger lily species, the California Tiger Lily and the Sierra Tiger Lily). This native and endemic to California, which is loved by hummingbirds and swallowtail butterflies, is categorized by Calflora as rare based upon it's limited geographic distribution.