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."

Bear Liars I Have Met: Allen Kelley and the Capture of Monarch the Grizzly

Illustration of Monarch the Grizzly from Allen Kelley's book "Bears I Have Met"

Ursus arctos horribilis. The dangerous and frightening Grizzly Bear. It's hard to envision now, but back in the 1800s when Southern California's streams were still boiling with native trout, the land was flush with game, and taking a walk in the wilds really meant taking a walk on the wild side, these behemoths freely roamed the local landscape. Not just one here and one there. Like everything else, they were here in large numbers. Estimates are that the mountains and forests of the Golden State once hosted up to 10,000 of these scary beasts.

In the backcountry of Ventura County, the North American Brown Bear was a regular fixture. And encounters with them were a common occurrence. Famed vaquero and bear hunter Ramon Ortega is reputed to have once seen 100 plus grizzly bear while traveling between the Rancho Sespe and the San Buenaventura Mission in Ventura. He is also said to have killed three grizzlies on one August day in 1882 in Matilija Canyon. In 1873, a grizzly chased a husband, wife, and infant into a tree while they were soaking in the Matilija Hot Springs. Other stories about run-ins with "the Grizz" abound.

Settlers rightfully feared the grizzly. Cattlemen and sheep herders loathed it. Like their contemporaries, the cattlemen and sheep herders of yore liked grazing their herds and flocks on the public range. Paying for that privilege in the form of lost sheep and steers, not so much. So the grizzly was shot, trapped, and poisoned by those whose agenda it was to sanitize the backcountry and rid it once and for all of those things that make the wilds wild. By 1889, the grizzly had effectively and systematically been extirpated from the landscape.

Enter newspaper magnate William Randolph Hurst. Hurst had a reporter who worked for the San Francisco Examiner named Allen Kelley. One day,  Hurst decided that he wanted to see a famed Grizz before they vanished from California completely. So he contrived a cockamamie scheme to send Kelley off to Southern California to capture one of the fearsome animals and bring it back alive to San Francisco. The project was fueled in part by Hurst's curiosity but mostly by his avarice and desire for attention. Kelley had zero experience trapping bears, but that was far more experience than the rest of Hurst's men had, so he was assigned the task.

Kelley's search for a grizzly brought him to Ventura County. There, in June of 1889, he assembled an expedition comprised of roughly a dozen "knowledgeable" locals, a couple of Native Americans, and two gear-laden donkeys and headed for the hills. The quest began with much fanfare as the rag-tag crew marched down Telegraph Road and out of Santa Paula toward the Sespe.

Kelley's route into the deep Ventura backcountry took him up Tar Creek to Squaw Flat, over to the Stone Corral, down into the Alder Creek drainage, over to the Sespe Hot Springs, up the Johnston Ridge to Mutau Flat, through the Lockwood Valley, and ultimately onto the southern flanks of Mt. Pinos. There, Kelley and his boys spent the summer trying without success to coax a grizzly bear into one of a number of traps they had built.

This is where the tale get murky. And it gets murky because Kelley, a supposed journalist whose job it was to recounts events accurately and truthfully, instead wrought confusion and suspicion by telling two very different stories that call into question his veracity and make it virtually impossible to really know what happened next. One story appeared as a multi-page expose that Kelly penned for and that was published in the San Francisco Examiner on November 3, 1889. The other story is the one he told many years later in a book he authored titled "Bears I Have Met - And Others" that was published in 1903. Both of these stories recount how Kelley ultimately captured the famous grizzly bear, now memorialized on the California state flag, known as "Monarch." But in the former story, Kelly claims Monarch was captured near Mt.Pinos in Ventura County. In the latter story, Kelly changed his tuned and asserted that he acquired Monarch from a "syndicate" that had captured the bear near Mt. Gleason in Los Angeles County.

Local Ventura County historian Charles Outland, author of the compelling read "Mines, Murders, and Grizzlies: Tales of California's Ventura Back Country," contends that the yarn Kelley wove in his 1903 book was a complete fabrication. But that view is not unanimous. In his book "The San Gabriels: The Mountain Country from Soledad Canyon to Lytle Creek," noted Southern California historian John Robinson, dismissed Outland's view as having "some support and a lot of conjecture." The Santa Clarita Valley Historical Society also apparently views Kelley's book as the last, authoritative word on the subject despite his previously published San Francisco Examiner article ("Various internet sources say Monarch came from the Ojai area; this is incorrect, as Kelly himself tells us.").

It's easy to assume that provincialism and/or pride might be at work here. Outland was from Ventura County and Robinson was from Los Angeles County. So each may have been motivated, whether consciously or not, to see Kelley's stories through a particular lens. And each may have then interpreted the facts so as to arrive at a conclusion that was consistent with the outcome desired. I don't know. I never met Charles Outland. I did meet John Robinson once and asked him about Monarch. He was unyielding in his belief about where Monarch was captured. So that leaves us with the conflicting narratives that Kelley published and the discord those narratives have sown among historians. In light of that, both of the tales Kelley told about Monarch are worth examining.

The 1889 San Francisco Examiner Article

According to the San Francisco Examiner article he penned, after getting skunked on Mt. Pinos, a clearly frustrated Kelley broke camp, "built several traps in the mountains near trails frequented by bears," and then changed locations to "the unsurveyed and unnamed peaks between Castac lake and the Liebre Mountains." That would have put Kelley and his troupe roughly in the northwest corner of Los Angeles County. Here, Kelley turned his attention for awhile to trying to capture a notorious grizzly that was known to frequent "General Beale's ranch" (known today as the Tejon Ranch) and to kill cattle with impunity and abandon.

Then, "one morning" (Kelley doesn't say when or exactly where they were), one of Kelley's men returned to camp to inform him that a dead steer had been found within 100 yards of an unfinished trap. All haste was then made to complete the trap in the belief that the murdering animal would return that night to finish off his meal. To that end, one of Kelley's men "rode out to Gorman's station to get some nails and honey, while the Correspondent (Kelley) paid a visit to one of General Beale's old corrals and stole some planks to make a door." Kelley then dragged the materials up the mountain to complete the trap, Just before dark, his man returned from Gorman station with honey and other provisions, but the hour was late so the trap could not be finished before darkness fell.

The next day, the trap was completed, but by some "ludicrous accident" it was destroyed thus guaranteeing that "a bruin would never be caught in it." Kelley's men then returned to Ventura, leaving him alone in the mountains, where he then had an exciting encounter with a grizzly, but still no success in capturing one.

In terms of trying to decipher where Kelley ultimately captured Monarch, this part of the story is key. This is what Kelley told his San Francisco Examiner readers next:

The bait scattered around this particular trap was ultimately discovered by four bruins, two of which were medium-sized, one of which was large, and the fourth which was enormous. As it turned out, the latter was not Monarch, but instead "Six-Toed Pete," a "cinnamon." However, a big grizzly soon also discovered this particular trap which Kelley tells us lead to a moonlight confrontation with Six-Toed Pete. The grizzly came out the victor and to him went he spoils that had been placed for him near the trap.

After his triumph, the big grizzly became less suspicious and cautious about approaching the bait Kelley and his men set out for him. Consequently, the bait was gradually moved closer to the trap door every day until finally a chunk of meat was placed on the trigger inside the trap. Then one morning,  Kelley awoke to find that he had finally captured the massive grizzly bear known as Monarch. The precise location at which Monarch was captured was not included in Kelley's exciting newspaper narrative, but the headline pronounced:

He Was Trapped in Ventura County After a Terrific Struggle and Secured with Massive Iron Chains - It Was  Hard Battle but Not a Man Was Hurt - The Long Journey Over Almost Impassable Mountains Before He Was Safely Landed in San Francisco - Getting Used to Captivity, but He Needs a Good Strong Cage All the Same

The "Bears I Have Met" Version

Fourteen years after he wrote the Examiner article, Kelley published his book in which he included an account of how and where Monarch was captured. In this version of the story, Kelley says that after an unsuccessful summer spent on Mt. Pinos, Hearst became impatient and recalled him back to San Francisco. Kelley refused to return to the City by the Bay bearless, so Hearst fired him on the spot. Undeterred, Kelley terminated his useless helpers, discarded "all the advice that had been upon unloaded upon me by the able bear-liars of Ventura," and struck out on his own for "General Beale's range in the mountains west of Tehachepi and above Antelope Valley" where he attempted without success to trap the a cagey grizzly named "Pinto."

Then, in late October, Kelley became aware that a grizzly bear had been trapped by a "syndicate" on Mt. Gleason. So Kelley left Pinto to his own devices and traveled to the Mt. Gleason area where he met with a "Mexican" named Mateo and negotiated the purchase of the bear that became known as Monarch. Kelley then had a box built to house his bear and transported the beast to San Francisco where he sold it to Hearst who put it on display in Golden Gate Park. And the other story Kelley had told years earlier? He downplayed the conflicting narrative by dismissively claiming:

"The newspaper account of the capture of Monarch was elaborated to suit the exigencies of enterprising journalism, picturesque features were introduced where editorial judgment dictated, and mere facts, such as the name of the county in which the bear was caught, fell under the ban of a careless blue pencil and were distorted beyond recognition."

Are You Lying Now or Were You Lying Then?

Given the radically different tales Kelley told, it is fair to ask which one of them is true. Stated differently, one might ask whether Kelley was lying in 1889 or 1903.

Based upon the San Francisco Examiner article, it's difficult to know exactly where in Ventura County Monarch was supposedly snared. The piece itself merely says that Monarch was finally apprehended on a mountain that was not infested with domesticated cattle and sheep and on which there were no acorns to forage. And this statement appears in the narrative while Kelley in admittedly in the Liebre Mountains near present-day Lebec. The only place in the article where Kelley explicitly states that Monarch was collared in Ventura County is in the headline. Not much to go on.

But the yarn Kelley wove in his book about Monarch's capture is even more problematic. First, 14 years passed after Kelley penned the Examiner article before he decided to correct the record. That extended delay calls into question the truth of the "correction." On top of that, he had a book to sell. Rehashing the story he already had told wasn't going to help in that regard.

Second, Kelley's stated reason for the supposed inaccuracies in the Examiner article are too flimsy to believe. Hearst was well known as a purveyor of yellow journalism, and it is not hard to imagine that he and his editors took some creative license with Kelley's story before it was published. But what possible "exigencies of enterprising journalism" were served by changing the name of the county where Monarch was captured from sexy Los Angeles County to backwater Ventura County? Particularly, since the expedition had spent its entire time in the latter county? The explanation just doesn't hold up under scrutiny.

Third, in his book, Kelley tells us that Hearst unceremoniously fired him after several unsuccessful months on Mt. Pinos when Kelley refused to terminate the search and return to San Francisco. Despite this, Kelley ventured forth on his own, spending several additional months tracking Monarch, purchasing him from the syndicate, transporting him to San Francisco, and then writing a detailed, multi-paged expose for Hearst and his publication about his exploits.Why would he do that if he had been fired? It simply isn't believable.

Lastly, the language Kelley used in his book is telling. It suggests that he was more motivated by grinding his axe and depriving Ventura County of notoriety than he was in actually telling the truth. The local men Kelley hired to assist in tracking and capturing a grizzly are dismissively described as "the able bear-liars of Ventura." Kelley bemoans the advice and recommendations he received from his "ingeneous, but sedentary" and "over-paid" assistant. The whole approach smacks of score-settling as opposed to objective and truthful reporting. And the "able-bear liars" slur that he leveled against the Venturans he hired is ironic given the fact that Kelley himself must have lied about the whole affair either in 1889 or in 1903.

So, what can be said of where Monarch was actually captured? There is certainly more resources available that can be consulted in an effort to ferret out the truth, but if those resources solved the mystery we would already know about it. But based solely on the Examiner article, Kelley's book, and a few other articles, I don't know that anyone can authoritatively say whether Monarch was captured in Ventura County, Los Angeles County, or some other county (a newspaper entry from the Ventura Observer dated December 9, 1891 indicates that Monarch was actually captured in Kern County - see snip below). What can be said, with apologies to the late John Robinson and the Santa Clarita Valley Historical Society, is that the generally-accepted story that Monarch was captured in Los Angeles County near Mt. Gleason is dubious at best.

David Stillman Speaks

David Stillman is a legendary and prolific explorer of the southern Los Padres National Forest. He is a walking encyclopedia on the forest whose knowledge was gained from raw experiences on, but mostly off the established path. I don't think it much of an exaggeration to say that David Stillman knows more about the southern Los Padres than all but a very select handful of folks.

From 2008 to 2015, David actively maintained a blog (http://davidstillman.blogspot.com) that catalogued his numerous explorations of the forest. Then, in mid-2015 his voice inexplicably fell silent. He posted no more. As Jack Elliott appropriately observed, "And like that, poof, he's gone. Underground. Nobody has ever seen him since. He becomes a myth."

Well I chased the myth down to find out what he is up to these days. As always, David was very accommodating of his time, free with his information, and tolerant of some of my dumb questions. Here's what David had to say:

Wildsouthland (WS): First off, how are you David? Are you still healthy, happy, and wise?

David Stillman (DS): Happy? Generally. Healthy? I won’t bore you with the numerous orthopedic insults that afflict me, but I did tear up my achilles in April and that’s had an impact on my abilities. Wise? It’s a work in progress.

WS: Tell me what you’ve been up to for the past 2 years?

DS: I’ve been pretty busy. Death Valley, the Mojave, the southern Sierra, Arizona,

Nevada, and Utah. I’ve been ranging pretty far and I find that a change of scenery is

pretty refreshing.

WS: Are you still climbing peaks, busting brush, and trodding the trails of the SLP?

DS: Um, the short answer is “Not so much.” I recently logged some time in the Miranda Pines/La Brea Canyon part of the San Rafael, and there was a nasty slog off trail somewhere on the south side of Sierra Madre Ridge that got a bit sporty. I guess you could say I still go out and get torn up. But summits, no. I’ve already done the SLP summits that interest me.

WS: Where have you been recently?

DS: The last outing, a couple weeks ago, involved waking up at 03:00, driving to Lake Isabella, hitting up some rock art sites in the Walker Basin and topping the day off with a 12 mile hike in the woods above the Lake. Then driving home. That was a rewarding day.

WS: Let’s get down to what everyone wants to know. For years you published a very informative blog about your adventures in the SLP and beyond. In 2015 you stopped publishing and went on a temporary hiatus which appears to now be permanent. A lot of folks were bummed about that, including me. Can you tell me what prompted you to stop publishing?

DS: I can. It’s complicated, but let me try to reduce my reasoning to something that makes sense. On one hand, I had this blog going, which was becoming popular for a whole range of reasons. It had taken off to the degree that a local mountain rag can. On the other hand, it wasn’t fun anymore. I began to understand that the need to generate new material, to stay popular and relevant, and to one-up myself every time I went out was really not what I wanted to be about anymore. It started reminding me of Caesar; Vini, Vidi, Vici and all that. I just gradually started to feel like the blog, and not my time in the woods, was what was more important. When I finally recognized what these feelings were, I decided it was time for a change.

WS: How much did controversies over access to certain locations and the constant criticism of internet trolls play into your decision?

DS: The B.S. definitely played a role. Along with a growing readership I attracted plenty of people who were watching what I was doing through the eyes of their own agenda. There weren’t many outright trolls, but organizations like the Wind Wolves Preserve, and the US Forest Service were paying pretty close attention to where I went and what lines I crossed. Also, a particularly vocal shade of archaeological academia made it their mission to equate what I was doing vis-a-vis rock art with the vandals out there. The way I saw it, I was going to go see these places whether they liked it or not, and the fact that I never gave out directions or coordinates or posted landscape shots

that others could use to find sacred places wasn’t good enough for them. The way they saw it, anybody not sanctioned by themselves had no business seeing or appreciating these sites.

WS: Do you ever see yourself starting back up again?

DS: That’s the big, bad question again. To this day, every time I go out and come back with great photos and a solid tale I want to post. The bug is still alive, but I also realize that I’d be less active in the Los Padres, and I certainly wouldn’t be out there doing 25 mile peak bagging days. Mostly because I don’t feel I have anything to prove. I’m content that I left a record of achievement in that forest that stands on it’s own.

WS: Even though you’re not presently publishing, the archival content of your blog is still available on-line for folks to access. It’s very helpful information to those of us that like to explore the SLP. What are your plans for your blog? Do you intend to keep it accessible into the future? If not, what is to become of its content?

DS: I intend to maintain the blog as it is today. I basically consider that content to be in the public domain.

WS: Have you ever thought about putting that content together as a book?

DS: An interesting question, but no, I haven’t considered that.

WS: How and when did you first get into exploring the SLP?

DS: My father was a naturalist/biologist out of UCSB. He introduced me to the Los Padres. Mostly by dragging me here and there to see animal poop. Seriously though, I remember hiking into and camping at White Ledge Camp under Topatopa when I was 5. I did Chief Peak when I was 10, with that old sadist Glenn Hackworth. Being in an active Scout troop really set the hook. The first time I hiked Whitney I was 12. I ended up doing big summer road trips with a friend. We’d save all year and take off for the summer, we were 16, 17 years old. We’d hike in Montana, Idaho, Washington, New Mexico. Past that I was heavy into rock climbing and mountaineering. I moved back to the Central Coast in 2000 and resumed hiking in the SLP in 2005.

WS: How did you gain your extensive knowledge about the forest? Did you gain it primarily from books or from raw experience?

DS: I just went. But I will say I have a boner for maps, and I’ve never paid much attention to where the trails are. They’re just lines on the map.

WS:  Who were some of the folks that you looked to, and still look to, for guidance and information about the SLP?

DS: Uh, I just figured this shit out on my own. It wasn’t until later, when the blog became a thing, that I started meeting other SLP people of note.

WS: I don’t know these folks, but guys like Craig Carey, Jack Elliott, Mickey McTigue, Bardley Smith, those are some of the guys I consider giants of SLP knowledge and adventure. Do you know all of those guys? Are they still exploring and writing, or are they “retired” like you?

DS: I know of McTigue, but have never met him. Bardley I’ve met a couple times. He’s a guy I wish I could get to know better. He’s probably got some good stories. Craig is heavily involved in the forest, both through the Scouts and with the USFS. He’s done some really good things and I admire him. Jack Elliott is still a close mate. He and I get out every couple months for something that usually turns out amazing. In a word, Jack is stalwart. And a good mate.

WS: Who, if anyone, do you see taking up the mantle you have laid down? Any young SLP up-and-comers that we should know about? Who are the next generation of SLP prophets?

DS: No idea. I don’t really care what other people are doing. I’m not on social media and I rarely look up anything to do with the Los Padres because I already know everything I personally need to know about it. I know I sound like a dick but I’m just not a social person. I will say that there are always tough people doing awesome things in that forest.

WS: Shifting to your other interests, I know you are interested in native rock art have documented a number of Native American rock art sites. How did you get involved in that?

DS: I guess it was always there. My grandfather had grown up in Santa Barbara and had collected baskets, points, tool and the like. We call that looting nowadays. I visited the Alder Creek site when I was 11. Over the years it just became an ongoing and unrelenting interest. Aboriginal art of any type is interesting to me. I usually plan road trips and hikes around rock art sites. A good rock art panel adds a bit of mystery to any day. Plus, a lot of these places are hard to find so there’s the easter egg factor. Been to hundreds of sites and far from done.

WS: Do you coordinate your outings and share information behind the scenes with scientists and archaeologists, or is it primarily just to satisfy personal interest?

DS: Absolutely not. Next question.

WS: I know there has been some blow-back by folks about you publishing images of some of these sites, even though you have never disclosed the locations. Their protectionist attitudes are understandable given the damage that occurs at publicly know sites like Piedra Blanca for example. How do you reconcile the need to protect these sacred sites with the desire to document them and share them with the world before they disappear?

DS: I’ll start by saying that the protectionism around the local stuff, Chumash art, is unlike anywhere else. By protectionism I mean mostly academia. Other regions are comparatively much more relaxed about access to rock art, and yeah, there’s always some jackass out there that’s going to defile a rock art site, but the venom coming out of certain corners when one poaches their patch is pretty remarkable. This is the only region I’ve visited where certain constituencies actively discourage the visitation of rock art sites, and fight hard to assert their own right to those sites at the expense of the

few interested public.

WS: Have you had conversations about this with Native American tribes and how do they feel about it?

DS: I have nothing to talk about with the Chumash. It probably wouldn't serve anyone’s interest to share where I’ve been or where I’m going.

WS: Ok, this is kind of a “secret sauce” question. But if you could only visit one site in the SLP before you die, where would you go and why?

DS: Of course I’ve already been there. There was always some hidden gem and impossible mission in the SLP. But I ran out. For the purest, most unique experience in this forest I would have to hand that to Hole-in-the-Wall. Of course it is deep in Condor Preserve country and I can’t endorse going there. And good fucking luck if you try.

WS: What’s next for David Stillman? I know you’re hoping for a trip to Denali. But what else do you have in the hopper?

DS: Let’s see. Italy in the Fall. I still have the three most minor California fourteeners left to do. I’ve got a couple adventure motorcycles now and I’m finding that travel on a tricked out enduro suits me. I can really experience getting into rugged, out of the way places. Camping off a bike is pretty special. And getting into the back deserts and dark mountains alone on a bike is right up my alley. One day, the Yukon to Denali.

WS: What was your hardest day in the LP?

DS: No doubt about it, Devil’s Heart Peak. 22 hours, going into and out of, up and down the Sespe, plus a peak nobody’d ever climbed. Yeah, toughest day.

WS: What was your most rewarding day in the LP?

DS: Easy answer, White Ledge Peak. There was insane route planning, insane trespassing, a mountain lion, an unclimbed gully to a massive face overlooking the ocean, and a new route to a summit nobody’d had in a generation. 

WS: What was your worst day in the LP?

DS: I've never had a truly bad in the the LP. Knock on wood.

# # #

A Man Could Lose His Way in a Country Like This

San Guillermo Peak

A man can lose his past in a country like this

Wandering aimless

Parched and nameless

A man could lose his way in a country like this

Canyons and cactus

Endless and trackless

~Rush, Seven Cities of Gold

I spend a considerable amount of time virtually exploring places I’ve never been by pouring over images on Google Earth and searching topographic maps on CalTopo. For better or worse, I’ve passed this idiosyncratic trait onto my eldest daughter who now carries on the tradition. Most of these “out of body” explorations involve the wild places close to home, the Los Padres National Forest and the Angeles National Forest, but I frequently stray beyond these boundaries to the San Bernardino National Forest, the Sierra Nevada, and to other far-away places I’ll probably never go other than in my fervent imagination.

Recently, while staring at the computer screen and time-traveling across the magnificent canyons and ridgelines that texture the southern flanks of Mt. Pinos, I noticed a narrow slot in the lower sections of the Middle Fork of Lockwood Creek that piqued my interest. Some online searching unearthed a short YouTube video clip posted several years back by a guy who had visited this area which he described as “the narrows of the Middle Fork of Lockwood Creek.” Additional scouring of the interwebs revealed nothing about this little canyon.

So this past weekend, my daughter and I drove to the Lockwood Valley in hopes of getting into the narrows. Much of this area is a crazy-quilt of public and private land that is crisscrossed by a network of mostly dirt roads. One or more of these roads, I surmised, would allow us easy access to the Middle Fork of Lockwood Creek which we would then ascend to the narrows. 

Along Boy Scout Camp Road, we swung off the pavement and tracked north on a gravel road adjacent to the Middle Fork. A short distance later, we encountered private property and a chain blocking our forward progress. Back-tracking to Boy Scout Camp Road, we tried a different dirt road on the other side of the Middle Fork. But to call this track a road is being generous with the term. It was narrow and soft, and the encroaching sagebrush scraped the side of the car as we proceeded forward. Ultimately, this option failed us too.

The preordained back-up plan was Mt. Pinos. But as we headed back to Lockwood Valley Road, San Guillermo Mountain and dark storm clouds loomed nearby to the south. So that of course became our new objective.

We found Pine Springs Campground mostly deserted except for a few hardy souls that were toughing it out in the oppressive midday heat. A couple of small RVs occupied the lower spaces. A tent and assorted gear filled the upper-most site in the loop. A woman peered at us over her bikini top as we circled the campground, a plume of dust trailing us. Looking at this moisture-deprived place, it's easy to forget the big winter we just had.

The air was still and the heat withering as we dropped into the dry drainage adjacent to the campground. On our way, we passed a plastic bucket topped with a section of pool noodle. Toilet paper was strewn hither and yon, while a shovel lay nearby at the ready. A make-shift privy, necessary I suppose since the outhouses at Pine Spring were boarded up tight for some odd reason.

In the drainage, we boulder-hopped west for a short distance, following cairns and the occasional piece of brightly-colored tape hanging limply from encroaching tree limbs. Little black flies buzzed us incessantly. A short distance later, we left the creek bed for a low ridge that splits San Guillermo from Pt. 6,324 to the immediate south. Here, the flies disappeared, chased off by occasional wind gusts heralding the imminent arrival of high-country thunder-showers. Ominous dark clouds hung leaden in the sky, neither advancing toward nor retreating from us. We stopped, looked skyward, and checked wind direction, contemplating the possibility of being caught on an exposed ridgeline during an electrical storm. But sometimes storm clouds are like bullies, threatening but ultimately pulling their punches. And so it was with these clouds. We faced the threat and pressed forward while the storm retreated to the northeast.

Atop the ridge leading to San Guillermo, the impressive expanse of the Sespe Wilderness unfolded before us. The trackless sweep of Wagon Park Canyon spread west to the horizon. To the south lay the boundless headwaters of the Piru Creek drainage. Eastward sat Mutau Flat and the big empty. Mt. Pinos and the beginnings of the Cuyama Badlands buffered the north. This is vast and vacant terrain that doesn’t give up its history or its secrets easily. A man could lose his way in a country like this.

Ultimately, we didn’t go deep enough or long enough to lose our way. We were ill-equipped for that type of undertaking. But the prospect and promise of that very sort of adventure exits in a place this unspoiled, this magical. It’s a compelling proposition, isn’t it? To have a grand adventure. To walk into the wilds and back in time. To get completely lost, if only within one's self. To experience the raw fear and magic that only the remote backcountry is capable of manufacturing. The certainty of all of that is just too tantalizing to pass on. We will return. To secure the missed reward. To collect on the promise.

Ambling Along the Dry Lakes Ridge

The First Dry Lake Along Dry Lake Ridge

You will follow me and we will ride to glory, way up, the middle of the air!

And I'll call down thunder and speak the same and my work fills the sky with flame

And might and glory gonna be my name and men gonna light my way.

~Estimated Prophet, Grateful Dead

Just out of Ojai and beyond the point where the Maricopa Highway squeezes through the slot of Wheeler Gorge, a high mountainous barrier towers above the roadway to the north. The unmistakable geologic feature with an east-west orientation is so impenetrable that the road-builders were to forced snake around it when the road (originally designated Highway 399, but now Highway 33) was surveyed and constructed in the early part of the last century. This imposing obstacle is Dry Lakes Ridge.

In my many forays into the Ventura County back-country, I've admired this ridge with wonder and awe. Based upon the many good trip reports published by my fellow wilderness travelers, I knew the ridge was comprised of a series of dry lakes or basins, and that the area atop the ridge was designated as a botanical area because of the unique flora that it harbors, but never having experienced it myself, I was left to imagine what it was like to travel along its spine.

Well, I now have to imagine no more. Last week, a friend and I decided to tackle the ridge in order to get a first hand look. Given its configuration, and depending upon your definition of the term, there really is no "easy" way to gain the ridge. There are only gradations of steepness. Stated differently, from a topographic perspective, the spread between the contour lines for the ridge range from almost non-existent in some areas to merely close together in other areas. Despite this, there is an obvious and traveled route to the top which involves ascending an old fire-break that runs down the eastern tongue of the ridge to intersect Highway 33 where it tops out near the Heliport benchmark at elevation 3736.

From the highway to the top of the ridge, the way forward is fairly obvious although there is no established trail. The initial climb is stout but it mellows some once you attain the ridge. There, you get nice looks at the Pine Mountain Ridge, the upper Sespe drainage, the Nordhoff ridge, Lake Casitas, and the coast. The track then continue upward, wending it's way through the ubiquitous manzanita to the high point and your first glimpse of the eastern-most dry lake.

The Pine Mountain Ridge

Piedra Blanca and the Upper Sespe Drainage

Zoom of Pine Mountain Ridge

The Abandoned Fire Lookout on Nordhoff Peak

Nordhoff Ridge, Lake Casitas, and the Channel Islands

Toward the Coast

Dropping into the first basin, the "correct" way to go became a bit muddled as various tracks zigzag through the manzanita, buckthorn, wild rose, yucca, and an assortment of other spiky flora that like to jab and grab. We veered left, aiming for an open spot in the sea of brush and what appeared to be "the path." As it turns out, this route terminated in a clump trees which we fought through, ending up in the first dry lake bed itself. We then did battle with the plentiful sage that populates the basin until we picked up the faint use path again on the western edge of the lake. Note to self: go right time.

Once we got back on track, we wandered through the second and third basins which are very similar in character to the first. Beyond the third lake, the path squeezed through some trees before cresting a small hill and revealing the big, open, grassy basin of the fourth lake below. We enthusiastically dropped into the lake bed aiming for the big evergreens in the middle. Here we found shade, a fallen log on which to enjoy lunch, and an old ice can stove, a remnant of a bygone trail camp. This is a really neat spot and we lingered here enjoying the solitude and the sound of the wind rustling through the grass.

Yellow - yes; Red - no

In the First Dry Lake

Looking Back Toward the Third Lake

The Fourth Dry Lake

In the Grassy Bed of the Fourth Lake

Looking Back at the "Trail" Into the Fourth Lake

Sitting in the Shade

Vestiges of the Old Trail Camp

Just beyond and west of the fourth lake, sits the tiny fifth lake. Had I spent more time studying my maps, I would have known this. But I didn't so I didn't. So instead of visiting this last dry lake while we were in the neighborhood, we instead turned tail here and retraced our steps back to Highway 33. Recognizing the error and stupidity of my ways back in the car, we headed for Institution Ale Company in Camarillo where I drowned my sorrows in a pint of Citra pale ale and planned a return to the ridge to pick up that last dry lake.  

Citra Pale Ale at Institution Ale Company. Go Here for the Best Beer Anywhere.

Dough Flat Walkabout

The Striated Bluffs of Whiteacre Peak

Many years ago, when I first came to Ventura County and before I got my Los Padres "forest legs," I made the long drive out of Fillmore up Squaw Flat Road (6N16) to see Dough Flat. I don't really know what compelled me back then since Dough Flat is generally not touted as much of a scenic destination, but I had noticed 6N16 stabbing deep into the Los Padres National Forest from the south on maps and I was intrigued by the relative isolation of the spot. So I made the drive just to satisfy my curiosity. When I arrived, a couple of rag-tag characters were loitering about the small gravel parking area. They stared me down as I rolled through like I had interrupted some nefarious activity, so I just kept moving. At least that is how I remember it now. In truth, they were probably just a couple of dirty backpackers who were surprised to see someone else make the trek to Dough Flat. Regardless, I stayed away for a couple of decades as the place just didn't spark my imagination or feel that inviting.

Last weekend I decided to return to the scene of the original crime. Half of the adventure in going to Dough Flat is getting there. Squaw Flat Road, which begins in Fillmore as Goodenough Road, is initially paved. As the road wends its way north and gains elevation, that pavement deteriorates eventually turning into gravel. The lower section of the road, which is routinely used to access the numerous oil leases that dot the area, is fairly well maintained. Past the last oil lease about 1/2 mile before roads end however, the track steepens a bit and becomes considerably more rocky. It's all negotiable without 4-wheel drive, but the going is slow.

View Across the Sespe Creek Drainage and Into the Condor Sanctuary

Bluffs Along the Whiteacre Ridgeline

When I arrived at Dough Flat this time I found the parking area completely empty. A sense of isolation came over me as I pulled on my boots and began up the Alder Creek Trail. Before I even reached the wilderness boundary, I encountered huge piles of scat on the path which I would continue to see throughout the day. This is undoubtedly bear country although it really doesn't look like it. I always imagine bears in lush green forests ribbonned with flowing water and festooned with lakes. This is definitely not that. It is an arid and inhospitable place of rust and tan and prickly plants.

I didn't really have an agenda for the day other doing a bit of exploring. I first wandered up to Squaw Flat and kicked around at a guerrilla camp I found there located in a clump of trees. After that, I continued up the gently rising path to the split with the trail out to Ant Camp and scouted routes up Pts. 4082 and 4706. The left fork of the trail took me out to Cow Spring Camp where I lunched at the fairly unattractive trail camp and searched without success for the spring after which the place is named. Water is so yesterday in this parched landscaped of the new millennium. I did, however, locate a Forest Service benchmark (EM 22) trailside around Stone Corral next to a rock formation I dubbed the Backcountry Throne.

Trailhead Signage en Espanol. The English language version is vandalized.

Entering the Sespe Wilderness

Whiteacre Peak from the Alder Creek Trail

Squaw Creek Drainage

Point 4082 from Squaw Flat

View South toward Dough Flat

Point 4082 (left) and 4706 (right)

Doubling back to the trail split, I followed the track out toward Bucksnort Spring to see if I could find water there. A trail guide I have from the late 1980s said that the spring was "fouled and useless." But that guide was written in an era when cattle and mountain bikes had free reign of the land. Now it is wilderness and a condor sanctuary.

Over a small rise and up a drainage, I spied a knot of green that looked out of place in the sea of brown. This was clearly Bucksnort Spring. I followed an obvious use trail up to where the spring is supposed to be where I found another guerrilla campsite, but no surface water. The greenery was no mere happenstance, however. There is water here, but it must all be subterranean at this stage.

On the way back to the parking area I scouted Sulphur and Whiteacre Peaks. Both are in the Condor Sanctuary and technically off limits, but I know they have both been scaled by intrepid adventurers who shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say that of the two, Whiteacre is the easier to access. Anecdotally, Sulphur, which is further away, has to be attacked from the Tar Creek side since any approach from the Pigeon Flat area is reputed to be chocked with brush. But the forest service has been forced to close Tar Creek because people don't know how to behave in the backcountry. So until that changes, Sulphur Peak seems to me a very difficult proposition.

View North to the Sespe Backcountry

Cow Spring Trail Camp

Forest Service Benchmark EM 22

The Backcountry Throne

Back at the parking area I found myself still completely alone. Not really surprising given the effort required to get to Dough Flat and the lack of an immediate "wow" or payoff, that many forest visitors are looking for and expect. Of course, I was completely content with the solitude. I pulled out my chair, removed my boots, cracked a cold beer, and listened to the light breeze rustling through the scrub and the faint but perceptible hum of the land.

Blue Sky

Cow Spring Area from Stone Corral

Native Flora