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."

Better Living Through Nano-Aggression

Wild Mustard on the Long Canyon Trail

Last year, I became aware that certain botanical aliens are in our midst. One day it suddenly dawned on me that foreign interlopers had infiltrated our indigenous ecosystem and were hard at work displacing the natural flora that makes Southern California, well, Southern California. These trespassers had always been with us, hiding in plain sight, but I had never noticed. I was completely blind to their presence. And then something changed and I inexplicably became “woke” to the reality that these invading migrants, these foreign belligerents, were among us and were a serious problem that needed to be addressed. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I knew that it didn’t mean sitting around doing nothing. For as Ed Abbey once said, “sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul.” So I ran out and bought a pick-axe at the local hardware store and launched a personal eradication campaign. The object of my ire was Russian Thistle (Salsola tragus), and I began enthusiastically ripping out the obnoxious weed by its roots whenever I encountered it. This was, of course, a fool’s errand, but I embraced it with zeal anyway, and before the winter rains began, I had managed to single-handedly clear my local trail of the offending bush from top to bottom.

After the rainy season was over, Southern California experienced a so-called “Superbloom.” This is when native wildflowers which have lain dormant during the long, brown months of fire and drought, suddenly germinate and explode in a technicolor orgy of orange, purple, blue, and red. And we all stampeded into the hills to appropriately “ooh and aah” at the wonderful spectacle of it all. In the process, we managed to trample under foot, leg, arm, and ass a good deal of the delicate wonders we all rushed out to admire. Then the dying time arrived and the warm spring sun bleached the hills from green to gray to straw yellow.

As that transformation was happening, a second “Superbloom” was under way. Unlike the first bloom, this one was not sugar and spice and everything nice. Instead, this bloom heralded the arrival of Black Mustard (Brassica nigra), a pleasant-looking but pernicious organism that metastasizes like a stage 4 cancer cell. No one ran to the hills to gape and gasp at this bloom even if they wanted to. The Black Mustard infestation became so thick that entire trail networks disappeared under a heavy blanket of yellow flowers and tall, woody stocks.

Black Mustard is a nasty plant that grows aggressively in disturbed and burned areas. It’s an early-germinating water hog with a deep tap root that releases allelopathic chemicals into the soil which prevent native plants from developing. It is not native to California and there are various competing explanations as to how it got here. One theory is that it was introduced by Franciscan padres who deliberately scattered its seeds along the El Camino Real to mark the way as they trudged northward between missions. Another story postulates that the plant was brought to California by Spanish colonizers as a spice crop which then quickly got out of control and spread like wildfire. Still another theory is that Spanish Rancheros introduced the species to support cattle grazing. The fast-growing mustard, the story goes, was deliberately planted to compensate for diminishing native grasses that were being rapidly consumed by the four-hoofed locusts we call cows. I don’t know which theory is the most accurate. They all sound plausible to me. But I think it safe to assume that indigenous Californians are not the ones responsible for this pest. It was brought here by colonizers and settlers and we have them to thank for it. 

One look at the mustard-covered hills and you immediately know it is with us to stay. Given the sheer scope and magnitude of the infestation, it is pure folly to believe that it can be eliminated from the environment either now or in the future. I know and accept that truth. Nevertheless, I started randomly pulling mustard trailside here and there while I hiked as a cathartic exercise. They come up surprisingly easily if the soil is not compacted. I wasn’t really making a dent in the problem, but I figured getting rid of a plant here and there was a small contribution that I could make. Then I hit upon something. I could never win the war. I couldn’t even win a battle. I was far too outnumbered for that. But I could win small skirmishes. If I focused my attention microscopically on one small plot or one choked-out native, I actually could rack up some victories.

Before

After

So I commenced my insurgency against Brassica nigra in earnest. I’ve added gardening gloves to my day-pack as the “11^th essential,” and now each time I go out, I pick a small area to clear and start yanking. I don’t focus on the walls of mustard that flank every fire road. That’s a useless endeavor. Instead, I’m focusing my attention on small sections of hillside or individual native plants that are being crowded out.

The looks I get from passer-bys are hilarious. They’re not sure what to make of me. They’ve all got this “what in the actual fuck is this lunatic doing?” look on their faces. I’ve seen some of them shaking their heads to themselves. My family understands me by now. They fortunately tolerate my idiosyncrasies.

So there you have it. Me and Sisyphus both rolling our boulders uphill. It’s an endless and impossible task, but it’s oddly gratifying. And it is effective, albeit on a micro level. I’m fine with that even if the task will never be complete. It's what I call better living through nano-aggression.

Before

After

How I Became a Guerrilla Soldier in the War on Russian Thistle

There is a rocky sandstone prominence in the hills above my house that I hike to virtually every night. I generally pack some cheese and a can of beer and sit up on this outcropping to watch darkness creep over the landscape as the light dies in the west. My throne is pretty damn barren and inhospitable…it’s rock after all. But it is fractured and creased in places and some of those crevices collect and hold a bit of sandy soil.

In one of those crevices, life has implausibly taken hold. A solitary Chamisa has sprouted from the sandstone and against all odds, is somehow eking out an existence. I’ve become quite attached to this little Chamisa for some reason, and I’ll share some water with him occasionally to make sure he gets through the long, Southern California dry season. He’s my buddy, at least in my mind, and I’ve become obsessed with checking on his health every time I go into the hills.

One day when I went to visit, I noticed he had an unwanted neighbor. A Russian Thistle had taken hold in the crack and was threatening to hog all the water I provided and to crowd out mi chamisa. Furious, I yanked the invader from the crack roots and all and tossed it unceremoniously over the edge of the outcropping. It relinquished its hold in the crack surprisingly easily.

Russian Thistle, a non-native invasive, is pervasive in the hills of Southern California. I’ve always known it was there, but like Black Mustard, it is so ubiquitous and so integrated into in the landscape that I never gave it much attention.  But after my clash with it on the sandstone outcropping, I took a hard look at the areas immediately adjacent to the trail leading to and from the prominence. The area is carpeted with the offending stuff. It’s easy to spot right now because it blooms in late summer-early fall and consequently is one of the few plants that is currently green.

That’s when it hit me. I was going to yank some of that shit out. I knew getting rid of all of it was a fantastic crack-pipe dream, a moron’s errand, but I figured eliminating it from portions of the trail was a battle I might be able to win. So, the following weekend, I bought sexy-looking black pick-axe from Lowe’s and became a guerrilla soldier in the war on Russian Thistle.

Later that night, I packed leather gloves, water, and beer into my pack, grabbed my new implement of death, and headed for the hills. At first, I was a bit reticent about hiking with a pick-axe, not knowing how folks would react. I thought maybe someone might challenge whether my removal of non-native invasives had been appropriately “sanctioned” by whomever it is that sanctions these types of activities. I got a few curious looks, but nobody said shit. I guess I looked official. In reality, I was just some beer-swilling dude with a fucking vendetta.

Since that day, I’ve removed thistle from the area surrounding the sandstone rock on which mi chamisa resides as well as the upper stretches of the trail leading to the outcropping. I honestly don’t know whether my efforts will have any positive effect, but I figure at a minimum, I’m giving space for native plants to sweep in and re-occupy the areas that were being hogged by the thistle. Beyond that, it just makes me feel happy and satisfied. And best of all, the crack that mi chamisa calls home remains Russian Thistle free.