Takin' 'er Easy at Polly Dome Lake

Lighten up while you still can

Don't even try to understand

Just find a place to make your stand

And take it easy.

~Take it Easy (Eagles)

The Dude abides.

I don't know about you, but I take comfort in that,

knowin' he's out there. The Dude.

Takin' 'er easy for all us sinners.

 ~The Stranger (The Big Lebowski)

Foiled by Fire - Tahoe Rim and Jennie Lakes

Several months back, when the hills were still rich with vegetation and the reverberating echoes of Spring deceived me into believing that fire season in California wasn't really a thing, I dreamed of taking a late-season, multi-day backpacking trip with my kids and some old friends. California's backcountry is immense, so the possibilities then seemed limitless. Thus, along with my backpacking co-conspirators, we began pouring over topographic maps, researching trail descriptions, and plotting potential routes through the forests and ranges that comprise the vast Sierra Nevada. Ultimately, we settled on a section of the Tahoe Rim Trail, a 165 mile path that circumnavigates the famous sapphire pool that straddles the California-Nevada border. That selection seemed to have everything that an outdoor enthusiast could possibly desire: scenery, easy access, scenery, adequate water, and scenery. Plus, it was proximate to post-adventure beer and tacos. That was the real clincher.  

And then in mid-August, as the date for our departure began to creep over the horizon, the Caldor Fire ignited and the El Dorado Forest near Lake Tahoe began to burn. As the conflagration raged out of control and evacuation orders forced locals to flee to wetter ground, smoke darkened the skies and ash rained down over the Tahoe Basin. The best laid plans...

So we scouted alternatives and settled on the Jennie Lakes Wilderness near Sequoia-Kings Canyon ("SEKI"). It hit all the same marks as the Tahoe Rim Trail save nearby tacos and beer. We decided we could adjust to that minor imperfection and major inconvenience. 

And then it happened again. The KNP Complex fire ignited and suddenly SEKI was ablaze too. The fire began in the south, but steadily marched northward threatening the world's largest tree by volume and closing the park. Foiled yet again, we scrambled for a back-up to our back-up and miraculously found enough available permits for the Murphy Creek Trail in Yosemite. If the Tuolumne Basin started to burn, we were done. We'd just stay home and pout.  

But Yosemite didn't burn. So on a Thursday afternoon, we all converged on the trailhead along Tioga Pass Road, strapped on our packs that were heavy with whiskey and other goodies that would make the ultra-light set squeamish, and headed into the wilderness. 

Murphy Creek Trail to Polly Dome Lake

The Murphy Creek Trail is a short, flat, and pleasant walk through a lush coniferous forest that is occasionally interrupted by brilliant granite slabs that have polished smooth by the ancient glaciers that created this place. Classic Yosemite. About 2 miles in, a use trail branches to the right that takes you to the western edge of pretty Polly Dome Lake.  

The original plan, conceived when we were feeling ambitious about our adventure, was to hike to Polly Dome Lake for the first night, down to Glen Aulin along the Tuolumne River the second night, back to May Lake the third night, then out the morning of the fourth day. But after we arrived at Polly Dome Lake and set up camp, we decided to embrace our inner Dude and just take 'er easy. We'd use Polly Dome as our base the whole time and just day-hike to our planned destinations. That way, we could avoid the unnecessary hassle of repeatedly putting up and tearing down camp.  

Day Hike to the High Sierra Camp at Glen Aulin

The following morning we brewed coffee in the cool mountain air. Inexplicably, the exact same coffee that you drink at home every single day suddenly becomes a gourmet experience when consumed from a titanium mug under a canopy of regal evergreens. If only I could say the same thing about food (Top Ramen excepted) which I find to be largely unappetizing at elevation. 

Anyway, sufficiently juiced up on caffeine, we then headed to Glen Aulin for the day which was a little less than 5 miles to our northeast. It was a slow descent on a beautiful, well maintained trail that permitted occasional looks at various peaks that stud the Tioga Pass area. At McGee Lake, a finger-like lake along the trail, we stopped for a brief spell to try our hands at swimming and fishing. Neither endeavor was particularly successful. We then made the final drop to Glen Aulin where the Tuolumne River comes spilling of the cliffside into a large, emerald pool. There's a High Sierra camp at Glen Aulin with bathrooms, water, and bear boxes, but all of it was locked tight and the camp was empty of campers. 

Ultimately, the nearby water proved too enticing, so we all gleefully stripped off our clothes and jumped into the waiting pool. A day-hiker nearby watched in bemusement. Almost immediately, we regretted our impulsiveness as the water was surprisingly frigid and major shrinkage ensued for all those with appendages that could shrink. We then sat like lizards in the sun, warming our now cold blood.  

On the way back to camp later that afternoon as my mind had wandered off as I wandered along, my friend suddenly exclaimed "bear!" I immediately snapped to attention, and sure enough, about 30 yards up-trail blocking our way was a very large black bear. When we checked in to obtain our permits, the ranger told us that bears were very active in the park and to expect a visit to camp every night, but that never happened. This was the only bruin we would see. As the bear ambled down trail toward us, we all started yelling and clapping our hands like fools to no avail. The bear was completely unfazed by our antics and continued slowly toward us. As we started to search the ground for projectiles, the bear moved off trail and we slid by without incident making it back to camp with a tale to tell.

May Lake, the Geographic Center of Yosemite

The following day, we made the 4-mile trek to May Lake, the "geographic center" of the park. May Lake is a gorgeous high-country lake that sits in a basin beneath stark and towering Mt. Hoffmann. We briefly contemplated making an attempt at Hoffmann's summit, but consistent with our adopted Dude-aesthetic, we decided to simply sit shoreside and admire it from afar. 

There's also a High Sierra camp at May Lake replete with bathrooms, water, and bear boxes. Like Glen Aulin, the bathrooms and water here were non-functional. Unlike Glen Aulin, the bear boxes here were unlocked and stuffed to the gills. Loafs of bread, bottles of ketchup and mustard, and edibles of all types were crowded in, on, and under every box. And the camping area was congested with campers. It was a bit of a shit show even though it was late season. I suppose that is understandable given that May Lake is easily accessible from Tioga Pass Road via a mile and one-half trail. But as scenic and worthwhile as it was to visit for the day, we were quite happy to return to lonely Polly Dome for the night.

Leaving Yosemite - the Last Day

On the final morning, we walked out, retracing our steps from day one. As always seems the case when you've been out a few days, we were both ready and reluctant to go. So we got moving early, but moved slowly, savoring the last moments of high-country bliss. Back at the trailhead, we unloaded our packs and retrieved the cans of malt and grain beverages that were stowed in the nearby bear boxes. We were going to just leave those in the trunk, but the ranger told us that bears can smell sealed beer through an aluminum can. Although we skeptically viewed that tidbit of information as nothing more than ranger scare-mongering, and despite the threat of theft by fellow hikers and hooligans, we ultimately were obedient little soldiers and stashed our stash in the bear boxes. And the beer survived the ordeal.

On the way down 395, we were hankering for some real food. After a couple of days of trial mix and tuna pouches and trail mix, we could think of nothing but burgers and fries and burgers, so stopped in Mammoth Lakes at the brewery to quell our hunger pangs and slake our thirst with a frosty mug. It was all very Dude and the perfect compliment to a good couple of days in the mountains.

  

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. 

Los Padres Double Delight

 

Hines Peak and Creampuff

The true delight is in the finding out rather than in the knowing.
~Isaac Asimov

Suck it up, cream puff!
~Captain Lee

I've spent a good amount of time over the past couple of decades exploring the backcountry of the southern Los Padres. I've also sat in my living room attentively pouring over maps of the Sespe, staring at peaks and trails and rivers and canyons and ridgelines and fantasizing about what it would be like to experience those abstract places that exist only on a Tom Harrison map and in my fertile imagination. Because of this, I've known for some time about Hines Peak and it's slightly shorter neighbor, Creampuff. I had just never actually been to either of them. This dereliction of exploratory duty certainly wasn't due to my disinterestedness. Instead, it was primarily the result of the challenge of actually getting to these two peaks which sit in a rather difficult-to-access corner of forest. The only two ways to reach these peaks is either by a very long and tortuous walk or, a long and tortuous drive along the Nordhoff Ridge Road to Elder Camp near the road's junction with the Red Reef Trail (permit and 4-wheel drive required).  

But as Isaac Asimov said, true delight isn't in the knowing. It's in the finding out. So when Keith (aka, the Iron Hiker) suggested that we drive to the end of the Nordhoff Ridge Road in his 4x4 Tacoma, and then scale both Hines and Creampuff, I jumped at the opportunity. Time to be delighted. 

Rose Valley and the Nordhoff Ridge Road

We met at Rose Valley early. Sean (aka Cucamonga Man) and Cecelia joined us there and we all piled into Keith's truck. As we began the long drive up 5N42, the marine layer hung thick and low in the air, blanketing the hillsides with an ethereal mist and obscuring the path forward. At one stage, the cloud-cover became so dense that I had to get out of the truck in order to tell Keith where the road was.

After a slow, bumpy, and foggy drive, we found a place to park just beyond Elder Camp and began our hike. At road's end, where the fire road intersects with the Red Reef Trail coming up from White Ledge, a couple was camped on a broad flat with magnificent views into upper Lion Canyon and the Sespe. Here, the mist finally began to burn-off as we climbed into the Thomas Fire burn zone which scorched this area in 2017. A Poodle Dog orgy was in full swing here, so we had to bob and weave and dance our way around the offending bush until it petered out near the saddle that separates Lion Canyon to the north and Santa Paula Canyon to the south. Here, we caught our first glimpse of the day's objectives piercing the pillowy cloud bank.

How it began

Upper Lion Canyon

Trudging Along the Backside of the Topatopa Bluffs

The Cucamonga Man in his Natural Environment

Creampuff (foreground) and Hines (rearground) from the Saddle

After we "ooh'd" and "ahh'd" for a spell at the grandeur of the scene before us, it was an easy stroll to the base of Creampuff. We stopped briefly to survey the steep route we would later be taking up Creampuff's north face, and then continued down the trail to climb Hines first. Dinner before sweets. 

The Climb to Hines Peak

The route up Hines begins at the shallow saddle between Hines and Pt. 6,403. The Red Reef Trail continues in a south-easterly direction dropping down to Ladybug trail camp and then continuing all the way to the Sespe where it intersects the creek near Oak Flat. Recent reports indicate that this trail is passable from Oak Flat to roughly the old Horsethief site. But between there and Ladybug, the path is apparently a tangle of overgrown brush that is difficult to follow. No bueno.

After gulping some water and a Shot Blok for a quick energy jolt, we began the slog upward. There is no formal path, but there is a visible use trail worn by others who came before. We tracked this use trail as closely as possible, but as these things typically go, it eventually frayed into a number of strands the higher we went, so each of us just picked our own way up. The north side of Hines is basically comprised of loose dirt over bedrock so it was steep and loose going. After scampering up a sketchy chimney which was the crux of the climb, we topped out on a false summit. A short distance later, we were on the actual summit where we found a register and two benchmarks, but limited views. Celebratory pictures were taken, obligatory entries were entered in the registered, and then we retraced our path back to the saddle. The retreat from the top was a quick and dirty affair, much easier than the climb.  

Sespe Views

Creampuff (right) and Hines (left)

The Spine Route to Creampuff

Hines Awating Us

The Route Up Hines

The Cat Walk - Don't Slip Here

Keith Attacking Hines

Looking Toward Ladybug and Beyond

Creampuff from High on Hines

Hines Summit Register and Benchmark

Summit Pose - Iron Hiker, WildSouthland, and Cecelia

Dropping Down from Hines

The Route up Creampuff

Cucamonga Man and Cecelia weren't feeling Creampuff, so Keith and I hurried ahead to tackle our second peak. Along the way, we passed the old Last Chance Trail which is mostly abandoned, but can still be seen coming up from Santa Paula Canyon. The route up Creampuff is very similar to the route up Hines, but steeper and looser. Much of the time, the process was two steps forward, one step back as the ground moved continuously beneath our feet. Fortunately, it's a shorter climb - a mere 400' in elevation gain -  and before long, we were atop the summit where we found a summit register and the lid of a cream puff container to mark the spot. Trolling through the register of this "Seldom Visited Site" we recognized a number of entries from Los Padres regulars, including Christopher Lord (Lost in the Los Padres) and Reece McCalister aka Red Tail aka Mupu Mac aka the Lost Padres Lost Boy. This is a superior summit to Hines in terms of views. From this 6,486' aerie, you get panoramic looks at Hines, the Topatopoa Bluffs, and all points south.

Ascending Creampuff

Hines from the Summit of Creampuff

Summit Register - a "Seldom Visited Site"

Proof WildSouthland was There

Iron Hiker and WildSouthland on the Summit

How Creampuff Got it's Name

It is worth noting that the appellation "Creampuff" is not the actual, recognized name of this peak. In fact, I don't believe that it actually has a formal name. Which got us to thinking: how did this peak become colloquially known as "Creampuff?" David Stillman pondered this very same question and surmised that two guys christened it "Creampuff" after scaling it with a bag of weed and a container of Costco cream puffs. When I put the question to Bardley Smith, Los Padres legend and sawyer extraordinaire, he told me: "I thought it might be a case of Occam's razor. This was verified by legendary hiker Kim. C. As you found, the register is contained in a 'cream puffs' container." So there you have it. Mystery solved.

Back at the saddle between Lion and Santa Paula Canyon, I realized that I neglected to drink the summit beer I had brought along for the occasion. So I dug that out of my pack while the rest of the crew drank more healthy, but less enjoyable hydration alternatives. Then we all trudged back to the trailhead through the Poodle Dog minefield and the dense fog to end a truly delightful the day in the backcountry.

Where the Wild Things Are

 

And when he came to the place where the wild things are
they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth
and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.
~Where the Wild Things Are, Maurice Sendak

Harmon Canyon Rattlesnakes

The Los Padres Forest Association posted a image to Instagram the other day of a juvenile rattlesnake that had been bludgeoned to death in the Harmon Canyon Preserve in Ventura. Seems a skittish visitor to the preserve saw the snake, perceived it to be a danger to himself and others, and took it upon himself to exterminate the creature for the benefit of all man and womankind. That image spurred a number of comments that mostly disapproved of visitor's actions. But predictably, there were also a handful of folks who, although professing their love of being in the wilds of Harmon Canyon, nonetheless put forth the idea that it should be ridded of dangerous animals so as to make it a more enjoyable and safe experience for them, their toddlers, and their canines.

The Untamed Outdoors is Not a Suburban Park

But here's the thing that these well-intentioned, yet misguided folks need to understand and accept. The untamed outdoors isn't a nicely manicured suburban park replete with playground equipment, water fountains, and pretty chattering moms. It isn't the climate-controlled mall. And it certainly isn't fucking Disneyland. So stop demanding it be that. There are wild things there that roar their terrible roars and gnash their terrible teeth and roll their terrible eyes and show their terrible claws. Those things can and will bite, scratch, sting and/or burrow into you. Some might even kill you. But the wilds are where these critters live. It is their home, their permanens loco. You on the other hand are merely a temporary guest there. Actually, you're not even a guest because that term implies that you have been invited and are welcomed with open claws by the local inhabitants. You have received no such invite. Instead, you have simply broken and entered without consent. You are an intruder.

Consequently, you have zero standing to demand or expect that these wild places be sanitized and/or child-proofed to either conform to your personal safety expectations or to quell your rational and irrational fears. Instead, you have an affirmative obligation to make sure that you, your child, your companions, and your animals are all adequately prepared for what you may encounter on the trail and to understand how to minimize your risk of harm. That includes watching and listening to your surroundings at all times; knowing where to walk and where not to walk; being able to identify and avoid poisonous plants like Poison Oak and Poodle Dog Bush; and having some basic knowledge about the habitat and behavior of insects, spiders, snakes, coyotes, bobcats, and mountain lions. It also means willingly accepting the possibility and risk that you may unexpectedly cross-paths with any of these things at any time. You don't necessarily have to be comfortable with that possibility, but you do need to be physically, mentally, and emotionally prepared for it.

Because we're not killing snakes to placate your squeamishness with them. We're not relocating big felines so that you can feel more comfortable while on the trail. And we're not eradicating coyotes to prevent them from feasting on the unleashed lap dog you decided to bring hiking with you. All of these creatures are an integral part of and belong in the natural world into which you decide to step. Encountering them, therefore, is a risk inherent in any visit to the great outdoors. And like it or not, it is a risk that you willingly and voluntarily assume when you go. 

The Wilds are Wild

If you don't want to assume those risks for whatever reason, then don't. It's fine. I'm not going to judge you. Remain in the safe confines of your home, yard, neighborhood, shopping center, local bar, grocery store, restaurant, movie theater, bookstore, or wherever. You'll be happy and so we the rest of us. But do not, I repeat DO NOT demand, insist, expect, suggest, lobby for, agitate for, ask, or even imply that we need to domesticate and Disney-fy the wilds for your benefit. Alleviating your fear and discomfort isn't our responsibility. Neither is ridding the wilds of the wild things that make it wild. So don't act like it is. And don't presume that those of us who like the natural world natural will give ear to any suggestions otherwise. Because that ain't happening any time soon.   

Tempted by El Diablo's Potrero

I can resist anything except temptation.
 ~Oscar Wilde, Lady Windemere's Fan

I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it.

~Mae West 

I've stared numerous times at my Tom Harrison map of the Sespe Wilderness and wondered about the Pothole Trail leading out to the Pothole, the Devil's Gateway, and the Agua Blanca drainage. That area of the Los Padres has been an intriguing blank space on my experience map for awhile now, not from lack of interest, but instead from the difficulty of accessing the trailhead. Ok, perhaps "difficulty" is the wrong descriptor here because accessing the trailhead really isn't that difficult. It's more of a significant annoyance that I have simply refused to subject myself to. That annoyance involves paying $14 to enter the Lake Piru Recreation Area, parking in the visitor's lot, and then making a 4.5 mile road-walk just to get to the trailhead so you can begin the hike. Um, thanks no. A visit to the proctologist holds significantly more interest for me than a tedious 4+ mile, one-way asphalt walk. 

Then, the other day I heard something on my local public radio station that piqued my interest. It was a story about a new parking area and trailhead for the Pothole Trail that was scheduled for opening this past weekend. The improvements are part of the recently-approved Central Coast Preservation Act that designates the 400+ mile Condor Trail as a National Recreation Trial. With the opening of this new trailhead parking area, gone are both the ridiculous entrance fee to the Lake Piru Recreation Area and the interminable road walk. Suddenly, the temptation to visit El Diablo's corner of the Los Padres was more than I could be expected to resist. So I went.

At the kiosk to the entrance to Lake Piru, I told the attendant I was going to the Pothole Trail. He gave me a special permit to hang from my rearview mirror and waived me through without dinging my wallet. Then it was a 5 mile drive on a winding, narrow, and poorly maintained yet paved road to the sparkling new parking area which is equipped with clean restrooms (for now), trash receptacles, and a temporary hand-washing station. But access to the trail itself from here is not immediately intuitive. You don't proceed west from the back of the parking area to begin this hike. Ask me how I know that. Instead, to get to the actual trail, you need to backtrack out to the road and then continue north 100 or so yards where the trail starts on the left, marked by both a new sign and an old, sun-bleached forest service sign that is obscured from the road by encroaching brush.

Lake Piru

New Parking Area

Trailhead

Because this trail was hyped on public radio where it was probably heard by all types of listeners, a word about the hike ahead is appropriate here. First, this is not a family-friendly hike or one that is appropriate for the casual hiker. From the trailhead, the climbing starts immediately and doesn't let up for a couple of miles. It is a steep, sustained, and relentless grind until you reach that boundary for the Sespe Wilderness at about the 3,200' contour. After that, it's a 1,000' drop in elevation to the Pothole itself, meaning that you are climbing both ways on this hike for a total of 3,000'+ of gain. Additionally, this is a seldom-visited and remote part of the Los Padres. If you go, make certain you are well-provisioned and know how to take care of yourself. If you get into trouble out here, ain't no one coming to assist you quickly. Finally, the initial climb to the wilderness boundary is exposed, south-facing, and shadeless. There is no water until you reach the Agua Blanca. Combine that with the fact that it gets hotter than Hades in this part of the forest, and this is probably not the best choice for a mid-to-late summer hike. In fact, barring a pre-dawn start, hiking here in the summer could be downright dangerous. Heat stroke is real y'all.

With those preliminaries out of the way, I started up the trail which initially crosses a dry meadow and then climbs steeply to the adjacent ridge. Here, Blue Point, so named for the bluish-gray rock bands that streak its south face, comes into view. Behind, and to the northeast, Whitaker Peak can also be plainly seen. The trail then continues to climb, sometimes steeply, in a northwesterly direction following the ridgeline up and over Pt. 3,016 just shy of the wilderness boundary. From a trail-building perspective, the current route really doesn't make a lot of sense. But as you climb, you'll see vestiges of the original trail skirting the numerous bumps on the ridgeline over which the current track goes right up and over. These old trail segments are now so overgrown from disuse and lack of maintenance that the more direct ridge route has ironically become the less difficult default.  

The Meadow

Blue Point (Whitaker Behind)

Original Trail Route

Current Ridge Route

Forever Ridgline

Pt. 3,016 - Wilderness Boundary Near High Point in Rear

Cobblestone and Vicinity

Just beyond Pt. 3,016, the trail enters the Sespe Wilderness which is well marked by signage. Impressive views of distant Cobblestone Mountain and the more remote reaches of the Los Padres backcountry come into focus. Being the wilderness, mechanized travel is prohibited here, but rogue motorcyclists have ignored that ban and damaged the trail considerably. Typical fucking entitlement mentality. 

From the wilderness boundary (approximately 3,200'), it is a 1,000 foot drop to the Devils Potrero which you finally catch a glimpse of as you cross a narrow saddle at about the 2,800' contour. The trail then passes by Pt. 2,716 to the north, snakes back on itself, and finally deposits you into the potrero adjacent to the the Pothole which was formed by a gigantic slide that has covered the canyon floor with sand and silt. In his excellent blog Songs of the Wilderness, James Wapotich has posted images from the mid-1990s showing the Pothole filled with water and forming a lake reputed to be 15 feet deep. 

Entrance to the Sespe Wilderness

First View of Devils Potrero

Saddle View Looking East

Unfortunately for me, I didn't get the opportunity to do anything more than look at the Pothole from afar. Due to a later start than originally intended, I gave myself a 2:30 p.m. hard stop. And by that deadline, I was just shy of the objective. I contemplated pushing on to achieve the objective, but I was solo, it was a fair distance back to the trailhead, and I didn't want to get caught too far out in the fading light even though I was prepared to contend with that type of situation. So I reluctantly turned tail and started the climb back out.

On they way down, I stopped for a couple of minutes on a protruding rock to have a snack, swill a warm beer that I had stowed in my pack, and take in the scenery I had missed on the way up. Because it was now so late in the afternoon, I had the run of the place and I sat luxuriating in the absolute silence, contemplating my return.  

Near the road, I ran into a couple just starting up. They asked me how far it was to the "look-out point." I told them that depended on what they meant by that term, but that they had a long, arduous climb ahead of them before they topped out near the wilderness boundary. Ten minutes later, as I was loading gear into my car, the couple came strolling back into the parking lot. Shortly after our encounter, they apparently realized the folly of attempting to complete the hike with such a late start. So like me, they resisted temptation to continue on, and returned to the parking lot so that they could come back on another day to give the devil his due.

Ridge View South into the Piru Creek Drainage

Roller Coaster Ridge Return Route

Piru Creek and Blue Point

Piru Locals

Irrational Desire and the Allure of New Gear

To want is to have a weakness.

~Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; 

remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.

~Epicurus

Ultimately, it is the desire, not the desired, that we love.

~Frederick Nietzsche

The other day I was looking over my aging 18 liter REI Flash pack. I bought this thing on a whim while Christmas shopping several years back not because I necessarily needed another day pack, but because the giant outdoor co-op was pushing them out the door for a mere $19.99. So a I grabbed a couple and distributed them amongst the greater wildsouthland family. How could I resist? How could anyone resist?

As day packs go, there is nothing particularly remarkable about this bag. It has dual daisy-chains on the exterior for gear, a small, zippered, mesh pocket with key-chain on the interior, a hydration sleeve that I've never used for its intended purpose, a draw-cord lid with weather-flap, but no other "organization" to speak of. The bag itself is just, well, a bag comprised of a single compartment into which gear and whatnot can be stuffed in a semi-disorganized manner. But for short and quick outings, the bag has proved pretty functional and mine has seen a decent amount of use.

Which is why I was examining it in the first place. After years of taking it into the hills, my bag is looking a bit ratty. It's original, uninspiring grey hue is trending toward the beige of the Southern California soil. It it streaked with charcoal from the charred remains of sumac and manzanita and elderberry. And an accumulation of salty rime coats the shoulder straps from a number of missions in the scorching heat. In sum, the bag isn't as attractive or appealing as it was on that December evening when I first plucked it from the rack at REI.

But aesthetics aside, the bag has held up nicely. The ripstop nylon from which it is made has proved to be impressively durable and impenetrable to thorns and needles and spikes and sticks and sharp rocks and all the other prickly, scratchy, and pokey stuff that dominates the landscape here. Save for one small puncture wound on the bottom, my bag shows no tears or rips or other failings. The $19.99 I paid for the thing has turned out to be a pretty damn good investment. 

And therein lies the problem. I troll outdoor gear companies online. I visit retail stores that sell backpacks and sleeping backs and tents and other goodies - at least I used to before COVID changed the world. I get Backpacker magazine monthly. So I see all the sexy new packs that are out there just waiting for a home. I know that there are a bunch of "new and improved" day-packs with a host of must-have features that I don't have. And damnit, bag envy demands that I have one of those new bags even though I really don't need one. 

I don't know whether that is indicative of some inherent character flaw I have, or whether I'm just easily swayed by slick marketing schemes and shiny objects, but this desire for a new day-pack when it really isn't necessary conjures an incident from my youth that suggests that perhaps I've always harbored this defect. When I was a youngster, I had a pair a olive green canvas "Keds." Other than their repulsive color, the shoes were in perfectly good condition. But somehow I had grabbed onto the idea that I really needed new pair of shoes. Of course, I knew that was complete bullshit, and that I just wanted new shoes, but I couldn't let on to either myself or my parents without destroying that delusion. So I didn't. 

The problem was that there was nothing at all wrong my green Keds. And my parents weren't visually impaired. Their eyesight was pretty damn good actually. And they certainly weren't going to open the wallet for new kicks simply to pacify my budding vanity or to placate my irrational wants. So I forced the issue. I'd deliberately wear out my Keds so that my parents would have to buy me new shoes. 

Once that sinister plan was conceived, I set out with skateboard under foot to put my scheme into action. But this proved to be no easy task because like my REI Flash pack, these things were pretty durable. Holes wouldn't suddenly appear just through normal wear. So I resorted to abnormal wear. I rubbed the heels against the concrete curb. I dragged the tops across grass and gravel. I shuffled my feet across the asphalt to scuff the bottoms. I dragged the toes along the sidewalk. 

Ultimately, after a hard day's work of this, I had managed to pretty much destroy my puke green Keds. But the destruction was unnatural. There were patches of road-rash on the heel caps; the rubber on the toe tips and outer sole were unevenly worn; and the damage to the uppers looked suspicious because, well, it was suspicious. But I felt no pangs of guilt in my conscience as I do now as I returned home that night with my shredded shoes to plead my case for necessary replacements.

Ultimately, my shenanigans were successful and I got what I wanted, even though my parents surely recognized the absurd pretense. But my petulance isn't the point here. Rather, the point is that my Keds would have lasted a long, long time had I not resorted to focused, intentional destruction. The same holds true for my REI Flash pack. Like most gear these days, it is so well made, so durable, and so long-lasting that it has already outlived my childish wants. But the sin of covetousness is no longer a good enough reason for me to go out and replace it. And hopefully I'm past engaging in conscious, premediated savagery if for no other reason than I'm the one that ultimately pays the monetary price for it. So as Epicurus warned, I won't spoil what I have by desiring what I don't have, and will continue to carry my trusty, crusty bag for as long as it holds up. Desire be damned.