Prologue: Goosefest and the Prophet of Stoke

 

It's better to burn out than it is to rust.

~My, my, hey, hey (Into the Black), Neil Young

You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave,

find your eternity in each moment.

Fools stand on their island of opportunities

and look toward another land.

There is no other land; there is no other life than this.

~Henry David Thoreau

"What day is it?" asked Pooh.

"It's today," squeaked Piglet.

"My favorite day," said Pooh.

Winnie the Pooh, A.A. Milne

Preface to the Prologue - A Goose is Born

In the southwest corner of southern Utah, just east of the town of Hurricane, there's a sandstone plateau sandwiched between Utah State Route 9 and Utah State Route 59. The former parallels the Virgin River and takes you to the entrance to Zion National Park at Springdale. The latter tracks southeast and routes you through the polygamist enclaves of Hildale and Colorado City on the Arizona border. The island-in-the-sky sitting in the middle, which bears the moniker Gooseberry Mesa, occupies land managed by the Bureau of Land Management, and has become a mecca of sorts for the mountain-biking set. The famed Red Bull Rampage is held on the north side of the mesa annually.

In early 2021, when Covid was having its own rampage, my old pal Buzz and I decided to connect for a bit of camping under the stars. We figured even with the unending doom and gloom of the pandemic, we could pretty much stave off the rona if we were outdoors. Since my friend is in Salt Lake City and I'm in Southern California, we settled on Gooseberry Mesa as a sort of mid-point. But geography wasn't the sole determining factor. Amenities, or the lack thereof, was also important. And "The Goose" has (or doesn't have as the case may be) what we were looking for: no hassles, no authoritarian rangers, no fees, rudimentary yet acceptable bathroom facilities, grand views, big skies, good weather, campfires, and lots of open space for recreating. Perfecto!

So in April, we joined up on the mesa for a few days and nights of fraternity, outdoor indulgence, and general degeneracy. You know, all the standard stuff: biking, exploring, corn-holing, drinking, playing with fire, shooting the shit, and stuffing ourselves with epicurean delights. My daughter and a couple of our other old buddies from the past joined us and we all had a swell old time. When there was a lull in the action, Buzz kept us entertained with his humorous anecdotes, folksy mannerisms, and impersonations of famous rock-n-roll guitarists. Once the final day of the trip arrived, we had such a good time we committed to do it again the following spring. And thus, Goosefest was birthed. 

A Gathering of the Tribe

Wildsouthland and Progeny

Gray Hairs

Corn-holing on the Mesa with Dan-o

The Prophet of Stoke

Buzzard and I go back four-plus decades. We were both skiers in high school. Later in college we worked together at the Sports Stocker in Trolley Square tuning and waxing other people's skis. I never knew Buzz by any name other than Buzz and was convinced that is what his parents christened him. My wife called bullshit on that a couple of years ago and directly asked him his real name to which he replied "Brett." Then she gave me the knowing look. I was both stunned and deflated. I had never asked him the question before mainly because I had no reason to question what I otherwise knew to be true. And it never dawned on me that his name could be anything else. For 40 years I held fast to the belief that the name on his birth certificate, baptismal certificate, high school diploma, passport, and driver's license was "Buzz." And contradictory evidence aside, I'm not about abandon that fervent belief now. I'm digging in. Old fantasies die hard I suppose. 

The endearing thing about Buzzard is his sunny, gushing enthusiasm. He gets stoked about everything. Especially if it involves outdoor activities. Camping? Oh, fuck yeah! Biking? Let's get it! Skiing? Hells yeah Dude! New propane stove? Woohoo, score!!! Stone IPA in a 19.2 oz. can? Totally stoked! His reservoir of enthusiasm is deep. It's refreshing and infectious. It's not in my nature, but I find myself getting totally amped about rather ordinary things when I'm hanging out with the Prophet of Stoke.

He's also a well of wisdom. On our most recent Goosefest, we were sitting around the campfire talking about age because Buzz's birthday was right around the corner. The big 6-0. Entrance to the Golden Years. Buzz told us that every time he turns another year older, he let's go of some baggage that he's been carrying around with him. Just let's it go. Figures as he ages, he doesn't need that shit dragging him down any longer. I'd really never thought of that. I don't tend to hold onto the past. Or at least I don't think I do. From my perspective, the past is dead. No need to continually re-live it. As Tom Petty crooned, "it's time to move on, it's time to get going." I don't want or need dead grass not growing under my feet. Still, I've taken the teachings of Buzz to heart and now consciously try to let things just wash over me and then disappear down the drain. I don't always succeed, but I'm trying.

Church Services - Buzzard at the Pulpit

The Prophet Dispensing Advice to his Disciples

Goosefest 2 - Snow and Tequila

A year after the inaugural Goosefest, we returned to the scene of the crime. Some of the prior participants dropped off for this one, but we picked up the O.G. aka Super Dave to fill the gap. Buzz went down the night before we arrived to secure a site as the mesa has become quite popular and finding a good place to camp can be a challenge, even in early season. Fortunately, as Buzz was out scouring the area the following morning, he crossed paths with a group that was moving out of a very spacious site right on the rim. So as they moved out, Buzzard moved in and we were set for the weekend.

Sitting right on the rim has its advantages. The most obvious is the sublime views you get from the plateau's edge. Staring out over southern Utah's tablelands from on high really is the locus classicus of redrock desert camping. But the mesa's edge also has the breeze. That's great if your a raptor that likes to soar on thermals. It's also great when its warm as that breeze takes the hot edge off. But when its cool, the wind doesn't do anything but just makes it colder. 

And on this trip, unlike our first outing, it was cool and the weather unsettled. The desert can be fickle this time of year so I suppose it's to be expected even though we didn't expect it. But we were reminded of this the first afternoon when it snowed. Or maybe it was hail. Or sleet, whatever that is. To be honest, it was hard to tell exactly because what fell from the dark sky was kind of a mongrel form of precipitation. But regardless of its meteorological definition, we weren't prepared for it. So when the frozen pellets began dropping from the sky, we all dashed to our cars to take refuge while the storm pelted our camp. When it was finally over and safe to come outside to play again, we found the ground littered with white stuff. The snow/hail/sleet wasn't particularly wet and it didn't last long, but the warmth really never returned. It was chilly the rest of the time. 

But if the worst that can be said about your camp outing is that was it was a tad cool, how bad can it really be? So despite the less than optimal temps and occasional downpour, we still busied ourselves with riding and hiking and exploring and all manner of the typical camping whatnot. The task was made easier (or maybe harder) by the bottle of tequila that D brought along to lubricate our activities and sedate our souls. Later on while sitting around the fire, we sampled peach cobbler that Buzz cobbled together in a dutch oven. 

After the Storm

Mas Tequila

Burning Ring of Fire

Strawberry Canyon

Old Guys

October is Coming and the Goose(fest) is Getting Fatter

On the last day, we decided that an annual trip probably wasn't sufficient to scratch the itch. At our age, you have to get as much in as you can as many times as you can. Because there are no guarantees in this life. One day you're here, the next day it's done. That's happening with concerning frequency now in my demographic. People I grew up and went to school with are starting to drop. Out of the blue and into the black. It's sobering. So we decided to double our efforts and make the trip a bi-annual thing: one trip in the late spring, another in the early fall. I haven't had the chance to see these boys much over the years on account of geography, work, kids, life. So Goosefest is a fun platform to do just that. It's a reunion masquerading as a camping trip. 

Goosefest 3, the next installation of the Goose, will happen on October 6-9. A post-mortem will probably be forthcoming, but may have names changed to protect the innocent.   

I Ain't Going Out Like That

 

The next big event after retiring is dying. And I'm not going to volunteer for that one yet.
~Bobby Bowden

We ain't going out like that, we ain't going out like that.
~Cypress Hill, I Ain't Going Out Like That

Legendary Florida State football coach Bobby Bowden continued to work long into the sunset of his life. His philosophy, often repeated, was that once you retire, there is only one major life event remaining. And he was determined to stave that event off by avoiding the immediately preceding life event (retirement) as long as possible. How successful that strategy was we'll probably never know for certain. But death found Bobby despite his efforts and he was escorted into the mysterious beyond on August 8, 2021. 

I don't know how Bobby lived his life, but the subtext of his philosophy is to just keep grinding until you ultimately slump over a stack of paper on your desk, a tie around your neck, and the fluorescent lights reflecting in your vacant stare. Fuck that. As DJ Muggs and the boys said, "I ain't going out like that." I know the stage of life I'm at. I know what the actuarial tables say. I know the knock could come any day. So I'm not going to waste opportunity on the mere possibility that continuous toil is the path to Ponce de Leon's mythical spring. If living instead of working costs me a couple of extra years, I'll happily make that Faustian bargain.

So when the chance to walk a stretch of the famed John Muir Trail (JMT) was placed in front of me, I wasn't going to demur. Even if that meant spending a precious few days away from the never-ending stream of emails that I knew would be pooling to unfathomable debts in my absence.

I'm a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy. It drives my wife crazy. She's a meticulous planner. Every detail must be accounted for beforehand. There is little room for variation in the finalized agenda. Me, I too often approach things with only a sketch of a plan and then figure I'll ad-lib the rest. I like the not knowing. I like the spontaneity. I like the surprise. I like the freedom. Sometimes that approach bites me in the rear. Most of the time things works out. But as a result, if it was left up to me, I'd probably never walk the JMT. That's because it requires thinking about the trip months in advance. It requires researching when and how to obtain permits (and then actually getting those permits). It requires a fair amount of thought and planning. I find that whole process tedious and aggravating. I just want to show up and go. It's one of my many flaws.

Fortunately, I have a friend that is pretty good at doing those types of things and will tolerate me mooching off of his administrative efforts. So back at the beginning of the year, when the night sky still lingered long on the landscape, my friend, who was already dreaming about summer backpacking, secured permits for the the JMT with entry at Lyell Canyon in Yosemite National Park. Being the swell guy that he is, and knowing that I'd want in on the action, he made sure there was a spot for me to tag along. 

Our adventure started on a Saturday in Mammoth Lakes where we left a car. Early the next morning, we jumped on a Tuolumne-bound YARTS bus in front of the Shiloh Inn. We were joined by a couple of young lads from Rotterdam, Netherlands who had just finished the entire 222 miles of the JMT, had hitched a ride back up the 395, and were now headed for the Yosemite Valley. Talking to these young guys, who couldn't have been more than 21 or 22, I was impressed by their adventurous spirits, their infectious energy, their youthful fearlessness, and their ability to communicate with us fluently in the native tongue. Thinking back on my own youth, I would never have had the courage to go traipsing off to some foreign land with nothing but a pack on my back and a wild idea in my head. Hell, that wasn't even on my radar when I was their age. So I have great admiration for these guys. They are everything that I wasn't in my youth. 

At Tuolumne Meadows, we, along with a rag-tag assemblage of other backpackers, secured our permit after receiving the obligatory ranger lecture about bears, poo, and fire. We then started up Lyell Canyon where we planned to stay the first night. The term "up" in this context is somewhat of a misnomer as the trail through Lyell Canyon is relatively level for the first 7-8 miles before it finally begins climbing toward Donahue Pass. That makes for an easy first day and provides the ability to acclimate some before the air thins out and your lungs begin to burn as you walk.

It was high season along the JMT so we continually passed, or more frequently were passed by fellow travelers. That's the thing about hiking in the Sierra Nevada. The range can conceal an incredible number of hikers and backpackers. There are folks everywhere in these mountains. To the casual observer, it might no be evident. But they are there. By the lakes, along the ridgelines, and under cover of the forest canopy. So even when you're alone on the trail, you're never really alone. And there were quite a few folks alone on the trail. Most of them we encountered were women which was counter-intuitive. In the olden days, when we were all forced to walk to and from school bare-foot in the snow, and it was uphill both ways, you wouldn't have seen that. Too dangerous. Or at least that was the commonly-accepted wisdom. Now? I suppose safety in numbers has mitigated that concern some. And/or maybe contemporary women are just sick of that shit and are like "fuck it! I'm going." Either way, the "fairer sex" is killing it out there.  

Youth was the other common denominator. Schlepping a backpack full of gear at elevation, battling pesky mosquitoes, and sleeping in the dirt is mostly a young man's game. And the trekkers we encountered along the trail substantially, although not exclusively, bore that out. As old guys, we were definitely an outlier. Maybe even a curiosity. As we walked along, I couldn't help imagining the youngsters we met thinking how cute it was that a couple of old men were still out there doing it. Of course, no one said that or even hinted at it. Still, I'd be lying if I told you I never felt that we didn't belong. But that probably says more about me than it does the youth brigade we shared the trail with.

The day began gray and continued to get grayer the deeper in we went. By late afternoon, with the sky darkening, we reached the 9,700' contour and decided to camp just below the footbridge that crosses Lyell Fork. A ranger we met earlier informed us that there had been bear activity at this location for the last few nights, so I was a little on edge. Shortly after we set up camp, the sprinkles began and we took refuge in our tents. I didn't bring anything to read in an effort to cut bulk and weight, so I just laid there in my nylon cocoon listening to rain spattering the fly and awaiting a visit from Ursus Americanus Californiensis. That never happened, and I ultimately drifted off around 8 p.m., awakening early the next morning well before they sky began to lighten.  

Back on the trail, we climbed to a beautiful tarn at 10,200' that is fed by what remains of the Lyell Glacier. There are several campsites here which would make an outstanding place to stay for a night or two. As we admired the camping opportunities, we lost the trail when we followed a social path that skirted the eastern bank of the tarn and then ultimately fizzled out. Backtracking, we realized our error when we saw another JMTer crossing the tarn outlet and then follow the correct path along the western bank instead. 

Higher up, the trail crossed a stream before reaching another tarn that sat above treeline. Low clouds were smothering Mt. Lyell which made for an ethereal and foreboding landscape. We stopped to collect some of the cold, delicious water at the stream whose source was a pool higher up in the glacial cirque. One-half mile or so later, we crested barren Donahue Summit where I surprisingly, but briefly had cell reception.

The clouds that hung high in the sky earlier were now at ground level. Maybe they moved lower or we moved higher, but suddenly we were in them. And they began dropping moisture. It started as an innocent mist that morphed into drizzle. That drizzle then turned to rain which quickly became a malevolent torrent. We donned rain jackets and ponchos, but it was futile. The rain was drenching and relentless. Dropping into the Rush Creek drainage, we took refuge under a gigantic granite overhang to ride out the rest of the storm. 

Afternoon thunderstorms are a regular occurrence in the mountains. They are one of those things that you just expect at elevation in the summer. But as we cowered under that slab of protective granite, the irony of it suddenly raining after 8 months of bone dry weather struck hard. Perhaps, I thought, I could single-handedly solve California's drought situation by seeding the clouds through backpacking all the time. I'd be happy, you'd be happy, the farmers would be happy, everyone would be happy. Win-win-win-win.

When the rain tapered off, we began moving again, but the skies did not look friendly. We had targeted the Marie Lakes as our destination for night 2, but when we got to the trail junction leading into the basin, we could tell that location was going to be stormy. So we continued descending until we reached the junction with the trail leading to Gem Lake where the deluge began once again. We joined a couple of young ladies under a tree in an effort to stay dry and made idle chit chat. One of them was on the finishing leg of a solo JMT trek northbound; the other, her friend, had joined her for the last few miles of the journey. Eventually, they got up and wandered off in the still-falling rain as we continued hiding under the tree boughs until the storm died down some and the trail stopped flowing like river. Then it was up and over Island Pass and down to Thousand Island Lake where we camped for the night. We had been warned by others on the trail that Thousand Island was crowded, noisy, and not very pleasant, but the place was pretty much empty. We had a very enjoyable evening there.

The following morning, the sun was shining and Mt. Ritter gleamed gold in the alpenglow. The air was warm, birds were chirping, and I'm pretty sure I heard a chorus of angels heralding in the new day. Convinced we'd survived the worst Mother Nature had to throw at us, and ahead of schedule, we decided to tack on some extra mileage and head for Rosalie Lake that night with an eventual exit at Reds Meadow.

The trail that morning led us past the precious stone lakes - Emerald, Ruby, and Garnett. The water at Thousand Island tasted somewhat swampy so we stopped to pump at inviting little Ruby Lake that sits in a small, confined basin backed rocky cliffs. The scenery here is really spectacular and the water was superior to Thousand Island so we were glad we waited. Then it was down to sapphire-hued Garnett Lake (another misnomer) where we stopped briefly at the footbridge at the lake's outlet to dunk our heads in the cool water. 

Here again, we briefly lost the trail when we mistakenly followed an alternate path that apparently leads to Altha Lake. The JMT, which we relocated quickly, hews closely to Garnett's southern shore before climbing over a low divide and dropping into the Shadow Creek drainage. As we descended off the rocky divide, the surroundings suddenly changed and we found ourselves wandering a pleasant path through a shady, evergreen forest.

Where the JMT intersects with the Shadow Lake Trail, we stopped to talk to a young fellow from Alabama who was going solo southbound. He told us he'd never been to California before and this being only the third day of his journey, he was still acclimating. That gave us pause. We were on day 3 of our trip too and we started at Tuolumne. This Golden State newbie was at the same place, yet he started at Happy Isles in the Yosemite Valley. To add insult to injury, he was headed for Red's that day while we were only aiming for Rosalie. He was averaging about 25 miles per day to our 10. That was a bit of a sobering slap that reaffirmed our lowly place in the backpacking pecking order.

After we parted ways, the drips started again. As we followed the Shadow Creek Trail east, it continued to pick up intensity until we reached the footbridge at the inlet to Shadow Lake. Then, the heavens opened up and the rain came pouring down with impressive intensity. We sheltered under another tree and considered our options. We had originally planned to exit at Agnew and only altered that agenda because we were ahead of schedule. But with the rain now falling hard, the prospect of hiking further in soaking conditions and then setting up a soggy camp wasn't terribly appealing. And when we weighed the potential misery of sitting in the rain at Rosalie against the guaranteed pleasure of sitting at Mammoth Brewing Company with a hoppy pint before us, the decision was easy. We decided against continuing onto Red. "We ain't going out like that, we ain't going out like that."

As we walked out, the sky dried up some but the clouds still looked sinister and foreboding. Finally at Agnew, we awaited a shuttle ride out with a pleasant group of fellow gray hairs from Oregon. Since Agnew is the last stop on the exit route, every shuttle that came by was already full. So it was a long and frustrating wait. After a while, I got impatient and resorted to flashing cash at passing cars in an effort to catch a ride. Unsurprisingly, I got no takers. Few folks are interested in picking up a pair of stinky axe-murderers even if the reward is $30. After what seemed an eternity, one of the shuttle drivers going into Reds Meadow radioed ahead that there were riders that needed out. And we successfully caught a ride on the very next shuttle heading up the hill. 

Back at Mammoth Mountain Resort, we boarded the last free shuttle of the day into town. As luck would have it, that shuttle dropped us immediately adjacent to the brewery where we plunked down our heavy packs and consumed a bit of craft beer with enthusiasm and affection. As the warming influence of the alcohol began to take hold, I felt pleased with the trip, even though we abandoned the last leg to Reds. And of course I was happy to have snuck in one more adventure before experiencing what Bobby Bowden euphemistically called the last major life adventure. Especially because my way of avoiding that event seems much more fun than the utter drudgery of Bobby's way.

Fire Canyon Wash

 

In the first place, you can't see anything from a car; you've got to get out of the goddamned contraption and walk, better yet crawl, on hands and knees, over the sandstone and through the thornbush and cactus. When traces of blood begin to mark your trail, you'll begin to see something, maybe. ~Cactus Ed 

As you drive north on I-15 out of Las Vegas, you pass through the Moapa Valley, a broad and arid expanse of high desert populated by screwbean mesquite and creosote. From the windshield of a speeding automobile, it presents as a hot, desolate and rather uninviting place. Which of course is why the United States government forcefully relocated the Moapa Bank of Paiutes here in 1869. At first blush, it was the shittiest and least useful land we could find to "give" to them as a reservation. But the U.S. government has a history of taking back what it gives to the natives. So although the land originally assigned to the Paiutes consisted of the entire Moapa River watershed (including lands along the Colorado River), in 1875 that allotment was reduced to a paltry 1,000 acres. Today, the reservation stands at approximately 75,000 acres in total, but given the government's abysmal record on taking back from the natives what they have given, it is more than ironic that the offensive appellation "Indian-giver" somehow inexplicably became associated with the supposed dishonesty and treachery of natives as opposed to the white man.

I've driven this stretch of road innumerable times on my way to Utah. I've seen the sign for the colorfully-named Valley of Fire which conjures up images of an inhospitable Dantean hellscape, but I had never once exited the freeway to take journey to the Inferno. Embarrassingly, the closest I ever came was when I exited the freeway once to patronize the Moapa Paiute Travel Plaza for fire water and explosives.

But on a recent trip across the desert, I had the luxury of a few extra hours, so I decided to see what I was missing. At the appropriate exit, I got off the freeway and started south-east across the desert following the winding 2-lane ribbon of asphalt approximately 15 miles to the park entrance. There, I tried without success to convince the attendant that I was a Nevada resident and thus entitled to a discounted entry fee, but he was shrewd and wasn't having any of it. So I coughed up the obligatory $15 charge and proceeded into the park. 

Knowing that my time was limited, I had done a bit of research in advance and had targeted the Petroglyph Canyon Trail leading to the Mouse Tank. Although it's quite a short trail, on its face it appeared to provide maximum bang for both the dollar and hour. Beyond that, looking at Google Earth I discerned that it might be possible to continue down Fire Canyon Wash at the terminus of the trail proper for additional off-trail scampering and exploration. So that was my aim.    

There was a fair number of cars at the trailhead as I started off down upper Fire Canyon Wash and into the maze of redrock fins, spires, pinnacles, hoodoos, hobgoblins, and other fanciful formations. But the path itself fortunately wasn't as crowded as I thought it might be, so I strode along in reverent awe of both the landscape and the various petroglyphs scratched into the black patina on the adjacent sandstone walls by the ancient Basket maker and Anasazi people who inhabited this place some 2000 years prior.  

A short distance later, the trail abruptly terminated at the Mouse Tank (or more accurately, at a precipice looking down onto the Mouse Tank). "Mouse" (or more appropriately, "Little Mouse") was apparently the name of a renegade Southern Paiute who used the Valley of Fire as a hideout in the late 1800s. The "Tank" is a natural basin where precious water collects after the rains. Thus, the Mouse Tank.

Not willing to end my exploration so early, I scampered up a rocky bypass to the left and then dropped down into the Mouse Tank. I then continued down canyon following the sandy stream bed further into the bowels of fantastic Fire Canyon Wash. Initially, the wash was broad and the going easy. But as I penetrated further into the canyon, the path narrowed, the walls closed in, and the going got considerably more interesting. Here I found myself scampering around, crawling over, straddling, and ducking under large sandstone blocks that clogged the drainage and impeded the path forward. It was both fun and challenging and I was enjoying the serenity of the gorge which I had to myself. Ultimately, however, I reached a blockade that choked off further access to the drainage without a bit of down-climbing. It was potentially a point of no return. Being solo, and uncertain whether I could climb back out if I committed, I reluctantly decided to become a SAR statistic another day and retraced my steps back up canyon. 

On my initial descent, I noticed another drainage entering from the right as I came down canyon. I still had time and daylight, so on my way out, I decided to explore this drainage as well. This ended up being less of a gorge and more of a shallow valley with a dry creek bed running up its center. I followed a faint use or game trail for awhile until I topped out at a flat saddle. To the east, there was an endless jumble of more sandstone. To the north and south the same. An endless playground for rock-hopping and off-trail scrambling. This was no country for old men.

Coming back down the valley I could see in the distance exactly where I needed to end up, but navigation in the redrock desert is tricky because everything looks the same. So ultimately I found myself in a slot of sorts that I knew was unfamiliar. Obviously on the descent, I'd failed to pay close enough attention to what I was doing and had veered off track. This is both the thrill and peril of desert hiking. It's very easy to get disoriented and lose your way. And when the temperatures are scorching, such an error can easily prove fatal. 

Recognizing what I'd done, I doubled-back to the point where I zigged when I should have zagged, and then returned to the Mouse Tank wiser but without incident.

Back on the established trail, I noticed another side drainage with a sort of use trail entering again from the right (or the left if you are returning to the trailhead). Figuring I might as well leverage my limited time in the park as much as possible, I tacked hard left. Initially, the drainage was a flat and sandy walk. But a short distance in, I hit a crag where the path continued up a crack that split the rocky monolith. The climb up wasn't terribly challenging although it did add nice variety to the outing. And when I topped out, I was rewarded with more outstanding looks at the surrounding area.

It was now late afternoon, the shadows were creeping across the landscape, and the air was getting noticeably cooler. Time to leave.  But on my way out, the Valley of Fire gave me one last gift. Just outside the park entrance, the handful of cars in front of me all came to a sudden stop. For a moment, I thought perhaps there had been an accident of some sort. But then I saw what all the commotion was about. A solitary desert big horn sheep was foraging immediately roadside, unfazed by the crowd of gawking onlookers. As I pulled along side to snap a picture out the passenger-side window, the sheep glanced at my without any apparent interest and then continued crunching away on the local grasses. 

Back at the I-15, I pulled into the Moapa Travel Plaza thinking I'd pick up a nice six-pack of craft beer before crossing into the land of Zion where the selection is limited and the prices are high on account of "sin" taxes. I have heard Mormons jokingly refer to this governmental levy of additional taxes on the "Gentiles" (anyone who is not a Mormon and therefore, in theory, doesn't drink) as "bleeding the Beast." Ha, ha. Yeah, totally hilarious. All those drinkers and smokers subsidizing the Utah educational system for the benefit of all the hyper-fecund Mormon couples. Bleeding the beast indeed.

Anyway, I was surprised and dismayed to find that the Travel Plaza had a pretty uninspiring selection of beer to choose from. Coors, Miller, Budweiser - mostly just shitty, mass-produced American lager in gigantic quantities. Pass. I drank that swill growing up as a young apostate in Utah and I wasn't going there again. So I continued up the road to Mesquite where I stopped at Lee's Discount Liquor instead for my weekend supply of adult malt and grain beverages.  

Having got a sample of what the Valley of Fire has to offer, I'm now all hot to return on my next pass through Moapa for further exploration. Although it's a relatively small park, there's still quite a bit of territory left unexplored. 

Crescenta View Trail

 Tip the world over on its side, and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.

~Frank Lloyd Wright

L.A. is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities.

~Jack Kerouac

The final story, the final chapter of western man, I believe, lies in Los Angeles.

~Phil Ochs

Roman Polanski once said "Los Angeles is the most beautiful city in the world, as long as its seen at night and from a distance." Obviously, Mr. Polanski never hiked the Crescenta View Trail on crystal clear, sunny day in November. If he had, he would have known that viewed from on high and afar, with the island-studded, gleaming Pacific as a backdrop, the City of Angels is a spectacular, if not messy, sight to behold.

How do I know this you ask? Because I recently hiked the Crescenta View Trail on a crystal-clear, sunny day in November. And from a perch at 4,400' feet, Los Angeles, in all its frenetic, sprawling, chaotic glory is quite a beautiful thing. This despite what all those sneering east coast elites and raffish midwestern outsiders might say otherwise.

The Crescenta View Trail starts at Deukmejian Regional Park which is technically in Glendale. As far as trailheads go, Deukmejian is somewhat unique in that it has plentiful free parking, water, and full bathroom facilities. Bueno! The track begins at the rear of the parking area and gently ascends Dunsmore Canyon adjacent to the dry creek bed. A short distance up-canyon, a trail branches off to the right and crosses over to the east side of Dunsmore Creek before continuing northward. A similar connector intersects the Dunsmore Canyon Trail further up the canyon. Wanting to get off the more heavily-traveled main trail, I took the first branch which was a mistake as the path has been completely washed away where it crosses to creek. I had to scramble up a steep and brushy bank on the other side to regain the trail. I did not repeat that mistake on the return trip, following the second connector further up canyon.   

A short distance later, the climbing begins as the path switch-backs up the ridge that separates Shields and Dunsmore Canyons. The climbing isn't particularly steep, but it is sustained and really doesn't let off until you reach the saddle where the Crescenta View Trail ultimately intersects the Mt. Lukens fireroad. From that point, you can traverse the dirt road a short distance west to the summit of Mt. Lukens, the highest point in the Los Angeles proper at 5,074 feet.

There is apparently some controversy over the name "Mt. Lukens." According to the Sierra Club HPS Section, the peak was previously named "Sister Else (or Elsie) peak. Nobody seems to remember or know who the original female namesake was, but as part of the 1875 Wheeler Survey, a chap named "McLain" decided "Lukens" was a more appropriate appellation and so renamed the peak in honor of Theodore Lukens, a former Supervisor of the Angeles National Forest. McLain ostensibly did this because "mountains should be monuments to the men who have treasured and protected them," gratuitously observing "what did Sister Elsie ever do for the mountains?" 

Anyway, my objective this day was not the summit of Sister Else Peak. Instead, my plan was to simply hike to the Redoubt, a circular rock enclosure on one of the ridge's promontories accessorized with a flagpole. There, I figured I'd take in the views, have a snack, lollygag a bit, and then return to the parking lot. But as alluring as that might sound, the Redoubt is an exposed and shadeless place, and sitting there baking in the direct sunlight for any appreciable amount of time is not ideal. So I continued another 3/4 mile up the trail to the Pickens Spur water tank which is also a shadeless and exposed spot, although perceptibly cooler. Plus, the flat concrete there affords an opportunity to lounge about without having to roll around in the dust and dirt.

From this spot high on the ridgeline, the entire Los Angeles basin is observable. Downtown, midtown, Century City, Santa Monica, the Palos Verde Peninsula, the Valley, and the Verdugos are spread out before you like a crazy metropolitan quilt. To the distant east, you also get impressive looks at all the celebrities of the San Gabriel front country: Mt. Deception, San Gabriel Peak, Occidental Peak, Mt. Markham, Mt. Wilson, Mt. Lowe, and Brown Mountain. 

  

I stripped my sweaty shirt off here, exposing my embarrassing corpulence to no one, and lingered for a while. Shortly after that, things got amazingly hazy so I packed up and started back down the way I came.

Total mileage for this one came in at 5.20 with an elevation gain of just shy of 3,000 feet.      

Looping Through the Ventura River Preserve

 

The core of mans' spirit comes from new experiences.

~Christopher McCandless (aka Alexander Supertramp)

Old age should burn and rave at close of day.

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

Preliminaries - Old Man Walking

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

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

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

  

The Ventura River Preserve

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

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

The Loop

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

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

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

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

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

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