David Stillman Speaks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

pretty refreshing.

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

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

WS: Where have you been recently?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DS: Absolutely not. Next question.

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

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

few interested public.

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

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

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

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

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

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

WS: What was your hardest day in the LP?

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

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

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

WS: What was your worst day in the LP?

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

# # #

Liyikshup: A Journey to the Center of the World

The View North from Iwihinmu'u

Mahk jchi tahm buooi yahmi gidi

Mahk jchi taum buooi kan spewa ebi

Mahmpi wah hoka yee monk

Tahond tani kiyee tiyee

Gee we-me eetiyee

Nanka yaht yamoonieah wajitse*

~Mahk Jchi (Heartbeat Drum Song)

Mt. Pinos sits among the butterscotch-scented Ponderosa pines in the high country where the transverse ranges begin to bleed into the Central Valley. At 8,831' in elevation, it is the highest point of Ventura County. As a result of this distinction, it has been leveraged by modern man like a number of other prominent Southern California peaks to facilitate modern communications. An unsightly radio tower adorns its hump-backed summit. 

But those who came before us treasured Mt. Pinos for other reasons. To the native Chumash Indians who occupied this land for generations before the arrival of the Californios, Mt. Pinos, or Iwihinmu'u in the language of the Samala, was Liyikshup, the center of the world. This was a place of black bear and mule dear, of white fir and Jeffrey pine, of buckwheat and lupine, of Almiyi. This was a sacred place where life was in balance.

It's not difficult to see why the Chumash believed this. If you ignore the modern intrusions atop Mt. Pinos proper, and push on a short distance to the "Wildlife Viewing Area" to the immediate west of the summit, it is possible to experience the awe that the Chumash must have had for this place. The natural world has a distinct rhythm and hum. This hum is not audible. It is not visible. You can't feel it. But close your eyes. Be still here. The hum is very plainly present at the center of the world. The energy here is palpable.

Directly west of Iwihinmu'u, located in the aptly named Chumash Wilderness, sits Sawmill Mountain. The two are connected by the Tumamait Trail, named for Vincent Tumamait a Chumash spiritual leader and storyteller who passed in 1992. To get to Sawmill, follow the Tumamait Trail west as it drops gently off the shoulders of Mt. Pinos to a shallow saddle at roughly 8,400. The trail then regains the elevation just lost as it climbs to the broad, rounded summit of Sawmill Mountain at elevation 8,813'.

Unlike its slightly taller brother, Sawmill Mountain is not fouled with electronic equipment and other amenities. Instead, its summit is bedecked with a huge cairn made from flat stones that litter the area. And that energy you felt on Iwihinmu'u? That palpable natural hum that can neither be heard nor felt? Well its present here too, focused perhaps by the large spirit tower that masquerades as a summit monument. Sit quietly on this exposed summit. Listen to the wind. Absorb the expansive views north toward the San Emigdio Mountains and the flats of the southern San Joaquin Valley. Record your thoughts in the summit register hidden within the recesses of the monument.

Re-energized, retrace your steps through the numerous twisted and strangely contorted trees back to the large parking area at the terminus of Mt. Pinos Road where you began. Or continue west from Sawmill along the Tumamait Trail through the Puerta del Suelo to Campo Alto atop Cerro Noroeste where you can spend the night under the bright moon and diamond stars that adorn the evening sky above the center of the world. And like the Chumash, live a hundred thousand years.

*A hundred years have passed

Yet I hear the distant beat of my father's drums.

I hear his drums throughout the land.

His beat I feel within my heart.

The drum shall beat

so my heart shall beat

And I shall live a hundred thousand years.

A Man Could Lose His Way in a Country Like This

San Guillermo Peak

A man can lose his past in a country like this

Wandering aimless

Parched and nameless

A man could lose his way in a country like this

Canyons and cactus

Endless and trackless

~Rush, Seven Cities of Gold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peak 6306: Rigidly Inaccessible and Thornily Savage

Peak 6,306 from the Winston Ridge

Cucamonga Man is one of those handful of guys who really knows the San Gabriels. He's been to every peak in the range that you and I have been to, and he's trod every established and un-established trail. He knows the location of obscure and long-abandoned mines and where to find water in the otherwise dry landscape. In short, he's a walking, breathing topographic map of the Angeles National Forest.

So he's always on the hunt for new places in the range to explore. When you've been everywhere, that task gets more challenging with each passing day, but the San Gabriels is a big place that holds a lot of secrets. So I don't know whether it is even possible to really ever see it all. Even if you're Cucamonga Man. But he's trying. And he'll probably succeed.

Last September, I made my way out along the Winston Ridge to Pt. 6,850. When I returned, Cucamonga Man asked if I got any good pictures of Peak 6,306 because he was scouting it for a future trip. Before I could answer him, I had to look at my pictures and review a topographic map because I didn't even know Peak 6,306 was a thing. Sure, I may have actually seen it from the Winston Ridge, but I had no idea that it was anything other than a bump along an ancillary ridge blocking my sightline to the high desert. And I certainly hadn't contemplated actually visiting the damn thing.

But fast-forward six months and there I was, trudging along the Winston Ridge in the early morning cool with the Cucumonga Man and Dima "the Billy Goat" Kogan on our way to visit this obscure destination that feels and looks more high desert than it does forest.

We met at Cloudburst Summit at 7 a.m. to get a jump on the day and the impending heat. After chatting briefly with two PCT-through hikers who emerged from the forest just as we were departing, we began down the fire road, our packs sloshing heavily with 5-6 liters of water each. After wrapping around Winton's Peak's eastern slopes, we left the established trail, traversing the western side of Pt. 6,903 to gain easy access to the Winston Ridge.

The undulations of Winston Ridge are an easy walk and a pleasant place to spend time. But it wasn't always the case. In the winter of 1893, Pasadena banker L.C. Winston got lost in a blizzard here and perished, giving his name to the the ridge and nearby peak. With the benefit of topographic maps and an established use trail for access, it's difficult today to imagine losing your bearings here. But this was wild and unknown territory in those days without neither trails nor the nearby safety net that is the ACH. I suppose in white-out conditions with hypothermia setting in and the light fading, getting disoriented in the back-country was much easier back then than it is now. But maybe that's just a dangerous false sense of security that I really need to come to grips with.

Squaw Canyon with Pacifico in Rearground

North Side of Winston Peak

Hiking the Use Trail Along Winston Ridge

View Toward Pacifico from the Winston Ridge

Looking West from Pt. 6,850

Our Objective - Peak 6,306

Beyond the high point, Winston Ridge begins a slow and bumpy northwest descent terminating ultimately at the South Fork of Rock Creek some 2,500' below. At the bump at elevation 6,850', we lightened our packs by caching water in the shade of the hardy shrubbery that call this place home. We then dropped another 200' feet to a shadeless and forlorn hump along the ridge where the dreaded Poodle Dog was still trying to make a go of things. From this vantage point, Peak 6,306 loomed tantalizingly nearby to the north. 

But distances have an odd way of getting compressed in the thin mountains air. Horizons always appear to be much closer than in reality they are. Obstacles are easily ignored, challenges minimized. And so it was with Peak 6,306.

The way forward from where we stood was obvious: a 600' drop to a shallow saddle at roughly 5,900', a short climb to Pt. 6,147, and then an easy stroll to our objective. The first leg of this journey was simple enough. The steep ridge was clear, the footing was sure, and we quickly made it to what we dubbed Dead Tree Saddle because there is in fact a dead tree located at the saddle. Here, we cached more water, ate some snacks, and contemplated the fact that every reasonable route out from this location involved a strenuous climb of one sort or another.

But because we had not come this far to fail, we gamely pushed forward. Pushing forward in this context meant clawing our way to Pt. 6,147 up a very steep and loose slope punctuated with an assortment of sharp, prickly, and/or spiney flora. Beyond the crest of the hill, we entered untrammeled territory. Here, forward progress was impeded by clumps of impenetrable brush that we were forced to penetrate anyway by bashing and crunching our way though it. By the time we finally arrived at our destination atop Peak 6,306, our legs were a scratched and bloody mess. When John Muir said of the San Gabriel Mountains that they were both "rigidly inaccessible" and "ruggedly, thornily savage," he could have easily been speaking of the ridgeline leading to Peak 6,306.

Atop Peak 6,306 we found a summit cairn protecting a pristine register. The register indicated that it was placed by R.S. Fink on May 6, 1984. Since that date, the register reflected only a handful of other visitors to the peak. The first entry after the register was placed was dated February 10, 1991, almost 7 years after R.S. Fink originally visited. The next entry after that wasn't logged until February 21, 2015, a good 24 years later! Three months afterwards, on May 19, 2015, the peak was visited for the final time by George Christiansen, Pat Arrendondo, and Bruce Craig. After that, the register was blank. We dutifully added our names to the short list of visitors and then prepared ourselves for the slog out.

Starting the Descent to Dead Tree Saddle (Photo credit: Sean "Cucamonga Man" Green")

Looking at the Descent from Dead Tree Saddle

The Climb to Pt. 6,147 from Dead Tree Saddle

The Dead Tree at Dead Tree Saddle

Dima Breaking Brush (photo courtesy of Sean "Cucamonga Man" Green)

Summit Register Atop Peak 6,306 (p. 1)

Summit Register Atop Peak 6,306 (p. 2)

Pacifico and Bare Mountain from Peak 6,306

High Desert from Peak 6,306

The return trip involved back-tracking the same way we came in. We fought our way through the brush back to Pt. 6,147, slid down the loose hillside to Dead Tree Saddle, and then slowly ground our way back up to the Poodle Dog infested hump at approximately 6,640.' Fortunately for me, Cucamonga Man had done trail work the day before in Dark Canyon, and Dima was operating on only 2 hours sleep, so I was able to keep them in view as I suffered up the steep incline.

Back on Winston Ridge, we reclaimed our cached water and then reclined in the cool shade and long shadows of the afternoon. Weary but rested, we then exited the ridge, skirted the north side of Pt. 6,903, rejoined the PCT, and returned to Cloudburst Summit satisfied to have experienced one of the lesser-visited locations in the otherwise heavily-visited San Gabriel Range.

Little Rock Creek Drainage from Dead Tree Saddle

Serrated Ridge Coming Off the North Side of Winston Ridge

Recharging the Batteries on the Winston Ridge

Skirting the North Side of Pt. 6,903 (Photo credit: Sean "Cucamonga Man" Green")

View East from the PCT

KML Track of Our Route