Red Mountain - Over the Hills and Far Away

Red! I want red, there's not substitute for red

Red! Paint it red, green ain't mean compared to red.

~Red, Sammy Hagar

The Memorial Day weekend. The traditional start of summer. You know, the 3-days in May when folks that don't usually spend time outdoors unpack their tents and sleeping bags and propane stoves and massive coolers and firewood and boom-boxes and other camp-life accouterments and head for the mountains or forests to temporarily squat in the dirt in close proximity to others, stay up drinking and hollering into the wee hours of the morning before passing out, and rising badly hung-over at the break of dawn to repeat the cycle. Yeah, that weekend. It's typically an unpleasantly frenetic time to be out as "irregulars" swarm the great outdoors, finally unrestrained by the cool, dim days of winter. That communal need to break out is particularly acute this year. For this is the year of COVID. Thus, and either because of self-restraint or governmental edict, most people have not ventured too far from their home turf for the last couple of months. Now their feet are itchy. And Memorial Day weekend is an opportune time to finally scratch that itch. 

Like every red-blooded, patriotic American, I wanted to scratch too. My conundrum was that I wanted none of baggage and risk that comes with rubbing feet and shoulders with a gaggle of my potentially virus-infected citizens. Or perhaps that's just an excuse. Maybe I'm really an anti-social, elitist that is just using the pandemic to justify my isolationist tendencies. I admit that possibility. Either way, what it meant for me was once again finding a place that very few people want to visit. After scouring the maps, that place appeared to be Red Mountain. 

At 3,996', Red Mountain is a relatively unsexy peak located in a sort of no-man's land of the Angeles National Forest. Sandwiched between Elizabeth Lake and San Francisquito Canyons, Red Mountain sits sentinel high above the Fish Arm of Castaic Lake which is visible to the south. There are no established trails or fire roads leading to its summit. Trip reports are difficult to find. But satellite imagery shows an obvious firebreak carved into Red's steep southern ridge that ultimately tops out on the summit. That firebreak must be courtesy of the Powerhouse Fire that burned a good chunk of the forest to the immediate north in 2013.

 

The ridge route begins from a dirt parking area along Dry Gulch Road about 0.6 miles to the east of Lake Hughes Road. It starts as a jeep road that immediately ascends a short, steep hill and then morphs into the firebreak. Shot-gun shells and sparkling broken glass litter the area which has been abused like many other easily-accessible areas of the Angeles. 

The firebreak itself is slowly being reclaimed by mother nature. Brush impedes the way forward or encroaches onto the path in several locations, although it is easily manageable. For now, a rogue motorcycle track is keeping a narrow path open and visible. In a few years or less, that track will inevitably vanish under a thick carpet of wild grasses, chamise, black mustard, yucca, and other unfriendly flora. Unless, of course, another wildfire torches the area which, in Southern California, is always a possibility.

Given its southern exposure, the route up Red's firebreak is a hot and shadeless march. It's also a steady climb from bottom to top that begins modestly, but then gets serious quite quickly. In a number of places, the slope is so mercilessly and relentlessly steep that it is difficult to maintain your footing. It's truly impressive to think about the guys who ran a dozer up this damn ridgeline to create the break.

That is not to say that it is all up. The firebreak continually roller-coasters up and down all the way to the 3,600' contour where it intersects with Red's eastern ridgeline. As a result, the track drops sharply in a number of spots before resuming its upward trajectory. Consequently, the climbing isn't done once you reach Red's summit. You get approximately 400-500' of climbing on the return as well which is a bit demoralizing. 

Lower Section of the Firebreak

One of several drops along the ascent 

About the mid-way point. Red in the background.

One of the steeps climbs on the way "down."

So with all of that glamour, who could possibly resist the allure of Red Mountain as a destination hike? As it turns out, pretty much everybody. The day I went I didn't see a single soul which was fine by me. And that appears to be the norm with this particular peak. On the flat summit, there is a large cairn that houses a summit register. That register, which dates to January, 2020 only had two other entries. One in January by the climber who originally placed the register, and a second in March of 2020. My entry made it a total of three in a five month period. Not much action for a peak that is within spitting distance of 15 million or so folks.

And in a sense, that is unfortunate because of the somewhat unique views that Red affords of the surrounding area. Looking south from Red's summit you get nice views of Castaic Lake and lower San Francisquito Canyon. To west you can see Warm Springs Mountain and its associated ridge. To the north, Lake Hughes is visible at the head of Lake Elizabeth Canyon.

Based upon the USGS and Forest Service topographic maps, there are two benchmarks on the summit of Red: "VABM 3996" and "Red." They are both supposed to be in close proximity to one another near the high point, but I wasn't successful in locating either of them. Then again, I wasn't that terribly diligent in my search either. I suppose finding those benchmarks will have to await my next visit.

After a half-hour on the summit, I started back down the eastern ridge, lost in thought and dreading the several steep climbs I knew were still ahead. Then, the terrain suddenly began to look unfamiliar and Red looked considerably more distant over my shoulder than it should have been. Trying to make sense of situation, it finally occurred to me that while I was day-dreaming, I had over-shot the firebreak. So I had to back-track up the ridge to the firebreak junction adding some additional, gratuitous climbing to the outing.

I don't normally keep stats, but on this outing I used my snazzy View Ranger app. According to it, the trek to Red is roughly 7.7 miles with approximately 2,680 feet of elevation gain. It took me 4.5 hours to make that journey which probably sounds slow, but I wasn't out to make time. I was out to spend time. Alone.  Far from the madding crowds. And you can accomplish both of those lofty objectives on the trek to Red Mountain. 

Summit Cairn

Summit Register

View West to Warm Springs Mountain

View South to Castaic Lake

View North to Lake Hughes

Elevation Profile

Coming Back to Life - Whitaker Peak

Lost in thought and lost in time

While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted

Outside the rain fell dark and slow

While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime

I took a heavenly ride through our silence

I knew the moment had arrived

For killing the past and coming back to life.

~Coming Back to Life, Pink Floyd

Like most everyone else, I've been hibernating during these dark and uncertain times of fear and death and viruses and hoarding, making more effort than usual to avoid my fellow countrymen and countrywomen. My natural anti-social tendencies and crowd-avoidance inclinations have made this less difficult for me than perhaps others, but even I've been getting the itch to get out and experience something other than my garage. The treadmill is useful and all, and I'm grateful that my wife had the foresight and the tenacity to provide for that outlet, but walking and running on a rotating belt at a maximum 10% grade while staring at a shelf stacked with unused camping gear is a sad and depressing affair. It just doesn't have the same allure as the real deal. As good as innovation and technology are, they can't replicate the sights, sounds, smells, feel, and, most importantly, the exhilaration of the trail. Bashing through thick and unforgiving brush, swatting annoying flies and ticks, dodging dangerous rattlesnakes, cursing un-Godly steep ridges, cursing the oppressive heat, cursing the bitter cold, finding a route where there is no route, worrying about whether you brought enough water, worrying about whether you'll make it back to the car before the sky goes dark, and enjoying a well-deserved summit beer after all of that are experiences that are unique to actually being out of doors. And damn do I miss every aspect of that.

So with some local governments cracking the door slightly ajar this past weekend, I took advantage and made a dash for the hills. Recognizing that literally everyone else in the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area was probably going to do the same, I strategically looked for a location that didn't have high "ooh-ahh"allure to keep away, what an acquaintance of mine disparagingly calls, the "filthy casuals." If it was shadeless, waterless, scrubby, involved some off-trail travel, and was reasonably proximate, those were all additional, positive considerations I took into account. So, after considering all of those factors, and pouring over CalTopo, I settled on Whitaker Peak near the far eastern boundary of the Angeles with the Los Padres. At just around 10 miles round trip and 1,600 feet of gain, this seemed like a decent selection to ease me back into the game.

There are actually two "Whitakers," east and west that are separated by a low ridge. At 4,102', "west Whitaker" is the location of the former Whitaker Peak Fire Lookout and is reputed to experience some of the most ferocious winds in the Angeles National Forest. Today, the summit is the unattractive host to a radio communication tower and related equipment. At the opposite end of the ridge is "East Whitaker," the actual high point at 4,148'. This eastern bump would be my destination.

The standard route to Whitaker involves a bunch of road-walking. From Templin Highway, paved Whitaker Peak Road (6N53) climbs to the ridge to intersect with another road, 6N53B. That road (partially paved, but mostly dirt) tacks southwest and ultimately takes you to the summit of "West Whitaker." An alternate route follows a single-track out of Camp Verdugo Oaks at Oak Flat to the ridge where it joins 6N53B. From there, its a long road-slog out to "West Whitaker."

Fortunately, there is an alternative to the alternative that trims some of the road off the route and allows for more enjoyable travel by trail. Looking at aerial imagery of the area, I noticed a distinct track climbing to the ridge off Templin Highway just south of the entrance to the Whitaker Peak Road. That track cut through the chaparral to ascend a minor ridge before intersecting with  and joining 6N53. Shortly after that, the trail again diverges from the road, shaves the first big hairpin turn, the parallels 6N53 to the southwest along a ridgeline. It rejoins the road at the ridgeline where 6N53 and 6N53B become one.

The trail is not immediately evident as it leaves Templin Highway, but after sniffing around some I found it. It appears to be primarily a motorcycle or perhaps an MTB route that sees enough use to be established. The lower section is quite steep in places, but that steepness subsides after you intersect with 6N53. Above that, the trail climbs enjoyably to the ridgeline where views of Canton Canyon to the south and Whitaker to the west begin to open up. As I climbed this upper section, an endangered California Condor glided by, riding thermals in the cloudless sky.

Lower Trail

I-5 from Lower Trail

Upper Trail

View South from Upper Trail

Here, the dull road walk began. The road, which is asphalt here, gently drops maybe 150' to a saddle, turns to dirt, and then starts a gradual climb toward "West Whitaker" to the south. Along the way, grand vistas to the west open up showing off Cobblestone Mountain, the Condor Sanctuary, and the seldom-visited areas of the Southern Los Padres. Turning back north, you can see Slide Mountain and the Fire Lookout tower perched atop it.

As the road nears its terminus, it skirts a low saddle along the ridgeline that separating the two Whitakers. Here, I scrambled up the embankment, attained the narrow ridge, and then bobbed and weaved my way cross-country to the summit of Whitaker proper. There is brush here and it is generally negotiable, but I did need to drop beneath the ridgeline in several places to find the path of least resistance. 

Atop the summit, I located a summit register and signed in. Whitaker doesn't see much action, and the signatures dated back to January, 2011 when the current register was first placed there. There is reputedly a benchmark at the summit as well, but I did not see it. I later learned that it is immediately adjacent to the rock pile housing the register, but that it is counter-sunk. Had I known that at the time, I probably would have put in some effort to clear the dirt away and locate it. Oh well.

The summit of Whitaker itself isn't terribly interesting or inviting. It is broad, flat, shadeless, rockless, and brushy. I borrowed a rock from the summit cairn as a seat, stripped off my sweaty shirt, and sat in the sun brushing pesky flies away as I rehydrated and enjoyed a snack. Then I retraced my steps back to my car that was parked on the wide shoulder along Templin Highway. On my way out, I passed the only person I saw all day going in my opposite direction on 6N53B.

I didn't keep stats for the day. I rarely do that as that is not my primary objective when I go out. But AllTrails says it's 9.4 miles round-trip to "West Whitaker" with 1,617 feet of elevation gain. Based upon my day out, that feels like it's in the general ballpark.

Cobblestone and the Condor Sanctuary

Whitaker from the Ridgeline

Summit Register

"West Whitaker"

Cobblestone (L) and Slide (R)

Whitaker's Summit

Another Los Padres Riddle: Who Was J.B. King?

Inscription Along the Ortega Trail

It's easy to forget (or not even think about in the first place) that many of the hiking and recreational trails we use today follow routes established for very different reasons by those who came long before us. Game trails, ancient Native paths, and historic trails through the backcountry all serve as a substrate for a good number of contemporary trails used regularly by we hikers, backpackers, and mountain bikers. Examples abound. The Mt. Wilson Trail in the Angeles National Forest was established in 1864 to haul timber to Sierra Madre from the summit of Don Benito's mountain. It was also used to transport telescope parts to Mr. Harvard to be used in the first telescope (which was later relocated to Mt. Wilson). Now, hikers and trail-runners trod the old way primarily to get in a good, long day-hike to the summit of Mt. Wilson. The Cold Spring Trail in Santa Barbara was originally the main route leading into the Cuyama Valley from Montecito. Today, it is a pleasant, if not moderately strenuous hiking route to the Camino Cielo, Forbush Flat, and/or Cottam Camp.

And then there's the Ortega Trail (23W08) just north of the town of Ojai. Some sources claim that the trail was named after Jose F. Ortega who in 1895 established an 80 acre homestead at the mouth of canyon. Others suggest that the trail was established by famed vaquero and bear hunter extraordinaire Jose Ramon Ortega, descendent of El Capitan, Jose Francisco Ortega. Either way, it is rumored that the route was originally used to gain access to the upper Sespe from the Ojai Valley. Today the trail is an ORV route that connects the Maricopa Highway near the Holiday Group Camp site to the Cherry Creek area.

A mile or so up the rough trail there is a large sandstone boulder sitting trailside. Etched into the boulder is the inscription "JB King 1908 Jan 30." Immediately above the inscription is a calvary cross. There are no other carvings, inscriptions, or monuments in the immediate vicinity. So the questions that go begging about this inscription are (i) who was J.B. King, and (ii) why did he invest the time and energy into carving his name into this particular stone other than for the sake of notoriety?

I'm certainly not the first person to pose those questions. But to date, no one seemingly has come up with any satisfactory answers or explanations. Short of doing some serious historical research (which is quite difficult in these extraordinary times), the most comprehensive and readily available examination of this mystery can be found in a 1995 Los Angeles Times piece written by columnist Leonard Reed. Although Reed was not able to determine with certainty who the late-20th century Ortega Trail tagger was, he did narrow the field of potential candidates.

According to Reed's sleuthing, the rock carving is most likely attributable to John B. King of Nordhoff (now Ojai) who was a reverend at The Holiness Church and is now buried in Plot 192 of the Nordhoff Cemetery. Reverend King, his wife Katherine Linder King, and his son Robert Linder King are all long dead so any possibility of securing validation from them is non-existent. The Holiness Church is also gone. Established in 1885, the church occupied a wooden building at E. Topa Topa and Ventura Streets until approximately the 1920s. That building was either enlarged or reconstructed and is now occupied by the Ojai Valley Wesleyan Church.

So that is as much of an answer to the riddle as we are going to get unless and until something further can be unearthed. In the meantime, the Ortega Trail still affords the opportunity to walk back in history and see the backcountry much as it appeared during halcyon days of Ventura County's Californio past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 1889 San Francisco Examiner Article

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The "Bears I Have Met" Version

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

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

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

Are You Lying Now or Were You Lying Then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Vagina Rock Monologue

I know an old man. Actually, its probably too much to say that I know him. Or that he knows me. We've passed each other on the trail a number of times and have stopped occasionally to chat with one another. That ultimately happens when you repeatedly see the same folks in the same location doing the same thing you are doing. So this guy, he's is a familiar face to me even though I may not be to him.

My trail acquaintance is what you might call "learned." He is formally trained and educated and holds multiple advanced degrees to prove it. He also knows the land. That comfortable familiarity comes from years of walking, eating, breathing, working, and observing the trails. So he is both book smart and street (or, more appropriately "trail") smart.

Many months ago, this scholarly old gentleman told me a secret. The trail we were trodding crossed native land. The ancestral home of the Chumash people. For thousands of years before the European invasion, conquest, and forced assimilation, the Chumash called this place home. They roamed it freely, unencumbered by the disapproving eyes of their more advanced, religiously superior, and lighter-skinned brethren. That, of course, was not the secret. That was just common knowledge. What wasn't and isn't common knowledge was what he told me next: that there was a ceremonial fertility stone close by that was hiding in plain sight. And in the immediate vicinity of that stone was other evidence that the location was regularly used by the Chumash people. He didn't elaborate on what that other evidence was and I didn't prod him further. If he had wanted me to know, he would have told me.

Secrets like these are closely guarded by the people that know them. And for good reason. Many a site has been despoiled by those who believe it clever or cute to scratch their name into or tag a pictograph panel. Or to steal artifacts. So my friend did not disclose to me the location of this particular stone. And I, in turn, will similarly refrain from disclosing its location.

But after that encounter, I was intrigued. So I starting looking. I scanned the topography trying to see the land as the Chumash would have seen it. I looked along ridgelines, into the canyon bottoms, and at the various rocky prominences that dot the area. There were a million rocks out there, any one of which could in theory be a candidate. But eventually, I spotted a large sandstone protuberance. It didn't immediately beckon to me, but if I looked at it from a certain angle, it kinda, sorta resembled a vagina.

So I decided to investigate. There is no path to the vagina rock. It required some cross-country travel that involved a bit of bashing through our infamous chaparral to get there. The closer I got, the larger the rock got. And the less it resembled lady parts. I started thinking that perhaps I was on a fool's errand. But I was already invested this much in the task so it made no sense to turn back. Thus, I pushed forward.

When I finally arrived at my destination, I was struck by the enormity of the sandstone monolith. Distance alters one's perspective, but I was still surprised at how badly I had misjudged the size of this thing. And it was far too large, and its sides too sheer for climbing upon. So I doubt that is how the Chumash used this particular fertility aid. 

On the backside of the stone, I discovered what the old man on the trail must have been alluding to: a smattering of bedrock mortars. A short distance away, at the base of another sandstone monocline, surrounded by sycamore trees, I found another cupule embedded in the rocky ground. Nearby was a smooth, rounded stone that resembled a pestle. It did not appear that this particular rock was "the" pestle that went with this particular mortar (or that it was a pestle at all), but it was representative of the stony implements that litter the area and were available to, and leveraged by the Chumash people. I found no midden, but perhaps I'm too anthropologically challenged to have even noticed.

Satisfied, I sat for awhile in the cool of the shade with my back against the sandstone wall trying to imagine native peoples grinding dried seeds and acorns for wiiwish. It's a romantic ideal, particularly when viewed through the prism of 21st century advantage and comfort, but I wondered about the difficult reality of the task. I also wondered about the vagina rock and how, when, why, and by whom it was used. Perhaps as a descendant of colonizers and occupiers, it is not my place to know. And perhaps it wasn't even my right to have visited this place at all.

That same thought came to the forefront of my mind some days later when I inexplicably developed a severe case of dermatitis on my legs. It is possible that I passed through some poison oak on my way to the fertility stone, but I've been around enough poison oak to recognize it. And I didn't see any on my way to the stone. And I've had poison oak more times than I care to remember, and this didn't particularly look to be poison oak. So I allowed for the possibility that my flare-up was spiritual and/or cultural retribution for visiting a spot at which I was not wanted, had not been invited to, and had no business being at. Of course, that thinking could have just as easily been my hyper-active imagination being fueled by occupier guilt, but I'm not taking any chances. I will for now let this place be.

In the Footsteps of Grizzlies and Banditos

From a town known as Wheeling, West Virginia
Rode a boy with a six-gun in his hand
And his daring life of crime
Made him a legend in his time
East and west of the Rio Grande
~Billy Joel, The Ballad of Billy the Kid

As far as I know, legendary outlaw and bank-robber extraordinaire Billy the Kid was never in the San Gabriel Mountains. He was too busy shooting up saloons and rustling cattle and killing lawmen in Nuevo Mexico to bother coming further west. And even if he did have aspirations to visit the Golden State, those were cut short on July 14, 1881 when Lincoln County Sheriff Pat Garrett ambushed Billy in a house in Fort Sumner, New Mexico and put a bullet in his brain. Thus came the swift end for Henry McCarty aka William H. Bonney aka Billy the Kid.

But the San Gabriels didn't need Billy the Kid. It had a robust assemblage of banditos and gun-slingers and desperados all its own. One of the more notorious was the gentleman and chivalrous outlaw Tiburcio Vasquez who claimed that his crime spree was to avenge the numerous injustices committed by invading Anglos against native Californios. Vasquez and his gang were all over the San Gabriel range and several places memorialize or bear witness to that fact (e.g., Bandido and Horse Flat Campgrounds, Vasquez Creek, Vasquez Rocks).

One of Vasquez's more infamous exploits was the raid on the Repetto ranch which was located in southeast Los Angeles in what is now Monterey Park. Alexander Repetto was an Italian sheepherder who Vasquez was informed was flush with cash after having recently sold one of his flocks. So Vasquez and his boys hatched a plan to relieve Mr. Repetto of his burden. Claiming to be sheep-shearers, they came to the Repetto ranch looking for work. But Repetto was a sharp cookie with a keen eye who saw through the ruse and called Vasquez out. Admitting that he was in fact not a sheep-shearer, but a gangster, Vasquez tied Repetto to at tree, demanded $10,000 of him, and threatened to hang him if he did not comply. But Repetto didn't have the money. He had spent most of it. And what remained was on deposit at the Temple and Workman Bank in downtown Los Angeles. So an alternate plan was conceived. Vasquez would force Repetto to write a check that his nephew would carry to the bank, negotiate, and then return with the proceeds. In a piece titled "The Hunt for Tiburcio Vasquez: A Chase Through a Californio's L.A., " Robert Peterson describes what happened next:

"When Repetto's nephew arrived at the bank, he was so nervous that the banker, Francis Temple, became suspicious and contacted the Sheriff. Upon further questioning the nephew broke down and tearfully revealed the whole story. The Sheriff immediately started assembling a posse to capture Vasquez. At this point, the nephew became worried that the Sheriff's involvement might result in his uncle's death. He managed to convince the banker to give him 500 dollars in gold and returned to Repetto's house, before the posse, to give the money to Vasquez. When the Sheriff's posse approached Repetto's house, Vasquez and his men mounted up and started racing north towards present day Pasadena."

Vasquez's escape route took him up the Arroyo Seco, into Dark Canyon, up to the old Soledad Road grade at the crest (present day Grizzly Flat Road), and then down into Big Tujunga Canyon via Grizzly Flat and Vasquez Creek (roughly, the present-day Grizzly Flat Trail). The ride down to Big Tujunga was rough, steep, and overgrown with Buckthorn, and Vasquez lost a horse and his revolver on the way down. Years later, a 16-year old kid named Phil Begue from the City of Tujunga, found Vasquez's saddle and his revolver still bearing the initial "T V" cut into the barrel.

For a nice write-up of the raid by Vasquez on the Repetto ranch by legendary Southern California historian John Robinson, go here: http://www.lawesterners.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/149-DECEMBER-1982.pdf

Given its historical significance, I've wanted to see Grizzly Flat and the trail leading to it up Dark Canyon from Big Tujunga for awhile, but all the reports I had seen were that is was impassable and/or choked with poison oak. Me and poison oak ain't friendly. So I never went. Then one day, I read a report that the Grizzly Flat trail had been worked and was clear all the way to the divide. That was all the motivation I needed.

I started from Stoneyvale at Vogel Flats. The parking lot was empty save for one van near the trailhead. Two ladies in hiking gear had just come down trail and were loading their gear into the van. A good omen. As I passed them, they asked me where the trail went. They had followed it a short distance until it petered out in a tangle of growth at the stream and then turned back not seeing a way forward. A bad omen. I pushed on having to see for myself.

A short distance later I saw for myself. The path seemingly ended abruptly in a boggy, overgrown mess along Big Tujunga creek. This wasn't right. The reports I had read indicated the trail was passable. So I rock and log-hopped across the creek to left-hand side, bashed through a stand of Arundo donax, and the trail magically reappeared. From this point until the path tacks south at Silver Canyon and begins the climb to Grizzly Flat it was easy and open walking.

Then things began to get more interesting. As the trail starts to climb what I suppose is technically Dark Canyon, it gets steep, rocky, and narrow. Not impossibly steep, but steep enough to make you work. As the climb began, I looked for the Windsor benchmark (2094) without luck. It must be buried in the very thick brush that blankets the hillsides here.

Further up, stiff brush began to encroach on the trail poking and grabbing me as I passed. Then there were a number of fallen trees that had to be negotiated. Again, nothing too difficult, but enough to add some spice to the outing. But the higher I climbed, the more ducking and bending and crawling on, over, and around vegetation I had to do. Fortunately, none of it was of the poisonous oak variety. Just below and west of Grizzly Flat, in the dark and cool drainage that must be Dark Canyon (none of the maps that I've looked at are labeled), I heard rustling in the underbrush ahead. Since I was just shy of Grizzly Flat and in the deep recesses of the San Gabriels, I immediately assumed Ursus americanus californiensis. So I started hooting, hollering, and clapping my hands in a pathetic attempt to scare off the unseen beast. Then two guys came around the bend on the descent making me the fool. They didn't say anything but they knew. And I knew they knew. I asked them if they had gone all the way to the ridge, but they demurred. They said they got tired of bush-whacking so were beating a retreat back to the trailhead. Another bad omen.

Then I popped out into the clear and the sunshine at Grizzly Flat, named after the Grizzly Bears that once called the Angeles National Forest home and reputedly favored the Big Tujunga region. I've heard that before the Station Fire, Grizzly Flat was nice. Now, it is not much more than wide-spot on the trail. I stopped for a spell, investigated the water tank, hydrated, then pushed on.

Here, the trail morphs into Grizzly Flat Road so I was optimistic that the traveling would become easier. But while the way did in fact open up, and the path did become wider, forward progress definitely did not become more effortless or simple. It seems Spanish Broom, a beautiful, non-native invasive, has a particular affinity for the area and it has aggressively colonized the place. It crowded the road to the point of being almost impassable at times, and I spent the next half-hour or so ducking under, around, and through massive clumps of the offending stuff.

Finally, I reached the divide separating Big Tujunga Canyon from the Arroyo Seco. This was the exact spot where 100+ years earlier, Tiburcio Vasquez finally shook Sheriff Rowland from his tail after the Repetto Ranch raid. The spot offers expansive views down Dark Canyon and into the Big Tujunga Creek drainage. Here, I found a spot to admire the fine scenery, shed my sweat-soaked top, dry out, and contemplate the historical significance the piece of ground on which I was sitting. After I had my fill, I hoisted myself up and then retreated back into the wilds of Dark Canyon that was once the haunt of both bandits and grizzlies.

Old Man Yells at COVID-19 Trail Refugees

Trail Panties - WTF?

Like the rest of y'all, I'm under house arrest these days per orders from Gov. Gavin Newsome. Under his orders, we're all required to lay low at home and not go out except to engage in "essential activities." The list of activities that are considered "essential" is pretty obvious and includes buying groceries, going to the pharmacy, and seeking emergency medical assistance. I'm also pretty sure it includes hiking.

So last Saturday afternoon I broke from quarantine for some outdoor physical activity and to rejuvenate my withering soul. In an effort to minimize my travel, I opted for my local trailhead where I've hiked hundreds of time before instead of a more far-flung and "interesting" destination. Normally, this trailhead is pretty uncrowded even though it is easily accessible and immediately adjacent to the sprawl of the suburbs. 5-10 cars in the parking lot is typical, slightly more during the day on the weekends.

But on this particular day, when I arrived at the trailhead late afternoon, I was shocked at what I saw. The parking lot was stuffed with cars beyond capacity and there were folks crawling all over the hills and social distancing together. There was literally no place to park. Dejected, I turned tail and headed for a less popular trailhead 15 minutes away in a neighboring community. I'd never seen more than a car or two at this particular trailhead so I figured it was a decent bet for a chance of solitude far from the madding hordes. But even here, I found 11 cars parked and numerous casual hikers heading into the hills. Coroanavirus refugees all, no doubt.

As much as it frustrates me because I'm basically a selfish bastard who feel that "my" space is now being invaded, I get it. Working from home, kids out of school, restaurants, bars, malls, and movie theaters all closed. After a while, staring at the walls will cause even the homiest of home bodies to contemplate slitting their wrists. And getting outdoors and into the hills is a perfect antidote for those otherwise dark and self-destructive thoughts and urges. We that have been doing this for a very, very long time already know this. But, the people suddenly bum-rushing the trails now are not hikers. They are mall-walkers at heart. I don't necessarily say that disparagingly, but by and large, these folks are only out on the trail because they have no other options. Once this crises passes and the malls re-open, they'll happily abandon the wild places to us weirdos and introverts and things will go back to normal.

One of the glaring issues associated with newbies hitting the trails is that a good number of them aren't really outdoor enthusiasts. As a result, they aren't aware of and have little appreciation for trail etiquette. Neither are they instilled with an outdoor ethic that guides their behavior while out on the trail. So, as a public service announcement to those folks (and candidly, for others who go out frequently and ought to know better, but apparently don't), I offer up these useful trail tips for your next outing outside.

1. Pack it in, pack it out. This one is pretty simple. At least in concept. You carry something out into the hills, you bring it back out. In practice, however, this simple to understand principle is often not observed. So it bears repeating here: don't be a lazy asshole and leave your plastic water bottle or candy wrapper or beer can trailside or tucked strategically under some rock for someone else to deal with. Your mom isn't coming by later to clean up after you so be an adult, pick up your shit, and carry it out.

2. Pick up after your animal. This is a corollary to commandment no. 1 above. If you take your dog out on the trail, be prepared to pick up its shit. The trails are not your own personal dog park and the rest of us aren't amused by having to side-step little poo packets left on the path by your little (or big) bundle of fur. And do not, I repeat, DO NOT, pick up your dog's shit, put it in a little plastic baggie, and then leave that baggie on the trail as if you're going to come by later and carry it out. We all understand that game and know that that is just for show. So stop the pretense. And another thing. Stop bringing your dog on trails that are clearly marked "no dogs." I'm a rabid dog-lover. But Jesus Christ people. There are places where your dog shouldn't be: grocery stores, office buildings, restaurants, the dentist's office, and trails marked "no dogs."

3.  Don't leave your snot, sweat, and pee rags on the trail. What the actual fuck is with people leaving buger-encrusted, urine soaked, and shit-stained tissues trailside? How disgusting can you be to take a piss, wipe your crotch, and then drop the pee rag on the trail for all the world to see? If you must pee on the trail, air your crotch out naturally. Or if you insist on wiping yourself, bring a little plastic baggie and use it to pack your pee rag out. The same holds true for sweat rags. If you must wipe perspiration from your brow with a tissue, fine, but don't leave that sweaty, disgusting artifact on or near the trail. Better yet, bring a bandana along and use that instead. It's multi-functional and washable. And for the love of God and decency, don't take a big dump near the trail, wipe your ass, and then leave the mess for the rest of us to deal with. It's fucking disgusting and so are you if you do that.

4. Yield to uphill hikers. This is trail etiquette 101. Uphill hikers are working harder than you if you're coming down. They have the right of way. Give it to them unless they defer to you.

5. Hike single file. I get that you're out with your besties and want to chatter and catch up on all the latest gossip while you hike, but please do so single-file if the trail is narrow. If you're walking shoulder-to-shoulder in a group, you're not leaving space for others, particularly those going uphill (see commandment no. 4 above). This isn't the mall. Don't act like it is.

6. Keep your music to yourself. In my humble view, if you insist on listening to music while you hike, you're missing the point. But that's really none of my business. What is my business is being forced to listen to your shitty music while I'm in the hills. So if you can't walk out of the house without Cardi B or 2 Chainz as your incessant backdrop, bring your ear buds along. And use them. That is why God invented them after all. The rest of us don't think you're bitchin' because you have music on blast while you're hiking. We just think you're a self-indulgent douche (think the Harley-Davidson South Park episode).

Brubb Brub Brrrubbb Brub!

7. Nature doesn't need a paint job. Look, there's a time and place for graffiti. That time and place is in the urban core on the side of buildings, billboards, light posts, and whatnot. Not on the trail. So don't feel compelled to leave your brightly-colored mark on rocks and tree trunks and trail signs like a dog marking its territory. Nature doesn't give a shit about your little tagging crew. And neither do the rest of us.

8. Switchbacks are not made to be cut. On trails that switch back and forth up a steep hillside, you may be tempted to cut the switchbacks in favor of the more direct route. Don't do that. Cutting switchbacks creates erosion which fucks up the trail, kills vegetation, and can cause rocks and debris to dislodge onto hikers below. And at the end of the day, it really doesn't save you any time. If you're really that concerned about getting back to your house or car a few seconds earlier than you might otherwise, then just consider staying home in the first place.

9. Don't trample wildflowers to be an IG influencer. You want that perfect shot to post to Instagram. You're an "ooh, ahhh" junkie. I get it. I have an IG account too and regularly post content. But you know what? The outdoors is a big goddamn place. There's plenty of available vantage points from which to take pics which don't require you to run roughshod over the native vegetation. So use those vantage points and leave some flowers for everyone else to enjoy. The world wasn't made for just you.

10.  Follow the Golden Rule. No, not that Golden Rule silly  This Golden Rule: Don't be a dick. That is somewhat encapsulated in commandments 1-9 above, but it is worth stating explicitly. Acknowledge your fellow trailmates. Say hello. Help folks out if it looks like they need it. Be respectful of others. This ain't brain surgery folks. Go out and enjoy the outdoors, but make sure your enjoyment doesn't encroach upon or negatively affect others.

Well, that's all I've got for you. I'll yell at a cloud or kids on my lawn in another post. In the meantime, stay safe. Don't touch your face with your virus-infected hands. Keep your social distance. And for the love of Christ, don't hoard toilet paper. We ain't running out of that stuff any time soon.