Eustace Bagge Joins the Trail Crew

Sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul.

~Edward Abbey, A Voice Crying in the Wilderness

Get away from me!

~Eustace Bagge, Courage the Cowardly Dog

I've never been much of a "joiner." What I mean is that I've never been terribly fond of becoming part of some collective "we" that assembles sporadically or regularly to accomplish some task or to engage in a communal activity. I've done that type of thing before in my life, but it's always felt unnatural, inauthentic, and slightly forced. And if I'm honest with myself, it has almost always been the consequence of some self-imposed social pressure and the silly desire to fit in, to be accepted, to be one of the "cool kids." Even if that meant suppressing my natural inclinations and/or tempering my instinctive nerdiness and unconventional world-view.

So as a young lad, I participated in scouting, first as a Cub Scout, then a Webelo, and finally a full-fledged Boy Scout. I liked the actual scouting piece of it, but not so much the group dynamic. I also found the cozy admixture of knot-tying and religious indoctrination troubling if not downright repugnant. What in God's name did staking a tent or starting a fire have to do with Jesus anyway? Nothing as far as I could tell other than keeping me in-line and on the straight-and-narrow. But I didn't really care to be on the straight-and-narrow. And neither the scouts nor "the brethren" appreciated doubters, independent-thinkers, or trouble-makers. After all, there were rules to be followed, flags to be saluted, invisible Gods to be worshipped, and serious oaths to be taken. And that wasn't me. So before I ever achieved my Eagle, I drifted away a scouting loser much to the dismay of my poor mother who must have regularly asked herself "why can't he just be like all the other good Mormon boys?"

When I got older and entered college, I followed my childhood best friend into a frat house. Our friendship was waning some at that stage, but I still looked up to him. And I was a follower. So where he went, I went. And that was into Greek life. It was a fraternity for mostly white, good-looking, athletic and popular kids from the wealthy side of town. Lots of BMWs, loafers, Polo shirts and everything that went along with that. I was somewhat surprised they even let me in the door. I'm even more surprised that I knocked in the first place. With my long hair, VW Rabbit, aversion to golf, flannel shirts, and crunchy enviro-ethics, I was an anomaly. And as soon as I was permitted entrance into the the exclusive club, I regretted what I had done. I'm sure my fraternal brothers harbored some regrets of their own. So I slunk away from the whole ridiculous scene to spend time with the hippies, dorks, and dope-smokers in the Biology department who shared my nascent enthusiasm for evolution, ecology, and systemmatics. That afforded me the opportunity to spend part of a summer in independent study sitting in a lab picking microscopic nematodes off of root knots for a tenured professor who was researching how marigolds rebuff the parasitic little roundworms. 

You could be forgiven at this stage for thinking that perhaps I'm a loner. But it's not necessarily that I'm anti-social, or that I don't like people. It's just that I'm anti-social and don't like people. Or at least I don't like lots of people doing the same fucking thing that I'm doing at the same place and time that I'm doing it. I don't need that type of camaraderie or want the social stroking. And I don't fancy the associated chaos, complexities, and cacophony that comes with group projects and outings.  

My predilection for crowd-avoidance has carried over to my outdoor activities. I don't enjoy large group hikes so rarely participate in them. They typically involve too much disappointment and compromise. Somebody's late. Someone else bails at the last minute. There's the constant stopping and waiting for the group to reassemble at every conceivable trail junction lest someone gets lost because they didn't think to look at a damn map before going out. Then the group has to wait for me because I'm older and dragging the pace down. Fuck that. I don't want to be the subject of furtive glances and frustrated whispers.

Beyond all of this, at base level I'm just a selfish bastard with my limited outdoor time. I don't want to go where you want to go. I want, to go where I want to go. And when I want to go. And how long I'll stay there. Admittedly, that's not a particularly endearing quality, but at least it's honest. But honesty only gets you so much these days, so more often than not, my hiking companions are limited to me, myself, and I. No one else can stand to be around me. I am the Eustace Bagge of the hiking world.

Because of that, I'm not exactly a prime candidate for organized trail work parties. I've done trail work and trash pick-up before, but only as a solo, guerrilla undertaking. I've cleared both Russian Thistle and Black Mustard by myself from my local trail. I've hauled many a heavy load of broken glass from the slabs in the hills near my house where teenagers escape to get inebriated and then joyously fling their empties down the sandstone rock-face to explode into a millions glittering shards. And I've picked up and carried out of the hills more candy wrappers, cups, soda cans, water bottles, buger-encrusted tissues, sweat rags, pee rags, shit rags, dog shit in baggies, and dirty undies than I can remember. But it's always been a solitary effort.  

Until recently that is. Contrary to my natural predisposition to go it alone, I've recently tried my hand at some actual, organized and officially-authorized trail work. You know, the kind of work where some government functionary pre-clears everything you intend to do, dictates the number of people that can participate, approves the types of tools that can be used, and drafts the language of the release that you must sign to prevent you from suing when you stab a Pulaski into your shin or an unseen rattlesnake sinks its fangs deep into your calf. All while sitting in an idling truck in the parking area burning fossil fuel and just waiting to hand some poor slob a ticket.  

My first go at this was in Santa Paula Canyon shortly after it was closed to the public due to over-crowding. Santa Paula Canyon has been an abused and graffiti'd trash-heap for years, but with crowds swarming the place because of the pandemic, it had become a veritable sewer. Spray-paint marked every rock, stump, and branch. Garbage was strewn hither and yon. Used diapers, feminine products, and reproductive prophylactics were not an uncommon sight. New use trails all through the canyon bottom spontaneously appeared. In short, the place quickly went to hell, but the Forest Service, perpetually short on money and man-power, was ill-equipped and/or unwilling to assume the mantle of responsibility and do anything about it. 

Enter Santa Paula local Ellie Mora aka mtnbabe aka Los Padres badass who took control. She solicited and obtained the Forest Service's blessing, organized a clean-up, secured the necessary tools, and then recruited help. Fortuitously and fortunately, I ended up being part of that help. I was joined by a bunch of other like-minded, yet much younger forest regulars as well as local Boy Scout Troop 111. Over the course of several outings, the group scrubbed or covered-over graffiti, removed multiple dumpster loads of some of the most disgusting garbage imaginable, reconfigured and improved trails, trimmed evil poison oak, and broke down and removed rock dams from the creek-bed. Very dirty, difficult, yet immensely satisfying work. Especially when your regular routine is to sit behind a desk for nine hours a day staring at a screen and getting a pasty fluorescent light tan. Getting grimey is good for the soul.

Then this past weekend, Ellie organized another work party in conjunction with the Los Padres Forest Association. This time, we would be working the nature trail at Wheeler Gorge just north of Ojai along Highway 33. As I drove up Grimes Canyon at 7 a.m. and then began the swirly drop into the Santa Clara River valley I could already feel the heat coming on. The weather gods had guessed it was going to be 102 and it felt like they were going to be right. Clad in long pants, long sleeves, and work boots to keep the itchy and poisonous plants at bay, the dread began welling up in me.

Forty-five minutes later I was at Wheeler Gorge with the rest of the work crew. After demonstrating the the proper use of the mcleod, Ellie informed everyone that we would be segregating into two different groups: one group would work the upper trail in the scorching sun, and the other group would work creekside in the shade ripping out poison oak. Make your choice, heat or poison oak. I pondered this "damned if you do, damned if you don't" proposition and decided I'd take the heat. I had just recovered from a nasty bout with poison oak and I wanted no part of that again. Then Ellie said she also needed a couple of volunteers to walk the creek and bust rock dams. No one raised their hand so I jumped at it. A third option that didn't involve heat or poison oak? Mama didn't raise no fool. 

For the next three and half hours, my work companion (code name Bear Woman) and I splished and splashed through the N. Fork of Matilija Creek finding artificial rocks dams and then dismantling them. This involved lifting and moving an endless number of heavy rocks, tree trunks, and other material from the creek and redistributing it elsewhere so that the creek could again flow freely. It's surprising how much effort some folks will go to in order to build these annoying things in the first place. It involves some degree of engineering, a lot of time, and a lot of muscle power. Just for a trailside pool.

Anyway, when we finished our task, we committed to head up trail to let Ellie know we were done. At that moment, she suddenly appeared on the rise above us to tell us her crew was finished as well. So we all picked our way through the forest back to where we began and called it a day before the real sweltering heat set in.  

So does this mean that I'm now cured of my group-phobia? Am I jonesing to go on a hike with 20 others? Not really. I'm still pretty much a cranky old lone wolf. I'll continue to do my own, unauthorized thing. But when it comes to trail work, I definitely have no aversion to linking up with what I consider to be the next generation of local Los Padres hot-shots and stewards. When it comes to them, I've become a "joiner."

They Can't All Be Winners

Entrance to Cascade Canyon

Thurman: Have you seen my advent calendar?

Willie: What the fuck is it with the advent calendar?

Willie: What are you so obsessed with that goddamn thing? The story sucks anyway.

[Feels badly for yelling at Thurman]

Willie: I think I saw it out there in the hallway.

Thurman: Really?

Willie: I think so.

[Thurman retrieves calendar]

Thurman: Looks like someone messed with my advent calendar.

Willie: What are you talking about? Let me see.

Willie: Nobody messed with it. It looks fine.

[Thurman opens calendar]

Thurman: There's a candy corn in this one.

Willie: Well they can't all be winners, can they?

~Bad Santa (2003)

There's a discernible "wart," "bump," "protuberance," or whatever you want to call it along the dramatic ridgeline leading south from the summit of Ontario Peak. It's not a recognized "peak" in its own right, but it is prominent enough in relation to the rest of the ridge to be instantly recognizable from both near and far. Peakbagger refers to it as a "provisional" peak. Everyone I know just calls it the "Turtle's Beak,"  so named because (i) it does somewhat resemble a terrapins's schnozz, and (ii) the alter-ego of the first guy reputed to climb it was named "Turtle."  

When Turtle first climbed the beak, he approached it from the north. After scaling Ontario Peak, he then dropped along the ridgeline south, roller-coastering over a series of humps before finally achieving  the objective. It was an arduous overnight affair, and along the way he encountered a sea of buckthorn and other nasty flora.

Since that first ascent, a handful of other hardy souls I know have visited the Beak. But instead of following in Turtle's gigantic footsteps, these folks discovered an alternate route that avoids the impenetrable buckthorn of Ontario's south ridge. The approach also shaves miles off the "standard" route. This "shortcut" involves going right up the steep gut of Cascade Canyon to attain the ridge immediately north of the Turtle's Beak. It's a 3,000' scramble up a wild and trail-less canyon that involves some route-finding and class 3 exposure. 

  

Cascade Canyon is a notable destination for rock-hounds. Not only can corundum crystals be found here, but it is reputably one of the few places in the United States where one can find rare lapis lazuli. Getting to the veins of the uncommon mineral is quite a challenge, however because the deposits are located in the steep, remote, and rough upper stretches of the canyon. Mining for the semi-precious stone has occurred here in the past with limited degrees of success, but those days are now gone (although the north fork of the canyon supposedly still harbors the visible remnants of one of these operations). Amateur collecting is now all that occurs here.

The Iron Hiker, an accomplished peakbagging friend a mine, determined that it was time to visit the Beak and he invited me along. He'd done his due diligence and spoken to others who had ascended Cascade Canyon before, and his plan was to essentially repeat their efforts. Always game for an adventure in the forest, I agreed to the join in on the fun. 

We met at the parking area at Barrett-Stoddard Road at 6:00 a.m. and soon headed off for parts unknown. The morning was clear and cool as we walked easily along the well-maintained fire road, crossing the still-flowing creek at North Fork Barrett Canyon and passing the intriguing Gingerbread House. Beyond the last reclusive home in the canyon and a forest service gate, the road leaves the forest's protective canopy to burst out into the open, permitting unique views of San Antonio Canyon, Sunset Peak, and Lookout Mountain.   

Views Along Barrett-Stoddard Road 

The Beak (center-right) from Barrett-Stoddard Road

Starting Up Cascade Canyon

A short distance later, we were at the obvious entrance to Cascade Canyon which didn't look particularly inviting. We paused briefly to double-check our bearings, put on our battle armor, and headed in. Initially, there were signs here and there that others had been in the canyon. Most likely rock-hounds. We followed their faint trails as best as we could until they eventually petered-out entirely. Then it was just a matter of following the drainage straight up the canyon. 

But this was no easy task. There is no established route so we were basically just feeling our way up the drainage. And the canyon is a continuous obstacle course of dislodged boulders, thick dead-fall, impenetrable brambles, spider webs, and poison oak. Progress slowed to a crawl as we climbed over and ducked under downed trees, hopped from unstable rock to unstable rock, and delicately danced and shimmied as best we could around, over and through the ubiquitous stands of poison oak. 

After what seemed like a couple of hours of moving but not making much progress, we hit a veritable wall of thorny blackberry bushes. To our right, the hillside opened up some affording an opportunity to leave the hostile canyon floor. We took that opportunity, optimistic that it would allow us to bypass the blackberry rampart. But not long after that, our hopes were cruelly dashed when we cliffed-out high above the canyon bottom. We could look down and see exactly where we wanted to be, but getting there was too treacherous. Back at the blackberry wall, we re-assessed our situation and decided it best to abandon the effort. Begrudgingly, we rock-hopped and brush-bashed our way back to Barrett-Stoddard Road.

Since it was still early and we felt the need to at least go home with a participation trophy, we continued south on Barrett-Stoddard Road to climb nearby Stoddard Peak. The road-walking was easy and chatter distracting and we were soon at the saddle that separates San Antonio and Stoddard Canyons. Here, a well-established use trail peels off to the right to ascend the short ridgeline on which Stoddard is the third knob to the south.

After passing some interesting rock formations near the middle bump, we arrived at Stoddard proper where we cooled for a bit, had some snacks, and absorbed the fine vista. There's a triangular witness post on the summit, but we didn't find a register. We did, however, find a red ant colony, some of which were of the flying variety. And the voracious little bastards didn't appreciate our presence and started stinging. Or at least they started stinging me. The Iron Hiker, apparently ill-tasting and immune from red-ant scorn, sat bemused as I stripped off clothing to rid myself of the demonic and cantankerous little pests. 

Eventually, he (and I) had had enough and we started back. The road walk went quickly, but less so than on the way out. Or so it seemed. It's always that way for some reason. Maybe it's the Christmas-Day excitement of going out that makes the miles pass so effortlessly, and the dread of returning to reality that makes them creep by so slowly. Regardless, back at the previously vacant parking area, cars now filled every available nook, cranny, crevice, space, and spot. A canyon resident was there sweeping the dirt off the "No Parking - Fire Zone" markings on the pavement and barking at scofflaws who responded with everything from indifference to disdain. I chatted with her some as she put her broom into the back of her SUV. She confirmed what I already knew: since the pandemic began, and bars, restaurants, movie theaters, bowling alleys, and other amusement establishments all closed, the canyon has been overrun by what a grumpy acquaintance of mine disparagingly calls the "filthy casuals." And it's having a real and negative impact on our open spaces. Trash, graffiti, and other urban and suburban-type fuckery is now a regular part of the outdoor experience courtesy of those who have spent the better part of their existence indoors. 

A vaccine for Covid can't be developed and deployed quickly enough so that these indoor refugees can finally get back where they belong and they really prefer to be: indoors.

The almost "standstill" speed represents the time spent in Cascade Canyon. Very slow going.

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.