Where the Wild Things Are

 

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

Harmon Canyon Rattlesnakes

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

The Untamed Outdoors is Not a Suburban Park

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

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

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

The Wilds are Wild

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

Tempted by El Diablo's Potrero

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

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

~Mae West 

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

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

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

Lake Piru

New Parking Area

Trailhead

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

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

The Meadow

Blue Point (Whitaker Behind)

Original Trail Route

Current Ridge Route

Forever Ridgline

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

Cobblestone and Vicinity

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

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

Entrance to the Sespe Wilderness

First View of Devils Potrero

Saddle View Looking East

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

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

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

Ridge View South into the Piru Creek Drainage

Roller Coaster Ridge Return Route

Piru Creek and Blue Point

Piru Locals

Irrational Desire and the Allure of New Gear

To want is to have a weakness.

~Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

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

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

~Epicurus

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

~Frederick Nietzsche

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sycamore Canyon and The Open Space Imperative

Who needs wilderness? Civilization needs wilderness. The idea of wilderness preservation is one of the fruits of civilization, like Bach's music, Tolstoy's novels, scientific medicine, novocaine, space travel, free love, the double martini, the secret ballot, the home and private property, the public park and public property, freedom of travel, the Bill of Rights, peppermint toothpaste, beaches for nude bathing, the right to own and bear arms, the right to not own and bear arms, and a thousand other good things one could name, some of them trivial, most of them essential, all of them vital to that great, bubbling, disorderly, anarchic, unmanageable diversity of opinion, expression, and ways of living which free men and women love, which is their breath of life, and which the authoritarians of church and state and war and sometimes even art despise and always have despised. And feared.

~Edward Abbey, Freedom and Wilderness, Wilderness and Freedom

To those devoid of imagination, a blank place on a map is a useless waste; to others, the most valuable part.

~Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There

There exists in contemporary American society a school of thought that teaches the pernicious idea that we the people hold title to far too much green and brown land. Too much open space where flora and fauna and freedom and frivolity and fun and fantasy can flourish. Whether in the form of regional parks, state parks, national parks, national forests, national recreation areas, national monuments, state beaches, national shorelines, conservation areas, or designated wilderness, the thinking is that all of this available land, locked up as it is by an overbearing government, is simply being wasted. "Wasted" in this context meaning that the land isn't being fully exploited for financial gain by private industry - loggers, miners, farmers, ranchers, the oil industry, the energy industry, dam builders, home builders, gold course designers, solar power generators, and the like. This idea, which is incessantly peddled by the monied interests, reinforced by their political mouth-pieces, and generally accepted as Gospel truth by an alarming portion of the population, is hard-coded into the American psyche, an artifact of 19th century expansionism and the arrogant notion of "Manifest Destiny." It is particularly prevalent in the West where, fortunately, we still have large tracts of publicly-owned land to argue over.  

But if this never-ending pandemic has shown us anything, it is the utter absurdity of this well-worn and tired idea. Not only do we not have too much public, open space to cavort in, we have far too little of this most-valuable commodity for a stressed population that needs an unconfined place for both therapeutic and not-so-therapeutic activities. Hiking, biking, running, camping, bird-watching, exploring, finding oneself, losing oneself, hunting, fishing, drinking beer, smoking weed, skinny-dipping, fucking. All of this, good and bad, legal and illegal, is part of the palliative of the public-lands prescription. That probably sounds a bit hyperbolic and overly-opinionated. But that's only because it's a bit hyperbolic and overly-opinionated. But it also happens to be absolutely and infallibly true.

How do I know this you might ask? Well, because I've seen it with my own eyeballs. Repeatedly. At my local trailhead. In the Angeles National Forest. In the Los Padres National Forest. In the Santa Monica Mountains. In the Sierra. And most recently, on a foray into Sycamore Canyon and it's reliably more serene offshoot, Serrano Canyon. 

It was a magnificent winter day for an outing outdoors and my soul was begging for the chance to escape the mundane confines of my suburban yard which, because of the pandemic, has been mowed and trimmed and clipped and edged and mulched and weeded and watered and planted and swept to perfection. Being the stereotypical dad that I am, I like my yard to look presentable. But it's gotten to the point that I now wander my yard aimlessly, clippers at the ready, searching for unruly twigs to snip, errant weeds to yank, and any other landscaping imperfections to remedy. I then retreat to the house for about 30 minutes or so, only to return to the yard again with my clippers just in case some botanical menace has happened to spring up and take hold during my brief absence. 

So on this day, I determined to escape the pathetic prison of domesticity, and my self-imposed, quasi-exile from trailheads beyond my community, and venture out into the world. I would penetrate Serrano Canyon in Pt. Mugu State Park, glory in its glory, search for Red-Legged Frogs in the remnant pools along the now dry creek-bed, frighten myself into imagining that every bird hopping around in the leaf litter was a ferocious mountain lion waiting to pounce, lollygag and luxuriate in the soft winter grass of the Serrano Valley, listen attentively to the ancient silence, and pretend that I was a noble Chumash tribesman on a vision-quest. And I fancied that I would engage in this bit of conceit without really having to see, hear, or share space with many (or any) of my fellow countrymen and women.   

But those silly delusions faded into oblivion when I encountered a teeming mass of humanity clogging the coast and filling the folds, crevices, and recesses of the range that immediately fronts the Pacific. It began at at the Chumash Trail trailhead and continued unabated to Sycamore Cove. Thousands of automobiles jammed the roadway as folks desperately searched for a place to stop roadside and disembark. Those that succeeded, sat in their cars, windows down and eyes closed as the sun warmed their faces and the cool, salty breeze washed over them. Others stood at the water's edge, absorbing the blue sky and the bluer ocean whose horizon is punctuated by Anyapax and the three saints. Still others scrambled down to the sand carrying towels and umbrellas and coolers and other beach paraphernalia to find a place next to the roaring and foamy surf. Even the "lesser" beaches, the ones littered with rocks or other ocean-borne detritus, were fully occupied.

Past Thornhill-Broome, cars lined the PCH all the way to Sycamore Cove. At the great sandhill, hordes of kids and adults and seniors crawled up and down the dunes like hungry ants on sugar. At Sycamore Cove, a line of cars was queued-up at the entrance on a fool's errand to get a parking space that did not exist. On the opposite side of the road, a sign at Sycamore Canyon indicated that the lot there was similarly "full." Paradise has never been easily attainable, but on this day, attainment was virtually impossible.

Dejected, I turned around and contemplated just going back home to pout. But on a pass going north, I spied someone pulling out of a legal spot on the other side of the road. Despite high demand, these legal spots along the PCH are in shorter supply these days ever since CalTrans posted "No Parking" sign all up and down the coast. It's a dirty and sinister ploy which foists upon "we the people" the Hobson's Choice between the paid lots or a ticket. Either way, you pay the king's ransom for the privilege of stepping onto your public land. I made a dangerous U-turn and pulled in to the open spot before anyone else could. Fuck the state of California and its sordid and transparent revenue-generating schemes. 

Away from the coast, within the shaded confines of Sycamore Canyon proper, the automobile was replaced by the bicycle. Here, a steady stream of cycling enthusiasts cruised up and down the canyon in groups of two, three, four, and more. Sycamore Canyon has always been an attractive haven for cyclists, but on this day, the bi-pedal traffic was uncharacteristically heavy. A good distance up the valley, I ducked into the wilderness, Serrano Canyon, which is closed to bikes and is too distant for most casual hikers. Here, the traffic by-and-large finally subsided. 

This is no way to run a public-land asylum. Every inch of the public domain everywhere is being lovingly mauled to death by the American public and foreign visitors. There simply isn't enough room for us to all get away from each other. And the problem is not unique to Southern California. Our national parks are literally being overwhelmed with visitation spiking significantly nationwide. It has gotten to the point that we now have lotteries that you must enter and win in order to experience some of our more high-profile and eye-popping places (e.g., Mt. Whitney, the cable route to Half Dome, etc.). These are the types of places that Mark Kenyon has said "physically move you, creating a tightening in the chest, a loss of breath, or a tingling along the spine."

But politicians of a particular persuasion don't want you to believe what your lying eyes are showing you. Instead, they want you to buy off on the notion that we actually have way too much public land, especially wilderness which Senator Mike Lee (R-UT) dismissively refers to as the "royal forest." Invoking the bogeyman of feudalism, Mr. Lee and his adherents attempt to leverage the specter of craft beer-swilling, artisanal coffee-drinking "elites" to encourage the idea that such lands are neither intended for, nor open to the the archetypal everyman. 

I'm not sure that I know what an "elite" looks like, especially on the trail, and I didn't realize that the litmus test for being an "elite" was avoiding Miller Beer and Folgers coffee, but I do know this to be complete and utter bullshit. Putting aside for the moment the fact that only 5% of the land in America is designated as wilderness (2.7% if you exclude Alaska), and 18% of national forest lands are designated wilderness, the folks I have seen and shared the backcountry with have been quite a varied group - young, old, white, black, Hispanic, Asian, conservative, progressive, on horseback, on foot, armed, unarmed, well-equipped, ill-equipped, formally-educated, uneducated, seemingly wealthy, and seemingly less-wealthy. We're all there, bumping into each other and enjoying the outdoors that Mr. Lee fantasizes has been locked-up for use only by the "elites."

Edward Abbey once said "better a cruel truth than a comfortable delusion." So regardless of whatever label you want to pin on the people using the outdoors, here's the cruel truth: there isn't sufficient wild, undeveloped, open space to comfortably support the number of "elites" and "non-elites" who want to enjoy it. And we can't simply create more land out of thin air or whole cloth or whatever idiom you want to use. Another cruel truth. So what we're left with is making certain that we preserve the limited open space that we fortunately still have. Because barring an unimaginable loss of life beyond what we have already experienced due to the pandemic, or a radical reconfiguration of our ideas and attitudes about procreation, we're going to want and need that open, public land for both our physical well-being and our mental health. Because as Henry David Thoreau said, in "wildness is the preservation of the world."

The Persistence of Piedra Blanca

 

Until death, it is all life.

~Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote

No matter where you go, there you are.

~The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension

The plan was...well, there was no specific plan really. We would just make it up as we went along. Let things unfold organically. Go with the flow. Ride the wave. Pierre Joseph Proudhon called it "the fecundity of the unexpected." It's an approach that literally makes my more centered half insane. She bristles at the idea of having no destination, no route, no schedule, no agenda. Me, I don't mind so much. In my daily life, I'm chained to planning and schedules and agendas and calendars and deadlines and meetings and formal processes. So cutting free from that rigidity is liberating. And I've found that things generally work out if you let them. 

So off we went into the forest like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, the aging adventurist with his head full of romantic ideas about the outdoors, and his more pragmatic side-kick. We didn't pack much. This was to be a quick and dirty outing. On the way, we stopped for over-night necessities. Burritos from La Casita in Santa Paula, beer from Transmission Brewing in Ventura. Then up the Maricopa Highway.

I've accepted more crowds in the forests these days. Another inconvenience of the pandemic. But on this day, Route 33 was surprisingly and pleasantly quiet. At Rose Valley Road we veered east and descended to the Piedra Blanca Trailhead. Here too, we found less company than we had expected. A good omen on this All Hallows' Eve. 

On the trail, we crossed Lions and Sespe Creek which both still held water this deep into the dry season. At the junction with the Sespe Creek Trail we had options. Right took us east where we might find a nice spot along the creek. Left took us west and then north toward the impressive white sandstone of Piedra Blanca. Wanting an open site with uncluttered views where we could peer deep into the abyss of the universe on this Blue Moon night, we chose the latter route. Our pace was unhurried as we had committed in advance to not go far and just enjoy a leisurely night out. 

At Piedra Blanca, we wandered without agenda up, over, and through the manzanita and white stone until a promising location to put down for the night revealed itself. For those who have ever spent a night in the outdoors with me, this is generally a painful process because of my annoying, idiosyncratic insistence on finding the absolute perfect spot. My propensity to demand campsite flawlessness is so well known by my outdoor companions that it's become a bit of a running joke amongst them. As soon as we get to this part of any trip, the furtive glances and eye-rolling always begins as I scour the surrounding area for a truly transcendent site.   

Much to the chagrin of my companion, I was no different on this occasion, but fortunately the search was short. At the top of an impressive sandstone monolith with big sky views, we found a flat depression large enough for two bags and declared this our home for the evening. Because we were  cowboy camping, set up was easy and soon enough we were hard at work on the beers we had brought  and staring at nothing in particular and everything in general.  

Words are an imperfect medium to communicate the sacred sublimity of this place. True understanding can only be gained by sensing it, feeling it, allowing it to seep into and permeate every fiber of your soul. The indigenous people that previously occupied this land (this is the historical territory of the Ventureno band of the Chumash people) certainly understood this. Or being the overly-romantic character that I am capable of being, so I'd like to imagine.  

As the sun started its descent to the horizon, and dark shadows began creeping across the landscape, we sat in the stillness as the rock turned gold and the sky turned pink. Then, the lights went out completely. And stars twinkled and glinted as diamonds in the infinite black sky. A full moon then rose and it was like daylight once again. And we realized our place in both time and space. Despite what we as a species choose to believe, we're an insignificant pin-prick in the vast, undefinable fabric of the universe; an irrelevant flash along the time-line of infinity. But this immortal place, it has always been and it will always be. That's both a disconcerting and comforting thought. 

The next morning, the sun returned to brilliance, the sandstone shone white, and the cycle of things began once again. We meandered through the area looking for nothing, exploring like children for its own sake. Then it was time to leave, our welcome worn out, our trespass threatening to become conversion. So we packed up and left to return another time with the knowledge that this immutable place will be there. It always has been and always will be. 

Ain't No Cure for the Pandemic Blues

Thorn Point and Mutau Flats

Sometimes I wonder what I'm gonna do

But there ain't no cure for the summertime blues

~Summertime Blues, Eddie Cochran

So I'll meet you at the bottom if there really is one

They always told me when you hit it you'll know it

But I've been falling so long it's like gravity's gone and I'm just floating

~Gravity's Gone, Drive By Truckers

As you can tell from looking at the large gap between posts here, I haven't been inspired to write much lately. The process has always been a laborious challenge for me, but now it's a real struggle to even put pen to paper. Being the opinionated bastard that I am, it's not that I don't have anything to say. Just ask the people around me. They know that I'm rarely at a loss for words. And they're probably grateful for the respite from my constant yammering and bloviating. But the whole thing weighs on me. The muse has abandoned me without notice and everything I try to write now feels forced and inauthentic.

But these are strange and frightening times we're living through. People are fucking dropping dead from an enemy that can't be seen or fought. We're all wearing face-masks at the grocery store for fear of contagion. I haven't shaken a stranger's hand or given someone outside of my bubble a hug in months. I'm maxed out on vacation accrual, but can't go anywhere to use it. The restaurants and malls are empty, but the trails are packed with people, graffiti, and trash. And politicians' promises notwithstanding, it don't look too much like things are going to get materially better for the average person any time soon. So yeah, things are kind of fucked up right now. For that reason, I guess my muse can be forgiven for perhaps having a case of the pandemic blues.

In an effort to get out of my funk, I decided a day in the woods would be good for my soul. So last Friday, I played hooky from work and headed for San Rafael Peak, a seldom-visited summit deep in the Sespe Wilderness. 

The Iron Hiker joined me on this adventure. The original plan, devised by the ferrous one, was to hike Hines Peak and Cream Puff from the eastern terminus of the Nordhoff Ridge fire road. To do that, we needed a permit from the Forest Service. But that plan was foiled when fires closed the entire Los Padres for a spell and permits became unavailable. Then, the normal, seasonal closure of the Nordhoff Ridge road went into effect guaranteeing that we would not be doing Hines Peak the easy way until next spring. So we went searching for a remote, uncrowded, and challenging alternative. San Rafael checked all of those boxes nicely. 

Morning Commute

Cattle Drive

We met early at the entrance to Grade Valley Road and then drove the 10+ miles south on a washboard dirt road to the Johnston Ridge Trailhead. Sunlight peaked through the forest canopy as we went and I kept an eye out for wildlife as the conditions seemed ripe for a sighting or two. Unfortunately, all we encountered was a herd of bovine blocking the road that weren't in any particular hurry to cede ground to us. But being the superior beings that we are, we dispatched the dumb beasts with a couple of blares of the horn and we were on our way. 

The trailhead parking area was vacant. We were the only ones in the forest. We gathered our gear and started off, heading southeast on a well established trail that skirts Mutau Flats to the south as it drops about 200' in elevation to Mutau Creek. The word "Mutau" features prominently in this part of the forest. Although linguistically it sounds like it could be Chumash in derivation, it's actually the last name of a cantankerous old horse rustler who homesteaded these parts. Old Man Mutau, who settled in the area that is now the flats, was a known ally to horse thieves who moved stolen horses along the Horse Thief Trail from southern Ventura County to Kern County. Mutau, whose homestead sat right along the trail, permitted rustlers to use a canyon on his homestead (appropriately named "Horse Thief Canyon") to graze purloined horses before they were moved off to Tehachapi to be sold to work crews who were constructing the railroad from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Old Man Mutau met his maker at the flats that now bear his name when was ultimately shot and killed there.

No Country for Old Men

Mutau Creek

Breathing Room

Moo-tau

Mutau Creek was still flowing some, so we splashed through and started up a minor drainage that climbed to an obvious saddle at 5,729'. Along the way, we found a mylar balloon with a bright pink boa that we would retrieve on our way out. (PSA: stop releasing mylar balloons into the air people!) At the saddle, the trail continues east, dropping into the Little Mutau Creek drainage. Here, however, we abandoned the trail, opting to go cross-county in a southerly direction over a serious of bumps that lead to San Rafael Peak. 

The Sierra Club says that the navigation along this part of the route is "difficult," but we found it to be pretty straight-forward. At one stage, we wandered slightly off-track, going too low on the northeast flank of Pt. 6,408, but we quickly righted ourselves by making a steep climb back to the ridgeline which has expansive views of Hot Springs Canyon and the Sespe Creek drainage. We then traversed one final minor bump and made the steep climb to the summit. 

Going Off the Grid

Dragon's Back

St. Raphael

Home of Hot Springs

Atop San Rafael we had 360-degree views of the entire Ventura County backcountry. Cobblestone, Topa Topa, Devil's Heart, Hines, Chief, Thorn Point, Haddock, Reyes, and Pinos are all clearly visible from summit. We logged our appearance in the summit register which dated back to 1974 and then lollygagged in the warm sun and tried not to share our snacks with a bunch of insistent hornets that magically appeared every time a plastic baggie or foil was opened.  

Then it was time to go. Days are short this time of year and light a precious commodity. We were well equipped with lighting, but really didn't want to have to rely upon it. So we retraced our steps back to the trailhead and began the long drive back to the reality of life in a pandemic. I can't say that this little adventure cured my pandemic blues or broke my writer's block, but as the old saying goes, "sometimes you just need to go off the grid and get your soul right." And my soul was right on this day. 

Cobblestone Views

Topa Topa and Devil's Heart

Summit Pano

Thorn Point, Haddock and Reyes

Going Back Home