Year in Review 2025

 

I don't know if it's just me, but this year seemed long. Longer than normal, like there were a few extra months sprinkled in somewhere that nobody seemed to notice. The events of March, April and May felt like eons ago; January and February like ancient history. I recently had a conversation with Liam about it, reminiscing about all the things that had happened this year. And I brought up our hike to Willett that we did on January 30th and he said, "What? That was this year? Really? That seemed so long ago." And he was right. If I hadn't the pictures to show it, I woulda thought the same thing.

Perhaps the reason this year felt so long was that it was very busy. Lots of things happening. Lots of things changing. It started off in a bang with the famed New Year's day hike to Cienega Camp and ended in a bang with a dog biting me in the ass. And in between? A whole series of bangs and explosions, one after another after another. I managed to capture some of these moments on this blog, but of course I couldn't write about all of 'em. But as has become tradition with this blog, it's now time for the yearly wrap-up, the moment where I look back on what's happened and recall certain personal highlights, highlights that defined the year, highlights that I'm sure to never forget. 

January started off warmer and drier than normal, at least initially. It wasn't long after the hike to Cienega when ol' Alex and I tried hiking up to Hines Peak on a cold, blustery January morning, waiting at the Sisar Trailhead in complete darkness for over half an hour for somebody that never showed up. And so we started walking, the winds ripping through the canyon, sucking out all the remaining confidence we had for a successful summit. We passed Howard's Place, left the canyon, and made it to the first overlook, standing there and watching the rising sun cast its first rays of light over sleepy Upper Ojai. And the wind blew hard and fierce and we stood there and decided to try again on another day. And we walked back down, defeated but content, the morning beautiful, Alex's summit beers turning into trail beers, conversation light and legs left relatively fresh. Alex and I never did make it up to Hines Peak together, but our next attempt ended up being something better, that being our trek up to the Bluff to see the snow. 

And then there was the hike to Willett with Liam, a long, scenic walk through the Sespe to a place I hadn't seen in over a year. The river was low, the water icy, the surrounding foliage dead and desaturated. But the lighting was neat, those strange, late winter sunbeams elevating the landscape into something interesting and wonderful, highlighting the blue of the water and the sparkle of the snow still lingering on the bluffs. We encountered only one other person the entire day; a lone backpacker moving at breakneck pace traveling deep into the wilderness to who knows where. And when we got to the hot springs, we had the whole thing to ourselves, and the water was clean and clear and the tub looked great and it appeared that somebody was taking good care of the place. And we soaked in the steaming waters, the area just as peaceful and serene as I had remembered it. And then we trekked back down the trail, back to the river, back to the parking lot, back to civilization. It had been a quiet day, free from the insanity and capriciousness that seems to define life on this planet. Just a good ol' long trek through the wilderness to some sizzling springs with good company and gooder conversation. 

Willett Hot Springs

January came to an end, February rolled on by, the fam and I went to Zion and I ran the fastest race of my entire life. The air that time of year oozed with benevolence and brightness; everything felt right. This always happens at least once every year; a moment where everything slows down, allowing me to take a step back and absorb the essence of the times and just soak it all in with no questions asked. In 2022 it was when I went down to San Diego with Benny to see the rugby game. In 2023 it was the brief trip to see Jakob and Zach and Gormie, where I traveled up to San Fransisco and cut across north of Yosemite to avoid the toll and then climbed Mt. Whitney for the very first time, making a big ol' crazy loop. In 2024 it was those short drives up through Pozo and Santa Margarita in early May when the grass was just turning golden and summer was on its way. And now, in 2025, it was this period of time in late February and early March where these things occurred, for what reason I do not know. Wasn't a particularly eventful time of year, wasn't even the most notable thing of the year. It was simply a period of time where things aligned just enough for me to see with clarity. The moment was there, I saw it, I lived it, and then it was gone. 

March arrived, and Grace wanted to to the Tri-Tip challenge up in SLO before she graduated. And so, on a bright spring morning surrounded by green, we set off for Bishop Peak, deciding to walk the whole thing with no shuttles. We took our time, climbing each summit at an easy pace, talking about things interesting enough to help the time go by but trivial enough to not be remembered in three days' time. Bishop, Cerro San Luis, and the Cal Poly P; we walked to each summit on trails and roads and sidewalks, watching the cars go by, stopping for a quick lunch at the local Panda Express mid hike. Finishing the hike at the P, Grace had finally completed the challenge she felt obligated to do for four years. Didn't even train for it. She just woke up one day and did it. Needless to say, she was quite sore for a few days afterward. But it was all worth it in the end.

The days rolled on by, March dragged on, and a marathon game of Heroscape lasting well into the wee hours of the morning took place, the longest game of my life. We all gathered at Daniel's place, burning a whole hour just setting up the game. And then we played for hours and hours and hours, rolling the dice, moving the pieces, reading the cards, capturing flags, and drinking a fair amount of liquor in the process. By the end of it, a whole 24 pack of beer had disappeared, the cans stacked into a little tower, everyone was exhausted, and Daniel's girlfriend had an expression on her face seeming to say "what are we doing here?" But that's how Heroscape usually goes. It's a marathon, not a sprint. If you commit to a game of Heroscape, you better darn well know what you're getting yourself into. It ain't for the faint of heart. 

Not long after the Heroscape slog, Grace and McKenna and I did a little overnighter at Piedra Blanca. This was the very first time we went on an overnighter as a group, which was exciting. We showed up late, the weather nice and cool, and we set up camp somewhere deep within the the labyrinth of rocks, boulders and sticks. And then we wandered around, climbing up all the formations, seeing all the sights, and spying on another group from atop what I dub the "Elephant's Head." We sat up there for a good half hour, in the sunset, clearly visible, and they didn't suspect a thing. And then we went on over to what I call "Jabba's House" and we watched the remainder of the sunset and then we went on back to camp and had us a fire and told stories and watched as the marine layer crested the mountains and covered everything in sight.

April came and went, marked by such notable hikes as the Ojai Triple Crown and the day hike to Bluff Camp and the trek to those "Seldom Visited Falls." And it brought along a nice and healthy Spring with a fair amount of water and greenery and good conditions for multiple visits to the creek. And that's what we did. Me, Carl, Alex, Benny, the fam—all of us made trips to the creek several times that month, enjoying the cool water and the fantastic spring scenery. At one point during the month, McKenna and I hiked out to Timber Canyon for a little overnighter with my Mom and Uncle. They had already been there for one night, and since McKenna and I had the time we decided to go out there and pay them a visit. I set up my hammock in some trees and started reading Steinbeck's East of Eden but never finished it, and that night the wind picked up and I had one of the worst sleeps of my entire life. But in the morning everything was fine, and I jumped into the Sespe and I wasn't tired anymore, the waters jumpstarting my battery. And then we left as a group and hiked on out of there, saying goodbye to Timber Canyon and the swim hole and those ancient ice can stoves that linger and persist despite years of sun and wind and water and snow. 

And then May arrived, and May was busy as ever. So much stuff, so many things happening all at once. A trip to Los Angeles to see The Broad. A quick drive up to Hi Mountain for a picnic lunch of chips and cookies and pesto sandwiches and such. Preparing for the move, purging personal belongings and junk and stuff, getting rid of books and papers and clothes and the couch. So many trips to Goodwill, so many trips to Bart's and antique stores, so many lunches at Jim and Rob's and Indian Rasoi and The Lebanese Oven. And ol' Alex got me hooked on Mineragua, and I found myself driving to Super A Foods in Fillmore and the Vallarta Supermarket in Oxnard for the really good deals on them, getting a whole twelve pack for $11.99. And it was in May that I finally, FINALLY, figured out how to solve a Rubik's Cube. I'd had the same dang cube since 2nd grade, and it had been left unsolved for all those years. Not anymore. Hallelujah.

And then came June and June was hot and eventful as ever, the pace never slowing, everything rising to a fever pitch. Last minute packing, a trip to the Griffith Observatory, Grace's graduation, a going away party at Daniel's place. Ahh, the going away party at Daniel's place. It was like the Heroscape marathon, but without the Heroscape. Burgers and chips and dip and a random mid-party jam session between Liam, Sarathi and Adam. And then it was morning and Ry gave Liam a sweater and I fell asleep and woke up a few hours later and drove all the way up the 33 to Fox Mountain and Cuyama Peak where I fell on a yucca and stabbed my knee and limped into the Bánh Mì Grill the next day and explained to the kid behind the register what had happened. And then Benny and I drove down to Los Angeles to see Ehab, taking the 405 and marveling at the lack of traffic. Going there and coming back: no traffic whatsoever. A total miracle. And then we hooked up the trailer and got out of Dodge, driving for five days across the country to Tennessee in search of a new place to live. 

July came and went, with summer thunderstorms, summer bugs, summer stickiness and fireworks and yard work at the Grandparent's residence. And we made trips out to Asheville every Wednesday for Grace's swing dancing, and there was a street performer there that balanced on a 10ft tall unicycle and juggled bowling pins and plates and stuff. And the air was heavy with moisture and the farm cat sprawled out on the porch with its weird ear and pleasant demeanor. And one day we went out on the lake on a pontoon to celebrate my Uncle and Grace's birthdays, and a storm blew in and lightning struck the water and it was a race against time to get back to port before the storm overtook us. And then Grace and I flew on over to California, beginning our month long trek back across the country. 

We stayed in town for 2 weeks, July transitioning into August, taking our time to see the sights and smell the smells and deal with some unfinished business in the local wilds. At one point, Daniel and I did a long drive up to Pine Mountain Club, stopping at Frazier Mountain along the way to check out the disintegrating lookout tower on the top. The stairs were gone, the tower leaning slightly, but we found a way up because we were determined and stupid. And we climbed up there and looked inside at all the broken glass and splintered wood, and we looked at the views and the trees and dry air and haziness on the horizon. And then we drove into PMC and had lunch at La Leña and hung out at the pond and then drove up to San Emigdio Mtn and had some beers and looked at the beautiful views into Bakersfield. 

And then Grace and I went up to Pine Mountain one last time, went to the beach one last time, walked Shelf Road one last time. And then we left town and went on that long, meandering journey across the west, a trip I've already described in four separate blog posts. And then we returned to Tennessee and the pace slowed down just a bit, but things just kept on happening. Such is life.

Along came September and the humidity was gone and the weather was mostly good, except for the occasional thunderstorm. My mom, sister, Grandma and I took a short walk out to Margarette Falls one day, rain in the forecast but the skies clear as can be. And just as we made it to the falls the rains came pounding down, a cold, harsh rain that turned the trail into a creek and the creek into a river. And we shuffled down the trail, the rain so heavy it looked like fog, the ground saturated and textured with zillions and zillions of raindrops. And after that, my Grandma was wary of going on another hike with us but she relented one day and we went up to Roan Mountain, driving up to Carver's Gap to check out the overlook. 

Margarette Falls

 

Roan High Bluff Overlook

Late September brought trips to the Biltmore and Cumberland Gap with our Dad, trips to Cades Cove and the Smokies with our cousin Lisa. I ain't never seen so many bears in one spot, most of them mamas with cubs. And the humidity was long, long gone, the air nice and light. A coolness had arrived, slowly permeating the landscape, preparing everything for the coming fall. 

Cumberland Gap

Cades Cove

Kuwohi

The Smokies

October came, and so did the colors. So many colors. It started slow, barely noticeable. And then it was like a bomb went off and all the trees in the higher elevations looked like a quilt, and the colors trickled on down into the valleys as the month went along, oozing into every deciduous tree in sight. And then November showed up and the colors faded away, winter fast approaching, the trees soon bare and wispy and dark and gray. And then the temps dropped and the ice and snow showed up, and then it was December, and the year finally came to a close. 

The past few months have been spent settling into the neighborhood, finding jobs, living life, you know—the usual. It's been busy for sure, but luckily there's still time to get away for a bit and get out there and touch some dirt or whatever. I started running again, preparing for a half marathon in February. And it was on one of these runs in the cold air of late December when a dog ran up to me and bit me in the butt. Just ran up, chomped on my ass, and then ran away. Tore a big ol' hole in my running shorts too. Those were my favorite, dang it! And that about captures the year. Busy. Very busy. Lots of things happening. Perhaps 2026 will be a bit more mellow. Who's to say. Probably not. I got a lot of things planned for next year. Whether or not I actually do them is to be determined. 

Per aspera ad astra

Hump Mountain, Little Hump Mountain

 12/03/25

It was 28℉ at the trailhead, the ground coated in a thin layer of crunchy ice. I had pulled off the 19E into a small dirt lot only big enough for 2 vehicles. The only other spot was occupied by a sedan, that, like the ground surrounding it, was covered in ice. Yep, this was gonna be a cold one. Good thing I brought mittens.

The goal of the day was to follow a chunk of the Appalachian Trail all the way to the summit of Hump Mountain, a place that's known for having incredible views. Being an Appalachian Bald, the summit is free from any trees that would normally hinder visibility. Unobstructed, 360° views for miles and miles and miles. Sounded like a good deal, so I went up to take a look.

The weather that day was supposed to be sunny and clear, perfect conditions for a trek to a place such as Hump Mountain. Though overcast at the moment, I imagined the sun shining happy and bright above the clouds, waiting for the right chance to break through and say hello. But in the meantime I had to shiver under this blanket of gray, following the AT as it slowly wound its way up into the mountains. 

The crunchy ice turned into crunchy snow, no more than an inch deep. Everything in sight was completely frozen stiff: the ground, the dirt, the leaves of the rhododendrons, sticks, branches, moss. It was a frozen, silent landscape, one that said little and left much open to interpretation. I followed frozen footprints in the snow, no doubt made by the owner of the frosty sedan. Would I ever meet the creator of these tracks? Only one way to find out: I kept chugging along. 

Up and up, slowly but surely, the trail cut deeper and deeper into the mountains. I could not believe how quiet it was. Perhaps sound itself was frozen too, but if that were true I'd probably be dead. My footsteps crunching in the icy snow sounded like firecrackers they were so loud, echoing off into the cold, barren trees. Every now and then I'd stop and listen for a few moments, trying to perceive any sound other than those I made myself. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Pretty trippy. 

The trees were covered with the aftermath of Ol' Jack Frost's wild midnight party in the mountains. Bark powdered with snow and large, half-inch ice crystals growing off of the thinner branches made these trees look like something otherworldly, like some strange land-dwelling coral that crawled out of the depths of a spunky sea. I stopped often to take photos of the trees, listening to their utter silence, petting the delicate ice crystals that disintegrated as soon as I touched them. Sometimes the sun would punch a hole through the cloud cover, a circle of blue shining through the gray. The blue reflected off the snow and ice, making everything look all the more cold. Everywhere I looked: gray, blue and white. Yup. Them's winter colors right there. 

The farther I walked, the colder it became, although this drop in temperature was only noticeable when I stopped to take a breather. I was plenty warm walking uphill, having to shed a few layers in the process.  A trickling stream, the only thing seemingly left unfrozen, provided the first sound of the day, drip dripping through the silence. Icicles, some more than 2ft in length, dangled from a huge boulder just off the trail, the whole thing looking like some huge, icy fortress. Higher and higher I went, following well-graded switchbacks through frozen trees, climbing up through the cloud layer in search of the sun.

I walked through the clouds and into the sun, finally escaping the freezing grayness somewhere near a place called Doll Flats. I reached a level area with plenty of fine real estate for pitching a tent, as well as a small break in the trees offering the first views of the day. Walking along, I passed a sign marking the border between North Carolina and Tennessee. Ahead, down in the lower elevations, expanded a massive gray blanket of clouds, covering everything except the taller peaks. Moving ever so slowly, these clouds looked like a massive glacier slowly carving away the valleys of Appalachia, imperceptibly receding as the minutes slipped on by. 

I walked on, the snow now slushy and wet. The sun had quite the powerful effect on the landscape and was already busy destroying all of Jack Frost's hard work. I could already tell that most of that winter wonderland would be gone by the time I got back. Oh well. Such is the way of the world.

The trail, instead of directly ascending Hump Mountain from Doll Flats, takes a longer route that makes the elevation gain less onerous. It heads away from the mountain, slowly ascending through the woods. This section, in my opinion, wasn't nearly as interesting as the winter wonderland of which I'd just experienced. The sun shining bright, the clouds far below, the snow steadily melting—all of it offered a cacophony of noise to my previously sound-deprived ears. Melting snow, chirping birds, a slight breeze rustling through the forest; the sounds had a numbing effect, making me less alert, affirming that I was no longer alone. 

I eventually entered a shady section of mountain, and here the snow was nice and crunchy, about 2 inches deep in some places. I trudged along, my feet a wee bit wet, walking up a few switchbacks through the dwindling canopy. And then, all of a sudden, the trail spit me out and I was on the bald; nothing but frozen grass and sticks in all directions. I ascended a small bump and finally got my first view of Hump Mountain, a mellow looking mound of ice and brown grass jutting up out of a long ridge made up of other small bumps. And, wouldn't you know it, off in the distance, wearing a big ol' pack and dressed in gray, was walking the owner of those footprints I'd been following all day. Seems like we both had the same idea. I kept going, heading towards the summit, the breeze having now upgraded to "wind status."

Hump Mountain right

I caught up to the owner of the footprints near the base of the final summit push, slowing my pace to chat for a few moments. The footprint god was an older guy wearing boots and a gray long-sleeve shirt, carrying a pack large enough to hold overnight supplies. Said he'd started super early that morning, before the sun came up. We talked and walked the rest of the way to the summit, topping out in blustery winds and icy cold. I touched the sign marking the summit, doing a quick sweep of the 360° views. I was still feeling pretty good at this point, so I decided to keep going down the trail, maybe even climb a second summit. I said something like, "Well, I'm gonna keep going" and he said "Ok. Have fun." We said our goodbyes and I headed off the mountain, breaking trail through clean, unblemished snow. 

Clouds

West

I quickly discovered the western side of Hump Mountain to be much steeper than the gentle southeast slope I'd just climbed. 'Twas a long, steep descent through fresh snow and brittle grass; the wind frosty, my shoes crispy with ice. I stopped at one point to check out the frozen grass, which looked like a field of white ocean coral standing stationary and uniform in the weak winter sunlight. I could only imagine how cold it must've gotten the night before; the grass appeared to have been flash frozen, with a clean layer of crystal clear ice jutting out of it before mixing with regular snow. 

I reached a saddle, finding a wooden fixture stuck in the ground with the words "Bradley Gap" inscribed on its surface. And then I started going up again, heading towards a smaller bump on the ridge known as Little Hump Mountain. Like its bigger neighbor, Little Hump Mountain has the distinction of being an Appalachian Bald as well, even though this doesn't appear to be the case when viewed from Bradley Gap. I soon entered a small patch of trees, walking through a quiet forest devoid of most foliage. Clean, unblemished snow all around me. Back to silence, back to solitude.

I walked at a steady pace, noting a small trickle of water cutting through the snow like a black scar in the ground. The trees became shorter in height and more sparse in concentration, the blue sky opening up overhead. I briefly left the trail to check out this nice looking camp spot; nothing but smooth snow and stillness. I imagined what the place would look like in 6 months time, with green leaves and wet soil, birds and critters and bugs and warmth. It would be a whole different vibe; it's crazy how something as simple as the weather can drastically change the essence of a place. I walked on, leaving the trees, heading towards the small summit of Little Hump Mountain.

The silent campground

I should've just stayed on Hump Mountain. The summit of Little Hump didn't really have much to say; I found it to be a wind-swept, barren, icy, cold spit of earth with inferior views and hardly any personality. I stood in the wind, munching on a rock-hard protein bar and sipping icy water. Looking around, I saw much of what I'd already seen over on Hump Mountain, including a view of Big Yellow Mountain, another little bump on the ridge of never-ending bumps. I considered checking it out, but the day was already growing long and I'd already hiked over seven miles so I decided to save it for later, most likely for the spring when everything is green and nice. I packed up shop and started my way off Little Hump, retracing my steps to Bradley Gap.

Little Hump Mtn, view west

View southwest, Big Yellow Mtn left

View northeast, Hump Mtn right

Headin' back...

I trotted most of the way, sometimes slipping in my own footprints. My feet were pretty soaked by this point, but luckily this wasn't my first rodeo, hahaha. All those trips to the Bluff, to Reyes Peak, to the Nordhoff Lookout tower after a fresh snow—all of these silly little excursions more than prepared me for days with wet feet. But I gotta admit, it is getting a little annoying. Perhaps I should invest in some good boots. Or perhaps I should keep complaining. I'll probably go for the latter. Complaining is much more fun. Plus...it's cost effective!

Back at Bradley Gap, Hump Mountain gently rose in front of me, a huge, tan mound of frozen grass and ice. I trudged along, slipping in my footprints, my shoes wet and muddy. The wind blew steady now, saying hello to me in quick, icy bursts. The clouds were receding, pulling away from the mountains, revealing more of the valleys and hollers with each passing minute. By the time I reached the summit, most of the cloud-cover had disappeared, revealing a dark landscape that looked like it wanted to go back to sleep. I threw my pack on the ground, stretched my legs, and took in the views for the second time.

Hump Mountain

Hump Mountain Summit

The footprint artist was nowhere to be seen. Had the whole place to myself, so I took my time absorbing the crystal-clear views that sprawled before me. Off to the west rose some of the higher peaks of Southern Appalachia, Grassy Ridge Bald and Roan High Knob clearly visible. Moving my eyes ever so slightly to the southwest gave me views of Mt. Mitchell and Co, standing tall and stoic against the winter sky. Miles upon miles of hills, hollers, creeks and roads stretched off to the south as far as the eye could see, the views terminating in a weird, translucent haze near the horizon. Table Rock Mountain, the only landmark clearly visible, looked like a small thumb jutting out of the earth. And then I turned my gaze to the southeast, were the peaks of Grandfather Mountain rose in the distance. Looking east revealed more of the same, snow-dusted mountains and roads and valleys. I could even make out Mt. Rogers in the distance; weird to think that I was just there a couple of days ago. 

South

East(ish)

Northeast

I spent a good ten minutes up there, watching as the clouds continued their early afternoon disintegration party. Satisfied, I picked up my stuff, waved goodbye to the sign marking the summit, and then made my way back down the trail, back into the woods. 

I took my time descending through the bald. These were some of the best views I'd ever seen in my life, and I'd be darned if I didn't enjoy them. But all good things must come to an end, and soon I was back in the woods, back in the slushy snow and spindly branches and chirping birds and trickling streams. 

I trotted down the trail, careful not to slip in the slick snow and ice. I made it back to Doll Flats in good time, stopping briefly for a quick water break. And then it was all downhill, down the switchbacks, down the trail, down, down down all the way to the 19E.

Heading down, I was surprised to see a thick chunk of cloud cover still lingering against the foothills. I walked straight into it, walking through its depths, listening as everything around me dripped and melted, the pitter-patter of the thaw the only sound to be heard. Sunlight flickered and danced upon the barren trees as it filtered through the dense clouds, casting strange shadows on every available surface. And there in the distance, moseying along at a leisurely pace, trudged the footprint lord himself. I caught up to him and he asked how far I went. I told him where I went, and then said, "peculiar weather around here, huh?" And he said "yeah" and then we parted, never to see each other again. 

I eventually broke through the fog, now finding myself underneath the clouds. The snow here hadn't melted yet; everything looked exactly the same. I was back to the good ol', gray winter wonderland that I'd seen all morning, crunchy snow and powdered trees and ice crystals and all. I walked down the trail, taking pictures of the same things from different angles. Other than the footprint deity, I hadn't seen a single person all day. And it remained that way as I made my way back to the car.

I made it back to the car in good time, the whole hike taking just about 5 hours to complete. I sat in the car and waited for it to warm up as other vehicles darted this way and that up and down the 19E. It had been a good walk through the woods, filled with plenty of interesting sights and sounds. I'll have to agree with what I've heard about Hump Mountain; the views up there—especially on a clear day—are pretty dang nice. But views ain't the only reason to climb a mountain. This one's got it all: a nice approach, pretty scenery, and ample time for self reflection and introspection and all that or whatever. I don't know. I just like walking. 

Haven't been back out to the woods since doing this hike. Been a tad busy as this year comes to a close. But I've got a taste of the country now, a basic grasp of the terrain, my bearings are straight and shoes muddy and I'm ready for more. There's a much more to see out there in the country, much, much more. And next year, I intend to see as much of it as I can.