My Toe Hurts

Running is tiresome, running is boring. It is an inane, fatuous activity with little benefits and many detriments. Ruined knees, achy hips, sore feet, and a ravenous hunger. Ain't a runner alive on this earth that doesn't eat copious amounts of food. They need it. Their bodies are disintegrating into themselves, wasting away. They need food to fuel the machine. Food that is no longer enjoyed, but inhaled, gormandized, sucked into the blast furnace of the runner's stomach and instantly converted into fuel. Food is no longer judged on the merits of taste, texture, smell, or presentation. It is only judged on calories. Calories to fuel the machine. Give me carbs, give me protein. Pasta, pasta pasta!

Running is miserable business, made enjoyable only through the brain's release of "happy chemicals" that provide the illusion of pleasure. And though humans do possess the ability to run, they certainly aren't meant to run very fast for long distances. Walking is much more preferred. Walking makes so much sense. Walking is much more efficient, enjoyable and healthy. Walking is the way to go.

But some people are silly, and silly people are gonna run. And I am one of those silly people. And for whatever reason, I like running. It's like a strange form of meditation. I fell out of the loop for a while, stopped running, focused more on walking in the woods. But last year I fell back into the groove and found myself once again infected with runnin' fever. 

And so I signed up for the Ventura Half Marathon. And I actually trained for it this time. And of course the training was silly. Got sick a couple of times, lost some endurance, had to begin anew, all that stuff. The training wasn't regimented or detailed; didn't follow any kind of rhyme or reason. I'd just come home from work, strap on a headlamp, and then run around for forty minutes or an hour and then stretch and call it good. No strength training. No speed training. Man, didn't even do no distance training. Longest run I did in preparation was seven miles. Figured that was enough. Fun fact: it wasn't. 

And so I ran a bit, rested a bit, got sick, drank a lot of water, ate a lot of food, and then before I knew it, race day was upon me and it was time to run. Sunday, the 23rd. It was a chilly morning. I had everything dialed in. Even had me a gel that I'd bring with me. It's always wise to bring some form of replenishment for really long runs. Gotta keep puttin' fuel in the tank. Gotta keep those legs working. And it worked for me at Joshua Tree and I figured it would work here. I was ready. 

I met with Ry at the start. He remarked that I'd brought my "speed uniform" and he was correct. We chatted a bit, shivering in the cold morning air, speaking of finish times, race strategies. Folks were runnin' around, warming up. Some were serious, completely dialed in, their faces focused and morose. These were the folks wearing spandex and synthetic singlets and $300 racing shoes; men and women with long, muscular legs and skinny arms and GPS watches and earbuds blasting David Goggins ASMR or something like that. 

And then there were those who were obviously doing it just for fun, wearing regular workout attire, chatting with their friends, laughing, smiling, having a good time. I was more intimidated by these folks, these people that showed no fear. Remember: running sucks. Running is miserable. Those who laugh in the face of oncoming personal bodily misery are those who should be feared. They are insane. Freaks of nature. Total badasses. 

Ry had already warmed up by the time I got there, so I went off alone, jogged a bit, and then realized that I'd forgotten the gel. Drats! How could I have been so careless? So hasty? There was nothing I could do about it now; I was on my own. I'd be running this thing un-aided. Oh well. These things happen sometimes...

I did some leg swings, popped my hip, and then met up with Ry at the start. He said he wasn't feeling 100% so he was gonna run with the 2nd wave. I thought a bit, tossed some ideas around in my brain, and then decided with reckless abandon to join the speed freaks in the first wave. Ry was encouraging, saying "Yeah! Go for it!" And so I did. 

And then they played the national anthem and the race was soon to begin. A minute went by, and then another. People were getting antsy. Jumping up and down. Shaking out their arms. All around me were a bunch of those serious types, people with stoic expressions and synthetic racing singlets, all of them in their own worlds. To my right was a woman nearly as tall as me, hair in a high ponytail, dressed only in spandex. To my left was an older guy with graying hair, wearing a synthetic shirt a size too small. Neither of them said a word. Neither of them smiled. They were ready. Locked in. 

And then the announcer counted us down. Three...two...one...and that was it—the race was underway. And everyone sprinted. Everyone was going way too fast. The woman to my right took off into the huddled mass of stomping feet and heavy breathing; the guy to my left was gone before I even got a chance to see where he went. And we fell into a groove and the initial jolt of adrenaline began to wane and people began to slow down. The 2nd wave started and I waved at Ry, both of us passing by one another at an out-and-back section of the course. I never saw him again until after the race. 

The first mile went by in what seemed like no time. And then I stupidly decided to really go for it, to put the peddle to the metal, to run the fastest I've ever ran. My second mile was way too fast. And so was my third. But I figured I'd push it as long as I could, keep my hand on the burner until I couldn't bear it anymore.

I caught up to the tall woman with the high ponytail and spandex. And then I passed a group of three, led by a tall guy in a yellow shirt. And I passed more people, one after another, slowly picking them off as the miles progressed. I caught up to the older guy with the tight shirt just before mile 3. I passed a young guy in orange shorts, a muscular guy with a bushy mustache, and a skinny guy in a light green shirt with the worst running form I'd ever seen in my life. Homie was moving though, so he must've been doing something right. 

I continued to push the pace, running under six minutes per mile, much faster than I'd ever ran on any of my training runs (and faster than I'd ever ran in my life). It sucked, but I kept at it, trying to focus on nothing but breathing and catching the next person. Mile six rolled by, and then seven, and then eight. There was a group ahead, two women and a dude, running quick and easy, not slowing in the slightest. 

I tried to catch them. Slowly, ever so slowly, I closed the gap. I got to within 10ft of them. And then my legs began to scream. They were screaming for the gel. The gel that I didn't have. And then the gap widened, 15ft, 30ft. And no matter what I did, I couldn't get my legs to move faster. They were growing heavier by the minute. I was starting to fatigue. My hand was coming off the burner. 

And then the guy in orange shorts caught up to me. Said, "C'mon! Let's get that group!" He was very encouraging. We ran together for a good four minutes, slowly gaining ground. And my lungs were burnin' and my legs were achin' and a curious sensation in my right toe was just beginning to make its presence felt, a faint, tingly sensation that spelled trouble. 

And I couldn't keep up with Mr. Orange Shorts. And he caught the group, and he kept going. And then Mr. Egregious Running Form zoomed by, passing on my left, hot on the trail of Mr. Orange Shorts. And then others came, passing me one after the other. Every person I passed in the first half of the race was comin' for me. Oh well. Sometimes that happens. 

The older guy passed me. And then came that group led by the tall guy in the yellow shirt. Short folks, tall folks, bushy mustache man, they all caught up to me, ran with me for a bit, and then kept going, shifting to a gear that I couldn't find in myself. Out of desperation, I tried to drink some electrolyte water that the volunteers were handing out. Not stopping, I nabbed one, splashing it on my face as I tried to direct the cup to my lips, swallowed some, spit it back up, tried again, only got a few drops, and tossed the rest in the trash bin. Turns out drinking water while running is kinda hard if you've never done it before. I decided to not try it again. The race was coming to a close; wouldn't do much help anyway. 

Mile ten, mile eleven, mile twelve. The sensation in my right toe was screamin' now, a sharp, stinging pain. The tall woman passed me, running smooth and strong. I tried keeping up with her, matching her stride, and then fell away, unable to maintain the blistering pace. And then I rounded a corner, passed mile thirteen, and I was on the home stretch, the last length, the final stretch.

I took a deep breath, shook out my arms, and mustered whatever energy I had left to sprint to the finish. There were three people behind me. I could hear their footsteps. Their breathing. They were coming on fast. I couldn't let them catch me. I was gonna finish strong. 

And so I booked it, driving my arms up and down like an idiot, surging ahead and creating a small gap. And then my legs said, "No thank you" and I said "Ok" and I slowed down to a jog. And those three people caught up and passed me and I waltzed across the finish line all casual-like, put my hands on my head and said, "Wow."

I walked, got some water, met up with my mom and sister (who graciously drove me back home). Ry crossed the finish line not long after I finished, his eyes watery and his face carrying an expression of exhilaration and pain. We ended up running almost the exact same time. Ry remarked that he should've started in the first wave. And I said something like "yeah." And then we bumped fists and I was out of there.

'Cause that's when the real challenge began. Drove home, took a shower, grabbed a breakfast burrito, and then I was on my feet all day at work, my right toe purple and swollen. And then I went home, slept a bit, and went off to my second job, not getting back home until 2:00am. I was beat. Slept a few hours and then I was back at my first job, back on my feet all day, my toe more purple but less swollen this time. It hurts like the dickens, but I don't care. I'll take the purple toe any day over the chaffing I experienced at Joshua Tree last year. Any. Damn. Day. No question. 

It was a good race, one of the best of my life. Smashed my personal best by over seven minutes. Ended up running my fastest ever 5k, 10k and half marathon all in the same race, which is nice and all but that means I didn't pace myself correctly in the slightest. Ah well. It was worth it. 

This was my 5th half marathon and it will be my last for a while. My interests are shifting yet again. Running is losing its appeal. When I run I don't hike and when I hike I don't run. I've been needin' to get out there in the woods again. There's so many places to go. So many things to do. Peaks to climb, flowers to smell, views to observe, waters to swim. Gotta walk, walk, walk. Slow down. Take 'er easy.

High Desert Sojourn

Rise and shine. Morning time. The early hours. The sun has yet to crest the horizon. Not a single bird graces the morning air with its song. The stars are still out, blinking tiredly in the sky. And then we hit the road, driving east, off towards the blueish glow on the horizon. 

Long miles ahead. Lots and lots of driving. Not for me. Haha. I'm riding shotgun. And we go down through Ventura, out past Santa Paula, out into the valley, out into the desert. The sun comes up, I fall asleep, the miles pass imperceptibly under the wheels of the car. 

And when I wake the sky is a piercing desert blue, and the brown, barren expanse of the Mojave is all around us, swallowing us whole, the Interstate just a tiny little line in a vast expanse of nothingness. Well, at least it seems that way. There's a whole lot of stuff out there if you've got the eyes to see it. I never see it. Perhaps I need prescription glasses. 

Out past Barstow, out past Baker, driving alongside the Soda Mountains, passing by Cave Peak and Clark Mountain. These peaks are devoid of snow. Only the highest desert peaks are coated with snow. We saw them, off to the north, distant and tall and dusted in white, standing in stark contrast to their beige surroundings. 

Rest stops, truck stops, gas stations, abandoned buildings. There are Joshua Trees. Hundreds of 'em. And they look strange and alien with their multiple branches sticking out at crazy angles. And over there, way off by the rocks, is a lone burro, munching on something in the dirt. And over there, on the other side of the Interstate, is another lone burro, also munching on something in the dirt. And they both got long ears and they got their winter coats and they bumble along, munching in the dirt, waltzing in and out of the Joshua Trees.

Primm, Vegas, Mesquite. There's a gorge. And there are climbers on the cliffs. No bighorn sheep today; perhaps they are waiting for the climbers to go away. We pull off the road and have lunch above the gorge, feasting on popcorn and citrus and sandwiches and more popcorn. 

And then we make it to Utah and then we're there: the high desert. This is the most beautiful place I know. The Escalante. The Grand Staircase. Vast and rugged, it stretches from the Grand Canyon all the way to Cedar Breaks, filling a good portion of northern Arizona and southern Utah. This is where it's at. This is where I need to be. 

But we have limited time and we can't possibly see it all. It's impossible to see it all. No one can see it all. You could spend a whole lifetime exploring the canyons, climbing the mesas, rafting down the rivers, rappelling off cliffs, crawling through cactus and thorns and brush and stagnant creeks through mud and muck with the flies and scorpions and tarantulas and you'd still have only scratched the surface, you'd still have barely made a dent.

There exist certain hotspots, certain "points of interest" within this vast area that have been mapped and developed so that people can get a taste of what's out there. Captiol Reef. Arches. Canyonlands. Bryce Canyon. Grand Canyon. Zion. What was once wild and inaccessible can now be enjoyed from the comfort of a moving, air-conditioned automobile. There are many mixed emotions about this. Some like it, others don't. Some want these areas to remain completely wild, others don't. Some want this, others that. What to do with the National Parks? I don't know. 

At the end of the day there are no borders. No names. These places are just places—quiet, beautiful, incomprehensible. They existed before we came along, and they'll continue to exist long after we're gone. The wind will keep blowin' and rain will fall and the rocks will erode, ever so slowly, just as they've done for millions of years. And I'm just plain lucky to be able to witness them at this point in time, to see them right now, before they imperceptibly change forever. 

We decided to visit Zion on this trip. A short little trip; didn't get a lot of time off. No matter. Just being there, in that stunning canyon, is good enough for me. I've been there time and time again. I've seen most of it, multiple times over. And I never tire of the views. Never. There's always something new to see, some new way to see it. Whether it's slight erosion, the weather, the lighting, the way the snow has dusted a particular cliff; this place is always changing. And it's unfathomably beautiful. Some might even say sublime. 

For such a short trip, we decided to absorb the essence of Zion using a particular method that we've learned over the years. You see some of the main sights, some of the main attractions. Walk on some of the established trails, share the beauty with countless others. You know. All the touristy things. And then you mix it up a bit with some good ol' ramblin' and wanderin'. To take it slow, one step at a time, climb the sandstone, take a break, soak it all in. 

On that first day of travel, after the countless miles on the road, we entered the park and began our short romp through Zion National Park, a park that is but a small chunk of the Escalante, the Grand Staircase. We drove through the tunnel, an engineering marvel. We pulled off the road, entering a side-canyon that has grown more popular over the years. And we walked on the sand and rock and observed the towering, gargantuan formations of sandstone rising high above us. And the setting sun shone faint and fatigued on the slushy snow and gnarled flora. White, red, black, purple, brown, streaked, criss-cut, criss-crossed, textured rock everywhere, some in sun, some in shadow, all of it a feast for the eyes, overwhelming for the brain. 

We met some other people and then we left the canyon and started off for a popular trail to a popular view. There were a lot of people on that trail. Young and old, fit and not so fit, we all walked along, walking on rock and dirt and wood. And we came to the view and could see much of the lower canyon before us, could see the towering 1000ft+ sheer cliffs, the tiny line of the road, the even tinier cars like shiny little beetles.

A couple was taking wedding photos. They were dressed in their best. And all these people with cameras of all kinds were taking pictures of the sunset and the view and the light on the rocks. And others climbed past the guard rail and up sandstone ledges to get the best view possible. 

We stayed for a bit, watched as the red light of the setting sun moved its way up the face of a cliff. And then we headed back down the trail, back to the car, back through the tunnel, back into town. Grub time. Ate at one of the local joints. They had a trillion dollar bill taped to the window. Space heaters on the patio going full blast. I had me an overpriced burrito. Thing cost $22. Yowch. But man, it was delicious. 

The next day was gray. Took a while for the sun to burn through the wintery clouds. The Virgin River shone bright and silvery in the cold morning light. We had a full day of exploration. A full day of observation. A full day to relax, soak it all in, and take zillions of pictures. This is the kind of place where pretty much every picture is good. Just point and shoot. That's all there is to it. 

We checked out Emerald Pools, saw the waterfalls, saw the cliffs, saw the well worn path and the wood rubbed smooth from millions of touchy hands. And then we went for a drive through the canyon, sun roof down, observing the towering cliffs on either side. We stopped. Took pictures. Saw some deer. And then it was back through the tunnel, back to the sandstone, back to wandering around aimlessly amongst the trees and bees and spindly things. 

We saw Checkerboard Mesa. Crazy Quilt Mesa. Nippletop. Found a pullout and walked off on the sandstone, away from the road, away from the edifice of humanity. We ate lunch on the rocks, a picnic of popcorn and citrus and sandwiches and maybe a scone or two. And we wandered around, looking at the snow on the massive sandstone formations, watching it melt, watching the landscape change imperceptibly before our very eyes. 

And we bumbled along, much like the burros we saw the day before, wandering around without any goal other than to absorb the scene. And we got back in the car, drove around, found another pullout, explored yet another canyon. Saw some petroglyphs in the rock, carved by those who knew this place best. 

And we continued along, climbing, scooting, slipping on sandstone. Saw the rock turn from white to red to white again. Saw the lines in the rock, saw the infinite grooves and scars and divots and craters. Saw the water flowin' through the canyons, saw it caught up in big, circular pools. Some were clear, some were dirty. Some had life in 'em. Some were completely dead. And the day grew long and the sun kept on shinin', a cold, dry, wintery desert sun. And time didn't seem to exist. We just kept on exploring, taking in the whole thing, absorbing as much of it as we could. 

We followed this one canyon a ways, going along as it grew thinner and thinner. We had to turn around at several points; the whole thing would dead-end and we'd have to find another way to continue along. Through slow exploration, we finally found a good path, leading us up above the base of the canyon, on the side, avoiding a cliffy section with a few deep pools. 

We had found the entrance to a narrow slot canyon. Sheer walls, more than a hundred feet high, stood on either side of us. It was chilly in there; the sun unable to penetrate through the deep, red walls. Our steps echoed, our voices were loud, everything seemed to be magnified. And we continued along as far as we could, which turned out to be not that far at all. Slot canyons are usually pretty gnarly. This one was no different. Lacking sufficient gear, let alone a rope, we stopped, taking a small break. 

Looking up, the sky was a deep blue line, made more stunning against the contrast of the red cliffs. Looking back the way we came, we could see the faint rays of golden light, marking the entrance to the slot canyon. Golden light, red walls, blue sky. It don't get much better than that. But our legs were growing tired and we knew that sooner or later we'd have to leave, so we said our goodbyes and went back from whence we came, out of the slot canyon, out of the hills, out of the wash, back to the road, back to civilization. 

And our brief stay was coming to a close. Dinner that night was at a fancy restaurant, finished by a soak in the hotel jacuzzi afterwards. And in the morning we got a lazy start, deciding to drive down the main canyon just one last time. And so we did. And that was that—our sojourn in the high desert was over. Now all that remained was breakfast and the long drive back home. 

La Verkin, Hurricane, St George and beyond. We were back on the Interstate, back to the familiar humdrum routine of long miles, sore legs, and looking out the window. No climbers in the gorge. No bighorn sheep either. Much of the snow on the distant peaks had melted. Winter was slowly going away, making way for Spring.

Mesquite, Vegas, Primm. Jean is a ghost town. They've demolished everything except the biggest hotel, which now stands empty and vacant, the windows gone, the drapes flapping away in the wind. And we drove through the inspection gate and no one was there, not a single soul. Out in the desert, cutting through the Joshua Tree forest, we didn't spot a single burro. Oh well. Can't see 'em all the time. Maybe they were at the bar, shootin' the breeze. It's tough bein' a desert burro. Gotta take a break sometimes!

And then, several hours later, after driving through miles and miles of endless desert, we were back. And that was it; the trip was complete. Though it had only been three days it felt like we'd been there much longer. I suppose that means we had made the most of it. Hadn't been to Zion in almost two years so it was nice to finally get back out there. 

A Snowy Topa Topa Saunter

It stormed in the mountains on Sunday, the 26th, coating the high peaks of the wilderness in a blanket of white. A full, cloudless day followed, melting a good portion of what had fallen the previous day. On the morning of the 28th, I figured there wouldn't be much left. But there was only one way to find out for sure. 

There was a freeze warning that morning. The windows of my car were caked with a thin layer of ice. Used one of the cards in my wallet to scrape it off. I do not have an ice scraper in my arsenal. Didn't think I'd ever need one. Five minutes of vigorous scraping put up a good argument to change my mind. Might just have to make an investment...

The morning was quiet and calm. The sky, infinite and cloudless. Nick and I drove to the end of Sisar Rd and met up with Alex. No wind, no sound of any kind. Just the cold, crispy morning. We gathered our things and began our trek up the trail around 5:40am.

The morning continued to be defined by silence. We'd talk for a bit, speaking of things that are common subjects for the trail. And then we'd stop as soon as we'd started, with coughs, burps and snorts being the only things that disturbed the freezing, peaceful morning.

We walked under the shadows of the oaks, listening to the sound of the creek gurgling just off to the side. We crossed it once. We crossed it twice. The sky slowly changed from black to gray to a faint blue, the sun slowly cresting the frozen horizon. Clouds began to form, but they were benevolent clouds. High, soft, lofty—they appeared out of the morning sky and caught the first pink rays of the rising sun. 

The dirt road turned left and soon we were leaving the canyon. We could see the Bluffs now, looking cold and distant and quiet. To my surprise, there was still a decent amount of snow on them. We stood for a bit, admiring the view. I silently hoped that we would make it up there before the snow turned to slush. Wouldn't be no fun hiking in slush. Been there, done that. 

We continued up the road, the clouds growing in size. The sun was up now, but it was still hidden behind the mountains. Walking provided circulation, circulation heat, and heat sweat. Layers were removed. Laces tightened. Water ingested. We hit the junction with the Red Reef Trail and made our way up to White Ledge Camp.

The sky turned from pink to orange, the clouds stretching over the mountains in long puffy streaks. Hadn't heard any animals or seen any sign of animals all morning long. Must've been too cold. The ground became hard and crunchy the farther we went along. Frozen dew clung to some of the plants. A patch of snow here, a patch of snow there. We arrived to White Ledge Camp in good time, dropped our packs, and took the first real break of the day. 

A break at White Ledge Camp is customary. That's because the worst part of the day lays just ahead, that being the brief but steep climb to Nordhoff Ridge Rd. One could argue that an ascent up Topa Topa Bluff or Hines Peak is worse, but at least that ascent is fun. I don't know. There's just something about that brief section of trail from White Ledge to the road that just ain't fun. So naturally, we enjoyed a good long break, preparing our minds for the arduous walk ahead. 

We suited up and got going. There was still plenty of snow left over from the storm two days prior, hard, slick, and frozen solid. The clouds in the sky had now stretched wide and thin, turning the sky gray. And then in the course of mere minutes, the sun burned them away like they were marshmallows in a blast furnace.The sun crested the mountains, bathing the hillsides with brilliant golden light. Trillions of sparkles met our eyes, the light reflected off the snow a tad overwhelming to the retinas. Sunglasses were a must. Good thing we all brought 'em. 

There were tracks in the snow. They were deep set and had melted the day prior, the slush now frozen and slick. It was hard goin'. Our pace slowed. Calves began to burn. It was almost easier to make our own path in the snow than to follow the slick tracks. The morning drew long, whatever clouds that remained in the sky hung high and wispy, and the snow began to thaw, turning from slick to crunchy to something actually quite pleasant. 

We arrived at the ridge road. Visibility was excellent. No smog, no haze, no clouds of any kind blocked our view of civilization to the southeast.  The Santa Monica Mountains, Oxnard, Hueneme, Ventura, Sulphur Mountain and Upper Ojai were all clearly visible. Anacapa, Santa Cruz, and even Santa Rosa could be seen, each one stark and crisp amidst a brilliant and shining Pacific Ocean. It was one of the better views I've seen up there. And the snow seemed to elevate it into something really special. Don't know why. Snow just seems to beautify things. Makes things look prettier than normal, you know?

We walked up to Elder Camp, took off our packs, sat on the bench. The day had proven to be more difficult than Alex had imagined, so we decided to shift to Plan B, which was summiting the Topa Topa Bluff. Our original plan was to climb Hines Peak. This would not have been ideal. None of us had expected this much snow to still be up there, so of course none of us brought the adequate footwear. All of our shoes were completely soaked through. A slog up Hines in this much snow would require a little more preparation and gear. Preparation and gear that we severely lacked. 

And so, with the decision made, the day became a lot more enjoyable. Instead of 21 miles, we were looking at about 16. The whole vibe had shifted to something more relaxed. But we weren't out of the woods yet. A climb up the Bluff is still tough, and the snow would make it all the more miserable. So we donned our packs once again and started in the direction of the Bluff.

It looked like nobody had climbed the Bluff since the storm. The snow was shining, clean, untouched, pristine. We began the ascent, breaking through shin-deep snow one step at a time. We moved slow and steady, still enjoying the morning air. The views improved with each foot of elevation gained. Clear, nearly cloudless views that stretched for miles and miles. We'd stop often and take a breather, soak in the views, listen to the faint sound of melting snow. Silence pervaded. It seemed to be the theme of the day.

The snow was fine and powdery most of the way, which made the going easier than expected. It wasn't until we neared the top where things got interesting. The final slog to the summit proved to be the most challenging part of the day, the snow being thigh deep in some places. And unlike the powdery fluff that we had so graciously been traveling, this snow was hard and unforgiving. Breaking trail was a chore and a half, but slowly and surely we made our way, reaching the summit at 10:48am. 

There was a large bald spot on the summit that was free of snow. We dropped our packs and took in the views to the north, south and west, each one spectacular. To the west we could make out Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa Island, the Santa Ynez Range, some peaks of the Santa Barbara Backcountry and the entire Ojai Valley. We could even make out the oil rigs that rest off the coast by Highway 101. The mountains to the north had a light dusting of snow, less than I expected. There was probably a whole lot more on their northern slopes. Just for the fun of it, Nick and I hiked a few hundred feet east to get a look at Hines. It looked cold and intimidating. Probably a good thing we didn't climb it that day. 

West

 

North

South

We spent over two hours on the summit. Alex said something like, "Well, we worked our asses off to get here, so we might as well enjoy it." And enjoy it we did. The visibility seemed to improve the longer we remained. We sat, ate some food, replenished lost liquids. An occasional icy breeze would blow and send us ashiver, causing us to retreat to a windbreak of hardy, snow-encrusted chaparral. I even took a nap. Yep, just laid down on the cold dirt and took a 45 minute snooze. It's been a while since I'd been so casual on a hike. I gotta do that more often. 

We walked around the summit a few more times, took in the views, and then said our goodbyes. It was time to head back. We left the summit a little after 1:00pm, well rested and more than ready for the fun descent. 

Going down was a breeze. We just made a line and took it, zooming down the mountain, jumping through the snow. We weren't even trying to go fast. Gravity did most of the work, and before we knew it we were off the summit and back on the road. It took us 22 minutes. 

The snow had receded quite dramatically since that morning. The road was mostly slush, our footprints from earlier in the day having melted together exposing the brown earth underneath. The melt was well underway. The winter wonderland was disappearing. The slush gave way to mud, the mud slippery and oversaturated, the trail like a miniature stream in some sections. And then, just a little ways down the trail, the snow disappeared altogether. Just damp, squishy earth. Our feet, numb beyond sensation from the cold and wet, carried us down the trail, back to White Ledge, back to Sisar. The Bluffs looked absolutely magnificent in the afternoon light, the remaining snow still lingering on the cliffs, sparkling bright. The visibility continued to improve, the ocean so clear and bright it looked like a giant pane of glass. 

It was just after passing through White Ledge Camp where we saw the first person of the day. A lone dude making the long trek to see the snow. Wished us a "happy trails." Nick said he'd never been "happy trailed" before. Didn't know how to respond. And to be honest, I didn't either. "You too?" I suppose that's adequate. 

After that encounter, we saw just a handful of others. Another hiker. A trail runner. A mountain biker. Two people on E-bikes. We trudged along, descending through the oaks, crossing the creek, talking about food and food and more food. We made it back to the trailhead at 3:42pm, our journey from the summit of the Bluff taking a little less than three hours. 

It had been a good, long, relaxing day. Snow in the local backcountry is seasonal, so it was good to enjoy it while it was there to enjoy. 

The Cienega Overnighter

I have never visited Santa Paula Canyon. Never been up the east fork. Never been to Last Chance or Jackson Hole. Never even been to the Punch Bowls. I've never once set foot on that trail. Ridiculous, I know. Been all over this forest, done all kinds of crazy hikes and climbed all kinds of crazy mountains and seen all kinds of awesome swim holes—and yet I've never ventured on what some would say is the most popular trail in the county. I've driven by it hundreds of times. Never stopped. Why? Couldn't say. Figured I'd get around to it eventually. I suppose I was waiting for the right moment. 

Whelp, turns out that moment was New Year's Day, 2025. Me and a couple of coworkers cooked up this grand overnight backpacking trip that would take us through Santa Paula Canyon. New Year's day was the closest date where our schedules aligned. There was an opportunity, so we took it. 

We met at the trailhead at 8:00am, dressed warmly, the January sun cold and hazy. There were a few cars in the lot, all of them avoiding this pile of broken gym equipment that appeared to have been dumped and forgotten. Carl and Alex had their obligatory pre-hike smoke. Once that was done, we checked our gear, suited up, and set out a little after 8:15am, passing by some discarded Cookie Monster pajama bottoms right at the beginning of the trail. 

The trail crossed the creek several times. Alex joked that there were about "5 million" total crossings, a statement that soon turned into a mantra whenever we crossed the creek. I found the travel very easy and relaxing. The trail itself was well marked and easy to follow; several signs, rock cairns, and spray paint showed the way. We walked by the college, past the drilling rigs, each step taking me farther into a canyon of which I had never traveled. The farther I went, the more I kept thinking "why haven't I come here sooner?" Aside from the spray paint and other human detritus, the canyon was incredibly scenic, growing more beautiful the farther we ventured. 

We passed by the first people of the day, two old timers making their way to the Punch Bowls. We hit the switchbacks up to Big Cone Camp, our pace slowing ever so slightly because of the grade. There was a small neon green Cheeto lookin' thing hiding in the bushes on the side of the trail. Looked like an alien turd. Jokes about being abducted and probed later on in the night soon commenced after having viewed this strange neon object. Layers came off, sweat poured out, and soon we had made it past the switchbacks, dropping into Big Cone where we took the first real break of the day. 

We walked to an overlook of sorts where we could see a good chunk of Santa Paula Canyon. Carl pointed out the Punch Bowls for me. It was a bit strange seeing them for the first time. I've heard so much about them over the years; even seen a few pictures of some of the pools. But seeing them with my own eyes was a bit of a trip. I could finally put my own mental image to the stories. What was once imagined was now real. The Punch Bowls that I had previously pictured in my mind will never be the same.

There were a few people at the first punch bowl, all of them too scared to jump into the frigid water, their conversation a steady hum in the otherwise silent morning. We hung out at Big Cone for a while, relaxing in the cool mid-morning air, shooting the breeze, exchanging stories. Big Cone was in surprisingly good condition; we found very little trash and much of the graffiti had been washed away. Satisfied with our break, we started hiking again a little after 10:00am. The easy part was over. Everything from that point onward would start getting more difficult. 

We descended some switchbacks, hopped across some rocks, did some side-hilling, and then entered the east fork of Santa Paula Creek. At one time there used to be a trail that passed through here. Not anymore. Years of disuse and some major flooding have pretty much erased this trail from existence. There were a few remnants of it still lingering on the sides of the canyon, but we found sticking to the creek to be the most convenient form of travel. 

Some person had taken the time to flag the route. They used an excessive amount of flagging, the most generous and unnecessary flagging I've ever seen. We started to refer to this mystery person as "Flag Boy 805," sarcastically thanking him for showing us the proper route. The farther we travelled up the creek, the less tape we found. Flag Boy 805 must have realized that if he kept flagging every third tree in the creek he'd run out of tape. 

The canyon narrowed, the canyon spread wide, we skirted, slid, jumped, ducked, squatted and crawled our way up the creek. Flag Boy 805's trail markers became a rarity; we'd see them every now and then as we climbed up small waterfalls, ducked under deadfall, avoided poison oak, all the while trying not to roll an ankle or lose footing and fall into the creek. Though we hadn't travelled far, it felt as though we had been transported deep into the wilderness. Hardly any sign of human activity could be seen. That canyon was wild. Bear tracks, deer tracks, cat tracks galore. 

We took a little breather on a sandy bank, the creek rushing past us. Creek miles are much more taxing than they seem, and walking along with heavy packs was quickly diminishing our energy supply. We still had a ways to go, but spirits remained high and the beauty of the canyon provided us with more than enough motivation to carry on with our expedition. 

To my surprise, much of the canyon was brush-free. The last two winter storms of '23 and '24 really did a number here, completely gutting the canyon of most vegetation. That's not to say that the travel was particularly easy. Soon after our break, we began to quickly gain elevation, hopping up the canyon from one boulder to the next. So many boulders, so much debris. Eventually the canyon opened wide and clear before our eyes, the creek disappearing underground. It looked like we were ascending a boulder-strewn gully on the side of a mountain rather than a creek. Purple mud lined the sides of the canyon, giving the whole area a mystical vibe. Carl mentioned that we were getting close to the exit point; the purple mud serving as a checkpoint in his memory from the last time he was up the canyon. 

The creek reappeared once again, the purple mud subsided, and we found ourselves in a rather peaceful section of canyon with very little debris and deadfall. Carl took a nasty fall in this section, scraping his knee on a sharp log. He took a second to gather himself and then, after confirming to us that he was alright, we set off, our eyes scanning the sides of the canyon for the exit point.

Flag Boy 805 pulled through for us. We saw some tape up on the side of the canyon, shining bright orange amidst a wall of green. A small cairn confirmed that this was probably the exit point. Just before exiting the creek, we were all hit with an overwhelming scent of skunk. Carl thought that it was 100% marijuana, thinking that maybe there was a grow site nearby. Alex said that it was definitely skunk. They argued for a bit until Alex found the recently killed carcass of a skunk. Suffice it to say, things quieted down after that. 

We picked up the trail, following it as it steeply switchbacked its way through prickly brush and deadfall. Carl and Alex both mentioned that the trail was in much worse shape than when they did it last. After slogging it in the creek most of the day, this last little chunk was proving exceedingly difficult. We took another break, this time sitting in complete silence as the weak light of the sun shone through hardy pines that had somehow survived the Thomas Fire back in 2017. 

After our break we continued up the trail, following Flag Boy 805's path. We got turned around a few times. There were several animal trails that looked exactly like the old trail, each one possibly providing an easier route. We'd go up one and it would peter out, then we'd follow another and it would get us nowhere. Flag Boy 805 seemed to have been following waypoints on a GPS rather than the old trail. We soon found ourselves obviously off route, whacking through brush, sweaty, sticky, and covered with pollen. We took another break, Carl darting off ahead to look for more of Flag Boy 805's flagging. 

The brush was high, the brush was low, sometimes it was clear, sometimes it was soul-crushingly dense. Alex had started voicing remonstrances, his legs cramping up from the intense grade and constant bushwhacking. We started up again, calling after Carl. We heard him up ahead, lurking somewhere in the head-high brush. Told us to hang left and then go straight. We caught up with him, having once again found Flag Boy 805's sparse flagging. Alex whipped out the GPS and said that we were almost at Cienega. We broke through some scrub oak, skirted alongside some deadfall, and then entered a pretty meadow. We made a left and soon found ourselves in the shade of several oaks. I heard the rush of a creek, a good sign that we were nearing our destination. 

I set off ahead, following Flag Boy 805's flagging through dense riparian brush. There was this one awkward move that required climbing up and between two branches—a smaller one up top and a bigger one on the bottom. I picked up the trail a little ways after this obstacle, following it as it dipped down into another small creek and then up to a wide, flat area. It was slightly overgrown and littered with deadfall, but it was Cienega alright, and it looked amazing. I went on back to spread the good news.

Almost immediately after turning back I heard Alex yell and then shout obscenities. That tricky obstacle had proven difficult for him. Apparently the smaller branch up top had snapped and he fell head first, upside-down into the brush. Luckily he escaped with just a few scrapes and scratches. I told them that the camp was only about 300ft away. We high-tailed it over there, Carl and Alex about done for the day. 

We settled down, taking a long, long break. We'd gotten to the camp a little after 2:00pm. We had made good time, but the day had proven more difficult than we'd expected. We'd originally planned on hiking all the way to Bluff Camp, but that seemed highly unlikely at this point. Carl and Alex were both ready and willing, but I could tell that they were pretty beat and, with only three hours of daylight left, we decided to end our journey at Cienega. I was very happy with the decision. Spending the last few hours of the afternoon bushwhacking up a steep ridge didn't seem like a good way to cap off the first day of the new year. After we'd made our decision the evening suddenly took on a more relaxed tone. We could now sit back, relax and enjoy ourselves. 

We sat around the fire pit, lazily set up our tents, took stock of all of the tools that had been left at the camp. Cienega used to be the king of backcountry camps, Alex saying that he remembered it looking a lot like Steckel Park in Santa Paula. This is not the case anymore. It's still much nicer than a lot of the backcountry camps I've visited in the Los Padres, but nature is slowly taking it back. The 20ft table, oak benches, ice can stoves, and grill are all still there, but weeds, grass, and deadfall have choked up much of what was once clear. 

I spent some time scouting the water sources, finding a fairly deep pool a little ways north of the camp. We spent the last few hours of daylight chatting, telling stories, sprucing up the camp a wee bit. Stayed up late into the night huddling around the fire pit in the dark, talking about cats seeing into other dimensions, street fights, etiquette, and every now and then looking up at the twinkling stars. 

Sleep was hard to come by, but at least it wasn't freezing. The mornings had been quite frigid recently, but for whatever reason the cold that night seemed to pass us by. We woke late, around 7:00am. Carl and Alex had their coffee, I gnawed on a Cliff bar. We lingered around the camp for a bit, picking up some small pieces of trash, trying to leave the place better than we found it. We broke down the tents, filled up our bottles, and then said goodbye to Cienega, leaving camp a little after 9:00am. 

We disregarded Flag Boy 805's route, instead searching for the old trail. Sure enough, we found it pretty soon after leaving camp, following it as it faintly made its way underneath the oaks. Following the trail was significantly easier than the route we took the day prior, completely avoiding much of the brush that was causing us so much trouble. And the funniest part was that we were just next to it the previous day; we could see Flag Boy 805's flagging in the brush no more than 20ft off to our right. 

We managed to stick to the trail most of the time, having a much more enjoyable experience compared to yesterday's bushwhack. Worn and faded pink flagging marked the true trail, but this was few and far between. But it was fairly obvious where to go and before long we were back at the creek. Alex realized that he had lost a whole liter of water somehow; the bottle just up and jumped out of his pack and rolled off into the brush somewhere. Carl poked and prodded the skunk carcass, saying that he could make a hat out of it. We didn't encourage him. That thing was nasty. 

Travel in the creek was slow work, but we made our way down at a steady, determined pace. We stopped at our break spot from the previous day by the sandy bank and had lunch, Carl realizing that he had actually bivvied there once on one of his recent unsuccessful attempts at reaching Cienega. With bellies full, we continued on our journey down the canyon, hopping across boulders, down climbing small waterfalls, walking across fallen logs. 

The closer we got to the main trail, the more trash we found. We picked it up as we went along, Carl stuffing most of it in a bag he strapped on the top of his pack. We eventually made it back to the main trail, noticing the first people we'd seen since yesterday. Carl and Alex decided that it would be a good idea to check out the Punch Bowls since I'd never seen them. Plus, it would be a supreme opportunity to dip the ol' feet in some cool water and take a load off for a little bit. 

They showed me some of the pools, deep and emerald blue in color. I could see why they are so popular; they're some of the best swim holes I've ever seen. We made our way down to the first punch bowl, tossed our packs aside, and took a nice long break in the shade. It had grown unseasonably warm for some reason, the temps feeling like they were hovering in the high 70's. There were a few others gathered at this first punch bowl, some of whom were courageous enough to brave the frigid waters. Alex and Carl dipped their feet, I soaked my buff and hat and sat in the shade, watching the light sparkle off the crystalline blue water. 

The hike back to the parking lot was pleasant, at least for me. Being back on a well-worn trail was heaven for my feet. More people were out and about that day, all of them either heading to or coming back from the Punch Bowls. The Cookie Monster pajama bottoms were still there at the beginning of the trailhead, as well as the broken gym equipment. We met Dan in the parking lot, an old search and rescue guy that helped build the table up at Cienega. It was cool talking to him, hearing all his stories about the Los Padres back in the good ol' days. 

The trip had been a good one, not only as a great way to start the year but also as a great introduction for future explorations of Santa Paula Canyon. I can't believe I've waited this long to check out the place; it's one of the most unique, scenic, and oddly remote places I've been to in the Los Padres. There's a certain ruggedness to it, a feeling that it's more isolated and secluded than it really is. The opportunities for exploration are practically endless up there. We're bound to go back. Still gotta get to Bluff Camp. That place has been on my hit list for years now. I think it's finally time to check it off that list once and for all. Bluff Camp, I'm comin' for you!