Lassen Peak and Environs

We left town around noon, heading up the 101 towards San Luis Obispo. 'Twas the first day of 17 days of travel. As such, we didn't go too far. Stopped at Taqueria San Miguel and ordered some burritos, then checked in at the ol' Peach Tree Inn. Something was wrong on that bright sunny Monday afternoon on August 11th. Traffic everywhere, on every street, unavoidable. Perhaps the Gifford Fire was to blame. Perhaps not. To this day it is still an unknown, and it will remain that way forever...I am too lazy to investigate. 

The next day was the long drive up to Lassen Volcanic National Park. We'd be spending four nights there, tent camping at Butte Lake. The massive plume of the Gifford Fire could be seen to the south, rising above the small mountains like a mushroom cloud. To the north was nothing but haze. And the haze persisted, refusing to go away, a permanent resident of the central valley. At one point I took a wrong turn, taking the 46 instead of the 41. Started heading towards Bakersfield. Oh Heavens! Not Bakersfield! I flipped a U-ie and high tailed it back to the 41, adding an additional 15 minutes to our overall travel time. 

Kettleman City, Santa Nella, Lathrop, Stockton. Beautiful country, absolutely stunning. Especially Santa Nella. They still got the Pea Soup Anderson's there. Still alive and running. Still kickin' it. But we didn't stop. We had tracks to make. So long Hap-pea and Pea-wee. See yah when I see yah.

Thornton, Freeport, Sacramento, Woodland. Still heading north, still in the haze. To the west were these mountains and hills; the Berryessa Snow Mountain National Monument. Distant, dusty, hazy. Not a whole lot out there. And farther along, in Williams, was Granzella's. Ahh, Granzella's. They give Pea Soup Anderson's a run for its money. Saw about 32 trillion billboards for it on the way up the I-5. We didn't stop. Drove right on by. They didn't need our businesses; the place was packed.  Instead, we stopped at a rest area just outside of Willows and ate a picnic lunch on a bench in 96° weather. St. John Mountain could be seen in the distance. It did not look inviting.

Orland, Corning, Red Bluff and beyond. We stopped just outside of Redding at a Chevron to get some gas and ice. The gas was almost $5 per gallon. The ice as almost $5 per bag. And they didn't have no block ice. Only the silly cubed ice. However, as we soon learned from our travels, block ice is extremely hard to come by—about as rare as Astatine. How foolish we were seeking such a precious commodity! 

Apparently my countenance was disagreeable, perhaps a result of the high prices for dino juice and frozen water. The clerk, who looked exactly like Felipe Esparza, looked me in the eye and said, "Blink twice if you need help man." And then he put his hands up in the air and said, "Ahh, just jokin' dude, just joking." Grace found that rather funny. 

With a car full of fuel and an ice chest full of cold, we hit the 44 and drove towards the park. We passed through Shingletown, a little ol' mountain town where the gas was 40 cents cheaper. Not a whole lot going on in Shingletown, although the Deli and Pizza Place looked rather good. Not too long after that and we were finally in the park. The haze was gone, a thing of the past. Nothing but clear, crisp, mountain air.

Didn't spend too long in the park. Just got a little taste. Grace added to her collection of National Park coins, I eavesdropped on the conversation between Mr. Information and Ms. Inquisitive. Mr. Information was sitting behind the desk, answering the questions of Ms. Inquisitive like he was Chat GPT incarnate. Ms. Inquisitive kept asking about "bump-ASS hell, how long a drive to bump-ASS hell? How far a hike to bump-ASS hell?" And Mr. Information answered like a robot and resembled a robot low on batteries. The light behind his eyes was fading fast. The dude looked about done. 

We drove the 45 minutes from the park entrance to Butte Lake, the last six miles of the day spent on a dusty, graded road. We pulled into camp, set up our $35 tent, and then went for a little walk around the lake. Had to stretch the legs, get the blood moving and whatnot. Some people were out and about, mostly coming back from a brief dip in the lake. The southeastern shore of the lake was entirely made up of volcanic rock; just a small portion of the much larger "Fantastic Lava Beds." Nobody was over there—far too sharp for the feet.

We walked a bit until we found a spot that offered nice views of most of the lake. Some people were kayaking, others paddle boarding. They were all checking out the small islands of volcanic rock and cinders interspersed throughout the lake. We stayed at the spot for a few minutes, watching the light grow dim across the gentle surface of the lake. And then it was time to go, time to make pasta, time to sit down and pig out. 

That night, around 10pm, we attempted to view the meteor showers, the "August Perseids." We had no idea when or where they would appear, but we figured 10pm was a good a time as any to see them. We stood around on the northern shore of the lake for half an hour in the dark, gazing up at the sky, and saw absolutely nothing. Ah well. That was to be expected. 

The next day was Cinder Cone day. Being so close to camp, we didn't even have to drive to the trailhead. Just walked straight from camp to the base of Cinder Cone. And what is Cinder Cone? A gigantic anthill, that's what. Only thing missing is the ants. 

A steep trail cuts up the north side of Cinder Cone, the designated path for all the weary travelers seeking to gain the summit. It is steep and it is silly, causing much frustration and discouragement along the way. I would describe the trek as being as difficult as climbing a sand dune, but this is not accurate. Climbing Cinder Cone is much more difficult than climbing a sand dune. This is the truth, trust me on this. Climbing Cinder Cone is as difficult as climbing...well...Cinder Cone. There is no other comparison. 

Lassen Peak

We eventually made it to the summit, passing one group of disgruntled travelers along the way. It wasn't too busy up top, just a handful of people walking around taking pictures and enjoying the 360° views. Lassen Peak and the Chaos Crags could be seen in the west, snow still clinging to the rocks despite the summer heat. Northwest sat Prospect Peak, an extinct shield volcano covered in pine trees. To the south were the painted dunes, a small, colorful deposit of pumice and volcanic ash. Red, orange, tan, they stood in stark contrast to the dark volcanic rock that surrounded much of the area. Off in the distance was Snag Lake, a little blue jewel nestled in between dark volcanic rock and green forest. To the east we could see Butte Lake and the entirety of the Fantastic Lava Beds, the latter the result of Cinder Cone's life's work of projectile vomiting superheated rocks upon the earth's surface. We stood on the highest point of the rim, looking at all of this, and then decided it was time to crawl down into the small crater. 

Butte Lake and Fantastic Lava Beds

Not much to see in Cinder Cone's crater. Just a big ol' pile of rocks left by those silly enough to slide down the steep trail to the bottom. We climbed back out, took a few more pictures, and then started down the southern side of Cinder Cone. There's another trail there, and we found it to be much steeper than the standard route. Going down was nice and fun, but going up would be an absolute pain. That's probably why we didn't see a single soul using this trail to gain the summit. 

The trail spit us out near the Painted Dunes. We followed it as it snaked its way around the western side of Cinder Cone. Nobody was around. Very quiet, very peaceful. We found some shade and took a small break, laying on our backs in the comfy cinders. 

We eventually found ourselves back on the main thoroughfare. Traffic was light; only a few people were making their way to the summit. We walked back to camp and ate the rest of the pasta we'd cooked the previous night. And then it was time to do some exploring. 

So we drove out of camp, back down the heavily graded road to Highway 44.  We followed the highway to the junction with the 89, and then took a right and followed it for a bit before turning into the parking lot for "The Subway Cave." Temps were hovering in the low 90's, and a nice cool dark and quiet subway cave seemed like the perfect place to be at the time. So we walked the short trail to the entrance, climbed down the concrete stairs, and then disappeared into the massive volcanic tunnel.

There were surprisingly few people wandering around down there. At times, we'd have a whole chunk of the tunnel to ourselves. Nice and quiet, nice and cool. We spent a good 45 minutes down there, walking the entire length of the tunnel, and then turning around and walking the whole length again. When we finally emerged the heat was like a smack to the face and the light a punch to the gut. It took some time to adjust to these bothersome overworld conditions. 

Finally adjusted, we drove across the street and filled up our gallon jugs in Cave Campground, and then drove back to Butte Lake where we realized we shoulda bought more ice. Stupid no-good cubed ice! That stuff don't last. We'd have to bring the ice chest with us in the morning. 

The next day, we drove to Old Station and got us some more stupid cubed ice. It was all they had; not even good ol' Old Station had block ice. After that, we drove straight to the trailhead for Lassen Peak and immediately began the climb to the summit. 

This hike was definitely more popular than Cinder Cone. Multitudes of people were making the trek to the summit. Young folks, old folks, fit folks, not so fit folks. We saw trail runners and casual hikers, children under 10 and seniors over 70. Some were decked out in the latest hiking gear, others wore nothing but jeans, a T-shirt, a straw hat and sandals. We walked up the trail, passing people, people passing us, people going up and down at all times. We took several breaks, not really because we had to, but because the views were so nice. Every step gained in elevation revealed a little more of the surrounding country, until finally we were out of the trees and in the land of rocks and wind and snow and unobstructed views. 

It was only about 2 miles from the trailhead to the summit. We topped out on a flat spot, marked by information pillars. On these pillars could be found particulars on Lassen Peak, the geology of the summit, the last time it erupted, and the details of a particular type of butterfly that enjoys spending its time at high altitudes: the California Tortoiseshell. They were everywhere, noiselessly flapping around without a care in the world. Why they like to hang out on rocky, exposed mountains is beyond me. I wouldn't know; I didn't read the signs.

We walked through some snow and then scampered up the last steep little chunk to reach the true summit. This seemed to be where most people ended their journey. And for good reason. Almost the entirety of the park could be seen from the summit, the views some of the best I've ever seen. Much of the hazy central valley could be seen to the west, as well as the mountains of the Shasta-Trinity National Forest. To the southeast was Warner Valley and the gigantic Lake Almanor, situated well out of the park. To the east sat Prospect Peak and various extinct cinder cone volcanoes in various states of erosion, the titular Cinder Cone in the best condition. Off to the southwest could be seen Brokeoff Mountain, a remnant of the once gigantic Mt. Tehama. And to the north, standing wayyy off in the distance, rose Mt Shasta, California's northernmost 14er, the tallest thing visible on the horizon in all directions. 

We spent a good twenty minutes on the summit, had some lunch, looked at the views, observed Lassen's crater. This crater wasn't as straightforward as the one found on Cinder Cone; it was much more maze-like and rugged and crazy. We figured it would be fun to explore it. So we did. 

The Crater

Off the summit, down into the maze. Huge deposits of dacite, rock just barely over 100 years of age, lay scattered everywhere, appearing as obsidian with little dots of snowflakes trapped inside. We weaved in and out and around these rocks and many others, all of them sharp and jagged. It sounded like we were walking on shards of pottery, the rocks were so full of silica. After some exploration, we discovered the lowest point of the crater, full of snow and smelling ever so slightly of sulphur. Various yellowish boulders were likely the cause of the smell, but who's to say. 

Crater Low Point

After having our fun in the crater, we finally started our way off the mountain. This took practically no time at all, just a nice downhill glide back to the parking lot. Despite being much longer and involving a lot more elevation gain, the hike to Lassen Peak was significantly easier than Cinder Cone. That's just the way it is. Cinder Cone is a mean little mountain. It's not to be taken lightly.

We left the parking lot and drove over to the trailhead for what Ms. Inquisitive referred to as bump-ASS hell. We had to circle around a few times; the place was packed. Very popular destination, more popular than the Lassen Peak Trailhead. When we finally managed to nab a parking spot, we got out, gathered our things, and then made our way down the short trail to see what was so hellish about this Bumpass. 

Brokeoff Mountain

We reached an overlook of sorts, a spot where we could gaze down on an area of geothermal activity. We learned from the information pillars that Kendall Bumpass, a man who was mining the area during the 1860's, had fallen through the crust and burned his leg so badly in the boiling, acidic water that it had to be amputated. Ahh, Bumpass Hell. A fitting name, especially since the entire area reeks of sulphur. 

We walked down into hell, making a little loop. The place is like a miniature Yellowstone, with bubbling and gurgling hydrothermal features everywhere. Yellow rocks, sometimes painted red and green by various extreme organisms, defined the area, with the occasional turquoise pool and effervescent mud pot interrupting the scene. There were these European tourists squatting by one of the outlets of a boiling water feature. They were sticking their hands in the water, grabbing some of the gray mud and wiping it on their faces and legs. The water itself wasn't hot at all, I would know, I checked. But that don't mean that it's safe. It's highly acidic, and I found my finger slightly irritated after having dipped it in the water. Those tourists were in for a world of fun later on. I'm sure that mud would do much more than exfoliate, hahaha...

Bumpass Hell

We returned to the trailhead, Grace about done for the day. Not a whole lot more was left on the menu after our visit to Bumpass Hell. All that remained was a short drive down to the Kohm Yah-mah-nee visitor center and Suplur Works, the latter being a small bubbly mud pot right on the side of the road. Afterwards, on our way back to camp, we pulled off the side of the road and dipped our legs in Lake Helen, Lassen Peak rising directly in front of us. Felt good dippin' the dogs in the frigid water. An excellent way to end the day. 

Lake Helen and Lassen Peak

Our last full day in Lassen began with a lazy morning sitting around camp eating the last of the Pop-Tarts. Didn't have to be in the park until 10am, so we got to sleep in a bit and enjoy a carefree, easy morning. Afterwards, we drove to Manzanita Lake where Grace spent nearly $20 to paddle board around and around for an hour. I elected to stay on the shore and read. The lake was crystal clear and the underwater vegetation distinctly visible, but I didn't feel like gettin' wet. 

After her hour was up, Grace pulled into shore as dry as could be, impressing the paddle board renter. Then we had a simple lunch of sandwiches and potato chips on the lakeside, fueling up for the three hikes we had planned for the day.

After stopping along the side of the road to check out "Hot Rock," we set off for the first hike, Kings Creek Falls. We found a spot along the side of the road and then began the walk downhill through the burn scar of the Dixie Fire, an out-of-control inferno that burned almost 70% of the entire park. We kept our eyes busy looking at the snags, watching for the slightest movement. This trail, like the one to Bumpass Hell, was also very popular, with people of all ages walking along and doing their own thing. 

We eventually made it to the namesake falls, 30ft high, water tumbling off a cliff in torrents, pounding and grinding away at massive, rectangular black rocks. They were loud falls, requiring those observing them to shout in order to be heard above the roar. We stayed for a few minutes, enjoying the cascade, and then headed back up the trail, back to the car.

Kings Creek Falls

The next hike was to Cold Boiling Lake, a small geothermal feature just up the road. This was the shortest hike of the day and thank goodness for that. Grace and I both agreed that Cold Boiling Lake was not worth the effort. After walking through a dead forest of burned and twisted trees, the trail veered to the right towards a small meadow and even smaller lake. Occasional bubbles reached the surface of the lake, which was almost black in color. Interesting and pretty for sure, but there were definitely better things to see. In a park full of wonder and whimsy, this was the one thing that had the least of the two. We hardly spent any time at all at Cold Boiling Lake. On to the next attraction!

The last hike was the longest, a moderate trek to three alpine lakes, all downhill on the way in, all uphill on the way back. It was now mid afternoon, and many of the people who had spent the day at the lakes were making their way back. The first lake, Terrace Lake, was completely devoid of any people. We kept going, wanting to see what each lake looked like before deciding at which one we'd be spending most of our time. 

Terrace Lake

The next lake, Shadow Lake, was much larger and a whole lot more blue. Lassen Peak rose in the distance above its northwestern shore, still dormant, still sleeping. I had a feeling that this was probably the best lake that we'd see all day but we kept going, walking an additional mile or so to the final lake of the day: Cliff Lake.

This final lake was a little green thing situated beneath these streaked, gray cliffs. A couple other groups were there, all of them drying off, soaking in the rays of the sun. Little floating pieces of greenery could be seen in the water, as well as these teeny-tiny little bugs. We decided to turn around and head back to Shadow Lake. Unlike Cliff Lake, it had no floaters or bugs, at least those visible to the naked eye. 

Back at Shadow Lake, we jumped in, swam around, got cold, got out. The water was a deep cobalt blue, so clear it was like looking through glass. I swam out a fair distance and could see several large fish swimming beneath me, paying me no mind. It was a good swim at a good lake, and we had the whole thing to ourselves. We spent most of our time there, enjoying the scenery, watching the sun slowly sink closer and closer to the horizon.

We ended the day at the "Devastated Area," a short, easy walk full of informative signs that describe the events of the most recent Lassen eruption. After that, and we were done, driving out of the park, our exploration complete. All that was left was to stop at Old Station, praying that they would have some block ice this time.

As fate would have it, Old Station had four pieces of block ice left. Hallelujah. Little did we know that this would be the last block ice we'd see for the remainder of the trip, but we didn't care. For three dollars, we had guaranteed coolness for three days. Ahh, block ice. What a wonderful thing! 

And that was about it with our stay in Lassen. Cooked up some quesadillas for our last meal, had some Milano cookies, and then called it a night. Had a long drive in the morning. We'd need our sleep. 

Third Time's the Charm

In early May of this year, I attempted a fun little loop in the Santa Barbara front country. Starting at the southern terminus of the Tunnel Trail, I'd walk to the base of Arlington Peak, climb it, walk over to Cathedral Peak, and then climb La Cumbre Peak. After that, it would be a nice downhill walk on Camino Cielo Rd to the northern terminus of the Tunnel Trail, which I'd take all the way back to where I started. A shorter hike it would be, no more than 9 miles. Lots of elevation gain for sure, but nothing worse than what I've already experienced in the past. 

I failed in that attempt because of hubris. Scrambling back down the steep east ridge of Arlington Peak in defeat, I promised to myself that I'd be back and much better prepared. Well, three days ago I came back and I was not better prepared. I gave it another go with only a single bottle of water, thinking that maybe since I knew the route I'd be able to do it more efficiently, hence the need to bring only one bottle of water. Early August heat said otherwise, and I found myself, yet again, scrambling back down the steep east ridge of Arlington Peak in defeat.

That last trip wasn't nearly as bad as the first however, as I not only made it farther than last time but also turned around well before dehydration set in. Being efficient on the trail was all well and good, but the heat was rapidly diminishing my meager water supply so I made the call to turn around before things got thirsty. On the way back, I took extra time to study the intricacies of the route so as to be absolutely certain on where to go for my upcoming third attempt. No wrong turns, no mistakes, no wasted energy. If I couldn't do it on my third attempt, well, that would be just plain embarrassing. 

So I set off yesterday morning with 2½ liters of water and a Clif Bar, bound yet again for the Tunnel Trail. The haze from the Gifford Fire drifted through the air, looking a lot less dense than it did the night before. As I drove up to Santa Barbara, the haze moved north, the visibility of the area drastically increasing with each passing second. By the time I made it to the trailhead, the haze was practically gone. I had a window, a moment of respite. I took this as a good sign.

Like the previous two times I've been there, I had to park in the overflow lot down the street from the trailhead. Seems like this trail is always busy, no matter the time or day. Many hikers and bikers and trail runners were coming in and going out, performing their routines, getting some fresh air. I trucked on up to the base of Arlington Peak, walking at a steady pace, ignoring the mid-morning heat. 

After dropping into Mission Creek, I gained the ridge to Arlington Peak without stopping. Having done it just two days prior, the route was crystal clear in my mind. No surprises, no wrong turns. I knew where it was steep, where it flattened out, where I had to scramble, and, most important, where I could avoid the scrambling. I walked with a measured pace, drank when I was thirsty, stopped every now and then in what little shade I could find. La Cumbre Peak loomed in the distance, the lookout tower on its summit minuscule and insignificant. 

La Cumbre Peak

It was much hotter than it was the last two times I'd done this scramble; the heat emanating off of the sandstone boulders making it feel all the more worse. But I had water and I had knowledge, and those two things helped me get up the steep east ridge of Arlington Peak lickety split. I was pouring sweat, completely soaked, my eyes stinging and my sunglasses blurry and smeared. I'd stop in the occasional patch of shade, let my sweat drip off my fingers and water the surrounding thirsty chaparral. Had to do my part. Couldn't let all that sweat go to waste!

With patience and discipline, I slowly made my way to the top, reaching the summit in just under an hour and twenty minutes. I plopped down in the shade of some manzanita and stared at the sky, allowing my heart rate to return to its normal rhythm. I had already burned through an entire liter of water, but, unlike the last two times, I had more. I wasn't worried, wasn't even that thirsty. One peak down, two more to go. 

View west from Arlington Peak

I spent ten minutes resting in the shade. And then it was go time. I wandered over to Cathedral Peak, a task that was SIGNIFICANTLY easier than the climb up Arlington. Now that I was no longer huffing and puffing and sweating my brains out, I could slow down and take the time to enjoy the scenery. I could see the haze from the fire stretching out over the pacific ocean in a long gray line, could see teeny-tiny structures of civilization in the west, microscopic homes, nanoscopic roads. To the north sat La Cumbre Peak, brushy and tall, and to the east I could see the Tunnel Trail, a tan line cutting through the chaparral, snaking its way downward from Camino Cielo toward Mission Canyon and out of sight. 

Cathedral Peak

I reached the summit of Cathedral Peak with a quick scramble, located the register and sorted through the booklets. Cathedral Peak has one of the most unorganized registers I've ever seen, even giving the Topatopa Bluff register a run for its money. Inside were bunches of booklets, all full, pages missing, dates out of order. I didn't even bother signing it; far too chaotic. Instead, I sat for a few minutes and looked at the view, my gaze mostly fixed on La Cumbre Peak directly north. Oh yes. Two down, one to go. 

View east, Arlington Peak right

La Cumbre Peak

I scrambled down Cathedral Peak back to the "trail" and then headed west, following footprints and black arrows graffitied on the rocks. I followed a ridge of sorts, then made a hard right, and then it was down, down, down. I passed the spot where I turned around two days prior, excited to finally see some new country. Much of the path was heavily shaded, offering a nice break from the sun. I slipped and skipped down to the saddle in between Cathedral and La Cumbre, taking a little breather before the inevitable slog. 

La Cumbre from the saddle

Nice, shady path

Back to the grade, back to the sweating. Though it wasn't as steep as Arlington's east ridge, the south face of La Cumbre had plenty to say for itself. Some parts were shady, some were not. Some parts were flat, sometimes I even went downhill, but for the most part it was a nice steep slog with some minor scrambling involved here and there. About halfway up, I noticed a register placed in between two rocks. The register was for La Cumbre Peak, but for some reason it was placed halfway down the mountain. Very strange. I signed it, drank some water, and kept going. 

Strange register

Some scrambling required

Things remained steep. In fact, steep was the word of the day. Already tired from their mid-morning workout on the gigantic staircase that is Arlington Peak, my legs weren't too happy about this. Started to cramp up, started to lose momentum. But I stuck to it, gaining elevation one step at a time. 

I reached some pine trees, grateful for their spotty shade. Water and rest, water and rest. To the south was Cathedral Peak, and a little to the left of it sat Arlington Peak. Santa Barbara spread out far below, a bit hazy from the smoke. The winds had changed, but they were making a slow go of it. The smoke eased into town at a glacial creep, the air quality still pretty good all things considered. Not wanting to waste any more time, I gathered up my things and kept going.

Almost there...

After hopping up and around a few boulders, the grade lessened and I found myself walking on fairly flat ground. Ahh yes, the summit was close. It was at this point where the trail I had been following branched off in many different directions. I decided to follow the one that looked the most well-trodden. Sure enough, this one led me the rest of the way to the summit. It took me just over an hour to walk from Cathedral Peak to La Cumbre. Very steep country indeed.

View from La Cumbre, Arlington Peak right

The lookout tower on La Cumbre was sectioned off with fence and covered in graffiti. I spent about three minutes there, looking at the views, resting on a little picnic bench. Nobody else was up there, but I could tell that the place gets a lot of traffic. Being so close to the road and with such tremendous views, I could definitely see why this is such a popular spot. 

Instead of cutting directly down to the road, I decided to take a path that headed east off the summit. It looked like it connected with the road eventually, offering scenic views in all directions. Along the way, I observed the Santa Ynez Mountains stretching before me, making out Monte Arido and Old Man Mountain wayyy off in the distance. Even the Topatopa Bluffs could be seen, their distant, ghostly silhouette observable through the haze. To the north were mountains of the Santa Barbara backcountry, mountains about which I know almost nothing. And to the south was the great expanse of the pacific ocean, the Channel Islands obscured from view in a smoky fog. 

The trail ended at the road, and for a while it was simple, boring, road walking. At least it was downhill. I coasted down the paved road, looking forward to the soft dirt of the Tunnel Trail. Every once in a while I'd stop and take a picture of the view to the south, observing the route I had travelled earlier that morning. Two cars drove by, neither one of them stopping at any of the numerous pullouts along the side of the road. Just going for an early afternoon drive I suppose. 

View from Camino Cielo Rd

I reached the northern terminus of the Tunnel Trail in what seemed like no time. There was one car parked up there, a stark contrast to the numerous cars parked at the southern terminus. I drank some more water snd then made my way down the trail, glad to be back on dirt. From then on, it was a nice, easy, downhill glide back into civilization. 

Down the Tunnel Trail, Mission Ridge center right

I only saw one other person on the Tunnel Trail; a sweaty, shirtless guy in his mid 40's huffing his way up to Camino Cielo. Perhaps that was his car up there. Perhaps not. No words were exchanged. Just nods. 

As I made my way down the trail, I saw Mission Ridge looming in the distance. Some neurotic part of my brain told me to climb it, much to the protest of my legs. I decided to see how I felt when I got to the base of it. Sure enough, when I got to the base of it, I gave it a little looksie. Curiosity got the better of me; I just had to see what was up there.

Mission Ridge

Whelp, as it turns out, there ain't a whole lot up on ol' Mission Ridge. No register, no benchmark, no table, no magical forest creatures. I reached the top and sat down, impressed with the view. Being lower than any of the peaks I'd climbed that day, I could make out some of the landmarks in Santa Barbara. Ahh yes, there's the pier, the Mission, the courthouse, State Street and the like. A pair of binoculars would do one good on Mission Ridge, especially on a clear day. 

Top of Mission Ridge

Directly below me sat the twists and turns of the Mission Canyon Catway, a popular path for mountain bikers. I could hear two of them, shouting about unknown things. And then I could see them, zooming down the path on what looked like E-bikes. 

Satisfied with the view, and still having plenty of water to drink, I made my way off Mission Ridge and back to the Tunnel Trail. I trotted the rest of the way down, using gravity to my advantage. To my surprise, I caught up with the E-bikers who I'd seen from Mission Ridge. They'd left the Catway and were heading down the Tunnel Trail now, and both of them were walking their bikes. Seems like they weren't too confident with the sharp turns and multiple rocks. 

I made it back to the southern terminus, completing the hike in just under four hours and forty-five minutes. My six-year-old running shoes probably weren't the best to wear for a hike such as this, but they carried me the whole way fine enough. My only regret is that I wasn't better prepared the first time I attempted this hike, way back in May. Ok, and maybe the 2nd time I attempted it three days ago. All I needed was some more water. That's it. Just water. But I'm glad I did it and did it right this time. Third time's the charm!

Dehydrated Contemplations on the Nordhoff Lookout Tower

A couple of days ago I went for a walk up the Pratt Trail to the Nordhoff Lookout Tower. I pulled into the parking lot near the top of Signal Street, hardly an open space to be seen. Lots of morning hikers, still out on the trail, were likely making their way back to their vehicles. It was almost 11am. The heat was imminent. 

I set off with only a single bottle of water. I've done this hike many times before, its twists and turns no longer a mystery. I knew where to push, when to hold back, where to rest in the shade. I knew, from past experience, that a single bottle of water was all I needed in order to enter the throes of mild, slightly dehydrated discomfort while still enabling me to complete the entire hike. Discomfort was the goal. I had a belly full of burrito and head full of thoughts. I needed to reflect on those thoughts, meditate on them. And slight discomfort was just the catalyst I needed to begin my contemplations. 

The trail was busy at first, the morning hikers passing me by every few minutes. Most of them were elderly folk. One had a Garmin inReach Mini strapped to his pack. Another said to his hiking partner, "It sure is nice out now, but it's gonna get hot!" I'd be the judge of that. So far, I wasn't even breaking a sweat. The temperatures were hovering in the low 80's, warm for sure but not what most would call "hot." Especially without any humidity. 

For the past month, I'd been in the land of humidity. No matter where I was—sitting on the rocking chair on the porch reading a book, walking to the store, riding a bike on country roads, splitting wood, eating under the veranda of a restaurant, sitting on a boat—the humidity was there and it was loud and it was all-up-in-my-business. Instead of fighting it, I befriended the humidity, and the two of us got along swimmingly. Now that I was on Pratt, no longer enveloped in the wet embrace of humidity, this dry heat almost felt cold to me. It was a strange sensation; I felt like an imposter. 

I walked along, my legs falling back into hiking rhythm. I hadn't hiked since June 12th. They were a wee bit rusty I'll admit, but there are some things that the body just never forgets. Muscle memory is a fantastic thing. Once I made it to Foothill Rd, I had finally found my groove, the walking no longer awkward.

Why hadn't I hiked since June 12? Big changes. Moved to Tennessee. That took some time. Since the beginning of this year, we've been packing, little by little. And then we crunched it all together in a big ol' week-long packing extravaganza and that was it—we were gone. 

Took us five days to travel across the country. Long days, lots of miles, lots of beautiful scenery. I watched as the environment changed before my eyes, ever so slowly, as we made our way from west to east. Dry, dry, desiccated land, full of thirsty plants and dusty animals. And then we reached New Mexico and the sky was one cloud and it rained so hard we could barely see anything through the windshield. Desert storms. They are something else. Lightning, wind, hail and rain, lots and lots of rain. And the washes become flooded with brown water and the dusty plants rejoiced, and then the sun came out and the water disappeared and the hail melted and it was like the storm never happened at all.

And then the mountains disappeared, and the dusty plants turned into endless fields of grass. Bushland, Amarillo, Texola, Elk City. Flat, monotonous, agoraphobic country. No storms, just miles and miles of puffy clouds in neat little rows. And then off into Arkansas and the mountains came back, kind of. They're really just tree-encrusted hills but that's alright; they're a welcome sight after hundreds of miles of featureless country. It was in Arkansas where I met my friend humidity, and the two of us stayed together until I went inside. Humidity ain't allowed inside. Those are the rules. 

We crossed the Mississippi. Saw the Bass Pro Shop Pyramid. Drove through Memphis. Off into Nashville. And then, finally, out in the distance, there they were: mountains! Real mountains, looming in the distance, big and tall and prominent and rugged and covered in trees. Did I explore them? No. Not yet. But I will. Gonna have a lot of opportunities to go wandering through them in the future. But for the moment, they were out of reach. The move was priority #1. 

The days went by fast and slow. Lots of time spent with family. Lots of great dinners. Occasionally we'd go off into the country and observe the scene. Fishin' in the river. Swimmin' in the lake. I got to know the area by riding my bike along the country roads, my clothes soaking wet and my eyes stinging with sweat by the end of the ride. But it was worth it. 

In the afternoon, or at night, or in the morning, or whenever it felt like it, the sky darkened and these big ol' thunderstorms blew in. We'd sit on the porch and watch the lightning, counting the seconds until hearing the thunder boom in the distance. And on a clear night, with nothing better to do, we'd sit and watch the lightning bugs flicker and dance, sometimes catching one with our bare hands. An unhurried, easygoing lifestyle emerged, our bodies adjusting to the environment, our behavior mirroring the relaxed scenery and weather. I was beginning to feel lackadaisical, but in a good way. 

But my car was still in California. I was the relief driver for the trek out to Tennessee. Had to leave my car behind. Well, I didn't have to, but it gave me a good excuse to go back. Needed to get my car. So on the 27th, my sister and I flew back out to California to retrieve my vehicle. And since we're both unemployed at the moment, we decided that now would be the best time to go on a big ol' road trip. Why just drive straight back to Tennessee? We've got money saved up, plenty of time, so why not explore? 

So, for the moment, I'm back in town. I feel like a stranger here, even though I've only been gone for a month. Though the scenery is familiar it feels like it's missing something. I don't know. What's the saying? "Home is where the heart is." Perhaps there's some meaning to that. Who knows...

Anywho, these were the things I was reminiscing as I walked to the end of Foothill Rd. It was there where I reacquainted myself with one of my favorite creatures, the musical snake. It is musical because it has a rattle on its tail, a master of percussion. This musical snake didn't play any music for me this time, it just slithered across the road into the shade. I kept a wide berth; it was a biggun.

I reached the terminus, walked through the gate, and continued up Pratt. I saw the last morning hiker walk by. After that, I had the whole trail to myself. I sipped some water and began to sweat, the temps now in the mid 80's. Up, up, up, under the oaks, across a dry creek, right turn on the single track, following the mountain bike tracks, up, up, up. Nothing but sun, views, and the distinct perfume of chaparral. The minutes ticked by. I continued to think. 

I had an idea, out in Tennessee, that I'd walk a section of the JMT when I got back to California. It's something that I've wanted to try since 2022. Each year, I back out of it, for whatever reason. As I was hiking up Pratt, I was pondering, yet again, whether or not I should back out. I was ready, I had all of my gear (minus a rain jacket, oops!), I had a permit, a map, and the physical fitness required to complete such an endeavor. The weather looked perfect; nothing but sunny days and mild winds. No major wildfires, no smoke. It was lookin' to be a grand ol' time, a perfect opportunity. But deep down, something was bothering me. And so I chewed on it, ever since the plane landed, and I was still chewing on it as I climbed up Pratt.

View south

The burrito was sitting like a brick in my stomach. My water went from cool to lukewarm to just plain warm. The strenuous grade was beginning to test my lazy legs. I walked and pondered, walked and pondered, slowly making my way up to the end of Pratt. I weighed the pros and cons, thought of alternatives, thought about many, many things as the sun beat down on my head and the gnats swarmed my eyes. I reached the end of Pratt, turning right towards the lookout tower. I was down to less than half a bottle of water. My urine was a light, golden color. I could feel the salt on my face and the cramps just starting to form in my calves. Ahh yes. This is what I wanted. Though it may not seem like it, these are the perfect conditions for deep thought. They help clear the noise in the mind, removing all the unnecessary thoughts, wiping the slate clean except for those that really matter. 

I reached the tower, took a sip of water, climbed the stairs, and then sprawled on my back with arms and legs outstretched like a starfish. I stayed there for almost 30 minutes, letting the answer come to me. And sure enough, like a baseball to the head, it hit me: I wouldn't go on the hike. Why? Two reasons: One, I'm lazy, and Two, I'm anxious. Plain and simple. I ain't ready for multi-day solo backpacking, no matter how great the weather or how well-traveled the route. I wouldn't enjoy myself. I'd be worrying about too many things. So I'll stick to day hikes for now. That's the way I roll.

East(ish)

Satisfied with my revelation, I got up and began the trek back down to the parking lot. I took my time walking down the stairs, grabbing onto the metal, feeling the rust and the grooves of those who've scratched their names there. I didn't know when or if I'd ever see the ol' tower again, so I spent a few extra minutes saying goodbye, not that the tower would care. I took some pictures, looked around, and then jogged back down to the ridge road, running the downhills and walking the flats parts.

It was certainly warmer, but I still wouldn't call it "hot." Sure there were pockets of hot air floating around, but a cool breeze would show up and whoosh it all away. I trotted down the trail, my bottle nearly empty, the sun bright and the air dry. I was feeling good, happy upon reaching a decision, my mild dehydration just a slight annoyance. I banged out the rest of miles in no time, stopping only occasionally to take a picture or two.

I saw not a single soul on my way back. The parking lot, nearly full when I got there, was now empty save for one other vehicle. The occupant was a shirtless, tan, bearded white dude with dreadlocks, and he was kinda just chillin' there without a care in the world. I started up the car and then drove to a drinking fountain where I relaxed in the shade and replenished my slightly dehydrated self back to its default setting. 

And that's about it. My sister and I will be in town for a little bit, checking out some local stuff, going on some hikes for the last time and whatnot. And then, its off to the road. Got the whole thing planned out. Got some primo spots to check out on our way back to Tennessee. Very exciting stuff. And I'll be sure to write about it.