Antimony Peak, Eagle Rest Peak

06/04/25

Ah yes, time for another knee-basher. This one's been on the list for a long time. Two peaks, eleven miles, 5,500ft of elevation gain. Absolutely disgusting. I was wary of trying this for a while, not wanting to attempt it until I got a few other peaks under my belt. Even then, after climbing Cara Blanca, Cobblestone Mountain and White Ledge Peak, I was still wary. I studied the route for a good week, the most work I've ever put into preparing for a route. I read an invaluable trip report by Iron Hiker several times, memorizing every detail no matter how minute. If I was gonna do this, I was gonna do it as quickly and efficiently as possible. 

I awoke the morning of June 4th with a groggy mind and no determination. I did not want to climb these peaks. I knew I had waited too long, I knew the foxtails would be out in full force, I knew the weather would be hot and the brush thick and the grade—hellish. But sometimes you just gotta do things. And so I willed myself out of bed, ate a quick breakfast, and then hit the road. The long drive didn't help settle the nerves. Just gave me more time to stew.

It was a foggy morning, the marine layer stretching almost all the way to Gorman. No longer protected from the sun, the surrounding country beamed with warmth, the sun bombarding the ground with heat and light. I got off the I-5 and turned onto Frazier Mountain Park Rd. I took this all the way to Cuddy Valley Rd, following it until I reached forest route 9N22.

This road was an absolute pain in the neck. Deeply rutted, I barely made it past the worst obstacles. Things mellowed out once I turned left onto 9N19. Hardly any ruts, relatively smooth. It was easy driving the rest of the way to the trailhead. I parked in the shade and observed my first objective of the day, Antimony Peak.

I could see it through the pinyon pines, looming to the north. The summit was almost at eye-level, which meant that I'd have to descend a ways to a saddle before I could climb it. Starting a hike by going downhill is nice, but it ain't so nice on the way back. I left the trailhead and began a steep descent down an abandoned road, keeping in mind that I'd have to climb up all of that nonsense on my return. 

The morning was cool, but I could tell that it wouldn't last long. I enjoyed every second of the lovely early morning weather, walking in the shadows of the pinyon pines, steadily losing elevation until I reached a saddle. Antimony Peak rose tall overhead, its southeast face glowing bright and white in the morning sunshine. I started up the thing without any hesitation, trudging up the switchbacks, avoiding the occasional patch of yucca.

The trail, which used to be a road, was easy to follow but very steep. All focus shifted to climbing the mountain. Heavy breathing and profuse sweating ensued, but I kept going, refusing to stop. I found a cadence that I could maintain and trucked the rest of the way, enjoying the view of Pine Mountain Club to the west. 

Eagle Rest Peak

Eventually the grade lessened and I found myself on a saddle of sorts; before me was an open patch of country between two forested areas to the west and east. I could now see my second objective, Eagle Rest Peak, sitting to the northwest. It looked distant, hot, uninviting—an absolute pain in the butt to reach. I stopped looking at it for a bit, shifting my focus on summiting Antimony. I turned east and followed a use trail through the scraggily pinyon pines and occasional scrub oak. 

Antimony Summit

I topped out on the summit in no time, the short climb from the saddle obvious and pleasant. I quickly found that Antimony didn't have much of a view, which was OK. What I could see was plenty pretty. Views to the south revealed Mt Pinos and Company, southeast sat Tecuya Ridge, and way off in the distance was Frazier Mountain, the radio tower on its summit tiny but visible. To the east I could see the haze of Bakersfield, the distant mountains obscured in a thick film of translucent vapor. I sat down, rested my legs, allowed my heart rate to return to a more reasonable BPM. Couldn't hear no birds, couldn't hear no bugs. It was quiet up there, just me and the rocks and the foxtails and the pinyon pines. 

I located the register, placed by Christopher Lord on July 5th of 2021. The most recent entry was from April 25th of this year. I left my marks, chugged a bunch of water, and then scurried off the summit. It had taken less time than I had imagined to climb Antimony, which left more time available to tackle Eagle Rest. To be honest I didn't really want to climb Eagle Rest at all, but I'd come all this way and it was still early so I figured hey, what the hell. I returned to the saddle and headed west, into the woods, following a faint use trail that quickly lost elevation. Ah man. No turning back now.

I followed the use trail down the northwest side of Antimony, thinking about nothing but the climb BACK UP THE THING. Yep, the cool aspect of this hike is that there's more elevation gain on the way back than there is on the way in. Easier on the way there, harder on the way out. Gotta love that. 

Pinyon, scrub oak, buckthorn, deadfall—all of it was there but it wasn't awful, at least not yet. The use trail was faint but well marked with cairns; I had little trouble figuring out where to go. And when I did? Well, I developed a little mantra: "When in doubt, just go down!" That seemed to work. I finally reached a saddle after descending for a while, looking up at an additional obstacle I had to surmount. 

Before me was Peak 6000, a little bump that separates Antimony from Eagle Rest. I climbed up the northern face in no time, the brush minimal and the use trail very obvious. I topped out on the sunny summit and took a small break. This peak had poorer views than Antimony, but it was still a nice little mountain. A small cairn marked the summit, no USGS marker, no register, nada. I looked around, saw nothing of particular interest, and then made my way off the summit towards Eagle Rest.

Peak 6000

The descent of Peak 6000 was much more difficult than the ascent. I was on the shady side of the mountain now; more foxtails, more pokey things, more obstacles, less use trail. At times it disappeared altogether, leaving me no choice but to bash my way through thick bunches of scrub oak. My mantra of "when in doubt, just go down!" no longer held much validity, as the way straight down was usually met with impassable brush. Had to be smart about it now, zigzagging and dodging and weaving, had to find the path of least resistance. Common sense and experience with off-trail navigation proved supreme, and I soon found myself out of the brush on an exposed saddle, standing shin-deep in foxtails and covered in pollen, leaves, dirt, and sweat. 

San Emigdio Canyon

I thought that the worst of the brush was over at this point, but nope. Soon after walking through the field of foxtails I was hit with another wall of brush. I did not find the easiest way through that mess. Being too hasty I was, much too focused on getting a quick summit. This cost me precious time and energy, but I did manage to stumble on an old abandoned camp, which was interesting. Cans, bottles, an old stove, and what I assume to be the remnants of a tent and sleeping bag littered the ground, worn and weathered by years of sun and wind and rain and snow. Why anyone would want to camp in the middle of a brushy ridge is beyond me. Perhaps they were looking for gold or something. Who knows.

It wasn't long after finding the old camp when I finally got through the worst of the brush and began the sharp ascent of Eagle Rest. This was the steepest peak of the day, with most of it being exposed to the sun. I made my way as quickly as I could up the thing, sweat drippin', heart poundin' legs achin'. I lost the use trail, now slogging up a steep slope covered with thousands of golden foxtails. Eagle Rest Peak? More like Foxtail Peak. Them little bastards were everywhere, cramming their seeds in every possible nook and cranny in my shoes, socks, and pants. I didn't stop to take any out; would just get more on the way back. So I kept on truckin' and slogging my way up the steep slope through the field of foxtails, my feet sinking in the dirt with every other step. 

I reached the cliff band out of breath, heart racing, my legs weighed down by the additional 5,000lbs of foxtails hiding in my shoes and socks. I looked up at a wall of sandstone, steep, crumbly, dotted with manzanita here and there. According to the existing literature, the way up this cliff band should be no harder than Class 3. Unfortunately, I had lost the use trail, and resorted to scanning the cliff band for the easiest way up. Most of it was Class 5, some of it was sketchy Class 4. I shimmied on up the cliffs, pressing myself against the sandstone, the manzanita serving as a buffer to the drop-off. I eventually found something that could be defined as Class 3, a short little climb with good holds and little exposure. With that done, I could now see the summit block. It was close, no more than 500ft away. I slowly made my way to it, climbing up a very steep slope, using the occasional chaparral to hoist me onward. 

I stopped just east of the summit block, noticing a little register under a rock. I set down my pack and scurried up some Class 2/3 nonsense to get on top of the block. I had to wrap around the north side as I was unable to find an easy way from the east. As I made my way around, I noticed another register with a skull and crossbones on it hiding under the summit block. Huh. Two registers? I'd have to check that out on my way down.

The summit block was easier to climb than the way I took to surmount the cliff band. I scurried up the thing with little issue, standing on the airy summit and taking in the impressive views of the surrounding country. Man, I sure didn't find the easiest way up that mountain. But hey, it worked out and I'd made it. Even though I'd only walked about 5.5 miles, it felt as though I was deep in the woods, standing on a remote mountaintop in the middle of nowhere. To the north was the hazy expanse of the San Joaquin Valley, to the west rose San Emigdio Mountain, tall and rugged. East revealed Lost Canyon and distant mountains of which I am unfamiliar. And south, well, I didn't much like the view south. Looking south revealed all of what I had left to hike; all the thorns, sticks, twigs, foxtails, scrub oak, manzanita, all the gains and losses in elevation, the steep descents, the steeper ascents. Ahh man. The real hike was just getting started.

East

West

I left the summit block and checked out the register with the skull and crossbones on it. Turns out the crossbones were actually ice axes—real creative stuff right there. Would shiver Blackbeard right to the timbers I tell yah. Anyway, as soon as I opened it, about 100 earwigs spilled out of the thing, squirming and twirling around in the dirt. I let out a gasp, a little shocked by the unexpected insect rave. I brushed away a few of 'em to sign my name. The last person to sign it visited May 19th of this year. I didn't check to see when it was placed. Too grossed out by the earwigs. I put the register back and made my way over to the other one, hoping that that one was insect-free.

Praise be to the Most High, the thing was devoid of all insects. The booklet was in far better condition than the other, almost looking brand new despite being placed May 13th of 2017. The most recent entry was from May 5th of 2021. Not a whole lotta signatures in between; I suppose the other register is the more popular of the two. Why this peak has two registers is a mystery to me. I didn't think about it much though, I had bigger fish to fry. I left my signature, guzzled down some water, and then made my way off the summit. I hadn't spent more than ten minutes there. Needed to beat the heat. Wouldn't want to be slogging it up Antimony during the hottest part of the day, you know?

What? Two Registers?

The way back...

Back down the cliff band, back through the field of foxtails, back through the brush. I took a slightly different path on the return yet still managed to stumble upon that ol' camp. I guess it wasn't as different as I thought. 

I crawled on my hands and knees at points, tunneling through the only available space in an otherwise impenetrable wall of scrub oak. At other times it was easy-peasy, just dodging and weaving, moving through the brush like water through a canyon. As I made my way to the base of Peak 6000, I mentally broke up the hike back to the car in three big chunks: the climb up Peak 6000, the climb up Antimony, and then the climb back up to the car. First up was the climb up Peak 6000, which I was expecting to be the worst of the day what with all the brush and whatnot. I stopped in the shade, took a breather, ate a tangerine, and then began the bushwhack up to the summit. 

On the way up Peak 6000

The climb up Peak 6000 just plain sucked, simple as that. Wasn't particularly hard, wasn't particularly scary. It just sucked. I had left some arrows in the dirt earlier that morning that I'd made out of broken twigs; these helped ease the navigation a little bit on my return. Figured it would be a little harder finding the path of least resistance on the way up since I no longer had gravity on my side. Turns out I was right; thank goodness I left those arrows 'cause I would've had a far less efficient time going up had they not been there.

I topped out on the summit, tired and sweaty but glad to be finished with that nonsense. There were a few holes in my shirt that weren't there earlier that morning but ehh, whaddayah gonna do. I sat for a bit, removing some of the more pernicious foxtails from my socks. There was a yellow-bellied horny toad basking in the sunlight on a rock, eyes closed, not a care in the world. I caught the guy. Didn't put up much of a fight. Kind of just sat there limp in my hand, indifferent. It wasn't until I tried to flip him over to look at his belly when he put up a fuss. Squirmed right out of my hand and darted off into the bushes, never to be seen again.

I left the summit, staring at Antimony the entire way down. I knew this next chunk would be, as David Stillman once put it, "a recipe for suffering." I knew it wouldn't be as brushy as the backside of Peak 6000. But man was it steeper. Much steeper. I'd just have to put my head down and trudge my way up the thing. So that's exactly what I did.

Lost Canyon

I took one break on my way up, a quick tangerine refueling session. Other than that, it was just a long, hot, steep slog up a partially shaded slope. For some reason, I didn't find it to be as bad as I thought it would be. I can deal with steep. I eat steep for breakfast. Peak 6000 was much worse in my opinion. Iron Hiker was right; that definitely was the crux of the route. 

Once at the saddle, I knew that I was almost home free. I took one last look at Eagle Rest, shocked that I'd actually climbed the thing. I waved goodbye and made my way back down the steep road, stopping every now and then to enjoy the view of Pine Mountain Club to the west. 

Antimony ore?

The rest of the way back was uneventful, just a long, relatively steep trek back to the car. Not much shade, not much relief, but at least I wasn't hikin' during the hottest part of the day. On my way up, I stumbled across a bunch of rocks that were shining in the afternoon sunlight, something that I hadn't noticed on the way in. They looked to be full of antimony ore, but I ain't no geologist so I couldn't be sure. Them's sure was pretty in the sun though, all shiny and sparkly. I admired these lustrous rocks for a minute, taking a few pictures and whatnot. Then it was back to the grind, back to the hike, back to putting one foot in front of the other until finally reaching the car.

The whole ordeal took a little over 5½ hours, but it felt much longer. My legs were spent, I was covered in srcapes and scratches, my face caked with a thin, salty crust from sweat that had long since dried. Yup, it had been a good un alright. Another excellent day in the sticks. 

Cuddy Valley, Mt Pinos (Iwihinmu)

Since I'd finished much earlier than expected, I decided to drive around the land for a little bit, see the ol' sights, maybe grab a bite to eat. I drove back down the road, back across the devious ruts, my tires spinning out from under me. Down Cuddy Valley Rd, down into the valley, down into Pine Mountain Club. I stopped at La Leña and had me a chile relleno and enchilada combo. Stuff was damn good. Ate the whole thing in 2 seconds. 

After that I decided to drive up to Marion Campground, just to see what was up. Hadn't been there in a fat minute though, so I messed up with the directions and took the wrong dirt road and ended up on top of San Emigdio Mountain instead. Not that I was disappointed; before me stretched a magnificent view of all three peaks that I'd climbed earlier that day. I sat there for a good half hour, staring at the view, studying the peaks that I'd just climbed, watching the puffy clouds move lazily over Bakersfield, observing the crows ducking and diving in the wind. It had been a good day, an efficient day, a day that I wouldn't have any other way. Except for those foxtails. I'd change that in a heartbeat. To this day, I'm still pulling those little miscreants out of my shoes. It's a Sisyphean task. No matter how many I remove, there's always more to be found. 

Thorn Point Overnighter

 05/28/25

There's a land out there, a strange land, a land of rock and wind and brush and pines. What is it? Mountains? Desert? Both? Yeah, a bit of both. Sandstone and chaparral define the landscape, but the pines are what make it interesting. Big, tall, old, weathered—these pines are just as comfortable living in this weird environment as the rest of the hardy flora. They inhabit the valleys, carpeting the ground with a nice layer of pine needles. They're sprinkled on the northern slopes of the mountains, green and skinny and smelling of vanilla. They've been there a while and they'll stay there a while; such is the way of the pine tree. Why they chose to live in such a rugged and rocky land is beyond me. Perhaps they know something we don't.

Within this strange land is a man-made structure, a structure as weird and out-of-place as the pines. Built nearly one hundred years ago, it's a miracle that the thing is still standing. It's one of the last remaining fire lookout towers in the Los Padres, and perhaps the ONLY one that still has the original wooden structure still intact. I've visited the thing a few times in the past, and each time it was in a more advanced stage of decay. Hadn't been up to check on it since 2022, so it was high time for a return. Had to see if it was still alive and well. 

Kellin and I had thought about a trip to this tower for a good month. It started in an ambitious manner, each of us wanting to haul up a bunch of cookware to make a tremendous feast. Pots, pans, fuel, canned goods, and a Coleman stove. As the trip deadline grew closer, we realized that this would probably be a very silly thing to do. The route to the top is steep, our packs would be obscenely heavy. So we settled on bringing all the fixings for quesadillas instead. Quesadillas and a couple of gallons of water. There ain't no water up there. Had to haul it up ourselves. 

We drove fast, hit the bumps, knocked a few wires loose. A long dust cloud spilled out the back of the truck, hanging in the air for a few moments before disappearing altogether. The road was closed at the junction for Thorn Meadows, which meant that we had to walk an additional 1.5 miles to the trailhead. We got out, donned our water-laden packs, and then set off in the late morning heat. 

Our destination, Thorn Point, loomed overhead, rising a couple thousand feet into a cloud-streaked sky. We crossed some water, noticed the road damage near the Cedar Creek trailhead. It looked like the road had become a small river during last year's rains, much like forest route 5N13.2 up Murietta Canyon. I couldn't see any recent progress, no construction or nothin'. The thing probably ain't gonna be fixed anytime soon. Just a hunch. 

We took a small break at Thorn Meadows, taking off our packs and sweating in the still heat. The shot-up outhouse was no longer there, long since destroyed from too many bullet holes I imagine. The ol' cabin was still standing, but we didn't investigate. A small "keep out" sign was reason enough to not go inside what looked like a giant hantavirus incubator. After we had our fill of the sights and sounds, we geared up, drank some more water, and then began the short but steep walk to the summit.

Snow Plant

Walkin' and talkin', talkin' and walkin'. We walked through the ferns and the deadfall, talked as our footsteps crunched on the carpet of pine needles. The first little bit of the hike was the only spot to do this; the trail is gentle at first, slowly making its way up, winding through a peaceful little valley of few sounds and much beauty. But just as you start enjoying yourself the trail smacks you in the face, and soon you're slogging up steep switchbacks with little relief. The walkin' continued, but the talkin' stopped altogether. Too busy suckin' wind. 

We took a few breaks on the way up, stopping in the shade of the pines and observing the puzzle-piece latticework of their bark. We stood there sweating, not wanting to take off our packs again and again and again. The heat was there, but it wasn't unbearable thanks to the clouds. Stretching wide across the sky in a big, patchy, gray haze, they spared us from the angry sun. 

Putting one foot in front of the other was the name of the game, walking steady and slow up one switch back to the next and the next and the next. The lookout tower eventually came into view, close but still far, and we kept going, more switchbacks, more up. Kellin's legs started cramping near the top. Couldn't keep 'em straight. Had to walk with a bend in his step. But that's alright. We were almost there, we were close now, we could see it there, no more than 100ft away—could see the sun-batterd wood and the glassy windows and the roof that was slowly falling apart. We walked under some scrub oak, rounded a corner and BAM—there it was, still alive, still standing in spite of nearly a century of wind and rain and cold and heat and snow. 

We immediately set up our hammocks on the posts that support the tower. Then came the customary rifling through the multiple registers and whatnot, reading reports from those who had visited the tower in the past. Then came the looking and poking around, observing the condition of the tower and such. Less stuff was inside than I remembered from the last time I was up there. Just the springy bed, the water tank, the old oven, the cupboards and drawers. The door had been fixed, which was nice. And the ceiling was supported by a skinny little metal pipe. How long that pipe can hold the ceiling I don't know. Looks like the whole thing's gonna come down at some point. That pipe is the only thing keeping it all together. 

Kellin returned to his hammock and fell asleep. I looked around for a bit, climbed a few of the sandstone boulders that dotted the summit. I set up shop on a small boulder northeast of the tower and sat there and read for a few hours. A light breeze had picked up, gently rustling the pines. I put the book down and laid on the boulder and promptly passed out, the scenery far too relaxing for my senses. I awoke an hour later, my whole being feeling much better than it did when we first got to the tower. Never underestimate the power of a nap!

We got situated, changing into evening attire, and started cookin' up the quesadillas. Tortillas, chicken, jalepeños, olives, and a whole lotta cheese. I somehow managed to eat an entire bag of cheese all by myself. Don't think I'll ever do that again. Far too much cheese. 

Our feast complete, we moseyed on over to a rockier section of the summit that I had discovered on one of my previous visits. We sat there on the rocks for a bit, gifted with insane views of the Sespe Wilderness to the south and west. Hines Peak, the Topatopa bluffs, Chief Peak, and Nordhoff Ridge were well in view, rising sharp and high and blocking the marine layer from penetrating any farther into the wilderness. Piedra Blanca sat far below, the massive sandstone formations looking like little pebbles in a sea of green chaparral. The sun continued its slow free-fall out of the sky, growing calm and orange in the process. Soon it would vanish behind the horizon altogether. We had to get back to the tower before that happened. Had to see the sunset up there. It's required. 

We climbed the narrow steps to the top the the tower, the wood platform creaking and crunching under each step. We posted on the western side, watching the orange fireball slowly disappear behind the high peaks of the Los Padres. Cedar Peak was there, and so was Haddock and Reyes Peak. Even Samon Peak could be seen, wayyy off in the west, rising like a giant shark fin out of the haze. 

The whole area took on a different vibe as it was washed in the orange and purple light of the setting sun. Darker, calmer, more mellow, more peaceful. The breeze had picked up even more, no longer a breeze, but a gentle wind. The pine trees swayed in the wind, filling the air with a constant WHOOSHING sound. The light danced across the thousands of canyons in the Cuyama Badlands, seemingly evaporating away like water spilled on sand. Soon all light had escaped the canyons, now only illuminated by the faint luminescence of twilight. 

More whooshing, more wind. The mountains were dark, the valleys darker. Lights began to spring up in the north, no doubt the residences of Lockwood Valley and whatnot. The sun gone, the wind blowing, the light fading, it was time to go. We took a few more pictures and then carefully climbed back down the steep stairs, back to the hammocks, back to the ground. 

We sat around the improvised fire pit. There was plenty of wood, the pit was deep, and it was mostly blocked from the wind. We made a small fire, huddling around as the temperatures significantly dropped. Ahh, gotta love the high desert. Super hot in the day, super cold at night. That's just the way it goes.

We didn't keep the fire going for long. Much too tired. We returned to our hammocks and promptly called it a night. The temps kept dropping, the wind getting stronger. Must've been 30mph gusts. It was roaring up there, blowing our hammocks from side to side, the trees whooshing, the dust zooming, the rocks and twigs and pine needles constantly rearranging themselves. And it was like that the whole dang night. Didn't get much sleep. That's just the way it goes. 

The moon was a thin crescent hovering in the sky to the west, seemingly unaffected by the chaos of the wind. The stars shone bright and peaceful, not a care in the world. Rocking around in the wind, I got this idea at around 4am to get out of my hammock and watch the sunrise. It would be cool to see it rising out there, illuminating Cobblestone Mountain and the eastern Sespe. But it was too dang cold and too dang windy and I was too dang tired. I rolled around in my hammock and finally managed to get some rest just before 5am, completely missing the sunrise. Ahh well. I'll have to do that some other time I suppose.

The wind was still roaring in the morning, unrelenting, unstoppable. We didn't even have breakfast. Just packed up our things and got out of there. We waved goodbye to the tower and quickly made our way off the wind-blasted summit, hoping that the rest of the day wouldn't be as windy. 

Sure enough, as soon as we left the summit, the wind all but disappeared. Ahh, how nice. The pines were still whooshin' and swooshin' overhead, but the wind was gone. We zoomed down the trail, our packs light as a feather. No more water, no more food. It was easy walkin' down that trail. If only it was that easy on the way up. 

We made it back to the truck in about half as much time as it took us to get up to the tower the day prior. Kellin started 'er up and we drove around for a bit, checking the condition of the road out to the Johnston Ridge Trailhead. We didn't see anything as bad as the damage by Cedar Creek, but the road was still rough in parts. Getting a 2wd vehicle back there would be mighty interesting. 

After we had our look around, we headed back, driving back up the road to civilization. On our way back, we met a guy who was herding his goats. He had seven of 'em, and they all had collars. The guy was lean and lanky with a scraggly beard and a permanent tan. He didn't really know where he was going, something about "that camp up there." I mentioned Pine Springs and he said "Yeah, that one I guess." We talked for a minute, the conversation limited and strange. One of his goats crawled under Kellin's truck. The goat man dragged it back out. We left shortly after that. There was nothing more to say. 

We drove back towards town, noticing that the same guy we had seen yesterday was still parked at the gate. Even more odd was that there was no trailer or any other vehicle to be seen. Where had the goat man come from? Who knows.

This other guy was another enigma. He had sat there all day yesterday and all of the morning, just sitting there, staring into space. We later saw him driving on the road back to Santa Clarita. Perhaps he was just meditating. Perhaps not. These are mysteries that will never be solved. And that's ok; they make life interesting. 

And that about sums up the Thorn Point overnighter. It's always a good time up there; it's such a unique area. I've never encountered another place on this planet quite like it. I've been up there five times now, and I'm still not sick of it. There's always something new to see each time I go up to that gnarly ol' lookout tower. It's an amazing place, one that I hope continues to stand the test of time. Lot of history in that tower. It'll be a sad day if it ever collapses. 

McDonald Peak and Environs

 05/22/25

We left in the morning, driving the three hours up the I-5 to Hungry Valley and beyond. A gentle wind was blowing dust across the road. California Poppies and other local wildflowers swayed to and fro. The sky was a hazy blue, thin little clouds darting high up above without a care in the world. I was driving, Liam sat shotgun. We sipped carbonated mineral water as we drove up the bumpy dirt road, gliding across bumps and ruts and rocks and stuff. The rest of the waters rattled in a box in the backseat, the glass jinglin' and janglin' like a avant-garde Christmas tune. Curvy road, lots of twists and turns and dust and such. I went slow, carful not to pop a tire.

There was a snake in the road. I stopped, got out. Liam said, "let him be" and I did. I've been on a bit of a snake craze lately. Every time I see one I try to catch it. But I get too scared. Don't wanna get bit. Don't wanna upset the snake either. I caught one a few months ago and haven't been able to catch one since. I've been thinkin' that I just got really lucky that one time. Who knows. I suppose I'll have to keep trying...

We reached a fork in the road. Turned left. We were now in the realm of the pines. The forest floor was a carpet of fallen pine needles, each gully filled with pinecones in various stages of decomposition. Gray ones on the bottom, brown ones on the top. Made for quite the crunchy step I tell yah. I bet that even a Mountain Lion would have trouble keepin' quiet on all that. 

We were driving around the southern side of Alamo Mountain, a large, gentle mass of earth and pines rising up out of the ground in the southeastern Los Padres. I'd been on the road once before, back when I climbed Cobblestone Mountain. At the time, I was so goal-oriented that I didn't pay much attention to the beauty of the area. Not today. Today was a day of calm observation. Windows down, cool breeze, birds chirping, the vanilla scent of the pines wafting through the air. Oh yeah. That's what it's all about right there.

We looked to the south. There was a mountain there, McDonald Peak. It didn't stand out much, just a minor bump along a pine-speckled ridge full of other bumps. I pointed at it and said, "There it is. That's where we're going." And so we went.

Another left turn, more rocks, more dust, more flowers and pines and crunchy cones. Lupine dotted the hills, soft on the eyes, purple, brilliant. We passed by the Little Mutau Trailhead and kept going. And then we lost elevation, going down the curvy road, my eyes screening the ridge right next to us, trying to figure out which one of these bumps was the summit. 

I found a spot to park. Put on the ol' parking break and then we were off, climbing up a steep little ridge to what I thought was McDonald Peak. There was a heat advisory for the day, but we never felt it. The mountain air and the shade of the pines protected us from the wrath of the sun. Mostly. Both of us still worked up quite the sweat sloggin' it up that steep little ridge. 

It topped out, exposed to the sun with nothing on the summit but a few rocks and some dry grass. McDonald Peak sat to the east, just a little ways off. Drats! Another false summit! Why does this keep happening? Perhaps it is destiny...

Liam and I took a little breather before making our way over to McDonald. It was a clear ridge walk, nice and open and grassy with a few minor uphills and downhills and some deadfall here and there. We walked slow and steady, taking in the tremendous views to the south. Liam said something like, "I thought we were just gonna walk today. What's this? What are we doing?" Yeah, the mountain turned out to be a little steeper than it looked. Got the heart pumpin' and the legs achin'. But it was a short walk, no more than a quarter mile. I had a bottle of carbonated water in one hand and a bag full of bolillo rolls in the other. No backpack, no survival gear. Didn't need none of that stuff. 

We reached the summit, sat down, looked around. According to the register, January 11th seemed to be the last time anyone was up there. Not a whole lotta entries in that booklet; the place doesn't get much traffic. Most of the entries were from HPS folks and the like. Peak baggers. All they do is climb mountains. I've also climbed a lot of mountains, but I've never considered myself a peak bagger. I'm a peak visitor is what I am. That's all there is to it.

The views from the summit were outstanding, rivaling those seen on Old Man Mountain. Almost the entire Sespe Wilderness could be observed, the views stretching from Sewart Mountain in the east to Haddock Mountain in the west and everything in between. I particularly enjoyed the close-up view of Cobblestone Mountain. Ah man, good times, good times. Looking at that mountain sent me right back to that hot and thirsty day that I climbed it last year. I traced the route I walked with my eyes. Ahh yes, there was Sewart, there was White Mountain Ridge, the 1000ft descent to the saddle, the 1,500ft incline to the summit of Cobblestone. I remember those places well. Sitting in the shade on the peaceful summit of McDonald, I was sure glad I wasn't out there sloggin' it up Cobblestone right then. No, no, no. I've had my time on that mountain I tell yah. Ain't gonna go back there for a long, long time...

Big Bad Cobblestone

We spent a good chunk of time on the summit enjoying the views, nibbling on bolillo rolls, sippin' fizzy water. Liam started throwing rocks at this little snag. This, of course, turned into a game of "who can knock over the snag with a rock?" We probably spent half an hour throwing rocks of various sizes at this rotten snag, again and again, the wood splintering, the trunk swaying. But the thing never fell. We soon resorted to the big stuff, working together to chuck 50lb rocks at the snag's midpoint. A crack began to form. Ahh yes—progress. Rock after rock, throw after throw, we weakened that thing until finally—KERRAK—half of the it came tumbling down. 

We inspected our handiwork. Liam got on top of it and bounced around as if it were a surfboard. Sweet success. Now that we had accomplished our goal, we walked over to the southern tip of the summit, took a few more pictures, and then headed back to the car. 

Improvised Surf Board

We took a different way down, not wanting to trek across the ridge all the way back to the false summit. I skied down a steep slope covered in pine needles. Liam followed suit, his cowboy boots offering no help whatsoever on the slippery ground. The slope took us to a gully filled with pine cones and deadfall. We followed it, one crunchy step after another, until it took us back to the road.

Back in the car, back on the road, Liam now driving, I riding shotgun. I popped open another mineral water. Liam swerved around a corner. The carbonation erupted into my mouth and down my throat. I leaned out the window, my mouth a fountain of bubbly water. Liam found that mighty funny. I did as well. We had ourselves a good chuckle over it, driving along the dusty road underneath the pines. 

Slow and steady was the name of the game. Birds were out and so were the deer. Saw three of 'em, all standing in a line. They saw us and immediately darted away out of view, probably because Liam leaned out of the window and pretended to shoot them with his fingers. Who's to say for sure though? Maybe they saw a ghost or something...hahaha.

Near Dutchman Campground

Another left turn and we were in Dutchman Camp. Ain't nobody else was there. Flat spots, a few tables, some old fire rings, a stinky pit toilet. Yep. Certainly wasn't no Camp Comfort. But it sure was quiet there, nice and relaxed and unassuming and placid. We drove to a little overlook, sat on some rocks. Spent a good long while staring at the western view, lookin' at Thorn Point and Mutau Valley and Haddock Mountain and the like. Strange country; it's a like a high desert but with pine trees. Ain't seen no other place quite like it. 

Liam took some photos, I finished another mineral water, picked up an old can, and then we walked back to the car. Didn't spend too much time lookin' around Dutchman Camp. Not too much to see. I had mentioned to Liam that we could climb Alamo Mountain. But why do that? Why not drive? It's much easier and a lot more enjoyable. So that's exactly what we did. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent driving around with the windows down, the bottles of carbonated water still jinglin' in the back, old school country music playin' on the radio. We checked out another campsite, this one in much worse shape than Dutchman Camp. Saw another deer. Saw more Lupine. All good things. 

It was nice to get out there for a minute, to slow down and really take the time to appreciate the area. McDonald Peak turned out to be a fantastic peak with stellar views. And the best part is that it required minimal effort to see 'em. 

Monte Arido and Old Man Mountain

 05/20/25

The air was lukewarm at the trailhead. Not chilly, not cool, but lukewarm. It wasn't even 5:30am yet. Good thing I brought over a gallon of water. These early morning temperatures were a good indicator that the day was gonna be a hot one. I'd need every drop I could get.

And what was on today's menu? Why, a little ol' walk to Monte Arido and Old Man Mountain of course! I'd already been to Old Man Mountain once with Liam, way back in 2022. I remember seeing Monte Arido laying to the north. Looked kinda interesting. Made a mental note to check it out someday. But I kept putting if off for a number of years until it finally felt like the right time to do it. May 20th of this year seemed to be the right time, despite the warm weather. 

I proceeded with deliberate movements, trying to prevent unnecessary sweating. The Murietta Divide loomed far to the west, the twin summits of Old Man Mountain looming farther still. This would be my fourth time slogging it up to the Divide. It was familiar to me now; no more surprises, no more unknowns. I put my body in cruise control and zoomed up the road, paying attention to nothing other than my footsteps and labored breathing. 

The lukewarm air turned warm, then warm to hot. The sun rose above the mountains, its heat immediately baking everything in sight. I stopped for a moment just beyond Murietta Spring and downed some water. Within a few hours, this water would be hot, just like everything else. I savored the cool taste while I still could. 

I reached the Divide in under 2 hours. I didn't stop; I had found my groove and kept zooming along. I made a right and started up the road to Old Man Mountain, knowing full well that there would be hardly any shade until my return. The rest of the way would be long, hot, and mostly exposed to the sun. I didn't think about this too much though; I just put my head down and kept on truckin'.

The lower part of the road was a little overgrown with chamise and yerba santa and other types of miscellaneous chaparral. Walking through that brush, it seemed as though I had trespassed through the tick version of Lalapalooza. The suckers were everywhere. After walking through this one particular bush, I counted 13 ticks on one leg alone. Pants, shirt, socks, neck, backpack, hat—there was hardly a spot on my body where I didn't find any of the little miscreants. My pace slowed a little, the result of having to stop every five minutes to brush off ticks. Fortunately, this overgrown section didn't last too long, and soon the road cleared up and it was back to the steep, boring slog. 

Old Man Mountain

View west, Jameson Lake bottom left

I reached a high point that gifted me a lovely view of Old Man Mountain's southern summit. A fairly mean wind had picked up, whipping against my face and shirt and probably carrying away a few ticks in the process. To my relief, the wind wasn't warm, which meant that it couldn't be more than 85℉ or so. Granted, it wasn't even 8am yet, and I knew that this wind would only get warmer as the day grew long. I sat down, drank more water, wolfed down some calories, and then continued on my way.

I lost some elevation and then immediately gained it back. The sun got higher, the wind died down, the rocks remained silent and the ticks finally went into hiding. Sort of. I guess most of them don't like the heat too much. I was only picking up a couple of 'em every fifteen minutes now, a significant improvement from earlier that morning. 

Monte Arido

I rounded the western flank of Old Man Mountain and got my first good view of Monte Arido. Dang, that thing still looked a long ways off. But I didn't care. Putting one foot in front of the other would get me there sooner of later. I kept going, stopping only to hydrate.

Eventually, the road finished wrapping around the western side of Old Man Mountain and headed north. At this point I was gifted with an insane view of Old Man Canyon. It stretched for miles before me, reaching down and away into Matilija Canyon and beyond. I immediately thought of David Stillman's descent into that canyon all those years ago, well before all the brush burned away in the Thomas Fire. Since the fire, the brush has already made quite the comeback. I could only imagine how insane it looked before it burned. Standing there, looking down into that canyon, all I could think to say was "that man is insane." 

Old Man Canyon

The road became exceptionally steep after this viewpoint. I moved up the thing little by little, digging my trekking poles in the dirt to propel me upward. Monte Arido never seemed to get any closer. I could feel the salt accumulating on my face, the sweat running down my back, the popped blister on my achilles and the lactic acid accumulating in my calfs. I stopped looking at Monte Arido, no longer concerned with progress. Staring at it wouldn't do me any good anyways. I told myself that I'd get there when I'd get there. Head down, arms pumping, legs zoomin'. I found a groove and took it, waltzing up the trail in the heat. 

Gettin' closer...

There were some huge bear tracks in the road. Old ones, made during a time when the road was nice and muddy. Why a bear would wander all the way up to this exposed and windy land is beyond me. Perhaps there was a water source nearby that I didn't know about. Maybe the deer are extra tasty up in these hills. I don't know. I followed the tracks for a ways, following in the footsteps of the bear until they left the road and entered the brush. 

The road headed west, I saw a rise and scurried up to the top, believing it to be the summit. It wasn't. Doh! I'd been fooled by a false summit yet again. Seems to be a pattern with me. Gotta stop being so hasty. It costs too much energy. 

I could see the summit from my vantage point, no more than 500ft in front of me. I scurried on over there, taking a breather on this little rock right next to the register. Monte Arido sure lived up to its name: its summit is nothing but a big, wide, flat, dry, arid expanse with decent views of the surrounding country. I had to walk a little bit in each cardinal direction to get a good look my surroundings. Madulce Peak, Big Pine Mountain, and two of the mountains I had climbed the week prior (McKinley and San Rafael) lay to the west, looking rugged and tired. The Santa Ynez Mountains stretched off into the west, running in a bumpy line until they disappeared into infinity. To the north was the dry country, nothing but a desiccated landscape where only the hardiest of species survive. Southward lay the pacific and four of the Channel Islands: Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa and San Miguel.

Northwest(ish)

Southwest(ish)

Northeast

To the east was, in my opinion, the best view of all. I could see almost every major summit of the Sespe and Matilija Wildernesses, from Cara Blanca all the way to Cobblestone. Rugged, rugged country. I could see it all, could see Reyes Peak and Thorn Point, Ortega Hill and the Nordhoff Lookout Tower, Hines Peak and the Topatopa bluffs, Santa Paula Peak and the Santa Monica Mountains. I stood there for a bit taking lots of pictures, my eyes overwhelmed with sensory information. This is the country that I know best, so it was great to see it from a new vantage point. 

East

There were three booklets in a plastic register, two old and one new. The new one was placed in 2018; the last entry was from March 23rd of 2025 from a guy who did an out-n-back from Hwy 33. Seems like a lot of people go this way, perhaps to avoid the crazy elevation gain from the bottom of Matilija Canyon. I left my marks, screwed on the lid, and then made my way off the summit. Old Man Mountain lay far below, its twin summits shining bright in the late morning sun. 

Old Man Mountain, Old Man Canyon

I raced down the road in a flash, the steep grade no longer a hassle to my legs. I made it to the northern base of Old Man mountain in no time, stopping just once along the way to guzzle more water. I left the road for the use trail, following it through dirt, brush and boulders. 

No more wind, not even a breeze. Just stifling, dry, HOT air everywhere. The sun was close to reaching its zenith, the heat of the day now ramping up exponentially. I was feelin' it now, sweating buckets and busting through brush. The use trail avoided the worst of it, but at times it vanished and I was forced to shimmy my way through head-high chaparral. I gained the summit ridge and banged out the last few hundred feet to the summit without much issue. 

Ahh, Old Man Mountain. What a fantastic peak. Though the weather wasn't as clear as it was the last time I was up there, I could still see most of everything. I still hold firm to the notion that Old Man Mountain has the best views out of any peak in the Los Padres. It's definitely worth the trek to the top, no question. I sat down for a minute, downing electrolytes and taking in the view. I located the register and signed my name for the second time. The previous entry was from the same guy who had climbed Monte Arido on March 23rd 2025. 

I didn't spend too long on the summit, what with the constantly rising temperature and the millions of bugs trying to suck my eyes dry. Not wanting to back track, I decided to summit Old Man's southern peak. I remembered it being a fun little climb, and as a bonus I'd be saving myself a whole lot of road walking. So I gathered my things, took one last sweep of the summit views, and then set off.

The climb to the southern summit wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it would be. Not too brushy, not too many ticks, fairly solid ground. Good stuff, good stuff. I topped out on the rocky summit and took another break, feeling the heat emanating beneath me. 

Wow

The old can was still there, but I was unable to find the tiny register. Oh well. Didn't matter. That thing was full when Liam and I first climbed this peak back in 2022. I doubt I would've been able to leave my signature had I been able to find it. 

Electrolytes, calories, plain ol' water, granola bars. I fueled up, taking in the magnificent views of the Matilija wilderness. White Ledge Peak, King's Crest, and Divide Peak were well in view, looking gnarly and green and rocky and hot. I stuck out my tongue and tasted the air. Tasted like 90℉ to me. That meant it was time to go. 

I left the summit, sidehilling for a ways down the steep southern face to a flat spot. From there it was a hop skip and a jump through shin-high grass and the occasional yucca back to the road. I put my legs in cruise control and set off down the road, the miles slowly passing underfoot as the day only grew hotter. 

At one point I met a snake in the middle of the road, a long thin line sitting still as a statue. I grabbed its tail and tried nabbing its head, but it kept trying to bite me and I got too scared. I let it be, apologizing for ruining its midday sunbath. It slithered away into the bushes, never to return.

More miles, more heat, more water, more sun. I pressed against the northern side of this one large boulder, taking a little breather in the only good shade around. I sat down, my torso in the shade, my legs in the sun. I checked my water supply; still good. It was quiet there, no birds or wind or anything. Just bugs. But even they seemed tired from the heat, buzzing lazily around my face without much urgency. 

Back on the "road"

I got up, dusted off my pants, and coasted the rest of the way back to Murietta Divide. No ticks this time. I suppose they'd returned to their little tick homes and turned on their little tick air conditioners. The hard part of the day was far behind me. Now all that remained was the long, uneventful downhill grind to Matilija Canyon. 

I never stopped. Not once. Just coasted the whole rest of the way down. I made it back to the trailhead, finishing the whole thing in just under nine hours with water to spare. There was one other car in the lot that wasn't there that morning. The occupants must've ventured off to the Matilija Falls. I never saw 'em. Had the whole day to myself; never saw a single soul the entire time I was out there. Couldn't imagine why, hahaha. 

I stretched, drove home, took a shower, got a haircut. It had been yet another excellent day on some quality peaks. The only downside was that I decided to wear brand-new shoes fresh out of the box. Twenty-four miles and 6,000ft of elevation gain definitely broke them in, but not without some casualties. I got this nasty blister on my left achilles that to this day is still not fully healed. Oh well. Yah live and yah learn...