Year in Review 2022

Whelp, it's the end of the year. Time for charcuterie boards and Martinelli's Cider and party hats and champagne glasses. And while we sit and wait in anticipation for the strange new year of 2023, I'd like to spend some time reflecting on a few interesting things that defined 2022 in my eyes. 

It started off quiet and smooth. Memories of grey January weather and long drives up to San Louis Obispo and Bakersfield come to mind. Little Feat and John Prine provided much of the soundtrack during this time. I recall taking the scenic route on a drive back from SLO. Up the 101 to Santa Margarita and then on to the 58. Turned on West Pozo road and took it all the way to the Carrizo Plain. Super quiet back there during that time of year. Nothing but the sound of the tires crunching on bumpy dirt roads and the wind blowin' through the open windows. 

Soda Lake in January

In February came that sweet transition of winter to spring. The sun was a little higher in the sky, and the natural surroundings were beginning to glow with a special pre-spring brilliance. School started up again and I was back the grind. Fortunately, I had a three hour break between two of my classes. During this break I would often venture into the Santa Monica Mountains, because, why not? I climbed Mugu Peak more times than I can remember, drove up Yerba Buena rd, sat on that crazy sand dune along Highway 1 and ran around the trails of the Rancho Sierra Vista/Satwiwa. I'd get pretty sweaty on these micro adventures so I tried hiding the smell by rubbing my skin with sage and California bay leaf. I didn't have any deodorant so what else was I supposed to do you know? Alas, it did not work. I'd always walk into class smelling like sage and B.O. 

Mugu Peak trail in February 

The semester kept on chuggin' along and before I knew it it was spring break. Went to Billings. Visited Daniel. Drove around in the mountains, walked on frozen lakes, and ate a lot of good food. Drove on down to Zion. It was packed. People moved around like ants. Parking was egregious. It was hard to get away and find somewhere quiet. Even the "secret" spots that I knew of were crowded with a few people. Guess the secret's out. But my oh man oh my—what an excellent trip. First time I'd ever gone on a trip such as that. It offered a brief respite from the craziness and business of living in the 21st century. A break from the news, from social media, from school and work. Definitely one of the highlights of the year, and a trip I'll never forget.

Zion in March

The year sped up from there. Spring was in full swing but it seemed short lived because it got stupidly hot stupidly fast. The mountains offered some relief from this heat, and it was during this time of year where my family and I ventured on our awesome journey from Mt Pinos all the way to Piedra Blanca. Goated trip that one. Walked through some of the most beautiful country I've ever seen. And it was during this trip where I read Viet Thanh Nguyen's "The Sympathizer" for my American Literature class. Definitely my favorite read of the year. Absolutely fantastic novel; one of the best I've ever read.  Spring kind of went by in a blur for me. Other than that epic backpacking trip, I didn't really do much. Lotta school, lotta papers, lotta assignments. In late April though, my mother and I fulfilled our dreams of eating High Street deli sandwiches at Hi Mountain lookout on the top of Hi Mountain—so that was cool. 

Hi Mountain Lookout

Summer was long and strange. And hot...very hot. This time of year brings memories of swimmin' in the Sespe, backpacking trips in the Sierra, and micro explorations of the Ojai front country. Weyes Blood, Alice In Chains, and Cali Life Style provided the soundtrack for this time of the year. The days were long and the nights were warm. Memories of crisp, dry air and the smell of gasoline and faint citrus. Working for the music festival, eating subs from the Ojai Pizza company. Long nights at Libby Park with nothing but my thoughts for entertainment. Got to know that park real well this year. 

It was a dry, desiccated dehydrating kind of summer. Not a good time for eczema, I can tell you that. Summer of 2022 marked a definite change of pace. Late winter and spring exhumed a general feeling of easiness and simplicity. Summer kicked that pace up to Mach 2. The incredible summer skies were something to behold, with cirrus clouds and brilliant, powerful sunsets. Everything was big and grand and overwhelming and in your face. The year was accelerating at a breakneck pace, and it was already halfway over. But there was something about this year's summer that inspired me to start reading for fun again. Managed to read 14 books between June and August, all of which that were things that I actually wanted to read. It was nice to read just for the fun of it. Reminded me of my early youth. A very nostalgic summer indeed.

The Sespe in June

A balmy July evening

Fall brought a new semester of school and a new semester of school is always interesting. I took a ceramics class; first time I'd worked with clay in almost two years. I was a little rusty at first, but eventually the muscle memory kicked in and I was back to throwin' on the wheel. Managed to throw a "perfect" donut so that was nice. 

In terms of adventures, I didn't do all that much. My Uncle and I finally managed to spend the night at this one spot that we've dubbed "Blair Witch Camp." It's a pain in the neck to get to this spot. Involves a lot of uphill and downhill and angry chaparral. But it's worth it. A small forest of Jeffery Pines provide shelter from the elements. An ancient lean-to, half crushed by a fallen pine, serves as the only evidence of humans ever having been to this spot. The silence that surrounds this spot is a little unsettling. Seems like it's haunted or something. That night in the camp was one of the quietest nights I've ever experienced. Just the two of us there in our hammocks, swingin' in the nighttime breeze, with a massive spread of stars above our heads. And the best part? We didn't get killed by no witch!

After this brief overnighter came the infamous trip to Santa Rosa Island. I ain't gonna talk about that trip though—already wrote too much about it. And after that came a small excursion to the Sierras were Liam and I climbed Mt Gould. Probably gonna write a post about that trip—it was a classic shirt and tie adventure. 

"Blair Witch Camp"

Mt Gould Trip

And that's about it. It was an interesting year to say the least, with a lot of stuff happening between January 1st and today. But after all of the things that happened throughout, all of the things I witnessed and experienced and observed, I always find myself coming back to four specific moments. It's these four things that I will always remember from this year, and will hopefully remember for the rest of my life. 

Cara Blanca

Climbing Cara Blanca was absolutely insane. That's a bucket list thing for sure. Nobody climbs that mountain. And Liam and I learned why pretty quickly. Successfully reaching the summit was like a dream. It didn't feel real. Looking back at it now, I still can't believe we actually climbed it. Nevertheless, it was climbing Cara Blanca that inspired me to start this blog in the first place. A truly epic adventure indeed. 

It was also in February where I experienced a genuine miracle. Way back in 2021 I lost my pocketknife while climbing Cedar Peak. Almost a year later, just for the hell of it, Liam and I decided to climb back up there again to try to find said knife. Long story short, he found it. I mean, what!? How!? It could have been anywhere on the mountain. We even took a different approach on the summit ridge. And for some reason, just walking along, there it was—BAM. It was just laying there in a bed of pine needles, bleached by the sun but otherwise good as new. Thank you, Liam. Thanks for findin' that blasted knife. 

The Find of the Century

In late October of this year I finally managed to see the silly pyramid of CSULB. I don't know why it exists but it does. It was smaller than I imagined. But the pyramid is not important. Visiting Adam and meetin' his roommate was one of the highlights of the year. Something about driving down the 405 freeway, at night, bumper to bumper traffic, all the way down to Long Beach was incredibly interesting. It put me out of my element. It was like traveling to a new reality. That evening there was much conversing, laughing, and catching up. Ate one of the best home cooked meals of my life at his place. Stir fry. Chicken, vegetables, baby corn and rice. Partied that night. Went to a bar that I will likely never see again. The bouncer was some old fellow that sounded like he was midwestern or something. Funny dude. His name was De Winters, and he kept saying that in a few months he'd be "De Springs" and then "De Summers." Met a comedian who was not funny. Met a guy who really liked to dance. The next day we were all a little tired. Spent it in a daze. Got a late breakfast with Adam's roommate. He bought these really nice kitchen knives. Great food. And then Adam gave me the tour of CSULB. It was empty. Weird. The whole place was like a liminal space. It seemed familiar yet so foreign. A little eerie, but beautiful nonetheless. 

And then, finally, there was the trip down to San Diego. This was the highlight of the year. My favorite moment. Don't know why exactly—it was just so peaceful. It was early March. Early spring meant brilliant blue skies and green grass. Driving down Highway 1, the ocean looked so blue. And the mountains, instead of their familiar brown color, were full of greens and reds and oranges and purples. It looked so alien to me. Never would I imagine Southern California looking as spectacular as this. There were clouds in the sky, and later on that day it even rained a little bit. We were visiting a friend of Benny's; she plays rugby. Home team. We watched her game. It was cold and wet, but there was much jubilation standing on the sidelines cheering on the team. Despite the rowdy nature of the game, I found the whole scene to be quite amicable. It was tranquil, serene. There's just something about standing on a field watching a rugby game at night in a light mist that's so interesting, you know? Home team won the game. It was an important win. But the celebration was a mild one. No insane party. No insane noise. Just a small get together at the house. And in the morning I sat outside in the sun and watched the clouds. They were low in the sky, big and fluffy and moving like turtles. That's how I'll remember this year. That warm, content feeling of sittin' in the chair, in the sun, watching the clouds in San Diego. Doesn't get much better than that! 

Anywho, here's to a happy new year. In Omnia Paratus!

Chief Peak

12/04/2022

Clouds, cool temps, and brief, heavy rain defined much of early December. This weather, something that is seemingly very alien to the sun drenched, scorched and desiccated arid waste of Southern California, served as an interesting backdrop upon which to explore the local backcountry. In order to enjoy as much of this wonderful weather as possible, me and a few friends decided to spend the day climbing Chief Peak by way of Horn Canyon. With the car parked on McAndrew Rd, we began our journey hiking on the relatively new access trail. The going was easy, the conversations were light. The sounds of small, ephemeral streams met our ears, yet the steady drizzle of rain drowned out most other noises. As we began making our way deeper into the canyon, the rain kicked up, and the weather became more interesting. On our way up the dizzyingly steep switchbacks out of the canyon, our view became shrouded with misty clouds. It looked a lot like the chunks loading in a newly developed Minecraft world. 

When we eventually got to the Pines camp, the clouds had settled in, significantly restraining our field of vision. Couldn't see more than a hundred yards in either direction. The camp itself was very nice; it's obvious that a lot of hard work and effort has been put into sprucing up the place. Beyond this camp, the trail became a little more brushy. For someone who expects a clear trail with an arms length of space between them and brush, this trail would be a nightmare. But by Los Padres standards the brush wasn't that bad at all.  We moved through it with ease. The only downside was that the brush was soaking wet. The chamise, yerba santa, black sage, and laurel sumac that lined the trail all acted like one giant wet sponge. We got more soaked walking through this brush than walking in the rain. The wetness seeped right on through our rain jackets. They were useless.

Once we made it to the ridge road the wind kicked up, and with the addition of the rain, it made for a slightly miserable ridge road walk. The road itself had turned into a giant mud path, and it was fun navigating around the slippery sections and the ubiquitous mud puddles. The visibility had gotten much worse; couldn't see no more than 50ft in all directions. We hoped that maybe the top of Chief Peak was spared from the clouds, although I didn't have high hopes.

We saw the use trail, marked by a nice little trail duck, and then began our ascent of Chief Peak from its southwestern ridge. Despite the horrific visibility, the navigation was quite simple: just go up! The wind chilled us right to the bone, but the strenuous grade helped warm us up a little bit. A little too much. Before we new it we were sweating our brains out. Eventually, after slogging our way through the misty void, the tip of Chief Peak came into view. And huzzah! A sliver of blue sky could be seen poking through the clouds. We rushed to the summit, making sure to watch our step on the slick boulders and rocks. At the top, there was little jubilation. Much to our chagrin, that sliver of blue sky had vanished. There was no view at the top, and the wind never ceased in intensity and the mist burned our cheeks. But it was fun nonetheless. It was nice to realize our goal of climbing this mountain. Plus it was cool to see it in the strange backdrop of grey opaqueness. 

Signing the register 

Sittin' there on the top reminded us of how cold it actually was. As a result, our stay at the summit was brief, and before we new it we were shivering our way back down to the car. Our descent off of Chief Peak was a little different than our ascent; we decided to take the northern route out of fear of missing the turn off on the southwestern ridge. We wouldn't of gotten lost or anything, just would've had to deal with a lot more brush and nonsense. The northern route added another two miles or so to our overall trip, but they were downhill and they went by relatively quickly. Of course the visibility drastically improved the second we hit the ridge road again. Chief Peak popped the cloud balloon, and suddenly we were gifted with sweeping views of the Sespe to the North and Hines Peak and the Bluffs to the east. Everything south was still buried beneath clouds, clouds that looked like a sea of fluffy mashed potatoes.

Chief Peak

lookin' south(west)

By some miracle, we somehow managed to find a hidden geocache. Just stumbled upon it, all willy nilly. Weird how that happens. Placed in 2010, it didn't have that many signatures. Unfortunately, the ancient pen had run out of ink, and since none of us had brought a pencil we couldn't immortalize our names in the epic register. Oh well. Gives incentive to go back!

The miles passed quickly. It was all downhill, and the going was very easy. The longer we walked the more we sank back into the clouds. Eventually we were level with them, observing the surrounding world that was half in, half out. The clouds were like an ocean almost, carving out fjords and bays into the side of the brushy hills. At this point we took a small break, enjoying the truly spectacular scenery. It's crazy how much a simple thing like clouds can drastically change the beauty of an area. We were likely to never see Horn Canyon in this same light again, so we took some time developing our mental pictures. 

Saying goodbye to the sun

Eventually the sun disappeared behind the clouds and we were back in the familiar opaque grey void. For a moment, whilst resting at the Pines camp one last time, it seemed as if the sun would finally burn through. But it never did. The world was covered in a soft, fuzzy, cold light.  Observing the clouds and then looking directly at the horizon, near the setting sun, the world appeared almost like a Monet painting or something like that. I was glad the sun never burned though; it would disrupt the peaceful ebb and flow of this world beneath the clouds. 

The Pines Camp

After our brief rest at the camp the weather became moist once again. Visibility worsened significantly, almost as bad as it was on the ridge road earlier that day. The switchbacks went by in a blur and before we knew it we were back at the car. It was a good hike, with good views and good company. We only saw four people over the course of the whole day. I guess a lot of people don't like hikin' in the rain. 

Adieu, Santa Rosa

It's been a while since the events of this trip took place. Took a lot of tests, wrote a lot of papers, went on a few hikes and such. And yet after all of that stuff, the memory of this brief stopover to Santa Rosa still holds strong. Those four days in early September marked a moment in time where the clock slowed down and attention spans lengthened. It offered a respite from the humdrum of everyday life. With its isolation and windswept, barren and primordial landscape, this island left us with nothing to do except to observe and witness time as it flowed through each passing day. Every crashing wave, every cloud that floated through the sky, every fox that slinked away into the knee-high brown grass, every seal that ducked underneath the kelp as soon as it made eye contact, every ray and dolphin and urchin and garibaldi that lurked under the glassy surface of the water, every gnarled and twisted eucalyptus tree that swayed in the wind, every breeze that zipped across the small dunes—these were the things that we witnessed through an unhurried lens. 

And each of us experienced this passing of time in our own unique ways. Some walked along the shore and enjoyed the coast, others walked all over the island, taking in each new sight with excitement and curiosity. Others perceived it through the camaraderie of others, enjoying mostly the company and the evening dinners and new acquaintances made throughout the passing days. I enjoyed all of it. It was a good trip to say the least. And on that last day, I woke up with mixed feelings. However much I wanted to get off that stinkin' island and take a dang shower and find some wifi, a good chunk of me wanted to remain there, to continue to perceive life through the lens of "island time."

The Research Station

That morning a good chunk of our group went and observed the sunrise for one last time. Not me. The previous day's hike to Lobo Canyon, paired with going to bed at an unreasonably late hour both persuaded my body to not wake up until at least 8:00am. After the sunrise group returned, we enjoyed our final breakfast and then began the long process of cleaning up. We split into groups, some tasked with packing out all the leftovers, others with cleaning the kitchen, some with mopping the floors. It took a while, especially when it came to cleaning the grill. I swear that thing ain't been cleaned once. Not once! Ancient grease and char from barbecues of yore were splattered along the brittle walls of the grill, sealed in place as if held by super glue. But we were determined in our goal of leaving the station in better condition that we found it. So that's what we did. 

After we were done with the cleaning, we met up outside and did kind of a group discussion about our experience on the island. Each of us explained what we liked the most about the trip, what we learned, and what we'll take away and stuff like that. It was an emotional moment for some, and the emotions ran deep through us all. We were no longer just faces; these people that I had seen just four days prior in the harbor, most of them complete strangers, now had names and histories and personalities. These faces, grouped in a circle, with sunburnt lips and crazy hair, were now people with whom I possessed a shared experience. It's a rare thing in life to get to do this sort of thing, to embark on a journey with people you don't know too well. To walk with them, cook with them, dine with them, speak with them. 

After the group photo, all we had to do was wait for the boat. Some stayed back at the station, others mingled on the beach and swam. I chilled underneath the pier with a few new acquaintances. Our conversations revolved around those random subjects that really have no meaning but serve as stepping stones in getting to know someone a little better. And there was an old guy that jumped off the top of the pier three times in a row and almost cut his feet on the barnacle encrusted stepladder. And eventually the boat arrived and we formed the ol' fire line to transport the gear and then, just like that—the engines rumbled to life and the island shrank away into the distant horizon. Goodbye, Santa Rosa. 

Adios

Approaching Santa Cruz

The boat zipped almost peacefully through the incredibly calm surf. As my gaze fell upon the almost glassy surface of the water my eyes became bombarded with the infinite glitterings and sparkles of the sun's reflected light upon the ocean's surface. It possessed the same twinkling flicker of fresh snow in the early morning sunshine. A simple, yet brilliant spectacle indeed.

On our way back we stopped by the famous Painted Cave. It was utterly gargantuan, large enough for the whole boat to fit comfortably inside its interior. The walls of the cave possessed this interesting multicolored hue. Faded reds and greens and grays and blues all mixed together to form the "painted" walls of the cave. The walls themselves were jagged and coarse, with rough edges and sharp points. Tiny succulents clung to the walls, and the occasional bird's nest could be seen hidden away in a few shadowy holes.  The water inside the cave was so still and clear it almost looked like a mirror. We could see the walls as they extended into the water, all the way down to the rocky surface deep below. Kelp swayed beneath the boat in some underwater wind, and the occasional seal and fish could be seen meandering their way through this aquatic forest. 

Painted Cave

We were told to keep our conversations to a whisper so as not to disturb the wildlife. Every sound in there was elevated tenfold; the acoustics of the cave distorted the muffled sounds of the engine and our quiet remarks of wonder to a point where they became unrecognizable. And the ever present, gentle splash of water against the walls reverberated back and forth from deep inside the cave, creating an almost alien sound. It almost sounded as if it were speaking to us. A breeze kicked up out of nowhere, blowing from somewhere deep within the cave. And as we inched deeper and deeper inside the bowels of this fascinating natural wonder, it felt as if we were being swallowed whole by some colossal beast. The cave was much like a throat, in both likeness and in how it bellowed and breathed and whatnot. I tried looking for the larynx but was unsuccessful.

We escaped the clutches of Painted Cave with a slick trick: moving in reverse. We backed on out of there and that was that—it was time to go home. The rest of the ride involved looking at dolphins and such, a quick stop at Prisoner's Harbor, and grabbing several mylar balloons from the water. Our Captain did not like picking up the balloons. We all got to know pretty quickly is furious contempt towards them. They were mortal enemies, him and those mylar balloons. 

The Captain and his nemesis

Prisoner's Harbor

After picking up the folks at Prisoner's Harbor it was a straight shot to Ventura Harbor. About halfway there we stopped for a good twenty minutes to look a a couple of whales. Whales are a big deal. Everyone wants to see a whale. Everyone wants to get a picture. So nearly everyone on board left their seats and scrambled outside, moving from port to starboard without much rhyme or reason. I didn't much care for all of the fuss. Whales are whales. I sat in the back and continued to look at the islands. And just as the engines kicked back on I caught a brief glimpse of a massive tail submerging itself into the briny depths. Interesting to see, but not necessary. After all that I'd experienced, it only served as icing on the cake, another wonderful thing in a long line of wonderful things...

This trip occurred between the 2nd and 5th of September. It's taken awhile to process the whole thing, and writing about it has proved challenging. It's a difficult thing to capture a trip such as this in a meaningful way, especially since it will be inevitably filtered through my own personal experience. But that's just how it goes. 

Home

Santa Rosa, Day 3

There was a lot of discussion that morning. Some of us wanted to hike, some of us didn't. It was a warm morning, no breeze, which meant that it was gonna be stupidly hot. Consequentially, the idea of chillin' on the beach and drawing a few pictures and soaking in the aura of the island was really tempting. But that ever present, noisy curiosity imbedded within human nature just wouldn't shut up in a few of us, so a nice little group of masochists formed and suddenly we were off and away—into the broiler. 

The going was slow but steady, our heart rates increasing in time with the dial on the thermostat. The heat began to soak through the landscape. Without any wind, the heat just sat there, soakin' away, like a giant invisible kitchen sponge. And soon our group split into sub groups: those that were fast, those that were in the middle, and those in the caboose that chatted about life's mysteries and idiosyncrasies. And in the caboose we could see the whole thing, see the other groups walking like ants down the dusty road,  see the flat, wind blasted sprawl of the island, the mountainy region to our left, the crystal blue sea to our right. And this part of the island looked a little like the Carrizo Plain and the groups up front would stop and wait for us in the back and interspersed here and there between the dead brown grass was a colorful flower or two, likely belonging to some type of weed. And before we knew it our shirts were soaked and we looked like we had jumped, fully clothed, into the ocean. We stopped often, replenishing lost moisture with the strange water that came from the kitchen sink. It was smooth, basic, and unlike any water we had ever tasted. 

San Miguel

Once we gained the little hill that marked the beginning of the hike, we were gifted with a lovely view of San Miguel Island. It looked isolated, wind-blasted, and lonely. Looking at it from our vantage point it was hard to believe that life could exist on such a rugged spit of land. But life can be surprising sometimes. Most of the flora and fauna on Santa Rosa can be found on San Miguel as well. And after years and years of human activity and ranching and military bombing and such, life on that island still carries on as if nothing ever happened.  

Before long each sub group caught up to one another and became whole again. We moved as one, cutting through the dense sponge of heat as a team. Conversations were aplenty; the subject matter light. No one complained of the heat, no one complained of the long miles. Everyone was simply talkin' and enjoyin' the walk. 

Dropping into Lobo Canyon

We took a little break before dropping into Lobo Canyon. No breeze, no relief from the heat. And as we headed down, the heat only increased, bouncing back and forth off of the walls of the canyon. But we didn't care about no heat. The view was totally distracting.  Lobo Canyon was like a land lost in time. Strange plants and interesting rock formations dotted the walls. Lace lichen hung from the trees in great sheets of sun-bleached emerald. The trees themselves were gnarled and scraggly and angry lookin', and the sandstone walls were windswept and carved, revealing little holes and caves and crevices. At the bottom of the canyon was a little picnic bench, and under the picnic bench were three jugs of water ("For Hiker's Only!"). So we sat there in what little shade there was and payed no mind to the jugs of water, drinking our weird kitchen sink water instead. And we sat and relaxed and explored a little bit before heading off onto the single track path that meandered its way down the canyon to the cool, crystalline blue sea. 

Heading towards the sea

The trail was pretty well maintained except for a few washed out and brushy portions. As we meandered our way farther and farther down the canyon, it felt as if we were being transported farther and farther into the past. Looking up at the wind blasted walls and the tall reeds and the gnarled trees and the shrubs and plants of unknown origin, I no longer felt like I was in 2022. I was half expecting to see a dinosaur to tell you the truth. The plant life and geology of that canyon were of nothing that I have ever seen; walking down that canyon is pretty much the closet thing you'll get to a time machine. But the most surprising thing of all was the discovery of RUNNING WATER. There in that dry and desiccated canyon, about a half mile down, was a nice little creek. The water was a little stagnant, had a bit of a musty smell, but it was water nonetheless. I'd sooner expect to find an Arby's in that canyon rather than running water. It was an incredible thing, a simple, but incredible thing. 

The awe of running water and the flora of the canyon could only distract us from the heat for so long; eventually the temperature became more than irritating. The hike was beginning to become a slog for a few of us. The conversations dropped, the water breaks—silent. The blast furnace of the canyon was beginning to wear us out: we were hoping that the ocean was close. But the canyon kept twisting and turning, the trail moving up and down and up and down. No breeze, no relief; just hot, hot, HOT! Until finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the group leader caught a whiff of the ocean breeze, letting out an "Ooh, yeah, we're close!" And soon all of us felt the cool ocean breeze, and, after one more corner, there it was: the glistening liquid sapphire of relief.

We didn't have the beach all to ourselves; another group had beat us to it. And it was a small beach with big waves that crashed against jagged rocks. The waves were weird and random, not the kind you'd want to try to bodysurf. But the water was a respite from the heat so we jumped in and enjoyed every bit of it. The group leader let down his hair and let his silvery mane frolic in the see breeze before doing a front flip into a wave. Others ripped off their shirts and dove head first into the water. Some tried to bodysurf, but found it impossible. And a select few didn't enter the water at all, finding the sea breeze relief enough. We stayed for a good hour and a half, ate lunch, and enjoyed the presence of the sea and the crystal-clear view of the mainland. 

Looking back up the canyon

After we had our fill of ocean we packed up and headed back up Lobo Canyon. Going back always seems to go a whole lot quicker than going in. Maybe it's because you know what to expect. Maybe it's because you've gotten a feel for the distance. Or maybe it's just because you're really tired and delirious. One of those three...

Our group thinned out over that single track, each one of us meandering our way through the canyon at our own pace. Eventually we regrouped and took a long breather. During this breather the opportunity arose for a brief exploration of a side canyon. A few of us went, the rest deciding to take full advantage of an extra-long break. I do not know the name of the side canyon that we explored, but it was definitely the highlight of the day. 

Everything that made Lobo Canyon interesting was displayed in this mystery canyon tenfold. It was narrow and gnarly. Crazy, wind worn rock walls rose above our heads, the formations looking like an ancient coral reef. Holes, arches, crevices, ridges galore. And dead silence. The walls seemed to absorb all sound. It looked like nothing I had ever seen. Bryce Canyon, Zion, the Escalante: none could compare. This little canyon, a brief saunter off the main trail, took us worlds away, transporting us back to a time where the elements reigned supreme. Forget dinosaurs. Nothing but plants and bugs and rocks. It was old school in that canyon. And I sat down and took it all in, almost forgetting the fact that several cities and millions of people existed just across the Santa Barbara Channel. It was utterly bizarre; there we were, so incredibly isolated, but at the same time so close to civilization. Strange stuff! 

Entering the Side Canyon

Back on the single track, back to truckin'. The heat never ceased in its fury. We took full advantage of each little shady spot we could find. These brief interludes of coolness became all that we looked forward to. The group that we met on the beach caught up with us, sweat dripping off every particle of their figures. They stopped, chatted a bit, and then carried on, their faces red and demeanor weary. 

SHADE!

On the hike back out to the road we learned about "type 2 fun." Sometimes pushing the boundaries of one's comfort zone can reap major benefits. Feelings of accomplishment, satisfaction, and fulfillment can be obtained through "type 2 fun." The harder the excursion, the greater the sense of achievement. I'm more of a "type 0 fun" kind of dude. You know, just lyin' around all day doing nothing at all. But I'll admit, long walks through crazy canyons in the heat is also pretty cool too. To look back and say "yeah, I did that" in spite of all the misery and hardship is a pretty cool thing to say. Gives your ego a little boost. Shows you what you're capable of. And once you've don it,  you never have to do it again!

The picnic table that we had visited earlier that day was now almost entirely in the sun. There were still a few jugs of water left underneath; we took our fill. The hike back out was a lot more pleasant than we expected. After we climbed back out of the canyon, we were gifted with a nice, strong breeze. It was a warm breeze, but a breeze nonetheless. And this breeze pushed away all of the clouds and haze of the surrounding area, gifting us with tremendous views of the mainland. You could see everything from Lompoc down to the Santa Monica Mountains. 

Our group thinned out once more, returning to the usual formation of fast in the front, slow in the back. The day had been rather tiring, the heat having sucked out most of our energy. But road miles are easy miles, and with good conversation and corny jokes we were able to make it back to the station. We were tired but content. A few of us were already experiencing the side effects of having experienced "type 2 fun." Back at the station a small group got together and went on down to the beach to cool off our achin' legs. The water was sublime. So much so that we stayed in it for a good long while. We swam in the surf, dodging the kelp. We swam out to the pier and jumped off the lower section. I ended up swimming around the whole thing: couldn't get enough of that cool, cool water. 

Back at the station we feasted on Hamburgers and Hot Dogs and leftover tortilla chips. The mood was light; it was our last evening there on the island. We washed up, got together as a group, and went on out to the pier one last time. The moon was pretty bright so we didn't see too many stars. But the island was illuminated and it was interesting to see every place that we'd visited. The Torrey Pines, Skunk Point, Water Canyon. And after having walked back from the pier we still weren't tired so I started a game of Blackjack. We bet puzzle pieces and dry erase markers and played well past midnight. And even after midnight some of us stayed up in our rooms talking about the trip and our favorite parts and what we were gonna do when we got back home and how much we wanted to take a shower. 

I knew that most of everyone was gonna go see the sunrise in the morning. Not me. I was gonna sleep in. It had been a long, incredible day. Sleep came easy that night.