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.