Rose Valley Falls and the Great Deluge

Rose Valley Falls 1/5/23

On the second day of the New Year my sister and I drove up the 33 to see how the recent rains had treated Rose Valley Falls. The road just outside of the campground was lined with vehicles; apparently we weren't the only ones who had this idea. The campground itself had a good amount of people in it, although it appeared that only two or three groups were there to stay the night. Everyone else seemed to be there just for the day, and a beautiful day it was. Cloudy, calm, and cozy—with a little bit of mist. Strange weather for Southern California.

The short walk to the lower falls went by without any difficulty. We passed all sorts of people, most of them families with little kids. At the base of the lower falls were a whole assortment of individuals that were standing around gawking and gazing. The falls had a nice flow, offering a dusting of mist to those who stood near the base. We got up close and reveled in the simple majesty of water rushing over the cliff face. 

Lower Falls

The lower falls were nice and all but I was in the mood to see something interesting, something that I had never seen before. That something was the upper falls, 150 some odd feet in height. I had heard somewhere that an adventure to these falls would require some minor scrambling. Given that it had been misting, it probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, but we took a chance and went for it.

Rose Valley Falls

Seasonal Falls

We found a well-worn use trail near the main trail that we took all the way to the falls. To our surprise, no scrambling was required at all. Mostly class 1 with a little class 2 sprinkled here and there. I will say, however, that this route would be a little sketchy to attempt in the rain. But in the mist—easy peasy. Before making our way over to the pièce de résistance we decided to check out the top of the lower falls. It was nice there, with plenty of room to sit and a nice view overlooking the surrounding area. 

We couldn't see the upper falls at first, but we could sure well hear them. They were loud and ominous, yet strangely beckoning. Something that loud would surely be a sight to behold, you know? The final push to the base of the upper falls proved to be the most difficult part of the day. This was where most of the class 2 "scrambling" occurred, if you could call it that.  After we traversed the side of a small hill and crossed the stream we finally caught our first glance of the upper falls. 

First Glimpse

                                         

Strange Rock Formations

                               

Wow, what can I say. There are just some things in life that can't be put into words. I could say that the falls took up my whole field of vision, drowning out every sound with a deafening roar. I could say that the water fell with enough force to explode into a storm of mist and wind that splattered over the jagged rocks and rushed into the valley below. I could say that I had to tilt my head wayyy back in order to take in the sheer size of these falls, having to crane my neck to see them in their full glory. I could say this, I could say that, but none of it will ever capture what I actually saw and experienced. These falls, at that particular moment, possessed the aura of the sublime, of the indescribable. I don't know if it was because of the cloud enshrouded mountains to the north or the rugged cliff face of the falls themselves or the knowledge of the coming atmospheric river that would make these falls even more insane. Whatever it was, whether it be the weather or the location or just the vibes—seeing these falls was something quite exceptional. Plus nobody else was there so that was nice. 

A few days later, on the 5th, we decided to go back up to see the falls once again. We passed a "road closed ahead" sign on Fairview, and we assumed that the 33 was closed at Wheeler Gorge or something like that. But we never saw nothin'. I guess CALTRANS just forgot to take down the sign 'cause the road was totally fine. It had rained a little more, and I could already tell that the coming storm would be an absolute doozy. While we were driving up the 33, I couldn't help but notice the several ephemeral waterfalls that seemed to inhabit every crack and crevice in the hills. Dry lakes ridge alone had about 5 or six little buggers; probably would never see water flowin' in those spots ever again. There were little cracks in parts of the road, as well as evidence of minor rockslides. Yep, with this new storm coming in, I figured it would most likely be a good long while before I drove this stretch of highway again. 

The Upper Falls, a few days later

There were only two cars parked at the campground. That was it. From the campground we could see the entirety of Rose Valley Falls, all 300ft, as well as several ephemeral falls that danced their way over the cliff face. The little stream next to the campground had now graduated to creek status. We crossed with caution, easing our way up the muddy trail to the lower falls. They were just as insane as the upper falls were a few days ago. They were loud, so loud that I couldn't even think. A lot of the moss had been stripped away, and a great mist had settled at the base. I could only imagine what the upper falls looked like. There was absolutely no way I was gonna climb up there to find out. I may be stupid, but I ain't that stupid. 

We stayed at the lower falls for about 15 minutes, and then the rain started screaming down from the sky and it was time to go. Driving out of that campground was a surreal experience. With this coming storm, that little creek would become a river, a river that would probably cause some damage. I took some time taking it in, for it would probably be the last time I'd see the place for a while. Who knows what that camp would look like after the storm. 

And storm it did.  It just kept on rainin' and rainin' and rainin'.  The sky just went up and dumped a years worth of water in the span of a few days. And some places got more rain than others. Like, an ungodly amount of rain. According to vcwatershed.net Nordhoff Ridge got 18.5'' of rain in just two days. Two days! That's totally insane. You can only imagine what those falls looked like then. It is also of note that both San Marcos Pass and Matilija Canyon both received over 17" of rain over the course of the same period. Holy jumpin' flapjacks, that's a lot of water my friend. Trying to wrap your mind around statistics like these is pretty much impossible. Why and how this much rain can fall, it's a mystery to me. It doesn't make sense. I guess it's just what happens sometimes here in SoCal. Albert Hammond really put it best:

"Seems it never rains in southern California

Seems I've often heard that kind of talk before

It never rains in California

But girl, don't they warn ya?

It pours, man it pours"

So on the 9th, in the midst of the storm, I decided to check out the Ventura River. The local news reported that it had reached flood capacity, and, having never seen a river reach flood capacity before, I was a little curious to find out what it looked like. What does 17" of rain from Matilija Canyon and 18.5" of rain from Nordhoff Ridge do to a quiet little river bed that's dry for most the year? 

Whoah!

It smelled like earth. There was a news van, ABC 7 Eyewitness news. A few people stood around. One old guy remarked "about time we got some rain." The river sounded just like the falling rain, only a tad angrier. Branches, garbage and other debris littered the surface. Huge boulders, hidden from the naked eye, rolled and smashed and tumbled beneath the surface. The water was almost touching the bottom of the Santa Ana bridge; had about 6ft to go. Suffice it to say, it was awesome, in the truest sense of the word. Huge, epic, powerful and terribly frightening all at the same time. 

Ventura County Fairgrounds

The next day, on the 10th, we drove to the beach to see the water meet the sea. It smelled strongly of earth; the familiar salty brine smell of the ocean was nowhere to be found. We walked along the bike path, passed a few search and rescue folks. The fairgrounds were flooded. About a half foot of water (deeper in some places) covered most of the western premises. The water in the fairgrounds was still, like a reflection pool, and there was one guy in there trying to work the pump. The river was raging, full throttle, into the Pacific. The ocean was brown and murky, the beaches buried beneath heaps of driftwood and other random detritus. I ain't never seen the river like that, and I probably ain't never gonna see it like that for a long time. This storm was one for the books, causing destruction and hardship for many who live in the backcountry. The road into Matilija Canyon was completely destroyed. The 33, well, lets just say it'll be under construction for a good long while. As for the trails and camps in the Los Padres...I do not know. As of January 13th, practically the whole damn forest is closed to the public. Personally, I think that's kind of lame, but what am I supposed to do about it, you know? 

So it'll be a while before I go moseyin' on back there to see what's happened. In the meantime, I'll write a few stories that I've been meanin' to write but just never got around to it. And that's all I have to say about the great deluge of 2023. 

Ventura River Mouth