Divide Peak and "King's Crest"

The morning of the 12th finally brought along some proper winter weather. Stormy skies, icy wind, cold mist. There was a high chance of rain that morning and the skies looked fit to burst. To the north was a massive stain of dark and angry gray, emitting crisp and chilly gusts of wind that ripped down the canyon. Many of the surrounding peaks were obscured in a low layer of clouds, soaking the chaparral in a frigid mist. Not cold enough for snow, but cold enough to keep me physically uncomfortable.

I left for the trailhead at the end of Matilija Rd. Nobody else was parked in the lot. That was no surprise. What idiot would want to be out hiking in this miserable weather? As it would turn out, just one (yours truly). I crossed the creek, observing the distant cloud-covered peaks off to the west. A few small droplets of mist accumulated on my windbreaker, coated my face, clouded my sunglasses. I walked past the junction with the Murietta Canyon trail, noticing a USFS truck parked at the trailhead. Up at the fork near Blue Heron Ranch was a Jeep Grand Cherokee, also belonging to the USFS. What they were doing out there I had no idea. I hung left, beginning the climb up forest route 5N13 to the Murietta Divide.

The objective of the day was to hit up some peaks that I'd never climbed: Divide Peak and Peak 4864. The latter, known colloquially as "King's Crest" (named after the guy that nabbed the first documented ascent in 1990), is the high point of the Santa Ynez Mountains, a beautiful transverse range that stretches from the Matilija Creek all the way past Gaviota. I'd seen this peak from the summit of White Ledge Peak earlier this year and I've been curious about its summit ever since. 

"King's Crest" left of center

I quickly learned that forest route 5N13 is likely to never be a complete road again. Right at the beginning was a large boulder that nearly took up the whole road. That was just the first of many impediments and obstacles that have completely destroyed this road, rendering it only passable for hikers and mountain bikers. I weaved up the road, walking over old mudslides, going around boulders, skirting across ruts. In some places the road was overgrown, in others not so much. In some spots it was more of a trail than a road, with about half of it being washed away into Murietta Canyon. 

As I walked up the steady grade the weather began to change. The clouds thinned, the wind died down, and the first vestiges of blue sky poked their way through stubborn gray. The sun burned a hole in the clouds, causing them to retreat in all directions. I could now see the Murietta Divide and King's Crest up ahead, the peak wrapped in a fluffy band of rapidly fading clouds. 

Before long I came upon a massive mudslide that had completely buried a good chunk of the road. Reeds, willows, mud, trickling water. It was like I had entered a brand-new spring of some kind. I walked up and down and across the hard-packed mud, pushing dew soaked branches out of the way until I reached the other side. 

The damage I had seen had been bad, but all of it was possibly fixable. That all changed when I got to a point just before Murietta Spring. The road had vanished. It was gone. Poof. No trace of it could be found anywhere. In its place was a rushing little creek, fit with boulders and brush and ferns and moss and little tiny frogs. The road had turned into a creek. Ain't no one gonna be fixin' that any time soon, that's for sure.

This used to be the road...

I walked up what was once a road, hopping across boulders in an attempt to keep my feet dry. The road eventually became a road again, and from there to the divide I found no further damage. The grade throughout the day had gotten steeper and steeper, and by now the inside of my windbreaker was soaked in sweat. I stopped to take it off, shivering a bit in the icy breeze. The clouds were making a comeback, engaging in an all-out assault on the sun. By the time I got to Murietta Divide they had won their battle; the whole thing was choked in a dense blanket of cold fog. 

Murietta Divide

I was a little bummed about this development. I was about to engage in the most difficult part of the day: climbing over a thousand feet in less than a mile to reach the ridge line of the Santa Ynez Mountains. Normally one would be gifted with tremendous views of both Murietta and Juncal canyons as they climbed higher and higher, perhaps filling them with feelings of enthusiasm and zeal after having witnessed such a beautiful sight, raising their spirits and helping them combat the punishing grade. I had no such luxury today. I picked up the trail, put my windbreaker back on (the wind was back and colder than ever) and just slogged up the whole thing. 

No end in sight...

The trail was in better shape than the road, the result of countless hours of amazing volunteer work. It was super easy to follow and very straightforward, but MAN was it steep. Having never been on this trail I had no idea how long I'd be climbing. I knew it couldn't be that far, but since I had no reference point on which to base my progress, the thing seemed to stretch on forever. Steep switchback after steep switchback took me were I needed to go, suddenly spitting me out on a sandy road. I had made it to the ridge. I turned right and made for Divide Peak.

On the ridge (East Camino Cielo)

Superb views

I couldn't see more than 100ft in any direction. Couldn't even see Divide Peak but I knew it was there, hiding somewhere in the thick fog. It was eerily quiet at the top, the wind had stopped, couldn't hear no birds, no nothing. Huge sandstone boulders loomed in the fog, ominous and intriguing. The sun tried to break through, nearly succeeded, and then disappeared. I followed the road to the base of an obvious incline, which I assumed to be the final push to the summit of Divide Peak. I was correct. I made it to the top in a hop skip and a jump. It was as fog-chocked and grey and miserable as the whole rest of the ridge. Oh well. I'd have to see the summit views some other day. 

Divide Peak summit

The true high point of Divide Peak, the one on which I was now standing, doesn't have a benchmark. That honor has been bestowed to its shorter, western summit about 200 meters distant. Why this is the case I do not know. Maybe the surveyors were lazy or something and didn't feel like walking the additional 200 meters east to the true high point. I looked around for a register and was unsuccessful. The sun had started making a comeback, but it was weak and pale, not putting up much of a fight. I sat down in the cold and ate a granola bar, staring off into grey oblivion. 

And then, after about five minutes of sitting in gloom, something magical happened. The clouds started receding, little by little, revealing the surroundings ever so slowly. It was a lot like that scene in Hayao Miyazaki's "Castle in the Sky" where the floating city of Laputa is slowly revealed after the protagonists breach the storm. This time, the clouds did not reveal a magical floating city. First came the Pacific Ocean, shining white in the glare of the pale sun. Then came the islands, brown and distant. Next came the coastal cities, Carpinteria, Ventura, and all their surrounding communities. Lake Casitas came into view, and then everything to the east: Sulphur Mountain, the Topa Topa Bluffs, Ojai, and in the distance Oxnard, Camarillo and the Santa Monica Mountains. I ran around the summit, observing this wonderful scene taking place, snapping as many pictures as I could. 

King's Crest finally poked through the clouds, tall and coated with wet chaparral. To the north I could see Old Man Mountain and Monte Arido, both of them barely standing above a thick soup of fluffy clouds. Murietta Canyon appeared to be mostly cloud-free, enabling me to see far to the east: Reyes Peak, Haddock Mountain, and Thorn Point all in view. The clouds sitting beneath Old Man Mountain and resting above Juncal Canyon were being funneled between Divide Peak and King's Crest, spilling out toward Lake Casitas before vanishing into thin air. The whole sequence of events was one of the most interesting things I've ever seen in my life. Clouds can sure be interesting sometimes, you know?

King's Crest 

I said my goodbyes to the summit and made my way off Divide Peak into the river of clouds rushing off to Lake Casitas. In one moment I was in sun, in the next I was back in the gloom. But it was a mobile gloom. I could see the top of the river zooming overhead, wispy and wavy, the sun eating it away like a competitive eater at a county fair. Soon the gloom was no more than a thin translucent curtain, and I could now clearly see my objective before me. It was looking to be a much harder climb than Divide Peak. 

King's Crest looming in the haze

I went around the west side of the peak, following the road towards the start of the Ocean View trail, looking for a spot where I could begin the climb. No matter where I went, I couldn't seem to find an easy entry point. Dense pokey brush, soaked in dew, seemed to be the reality of the peak. It's been seven years since this placed burned to a crisp in the Thomas Fire. And in seven years the brush has made an amazing comeback. A few more years of growth and it should be back to how it was before the fire. Good news for the forest, not so much for me. But I ain't afraid of no stinkin' brush so I left the trail at a random point and began the bushwhack. 

The route I chose was a stupid one. I was clawing my way through chest high manzanita, climbing up wet sandstone boulders, slipping, scooting, and making very slow progress. There had to be an easier way up this thing. So I lumbered south, leaving the boulders and manzanita for chamise, laurel sumac, and a whole other assortment of pokey and prickly chaparral. But there were no boulders to contend with and that was nice. I pushed my way forward, scuffing my arms on the charred skeletons of burnt chaparral and avoiding as best I could the wrath of several yucca. 

I was making acceptable progress now, moving through the brush as best I could, going with the flow, trying to find the path of least resistance. I gained the summit ridge, a thin line of sandstone boulders standing between me and the summit. To the my left was an airy drop-off into Murietta Canyon and views of the Matilija backcountry, to my right was the Pacific Ocean, islands, ships, oil rigs, farmland, civilization. The cloud blanket was still sitting heavy over Juncal Canyon, still spilling out toward Lake Casitas, still mostly avoiding Murietta Canyon for whatever reason. As I was making my way over to the summit I looked down at some retreating clouds and noticed a rainbow-halo encircling the glare of the sun. Never seen anything like it before or since. A very strange natural phenomenon indeed.

Rainbow Halo

I reached the summit, plopped down, soaked in the sun. I had removed my windbreaker for the bushwhack and was more than glad to be soakin' in some rays instead of sitting in more gloom. The views on King's Crest were very similar to those on Divide Peak, albeit slightly more scenic. I found an ol' tin can hiding under the summit boulders containing a register. Placed in 2020, it doesn't have that many signatures. Seemed like most folks climbed this thing in 2020, with 6 entries for the year. Second came 2021 with 4 entires. 2022 saw just one person and 2023 was completely vacant. The most recent entry was from January of this year. I was a bit surprised to see so few signatures in that booklet. This peak, after all, is the highest point in the entire Santa Ynez Mountains. Seems like it would be a pretty popular spot. But for whatever reason, this is not the case. 

View Southeast(ish)

View South

View North

View West

View East

I sat around for a bit, enjoying the views, the sun, the clouds. Everything oozed the aroma of damp earth and wet brush. I got up every once in a while, poking around the summit, snapping some shots of the surrounding country. The clouds over Juncal Canyon were disappearing fast, revealing rugged country and the blue jewel of Jameson Lake. I'd never been on a peak where I could see both Lake Casitas and Jameson Lake, so that was interesting. After I had my fill of the sights and smells, I packed up my meager belongings and prepared for the lovely bushwhack back to the trail.

Juncal Canyon right, Jameson Lake center

By now, the dense blanket of clouds over Juncal Canyon had mostly disappeared. Strange how weather can change so quickly. Just that morning it looked like Winter had finally made it to town and now, just a few hours later, it was like it had never even showed up. Bright warm sun, hardly any clouds, faint breeze. I supposed Winter had knocked on the door and was denied entry. Oh well. It'll be here sooner or later. 

I did something that I rarely do when descending a mountain: I decided to take a different route. On my way up to the summit I noticed a gully on my right that looked promising. Gullies are nice. But they can be a bit of a gamble. Sometimes they make for easy travel, sometimes they can be really confusing and tedious and stupid and dumb. I was willing to take the gamble. 

Parts of the gully were brushier than all get out, requiring me to crawl on my hands and knees. I got a nasty sting from a yucca plant hiding under the growth, its needle going straight through my jeans into the soft flesh of my calf. Yowch! But other than that, this gully was wayyy easier than my ascent route. If I were to do climb this peak again I'd for sure use this as the ascent route. Very straightforward and easy to follow. 

I reached the junction with the trail that led back down to the Murietta Divide. I could now see everything that was hidden that morning: Juncal Canyon and environs to the west, Murietta Canyon and environs to the east. Old Man Mountain sat north, looking tired and humorless. I scooted off the ridge in record time, zooming down the switchbacks all the way to the divide in what seemed like minutes. 

Murietta Canyon

Matilija Canyon

Now all that was left was the knee-bashing descent back to the trailhead. Things had cooled off a bit, the faint breeze had a bit of a bite to it, so I dawned my fleece and trucked on down the road, not thinking of anything in particular as I made my way. I dodged the obstacles, skirted the ruts, avoided slipping in the mud. Fall colors in the canyon were still in full swing, the leaves of the sycamore trees awash with orange and red and brown. A nearly full moon peaked over the eastern mountains, seemingly growing smaller as it rose higher in the sky. 

The Jeep Grand Cherokee was gone. And so was the truck. Matilija Canyon, now completely shrouded in shade, was silent and still, the only sounds coming from the rushing creek. Nobody was parked in the lot, and then this one car came out of nowhere and just sat there, engine idling, the driver and passenger both looking at their phones. They were the first and only people I'd seen all day. 

I had only been out on the trail for a little over six hours, but it felt much longer. I don't know if that's because of the difficulty of the hike or the capricious weather, but for whatever reason, I'm grateful. It had turned out to be an absolutely incredible day in the local country, one of the best I've ever experienced. Divide Peak and King's Crest turned out to be fantastic peaks with equally fantastic views. I'm sure to see them again someday. 

Matilija Falls Reconnaissance

That half marathon righteously kicked my ass. In addition to the chafing, I also somehow managed to tweak my hip flexor. I ran a 5k a week after running the half, and the second I finished I knew that 1, I definitely shouldn't have ran that 5k and 2, I'd have to give my hip a proper rest. No running, no hiking. Took the whole month of November off in order to heal up. By the end of the month I was more than a little ancy to get back on the trail.

Not wanting to do something too insane for my first hike back, I decided to pay a much needed visit to the falls up Matilija Canyon. Hadn't been back there in almost three years; my last excursion being the infamous Cara Blanca expedition of 2022. Since then, the canyon has undergone some drastic changes. Two massive winter storms have changed the layout of the creek, washing away some portions of the trail. What remained unscathed from the rains became a victim of disuse, with brush having reportedly consumed much of the trail. Some reports stated that most of the trail had disappeared altogether, although I doubted these to be true. The only way to know for sure would be to check it out myself. 

I left home on the morning of the 5th. Got to the trailhead a little after 10am after driving down the recently renovated Matilija Rd. What was practically destroyed during that doozy of a winter storm is now entirely passable, with just one brief single-lane section. Many of the homes in the canyon have been put up for sale, which is of no surprise. After what happened during last year's rains, I wouldn't want to live in that canyon either. While the road is still "technically" closed to the public I saw no additional signage farther along or anything of the like at the trailhead parking lot. Some of the locals even waved as I drove by, so I took that as a good sign. 

I set off down the trail, the air unseasonably warm. The light fleece that I brought along was quickly discarded to the bottom of the pack where it remained for the duration of the hike. The sun was low in the sky, casting a subdued wintery glow on the surrounding walls of the wide canyon. Before long I was at the first creek crossing, which was completely different from how I remembered it in my mind's eye. The whole thing was significantly wider than before, the small creek surrounded by the wreckage of a thousand boulders. The whole creek had been completely stripped bare of any foliage, looking like a giant white scar contrasted against the brown sides of the wide canyon. There was a newly developed dirt road that cut through the boulder debris, crossing the creek farther upstream than normal. A truck came lumbering down the road; I got out of the way, waved and continued on. 

I made it to a fork in the road where I made a right and continued through Blue Heron Ranch. A gentleman was up running a generator and getting ready to do some tedious yard work. We both waved and I continued along the road, noticing it shrink as the brush slowly encroached on its borders.

The road soon shrank to the size of a footpath. This footpath remained in fairly good condition until I crossed the creek running out of Old Man Canyon. After that, the trail was pretty dang brushy. There were a few spur trails that turned away from the main route, all of them heading towards the creek. There was one spot where I found a line of rocks blocking the correct route. I began to think that it would be easier to just head on down to the creek, but I'm a trail purist and I was curious to see what almost two years of abandonment would look like on a trail that was once very popular. I stepped over the man-made rocky obstruction and pressed on. 

I crossed another creek, ducking under pokey vines and busting through lush riparian foliage. I spotted some flagging tape and a cairn that marked a fork in the path. Heading right would take me to the creek, heading left would take me up a small hill through more brush. I decided to go through more brush. How bad could it be?

Turns out, not very bad at all. Some spots were brushier than others, but for the most part it was fairly easy to follow the trail. Had I never traveled this trail before, I would have found it extremely confusing. But prior knowledge of the route proved supreme and I made my way up the hill with little issue. 

Everything was going great until I hit the switchbacks that descend back into the creek. I discovered them to be 90% destroyed. Some intrepid explorers before me had marked a safe route through the rubble, marking the way with small cairns. I carefully made my way down, noticing a collapsed cairn in the creek bed that marked where to exit on my return from the falls. Not sure why there were there; the slide was obvious enough.  

What remains of the switchbacks

In the creek...

From there it was no mystery on where to go. I remembered there being a use trail that helped travelers navigate through some of the riparian brush that inhabited the creek before the rains. This brush is no more. And so is the trail. Maybe some sliver of it remains on the higher banks, untouched and unscathed from the biblical flooding, but I found it easiest (and just plain ol' more convenient) to stay in the creek. 

The farther I went the more scenic it became, the canyon growing more narrow and rugged with each passing step. I passed many new swim holes that had been created during the flooding, each one deeper and greener than the last. Many of the ones that I had remembered from the past were long gone, either filled with sediment or simply washed away from existence. I was surprised, however, to see one of them had not only survived, but had been significantly improved. Two gargantuan boulders, so big that not even the rushing current of a torrential downpour could move them, still sat on the edges of a deep emerald pool replenished by the rush of a small waterfall.  This pool was a good six or seven feet deep, much deeper than from what I remembered. I skirted around on the right and continued up the canyon.

One of the original swim holes that survived the rains

After a good amount of rock hopping, sliding, scrambling and doing everything that I could to not roll one of my ankles, I finally made it to the fork in the creek and made a left, skirting across several slabs to the base of the magnificent West Falls. They looked exactly how I remembered them. Good flow, slight breeze, 20+ feet tall in a canyon that's lost in time. The geology in this area is absolutely insane. Layer upon layer of sedimentary rock has been stacked, twisted and morphed into strange, whimsical shapes, looking like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. It's one of the most interesting places I've ever seen, on par with the scenery of the famous "Wave" formation out near Kanab AZ. I spent a good fifteen minutes just sitting there at the base of the falls, admiring the steep walls of the canyon that surrounded me.

West Falls

Insane Geology

After a bit, I went on back to the fork and continued north, heading for the other set of falls farther up the canyon. I hadn't been to these since January of 2022 and was excited to see what had happened to them after all these years. I found the north fork of Matilija Creek to be narrow, fairly free of brush, and choked with boulders. It felt wild and isolated, despite the fact that I was only about five or so miles away from the trailhead. And though it would've been easier to walk in the creek, I decided to take on the extra challenge of keeping my feet dry. With great care I managed to do just that, making it to the north falls without so much as a drop of water wetting my kicks. 

North Falls

The pool at the base of the north falls had been mostly filled with fine shale from a slide just to its right. Other than that, they looked just how I remembered them. These falls, though not as geologically spectacular as the west falls, are extremely beautiful and peaceful, serving as the stopping point for about 70% of those bold enough to make the trek. Just above them is another waterfall that I remembered having a deep pool at the base, but in order to get to there one must make a fairly sketchy climb. There used to be a solid fixed rope that helped things out, but when I looked at it, it was so old and worn and faded that I deemed it unsafe for use. So I climbed up the falls the old fashioned way, ignoring the sketchy rope. 

Upper Falls

The climb was actually not that bad, but I took my time regardless, slowly crawling up and over the right side of the falls. The upper falls were in sight. I dashed over a few boulders, climbed up a ledge, and dumped my stuff in the shade. By this point my back was soaked in sweat and I was more than ready to jump into that crystalline emerald pool. I stripped off my clothes and rushed into the pool, immediately regretting my decision. That water was COLD. Despite the warm weather, the water was like ice, and I let out a few hurried gasps before calling it quits and spastically swimming back to shore. I scurried up to a sun-soaked ledge like a lizard, desiring nothing but the warm sun with which I'd so recently grown annoyed. 

There exist more falls farther up the canyon, but I'd have to save those for another day. The purpose of this excursion was to get out there, see the main attractions and survey the trail damage (which was not as bad as expected). Satisfied with the my swift and safe journey to all three falls, I took one last look, gathered my things, and set off back down the creek, stopping every now and then to snag some photos of the impressive scenery of the canyon. 

I saw the slide first, then the toppled cairn. It was time to say goodbye to the creek. I soaked my shirt and dunked my hat in preparation for the brief but arduous climb up out of the canyon. I waved goodbye to the creek and scrambled up the remnants of the switchbacks, picking up the trail in no time. 

Some parts are brushier than others...

The sun sat low in the sky, now casting a golden wintery hue on the surrounding country. No wind, not even a faint breeze. Temps had finally cooled off, the chill of winter slowly making its presence noticeable. I made it back to the cairn, back to the flagging tape, ducked under those same pokey vines and busted through that same lush, riparian foliage. I saw the rocky obstruction, the one that I'd seen earlier in the day blocking the correct route. I crossed the creek flowing out of Old Man Canyon, noticing a few gummy bears on the ground that were not there earlier in the day. 

From there on out the going was nice and easy, the sun now obscured behind the towering Santa Ynez Mountains. I walked back through Blue Heron Ranch, waving at the gentleman that was doing yard work earlier that morning. We chatted a bit, him curious as to the condition of the falls. He finished by asking if I had a wonderful time, to which I said "yes" and to which he replied "wonderful." 

I half walked, half jogged the rest of the way back to the trailhead. It had been a nice and quick reconnoissance, taking a little over four hours to complete. Got some good information that will give me peace of mind when planning future adventures up the canyon. But mostly I was glad to finally be back out there in the woods. The Matilija Wilderness is one of my absolute favorite places the Los Padres and it was awesome to finally get to see it again after all these years. 

 

Lights in the Desert

I spent much of October training for the Joshua Tree Half Marathon. Didn't feel like repeating the horrors of the Ventura Half earlier this year. No siree. I survived that race only because it was mostly downhill. The same cannot be said for the Joshua Tree Half. Hills, dirt roads, wind, and sand. Lots of sand. It would be like running on the beach in some parts. And, just for the fun of it, the whole thing would take place at night. This ain't the kind of race you can just hop on in and hope for the best. If I was gonna do well, I was gonna have to train. 

I sidelined a lot of excursions into the local wilds in favor of training. Hiking and running do not correlate at all. I've realized this time and time again in the past. So instead of going on hikes, I went on a whole bunch of runs. Got back into the running groove. It's been a while since I've ran consistently. Felt like my old high school days.  

I had ran this very same race five years ago in 2019. I was in much better shape then, coming off of a track season and three years of consistent running. It was my first half marathon and it nearly destroyed me. Swore I'd never run it again. But here I was, five years later, doing it again. Why? Don't know. Five years has a funny way of washing away the memory of certain things. And I've always had this lingering feeling that I could do better if given a second attempt. I guess that was enough motivation for me to sign up. And so I did. 

Race day arrived a lot faster than expected. It always seemed so distant and then—WHAM—it was there. We left on the morning of the 2nd, headed down through the Inland Empire, out through Indio, toward Twentynine Palms, into the middle of the desert. Grace and McKenna were running this race as well. Why they decided to choose this race as their first half is beyond me. Them's must be crazy. Could've ran the Ventura Half, the M2B Half, but no, they chose to run one of the hardest races I know. 

The summit of Mt. San Jacinto was obscured in clouds. It had been cloudy most of the day, but as soon as we entered the desert they disappeared, like they were being held back by a giant invisible forcefield. The clouds on the summit of San Jacinto looked like a gargantuan sombrero. Looking at that mountain rising 10,000ft from the desert floor, I began to wonder if anyone was attempting the summit. If there was any time to attempt the famous cactus-to-clouds death march, November 2nd would've been the day to do it. Cactus on the desert floor. Clouds on the summit. A literal cactus-to-clouds hike. Couldn't have it any other way. 

We arrived at the expo, got our bibs, and then wandered around for a bit, taking in the sights and smells. We had a little less than two hours to kill before the race began, so we took our time soaking in the surroundings. There were hundreds of people afoot, all scurrying around, some stretching, some warming up, some eating pizza, some drinking coffee. There were men wearing ballerina tutu's, women in glitter and glow sticks, people outfitted with various packs and bladders and gear and whatchamacallits. Some people were in the zone. Some were not. All kinds of people were running this race, from the very young to the very old. 

The desert is like a magnet for eccentricity. And this expo was ground zero. There were all these art installations, couches, fires for roasting marshmallows. Wooden huts, fences, alcoves, and big empty structures in the shape of suppositories lined the exterior of the expo, keeping it all together like a funky desert town out of a western novel. We poked around some of these oddly shaped structures, one of them painted with a rainbow, another painted with some constellations on the interior. The stars themselves were actually holes punched through the metal, letting the rays of the setting sun pass right on through. 

After exploring the expo and dealing with some pre-race shizzles, we warmed up together, stretched, and then headed toward the start. It was beginning to dawn on McKenna and Grace that they were about to run 13.1 miles in the dark. Yup, it was happening. It was inevitable. And it was exciting. Spirits seemed to be very high. Any sign of fear or dread were well hidden. The air was electric as people made their way through the corral to the start. Everyone was excited. The race was about to begin. 

It was a waved start, broken up in groups separated by expected finish time. Slower folks in the back, speed demons up front. Grace, McKenna and I walked to our respective groups. The sun had set, casting a fiery glow over the horizon. The wind had picked up, now blowing in steady gusts. It was a cold wind, one that stung the eyes and chilled the soul. People started bouncing around to keep warm. Others darted off into the desert to pee for just one last time. The race directer got on the speaker and said, "Everyone, can I have everyone's attention! Look at the people who are peeing! I want you all to point at the people who are peeing!" Everyone listened to him. We all pointed at the incontinent. They scurried back in shame.

I was positioned near the front of the pack. Fast, lean people with muscular legs and intimidating demeanors surrounded me. I was standing next to this one guy. Dude must have been 6'5". He had long, skinny legs, long skinny arms, long, luscious locks and a mustache that would make Steve Prefontaine proud. I determined there and then that he would win this race. I could just tell. The dude looked legit. He moved up to the front of the group and I never saw him again.

I chatted with this other guy for a bit. He had the physique of a runner, long legs, tall, headband, the whole nine yards. Said this was his first time running this course. I told him all of what I remembered from five years ago, and wished him luck. He too moved to the front. I bounced around, feeling like I had to pee. 

The race would begin any moment now. The race directer informed us in this first wave that if we wanted to make the podium it would be wise to start right up front. The top five spots were based off of gun time, not chip time, so it was best to start as close to the front as possible. I had no plans on being in the top five so I stayed near the middle of the pack. Five minutes later, and the race director counted us down. The crowd lurched forward. And then we were off. 

A surge of thirty to forty people sprinted forward, bounding down one of the only paved sections of the entire course. People were passing me left and right, but I kept it cool, trying to run behind groups to shelter myself from the wind. We made a right and entered the sand, beginning the climb of a mile long hill. We headed directly west, right into the remaining light still clinging to the horizon. 

The hill was not as bad as I remembered it. But it sure wasn't easy, ooh boy. We were running on a single-track dirt road. The sides of the road were all sand. People were running in the ruts, which were also sandy. And in the middle of the road was this especially sandy berm. Nobody was running on that. I picked people off, one by one, catching those who had gone out too fast. We were running into the wind, and the wind was starting to take its toll. I ran behind as many people as I could, drafting off of them. I ran behind this one big muscular guy in red. He ran like an ox, all power. But the wind sucked the life out of him and I soon had to pass him to keep pace. 

I hopped over the berm again and again, passing people left and right. The group had now strung out pretty thin, and I soon found myself running alone in the wind, gazing up the hill, observing the violent orange and red stains of dying sunlight in the sky. There were spectators on a hill, jumping up and down. I could only see their silhouettes; couldn't make out any faces. I turned on my headlamp. Crested the hill. And before I knew it, night had fallen. I could see the faint lights of the runners in front of me, looking like little stars in a sea of black.

I had managed to keep pace but the hill and the wind had really kicked my butt. My heart rate was way higher than it should've been. But I kept at it, running faster and faster each mile. I eventually caught up to headband guy, the one I'd talked to at the start. He told me good job, and then informed me that I was in sixth place. Told me to go catch fifth. I didn't really believe him. There was no way I'd passed almost everyone in that group of 30-40 people that surged in the beginning. But sure man, I'd catch up to "fifth." I could see him off yonder, the light from his headlamp bobbing up and down a good 300ft ahead. I passed headband guy and set off for my next target. 

I ran by aid stations, ran by cars heading down the road. Even ran by a house with goats and chickens and cows and stuff. Couldn't see them. But I could definitely smell them. And they sure made a hell of a lot of noise. But fifth place still kept the distance. He wasn't letting up. Wasn't getting any closer. At one point, I lost all sight of him. Thought he was gone for sure. But I saw his light again, wayyy off in the distance, still bobbing up and down. I didn't think I could catch him. Dude was moving pretty fast. But I kept at my pace, running consistently, trying not to roll my ankle every five seconds as it sunk into a hidden soft spot in the road. 

The next several miles became a game of cat and mouse. We hit the second paved section of the course and I let loose. I ran way faster than I should've, zooming down the pavement, trying to close the gap between me and fifth place. I got it down to about 100ft by the time we hit the sand again. He had noticed my light, had noticed my steps, had probably heard my labored breathing. He would surge forward for a bit, trying to lose me. But I stuck to it, matching his surges. I didn't let him widen the gap. I chased after him like a wolf after a deer, slowly wearing him down. The gap shortened to 75ft, then 70ft. And then he booked it, running at full steam. I couldn't keep up. I let him go. 

But it appeared that he couldn't keep it up either. He started visiting the aid stations, slowing down to grab some electrolytes. Every time he slowed down was an opportunity to close the gap. He was wearing down. His pace was slowing. I closed the gap to 50ft. Then 25ft. And then it stayed like that for a long time, the both of us running the same pace, neither one of us loosing or gaining any ground. 

We hit some more hills. Both of us slowed down. The wind had kicked up even more, blowing in our faces, chilling us to the bone. He started to surge again, running in short sprints to lose me, but I held on. Finally, after a little over seven miles of head games, I caught up to him. We ran side by side. We stumbled in the ruts, trying to keep our respective forms steady. He looked over at me and said "good job." I grunted, too out of breath to reply, and performed a surge of my own. I opened a 10ft gap between us. Then 20ft. I started losing him. I could see strobe lights in the distance, marking the location of the finish line. The stars were shining bright overhead, the constellations in full force. I had a little over a mile and a half to go. We were in the end game now.

The last mile was mostly downhill, all of it in sand. I nearly tumbled head over heels at one point, briefly losing my footing while stumbling down that goofy hill. And to make things even better, that dude I'd just passed was catching up to me. He had something in reserve, a second wind. And he was closing the gap. FAST. I accelerated to mach speed, zooming down the hill, a dull panic overtaking me. Well, well, well. Looks like I was the deer now. 

I rounded a corner, running on the outskirts of the race expo. The finish was close; I was nearly there. All of a sudden I saw another headlamp no more than 25ft in front of me. It was another runner. I started to kick. Used up whatever I had left in the tank. I caught up to the guy right at mile 13, a lean dude in split-leg shorts and a running tank. He managed to squeak out a "good job" as I passed him. Wow. Everyone had been so polite on this course!

I entered the final chute. I heard the race director. Said, "I see someone coming. I see a headlamp bobbing out there. I see TWO headlamps bobbing out there." The guy was right behind me. I wasn't gonna let him pass. I dug deep, found something I didn't know I had, and sprinted down the chute. I wasn't gonna let him catch me. I dashed across the finish line in a haze, barely cogent enough to hear the race directer say something about "fourth place. " Mustache guy was leaning on a fence. I could just tell that he'd won the thing. He had the air of a winner. And as it turns out, I later learned that he not only won the race, but shattered the course record in the process. Told you he was legit. I walked over to him and he gave me a low five and a "good job." That was the fourth "good job" of the night. And then my mom came over and said I'd placed fourth. And not only that, but I'd beaten my previous time by over five minutes. 

Whelp, I guess all that training paid off. Other runners streamed across the finish. McKenna zoomed down the chute, finishing in a very respectable time and medaling in her age group. Grace finished a little later, finishing the race a full 20 minutes faster than she'd expected. We attended the awards ceremony, took some pictures, and then drove all the way back home, stopping at In-N-Out along the way. 

Something must have been in the air that night 'cause all of us did very well. But it came at a cost, at least for me. Sure I beat my time and ran one of the best races of my life, but it came with a price. Got the WORST CHAFING I've ever had in my ENTIRE LIFE. And I'll leave it at that; I will spare the details. Never gonna run in those shorts again, I can tell you that much!

Lockwood Peak and San Guillermo Mountain

Lockwood Valley road is still closed. Very unfortunate. Had to drive the long way. Zoomed across the 126, dashed up the I-5, took the exit and coasted along Frazier Mountain road all the way through Frazier Park, Lake of the Woods, and into Lockwood Valley. The marine layer had disappeared, leaving nothing but clear skies and a harsh sun. Very dry country up there, the air so crisp and sharp it could cut diamonds. 

I made a left on forest route 7N03. The gate was open. Nobody was on the road. In fact, I didn't see anybody anywhere. I seemingly had the whole place to myself; couldn't have been further from the truth but more on that later. I made another left on another road and drove towards Piano Box, windows down, dust flying out behind me, a light breeze shaking the pines. Somebody was camped at Piano Box, just a truck and a tent. I didn't see anyone around. Where could they be? Who knows. I didn't think about it too much. 

I followed the road until it reached a dead end at the Yellowjacket OHV trail. I ain't never been on this trail before and was excited to see what it had in store. I began walking just after 11:30am, bound for Lockwood Peak, the sun shining bright overhead, my nostrils bombarded with the smell of dust, dirt, and ever-present vanilla scent of the pines. 

Start of the Yellowjacket Trail

I followed these big ol' dirt bike tracks for a ways, walking along the trail as it meandered down and then up some small hills. Tall, desiccated pines shaded a good portion of the trail, its sides lined with crispy and crunchy grass ready to burn at a moment's notice. It was dead quite. Not a peaceful kind of dead quite, but an eerie, unsettling quite that put me on edge. Felt like I was being watched. But I shook that thought aside and kept on truckin', enjoying the beautiful scenery.

Before long the trail turned into a single lane dirt road. The dirt bike tracks disappeared and were replaced with what appeared to be the tracks of a souped-up off-road vehicle. As I walked along the road I read the story of the tracks; I could see where they spun out, where they gunned it, where they drifted and slid, where they got out and walked around in their Vans and flip-flops. Seemed like whoever was driving that thing had a grand ol' time. 

The road miles passed beneath my feet, the scenery changing with each step. I now found myself in an even drier and crispier environment than before. No more pines, no more shade. Just scratchy, pokey, prickly chaparral, rabbit brush, and dead grass. Good thing it was cool. This road walk would be absolutely miserable during a heat wave. 

Road miles

I hadn't really read any beta on Lockwood Peak, something that was now causing me much regret. The peak requires some brief off-trail navigation to reach the summit. I knew I had to climb a gully of sorts, but wasn't entirely sure where this gully was, what it looked like, or how brushy it would be. And from what I'd been seeing, eyeing the mountain to my right, it was lookin' to be a hell of brushy ascent. Shorts were not the best idea for today, but oh well. I saw a gully, figured that it was the right one, and promptly ditched the road and entered the brush. The climb was on!

The gully

My legs immediately became covered with light scratches. I stuck to the open areas as much as I could, but there were some sections that I just had to bust through. I climbed over deadfall, ducked under branches, shimmied through buckthorn. Finally, after about three minutes of my off-trail wandering, I stumbled upon a cairn. That was a good sign. Figured that meant I was going the right way. I continued through the brush, following an animal trail, hopping over more deadfall. I saw another cairn, then another, and before I knew it I found myself on a well-worn use trail. My troubles were over! I'd follow this thing the rest of the way up the gully.

A good sign

This path I had stumbled upon turned out to be the most well-marked use trail I'd ever seen. There were cairns placed every fifty feet or so; navigation wasn't difficult at all. What was difficult was the gully. It's a steep little thing, equipped with crumbly loose sections that get the heart rate going and the sweat pouring. By the time I made it to the top of the gully my back was soaked in a nice layer of sweat. 

The top of the gully

Near the summit

I took a little breather at the top of the gully, drank some warm water, and then continued to follow the use trail to the summit. The path lead to a small forest of miscellaneous chaparral, a place where it became obvious that I'd have to "choose my own adventure." There were many paths all going in different directions, but it was obvious where to go so I just tried to find the path of least resistance. I noticed that someone had recently cut some of the foliage away, offering a nice respite from the prickliness. There were a few cairns placed hear and there, but I found them a tad unnecessary. I reached the summit without much difficulty, took off my pack and aired out my drenched back. 

Mt. Pinos and such

Lockwood Valley (Frazier Mtn right)

The views from the summit turned out to be better than I expected, offering panoramic views of the surrounding country. I could make out most of the major peaks, including Mt Pinos, Frazier Mtn, Alamo Mtn, San Rafael Peak, Thorn Point, and Reyes Peak. I could even see the majority of the Topa Topa ridge with Hines Peak jutting up into the sky. I could see where the marine layer was waging its war with the dry climate, slowly encroaching upon Hungry Valley in the east, spilling into the Sespe beneath Topa Topa Peak in the west. I bet those two sections would meet later in the evening, covering everything except the highest peaks in a thick blanket of fog. 

The register was in good condition, placed in June of 2015. The last entry was from October 12th of this year. I spent a few minutes at the summit, soaking up the ultraviolets, massaging my scratched up legs. I could see my next destination, San Guillermo Mountain, to the west. I took in the views one last time, signed my name in the register, and then set off down the mountain. 

As per usual, I found a much easier way on my way back down the mountain than on my way up. What was strange, however, was how the use trail completely disappeared near the bottom of the gully. I was back to square one, busting through brush, climbing over deadfall. No cairns, no footprints, no trampled grass, no nothing. You'd think that there'd be a good use trail the whole way from base to summit, but this is not the case. Climbing that peak is a lot like how you gotta eat your vegetables before you can eat dessert. You gotta brave the mild brush in the beginning before you're rewarded with that nice clean use trail. But no matter. I eventually made it back to the road, pulled out some stickers hitchhiking in my socks, and made my way back to the trailhead.

There was a dust cloud forming at the trailhead. It was an off-road vehicle, operated by two old dudes wearing long sleeve shirts and baggy jeans. I decided to eat lunch at the trailhead, finding a stump situated in the shade. As I was munching down on a samich, I noticed the two old guys pointing into the woods and talking a good deal about who knows what. Then they got back into their vehicle and drove off. They were the first people I'd seen all day. And they sure as hell weren't the last. 

It didn't immediately occur to me what they were talking about. But as I was driving over to Pine Springs camp, the realization hit me like a bolt of lightning. Along the way, I drove past a guy walking down the road, all dressed in camouflage and a bright orange vest, carrying a long rifle and a pack laden with ammunition and supplies. Farther along, in the campground, I saw men chatting around their tents, cleaning their weapons, looking at maps, all of them wearing camo and orange. Oh man. How could I forget? It was hunting season. This place was crawling with hunters. And my goofy ahh was out there walking off-trail like a complete dingus. No wonder I felt like I was being watched!

I considered saving San Guillermo for another time, what with the hunters being there and all, but I was wearing a blue shirt and I didn't plan on making any deer noises so I decided to go for it anyway. Not a very bright decision, but I've been known to make those from time to time. I parked near the pit toilets, grabbed my pack, and then set off in a westerly direction. 

Into the woods

 

San Guillermo left

I went straight into the woods. No trail or anything, just plain ol' cross-country travel. It wasn't long before I picked up the remnants of a pretty good use trail which I used to gain the summit ridge. I was moving fast, my eyes and ears on alert, not wanting to startle any hunters lurking in the woods. 

The use trail weaved up a steady incline, interrupted here and there with some minor brush. I found it to be much easier than the gully up to Lockwood Peak. I made it to the summit ridge fairly quickly, immediately gifted with expansive views of the Cuyama badlands to the west. A steady wind was ripping over the ridge, wicking away the sweat that had accumulated on my face. The summit was in full view now and it was a very straightforward (yet steep) walk to the summit. 

San Guillermo Mtn

The summit of San Guillermo was mostly bald, windy, and quiet. The register had been tipped over, but the contents inside remained undamaged. Placed in October of 2022, it didn't have a lot of entires. The last one was from October 12 of this year, signed by the same person who had climbed Lockwood Peak. In fact, after reading a few more entries, it appeared that a lot people seem to climb these two peaks together in the same day. Not sure of this is some kind of challenge, tradition, or what, but I was now part of that club, whether I wanted to be or not. 

The views from San Guillermo are much better than those on Lockwood Peak. The last time I was up there was in April of 2020, and the views were just as good as I remembered them. The pleasant weather was holding up, the day being mostly clear and the visibility excellent. I could see far and wide, entranced by the rugged terrain of the badlands to the west. I spent a little longer on this summit, making sure to fully absorb the serenity of the spectacular views that surrounded me. 

The Badlands

I said my goodbyes and then trotted off the summit, picking up some trash on the way down. Going down went much smoother than the way up, but I still hand't let my guard down. I knew them hunters were still out there, and the last thing I wanted to do was be mistaken for a woodland creature. So I started humming a tune, whistled a bit, and trotted my way down the use trail. I found myself back in the woods, deciding to take a slightly different way to get back to the campground. I remained low, finding a dry creek. There were some cairns on the side of the creek, so I assumed this was the place to be. 

I briefly followed the creek before exiting and resuming easy-going cross-country travel. I made it back to the camp in one piece, started the car, and then drove on out of there. It had been a quality day, lots of sun, lots of pretty country. That whole area is my favorite in the entire Los Padres. From Pine Springs to Johnston Ridge and everything in between, it's beautiful sight after beautiful sight. Hadn't been up there in over a year and was glad to be back. I just hope the hunters can forgive my stupidity...