Sunset on Chief Peak

04/10/24

We were at the 15 minute stoplight, a few twists and turns past Bellyache Springs. Diego was enquiring which shoes would be best for the hike at hand. The heavy boots? Or the busted HOKAs? Neither seemed to be ideal, but after much deliberation he decided on the HOKAs. The tread had long been stripped away, the support and cushioning nonexistent, but they were nice and light. Those boots would be like two dumbbells duck-taped to his feet. Very inconvenient.

We pulled up just outside of the Rose Valley Campground. Our destination was Chief Peak. The plan was to walk up the dirt road all the way to base of the false summit. From there we'd take the use trail the rest of the way to the true summit. It would be about an 8 mile hike roundtrip, taking no more than 5 hours to complete.

We started walking around 4:00pm, noticing a few campers spread out in the various sites. One guy was in a van. A few others in tents. Everyone was very quiet. Respectful. No loud music, no kids running amok, no drunken louts stumbling around yelling profanities and shooting off a few rounds into the sky. Rose Valley Falls was still flowing nicely in the distance, and the remnants of some snow could be seen on the higher peaks of the Topa Topa's. 

After hitting the road it was basically all uphill until we reached the ridge. It's about 2 miles, but the elevation gain is quite significant. Driving this section would've been the ideal thing to do, but neither of us knew the code to the gate nor had the desire to acquire it. 

Diego, who had been very talkative on the drive up, was suddenly very quiet. He hardly uttered a full sentence until we reached the ridge. At first I thought this was due to the strenuous grade. Talking can be a waste of breath, breath that can be used to fuel the muscles with much needed oxygen. However, this was not the case. I came to learn that he had had an extremely delicious meal at good ol' Jolly Kone no less than 2 hours ago, chowing down on some of the greasiest grub that money can buy. Chili, ground beef, saturated fat, and a great deal of carbohydrates were busy bumblin' around in the confines of his stomach, not entirely digested and causing quite a ruckus. It took grit, determination, and a whole lotta focus to keep that food down. Talking was a distraction. Silence was key.

Once we reached the ridge the grade became more agreeable, allowing Diego's stomach to settle. Somewhere along this portion of the road we came upon a miniature slide. Huge sandstone rocks littered the road, creating an impasse for any vehicle larger than a motorbike. We tried moving some of the larger boulders, but they proved to be too heavy. Instead, we each took turns chucking the smaller ones over the side of the road, seeing who could throw the farthest. Finally, we worked together to roll some of the medium sized boulders, some of which must have weighed more than 300lbs. After many duds, we finally managed to get one to roll several hundred feet down the side of the mountain, watching as it plowed through dead chaparral until it finally exploded after hitting another boulder hidden in the brush. Ahh, the joy of rolling a rock down a hill. One of life's simple pleasures. 

We eventually made it to the base of the false summit. It was there where we took our first real break of the day. I remember telling Diego that we were almost there, to which he seemed confused. We had only walked about four miles. He thought we had another four to go. As it turns out, I could've been a little better with communicating how far this hike would be. Diego thought is was 8 miles just to get to the peak rather than 8 miles roundtrip. The dude had prepared for a 16 mile day, which would explain why he ate enough food to feed a family of four to just a few hours prior. 

After 10 minutes we donned our packs and continued on our journey, reaching the false summit in what seemed like no time. We stopped for a bit, Diego reminiscing about the last time we were here all those months ago on that stupidly hot and stupidly long day in late August. Soon he would be stepping on new ground, determined to properly summit the peak that had eluded him for so long.

We reached the summit a little before sunset, Diego happy that he finally made it to the top. We sat up there, soaking in the views as the sun slowly sank in the sky. It was one of the better views I've had the privilege of witnessing. No clouds, hardly any marine layer. Visibility was excellent; the air possessed the crispness and clarity of something that had just been cleaned with a vacuum. 

We stayed long enough to watch the sun disappear behind the mountains. As it did, the surrounding territory became awash with this subdued pink color. I've seen this phenomenon before, on the valley floor, but never on the mountains themselves. It was cool to experience this moment as it happened, both of us being bathed in the same pink light as the surrounding mountains. It only lasted for a few minutes. One minute it was there—then it was gone. The mountains had absorbed all of the remaining color. Now they were dark, flat, dim; no longer illuminated by the rays of the sun. The ocean, too, had dimmed, turning from a brilliant orange to pink to grey. 

Our voices carried across the sky and down the canyons. The silence was extraordinary. We fed the silence our screams, belting words and phrases and emphatic exclamations, listening for the inevitable echo. We joked that the peaceful campers down at Rose Valley could probably hear us and were wondering what the hell was going on up there. I'd been able to hear the sounds of construction coming from Ojai while on the summit of Chief Peak so the idea wasn't too far fetched. We stayed a little while longer, taking several photos of the sunset, each one better than the last. 

At twilight we decided it was time to head back down. By the time we made it back to the ridge road, most of the lights from Oxnard and Ventura and Ojai became visible, illuminating the low lands with an artificial yellow glow. The light on the horizon had turned from a gentle pink to and angry red; the sky from a deep blue to nearly black. The moon was now visible, a tiny crescent wayy up in the middle of the sky. As night fell several nocturnal creatures began to stir. Bats, bugs and frogs made their presence known, squeaking and chirping and croaking away. 

We cruised the rest of the way back, Diego stopping every time he found a frog on the road. Some were up on the higher sections of the road, far away from any water source of which we knew. By the time we got back to the campground we had already exceeded our expected return time; we were nearly an hour late. Most of the campers had hunkered down for the night, but a few were still up, bundled around flickering campfires. We could see our breath in the air but it didn't seem that cold. The car thermostat read a temp of 44 degrees, but that just didn't seem right. We hit the road with the windows down, enjoying the cool night air. Drove from Rose Valley all the way to In-N-Out. Saw "The Mountain Man" along the way. Mysterious fellow that guy. 

We chowed down on some good burgers. Chatted with a cross country coach I hadn't seen since graduating high school. That was unexpected, for sure. There we were, getting our grub on at 11:00pm on a Wednesday, when all of a sudden he just walks in out of nowhere. What are the odds of that? Regardless, it was an interesting way to end an interesting afternoon spent in the mountains. Wouldn't have had it any other way. 

Reyes Peak via Chorro Grande

 04/03/24

Easter weekend brought some serious weather, dumping a whole lotta rain in the valleys and a whole lotta snow on the mountains. Afterwards, for two straight days, sunlight and warmth bombarded the snow to a point where I believed it would be reduced to a dusting. Last week, on the 3rd, I thought it would be a grand idea to climb up to Reyes Peak. I expected the views to be wonderful what with the weather being so nice the past couple of days. I called up Nick and we set off on the 33, bound for the Chorro Grande trailhead.

Reyes Peak is a super easy peak to climb if the gate to Pine Mountain Ridge Rd is open. All that's required is a nice drive to the trailhead parking lot and a one mile walk to the summit. Otherwise, the shortest way to the summit is up Chorro Grande, a 14 mile round trip hike with about 4,000ft of elevation gain. I had never summited Reyes via Chorro Grande so it was high time for me to try it. Plus the gate was locked so I didn't really have any other choice.

We made it to the trailhead just before 8:00am, the morning weather chilly and crisp. It was looking to be an excellent day with clear skies and pleasant temps. We moseyed along for the first few miles, following the gentle grade through a mixture of sandstone, chamise, and the skeleton remnants of chaparral burned long ago. The creek that follows the trail had a decent flow, requiring some minor acrobatics and fancy footwork to cross without getting our feet wet. 

Oak Camp

We took our first break at Oak Camp, preparing our legs for the arduous climb ahead. The camp was in excellent condition. Plenty of water in the creek, ample shade, flat spots to pitch a tent, and several old oaks make it quite the pleasant destination. From Oak Camp the trail drastically increases in steepness as it ascends a series of switchbacks up to Pine Mountain Ridge Rd. We didn't stay for long. We had a mountain to climb. 

We slowly made our way up the trail, our legs burning with each step. It was mostly clear of brush, although there was one section that was blocked by a fallen oak. At first, the trail was completely snow free. We could see the snow higher up on Pine Mountain Ridge, but I didn't think it looked like much. Goes to show how much I know about weather and snow and how long it takes it to melt. Pretty soon we were crunching on top of a good inch of snow. And it kept getting deeper and deeper and deeper. Before long, our shoes were soaked through; the efforts to keep our feet dry on the creek crossings earlier that morning were all done in vain. There were no acrobatics or fancy footwork that could save our feet now. Only thing that could do that would be a pair of snow shoes or plastic bags, neither of which we had. 

By the time we got to Chorro Grande Camp our feet were nice and numb, our backs drenched in sweat from the arduous climb up the switchbacks. There was a good half foot of snow here, all of it unblemished and pristine. The camp sat cold and silent under the frosty shade of a snow covered oak, the adjacent creek offering the only sound that could be heard. We had now made it to the pines, leaving behind the sunny and snow free land of chaparral. It was a different world here, a world much more quiet, cold, and ancient. The pines that surround the camp looked old and weathered, like the kind of trees that seem like they've seen it all. 

Chorro Grande Camp

The remaining trail to the ridge road was completely buried underneath a vast carpet of untrammeled snow. We followed slight indentations and the rare metal trail marker to stay on route, but it was mostly guess work. Just trying to find the path of least resistance proved to be the most useful way of travel. As we slogged along I quickly learned how fun it is post holing up a steep grade through deep snow. The farther we walked, the deeper the snow, and soon we were sinking up to our knees. Breaking trail, sinking with every step—all of it made for an extremely joyful walk to the road. With some luck and great exertion we somehow made it to the end of the trail, reaching the junction with Pine Mountain Ridge Rd, getting our first close up view of Reyes Peak. 

There's a trail there somewhere...

Reyes Peak in the distance

There was a little less snow on the road, a lot of it having melted during the past couple of days. The road loses some elevation as it goes towards the trailhead. No matter. Going downhill gave our legs a bit of a breather. In some parts it was akin to trotting down a sand dune. That downhill was a godsend.

As we got closer to the parking lot, we caught sight of some ski tracks. It appeared that whoever they belonged to went up the Gene Marshall Trail towards Haddock Camp, then followed the Reyes Peak Trail back to the road and then skied off trail, cross country, back down to the Gene Marshall Trail, creating a gnarly little back country loop. We followed these ski prints until we reached the turn off for the peak. We were back to the familiar scene of tall pines, steep inclines, and pristine snow. 

Reyes Peak Trailhead 

There was no point in trying to find the use trail to the summit. Sometimes we'd see signs of it, but it was mostly hidden. It was buried under a good foot and a half of hard packed snow. We broke trail up a steep incline, careful not to lose our footing and slide down the side of the mountain. My shins were bearing the brunt of the impact, scraping against the top layer of ice with each step. It was like climbing an angry StairMaster. 

We eventually reached a thin point along the summit ridge where we were gifted views of the Cuyama Badlands and the San Emigdio Mountains to the north. We took a quick five minute break there, catching our breath and enjoying the first good view of the day.

From then on it was a grueling slog to the summit. The elevation wasn't helping much, and the snow just kept getting deeper and deeper. There were some parts where we sank up to crotch level. When that happened I'd wiggle my way out, crawling on top of the snow like a caterpillar. We tried making switchbacks of our own, but doing so just seemed to take longer and thus use more energy. When we caught sight of what looked to be the summit, I was so done with slogging through the snow I just thought "screw it" and made a bee line directly for it. Could it have been a false summit? Most certainly. But it was a gamble I was willing to take. Thankfully, my impatience was unpunished. We had made it to the rocky summit, the sight of it hitting me with a huge wave of relief. It took us well over an hour to walk the mile from the parking lot to the summit. That was one tough mile, I can tell you that!

The summit!

The summit of Reyes Peak offers some of the best views the Los Padres has to offer. Lucky for us, the excellent weather from earlier that morning had held up. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, hardly any haze in the valleys, and only a slight marine layer up on the northern coast. Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz, Anacapa, Santa Barbara, San Nicholas and even Santa Catalina could all be observed from the summit, each one a dark green mound surrounded by piercing blue ocean. The Topa Topa Bluffs looked small, snow capped and distant. Ventura and Oxnard were microscopic, the sounds of civilization unable to reach the remote wilderness. 

View West(ish)

We stayed on the summit for over half and hour, resting our legs and warming our feet in the sun. Because I'd significantly underestimated the difficulty of the hike, I hadn't brought enough water. What was left in my bottle wouldn't last the rest of the way down. But no worries. We were surrounded by water. Time spent on the summit was dedicated to rest, relaxation, and stuffing snow in our bottles. 

View East(ish), Haddock Mountain center

Soon it was time to go, and with that we gathered our stuff and eased our way off the rocky summit. Going down was significantly easier than going up. We didn't even follow our footprints on the way back to the parking lot. We stuck to the steepest parts of the mountain, jumping, skiing, and sliding down the snow in record time. What took over an hour on the way in took 26 minutes on the way back out. 

Headin' back

From the parking lot we simply followed our footprints all the way back to Chorro Grande Camp. After a while the numbness in our feet gave way to a persistent ache. But once we reached the camp we knew we'd be out of the snow soon. 

Just after leaving the camp, we ran into the first person we'd seen all day. He was a gnarly old timer, dressed in a sun hoody and baggy pants. Honestly, I wasn't expecting to see anyone all day and from the looks of it neither was he. We chatted a little bit about the condition of the trail and the weather and the snow level and whatnot, said our goodbyes and continued on our separate journeys. Other than that one guy, we were completely alone the whole day. 

The snow became slushy and muddy before finally disappearing. We cruised the rest of the way down to the car, now no longer worried about getting our feet wet in the creek crossings. The whole ordeal took a little over seven hours, although it felt much longer. This proved to be one of the more difficult hikes I've done but it was awesome nonetheless.