Year in Review 2024

Contrary to what the citizens of the People's Republic of China may believe, this year most certainly was NOT the year of the Dragon. It was the year of CONSTRUCTION. From January 1st all the way to today, from sunup to sundown, day in, day out, there was always construction going on somewhere. Everywhere I went I saw it. Every time I drove up the 33 it was there. Every time I drove past Nordhoff High it was there. The school tore down the bleachers, started building a new pool, and now the city's messin' with the sidewalk. And not only that, but the city also done torn up main street and replaced all the damn pipes. Back in 2022, while working the music festival, I remember talking to a construction worker who mentioned a project like that. He said they were supposed to do it that year. I guess it got postponed. And why not? This was the year of construction after all. Perhaps all construction projects got postponed to this year. If there was any time for construction, this was the time to do it.  

So many projects, so much paving, scraping, demolishing, rebuilding. Saw it driving to work everyday, saw it happening on the promenade by Surfer's Point. Saw it on the bike path, Ventura Avenue, the Botanical Gardens and the Serra Cross. Construction workers on the move, sweeping, paving, riding in the back of massive vehicles, tearing up the ol' skate park and putting in a new one, digging up the ol' pipes on Seaward after a gas leak. Hell, they even reopened the Ojai theater. It was a gawl dang miracle. That thing's been under construction longer than the Pyramids of Giza and this was the year they finally finished it. Of course this was the year they finished it. It's the year of construction after all!

And when I thought I could escape it by leaving town, escape the noise, the traffic, the ruckus, I quickly found that this was impossible. This was the year of construction. There was no escape. Santa Barbara, Los Angeles, Santa Clarita—in all of these places I saw major construction on highways, byways and sidewalks. Even driving up to the Sierra and out to Death Valley proved futile. The 395 is adding in another lane, Whitney Portal Rd near Lone Pine is being replaced after having been washed away, and Wildrose Rd, west of the Panamint Range, was closed due to flood damage. I've said it once and I'll say it again: this was the year of construction. There was no escape. 

Perhaps that was a good thing. Because this year of construction not only set the precedent for improving the local infrastructure, it also set the precedent for improving myself. I engaged in my own personal construction. Worked on my mind and body. Ran three half marathons, climbed twenty-three mountains, read twenty books, wrote a sixty-five page, 40,000 word manuscript, and biked to work almost every day from March to October. I was on one this year. Felt obligated to do stuff, mostly out of fear that if I didn't time would slip by all too fast. And so I did a whole lotta stuff this year, some of which I documented on this blog. But there were a few things that I didn't mention. 

Back in January, a solid group of hooligans high-tailed it to State Street to celebrate John's birthday. It was a partly cloudy night with a bright moon, perfect weather to engage in some buffoonery. The evening's festivities began at a Mexican restaurant of which I cannot recall the name. There were six of us, half wearing cozy sweaters, half wearing short-sleeved shirts. Half had mustaches, half didn't. All of those wearing short-sleeved shirts had mustaches, all of those in cozy sweaters did not. When we sat at the table we subconsciously split into groups: those in cozy sweaters and no mustaches sat on one side of the table and the rest sat on the other. Those with mustaches consumed copious amounts of drink, those without stayed sober (although only one of them would remain so by the end of the night). 

After the meal we walked around, entered a few of the bars, danced around, ordered more drink. John ended up shirtless after having champagne spilled all over his person. We walked up and down the street, always returning to this one bar in particular that had this drink with about a trillion straws and one rubber shark buried at the bottom of it. Then we tried getting into a club of sorts, but one of our group (I ain't sayin' who) was a bit too tipsy to enter. "Your buddy's gotta sober up" is what the bouncer said. And so, distraught, we walked back to that bar with the rubber shark beverage and that buddy of mine did the exact opposite of what the bouncer told him to do. 

I remained outside of the bar. My ears needed a break. Those bars play their music just a tad too loud. The evening was surprisingly quiet. A few street vendors had set up shop outside the bars, grilling overpriced hot dogs and kabobs, lying in wait for the hapless drunks to stumble out on the street, hungry and unhinged, their stomachs craving nothing but greasy food. I saw a guy steal a hot dog. Just walked up, grabbed one, and then took off at full sprint. The vendor chased after him, giving up the chase after about a hundred feet. I offered to pay the vendor for what was stolen; he denied. Drunks started spilling out of the bars and soon he was busy with plenty of customers.

The night grew long, the moon shone bright, we went to another bar, Marco joined me outside by some tables where we talked about Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, the street life died away, the vendors closed up shop, and John's birthday celebration came to a close. One stayed in Santa Barbara that night, the rest carpooled with the only sober member of the group. Got home late and went to work a few hours later. That's just the way it goes sometimes. 

February and March brought cold skies and stormy weather. Though the rain was not as violent as it was in 2023, it was a hell of a lot more consistent. It rained off and on for days, flooding rivers, washing away roads, and finally filling Lake Casitas to capacity. First time that's happened in over twenty years. I remember cycling over to the ol' lake a few times during this time of year to check it out, watching each time as the lake rose a few inches, swallowing more of the boat launch, drowning more of the helpless plants situated on its shores. 

At work I'd go on walks during my lunch break, mostly to the Serra Cross that overlooks the city of Ventura. One day in mid February I decided to visit the cross in the rain. Got absolutely soaked. I went up there, took in the hazy views, enjoyed the solitude (ain't nobody was up there but me) and then ran all the way to the beach. I watched the brown surf, watched the Ventura River spill into the ocean, dragging with it rocks, earth, trees, and a fair amount of hypodermic needles. I ran down the promenade, out near the pier, and then circled back. Luckily, I had a change of clothes in the ol' car. When I returned, one of my coworkers looked at me, their face confused. "Did you take a shower or something?" "Yup, something like that."

Lake Casitas in March

March also meant it was time to see Nick Shoulders. He was performing at the Ventura Music Hall. We'd bought tickets months in advance, anticipating his arrival with great excitement. He put on a good show, played all the hits, drank tea out of a chalice with a skull on it. He sang the songs, donned a spooky cloak, and then him and his band left the stage, never to return. I ended up seeing two more shows at that venue over the course of the year, each one bringing in a slightly different crowd. 

April brought a marine layer that never seemed to go away. April was graypril. But by some cosmic miracle it was totally sunny on the day of the solar eclipse. The boss bought us all eclipse glasses so we could watch it. Being situated in SoCal meant that we'd only see a partial eclipse, but that was still plenty interesting. Carl, in particular, thought it was really cool. So cool, in fact, that he wanted to see it with his own eyes. Just seconds before the eclipse reached its peak, Carl darted across the street and took off his shoes. He stood in some grass on the other side of the street, barefoot, his toes digging into the dirt. Had to ground himself, you see. And then, with arms outstretched, Carl stared directly at the eclipse for a good fifteen seconds. When he came back from across the street he said, with blinking eyes, that it was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. "There were sparklies" he said. "Thousands of sparkling, glittering things." I'll take his word for it. Next time there's an eclipse, I doubt I'll try his viewing methods. 

The marine layer lasted through May, which ended up having more gray days than April. May was Gray, in the truest sense. I remember reading in the VC Reporter that about 90% of the days in May were overcast. This was not always true for the mountain and valley communities. Some mornings I'd start the day with plenty of sun, and then I'd ride head first into the wall of the marine layer. I'm a firm enjoyer of the sun, and so every chance I got I'd drive up into the mountains to bathe my skin with its harsh rays. One day, Bill, Marco and I escaped the gray and visited the Sespe, hiking to this swim hole that's off the beaten path. Hadn't been there since the fabled Sespe Jaunt of 2022, and it was interesting to see how the rains had changed it. Less trees, less shade, more sand, less hole. A lot of it had filled in, unfortunately. But it still remained incredibly deep, allowing us to jump from precipitous heights, doing backflips, front flips, cannonballs. We spent a good chunk of the afternoon there, soaking in the creek, catching some rays, and then it was time to head back down the trail. Back to the car, back down the 33, back to the gray. 

The marine layer as seen from Chief Peak

June had some gloom, but as it progressed it finally brought the end of the marine layer. Soon is was sunny sunny hot hot hot. Carl and I decided on climbing Chief Peak on one of these broiling days. I do not know why. We just did it. Besides, he needed to train for a Whitney expedition that was happening just a few days later. Carl hadn't done a single hike yet this year. Chief Peak would give him all the training he needed. He has a saying: "If you can hike in these woods, you can hike pretty much anywhere." He ain't wrong about that, I tell yah. 

We took the short way from Rose Valley. It was already in the upper 80's by the time we started, the morning still, not a single cool breeze in existence. Carl was dismayed at having forgotten his socks. He elected to hike in flip-flops, bringing his shoes along for the final push to the summit. We started at a brisk pace, and then the heat took over, bringing our pace to a crawl. Carl took off his shirt, now hiking in nothing but flip-flops and baggy shorts. A car drove up the road. They gave us a weird look. By the time we made it to the junction with the ridge we were both drenched in sweat. We hunkered down in what meager shade we could find, Carl had himself a smoke, put on a sun hoody, and then we stayed there, psyching ourselves up for the rest of the hike.

We reached the summit. It was hot alright, but thankfully there were no bugs. Carl had himself a celebratory smoke at the top. On the descent he elected to stay in his shoes. He taped up his feet the best he could and we trucked on down the road, the day only growing hotter.

Carl became uncharacteristically quiet on the descent. Started stumbling around. I remember asking if he was alright. "I'm done, but I'll make it" was all he said. When we got back to Rose Valley the temperatures were hovering in the low 100's. "Gimme a second" Carl said. "I gotta lay down for a second." He took off his shoes, his skin raw and bleeding from numerous heat blisters. Didn't complain once the whole way down; I had no idea his feet were that screwed up. And then he sprawled on a table and passed out for a good half hour. When he was done re-charging, he got up, wandered over to the shallow creek, and poured some water on his head. That was all he needed. Drove back into town with the windows down the whole way, and that was the end of that. He ended up successfully summiting Whitney a few days later. That man is built different. 

Later on in the month, Gramps rented a pontoon boat and the fam spent a day gliding around Lake Casitas. The water was like glass. The whole lake looked like a giant reflection pool. The day started out overcast, and then, ever so slowly, the sun burned its way through, turning the gray waters into a brilliant deep blue. We circumnavigated the lake, checked out each and every nook and cranny. The water remained still, the day remained peaceful. I'd never seen the lake so still in my entire life. I'd be lucky to see it like that again.

Three days after this pontoon adventure, the fam trekked up to Solvang to for a duel celebration: Father's day and Grace's early birthday. We spent the first half of the day at a rope's course, riding the zip line, climbing around the obstacles like complete freaks. The next half of the day was spent walking around Solvang, poking in a few of the shops and having a grand ol' dinner at AJ Spurs. Had me a tomahawk steak that was under $100. Father's day special. 

In July I took a mini vacation and flew out to Tennessee to visit the Grandparents. First time flying by myself. It wasn't anything to write home about. Smooth flight, no turbulence, no inflight drama. Tennessee was as green and humid as I remembered it, still laid back and quiet. Except for the 4th. My Uncle bought a whole bunch of mortars. I got a few cakes. Sparkers, dixie dynamite, and fireworks galore. As soon as the sun went down we were outside, soaking wet from the humidity, lighting off fireworks with reckless abandon. One in particular, called Vietnam in a Box, refused to ignite. We doused it in water and set it aside for later. In the morning, my Uncle and I tinkered with Vietnam in a Box and successfully ignited it. We did not warn anyone beforehand. It was a great way to start the day. 

We relaxed most of the time while we were out there in Tennessee, lounging on the porch, reading books, saying hello to Sweetie-Pie, the stray cat that lingers around my Grandparent's property. We drove through the mountains, checked out Pigeon Forge, rode an "Alpine Coaster" and had some Cledis burgers in Nashville. It was a nice little vacation, the only one I took the whole year. 

Johnson City

In August my pumpkin finally died. Bought the thing in October of 2023 and kept it on the back porch. It was gigantic and it was beautiful; I didn't have the heart to carve it up for Halloween. And so it sat there for months as a decoration, refusing to rot, sitting tall and orange and bright. And then one day it started leaking fluid and that was the end of it. It slumped forward, sagged, emitted a foul oder, and died. Ten months it lasted. It was sad to see it go.

I continued biking to work, cloudy days a thing of the past. I'd see herons in the morning by the Ventura River, see the weird black beetles crossing the path in the evenings. Sometimes I'd get a flat, sometimes my chain would fly off, sometimes I'd get stuck in construction. I'd see all sorts of things, hear all sorts of sounds. One time I saw a homeless guy chopping up the wooden posts by the path with a hatchet. Dude had a project in mind. I'd never seen such focus. This other time an old oak tree decided to die and fall across the path. By evening it was already cleared. Maybe it was the handiwork of that homeless guy with the hatchet. The world may never know...

On one particularly hot day I drove down to Liam's new place in Burbank for a group barbecue. It was a grand ol' get together, Liam a gracious host, grilling up some Tri Tip with rice, vegetables, garlic bread and such. We walked around the neighborhood, stopped by the liquor store that was made famous in the movie Superbad. The night air was warm and spirits were high, people were out and about, some having barbecues of their own. Back at Liam's place we sat in a circle, talking about life, each one of us wearing a different one of Liam's hats for some reason. August slowly progressed, the days slowly growing shorter, the nights slowly growing longer, the weather hot and dry, the concept of rain foreign and strange.

In September I ran the community Three-miler at the Ojai Invitational, just three days after hiking White Ledge Peak from the Ventura River Preserve. It was one of the more painful three-milers I've ran, but if it weren't for that race I likely wouldn't have trained for the Joshua Tree Half in November. The thing woke me up and slapped me around. Put me right and set me on my way. 

September was my last hurrah with the Sierra Nevada, my last hurrah for most things hiking now that I think of it. Once the month ended I was runnin, runnin, runnin, focusing all my additional energies on training for the Joshua Tree Half. 

In October I went on a date for the very first time. Ate at a ramen place in downtown Ventura. Went on a lil' walk afterwards, taking in the absolutely stunning infrastructure and superfluous amenities of the positively gorgeous downtown area. Then we both drove to Santa Barbara to meet up with Daniel and Sofia. Turned into a double date. 

I once again found myself on State Street, although this time it wasn't nearly as insane. We visited a quiet bar, a real hole-in-the-wall, the Tiburon Tavern. Most of the patrons were 40+. They had karaoke there. This old guy sang a bunch of Frank Sinatra songs. I sang two songs with Daniel. Meet in the Middle and Family Tradition. I was completely sober. Daniel was not. Afterwards he said, "Man, I'd never do that sober." I can see why. But it was fun nonetheless, the small crowd dancing around, the music at a comfortable loudness, the double date going very well. And Santa was there. He was drunk. No doubt stressed about Christmas. He sang a few songs in a drunkenly manner, stumbled around the small confines of the bar, and talked to Daniel for a long, long time. To this day I do not know what they talked about. I bet it was the most scintillating of conversation. 

The year wrapped up fairly quickly after that. I stopped biking to work, too afraid of riding home in the dark. Started walking to the beach on my lunch break to watch the waves and the surfers and the birds and the clouds. There were these two big ol' black cats that would always say hello as I walked by. They lived in the reeds by the side of the river. Someone had left a bowl of food for them. 

One day as I was squatting there saying hello to the cats, this guy rolled on by riding the longest skateboard I'd ever seen in my life. It had to be 20ft long. It looked homemade. Two long pieces of plywood joined together in the middle. He stood on the front edge of it, giving me this goofy grin as he rolled by. He was wearing a baggy brown sweatshirt and baggy brown pants, his long blond hair blowing in the wind. He rolled on by, hands on his hips like Jack Sparrow, riding toward the beach. Even the cats were impressed. They watched him the whole way down. 

December ended with Ehab's wedding. Lots of dancing, lots of eating, and lots of caffeine. The caffeine man stood in the corner, brewing the strongest coffee I'd ever had in my entire life. No wonder everyone was dancing so much. That stuff was hardcore. 

And that about wraps it up. It was a busy year. Next year will likely be even busier. I've got a whole lotta hikes planned for the future. Loose ends and unfinished business in the Los Padres and beyond. 

Porro et sursum

Flashback: The Piedra Blanca Idiots

 12/22/19

I remember the cold. It wasn't no Montana in-the-middle-of winter-arctic-blast-negative-forty-degree windchill-freeze-your-face-off cold. But it was cold for me. I'm a Southern California boy. I do not know real cold. It was likely in the upper forties. And it was raining. The rain made it feel colder. 

We were all gonna go on a hike. It was five years ago, December 22, 2019. I do not know why we were going on this hike. I do not recall the conversations that led up to it. I do not know the reasoning. I do not know why so many of us decided to go. But we were going. It was happening. 

The plan was to go on a simple walk to the Piedra Blanca rock formations in the Sespe Wilderness. It's like a three-mile roundtrip hike. Nothin' too hard at all. I suppose we figured it would be an easy day. Just a nice way to enjoy this interesting weather in the woods. It's sunny most of the time in Southern California. This rain was the main entertainment of the year.

We all piled into Daniel's van on this rainy afternoon. I was the first one to be picked up. Got gas at the Shell station in Oak View. The rain came down in a steady drizzle, the sky gray, the clouds growing darker. I was wearing tight blue khaki pants and a green silk shirt. Daniel complemented the fit. I gained some respect that day. 

Once everyone else was picked up we drove to the trailer park near the entrance to the wild part of the 33. We were waiting on Juergen. He was part of the group. We pulled up in front of his parent's place. He came out, all decked out in rain gear. There was some discussion. A quiet commotion. He went back and forth, going from the van to his abode. He ended up bailing. His Ma said that it wasn't a good idea. Totally valid point. He seemed a little disappointed, but we parted ways with no hard feelings. Surely there would be another time in more agreeable weather. Besides, the joke was on us. We were the idiots. But sometimes it's good to be an idiot every once in a while. 

The final group now consisted of me, Daniel, Ry, Benny, Liam, and Nick. Six boys. None all too prepared (except Nick) for the what was to come. We drove up the 33, winding up the curves, noticing the temperature drop the higher we climbed into the mountains. The rain remained steady. It wasn't coming down hard or anything like that. More like a steady mist. The clouds had grown a little lighter. Less heavy. They were fluffy on the bottom, moving and churning in the sky like a huge mass of lumpy mashed potatoes. There was no indication that it would let up. But there also wasn't any indication that it would get worse. But what did I know. I wasn't no meteorologist. We drove on, not concerned about the rain.  

We pulled into the parking lot. I don't remember anyone else being there. We poured out of the van, donning the meager rain gear that we brought. I think I brought a cheap poncho or something like that. Maybe I lent a jacket to somebody. I don't recall. All I know is that the only person with sufficient rain gear was Nick. He had a nice blue rain jacket and these slick black rain pants. He was plenty warm underneath, wearing all the necessary layers. In his pack were all the tools for survival: food, extra layers, matches—stuff like that. He was prepared. Everyone else was not.

It was much colder at the trailhead. Low forties. Maybe even upper thirties. And the rain made everything seem all the colder. So, with hands clenched and jaws chattering, we shivered our way down the trail, trying to get the blood pumping. We crossed Lions creek, which was flowing at a gentle pace, seemingly unaffected by the rainfall. Then we crossed it again, a little farther downstream. And then we crossed the Sespe. It was about knee deep. The water was a dark greenish gray, ice cold, chilling us to the bone. Crossing a river in the rain is a very stupid thing to do. The water wasn't murky or anything, but if the rain kept up, well, then it might become a problem. But we were not concerned with such a problem. We were idiots. And so we pressed on, bracing the cold, our conversations occurring in short bursts. 

We made it to the formations in short time. By that point we were all warmed up and soaked through. The condensation from our body heat moistened the inside of whatever rain protection we had, soaking us both inside and out. But we were no longer cold. And, to our surprise, the rain had kinda stopped. So, very stupidly, we gathered all our warm clothing and put them in a pile under some bushes in this random spot. We had found this spot after exploring around for a little bit, jumping up and down the rocks, climbing up some of the features, noticing the precariousness of wet sandstone. This bush that was housing our jackets sat well off the beaten path. It wasn't anywhere near the trail. And there were several other bushes that looked just like it. I made a mental note of it, but I had a suspicious feeling that we wouldn't be able to find them later. 

Nick would not have this problem, however. He kept all his stuff on his person—a very wise move on his part. After some critical thinking, Ry and Benny decided to keep their rain jackets, Liam opting to keep is regular jacket for warmth. Daniel and I kept nothing, deciding to go about the exploration of the area in our soaking wet shirts. After placing our belongings under that damned bush, we ran around and climbed every formation we could see. We were warm now, but our hands and faces and arms were growing pale and pink. I mentioned that we should climb what I dub "The Elephant's Head," one of the taller formations of the place. We set our sights on it, made our way towards it, and started the climb. 

We went at it from the east. It was shorter that way, and a whole lot less brushy. But the eastern route required a little bit of scrambling. We had some issues reaching the top. Bad traction from bad footwear was the cause of most of this, and the slick sandstone wasn't helping much either. But somehow or other, all six of us made it to the high point. 

The rain had completely stopped. We took in the views, admiring the scenery around us. All of the surrounding mountains were doused in a thick blanket of misty clouds. Couldn't see Chief Peak. Couldn't see Thorn Point. All I knew was that it was for sure snowing at both of these locations. Every now and then the base of the cloud cover would lift and we'd make out a dusting of snow on the sides of the mountains. And just standing there, soaked to the bone, no longer moving, no longer generating heat, we realized how cold it really was. 

We didn't stay very long at the high point. We took some pictures, posed, basked in the glory of our accomplishment, and then got going. Had to keep moving. Had to keep the blood pumping. So far, the day had been a success. We'd done everything that we needed to do. Explored every nook and cranny that we deemed worthy of exploration. Should've turned around, found our jackets, and gotten the hell out of there. But we didn't do that. There was one more formation that we hadn't climbed yet, and that was the biggest of them all, the one I dubbed "Jabba's House." I made the stupid decision to go for it. Nobody made a protest. Besides, we'd only been goofin' around for an hour or so. Had to make the most of the afternoon. And so, we pressed on. 

We cut across a ridge to get to Jabba's House. This was slow, tedious, sketchy work. I had never been that way. And I don't think I'll ever go that way again. There was a lot of down climbing into brush and then climbing back out of it, some of it requiring class 5 moves. The rock was slick. The brush, soaking wet. And the rain had started up again. A light mist, barely perceptible. But it never stopped, ever so slowly picking up in intensity as the minutes ticked by.  

This traverse from the Elephant's Head pushed some of our group out of their comfort zone. And by some of our group I mean Benny. He had never done anything like this before. Actually, none of us had ever done anything like this before. But he hadn't so much as walked out in the woods. Sure he'd gone hiking before, but nothing as extreme as this. Hadn't done no climbing whatsoever. He was untested. Green. And this traverse was definitely pushing his limits. 

I remember getting down this particularly sketchy section. Then came Daniel. He jumped off from the top, landing in the soft dirt. Benny saw him do this and was perplexed, a look of fear glazing his eyes. I could read his mind: "Do I really have to do this?" Yes Benny, unfortunately you do have to do this. He made it down, very carefully, very slowly. Ry started voicing remonstrances. Liam locked in, keeping the suffering within the confines of his mind. 

There were a few spots where we had to help Benny out. Push him up a wall. Provide him footholds with our hands and shoulders. Watching this gave me a brief wave of foreboding anxiety. But I suppressed it and ignored it, trying to focus my attention on finding the path of least resistance. 

Benny, smiling through the pain

We were steaming. Literally. The traverse was so arduous and the temperature so cold that it was possible to view steam coming off our shoulders and heads. As we were waiting for parts of the group to catch up, just standing there, I'd notice the steam emanating outwards from our bodies. It was a strange sight to behold. We were glazed in a thick film of moisture, completely soaked to the bone, steam rising off our shivering bodies. Whatever electronics we had would surely be damaged. I would know. My phone is still messed up to this day. 

Eventually, we made it past the sketchy ridge, entering the worst of the brush. I didn't really have any idea where to go. Now that we were past the ridge, I was basing the route off of a trek that me and my mom and my sister did a whole year prior. I knew that there was going to be brush in this section. Though me, my mom, and sister didn't traverse the ridge, we still had to contend with this brush. We had gone up a different way, but it led to the same point. 

At a crossroads, the rain still steady, the weather not getting any warmer, I searched for a brush tunnel, found one, and took it. We ducked and bashed and broke our way through the soaking wet chaparral, weaving our way underneath and through manzanita and chamise. Finally, by some miracle, we made it out of the brush and dirt and back onto exposed, solid sandstone. We were close to the high point. Our efforts had not been in vain.

The brush petered out, and soon we were in an area of which I found familiar. We had made it. We were in the clear. White sandstone stretched out far and wide in front of our eyes. Jabba's House is a truly gargantuan formation. The top of it looks like the regular part of Piedra Blanca down below, like what it looks like as soon as you enter the place. It's that big. We scurried our weary legs up slick sandstone to get to the high point of the formation. We were gifted with the same views that we'd seen earlier that afternoon while situated atop the Elephant's Head. But the clouds were darker now. And the rain had noticeably picked up in intensity. But we didn't care. We had made it, after all that, and we were damn well gonna enjoy ourselves. 

High point of "Jabba's House"

I scurried down from the high point and made my way over to the other end of the formation. The others did not follow. I took off all my clothes except my underwear. I immersed myself in the rain, my body turning pink from the cold. I ran around like some mad freak, hopping up and down the rocks, skirting around the cliffs, weaving in and out of the small canyons. I even mooned my friends at one point. Heard screams. Good screams. There's a video somewhere. That moon has been forever preserved on digital media. It was legendary. 

The dumbest one of all...

Whatever had somehow remained dry was now completely, 100% soaked. Every single fiber on my green silk shirt and blue khaki pants was swollen, waterlogged, dripping. And cold. Putting them back on sent shivers running down my entire body. The cold was beginning to become bothersome. And to add fury to the fire, the sun was going down. We hadn't noticed—partly since it had been cloudy all day, mostly because we weren't paying attention—that the horizon was growing darker. And the rain just kept on getting stronger and stronger and stronger.

It was time to go. We were cold. Except for Nick. Nick was not cold. He hadn't discarded anything under that bush. He was still running on full battery. He was relaxed, calm, enjoying the natural beauty of the area. We were shivering, pale, ready to get the hell out of there. We'd had our fun. It was time to get out of there.

Unfortunately, I couldn't remember where my mom, sister and I had climbed down when we'd done it the year prior. This was not good. We had to get down. I remember it not being too difficult. My mom had made it down just fine. So we searched a bit, trying to find the way off the damn thing. We sure as hell weren't gonna go back through the brush. That was out of the question. I knew there was an easier way. Just had to find it. 

Others in our group had taken off their layers, inspired by my brief act of partial nudity. Daniel stripped down into his underwear. Liam and I kept our pants on but remained shirtless, our chests pink and cold to the touch. The weather was slowly starting to sap our energy. Just moving around wasn't enough to keep us warm anymore. Coldness and wetness. That's a deadly combination right there. Any longer in that weather and we'd start developing mild hypothermia.

I found a spot and took it, weaving my way down the side of the formation. I was ahead of everybody else, scouting our route. Liam was next in line. Benny was taking his time. We scurried down a ways, the rain on our backs, and then I found a chimney. It was 4th class, maybe teetering to easy 5th. But there was water running down it. This chimney, which would be dry any other time of the year, was now a waterfall. I down climbed it, careful not to slip. It was sketchy, but doable. I got down and then looked up. Liam was at the top, giving me the same look Benny gave me earlier in the day on the ridge traverse. 

We didn't have to go down this way. But we were running out of daylight and the temperatures were getting colder by the second. I didn't feel like spending any more time looking around for an easier place to descend. I could see the canyon floor from my vantage point at the base of the chimney. We were close. We were almost out of Jabba's House. This descent would save us a bunch of time. 

Liam climbed down without issue. Then Ry. But Benny was having problems. We coaxed him, calmed him down, assured him that it was alright. But he wasn't having it. We had to talk him into doing it. And when he finally worked up the courage to down climb it, he sure took his time getting started. It took him a long time to get down that thing. We could do nothing but stand around and provide words of encouragement. But by just standing there we were freezin' our butts off. Liam and I started doing push-ups and jumping jacks to keep warm. My hands were starting to lose feeling. 

I helped Benny out near the base of the chimney, using my hands as footholds. He eventually got down, completely done for the day. He'd experienced way more than what he'd intentionally signed up for. And he wasn't done yet.

We were cliffed-out. I had noticed this pretty soon after descending the chimney, while Liam was making his way down. I didn't tell anyone. I figured it wasn't an issue. We'd find a way down. Didn't want to get anyone's nerves all worked up. "Oh yeah, by the way, we're cliffed-out and we can't climb back up that chimney so we're kinda screwed." Yeah, I wasn't gonna say that. 

The most obvious way down was a ramp. But about halfway down the ramp was an awkward section. The rock jutted out from the wall, in a bit of an overhang, and the ramp tilted at a terrifying degree, sloping downwards to the canyon floor. Even if it were dry it would be a sketchy move. The rain made it an absolute no-go. Long afterwards, on a return to this same spot, I'd noticed that people had carved steps into the rock at this section. They even put in a rope at one time. That would've made things a whole lot easier. But at the time of our conundrum, in that moment, the rock was slick, slanted, sketchy. No footholds, no rope. Just a slanted ramp with a 20ft drop. No thank you.

Henceforth, we had to find another way down. Daniel did some scouting. He climbed some 5th class terrain, making sure to take his time. It wasn't that far of a climb. The bottom was in sight. And he made it. By cracky, the dude made it. He had found a way down. Just as I was going over to inspect the route, I heard somebody scream "F YOU!!" at the top of their lungs. I turned around and saw that Liam had gone down the ramp. He had made it past the sketchy section. I do not know how he managed to do this without dying. Later on, he told me that he'd simply jumped across it. That still doesn't make sense to me. But somehow, someway, the man made it across. And those were the words he said when he made it.

His eyes were wild. They were full of pride and amazement and surprise, like he himself didn't expect to make it. It was a very stupid thing that he did. It was completely unnecessary. Had he slipped, he would've fallen a good 20ft. High likelihood of injury. That would've made the hike out a lot more interesting. But he made it, injury-free, forever cementing his maneuver as a thing of legend We stared at each other for a beat and then, snapping out of it, I told him to meet us at the bottom of the canyon.

I climbed down Daniel's route. He was at the bottom, acting as a spotter. I did not need his spotting, but I appreciated him being there. I busted through some minor brush to meet up with Liam. We met in and alcove of tall manzanita. The brush forced us up against the wall of white sandstone. Water was pouring down from above. The whole formation was spouting new waterfalls left and right. We were beneath one, getting soaked and chilled to the bone. The water was rising at our feet. It was ankle deep. This made me nervous. I imagined the river would be flooding soon. We had to get out of there, ASAP.

I heard Daniel shout. Mutter obscenities. Apparently, Benny had abandoned the climb altogether and just jumped right onto Daniel. Kind of expected that to happen. Benny was at the end of his rope. I don't remember him talking much. He kind of shut down after the chimney/waterfall descent.

After everyone had made it off Jabba's House safely, we regrouped, got in a line, and trucked on out of there. We came to another crossroads. It's a spot I'll never forget. I remembered it from the year prior. My Mom, sister and I had taken a certain route, one that led us back to the main section of Piedra Blanca with very little difficulty. But I couldn't remember which way it was. Right? Or Left? Left would take us back up against the formation. Which meant more cliffs. More waterfalls. More slick rock. We didn't want no more of that. So I made the choice to go right. 

As it would turn out, going left would've saved us a whole lot of trouble. I had made a mistake. A critical navigational error. I realized this pretty soon after heading to the right. We had entered a drainage. A rocky, brush-choked drainage. This was the worst brush we had seen all day. And I had no idea where this drainage went. It curved right, leading us away from where we needed to go. That anxiety that I felt when we were cliffed-out was back in full force now. Hiding underneath was a mortal fear, a sensation that things could get ugly. This was the first, and for a while, the ONLY time I've ever felt like that while out in the woods. Then I climbed Cobblestone Mountain and felt that feeling all over again, and I hope I never have to feel it a third time. 

We battered our way through the brush, cold, wet, disconsolate. Ry was miserable. Liam was miserable. Benny was non-verbal. Daniel busted on through like a trooper, still in his underwear, his skin getting all torn up in the brush. Nick was doing just fine. To him this was just another walk in the woods. He had his jacket. Had his layers. And I bet he was feeling pretty satisfied with his decision to not leave them behind. He was the only one who wasn't pink and shivering. 

I tore ahead, ripping through the brush, trying to find a way out of the drainage. After what seemed like forever, I found a clearing and took it. Thankfully, this clearing took us back to where we needed to go. We splashed through puddles, breaking through the occasional patch of dense brush. I tore my shirt in a brush tunnel. That fresh, green, silk shirt. Tore a big ol' hole in it. And that hole is still there to this day. I leave it as a reminder to not do stupid things. 

After pokin' around in the bushes for a while, we finally found our jackets. I didn't put mine on—poncho, jacket or whatever it was. The thing stayed off. It was soaked through. Wouldn't do no good no how. We needed to get out of there, quick. And so we high-tailed it back to the van, jogging almost the entire way back. My hands were like ice. I could barely feel them. And I was shivering all over. Definitely had some mild hypothermia going on there. But I didn't care. We had to cross that river before it flooded. 

We got to the Sespe. It was a little murkier than when we first crossed, but not by much. Nothing too crazy. Didn't even feel cold. My legs were too numb. We crossed without issue, pushing on through the other two crossings which were nothing to write home about. I was just glad that it wasn't flooding. It was a major relief. 

We made it back to the parking lot, having survived our stupidity. The rain was coming down hard now, in big fat icy drops. It was dusk. The sky was a dark grey, growing darker by the moment. We all decided to strip into our underwear, discarding our wet clothes to the back of the van. I couldn't get my pants off. Couldn't get the button. Couldn't get the zipper. Couldn't feel my hands. They had lost all strength. Daniel graciously helped me with my pant complications. We piled into the van, turned the heater on full blast, and then zoomed on out of there, out of the mountains, back into civilization. 

There was a car parked along the side of the highway. Two people were out in the rain, looking under the car. Daniel thought they needed help. He got out, still in his underwear. They did not need help. Or maybe they didn't want our help. It would've been pretty goofy with all six of us out there in the rain, clad in nothing but our underwear, helping some poor strangers fix a flat or something. We drove on, leaving them to solve the issue on their own.

We drove straight to McDonald's. Ordered about twenty McChickens. The cashier gave us a funny look as we pulled through the drive-thru. We got our food and then parted ways for a moment. We were gonna meet at Liam's place later for a hot tub soak. I did the driving. I don't remember Daniel or Nick joining us. I believe they had other commitments. The remaining group organized at Liam's place, got in the hot tub, and stayed in there for hours, eating soggy McChickens in the rain. We mostly talked about what we just did, how crazy it was, how stupid it was. And then we all went home.

Benny was the last person I dropped off. Since it was just the two of us left, he confided to me that he was scared that day. Like really scared. Like it messed him up. He didn't have to tell me that. I saw it all in his eyes. Needless to say, he didn't go on another hike with us for a long time after that. Took him a while to get over it. 

And that's the story as I remember it happening. It's been five years since this happened and my memory of the specifics has faded considerably. I'm sure my version of the events differ from Ry's and Benny's and Liam's and Daniel's and Nick's versions, but the gist of it should be the same. Neither of us have ever done anything like this since and don't ever plan on doing anything like this again. It was a very stupid thing, but we learned lifelong valuable lessons from it, lessons that we would never have learned otherwise, lessons that we will never forget. 

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.