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 in 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.