Dehydrated Contemplations on the Nordhoff Lookout Tower

A couple of days ago I went for a walk up the Pratt Trail to the Nordhoff Lookout Tower. I pulled into the parking lot near the top of Signal Street, hardly an open space to be seen. Lots of morning hikers, still out on the trail, were likely making their way back to their vehicles. It was almost 11am. The heat was imminent. 

I set off with only a single bottle of water. I've done this hike many times before, its twists and turns no longer a mystery. I knew where to push, when to hold back, where to rest in the shade. I knew, from past experience, that a single bottle of water was all I needed in order to enter the throes of mild, slightly dehydrated discomfort while still enabling me to complete the entire hike. Discomfort was the goal. I had a belly full of burrito and head full of thoughts. I needed to reflect on those thoughts, meditate on them. And slight discomfort was just the catalyst I needed to begin my contemplations. 

The trail was busy at first, the morning hikers passing me by every few minutes. Most of them were elderly folk. One had a Garmin inReach Mini strapped to his pack. Another said to his hiking partner, "It sure is nice out now, but it's gonna get hot!" I'd be the judge of that. So far, I wasn't even breaking a sweat. The temperatures were hovering in the low 80's, warm for sure but not what most would call "hot." Especially without any humidity. 

For the past month, I'd been in the land of humidity. No matter where I was—sitting on the rocking chair on the porch reading a book, walking to the store, riding a bike on country roads, splitting wood, eating under the veranda of a restaurant, sitting on a boat—the humidity was there and it was loud and it was all-up-in-my-business. Instead of fighting it, I befriended the humidity, and the two of us got along swimmingly. Now that I was on Pratt, no longer enveloped in the wet embrace of humidity, this dry heat almost felt cold to me. It was a strange sensation; I felt like an imposter. 

I walked along, my legs falling back into hiking rhythm. I hadn't hiked since June 12th. They were a wee bit rusty I'll admit, but there are some things that the body just never forgets. Muscle memory is a fantastic thing. Once I made it to Foothill Rd, I had finally found my groove, the walking no longer awkward.

Why hadn't I hiked since June 12? Big changes. Moved to Tennessee. That took some time. Since the beginning of this year, we've been packing, little by little. And then we crunched it all together in a big ol' week-long packing extravaganza and that was it—we were gone. 

Took us five days to travel across the country. Long days, lots of miles, lots of beautiful scenery. I watched as the environment changed before my eyes, ever so slowly, as we made our way from west to east. Dry, dry, desiccated land, full of thirsty plants and dusty animals. And then we reached New Mexico and the sky was one cloud and it rained so hard we could barely see anything through the windshield. Desert storms. They are something else. Lightning, wind, hail and rain, lots and lots of rain. And the washes become flooded with brown water and the dusty plants rejoiced, and then the sun came out and the water disappeared and the hail melted and it was like the storm never happened at all.

And then the mountains disappeared, and the dusty plants turned into endless fields of grass. Bushland, Amarillo, Texola, Elk City. Flat, monotonous, agoraphobic country. No storms, just miles and miles of puffy clouds in neat little rows. And then off into Arkansas and the mountains came back, kind of. They're really just tree-encrusted hills but that's alright; they're a welcome sight after hundreds of miles of featureless country. It was in Arkansas where I met my friend humidity, and the two of us stayed together until I went inside. Humidity ain't allowed inside. Those are the rules. 

We crossed the Mississippi. Saw the Bass Pro Shop Pyramid. Drove through Memphis. Off into Nashville. And then, finally, out in the distance, there they were: mountains! Real mountains, looming in the distance, big and tall and prominent and rugged and covered in trees. Did I explore them? No. Not yet. But I will. Gonna have a lot of opportunities to go wandering through them in the future. But for the moment, they were out of reach. The move was priority #1. 

The days went by fast and slow. Lots of time spent with family. Lots of great dinners. Occasionally we'd go off into the country and observe the scene. Fishin' in the river. Swimmin' in the lake. I got to know the area by riding my bike along the country roads, my clothes soaking wet and my eyes stinging with sweat by the end of the ride. But it was worth it. 

In the afternoon, or at night, or in the morning, or whenever it felt like it, the sky darkened and these big ol' thunderstorms blew in. We'd sit on the porch and watch the lightning, counting the seconds until hearing the thunder boom in the distance. And on a clear night, with nothing better to do, we'd sit and watch the lightning bugs flicker and dance, sometimes catching one with our bare hands. An unhurried, easygoing lifestyle emerged, our bodies adjusting to the environment, our behavior mirroring the relaxed scenery and weather. I was beginning to feel lackadaisical, but in a good way. 

But my car was still in California. I was the relief driver for the trek out to Tennessee. Had to leave my car behind. Well, I didn't have to, but it gave me a good excuse to go back. Needed to get my car. So on the 27th, my sister and I flew back out to California to retrieve my vehicle. And since we're both unemployed at the moment, we decided that now would be the best time to go on a big ol' road trip. Why just drive straight back to Tennessee? We've got money saved up, plenty of time, so why not explore? 

So, for the moment, I'm back in town. I feel like a stranger here, even though I've only been gone for a month. Though the scenery is familiar it feels like its missing something. I don't know. What's the saying? "Home is where the heart is." Perhaps there's some meaning to that. Who knows...

Anywho, these were the things I was reminiscing as I walked to the end of Foothill Rd. It was there where I reacquainted myself with one of my favorite creatures, the musical snake. It is musical because it has a rattle on its tail, a master of percussion. This musical snake didn't play any music for me this time, it just slithered across the road into the shade. I kept a wide berth; it was a biggun.

I reached the terminus, walked through the gate, and continued up Pratt. I saw the last morning hiker walk by. After that, I had the whole trail to myself. I sipped some water and began to sweat, the temps now in the mid 80's. Up, up, up, under the oaks, across a dry creek, right turn on the single track, following the mountain bike tracks, up, up, up. Nothing but sun, views, and the distinct perfume of chaparral. The minutes ticked by. I continued to think. 

I had an idea, out in Tennessee, that I'd walk a section of the JMT when I got back to California. It's something that I've wanted to try since 2022. Each year, I back out of it, for whatever reason. As I was hiking up Pratt, I was pondering, yet again, whether or not I should back out. I was ready, I had all of my gear (minus a rain jacket, oops!), I had a permit, a map, and the physical fitness required to complete such an endeavor. The weather looked perfect; nothing but sunny days and mild winds. No major wildfires, no smoke. It was lookin' to be a grand ol' time, a perfect opportunity. But deep down, something was bothering me. And so I chewed on it, ever since the plane landed, and I was still chewing on it as I climbed up Pratt.

View south

The burrito was sitting like a brick in my stomach. My water went from cool to lukewarm to just plain warm. The strenuous grade was beginning to test my lazy legs. I walked and pondered, walked and pondered, slowly making my way up to the end of Pratt. I weighed the pros and cons, thought of alternatives, thought about many, many things as the sun beat down on my head and the gnats swarmed my eyes. I reached the end of Pratt, turning right towards the lookout tower. I was down to less than half a bottle of water. My urine was a light, golden color. I could feel the salt on my face and the cramps just starting to form in my calves. Ahh yes. This is what I wanted. Though it may not seem like it, these are the perfect conditions for deep thought. They help clear the noise in the mind, removing all the unnecessary thoughts, wiping the slate clean except for those that really matter. 

I reached the tower, took a sip of water, climbed the stairs, and then sprawled on my back with arms and legs outstretched like a starfish. I stayed there for almost 30 minutes, letting the answer come to me. And sure enough, like a baseball to the head, it hit me: I wouldn't go on the hike. Why? Two reasons: One, I'm lazy, and Two, I'm anxious. Plain and simple. I ain't ready for multi-day solo backpacking, no matter how great the weather or how well-traveled the route. I wouldn't enjoy myself. I'd be worrying about too many things. So I'll stick to day hikes for now. That's the way I roll.

East(ish)

Satisfied with my revelation, I got up and began the trek back down to the parking lot. I took my time walking down the stairs, grabbing onto the metal, feeling the rust and the grooves of those who've scratched their names there. I didn't know when or if I'd ever see the ol' tower again, so I spent a few extra minutes saying goodbye, not that the tower would care. I took some pictures, looked around, and then jogged back down to the ridge road, running the downhills and walking the flats parts.

It was certainly warmer, but I still wouldn't call it "hot." Sure there were pockets of hot air floating around, but a cool breeze would show up and whoosh it all away. I trotted down the trail, my bottle nearly empty, the sun bright and the air dry. I was feeling good, happy upon reaching a decision, my mild dehydration just a slight annoyance. I banged out the rest of miles in no time, stopping only occasionally to take a picture or two.

I saw not a single soul on my way back. The parking lot, nearly full when I got there, was now empty save for one other vehicle. The occupant was a shirtless, tan, bearded white dude with dreadlocks, and he was kinda just chillin' there without a care in the world. I started up the car and then drove to a drinking fountain where I relaxed in the shade and replenished my slightly dehydrated self back to its default setting. 

And that's about it. My sister and I will be in town for a little bit, checking out some local stuff, going on some hikes for the last time and whatnot. And then, its off to the road. Got the whole thing planned out. Got some primo spots to check out on our way back to Tennessee. Very exciting stuff. And I'll be sure to write about it. 

Antimony Peak, Eagle Rest Peak

06/04/25

Ah yes, time for another knee-basher. This one's been on the list for a long time. Two peaks, eleven miles, 5,500ft of elevation gain. Absolutely disgusting. I was wary of trying this for a while, not wanting to attempt it until I got a few other peaks under my belt. Even then, after climbing Cara Blanca, Cobblestone Mountain and White Ledge Peak, I was still wary. I studied the route for a good week, the most work I've ever put into preparing for a route. I read an invaluable trip report by Iron Hiker several times, memorizing every detail no matter how minute. If I was gonna do this, I was gonna do it as quickly and efficiently as possible. 

I awoke the morning of June 4th with a groggy mind and no determination. I did not want to climb these peaks. I knew I had waited too long, I knew the foxtails would be out in full force, I knew the weather would be hot and the brush thick and the grade—hellish. But sometimes you just gotta do things. And so I willed myself out of bed, ate a quick breakfast, and then hit the road. The long drive didn't help settle the nerves. Just gave me more time to stew.

It was a foggy morning, the marine layer stretching almost all the way to Gorman. No longer protected from the sun, the surrounding country beamed with warmth, the sun bombarding the ground with heat and light. I got off the I-5 and turned onto Frazier Mountain Park Rd. I took this all the way to Cuddy Valley Rd, following it until I reached forest route 9N22.

This road was an absolute pain in the neck. Deeply rutted, I barely made it past the worst obstacles. Things mellowed out once I turned left onto 9N19. Hardly any ruts, relatively smooth. It was easy driving the rest of the way to the trailhead. I parked in the shade and observed my first objective of the day, Antimony Peak.

I could see it through the pinyon pines, looming to the north. The summit was almost at eye-level, which meant that I'd have to descend a ways to a saddle before I could climb it. Starting a hike by going downhill is nice, but it ain't so nice on the way back. I left the trailhead and began a steep descent down an abandoned road, keeping in mind that I'd have to climb up all of that nonsense on my return. 

The morning was cool, but I could tell that it wouldn't last long. I enjoyed every second of the lovely early morning weather, walking in the shadows of the pinyon pines, steadily losing elevation until I reached a saddle. Antimony Peak rose tall overhead, its southeast face glowing bright and white in the morning sunshine. I started up the thing without any hesitation, trudging up the switchbacks, avoiding the occasional patch of yucca.

The trail, which used to be a road, was easy to follow but very steep. All focus shifted to climbing the mountain. Heavy breathing and profuse sweating ensued, but I kept going, refusing to stop. I found a cadence that I could maintain and trucked the rest of the way, enjoying the view of Pine Mountain Club to the west. 

Eagle Rest Peak

Eventually the grade lessened and I found myself on a saddle of sorts; before me was an open patch of country between two forested areas to the west and east. I could now see my second objective, Eagle Rest Peak, sitting to the northwest. It looked distant, hot, uninviting—an absolute pain in the butt to reach. I stopped looking at it for a bit, shifting my focus on summiting Antimony. I turned east and followed a use trail through the scraggily pinyon pines and occasional scrub oak. 

Antimony Summit

I topped out on the summit in no time, the short climb from the saddle obvious and pleasant. I quickly found that Antimony didn't have much of a view, which was OK. What I could see was plenty pretty. Views to the south revealed Mt Pinos and Company, southeast sat Tecuya Ridge, and way off in the distance was Frazier Mountain, the radio tower on its summit tiny but visible. To the east I could see the haze of Bakersfield, the distant mountains obscured in a thick film of translucent vapor. I sat down, rested my legs, allowed my heart rate to return to a more reasonable BPM. Couldn't hear no birds, couldn't hear no bugs. It was quiet up there, just me and the rocks and the foxtails and the pinyon pines. 

I located the register, placed by Christopher Lord on July 5th of 2021. The most recent entry was from April 25th of this year. I left my marks, chugged a bunch of water, and then scurried off the summit. It had taken less time than I had imagined to climb Antimony, which left more time available to tackle Eagle Rest. To be honest I didn't really want to climb Eagle Rest at all, but I'd come all this way and it was still early so I figured hey, what the hell. I returned to the saddle and headed west, into the woods, following a faint use trail that quickly lost elevation. Ah man. No turning back now.

I followed the use trail down the northwest side of Antimony, thinking about nothing but the climb BACK UP THE THING. Yep, the cool aspect of this hike is that there's more elevation gain on the way back than there is on the way in. Easier on the way there, harder on the way out. Gotta love that. 

Pinyon, scrub oak, buckthorn, deadfall—all of it was there but it wasn't awful, at least not yet. The use trail was faint but well marked with cairns; I had little trouble figuring out where to go. And when I did? Well, I developed a little mantra: "When in doubt, just go down!" That seemed to work. I finally reached a saddle after descending for a while, looking up at an additional obstacle I had to surmount. 

Before me was Peak 6000, a little bump that separates Antimony from Eagle Rest. I climbed up the northern face in no time, the brush minimal and the use trail very obvious. I topped out on the sunny summit and took a small break. This peak had poorer views than Antimony, but it was still a nice little mountain. A small cairn marked the summit, no USGS marker, no register, nada. I looked around, saw nothing of particular interest, and then made my way off the summit towards Eagle Rest.

Peak 6000

The descent of Peak 6000 was much more difficult than the ascent. I was on the shady side of the mountain now; more foxtails, more pokey things, more obstacles, less use trail. At times it disappeared altogether, leaving me no choice but to bash my way through thick bunches of scrub oak. My mantra of "when in doubt, just go down!" no longer held much validity, as the way straight down was usually met with impassable brush. Had to be smart about it now, zigzagging and dodging and weaving, had to find the path of least resistance. Common sense and experience with off-trail navigation proved supreme, and I soon found myself out of the brush on an exposed saddle, standing shin-deep in foxtails and covered in pollen, leaves, dirt, and sweat. 

San Emigdio Canyon

I thought that the worst of the brush was over at this point, but nope. Soon after walking through the field of foxtails I was hit with another wall of brush. I did not find the easiest way through that mess. Being too hasty I was, much too focused on getting a quick summit. This cost me precious time and energy, but I did manage to stumble on an old abandoned camp, which was interesting. Cans, bottles, an old stove, and what I assume to be the remnants of a tent and sleeping bag littered the ground, worn and weathered by years of sun and wind and rain and snow. Why anyone would want to camp in the middle of a brushy ridge is beyond me. Perhaps they were looking for gold or something. Who knows.

It wasn't long after finding the old camp when I finally got through the worst of the brush and began the sharp ascent of Eagle Rest. This was the steepest peak of the day, with most of it being exposed to the sun. I made my way as quickly as I could up the thing, sweat drippin', heart poundin' legs achin'. I lost the use trail, now slogging up a steep slope covered with thousands of golden foxtails. Eagle Rest Peak? More like Foxtail Peak. Them little bastards were everywhere, cramming their seeds in every possible nook and cranny in my shoes, socks, and pants. I didn't stop to take any out; would just get more on the way back. So I kept on truckin' and slogging my way up the steep slope through the field of foxtails, my feet sinking in the dirt with every other step. 

I reached the cliff band out of breath, heart racing, my legs weighed down by the additional 5,000lbs of foxtails hiding in my shoes and socks. I looked up at a wall of sandstone, steep, crumbly, dotted with manzanita here and there. According to the existing literature, the way up this cliff band should be no harder than Class 3. Unfortunately, I had lost the use trail, and resorted to scanning the cliff band for the easiest way up. Most of it was Class 5, some of it was sketchy Class 4. I shimmied on up the cliffs, pressing myself against the sandstone, the manzanita serving as a buffer to the drop-off. I eventually found something that could be defined as Class 3, a short little climb with good holds and little exposure. With that done, I could now see the summit block. It was close, no more than 500ft away. I slowly made my way to it, climbing up a very steep slope, using the occasional chaparral to hoist me onward. 

I stopped just east of the summit block, noticing a little register under a rock. I set down my pack and scurried up some Class 2/3 nonsense to get on top of the block. I had to wrap around the north side as I was unable to find an easy way from the east. As I made my way around, I noticed another register with a skull and crossbones on it hiding under the summit block. Huh. Two registers? I'd have to check that out on my way down.

The summit block was easier to climb than the way I took to surmount the cliff band. I scurried up the thing with little issue, standing on the airy summit and taking in the impressive views of the surrounding country. Man, I sure didn't find the easiest way up that mountain. But hey, it worked out and I'd made it. Even though I'd only walked about 5.5 miles, it felt as though I was deep in the woods, standing on a remote mountaintop in the middle of nowhere. To the north was the hazy expanse of the San Joaquin Valley, to the west rose San Emigdio Mountain, tall and rugged. East revealed Lost Canyon and distant mountains of which I am unfamiliar. And south, well, I didn't much like the view south. Looking south revealed all of what I had left to hike; all the thorns, sticks, twigs, foxtails, scrub oak, manzanita, all the gains and losses in elevation, the steep descents, the steeper ascents. Ahh man. The real hike was just getting started.

East

West

I left the summit block and checked out the register with the skull and crossbones on it. Turns out the crossbones were actually ice axes—real creative stuff right there. Would shiver Blackbeard right to the timbers I tell yah. Anyway, as soon as I opened it, about 100 earwigs spilled out of the thing, squirming and twirling around in the dirt. I let out a gasp, a little shocked by the unexpected insect rave. I brushed away a few of 'em to sign my name. The last person to sign it visited May 19th of this year. I didn't check to see when it was placed. Too grossed out by the earwigs. I put the register back and made my way over to the other one, hoping that that one was insect-free.

Praise be to the Most High, the thing was devoid of all insects. The booklet was in far better condition than the other, almost looking brand new despite being placed May 13th of 2017. The most recent entry was from May 5th of 2021. Not a whole lotta signatures in between; I suppose the other register is the more popular of the two. Why this peak has two registers is a mystery to me. I didn't think about it much though, I had bigger fish to fry. I left my signature, guzzled down some water, and then made my way off the summit. I hadn't spent more than ten minutes there. Needed to beat the heat. Wouldn't want to be slogging it up Antimony during the hottest part of the day, you know?

What? Two Registers?

The way back...

Back down the cliff band, back through the field of foxtails, back through the brush. I took a slightly different path on the return yet still managed to stumble upon that ol' camp. I guess it wasn't as different as I thought. 

I crawled on my hands and knees at points, tunneling through the only available space in an otherwise impenetrable wall of scrub oak. At other times it was easy-peasy, just dodging and weaving, moving through the brush like water through a canyon. As I made my way to the base of Peak 6000, I mentally broke up the hike back to the car in three big chunks: the climb up Peak 6000, the climb up Antimony, and then the climb back up to the car. First up was the climb up Peak 6000, which I was expecting to be the worst of the day what with all the brush and whatnot. I stopped in the shade, took a breather, ate a tangerine, and then began the bushwhack up to the summit. 

On the way up Peak 6000

The climb up Peak 6000 just plain sucked, simple as that. Wasn't particularly hard, wasn't particularly scary. It just sucked. I had left some arrows in the dirt earlier that morning that I'd made out of broken twigs; these helped ease the navigation a little bit on my return. Figured it would be a little harder finding the path of least resistance on the way up since I no longer had gravity on my side. Turns out I was right; thank goodness I left those arrows 'cause I would've had a far less efficient time going up had they not been there.

I topped out on the summit, tired and sweaty but glad to be finished with that nonsense. There were a few holes in my shirt that weren't there earlier that morning but ehh, whaddayah gonna do. I sat for a bit, removing some of the more pernicious foxtails from my socks. There was a yellow-bellied horny toad basking in the sunlight on a rock, eyes closed, not a care in the world. I caught the guy. Didn't put up much of a fight. Kind of just sat there limp in my hand, indifferent. It wasn't until I tried to flip him over to look at his belly when he put up a fuss. Squirmed right out of my hand and darted off into the bushes, never to be seen again.

I left the summit, staring at Antimony the entire way down. I knew this next chunk would be, as David Stillman once put it, "a recipe for suffering." I knew it wouldn't be as brushy as the backside of Peak 6000. But man was it steeper. Much steeper. I'd just have to put my head down and trudge my way up the thing. So that's exactly what I did.

Lost Canyon

I took one break on my way up, a quick tangerine refueling session. Other than that, it was just a long, hot, steep slog up a partially shaded slope. For some reason, I didn't find it to be as bad as I thought it would be. I can deal with steep. I eat steep for breakfast. Peak 6000 was much worse in my opinion. Iron Hiker was right; that definitely was the crux of the route. 

Once at the saddle, I knew that I was almost home free. I took one last look at Eagle Rest, shocked that I'd actually climbed the thing. I waved goodbye and made my way back down the steep road, stopping every now and then to enjoy the view of Pine Mountain Club to the west. 

Antimony ore?

The rest of the way back was uneventful, just a long, relatively steep trek back to the car. Not much shade, not much relief, but at least I wasn't hikin' during the hottest part of the day. On my way up, I stumbled across a bunch of rocks that were shining in the afternoon sunlight, something that I hadn't noticed on the way in. They looked to be full of antimony ore, but I ain't no geologist so I couldn't be sure. Them's sure was pretty in the sun though, all shiny and sparkly. I admired these lustrous rocks for a minute, taking a few pictures and whatnot. Then it was back to the grind, back to the hike, back to putting one foot in front of the other until finally reaching the car.

The whole ordeal took a little over 5½ hours, but it felt much longer. My legs were spent, I was covered in srcapes and scratches, my face caked with a thin, salty crust from sweat that had long since dried. Yup, it had been a good un alright. Another excellent day in the sticks. 

Cuddy Valley, Mt Pinos (Iwihinmu)

Since I'd finished much earlier than expected, I decided to drive around the land for a little bit, see the ol' sights, maybe grab a bite to eat. I drove back down the road, back across the devious ruts, my tires spinning out from under me. Down Cuddy Valley Rd, down into the valley, down into Pine Mountain Club. I stopped at La Leña and had me a chile relleno and enchilada combo. Stuff was damn good. Ate the whole thing in 2 seconds. 

After that I decided to drive up to Marion Campground, just to see what was up. Hadn't been there in a fat minute though, so I messed up with the directions and took the wrong dirt road and ended up on top of San Emigdio Mountain instead. Not that I was disappointed; before me stretched a magnificent view of all three peaks that I'd climbed earlier that day. I sat there for a good half hour, staring at the view, studying the peaks that I'd just climbed, watching the puffy clouds move lazily over Bakersfield, observing the crows ducking and diving in the wind. It had been a good day, an efficient day, a day that I wouldn't have any other way. Except for those foxtails. I'd change that in a heartbeat. To this day, I'm still pulling those little miscreants out of my shoes. It's a Sisyphean task. No matter how many I remove, there's always more to be found. 

Thorn Point Overnighter

 05/28/25

There's a land out there, a strange land, a land of rock and wind and brush and pines. What is it? Mountains? Desert? Both? Yeah, a bit of both. Sandstone and chaparral define the landscape, but the pines are what make it interesting. Big, tall, old, weathered—these pines are just as comfortable living in this weird environment as the rest of the hardy flora. They inhabit the valleys, carpeting the ground with a nice layer of pine needles. They're sprinkled on the northern slopes of the mountains, green and skinny and smelling of vanilla. They've been there a while and they'll stay there a while; such is the way of the pine tree. Why they chose to live in such a rugged and rocky land is beyond me. Perhaps they know something we don't.

Within this strange land is a man-made structure, a structure as weird and out-of-place as the pines. Built nearly one hundred years ago, it's a miracle that the thing is still standing. It's one of the last remaining fire lookout towers in the Los Padres, and perhaps the ONLY one that still has the original wooden structure still intact. I've visited the thing a few times in the past, and each time it was in a more advanced stage of decay. Hadn't been up to check on it since 2022, so it was high time for a return. Had to see if it was still alive and well. 

Kellin and I had thought about a trip to this tower for a good month. It started in an ambitious manner, each of us wanting to haul up a bunch of cookware to make a tremendous feast. Pots, pans, fuel, canned goods, and a Coleman stove. As the trip deadline grew closer, we realized that this would probably be a very silly thing to do. The route to the top is steep, our packs would be obscenely heavy. So we settled on bringing all the fixings for quesadillas instead. Quesadillas and a couple of gallons of water. There ain't no water up there. Had to haul it up ourselves. 

We drove fast, hit the bumps, knocked a few wires loose. A long dust cloud spilled out the back of the truck, hanging in the air for a few moments before disappearing altogether. The road was closed at the junction for Thorn Meadows, which meant that we had to walk an additional 1.5 miles to the trailhead. We got out, donned our water-laden packs, and then set off in the late morning heat. 

Our destination, Thorn Point, loomed overhead, rising a couple thousand feet into a cloud-streaked sky. We crossed some water, noticed the road damage near the Cedar Creek trailhead. It looked like the road had become a small river during last year's rains, much like forest route 5N13.2 up Murietta Canyon. I couldn't see any recent progress, no construction or nothin'. The thing probably ain't gonna be fixed anytime soon. Just a hunch. 

We took a small break at Thorn Meadows, taking off our packs and sweating in the still heat. The shot-up outhouse was no longer there, long since destroyed from too many bullet holes I imagine. The ol' cabin was still standing, but we didn't investigate. A small "keep out" sign was reason enough to not go inside what looked like a giant hantavirus incubator. After we had our fill of the sights and sounds, we geared up, drank some more water, and then began the short but steep walk to the summit.

Snow Plant

Walkin' and talkin', talkin' and walkin'. We walked through the ferns and the deadfall, talked as our footsteps crunched on the carpet of pine needles. The first little bit of the hike was the only spot to do this; the trail is gentle at first, slowly making its way up, winding through a peaceful little valley of few sounds and much beauty. But just as you start enjoying yourself the trail smacks you in the face, and soon you're slogging up steep switchbacks with little relief. The walkin' continued, but the talkin' stopped altogether. Too busy suckin' wind. 

We took a few breaks on the way up, stopping in the shade of the pines and observing the puzzle-piece latticework of their bark. We stood there sweating, not wanting to take off our packs again and again and again. The heat was there, but it wasn't unbearable thanks to the clouds. Stretching wide across the sky in a big, patchy, gray haze, they spared us from the angry sun. 

Putting one foot in front of the other was the name of the game, walking steady and slow up one switch back to the next and the next and the next. The lookout tower eventually came into view, close but still far, and we kept going, more switchbacks, more up. Kellin's legs started cramping near the top. Couldn't keep 'em straight. Had to walk with a bend in his step. But that's alright. We were almost there, we were close now, we could see it there, no more than 100ft away—could see the sun-batterd wood and the glassy windows and the roof that was slowly falling apart. We walked under some scrub oak, rounded a corner and BAM—there it was, still alive, still standing in spite of nearly a century of wind and rain and cold and heat and snow. 

We immediately set up our hammocks on the posts that support the tower. Then came the customary rifling through the multiple registers and whatnot, reading reports from those who had visited the tower in the past. Then came the looking and poking around, observing the condition of the tower and such. Less stuff was inside than I remembered from the last time I was up there. Just the springy bed, the water tank, the old oven, the cupboards and drawers. The door had been fixed, which was nice. And the ceiling was supported by a skinny little metal pipe. How long that pipe can hold the ceiling I don't know. Looks like the whole thing's gonna come down at some point. That pipe is the only thing keeping it all together. 

Kellin returned to his hammock and fell asleep. I looked around for a bit, climbed a few of the sandstone boulders that dotted the summit. I set up shop on a small boulder northeast of the tower and sat there and read for a few hours. A light breeze had picked up, gently rustling the pines. I put the book down and laid on the boulder and promptly passed out, the scenery far too relaxing for my senses. I awoke an hour later, my whole being feeling much better than it did when we first got to the tower. Never underestimate the power of a nap!

We got situated, changing into evening attire, and started cookin' up the quesadillas. Tortillas, chicken, jalepeños, olives, and a whole lotta cheese. I somehow managed to eat an entire bag of cheese all by myself. Don't think I'll ever do that again. Far too much cheese. 

Our feast complete, we moseyed on over to a rockier section of the summit that I had discovered on one of my previous visits. We sat there on the rocks for a bit, gifted with insane views of the Sespe Wilderness to the south and west. Hines Peak, the Topatopa bluffs, Chief Peak, and Nordhoff Ridge were well in view, rising sharp and high and blocking the marine layer from penetrating any farther into the wilderness. Piedra Blanca sat far below, the massive sandstone formations looking like little pebbles in a sea of green chaparral. The sun continued its slow free-fall out of the sky, growing calm and orange in the process. Soon it would vanish behind the horizon altogether. We had to get back to the tower before that happened. Had to see the sunset up there. It's required. 

We climbed the narrow steps to the top the the tower, the wood platform creaking and crunching under each step. We posted on the western side, watching the orange fireball slowly disappear behind the high peaks of the Los Padres. Cedar Peak was there, and so was Haddock and Reyes Peak. Even Samon Peak could be seen, wayyy off in the west, rising like a giant shark fin out of the haze. 

The whole area took on a different vibe as it was washed in the orange and purple light of the setting sun. Darker, calmer, more mellow, more peaceful. The breeze had picked up even more, no longer a breeze, but a gentle wind. The pine trees swayed in the wind, filling the air with a constant WHOOSHING sound. The light danced across the thousands of canyons in the Cuyama Badlands, seemingly evaporating away like water spilled on sand. Soon all light had escaped the canyons, now only illuminated by the faint luminescence of twilight. 

More whooshing, more wind. The mountains were dark, the valleys darker. Lights began to spring up in the north, no doubt the residences of Lockwood Valley and whatnot. The sun gone, the wind blowing, the light fading, it was time to go. We took a few more pictures and then carefully climbed back down the steep stairs, back to the hammocks, back to the ground. 

We sat around the improvised fire pit. There was plenty of wood, the pit was deep, and it was mostly blocked from the wind. We made a small fire, huddling around as the temperatures significantly dropped. Ahh, gotta love the high desert. Super hot in the day, super cold at night. That's just the way it goes.

We didn't keep the fire going for long. Much too tired. We returned to our hammocks and promptly called it a night. The temps kept dropping, the wind getting stronger. Must've been 30mph gusts. It was roaring up there, blowing our hammocks from side to side, the trees whooshing, the dust zooming, the rocks and twigs and pine needles constantly rearranging themselves. And it was like that the whole dang night. Didn't get much sleep. That's just the way it goes. 

The moon was a thin crescent hovering in the sky to the west, seemingly unaffected by the chaos of the wind. The stars shone bright and peaceful, not a care in the world. Rocking around in the wind, I got this idea at around 4am to get out of my hammock and watch the sunrise. It would be cool to see it rising out there, illuminating Cobblestone Mountain and the eastern Sespe. But it was too dang cold and too dang windy and I was too dang tired. I rolled around in my hammock and finally managed to get some rest just before 5am, completely missing the sunrise. Ahh well. I'll have to do that some other time I suppose.

The wind was still roaring in the morning, unrelenting, unstoppable. We didn't even have breakfast. Just packed up our things and got out of there. We waved goodbye to the tower and quickly made our way off the wind-blasted summit, hoping that the rest of the day wouldn't be as windy. 

Sure enough, as soon as we left the summit, the wind all but disappeared. Ahh, how nice. The pines were still whooshin' and swooshin' overhead, but the wind was gone. We zoomed down the trail, our packs light as a feather. No more water, no more food. It was easy walkin' down that trail. If only it was that easy on the way up. 

We made it back to the truck in about half as much time as it took us to get up to the tower the day prior. Kellin started 'er up and we drove around for a bit, checking the condition of the road out to the Johnston Ridge Trailhead. We didn't see anything as bad as the damage by Cedar Creek, but the road was still rough in parts. Getting a 2wd vehicle back there would be mighty interesting. 

After we had our look around, we headed back, driving back up the road to civilization. On our way back, we met a guy who was herding his goats. He had seven of 'em, and they all had collars. The guy was lean and lanky with a scraggly beard and a permanent tan. He didn't really know where he was going, something about "that camp up there." I mentioned Pine Springs and he said "Yeah, that one I guess." We talked for a minute, the conversation limited and strange. One of his goats crawled under Kellin's truck. The goat man dragged it back out. We left shortly after that. There was nothing more to say. 

We drove back towards town, noticing that the same guy we had seen yesterday was still parked at the gate. Even more odd was that there was no trailer or any other vehicle to be seen. Where had the goat man come from? Who knows.

This other guy was another enigma. He had sat there all day yesterday and all of the morning, just sitting there, staring into space. We later saw him driving on the road back to Santa Clarita. Perhaps he was just meditating. Perhaps not. These are mysteries that will never be solved. And that's ok; they make life interesting. 

And that about sums up the Thorn Point overnighter. It's always a good time up there; it's such a unique area. I've never encountered another place on this planet quite like it. I've been up there five times now, and I'm still not sick of it. There's always something new to see each time I go up to that gnarly ol' lookout tower. It's an amazing place, one that I hope continues to stand the test of time. Lot of history in that tower. It'll be a sad day if it ever collapses.