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, 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 northwest 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 out 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 into town, noticing that the same guy we had seen yesterday was still parked at 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. 

McDonald Peak and Environs

 05/22/25

We left in the morning, driving the three hours up the I-5 to Hungry Valley and beyond. A gentle wind was blowing dust across the road. California Poppies and other local wildflowers swayed to and fro. The sky was a hazy blue, thin little clouds darting high up above without a care in the world. I was driving, Liam sat shotgun. We sipped carbonated mineral water as we drove up the bumpy dirt road, gliding across bumps and ruts and rocks and stuff. The rest of the waters rattled in a box in the backseat, the glass jinglin' and janglin' like a avant-garde Christmas tune. Curvy road, lots of twists and turns and dust and such. I went slow, carful not to pop a tire.

There was a snake in the road. I stopped, got out. Liam said, "let him be" and I did. I've been on a bit of a snake craze lately. Every time I see one I try to catch it. But I get too scared. Don't wanna get bit. Don't wanna upset the snake either. I caught one a few months ago and haven't been able to catch one since. I've been thinkin' that I just got really lucky that one time. Who knows. I suppose I'll have to keep trying...

We reached a fork in the road. Turned left. We were now in the realm of the pines. The forest floor was a carpet of fallen pine needles, each gully filled with pinecones in various stages of decomposition. Gray ones on the bottom, brown ones on the top. Made for quite the crunchy step I tell yah. I bet that even a Mountain Lion would have trouble keepin' quiet on all that. 

We were driving around the southern side of Alamo Mountain, a large, gentle mass of earth and pines rising up out of the ground in the southeastern Los Padres. I'd been on the road once before, back when I climbed Cobblestone Mountain. At the time, I was so goal-oriented that I didn't pay much attention to the beauty of the area. Not today. Today was a day of calm observation. Windows down, cool breeze, birds chirping, the vanilla scent of the pines wafting through the air. Oh yeah. That's what it's all about right there.

We looked to the south. There was a mountain there, McDonald Peak. It didn't stand out much, just a minor bump along a pine-speckled ridge full of other bumps. I pointed at it and said, "There it is. That's where we're going." And so we went.

Another left turn, more rocks, more dust, more flowers and pines and crunchy cones. Lupine dotted the hills, soft on the eyes, purple, brilliant. We passed by the Little Mutau Trailhead and kept going. And then we lost elevation, going down the curvy road, my eyes screening the ridge right next to us, trying to figure out which one of these bumps was the summit. 

I found a spot to park. Put on the ol' parking break and then we were off, climbing up a steep little ridge to what I thought was McDonald Peak. There was a heat advisory for the day, but we never felt it. The mountain air and the shade of the pines protected us from the wrath of the sun. Mostly. Both of us still worked up quite the sweat sloggin' it up that steep little ridge. 

It topped out, exposed to the sun with nothing on the summit but a few rocks and some dry grass. McDonald Peak sat to the east, just a little ways off. Drats! Another false summit! Why does this keep happening? Perhaps it is destiny...

Liam and I took a little breather before making our way over to McDonald. It was a clear ridge walk, nice and open and grassy with a few minor uphills and downhills and some deadfall here and there. We walked slow and steady, taking in the tremendous views to the south. Liam said something like, "I thought we were just gonna walk today. What's this? What are we doing?" Yeah, the mountain turned out to be a little steeper than it looked. Got the heart pumpin' and the legs achin'. But it was a short walk, no more than a quarter mile. I had a bottle of carbonated water in one hand and a bag full of bolillo rolls in the other. No backpack, no survival gear. Didn't need none of that stuff. 

We reached the summit, sat down, looked around. According to the register, January 11th seemed to be the last time anyone was up there. Not a whole lotta entries in that booklet; the place doesn't get much traffic. Most of the entries were from HPS folks and the like. Peak baggers. All they do is climb mountains. I've also climbed a lot of mountains, but I've never considered myself a peak bagger. I'm a peak visitor is what I am. That's all there is to it.

The views from the summit were outstanding, rivaling those seen on Old Man Mountain. Almost the entire Sespe Wilderness could be observed, the views stretching from Sewart Mountain in the east to Haddock Mountain in the west and everything in between. I particularly enjoyed the close-up view of Cobblestone Mountain. Ah man, good times, good times. Looking at that mountain sent me right back to that hot and thirsty day that I climbed it last year. I traced the route I walked with my eyes. Ahh yes, there was Sewart, there was White Mountain Ridge, the 1000ft descent to the saddle, the 1,500ft incline to the summit of Cobblestone. I remember those places well. Sitting in the shade on the peaceful summit of McDonald, I was sure glad I wasn't out there sloggin' it up Cobblestone right then. No, no, no. I've had my time on that mountain I tell yah. Ain't gonna go back there for a long, long time...

Big Bad Cobblestone

We spent a good chunk of time on the summit enjoying the views, nibbling on bolillo rolls, sippin' fizzy water. Liam started throwing rocks at this little snag. This, of course, turned into a game of "who can knock over the snag with a rock?" We probably spent half an hour throwing rocks of various sizes at this rotten snag, again and again, the wood splintering, the trunk swaying. But the thing never fell. We soon resorted to the big stuff, working together to chuck 50lb rocks at the snag's midpoint. A crack began to form. Ahh yes—progress. Rock after rock, throw after throw, we weakened that thing until finally—KERRAK—half of the it came tumbling down. 

We inspected our handiwork. Liam got on top of it and bounced around as if it were a surfboard. Sweet success. Now that we had accomplished our goal, we walked over to the southern tip of the summit, took a few more pictures, and then headed back to the car. 

Improvised Surf Board

We took a different way down, not wanting to trek across the ridge all the way back to the false summit. I skied down a steep slope covered in pine needles. Liam followed suit, his cowboy boots offering no help whatsoever on the slippery ground. The slope took us to a gully filled with pine cones and deadfall. We followed it, one crunchy step after another, until it took us back to the road.

Back in the car, back on the road, Liam now driving, I riding shotgun. I popped open another mineral water. Liam swerved around a corner. The carbonation erupted into my mouth and down my throat. I leaned out the window, my mouth a fountain of bubbly water. Liam found that mighty funny. I did as well. We had ourselves a good chuckle over it, driving along the dusty road underneath the pines. 

Slow and steady was the name of the game. Birds were out and so were the deer. Saw three of 'em, all standing in a line. They saw us and immediately darted away out of view, probably because Liam leaned out of the window and pretended to shoot them with his fingers. Who's to say for sure though? Maybe they saw a ghost or something...hahaha.

Near Dutchman Campground

Another left turn and we were in Dutchman Camp. Ain't nobody else was there. Flat spots, a few tables, some old fire rings, a stinky pit toilet. Yep. Certainly wasn't no Camp Comfort. But it sure was quiet there, nice and relaxed and unassuming and placid. We drove to a little overlook, sat on some rocks. Spent a good long while staring at the western view, lookin' at Thorn Point and Mutau Valley and Haddock Mountain and the like. Strange country; it's a like a high desert but with pine trees. Ain't seen no other place quite like it. 

Liam took some photos, I finished another mineral water, picked up an old can, and then we walked back to the car. Didn't spend too much time lookin' around Dutchman Camp. Not too much to see. I had mentioned to Liam that we could climb Alamo Mountain. But why do that? Why not drive? It's much easier and a lot more enjoyable. So that's exactly what we did. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent driving around with the windows down, the bottles of carbonated water still jinglin' in the back, old school country music playin' on the radio. We checked out another campsite, this one in much worse shape than Dutchman Camp. Saw another deer. Saw more Lupine. All good things. 

It was nice to get out there for a minute, to slow down and really take the time to appreciate the area. McDonald Peak turned out to be a fantastic peak with stellar views. And the best part is that it required minimal effort to see 'em. 

Monte Arido and Old Man Mountain

 05/20/25

The air was lukewarm at the trailhead. Not chilly, not cool, but lukewarm. It wasn't even 5:30am yet. Good thing I brought over a gallon of water. These early morning temperatures were a good indicator that the day was gonna be a hot one. I'd need every drop I could get.

And what was on today's menu? Why, a little ol' walk to Monte Arido and Old Man Mountain of course! I'd already been to Old Man Mountain once with Liam, way back in 2022. I remember seeing Monte Arido laying to the north. Looked kinda interesting. Made a mental note to check it out someday. But I kept putting if off for a number of years until it finally felt like the right time to do it. May 20th of this year seemed to be the right time, despite the warm weather. 

I proceeded with deliberate movements, trying to prevent unnecessary sweating. The Murietta Divide loomed far to the west, the twin summits of Old Man Mountain looming farther still. This would be my fourth time slogging it up to the Divide. It was familiar to me now; no more surprises, no more unknowns. I put my body in cruise control and zoomed up the road, paying attention to nothing other than my footsteps and labored breathing. 

The lukewarm air turned warm, then warm to hot. The sun rose above the mountains, its heat immediately baking everything in sight. I stopped for a moment just beyond Murietta Spring and downed some water. Within a few hours, this water would be hot, just like everything else. I savored the cool taste while I still could. 

I reached the Divide in under 2 hours. I didn't stop; I had found my groove and kept zooming along. I made a right and started up the road to Old Man Mountain, knowing full well that there would be hardly any shade until my return. The rest of the way would be long, hot, and mostly exposed to the sun. I didn't think about this too much though; I just put my head down and kept on truckin'.

The lower part of the road was a little overgrown with chamise and yerba santa and other types of miscellaneous chaparral. Walking through that brush, it seemed as though I had trespassed through the tick version of Lalapalooza. The suckers were everywhere. After walking through this one particular bush, I counted 13 ticks on one leg alone. Pants, shirt, socks, neck, backpack, hat—there was hardly a spot on my body where I didn't find any of the little miscreants. My pace slowed a little, the result of having to stop every five minutes to brush off ticks. Fortunately, this overgrown section didn't last too long, and soon the road cleared up and it was back to the steep, boring slog. 

Old Man Mountain

View west, Jameson Lake bottom left

I reached a high point that gifted me a lovely view of Old Man Mountain's southern summit. A fairly mean wind had picked up, whipping against my face and shirt and probably carrying away a few ticks in the process. To my relief, the wind wasn't warm, which meant that it couldn't be more than 85℉ or so. Granted, it wasn't even 8am yet, and I knew that this wind would only get warmer as the day grew long. I sat down, drank more water, wolfed down some calories, and then continued on my way.

I lost some elevation and then immediately gained it back. The sun got higher, the wind died down, the rocks remained silent and the ticks finally went into hiding. Sort of. I guess most of them don't like the heat too much. I was only picking up a couple of 'em every fifteen minutes now, a significant improvement from earlier that morning. 

Monte Arido

I rounded the western flank of Old Man Mountain and got my first good view of Monte Arido. Dang, that thing still looked a long ways off. But I didn't care. Putting one foot in front of the other would get me there sooner of later. I kept going, stopping only to hydrate.

Eventually, the road finished wrapping around the western side of Old Man Mountain and headed north. At this point I was gifted with an insane view of Old Man Canyon. It stretched for miles before me, reaching down and away into Matilija Canyon and beyond. I immediately thought of David Stillman's descent into that canyon all those years ago, well before all the brush burned away in the Thomas Fire. Since the fire, the brush has already made quite the comeback. I could only imagine how insane it looked before it burned. Standing there, looking down into that canyon, all I could think to say was "that man is insane." 

Old Man Canyon

The road became exceptionally steep after this viewpoint. I moved up the thing little by little, digging my trekking poles in the dirt to propel me upward. Monte Arido never seemed to get any closer. I could feel the salt accumulating on my face, the sweat running down my back, the popped blister on my achilles and the lactic acid accumulating in my calfs. I stopped looking at Monte Arido, no longer concerned with progress. Staring at it wouldn't do me any good anyways. I told myself that I'd get there when I'd get there. Head down, arms pumping, legs zoomin'. I found a groove and took it, waltzing up the trail in the heat. 

Gettin' closer...

There were some huge bear tracks in the road. Old ones, made during a time when the road was nice and muddy. Why a bear would wander all the way up to this exposed and windy land is beyond me. Perhaps there was a water source nearby that I didn't know about. Maybe the deer are extra tasty up in these hills. I don't know. I followed the tracks for a ways, following in the footsteps of the bear until they left the road and entered the brush. 

The road headed west, I saw a rise and scurried up to the top, believing it to be the summit. It wasn't. Doh! I'd been fooled by a false summit yet again. Seems to be a pattern with me. Gotta stop being so hasty. It costs too much energy. 

I could see the summit from my vantage point, no more than 500ft in front of me. I scurried on over there, taking a breather on this little rock right next to the register. Monte Arido sure lived up to its name: its summit is nothing but a big, wide, flat, dry, arid expanse with decent views of the surrounding country. I had to walk a little bit in each cardinal direction to get a good look my surroundings. Madulce Peak, Big Pine Mountain, and two of the mountains I had climbed the week prior (McKinley and San Rafael) lay to the west, looking rugged and tired. The Santa Ynez Mountains stretched off into the west, running in a bumpy line until they disappeared into infinity. To the north was the dry country, nothing but a desiccated landscape where only the hardiest of species survive. Southward lay the pacific and four of the Channel Islands: Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa and San Miguel.

Northwest(ish)

Southwest(ish)

Northeast

To the east was, in my opinion, the best view of all. I could see almost every major summit of the Sespe and Matilija Wildernesses, from Cara Blanca all the way to Cobblestone. Rugged, rugged country. I could see it all, could see Reyes Peak and Thorn Point, Ortega Hill and the Nordhoff Lookout Tower, Hines Peak and the Topatopa bluffs, Santa Paula Peak and the Santa Monica Mountains. I stood there for a bit taking lots of pictures, my eyes overwhelmed with sensory information. This is the country that I know best, so it was great to see it from a new vantage point. 

East

There were three booklets in a plastic register, two old and one new. The new one was placed in 2018; the last entry was from March 23rd of 2025 from a guy who did an out-n-back from Hwy 33. Seems like a lot of people go this way, perhaps to avoid the crazy elevation gain from the bottom of Matilija Canyon. I left my marks, screwed on the lid, and then made my way off the summit. Old Man Mountain lay far below, its twin summits shining bright in the late morning sun. 

Old Man Mountain, Old Man Canyon

I raced down the road in a flash, the steep grade no longer a hassle to my legs. I made it to the northern base of Old Man mountain in no time, stopping just once along the way to guzzle more water. I left the road for the use trail, following it through dirt, brush and boulders. 

No more wind, not even a breeze. Just stifling, dry, HOT air everywhere. The sun was close to reaching its zenith, the heat of the day now ramping up exponentially. I was feelin' it now, sweating buckets and busting through brush. The use trail avoided the worst of it, but at times it vanished and I was forced to shimmy my way through head-high chaparral. I gained the summit ridge and banged out the last few hundred feet to the summit without much issue. 

Ahh, Old Man Mountain. What a fantastic peak. Though the weather wasn't as clear as it was the last time I was up there, I could still see most of everything. I still hold firm to the notion that Old Man Mountain has the best views out of any peak in the Los Padres. It's definitely worth the trek to the top, no question. I sat down for a minute, downing electrolytes and taking in the view. I located the register and signed my name for the second time. The previous entry was from the same guy who had climbed Monte Arido on March 23rd 2025. 

I didn't spend too long on the summit, what with the constantly rising temperature and the millions of bugs trying to suck my eyes dry. Not wanting to back track, I decided to summit Old Man's southern peak. I remembered it being a fun little climb, and as a bonus I'd be saving myself a whole lot of road walking. So I gathered my things, took one last sweep of the summit views, and then set off.

The climb to the southern summit wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it would be. Not too brushy, not too many ticks, fairly solid ground. Good stuff, good stuff. I topped out on the rocky summit and took another break, feeling the heat emanating beneath me. 

Wow

The old can was still there, but I was unable to find the tiny register. Oh well. Didn't matter. That thing was full when Liam and I first climbed this peak back in 2022. I doubt I would've been able to leave my signature had I been able to find it. 

Electrolytes, calories, plain ol' water, granola bars. I fueled up, taking in the magnificent views of the Matilija wilderness. White Ledge Peak, King's Crest, and Divide Peak were well in view, looking gnarly and green and rocky and hot. I stuck out my tongue and tasted the air. Tasted like 90℉ to me. That meant it was time to go. 

I left the summit, sidehilling for a ways down the steep southern face to a flat spot. From there it was a hop skip and a jump through shin-high grass and the occasional yucca back to the road. I put my legs in cruise control and set off down the road, the miles slowly passing underfoot as the day only grew hotter. 

At one point I met a snake in the middle of the road, a long thin line sitting still as a statue. I grabbed its tail and tried nabbing its head, but it kept trying to bite me and I got too scared. I let it be, apologizing for ruining its midday sunbath. It slithered away into the bushes, never to return.

More miles, more heat, more water, more sun. I pressed against the northern side of this one large boulder, taking a little breather in the only good shade around. I sat down, my torso in the shade, my legs in the sun. I checked my water supply; still good. It was quiet there, no birds or wind or anything. Just bugs. But even they seemed tired from the heat, buzzing lazily around my face without much urgency. 

Back on the "road"

I got up, dusted off my pants, and coasted the rest of the way back to Murietta Divide. No ticks this time. I suppose they'd returned to their little tick homes and turned on their little tick air conditioners. The hard part of the day was far behind me. Now all that remained was the long, uneventful downhill grind to Matilija Canyon. 

I never stopped. Not once. Just coasted the whole rest of the way down. I made it back to the trailhead, finishing the whole thing in just under nine hours with water to spare. There was one other car in the lot that wasn't there that morning. The occupants must've ventured off to the Matilija Falls. I never saw 'em. Had the whole day to myself; never saw a single soul the entire time I was out there. Couldn't imagine why, hahaha. 

I stretched, drove home, took a shower, got a haircut. It had been yet another excellent day on some quality peaks. The only downside was that I decided to wear brand-new shoes fresh out of the box. Twenty-four miles and 6,000ft of elevation gain definitely broke them in, but not without some casualties. I got this nasty blister on my left achilles that to this day is still not fully healed. Oh well. Yah live and yah learn...

Cachuma Mountain, McKinley Mountain and San Rafael Mountain

05/15/25

I've been spending too much time in the Sespe Wilderness as of late. Needed to change things up, see some different sights, visit a part of the forest I ain't ever been. Particularly one with plenty of trees, views, and pointy summits. 

The giant swath of the Santa Barbara backcountry came to mind. I've only visited that country just once, and that was a very long time ago. Eleven years to be precise. Gnarly trip. Walked from Nira all the way up the Sisquoc to Madulce Station, then attempted to make it to Dutch Oven Camp but got turned around. Backtracked to Madulce Station, went from there to Bluff Guard Station, down to Pens Camp, through the Indian Narrows and "The Perfect Ten," and then out to Mono and P-Bar Flats. Most people will have absolutely no idea what a trip like that even means, but for those who know the country or have even been to some of the spots I've mentioned know what I'm talking about when I say that that trip was rough. That trip was my first and last good taste of the San Rafael and Dick Smith Wildernesses. I loved it, but it scared me a little. Well, it ain't scarin' me no more. There's some peaks out there that I needed to check out, peaks that could help me observe this country of which I know so little about. 

Peaks are a great way to get to know an area. They give you expansive views of the surrounding country, helping you understand the lay of the land. When I was truckin' it on the Manzana and Sisquoc trails all those years ago, I recall looking to the south and seeing these high, snow dusted peaks. I've always wondered what was up there ever since, what kind of views they had, what could be seen from the summits. Recently, I discovered three prominent peaks in them mountains: Cachuma Mtn, McKinley Mtn, and San Rafael Mtn. These were my desired summits. And as a bonus, almost all of them could be accessed via bike. And you know I just love a good bike ride. So I loaded up the ol' bike and drove off towards Santa Barbara. 

I took Hwy 154 to San Marcos Pass, noticing tall flames and thick smoke hovering near Painted Cave. It looked like a controlled burn, at least that's what I hoped it was. I drove on, coasting down the pass until exiting on Armour Ranch Rd. From there I turned right and took Happy Canyon Rd the rest of the way to the trailhead. I don't know what was so happy about that canyon, but it was a very pleasant drive nonetheless. Lots of lazy oak trees, tall grass that was just beginning to turn golden yellow, sleepy cows, ancient barbed wire fences, and ranches and houses that looked like they came right out of a Steinbeck novel. There were two cyclists with very muscular legs suffering their way up the steep grade to who knows where. I looked at them and thought, "gee, that doesn't look like any fun at all." Funny thing was that I was about to do the same thing on a dirt road in just a few moments. 

I made it to the trailhead and pulled off the side of the road. There was a lot of construction going on everywhere, with several trailers and heavy equipment taking up the entirety of the dirt parking lot. A construction guy politely informed me that I had to move my car, so I drove a little ways up forest route 8N08.1 to the closed gate. There was one other car parked there. I got out the bike, drank some water, and then set off on my journey into the mountains a little before 11am.

The road was immediately steep and it remained steep for a long time. Kinda reminded me of the first part of Sulphur Mountain Rd out of Casitas Springs. Very steep, but also beautifully maintained. No ruts, no massive rocks, no damage of any kind. Luckily, all those months of biking to work payed off, and I was able to zoom through the beginning steeps of the road with relative ease. Squirrels scurried up and down the various trees that lined the road, the local birds filling the air with their late morning song. There was a snake sunning itself in the middle of the road. I stopped and tried to catch it, but it was too quick. I got back on the bike and continued along, sweating buckets despite the relatively cool weather. 

I rounded a corner and was gifted views of the Hurricane Deck. I've only seen the Deck once, so it was a little weird seeing it again after all these years. Looked exactly how I remembered it, just a little farther away. I stopped pedaling, got off the bike, and took the time to enjoy the view. 

Hurricane Deck

The grade lessened a little ways after this viewpoint, giving my quads and calfs a chance to breath. I could see my first objective, Cachuma Mountain, looming ahead of me. It looked like a great little summit. I rounded another corner, now gifted with views to the east. Mission Ridge, San Rafael and McKinley Mountains were in plain view, big and green and distant. I pedaled to the eastern base of Cachuma Mountain, stashed my bike, and then began the short climb to the summit. 

Cachuma Mountain

On my way up, I noticed a small speck making its way down the road. This must be the owner of the vehicle I saw parked by the gate. They were walking at a slow pace, carrying what looked like a 50L backpack. A small part of my mind was screaming "I hope that sonuvagun doesn't nab my bike" but I silenced it, knowing that such an event would be highly unlikely. People are generally very kind in the woods. Why negative thoughts come to mind must be a result of spending too much time in civilization. The figure walked along, passed my bike, and continued down the road without breaking stride. I never saw them again, nor did I see anyone else for the rest of the day. 

The climb to the top of Cachuma Mountain was short but very steep. It took me a minute to swap my biking muscles for my hiking muscles. I stumbled up the steep slope, following the occasional cairn. I topped out on the summit in good time, enjoying the nice 360° views of the surrounding country.

West

East

South

To the west I could see Ranger Peak, Figueroa Mountain, Zaca Peak, and the large burn scar of the 2024 Lake Fire that devastated much of that area. Down below, looking like a toy set, I could see the construction sight. Heavy equipment rolled about, the sound of diesel engines and shouting voices reaching my ears. To the east were lovely views of the two additional peaks I had yet to climb. I was more concerned with the thin line of the road snaking its way towards those peaks. Looked long, steep, and fully exposed to the sun. 

To the north were improved views of the Hurricane Deck and the Sierra Madre Mountains, and to the south I could see the wide expanse of the Santa Ynez Range stretching from east to west. San Marcos Pass looked tiny from the summit, the sharp glint of the occasional car reaching my eyes. Lake Cachuma was a lovely blue jewel, filled close to capacity thanks to last year's rains. I spent most of my time on the summit looking at this southern view, noticing that there was no longer any smoke rising from the Painted Cave area. Must have been a controlled burn after all.

I located the register, made my marks, and found out I was the first person to summit the peak this year. The booklet was placed on Feburary 13th of 2016; the most recent entry was from November 30th of 2024. Seems like most people skip this peak in favor of McKinley and the other high peaks. I don't see why anyone would do such a thing; Cachuma was a great little climb with marvelous views. 

I spent a good chunk of time on the summit, drank some water, shoveled down some food. The bugs were out in full force, trying to suck the water out of my eyes. I paid them no mind. I put the register away, waved goodbye to the summit, and then made my way back down to my bike. Once there, I saddled up and kept on truckin' along the road, coasting the downhills and powering through the inclines. 

Hell's Half Acre

I eventually made it to a spot known as Hell's Half Acre. Passed right next to it on the side of the road. Not too sure why it's got such a spooky name or if it's even a true half acre in size. From what I could see, the place looked like a cool collection of rocky boulders surrounded by mean, pokey brush. Worth exploring? Maybe. I had bigger fish to fry, so I gave it a pass.

It wasn't long after passing Hell's Half Acre where the road deteriorated quite significantly. Ruts, divots, big ol' rocks everywhere. It was also at this point where my quads decided to give up. I'd been biking steady all morning and the steep grade wasn't agreeing with my legs anymore. My experience biking to work on a paved road helped at first, but this was a whole other animal. I walked my bike a lot from that point on, pushing it up the steep grade, slipping every so often, the sweat pouring through my eyebrows and into my eyes. I thought about ditching the bike and just walking the rest of the way—that would be much easier. But I knew I'd want it for that sweet, sweet downhill, so I kept at it, pushing the contraption up the road one step at a time.

I took a break in some glorious shade, sitting in the dirt amongst the oaks. Much of the ground was littered with dry acorns and their caps, crunching loudly every time I shifted my weight. It couldn't have been more then 80℉, but I was absolutely soaked in sweat. Good thing I brought plenty of water. Ain't gonna make that mistake again, I tell you what!

Back on the bike, back to the grade, the acorn caps popping under my tires, the miles passing slowly one after the other. I'd ride a little, walk a little, drink more water, sweat it out, repeat, repeat, repeat. I'd go up, then down a little, then back up, then down a little, and then up a steep incline so crazy that it must've been specifically designed to make my calfs cry and my quads whimper. Eventually, I passed McKinley Springs, a nice little campsite in the shade of several old oak trees. No time to stop, though. I had a mountain to climb. I pushed onward, not stopping until I topped out on McKinley saddle.

Santa Cruz Peak

I could see Santa Cruz Peak from McKinley Saddle, distant and brushy and foreboding. I've heard of a local challenge known as "The Big 3," which involves climbing McKinley, Santa Cruz, and San Rafael all together. It's a 30+ mile trek with wayyy too much elevation gain for my liking. Most people do it over a day or two, others bike it, and some crazy freaks walk it on foot in a single day. Looking at it from the saddle, I briefly thought about venturing down the abandoned and brushy road to the summit, but I knew I didn't have enough time. I basically started the day at 11am for cryin' out loud. If I had started earlier, then maybe, just maybe Santa Cruz would be in the cards. But not today. I stashed my bike in the shade, adjusted my pack, and then set off on the short trail to the summit of McKinley. 

On the way to McKinley

It was a lot more gentle of a climb to the summit of McKinley than it was to the summit of Cachuma. The trail was steep at first, but then it leveled out; nothing but a nice, easy walk to the top. A breeze had kicked up, sparing me from the thirsty bugs. I made it up with minimal effort, sitting on the summit rocks and soaking in the impressive views.

Someone had mentioned in the Cachuma register that the views on McKinley were worse than those on Cachuma. I don't know what they were on about, because the views from McKinley were far superior. More grand, more wide, more expansive, more "airy." Though the climb to the summit wasn't as interesting, the views from the summit more than made up for it. It was basically the same view as that on Cachuma, the same landmarks and everything, but with a little extra zing. McKinley was essentially "Cachuma Premium." I spent a good 20 minutes on the summit, the breeze keeping the bugs away, the clouds twirling in the sky. Very peaceful up there; the sounds of civilization never met my ears. For the first time that day, I felt like I was finally out there. And it felt damn good. 

There was a shiny new register on the summit, placed on April 27th of 2024. The last entry was from April 8th of 2025. A lot of the entries were from those attempting "The Big 3." Crazy folks. I won't be doing that any time soon, believe that!

I gathered my things, ate an energy bar, and then left the summit. Two down, one to go. I spent much of the descent looking at San Rafael Mountain to the east. It was close, but I knew it was still a two mile trail walk to the top. Suits me. A break from biking and a shift to hiking was music to my ears. 

Not much left of the ol' sign...

I started on the Mission Pine trail, a welcome relief from the endless road miles I'd been traveling for most of the day. The trail was absolutely exquisite, slowly gaining elevation through a dense forest of hardy chaparral. Buckthorn, scrub oak, chamise, manzanita and more—it was all there and it smelled heavenly. The clouds in the sky had grown more puffy, casting large shadows on the surrounding country. It's crazy how something as simple as a cloud can make an area 10x more scenic. I stopped often, snapping one photo after another, observing the clouds and their shadows and the chaparral and the purple patches of lupine shining brilliantly in the afternoon sun. 

San Rafael Mountain

The trail passed right next to the summit of San Rafael Mountain, making it the easiest climb of the day. I was more curious with the rest of the ridge though, so I ventured a little farther down the trail through the pines to this little outcrop of sandstone boulders that caught my eye. I scaled the boulders, took a seat, and enjoyed the best views I had seen all day. Before me lay the rest of Mission Ridge, isolated, rugged, full of scraggly pines and sandstone formations. It looked a lot like the area between Reyes Peak and Thorn Point, just a lot more wild. Way off in the distance, I could see Big Pine Mountain, Samon Peak, and Monte Arido and Old Man Mountain. Even farther away sat the Cuyama Badlands, Cerro Noroeste, and Mt. Pinos—the highest point in Ventura County. 

I nibbled on a granola bar, taking in the scene one chunk at a time. Ah yes, now this is what I was looking for, this is what it was all about. I absorbed the lay of the land, pointing with my finger the various landmarks I recognized and those of which I was unfamiliar. I felt so small up there on those boulders, so isolated, so free. It was a strange sensation, one that I haven't experienced in a long, long time. 

I only spent about 10 minutes on those boulders, but it felt much longer. Once I'd had my fill, I packed up my things, waved goodbye to the vast expanse of wilderness that lay before me, and turned back towards San Rafael Mountain. 

I took my time, traveling silently amongst the pines. I had no idea I would be walking in such an environment that morning, so I savored every moment of it. I'm a sucker for Jeffrey Pines; I love the way they look, I love their vanilla smell. The way the wind moves through their needles and the crunchiness of their pinecones and the roughness of their bark—I love it all. I walked slow, taking pictures of these quiet, wonderful trees. But soon they disappeared and I was back to the regular scene of rugged chaparral. 

View east

I reached the summit, took a seat. There were three booklets in the register. The one I signed was placed on November 25th of 2023. The most recent entry was from May 10th, just five days prior. I didn't spend too much time on the summit, taking only enough time to snap a few pictures and do a quick sweep of the area. I still had a long way to go, worrying that it could be even longer if one of my tires deflated. Man, that would totally suck. I trotted down the trail, praying that I didn't run over thorn on the way up. 

Back at McKinley saddle, I stopped for a moment to sign the trail register. Lots of hikers and bikers and backpackers had made their entries, all of them loathing the dreaded miscreant who rides their dirt bike on the Mission Pine Trail. Someone warned that they'd personally boobytrapped the trail specifically for bikers. That gave me a little chuckle. I signed my name, thanking those who go through the effort of maintaining the trail. Without their efforts, cool backcountry trails like this one would soon disappear. 

I returned to my bike, relieved to find both of the tires full. Hallelujah. Now all I had to do was to take it slow and try not to crash on the way down. I said my goodbyes to the saddle, kicked the bike into gear, and then set off down the road.

Along the way, I made a quick stop at McKinley Spring. There were two sites, the western one being the nicer of the two. Both of the tubs were full of clear, cold water. I poured some on my head, washing away the lines of salt that had accumulated there throughout the day. 

From then on it was an adrenaline-fueled, white-knuckled descent down the crazy road. It was a good thing I'd brought my helmet because, despite my best efforts, I still managed to crash a few times. I'd slow down to a crawl, hands tight on the breaks, and then I'd hit a rock or fall into a small divot and have to ditch the bike. If I didn't, I'd fly right over the handle bars. I've already done that plenty of times in middle school, and I didn't feel like doing it again on this glorious day in the mountains. I got off the bike and walked down some of the steeper sections, not wanting to risk the chance of another crash. 

Walking, biking, walking biking. I walked much of the way around Hell's Half Acre, taking the time to really look at all the formations and whatnot. After that, I hopped on the bike and was able to ride it most of the way back to the car. The last little bit from Cachuma Mountain to the gate was especially fun, reminding me of Shelf Road in some spots. Man, bringing the bike was a fantastic idea. Zooming down that road without pedaling, the wind ripping across my face, everything passing by in a blur—it was plain awesome. 

When I returned to my car the other vehicle was gone, the sounds of construction no more. The whole day had taken 6½ hours, but it felt much longer. It was a good day in the woods. Saw some stuff I ain't ever seen, saw some old spots from a new vantage point, got to enjoy a little solitude. All good stuff.