Stormy Day on the Bluff

 03/06/25

Another cold morning, another attempt at Hines. The ground was saturated, the dirt muddy, the plants dripping with moisture. The land had been soaked from the previous day's rains. Everything oozed moisture. Dryness seemed a foreign concept. Here was a land of wet, wet, wet. The forecast that morning called for even more wet, yet the sky told us otherwise. Clear, open, expansive, and blue. No sign of rain. At least, not yet. 

It had been an interesting morning. I was late in picking up Diego. And then Diego's dog decided to defecate, in Diego's words, "literally everywhere" inside his house. Had to clean it up. That took some time. And then we drove to the trailhead, without the dog, to good ol' Sisar Road. A late and interesting start, but hey, that's how it goes sometimes. 

The temps hovered around the low 40's. And they remained hovering there for the majority of the morning. It was a gorgeous start, the sky still clear, the sun just starting to bless the surrounding country with its warmth. We walked along the road, crossing the rushing creek. Diego had brought more than a gallon of water, and it looked like he was gonna need every drop. Despite the low temperatures, his person was already beginning to become saturated in a nice layer of morning sweat. I commented on this strange phenomenon and he mentioned that it was just something that happens, as if it were as ordinary as the rising and setting of the sun. 

We left the canyon and started curving up the road toward the junction with the Red Reef Trail. No more trees, no more shade. Fully exposed, the foliage in these parts baked and dried in the morning sun; the remaining moisture still clinging to the numerous twigs and shoots quickly evaporating. We could see clouds moving in near Sulphur Mountain, but they were coming in slow and low, oozing forth like an upturned bowl of spilled mashed potatoes.

The conversations focused on myriad subjects, ranging from sweat to food to the approaching weather to this one game to which Diego was currently fixated. The man said he'd logged a good 72 hours on that game. Said it was good, however, that he could finally go out and take a break from it for a bit, relax, "touch some grass" and such. Just for a few hours though. Said he'd get right back to it as soon as we were done with the hike. That's dedication right there!

By the time we made it to the junction the clouds had caught up to us. They swung in and surpassed us, blanketing everything in sight in a wispy fog. Diego did some stretches and I sat down, observing the scene. We still had a long ways to go. Hopefully, the weather wouldn't get too much worse than this. 

And by cracky, who would've known? The sun was kind to us, answering our meager request. The clouds pushed up against the base of the bluffs and began evaporating, slowly disintegrating into the blue sky. The weather was holding up. The forecast was looking to be incorrect. Rain? What rain? There ain't gonna be no rain! No rain today!

We arrived to White Ledge Camp, taking a break before the arduous ascent to the ridge. Sunny, golden, warm. A wonderful place to be, a paradise tucked away in the front country. Diego kept on chugging his water, I munched on some bioengineered cookies, the clouds continued to evaporate, the sun burning strong, the temperatures rising, the wet and cold of the morning slowly becoming a distant memory. 

The temps now must've been in the mid 50's. We left White Ledge Camp, slowly making our way up the steep trail to the ridge. The weather was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Not too hot, not too cold, spotty cloud cover, and expansive views to the south. Below we could make out much of Upper Ojai and beyond, watching as the weak clouds rolled in from the sea, jumped over Sulphur Mountain, and finally crash into the Bluffs, the whole scene looking much like a wave rolling to shore and then breaking against the rocky coast. The clouds shot upwards from the base of the bluffs, ascending into the heavens for a minute before disappearing altogether. Never had I seen such and interesting scene occur in these mountains. We stopped often, taking numerous pictures of this most interesting weather. 

We eventually reached the ridge, walking along the road to Elder Camp. There we took a nice long break. To the south everything was looking great. The clouds were still low and fluffy, still rolling in and crashing into the bluffs. But to our dismay there appeared to be malice brewing in the north. We walked a bit up the road, nearing the base of The Bluff, gaining elevation so as to see what we already knew was bad news. 

"Storm's blowin' in" said Diego. "Yep, lookin' stormy over there." And stormy it was. Reyes Peak, Haddock Mountain, and Thorn Point were all covered in a nice dusting of snow. A gargantuan, ominous, dark collection of clouds spanning as far as the eye could see were quickly moving south, swallowing these peaks whole, dumping more snow and more cold . One minute we could see the peaks and then the next they were obscured from view, the clouds quickly enveloping them without mercy and marching over the Sespe River. They were headed right for us. And there wasn't a thing we could do.

View South

Diego, being the more mentally mature of the two of us, decided that where we were was a good place to turn around. The weather was obviously going to turn sour, and the decision to hike in his heavy work boots was starting to take its toll on his legs. I, however, was fixated on the glory of the summit. This was the second time this year I'd dragged my corpse all the way up to the ridge, and by God, I was gonna make it worth it. No summit=no bueno. I was summit crazy, channeling the peak bagger's mentality. 

And so, selfishly and stupidly, I suggested that Diego wait down at Elder Camp for my return from Hines. Diego said he couldn't wait that long, which was very reasonable. It would take me at least two hours to get to the summit and back, if that. So I then pointed out that he could summit the Bluff, which was basically right in front of us. I said that he could take his time and that I'd meet him up there on my way back from Hines. He reluctantly agreed. And there we parted ways, Diego slowly making his way up to The Bluff, and I off to the glory of Hines.

The decision immediately felt wrong. My gut was twisting and turning, indicating that something bad was definitely gonna happen. But I didn't listen. I started jogging, running up the trail to the saddle between Peak 6440 and Peak 6380. I continued the jog, the clouds now rolling in overhead, blocking out the sun. Everything got colder. The wind started picking up. But I kept on running, Hines now within view. I was close. 

But I realized the shear stupidity of the decision. Everything was telling me that I oughta turn back. And so I stopped. Hines was right there, no more than 15 minutes away. The weather, though quickly turning sour, was still good. I could still make it. But why? Why would I do that? I ain't no peak bagger. I'm a peak visitor. And I would not be visiting Hines that day. 

And so, disgusted by my hubris, I turned around, jogging back to the saddle. My gut immediately felt better. Everything felt right. My step was lighter, my mind more clear. I reached the saddle and began the ascent of The Bluff from the east. And then the storm caught up to me. I've never before been caught up in a storm. It was interesting to watch. As I was ascending the backside of The Bluff, I could clearly see both Hines and Cream Puff Peak to the east. And then the wind picked up something fierce and the clouds rolled in thick and angry, shrouding Hines Peak and Cream Puff in a screen of gray. And then it started to snow. Little flakes at first, barely perceptible. And then they started coming down hard and fierce, burning my cheeks and clinging to my fleece. 

Storm blowin' in...

The flakes were small but hard, almost like hail. The pelted my face and my neck without mercy, serving as punishment for my stupid decision. The wind remained steady, the temperature dropped considerably, and then the world disappeared. The clouds absorbed everything, rolling in like the densest of marine layers. By the time I made it to the summit of The Bluff, I couldn't see more than 20ft in any direction. 

Summit of The Bluff

Diego was not at the summit. I didn't worry since it hadn't been that long since our parting ways. But I began to fear that he may soon get off track. He'd never been on The Bluff, had never hiked the trail, and in this weather it would be very easy to go off route. So I began the descent to the west, keeping my eyes peeled for his person. 

He was no more than 200ft below the summit. He was like a ghost, his figure a dark shadow lumbering through the dense clouds. His head was down, his arms hanging limp, his neck and hair covered in snowflakes, his shirt completely soaked, his steps slow and steady, running on fumes. I called out his name. He looked up, an expression of surprise etched on his face. "What? You already climbed Hines?" "Nah."

I told him what happened. I apologized for leaving him behind. He accepted the apology. We stood there, bracing the cold, wondering what to do next. "How far is the summit?" "Not far. It's right there." "Alright." "You sure you wanna do it?" "Yeah."

And so we did, Diego leading the way. He seemed to have fallen under the same peak bagger's curse as I had. He was determined to reach the summit under any circumstances. Had to do it. Otherwise, the day would be a waste. 

Bracing the cold

We reached the summit. There was no view. All was gray. The snow was beginning to stick. Diego sat down on a bench constructed out of stacked rocks. He signed the register, triumphant. We were both soaked. I put on my rain jacket for the wind, Diego got out his puffy jacket for the cold. And then we sat there motionless, bracing the cold. Diego was like a statue, unmoving, the snow slowly accumulating all over his pants, shoulders and beanie. I cooked up a freeze-dried meal. We spent no more than ten minutes on the summit. And then we said goodbye and good riddance. 

The mood was better as we descended. We were still in the storm, but we had at least succeeded in reaching a summit. Spirits were high. The wind kept blowin' and the snow kept fallin' but we didn't care. Regular conversations of food and sweat and Diego's game resumed in full. We took our time, making sure to stick to the correct path on the way down. 

The weather began to mellow out the farther we descended. The snow began to turn more into sleet, coming down in big fat drops. The clouds dissipated a bit, allowing us to see our surroundings with a little more clarity. On our way down, Diego stopped to remove a large branch blocking the trail. "Los Padres Brush Monkeys." We watched it tumble down, much like we did the boulder on our way to Chief Peak a couple of years ago. 

Back to the road, back to Elder Camp, back to the Red Reef Trail. We were beneath the clouds now, the storm well on its way to the ocean. There was no way the sun was gonna break this mess up anytime soon. But we didn't care. This was reality now. The sleet rained down, hitting the ground heavy, the noise a cacophonous pitter-patter that drowned out all other sound. It was strangely beautiful. We stopped often, taking pictures of the whole scene, sticking out our tongues to catch a taste of the heavens. 

White Ledge Camp was a miserable place, completely different from how it was earlier that morning. Damp, cold, dark, loud, dripping with moisture, it was like a malevolent rainforest, offering no relief from the pouring sleet. We lingered underneath the dripping branches of some California Bay Laurel for a bit, taking a quick break. We didn't stay long. Once we had stopped moving the cold became obvious; staying in motion was the only thing that would keep us from constant shivering. 

White Ledge Camp

Back down the trail, back to Sisar. The storm mellowed out, the sleet turned to rain, the rain to mist. We started singing sea shanties to distract ourselves from the cold. Singin' sea shanties and then talkin' about food and then back to sea shanties. That's how it goes. And then, all of a sudden, the mist stopped and it was over. No more storm. Just clouds. They remained, churnin' and swirlin' overhead, lookin' like something out of The NeverEnding Story. 

We dropped back into the canyon. Crossed the streams. There were a few people out and about, bedecked in rain gear and umbrellas. We made it back to the trailhead in good time, our journey down from the summit of the Bluff taking a little over two hours. 

It had been an extraordinary day. I realize I may have made it sound like a miserable excursion, which it was. It was most definitely miserable. But it was a good kind of miserable, the kind of miserable that has some redeeming qualities. Lessons learned, egos humbled, stuff like that. Would I do it again? Absolutely not. But I'm glad I did it. It's good to go out and "touch some grass" as Diego would say. Even when the grass is cold and covered in sleet and blowin' in an icy wind and completely enveloped in thick, angry clouds. Them's some good times right there. 

Chief Peak, The Steep Way

03/04/25

I spent much of Tuesday morning last week contemplating whether or not I should venture into the local wilds. It had been over a week since running the half and my toe had only gotten worse, changing from purple to almost black. My legs were well recovered however, and the weather was absolutely gorgeous. I couldn't let the opportunity pass. So I racked my brain, trying to think of a hike that wouldn't further destroy my toe. I wanted something short, quick, with a great view and lots of sun. Enter Chief Peak.

I immediately thought of a route that I'd done only a few times before, a steep little jaunt that, as far as I know, provides the quickest route to the summit. It would be perfect for the day, especially with the weather so nice. So I grabbed just one bottle of water and set off on the 33, winding up the curves towards Rose Valley. 

I arrived at the outskirts of the campground fifteen minutes before noon. Not a soul was around. I slipped on some old running shoes and began the trek up the mountain, walking through the campground towards forest route 5N42.2. 

Rose Valley Falls + Campground

The route

I left forest route 5N42.2 and began the cross-country trek to the base of my chosen ridge. The ridge is very obvious, rising from the western end of the campground and stretching rather steeply for a ways before terminating at a point farther up forest route 5N42.2. It cuts a good amount of road walking out of the equation, which is the main reason why I like this route so much. Road miles are easy miles, but man, do they suck. I've walked up that ol' road more times than I can count, and I can say with confidence that it's just plain boring. 

The ridge is more preferable, albiet much, much steeper. Even though I've climbed this ridge a few times in the past and have grown familiar with its idiosyncrasies, it is still a sight to behold. One look at it and you know that your legs are gonna be in for a world of hurt. But I planned on takin' it easy, to enjoy the afternoon sun, to mosey up this ridge without any worry or concern. 

The route to the base of the ridge was a wee brushy, requiring me to get creative in my quest to find the path of least resistance. I suddenly found myself surrounded by brush on all sides, my path forward blocked by hundreds of thorny bushes. I jumped through these bushes, painting my legs with numerous scratches in the process. About halfway through I gave up. Why? Them thorns were catching on my shirt and shorts and tearing 'em to shreds. 

So, not wanting to go through the hassle of buying new clothes, I backtracked through the prickly mess, careful not to rip my attire any more than I already had (luckily, the tie remained unscathed). I moseyed around for a bit, weaved in and around some more brush, and finally picked up a faded use trail that took me to the base of the ridge. 

Should anyone want to attempt this route, my recommendation is to initially stick to the far right of the ridge. It's brushy at first, but it soon opens up as a fairly clear path. For the longest time I would just go straight up the thing, bursting my way through the manzanita and buckthorn and the burnt and charred skeletons of old chaparral long dead. I later learned, through some exploring, that hanging right avoids much of this mess. And so that's what I did on this occasion. 

The initial slog to gain the ridge is one of the steepest parts of the whole day. I scrambled up the ridge, grabbing on to manzanita branches and whatnot, getting my breath under control, shoes sliding out underneath me from lack of tread. Through steady effort I gained the ridge, now gifted with a full view of what was to come. 

I could see the whole rest of the ridge extending before me, the path obvious. The first chunk of this ridge walk is actually fairly pleasant, continuing at a comfortable grade for a while with hardly any brush to block swift progress. In fact, there's hardly any brush at all on the entire ridge; there exists a very well-defined use trail that leads all the way up the ridge to its terminus. As I continued along I noticed several sets of footprints etched into the loose ground; seems like this route has been getting some recent notice. 

Eventually, the comfortable grade steepens considerably, and from then on it's just one huge slog until you reach the road. I put my head down and pretended that I was on a giant Stairmaster, putting one foot in front of the other in a steady rhythm. I quickly fell into a groove and attacked the ridge piece by piece, slowly gaining elevation, slowly rising into the heavens. 

I took a few breaks on my way up, admiring the views as I made progress up the ridge. The campground lay far below, tiny and insignificant. I could see the paved road leading away from the campground, weaving across the country like a little gray snake. And of course there were the mountains to the north, the rocky south face of Thorn Point looking impressive as always. There was a slight breeze that afternoon, hardly any clouds, with temperatures hovering in the mid 50's. Absolutely perfect hiking weather. The day was shaping to be a good one.

And so I continued along the ridge, continued with my groove, marching up and up until finally reaching the road once again. From there I kept on going until I reached the junction with forest route 5N08. I had reached the junction in just over 40 minutes, the fastest time I've ever completed that stretch. 

The rest of the way to Chief Peak went by in a blur. I've walked that chunk of road to the summit so many times that I don't even pay attention to anything else but the view. It's straightforward road walkin'; not complicated, not interesting. To the south are the cities of Ojai and Ventura and the Pacific Ocean and the Channel Islands, although the view of the islands that day was marred by a thick haze. I could see smoke rising from the Santa Paula area, perhaps a controlled burn of some kind. Who knows. I wasn't really paying attention. Before I knew it I had reached the point at which to leave the road to gain the summit. 

I left the road and began the slog to the summit. I was surprised to see some snow still lingering in the shade, existing in defiance of everything. I gained the false summit and noticed that there was even more snow hiding on the north face of Chief Peak, existing in small patches here and there in only the shadiest of places. I banged out the last bit to the summit with the efficiency of a machine, the route forever burned into my brain from repeated ascent after repeated ascent. Before long I was standing on the breezy summit for the nth time, soaking in the same ol' view that never gets old no matter how many times I see it. 

I sat down on the summit boulders and watched the moon and the clouds. Took off my shoe, examined the ol' toe. Didn't look too bad. Let it get some sun. Took off my other shoe, walked around barefoot for a while. I found one of my favorite spots on the summit, a little divot in the rocks that cradles the body in a way that is strangely more comfortable than the fluffiest of mattresses. I lay there, feet on the rocks in the sun, sheltered from the breeze, my gaze fixed upwards at the piercing blue sky. Other than the sound of the faint breeze there was nothing, absolutely no other sound that met my ears. I spent almost 40 minutes laying there, enjoying the sun and rocks and sky as much as I could. 

Piedra Blanca + Thorn Point

Topa Topa Bluffs

But eventually I'd have to leave and so I did, finishing my water with a few big gulps. I zoomed off the summit, looking back occasionally, the water sloshing noisily in my stomach. Hadn't brought any food with me which was a huge mistake. I hoped my water-filled stomach would trick my brain into thinking it was full for a while. Alas, this did not work. By the time I was back on forest route 5N08 I was hungrier than ever, cursing myself for not bringing so much as a granola bar or some nuts. 

So, rather impatient, I jogged most of the way back. Yeah it bothered my toe a little but hey, I was hungry. So I jogged down the road, up and down its various inclines. I reached the junction, made a right, and jogged some more. And then I veered off the road and started down the ridge, digging my heels in whatever loose dirt I could find. 

Back on the ridge...

I was in a perpetual squat most of the way down the ridge, hopping down the use trail in quick, little bitty steps, slippin' and slidin' and giving my toe something to complain about. My quads began to burn, growing tired from the steep and quick descent. Food was the only thing on my mind at that point; the trivial muscular pains in my legs of little concern. Eventually the grade calmed down, allowing me to jog more comfortably, and then I hung left and scooted down the last steep part of the ridge to its base. 

Back in the brush, back to wandering around. I found a better and more efficient way through the brush on my return, a phenomenon that seems to happen quite often with me. I got back on the road, hopped around the gate, and then jogged the rest of the way to the car. When I finally reached it, I realized that I'd completed the whole thing, up and down, in under three hours—a new record for me. But I could care less. I had to eat. 

And eat I did. Soon as I got home I cooked up some leftover pasta in the ol' microwave and gobbled up the whole mess in minutes. Pasta has never tasted so good, lemme tell yah. And later that evening, on a completely different note, I saw Ladysmith Black Mambazo perform at the Ventura Music Hall. Kind of random, but it was interesting nonetheless. Why this world-renowned South African a capella  group would choose to perform in Ventura is beyond me, but hey, it happened and it was awesome. The dudes put on a great show. Immaculate vibes. 

My Toe Hurts

Running is tiresome, running is boring. It is an inane, fatuous activity with little benefits and many detriments. Ruined knees, achy hips, sore feet, and a ravenous hunger. Ain't a runner alive on this earth that doesn't eat copious amounts of food. They need it. Their bodies are disintegrating into themselves, wasting away. They need food to fuel the machine. Food that is no longer enjoyed, but inhaled, gormandized, sucked into the blast furnace of the runner's stomach and instantly converted into fuel. Food is no longer judged on the merits of taste, texture, smell, or presentation. It is only judged on calories. Calories to fuel the machine. Give me carbs, give me protein. Pasta, pasta pasta!

Running is miserable business, made enjoyable only through the brain's release of "happy chemicals" that provide the illusion of pleasure. And though humans do possess the ability to run, they certainly aren't meant to run very fast for long distances. Walking is much more preferred. Walking makes so much sense. Walking is much more efficient, enjoyable and healthy. Walking is the way to go.

But some people are silly, and silly people are gonna run. And I am one of those silly people. And for whatever reason, I like running. It's like a strange form of meditation. I fell out of the loop for a while, stopped running, focused more on walking in the woods. But last year I fell back into the groove and found myself once again infected with runnin' fever. 

And so I signed up for the Ventura Half Marathon. And I actually trained for it this time. And of course the training was silly. Got sick a couple of times, lost some endurance, had to begin anew, all that stuff. The training wasn't regimented or detailed; didn't follow any kind of rhyme or reason. I'd just come home from work, strap on a headlamp, and then run around for forty minutes or an hour and then stretch and call it good. No strength training. No speed training. Man, didn't even do no distance training. Longest run I did in preparation was seven miles. Figured that was enough. Fun fact: it wasn't. 

And so I ran a bit, rested a bit, got sick, drank a lot of water, ate a lot of food, and then before I knew it, race day was upon me and it was time to run. Sunday, the 23rd. It was a chilly morning. I had everything dialed in. Even had me a gel that I'd bring with me. It's always wise to bring some form of replenishment for really long runs. Gotta keep puttin' fuel in the tank. Gotta keep those legs working. And it worked for me at Joshua Tree and I figured it would work here. I was ready. 

I met with Ry at the start. He remarked that I'd brought my "speed uniform" and he was correct. We chatted a bit, shivering in the cold morning air, speaking of finish times, race strategies. Folks were runnin' around, warming up. Some were serious, completely dialed in, their faces focused and morose. These were the folks wearing spandex and synthetic singlets and $300 racing shoes; men and women with long, muscular legs and skinny arms and GPS watches and earbuds blasting David Goggins ASMR or something like that. 

And then there were those who were obviously doing it just for fun, wearing regular workout attire, chatting with their friends, laughing, smiling, having a good time. I was more intimidated by these folks, these people that showed no fear. Remember: running sucks. Running is miserable. Those who laugh in the face of oncoming personal bodily misery are those who should be feared. They are insane. Freaks of nature. Total badasses. 

Ry had already warmed up by the time I got there, so I went off alone, jogged a bit, and then realized that I'd forgotten the gel. Drats! How could I have been so careless? So hasty? There was nothing I could do about it now; I was on my own. I'd be running this thing un-aided. Oh well. These things happen sometimes...

I did some leg swings, popped my hip, and then met up with Ry at the start. He said he wasn't feeling 100% so he was gonna run with the 2nd wave. I thought a bit, tossed some ideas around in my brain, and then decided with reckless abandon to join the speed freaks in the first wave. Ry was encouraging, saying "Yeah! Go for it!" And so I did. 

And then they played the national anthem and the race was soon to begin. A minute went by, and then another. People were getting antsy. Jumping up and down. Shaking out their arms. All around me were a bunch of those serious types, people with stoic expressions and synthetic racing singlets, all of them in their own worlds. To my right was a woman nearly as tall as me, hair in a high ponytail, dressed only in spandex. To my left was an older guy with graying hair, wearing a synthetic shirt a size too small. Neither of them said a word. Neither of them smiled. They were ready. Locked in. 

And then the announcer counted us down. Three...two...one...and that was it—the race was underway. And everyone sprinted. Everyone was going way too fast. The woman to my right took off into the huddled mass of stomping feet and heavy breathing; the guy to my left was gone before I even got a chance to see where he went. And we fell into a groove and the initial jolt of adrenaline began to wane and people began to slow down. The 2nd wave started and I waved at Ry, both of us passing by one another at an out-and-back section of the course. I never saw him again until after the race. 

The first mile went by in what seemed like no time. And then I stupidly decided to really go for it, to put the peddle to the metal, to run the fastest I've ever ran. My second mile was way too fast. And so was my third. But I figured I'd push it as long as I could, keep my hand on the burner until I couldn't bear it anymore.

I caught up to the tall woman with the high ponytail and spandex. And then I passed a group of three, led by a tall guy in a yellow shirt. And I passed more people, one after another, slowly picking them off as the miles progressed. I caught up to the older guy with the tight shirt just before mile 3. I passed a young guy in orange shorts, a muscular guy with a bushy mustache, and a skinny guy in a light green shirt with the worst running form I'd ever seen in my life. Homie was moving though, so he must've been doing something right. 

I continued to push the pace, running under six minutes per mile, much faster than I'd ever ran on any of my training runs (and faster than I'd ever ran in my life). It sucked, but I kept at it, trying to focus on nothing but breathing and catching the next person. Mile six rolled by, and then seven, and then eight. There was a group ahead, two women and a dude, running quick and easy, not slowing in the slightest. 

I tried to catch them. Slowly, ever so slowly, I closed the gap. I got to within 10ft of them. And then my legs began to scream. They were screaming for the gel. The gel that I didn't have. And then the gap widened, 15ft, 30ft. And no matter what I did, I couldn't get my legs to move faster. They were growing heavier by the minute. I was starting to fatigue. My hand was coming off the burner. 

And then the guy in orange shorts caught up to me. Said, "C'mon! Let's get that group!" He was very encouraging. We ran together for a good four minutes, slowly gaining ground. And my lungs were burnin' and my legs were achin' and a curious sensation in my right toe was just beginning to make its presence felt, a faint, tingly sensation that spelled trouble. 

And I couldn't keep up with Mr. Orange Shorts. And he caught the group, and he kept going. And then Mr. Egregious Running Form zoomed by, passing on my left, hot on the trail of Mr. Orange Shorts. And then others came, passing me one after the other. Every person I passed in the first half of the race was comin' for me. Oh well. Sometimes that happens. 

The older guy passed me. And then came that group led by the tall guy in the yellow shirt. Short folks, tall folks, bushy mustache man, they all caught up to me, ran with me for a bit, and then kept going, shifting to a gear that I couldn't find in myself. Out of desperation, I tried to drink some electrolyte water that the volunteers were handing out. Not stopping, I nabbed one, splashing it on my face as I tried to direct the cup to my lips, swallowed some, spit it back up, tried again, only got a few drops, and tossed the rest in the trash bin. Turns out drinking water while running is kinda hard if you've never done it before. I decided to not try it again. The race was coming to a close; wouldn't do much help anyway. 

Mile ten, mile eleven, mile twelve. The sensation in my right toe was screamin' now, a sharp, stinging pain. The tall woman passed me, running smooth and strong. I tried keeping up with her, matching her stride, and then fell away, unable to maintain the blistering pace. And then I rounded a corner, passed mile thirteen, and I was on the home stretch, the last length, the final stretch.

I took a deep breath, shook out my arms, and mustered whatever energy I had left to sprint to the finish. There were three people behind me. I could hear their footsteps. Their breathing. They were coming on fast. I couldn't let them catch me. I was gonna finish strong. 

And so I booked it, driving my arms up and down like an idiot, surging ahead and creating a small gap. And then my legs said, "No thank you" and I said "Ok" and I slowed down to a jog. And those three people caught up and passed me and I waltzed across the finish line all casual-like, put my hands on my head and said, "Wow."

I walked, got some water, met up with my mom and sister (who graciously drove me back home). Ry crossed the finish line not long after I finished, his eyes watery and his face carrying an expression of exhilaration and pain. We ended up running almost the exact same time. Ry remarked that he should've started in the first wave. And I said something like "yeah." And then we bumped fists and I was out of there.

'Cause that's when the real challenge began. Drove home, took a shower, grabbed a breakfast burrito, and then I was on my feet all day at work, my right toe purple and swollen. And then I went home, slept a bit, and went off to my second job, not getting back home until 2:00am. I was beat. Slept a few hours and then I was back at my first job, back on my feet all day, my toe more purple but less swollen this time. It hurts like the dickens, but I don't care. I'll take the purple toe any day over the chaffing I experienced at Joshua Tree last year. Any. Damn. Day. No question. 

It was a good race, one of the best of my life. Smashed my personal best by over seven minutes. Ended up running my fastest ever 5k, 10k and half marathon all in the same race, which is nice and all but that means I didn't pace myself correctly in the slightest. Ah well. It was worth it. 

This was my 5th half marathon and it will be my last for a while. My interests are shifting yet again. Running is losing its appeal. When I run I don't hike and when I hike I don't run. I've been needin' to get out there in the woods again. There's so many places to go. So many things to do. Peaks to climb, flowers to smell, views to observe, waters to swim. Gotta walk, walk, walk. Slow down. Take 'er easy.

High Desert Sojourn

Rise and shine. Morning time. The early hours. The sun has yet to crest the horizon. Not a single bird graces the morning air with its song. The stars are still out, blinking tiredly in the sky. And then we hit the road, driving east, off towards the blueish glow on the horizon. 

Long miles ahead. Lots and lots of driving. Not for me. Haha. I'm riding shotgun. And we go down through Ventura, out past Santa Paula, out into the valley, out into the desert. The sun comes up, I fall asleep, the miles pass imperceptibly under the wheels of the car. 

And when I wake the sky is a piercing desert blue, and the brown, barren expanse of the Mojave is all around us, swallowing us whole, the Interstate just a tiny little line in a vast expanse of nothingness. Well, at least it seems that way. There's a whole lot of stuff out there if you've got the eyes to see it. I never see it. Perhaps I need prescription glasses. 

Out past Barstow, out past Baker, driving alongside the Soda Mountains, passing by Cave Peak and Clark Mountain. These peaks are devoid of snow. Only the highest desert peaks are coated with snow. We saw them, off to the north, distant and tall and dusted in white, standing in stark contrast to their beige surroundings. 

Rest stops, truck stops, gas stations, abandoned buildings. There are Joshua Trees. Hundreds of 'em. And they look strange and alien with their multiple branches sticking out at crazy angles. And over there, way off by the rocks, is a lone burro, munching on something in the dirt. And over there, on the other side of the Interstate, is another lone burro, also munching on something in the dirt. And they both got long ears and they got their winter coats and they bumble along, munching in the dirt, waltzing in and out of the Joshua Trees.

Primm, Vegas, Mesquite. There's a gorge. And there are climbers on the cliffs. No bighorn sheep today; perhaps they are waiting for the climbers to go away. We pull off the road and have lunch above the gorge, feasting on popcorn and citrus and sandwiches and more popcorn. 

And then we make it to Utah and then we're there: the high desert. This is the most beautiful place I know. The Escalante. The Grand Staircase. Vast and rugged, it stretches from the Grand Canyon all the way to Cedar Breaks, filling a good portion of northern Arizona and southern Utah. This is where it's at. This is where I need to be. 

But we have limited time and we can't possibly see it all. It's impossible to see it all. No one can see it all. You could spend a whole lifetime exploring the canyons, climbing the mesas, rafting down the rivers, rappelling off cliffs, crawling through cactus and thorns and brush and stagnant creeks through mud and muck with the flies and scorpions and tarantulas and you'd still have only scratched the surface, you'd still have barely made a dent.

There exist certain hotspots, certain "points of interest" within this vast area that have been mapped and developed so that people can get a taste of what's out there. Captiol Reef. Arches. Canyonlands. Bryce Canyon. Grand Canyon. Zion. What was once wild and inaccessible can now be enjoyed from the comfort of a moving, air-conditioned automobile. There are many mixed emotions about this. Some like it, others don't. Some want these areas to remain completely wild, others don't. Some want this, others that. What to do with the National Parks? I don't know. 

At the end of the day there are no borders. No names. These places are just places—quiet, beautiful, incomprehensible. They existed before we came along, and they'll continue to exist long after we're gone. The wind will keep blowin' and rain will fall and the rocks will erode, ever so slowly, just as they've done for millions of years. And I'm just plain lucky to be able to witness them at this point in time, to see them right now, before they imperceptibly change forever. 

We decided to visit Zion on this trip. A short little trip; didn't get a lot of time off. No matter. Just being there, in that stunning canyon, is good enough for me. I've been there time and time again. I've seen most of it, multiple times over. And I never tire of the views. Never. There's always something new to see, some new way to see it. Whether it's slight erosion, the weather, the lighting, the way the snow has dusted a particular cliff; this place is always changing. And it's unfathomably beautiful. Some might even say sublime. 

For such a short trip, we decided to absorb the essence of Zion using a particular method that we've learned over the years. You see some of the main sights, some of the main attractions. Walk on some of the established trails, share the beauty with countless others. You know. All the touristy things. And then you mix it up a bit with some good ol' ramblin' and wanderin'. To take it slow, one step at a time, climb the sandstone, take a break, soak it all in. 

On that first day of travel, after the countless miles on the road, we entered the park and began our short romp through Zion National Park, a park that is but a small chunk of the Escalante, the Grand Staircase. We drove through the tunnel, an engineering marvel. We pulled off the road, entering a side-canyon that has grown more popular over the years. And we walked on the sand and rock and observed the towering, gargantuan formations of sandstone rising high above us. And the setting sun shone faint and fatigued on the slushy snow and gnarled flora. White, red, black, purple, brown, streaked, criss-cut, criss-crossed, textured rock everywhere, some in sun, some in shadow, all of it a feast for the eyes, overwhelming for the brain. 

We met some other people and then we left the canyon and started off for a popular trail to a popular view. There were a lot of people on that trail. Young and old, fit and not so fit, we all walked along, walking on rock and dirt and wood. And we came to the view and could see much of the lower canyon before us, could see the towering 1000ft+ sheer cliffs, the tiny line of the road, the even tinier cars like shiny little beetles.

A couple was taking wedding photos. They were dressed in their best. And all these people with cameras of all kinds were taking pictures of the sunset and the view and the light on the rocks. And others climbed past the guard rail and up sandstone ledges to get the best view possible. 

We stayed for a bit, watched as the red light of the setting sun moved its way up the face of a cliff. And then we headed back down the trail, back to the car, back through the tunnel, back into town. Grub time. Ate at one of the local joints. They had a trillion dollar bill taped to the window. Space heaters on the patio going full blast. I had me an overpriced burrito. Thing cost $22. Yowch. But man, it was delicious. 

The next day was gray. Took a while for the sun to burn through the wintery clouds. The Virgin River shone bright and silvery in the cold morning light. We had a full day of exploration. A full day of observation. A full day to relax, soak it all in, and take zillions of pictures. This is the kind of place where pretty much every picture is good. Just point and shoot. That's all there is to it. 

We checked out Emerald Pools, saw the waterfalls, saw the cliffs, saw the well worn path and the wood rubbed smooth from millions of touchy hands. And then we went for a drive through the canyon, sun roof down, observing the towering cliffs on either side. We stopped. Took pictures. Saw some deer. And then it was back through the tunnel, back to the sandstone, back to wandering around aimlessly amongst the trees and bees and spindly things. 

We saw Checkerboard Mesa. Crazy Quilt Mesa. Nippletop. Found a pullout and walked off on the sandstone, away from the road, away from the edifice of humanity. We ate lunch on the rocks, a picnic of popcorn and citrus and sandwiches and maybe a scone or two. And we wandered around, looking at the snow on the massive sandstone formations, watching it melt, watching the landscape change imperceptibly before our very eyes. 

And we bumbled along, much like the burros we saw the day before, wandering around without any goal other than to absorb the scene. And we got back in the car, drove around, found another pullout, explored yet another canyon. Saw some petroglyphs in the rock, carved by those who knew this place best. 

And we continued along, climbing, scooting, slipping on sandstone. Saw the rock turn from white to red to white again. Saw the lines in the rock, saw the infinite grooves and scars and divots and craters. Saw the water flowin' through the canyons, saw it caught up in big, circular pools. Some were clear, some were dirty. Some had life in 'em. Some were completely dead. And the day grew long and the sun kept on shinin', a cold, dry, wintery desert sun. And time didn't seem to exist. We just kept on exploring, taking in the whole thing, absorbing as much of it as we could. 

We followed this one canyon a ways, going along as it grew thinner and thinner. We had to turn around at several points; the whole thing would dead-end and we'd have to find another way to continue along. Through slow exploration, we finally found a good path, leading us up above the base of the canyon, on the side, avoiding a cliffy section with a few deep pools. 

We had found the entrance to a narrow slot canyon. Sheer walls, more than a hundred feet high, stood on either side of us. It was chilly in there; the sun unable to penetrate through the deep, red walls. Our steps echoed, our voices were loud, everything seemed to be magnified. And we continued along as far as we could, which turned out to be not that far at all. Slot canyons are usually pretty gnarly. This one was no different. Lacking sufficient gear, let alone a rope, we stopped, taking a small break. 

Looking up, the sky was a deep blue line, made more stunning against the contrast of the red cliffs. Looking back the way we came, we could see the faint rays of golden light, marking the entrance to the slot canyon. Golden light, red walls, blue sky. It don't get much better than that. But our legs were growing tired and we knew that sooner or later we'd have to leave, so we said our goodbyes and went back from whence we came, out of the slot canyon, out of the hills, out of the wash, back to the road, back to civilization. 

And our brief stay was coming to a close. Dinner that night was at a fancy restaurant, finished by a soak in the hotel jacuzzi afterwards. And in the morning we got a lazy start, deciding to drive down the main canyon just one last time. And so we did. And that was that—our sojourn in the high desert was over. Now all that remained was breakfast and the long drive back home. 

La Verkin, Hurricane, St George and beyond. We were back on the Interstate, back to the familiar humdrum routine of long miles, sore legs, and looking out the window. No climbers in the gorge. No bighorn sheep either. Much of the snow on the distant peaks had melted. Winter was slowly going away, making way for Spring.

Mesquite, Vegas, Primm. Jean is a ghost town. They've demolished everything except the biggest hotel, which now stands empty and vacant, the windows gone, the drapes flapping away in the wind. And we drove through the inspection gate and no one was there, not a single soul. Out in the desert, cutting through the Joshua Tree forest, we didn't spot a single burro. Oh well. Can't see 'em all the time. Maybe they were at the bar, shootin' the breeze. It's tough bein' a desert burro. Gotta take a break sometimes!

And then, several hours later, after driving through miles and miles of endless desert, we were back. And that was it; the trip was complete. Though it had only been three days it felt like we'd been there much longer. I suppose that means we had made the most of it. Hadn't been to Zion in almost two years so it was nice to finally get back out there. 

A Snowy Topa Topa Saunter

It stormed in the mountains on Sunday, the 26th, coating the high peaks of the wilderness in a blanket of white. A full, cloudless day followed, melting a good portion of what had fallen the previous day. On the morning of the 28th, I figured there wouldn't be much left. But there was only one way to find out for sure. 

There was a freeze warning that morning. The windows of my car were caked with a thin layer of ice. Used one of the cards in my wallet to scrape it off. I do not have an ice scraper in my arsenal. Didn't think I'd ever need one. Five minutes of vigorous scraping put up a good argument to change my mind. Might just have to make an investment...

The morning was quiet and calm. The sky, infinite and cloudless. Nick and I drove to the end of Sisar Rd and met up with Alex. No wind, no sound of any kind. Just the cold, crispy morning. We gathered our things and began our trek up the trail around 5:40am.

The morning continued to be defined by silence. We'd talk for a bit, speaking of things that are common subjects for the trail. And then we'd stop as soon as we'd started, with coughs, burps and snorts being the only things that disturbed the freezing, peaceful morning.

We walked under the shadows of the oaks, listening to the sound of the creek gurgling just off to the side. We crossed it once. We crossed it twice. The sky slowly changed from black to gray to a faint blue, the sun slowly cresting the frozen horizon. Clouds began to form, but they were benevolent clouds. High, soft, lofty—they appeared out of the morning sky and caught the first pink rays of the rising sun. 

The dirt road turned left and soon we were leaving the canyon. We could see the Bluffs now, looking cold and distant and quiet. To my surprise, there was still a decent amount of snow on them. We stood for a bit, admiring the view. I silently hoped that we would make it up there before the snow turned to slush. Wouldn't be no fun hiking in slush. Been there, done that. 

We continued up the road, the clouds growing in size. The sun was up now, but it was still hidden behind the mountains. Walking provided circulation, circulation heat, and heat sweat. Layers were removed. Laces tightened. Water ingested. We hit the junction with the Red Reef Trail and made our way up to White Ledge Camp.

The sky turned from pink to orange, the clouds stretching over the mountains in long puffy streaks. Hadn't heard any animals or seen any sign of animals all morning long. Must've been too cold. The ground became hard and crunchy the farther we went along. Frozen dew clung to some of the plants. A patch of snow here, a patch of snow there. We arrived to White Ledge Camp in good time, dropped our packs, and took the first real break of the day. 

A break at White Ledge Camp is customary. That's because the worst part of the day lays just ahead, that being the brief but steep climb to Nordhoff Ridge Rd. One could argue that an ascent up Topa Topa Bluff or Hines Peak is worse, but at least that ascent is fun. I don't know. There's just something about that brief section of trail from White Ledge to the road that just ain't fun. So naturally, we enjoyed a good long break, preparing our minds for the arduous walk ahead. 

We suited up and got going. There was still plenty of snow left over from the storm two days prior, hard, slick, and frozen solid. The clouds in the sky had now stretched wide and thin, turning the sky gray. And then in the course of mere minutes, the sun burned them away like they were marshmallows in a blast furnace.The sun crested the mountains, bathing the hillsides with brilliant golden light. Trillions of sparkles met our eyes, the light reflected off the snow a tad overwhelming to the retinas. Sunglasses were a must. Good thing we all brought 'em. 

There were tracks in the snow. They were deep set and had melted the day prior, the slush now frozen and slick. It was hard goin'. Our pace slowed. Calves began to burn. It was almost easier to make our own path in the snow than to follow the slick tracks. The morning drew long, whatever clouds that remained in the sky hung high and wispy, and the snow began to thaw, turning from slick to crunchy to something actually quite pleasant. 

We arrived at the ridge road. Visibility was excellent. No smog, no haze, no clouds of any kind blocked our view of civilization to the southeast.  The Santa Monica Mountains, Oxnard, Hueneme, Ventura, Sulphur Mountain and Upper Ojai were all clearly visible. Anacapa, Santa Cruz, and even Santa Rosa could be seen, each one stark and crisp amidst a brilliant and shining Pacific Ocean. It was one of the better views I've seen up there. And the snow seemed to elevate it into something really special. Don't know why. Snow just seems to beautify things. Makes things look prettier than normal, you know?

We walked up to Elder Camp, took off our packs, sat on the bench. The day had proven to be more difficult than Alex had imagined, so we decided to shift to Plan B, which was summiting the Topa Topa Bluff. Our original plan was to climb Hines Peak. This would not have been ideal. None of us had expected this much snow to still be up there, so of course none of us brought the adequate footwear. All of our shoes were completely soaked through. A slog up Hines in this much snow would require a little more preparation and gear. Preparation and gear that we severely lacked. 

And so, with the decision made, the day became a lot more enjoyable. Instead of 21 miles, we were looking at about 16. The whole vibe had shifted to something more relaxed. But we weren't out of the woods yet. A climb up the Bluff is still tough, and the snow would make it all the more miserable. So we donned our packs once again and started in the direction of the Bluff.

It looked like nobody had climbed the Bluff since the storm. The snow was shining, clean, untouched, pristine. We began the ascent, breaking through shin-deep snow one step at a time. We moved slow and steady, still enjoying the morning air. The views improved with each foot of elevation gained. Clear, nearly cloudless views that stretched for miles and miles. We'd stop often and take a breather, soak in the views, listen to the faint sound of melting snow. Silence pervaded. It seemed to be the theme of the day.

The snow was fine and powdery most of the way, which made the going easier than expected. It wasn't until we neared the top where things got interesting. The final slog to the summit proved to be the most challenging part of the day, the snow being thigh deep in some places. And unlike the powdery fluff that we had so graciously been traveling, this snow was hard and unforgiving. Breaking trail was a chore and a half, but slowly and surely we made our way, reaching the summit at 10:48am. 

There was a large bald spot on the summit that was free of snow. We dropped our packs and took in the views to the north, south and west, each one spectacular. To the west we could make out Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa Island, the Santa Ynez Range, some peaks of the Santa Barbara Backcountry and the entire Ojai Valley. We could even make out the oil rigs that rest off the coast by Highway 101. The mountains to the north had a light dusting of snow, less than I expected. There was probably a whole lot more on their northern slopes. Just for the fun of it, Nick and I hiked a few hundred feet east to get a look at Hines. It looked cold and intimidating. Probably a good thing we didn't climb it that day. 

West

 

North

South

We spent over two hours on the summit. Alex said something like, "Well, we worked our asses off to get here, so we might as well enjoy it." And enjoy it we did. The visibility seemed to improve the longer we remained. We sat, ate some food, replenished lost liquids. An occasional icy breeze would blow and send us ashiver, causing us to retreat to a windbreak of hardy, snow-encrusted chaparral. I even took a nap. Yep, just laid down on the cold dirt and took a 45 minute snooze. It's been a while since I'd been so casual on a hike. I gotta do that more often. 

We walked around the summit a few more times, took in the views, and then said our goodbyes. It was time to head back. We left the summit a little after 1:00pm, well rested and more than ready for the fun descent. 

Going down was a breeze. We just made a line and took it, zooming down the mountain, jumping through the snow. We weren't even trying to go fast. Gravity did most of the work, and before we knew it we were off the summit and back on the road. It took us 22 minutes. 

The snow had receded quite dramatically since that morning. The road was mostly slush, our footprints from earlier in the day having melted together exposing the brown earth underneath. The melt was well underway. The winter wonderland was disappearing. The slush gave way to mud, the mud slippery and oversaturated, the trail like a miniature stream in some sections. And then, just a little ways down the trail, the snow disappeared altogether. Just damp, squishy earth. Our feet, numb beyond sensation from the cold and wet, carried us down the trail, back to White Ledge, back to Sisar. The Bluffs looked absolutely magnificent in the afternoon light, the remaining snow still lingering on the cliffs, sparkling bright. The visibility continued to improve, the ocean so clear and bright it looked like a giant pane of glass. 

It was just after passing through White Ledge Camp where we saw the first person of the day. A lone dude making the long trek to see the snow. Wished us a "happy trails." Nick said he'd never been "happy trailed" before. Didn't know how to respond. And to be honest, I didn't either. "You too?" I suppose that's adequate. 

After that encounter, we saw just a handful of others. Another hiker. A trail runner. A mountain biker. Two people on E-bikes. We trudged along, descending through the oaks, crossing the creek, talking about food and food and more food. We made it back to the trailhead at 3:42pm, our journey from the summit of the Bluff taking a little less than three hours. 

It had been a good, long, relaxing day. Snow in the local backcountry is seasonal, so it was good to enjoy it while it was there to enjoy.