The Cienega Overnighter

I have never visited Santa Paula Canyon. Never been up the east fork. Never been to Last Chance or Jackson Hole. Never even been to the Punch Bowls. I've never once set foot on that trail. Ridiculous, I know. Been all over this forest, done all kinds of crazy hikes and climbed all kinds of crazy mountains and seen all kinds of awesome swim holes—and yet I've never ventured on what some would say is the most popular trail in the county. I've driven by it hundreds of times. Never stopped. Why? Couldn't say. Figured I'd get around to it eventually. I suppose I was waiting for the right moment. 

Whelp, turns out that moment was New Year's Day, 2025. Me and a couple of coworkers cooked up this grand overnight backpacking trip that would take us through Santa Paula Canyon. New Year's day was the closest date where our schedules aligned. There was an opportunity, so we took it. 

We met at the trailhead at 8:00am, dressed warmly, the January sun cold and hazy. There were a few cars in the lot, all of them avoiding this pile of broken gym equipment that appeared to have been dumped and forgotten. Carl and Alex had their obligatory pre-hike smoke. Once that was done, we checked our gear, suited up, and set out a little after 8:15am, passing by some discarded Cookie Monster pajama bottoms right at the beginning of the trail. 

The trail crossed the creek several times. Alex joked that there were about "5 million" total crossings, a statement that soon turned into a mantra whenever we crossed the creek. I found the travel very easy and relaxing. The trail itself was well marked and easy to follow; several signs, rock cairns, and spray paint showed the way. We walked by the college, past the drilling rigs, each step taking me farther into a canyon of which I had never traveled. The farther I went, the more I kept thinking "why haven't I come here sooner?" Aside from the spray paint and other human detritus, the canyon was incredibly scenic, growing more beautiful the farther we ventured. 

We passed by the first people of the day, two old timers making their way to the Punch Bowls. We hit the switchbacks up to Big Cone Camp, our pace slowing ever so slightly because of the grade. There was a small neon green Cheeto lookin' thing hiding in the bushes on the side of the trail. Looked like an alien turd. Jokes about being abducted and probed later on in the night soon commenced after having viewed this strange neon object. Layers came off, sweat poured out, and soon we had made it past the switchbacks, dropping into Big Cone where we took the first real break of the day. 

We walked to an overlook of sorts where we could see a good chunk of Santa Paula Canyon. Carl pointed out the Punch Bowls for me. It was a bit strange seeing them for the first time. I've heard so much about them over the years; even seen a few pictures of some of the pools. But seeing them with my own eyes was a bit of a trip. I could finally put my own mental image to the stories. What was once imagined was now real. The Punch Bowls that I had previously pictured in my mind will never be the same.

There were a few people at the first punch bowl, all of them too scared to jump into the frigid water, their conversation a steady hum in the otherwise silent morning. We hung out at Big Cone for a while, relaxing in the cool mid-morning air, shooting the breeze, exchanging stories. Big Cone was in surprisingly good condition; we found very little trash and much of the graffiti had been washed away. Satisfied with our break, we started hiking again a little after 10:00am. The easy part was over. Everything from that point onward would start getting more difficult. 

We descended some switchbacks, hopped across some rocks, did some side-hilling, and then entered the east fork of Santa Paula Creek. At one time there used to be a trail that passed through here. Not anymore. Years of disuse and some major flooding have pretty much erased this trail from existence. There were a few remnants of it still lingering on the sides of the canyon, but we found sticking to the creek to be the most convenient form of travel. 

Some person had taken the time to flag the route. They used an excessive amount of flagging, the most generous and unnecessary flagging I've ever seen. We started to refer to this mystery person as "Flag Boy 805," sarcastically thanking him for showing us the proper route. The farther we travelled up the creek, the less tape we found. Flag Boy 805 must have realized that if he kept flagging every third tree in the creek he'd run out of tape. 

The canyon narrowed, the canyon spread wide, we skirted, slid, jumped, ducked, squatted and crawled our way up the creek. Flag Boy 805's trail markers became a rarity; we'd see them every now and then as we climbed up small waterfalls, ducked under deadfall, avoided poison oak, all the while trying not to roll an ankle or lose footing and fall into the creek. Though we hadn't travelled far, it felt as though we had been transported deep into the wilderness. Hardly any sign of human activity could be seen. That canyon was wild. Bear tracks, deer tracks, cat tracks galore. 

We took a little breather on a sandy bank, the creek rushing past us. Creek miles are much more taxing than they seem, and walking along with heavy packs was quickly diminishing our energy supply. We still had a ways to go, but spirits remained high and the beauty of the canyon provided us with more than enough motivation to carry on with our expedition. 

To my surprise, much of the canyon was brush-free. The last two winter storms of '23 and '24 really did a number here, completely gutting the canyon of most vegetation. That's not to say that the travel was particularly easy. Soon after our break, we began to quickly gain elevation, hopping up the canyon from one boulder to the next. So many boulders, so much debris. Eventually the canyon opened wide and clear before our eyes, the creek disappearing underground. It looked like we were ascending a boulder-strewn gully on the side of a mountain rather than a creek. Purple mud lined the sides of the canyon, giving the whole area a mystical vibe. Carl mentioned that we were getting close to the exit point; the purple mud serving as a checkpoint in his memory from the last time he was up the canyon. 

The creek reappeared once again, the purple mud subsided, and we found ourselves in a rather peaceful section of canyon with very little debris and deadfall. Carl took a nasty fall in this section, scraping his knee on a sharp log. He took a second to gather himself and then, after confirming to us that he was alright, we set off, our eyes scanning the sides of the canyon for the exit point.

Flag Boy 805 pulled through for us. We saw some tape up on the side of the canyon, shining bright orange amidst a wall of green. A small cairn confirmed that this was probably the exit point. Just before exiting the creek, we were all hit with an overwhelming scent of skunk. Carl thought that it was 100% marijuana, thinking that maybe there was a grow site nearby. Alex said that it was definitely skunk. They argued for a bit until Alex found the recently killed carcass of a skunk. Suffice it to say, things quieted down after that. 

We picked up the trail, following it as it steeply switchbacked its way through prickly brush and deadfall. Carl and Alex both mentioned that the trail was in much worse shape than when they did it last. After slogging it in the creek most of the day, this last little chunk was proving exceedingly difficult. We took another break, this time sitting in complete silence as the weak light of the sun shone through hardy pines that had somehow survived the Thomas Fire back in 2017. 

After our break we continued up the trail, following Flag Boy 805's path. We got turned around a few times. There were several animal trails that looked exactly like the old trail, each one possibly providing an easier route. We'd go up one and it would peter out, then we'd follow another and it would get us nowhere. Flag Boy 805 seemed to have been following waypoints on a GPS rather than the old trail. We soon found ourselves obviously off route, whacking through brush, sweaty, sticky, and covered with pollen. We took another break, Carl darting off ahead to look for more of Flag Boy 805's flagging. 

The brush was high, the brush was low, sometimes it was clear, sometimes it was soul-crushingly dense. Alex had started voicing remonstrances, his legs cramping up from the intense grade and constant bushwhacking. We started up again, calling after Carl. We heard him up ahead, lurking somewhere in the head-high brush. Told us to hang left and then go straight. We caught up with him, having once again found Flag Boy 805's sparse flagging. Alex whipped out the GPS and said that we were almost at Cienega. We broke through some scrub oak, skirted alongside some deadfall, and then entered a pretty meadow. We made a left and soon found ourselves in the shade of several oaks. I heard the rush of a creek, a good sign that we were nearing our destination. 

I set off ahead, following Flag Boy 805's flagging through dense riparian brush. There was this one awkward move that required climbing up and between two branches—a smaller one up top and a bigger one on the bottom. I picked up the trail a little ways after this obstacle, following it as it dipped down into another small creek and then up to a wide, flat area. It was slightly overgrown and littered with deadfall, but it was Cienega alright, and it looked amazing. I went on back to spread the good news.

Almost immediately after turning back I heard Alex yell and then shout obscenities. That tricky obstacle had proven difficult for him. Apparently the smaller branch up top had snapped and he fell head first, upside-down into the brush. Luckily he escaped with just a few scrapes and scratches. I told them that the camp was only about 300ft away. We high-tailed it over there, Carl and Alex about done for the day. 

We settled down, taking a long, long break. We'd gotten to the camp a little after 2:00pm. We had made good time, but the day had proven more difficult than we'd expected. We'd originally planned on hiking all the way to Bluff Camp, but that seemed highly unlikely at this point. Carl and Alex were both ready and willing, but I could tell that they were pretty beat and, with only three hours of daylight left, we decided to end our journey at Cienega. I was very happy with the decision. Spending the last few hours of the afternoon bushwhacking up a steep ridge didn't seem like a good way to cap off the first day of the new year. After we'd made our decision the evening suddenly took on a more relaxed tone. We could now sit back, relax and enjoy ourselves. 

We sat around the fire pit, lazily set up our tents, took stock of all of the tools that had been left at the camp. Cienega used to be the king of backcountry camps, Alex saying that he remembered it looking a lot like Steckel Park in Santa Paula. This is not the case anymore. It's still much nicer than a lot of the backcountry camps I've visited in the Los Padres, but nature is slowly taking it back. The 20ft table, oak benches, ice can stoves, and grill are all still there, but weeds, grass, and deadfall have choked up much of what was once clear. 

I spent some time scouting the water sources, finding a fairly deep pool a little ways north of the camp. We spent the last few hours of daylight chatting, telling stories, sprucing up the camp a wee bit. Stayed up late into the night huddling around the fire pit in the dark, talking about cats seeing into other dimensions, street fights, etiquette, and every now and then looking up at the twinkling stars. 

Sleep was hard to come by, but at least it wasn't freezing. The mornings had been quite frigid recently, but for whatever reason the cold that night seemed to pass us by. We woke late, around 7:00am. Carl and Alex had their coffee, I gnawed on a Cliff bar. We lingered around the camp for a bit, picking up some small pieces of trash, trying to leave the place better than we found it. We broke down the tents, filled up our bottles, and then said goodbye to Cienega, leaving camp a little after 9:00am. 

We disregarded Flag Boy 805's route, instead searching for the old trail. Sure enough, we found it pretty soon after leaving camp, following it as it faintly made its way underneath the oaks. Following the trail was significantly easier than the route we took the day prior, completely avoiding much of the brush that was causing us so much trouble. And the funniest part was that we were just next to it the previous day; we could see Flag Boy 805's flagging in the brush no more than 20ft off to our right. 

We managed to stick to the trail most of the time, having a much more enjoyable experience compared to yesterday's bushwhack. Worn and faded pink flagging marked the true trail, but this was few and far between. But it was fairly obvious where to go and before long we were back at the creek. Alex realized that he had lost a whole liter of water somehow; the bottle just up and jumped out of his pack and rolled off into the brush somewhere. Carl poked and prodded the skunk carcass, saying that he could make a hat out of it. We didn't encourage him. That thing was nasty. 

Travel in the creek was slow work, but we made our way down at a steady, determined pace. We stopped at our break spot from the previous day by the sandy bank and had lunch, Carl realizing that he had actually bivvied there once on one of his recent unsuccessful attempts at reaching Cienega. With bellies full, we continued on our journey down the canyon, hopping across boulders, down climbing small waterfalls, walking across fallen logs. 

The closer we got to the main trail, the more trash we found. We picked it up as we went along, Carl stuffing most of it in a bag he strapped on the top of his pack. We eventually made it back to the main trail, noticing the first people we'd seen since yesterday. Carl and Alex decided that it would be a good idea to check out the Punch Bowls since I'd never seen them. Plus, it would be a supreme opportunity to dip the ol' feet in some cool water and take a load off for a little bit. 

They showed me some of the pools, deep and emerald blue in color. I could see why they are so popular; they're some of the best swim holes I've ever seen. We made our way down to the first punch bowl, tossed our packs aside, and took a nice long break in the shade. It had grown unseasonably warm for some reason, the temps feeling like they were hovering in the high 70's. There were a few others gathered at this first punch bowl, some of whom were courageous enough to brave the frigid waters. Alex and Carl dipped their feet, I soaked my buff and hat and sat in the shade, watching the light sparkle off the crystalline blue water. 

The hike back to the parking lot was pleasant, at least for me. Being back on a well-worn trail was heaven for my feet. More people were out and about that day, all of them either heading to or coming back from the Punch Bowls. The Cookie Monster pajama bottoms were still there at the beginning of the trailhead, as well as the broken gym equipment. We met Dan in the parking lot, an old search and rescue guy that helped build the table up at Cienega. It was cool talking to him, hearing all his stories about the Los Padres back in the good ol' days. 

The trip had been a good one, not only as a great way to start the year but also as a great introduction for future explorations of Santa Paula Canyon. I can't believe I've waited this long to check out the place; it's one of the most unique, scenic, and oddly remote places I've been to in the Los Padres. There's a certain ruggedness to it, a feeling that it's more isolated and secluded than it really is. The opportunities for exploration are practically endless up there. We're bound to go back. Still gotta get to Bluff Camp. That place has been on my hit list for years now. I think it's finally time to check it off that list once and for all. Bluff Camp, I'm comin' for you!