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.