Seldom Visited Falls

04/15/25

Ok, time to do this for real. Earlier start. More supplies. Focused mindset. These falls exist, they're out there, located far up the canyon, well off the beaten path. Getting to them would be an all-day excursion. We were ready for that. Hell yeah. This was happening.

These falls have eluded me for years. I've known of their existence for quite some time, just never figured out how to get to them. I've seen pictures. A few pictures. "Gah! Where is that? It looks so cool!" A huge cliff face, crumbly, sheer, dotted with moss, a white torrent of water gushing down the middle. They looked awesome. I had to see them in person. And I had ideas of where they were. Just ideas. And then came the info from the friend. And then came our excursion in the creek. And when I got home after that little outing I looked on good ol' Google Earth, searched around, and then—ZINGO—there they were. 

It had to be them. It made sense. As it turned out, the info we received from the friend was somewhat correct. These falls really did exist up a side canyon to the left, just much, much farther up the canyon than we had expected. It was looking like I was in for another long day in the creek, a modest price to pay to view the incredible. 

On April 15 I met Alex at the trailhead, both of us wearing wide brimmed hats, synthetic pants, breathable shirts, and shoes that we were alright with getting absolutely destroyed. We started much earlier this time, our packs laden with extra supplies that would help us get through the long day. The weather was cool and nice with a thin cloud cover stretching across the sky that blocked the wrath of the sun. 

The morning was slow and steady, much like it was the week prior. We walked for a ways in an unhurried fashion, neither one of us thinking much of how far we had to go. Truth be told, we really didn't know exactly how far we had to go. All that we knew was that these falls were way the hell up the canyon and that getting to them would be, as one friend who had been there put it, "an all day thing." We had prepared for that, but thinking about it was a little intimidating. Best to stare at the feet and keep truckin' down the trail.

We eventually entered the creek, stuffing the electronics in the good ol' dry bag. From that moment on we pretty much remained in the creek until we reached the falls. I don't think I've ever spent so much time in a creek. Jumping, hopping, climbing, striding, slipping, skipping, squatting—we were getting a full-body workout in that creek. So many boulders, so many slick rocks, so much deadfall and foliage and cool, clear water. Our shoes suffered through the creek, falling apart the farther we went. 

We made good time, having received our "creek legs" the week prior. If it weren't for that preliminary expedition, we likely wouldn't have made it to these elusive falls. Our legs were accustomed to the ways of the creek, and we zoomed up the canyon as fast as we could, trying to find the path of least resistance. 

The farther we ventured up the canyon, the less we saw evidence of humanity. No foot prints, no broken branches, no cairns, nothing. The canyon was a wild place, carved out and gutted by the gentle creek in which we were traveling. Huge rocks and debris from previous winter storms littered the canyon floor, offering many obstacles that impeded our progress. We took special care to look up every once in a while at the towering 100ft+ cliffs that lined the canyon, crumbly and falling apart. Wouldn't want to get brained by a falling rock now, would we?

At times the creek disappeared underground, leaving us wandering around dry boulder fields like those at the bottom of an alluvial fan. And then the creek would reappear, slowly at first, appearing in shallow, stagnant puddles. And then it was as if the faucet was turned back on and the creek would be running like clockwork, free and wild and cool and clear as ever. Frogs and fish inhabited the deeper pools, while several insects seemed to enjoy the shallower, more mellow portions of the creek. 

We had been slogging it in the creek for a while now, boulder hopping, busting through brush, scaling small waterfalls, crawling under deadfall. We came to a spot in the shade of an old sycamore tree and took the first good break of the day. I hadn't been checking the time so far and was astonished to see that we had been hiking for over four hours. Oof. That meant that we had better turn around soon, since it was likely to take just as long going back as it would going in. We planned on giving ourselves another hour to find these falls. If we didn't find them within the next hour, well dammit, we'd have to call it quits. 

And for a moment it seemed like that would be the case. Not long after we finished our little break we encountered the crux of the day, a section of creek that I called "The Boulder Problem." It was a dry, steep section of creek, littered with gigantic boulders bleached by the sun. Some class 3 scrambling was required to move through this problem, severely limiting our efficiency through the canyon. Wandering through this hodge-podge mess of boulders was taking a lot of time. I began to wonder that if the creek continued to be like this for much longer, we definitely wouldn't make it.

Looking down at "The Boulder Problem"

But then, after surpassing this obstacle, I noticed the canyon narrow to a chokepoint. Beneath this chokepoint appeared to be a drop-off. Much of it was obscured by trees, but I had a feeling that what I was looking at had to be these elusive falls. I shared this idea to Alex, and he said something like, "it better be." No time to waste. We continued past the boulder problem towards the chokepoint, the canyon getting much steeper the farther we went. 

The creek reappeared beneath our feet, gushing in small torrents down the numerous boulders that inhabited the canyon floor. Foliage soon began to choke the canyon, blocking out the light of day. A sound reached our ears, not very loud, but unmistakable as nothing other than that of a large waterfall. We scaled a few more boulders and then reached a flat area, the creek running steady and calm. A small, fairly deep pool of emerald green water was before us, flanked in a semicircle by young sycamores and California bay leaf. And yeah, towering above all of this—at last!—were the elusive, magnificent falls. 

Water seeped out of the rock, dripping down the face of the cliff like a million little tears. Moss and other delicate foliage dotted the face, dripping with moisture and shining bright in the cloud-filtered light of the sun. Numerous, miniature cascades poured down and around the cliff, feeding the small pool at its base. The place looked a lot like Weeping Rock in Zion National Park, just without all the red sandstone and tourists and easy access and whatnot. This place felt isolated, wild, yet strangely peaceful. There was a feeling about the place that was simply indescribable. Was it the beauty of the falls? Their isolation? The knowledge that very few people have ever seen them? I couldn't say. I just sat down, ate a sandwich, and stared at them for a long time, admiring every little feature, every detail, cementing the picture of these falls in my mind. 

Alex cracked open a pilsner and ate some mustard "to help prevent cramps." We both walked around a bit, trying to see these falls from every possible angle. They looked a lot different from the pictures I had seen, but then again, those pictures were fairly old. Nature has a way of changing things; ain't nothing permanent in nature. 

We looked around, taking a bunch of photos. I scampered on over to the base of the falls, above the pool, and got a nice cold shower. The cloud cover had now thickened, and the water chilled me to the core. Thoughts of splashing into the pool at my feet, which just a few moments ago seemed very inviting, now seemed like an endeavor in misery. I scurried back to where I ate my sandwich and jumped around, wishing for nothing but warmth. 

Bird nest

We stayed at the falls for almost an hour, enjoying them as much as possible since we knew that neither one of us would likely ever see them again, especially how we were seeing them at that moment. Another good winter storm and the whole area will change again. Who knows? That pool might disappear, the trees might be washed away, the falls might even take a whole new shape. We soaked up as much of the scene as we could. But we had to leave at some point. Couldn't stay there forever. And so, with one last look, we waved goodbye to the falls and slowly made our way back down the canyon. 

Going back down the canyon was the same as it was going up. The same boulders, the same deadfall, the same brush, just a different direction. Alex impressed me by descending the boulder problem with a beer in his hand, although there was one spot where I had to hold it for him. We made it back to the trailhead in about the same amount of time as it took us to get to the falls, the whole day taking just under ten hours. Alex and I bumped fists and parted ways. And that was that—finally, after all these years, we'd made it to these elusive, seldom visited falls. And they were every bit as amazing as I imagined them to be. 

In my hunt to find these falls, I discovered a phrase that was repeatedly used in conjunction with them: "if you know, you know." So in keeping with the ethos that surrounds these falls, I've explicitly excluded any obvious information as to their whereabouts. Where is this "creek" and "canyon" anyway? I ain't gonna say. Part of the allure of these falls is their confidentiality. It keeps them quiet and secluded, unburdened by the negatives of popular visitation. I believe that those who put in the effort to find these falls on their own are likely to treat them with the respect and courtesy that they deserve. And I'll leave it at that.

A Day in the Creek

A day in the creek is a day well spent. Sunshine, moving water, smooth rocks, little fishies, shady trees—what's not to enjoy? Maybe that creek smell. That's the only thing that comes to mind. It can be a little obnoxious to the nostrils, I know. But coming home, smelling like creek, well that right there is what it's all about. It's an earned aroma, one that can only be obtained by spending the entire day in the creek. And last week, on a bright and sunny April Tuesday, that's exactly what we did. 

We began the day with determined minds to reach a determined goal. And that goal was not spending the entire day in the creek. Funny how things work out like that. We had prepared for a fairly arduous day, a day of labor rather than leisure. We had planned on reaching an elusive, seldom visited waterfall, one that has been on my list for quite a long time now. Hardly any information about this waterfall exists, save for a few colloquial names and pictures from those who've been savvy enough to figure out where it's located. I had a good idea of where it was, but I wasn't 100% sure. And then came the intel. 

We received directions from a friend who told us the exact location of the falls. He'd been there himself, discovering them on accident after descending the wrong canyon. He informed us, to my surprise, that these falls are actually pretty easy to get to, at least a lot easier than what I expected. Granted, it had been over 20 years since he discovered these falls and his memory could be a little fuzzy, but information is information. Sure I was skeptical, but there was only one way to see if these directions were correct. We gave 'em a go. 

I packed light knowing that we were looking at a fairly low-mileage day. Just a fanny pack, some bars, and one bottle of water. Benny brought his fishing stuff. Figured he'd scout out some pools on the way back. Alex brought the essentials: food, water, and beer. We met at the trailhead at 8:40am, mingled a bit, and then set off for the falls a little after 9:00am. 

Sunlight peered through the canopy. Birds sat chirping in the trees. The mushrooms lingered in the shade while the spring flowers pushed and shoved for time in the sun. The creek flowed nearby, the sound of its rushing waters soothing to the mind. Already, not even ten minutes into the hike it was calling us, beckoning us, manipulating our minds to give up our goal and enter its waters and rest and be lazy. We did not listen. We pressed on. 

It was a cool morning, but one that hinted at coming warmth. The local fauna were in no hurry to do anything. Laziness permeated the air. A snake sat in the sun, charging up, getting ready for the day. It made no effort to escape when I crouched down and nabbed it. The snake sat comfortably in my grip, making no protest. I handed it to Benny. Benny looked at it. Benny put it down. It slowly slithered away, annoyed, no doubt, by this most rude interruption to its morning sunbath. 

We took a break, ate some foodstuffs. Benny packed an excess of tangerines and offered them to the group, my stomach now bearing the extra load. We reached a viewpoint, one where we could see much of the canyon that lay ahead. Fingers pointed. Imaginary lines were drawn in the air. "We go this way, then we turn left, up a side canyon somewhere." As we discussed our route, the morning dragged lazily along, the sun slowly rising in the sky. 

We descended the highpoint and dropped into the canyon. Soon after we left the trail and entered the creek. I got out the dry bag. Things were going to get wet. Goodbye, dry shoes, goodbye, dry clothes, goodbye, dry everything. We were promptly soaked, sloshing and wading and swimming through numerous blue-green pools. 

The canyon walls rose high above us. Sometimes they narrowed, hugging everything close together. The rocks and twigs and trees and such were mostly absent in these narrow sections, no doubt the cause of flash flooding. At other times the canyon opened up, allowing ample room for foliage to grow without worry of being carried away in a flash flood. 

Numerous shady trees with hyper-green leaves grew within the canyon, their smell fresh and lovely, the classic perfume of spring. Underneath the canopy was the creek, meandering its way through several huge boulders, forming large pools every now and then. Within these pools sat smooth reddish stones and numerous small fish. Benny was elated. The creek, still trying to convince us to give up and relax, was starting to win Benny over. He set up his pole, cast a few lines. "One more, just one more" he would say. We kept going, our pace slower now. The day was starting to shape up for what was to come. Our goal was slipping.

The sun rose higher, its heat growing noticeable. We walked through the water, succumbing to its soothing song. There'd be a break in the trees and we'd take a breather on the warm rocks, eating more tangerines and such. In the sun the water possessed an aqua-blue color, a sight most inviting in this late morning heat. Benny saw fish through his polarized glasses. He cast more lines. The creek had won him over. The waterfall was of little interest to him now. And to be honest, it was of little interest to me too at that point. 

The water looked so nice. The weather—perfect creek weather. Plus, we'd gone much farther than we had planned, the directions looking to be incorrect. We had seen no side canyon. No fork in the creek. But ehh, maybe we just hadn't seen it yet. Curiosity drove us forward, and so we continued with our hike. 

Benny slipped on some underwater moss. He slid into shallow water and landed on his ankle, bruising it and tearing a nice hole in the flesh. That about sealed the deal. Not much long after that incident he called it quits and remained at a nice pool to fish. Alex and I continued on, still driven by some mild curiosity.

We hadn't hiked more than ten minutes before we reached an impasse. A waterfall, but not the right one. This one can be accessed by a trail, albeit one that is in disuse and overgrown. Alex had visited it about two weeks prior. "I knew this section of creek looked familiar!" he said. We both looked at it, stunned. Had we really gone that far up the creek? Yes, yes we had. And that meant that the directions we received were totally, most definitely, absolutely 100% incorrect. We had been told that our elusive falls were located a good ways downstream from this waterfall at which we were now observing. The elusive falls can only be accessed via creek, not trail. And we'd been in the creek most of that morning, looking to the left for a supposed side canyon. We saw no such thing. The directions were incorrect, our attempt at reaching the elusive falls a failure.

We trekked back down the creek, noticing a faint use trail descending down the side of the canyon through the brush. "Ahh, yes, I remember it now! There it is!" Alex said as he pointed to the trail. We would not be taking it back. First, because we had to get Benny. Couldn't just leave him in the creek. And second, because the creek was awesome. We could no longer resist its siren song. We had become fully entranced.

The day slowed. Unhurried and leisurely vibrations, emanating from the creek, set the tone for the trek back to the car. We were casual, nonchalant, lazy, relaxed. We took our time, enjoying the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees, watching the frogs as they leapt into the creek, hiding underneath the smooth reddish stones. We regrouped with Benny, who said he'd caught five little fish, all trout. We lingered a bit by his chosen pool, had a snack lunch. And then we were off, slowly making our way back down the creek, enjoying the lovely spring air as much as we could.

Benny was in full-blown fishing mode, now determined to catch "the big one." He'd cast a few lines in a pool, study it, ponder a bit, and then move on to another. Alex and I hung back, enjoying the water and the warm boulders. I laid down, put my straw hat over my face, and took a little snooze in the sun. Benny kept at his fishing, Alex soaked in the cool water, beer in hand. The hours ticked by, the light in the canyon shifted. The creek provided much of the soundtrack for the day, but every now and then we'd hear the call of a random bird, its shrill cackle noticeable above the gentle hum of the water. 

And then there came another sound. The triumphant screeches of a successful fisherman. Alex and I made our way down the creek, sliding down boulders, wandering over to the sound of Benny's shouts. We found him sitting on top of a large boulder, his line cast in a deep blue pool fed by a small waterfall. Told us he caught a good sized trout, about ten inches. He tried holding on to it for a bit so that we could get a picture of it (he had forgotten his phone at home) but it wriggled too much and he let it go. Ahh well. The catch will have to live on in his memory. 

We stayed at that pool for a while, Benny still trying to catch another trout of that size. He was unsuccessful. Alex took some pictures and I wandered around, observing the creatures of the creek. Frogs, little fishies, water bugs, toe-biters, slugs, and these tiny little, weird lookin' leech things. Alex found a toe biter with a bunch of eggs on its back. I found a water snake slitherin' around, enjoying the sun. This one, being fully charged, was much harder to catch than the one I'd bothered earlier in the morning. I followed the snake down the creek, slipping on slick rocks in the process. The thing was too quick, always escaping my grasp. I almost had it and then it slipped into the water and rode a small waterfall into a small pool. I never saw it again. 

We continued down the creek, Benny now realizing that he was unlikely to catch another winner. In fact, he wasn't catching much of anything anymore. Word must have got out. The fish were no longer visible, most likely hiding under the smooth reddish rocks with the frogs. 

We spent some time at this one large pool for a while, swam a bit, got cold, stood in the sun. The light was now creeping up the canyon's eastern wall. We were soon in the shade. The day was coming to a close, the afternoon light slowly receding with every passing second. We geared up and got going. 

A little ways before joining the trail, we decided to stay in the creek and check out this side canyon we had seen on the way up earlier that morning. The elusive falls were surely not located up this canyon, but hey, we had to check it out just to be sure. We re-entered the creek, hopping, sliding, and jumping down the boulders. 

We made it to the entrance of the side canyon. It was short and steep, containing almost no water and several sharp rocks and large boulders. It was a steep little canyon, quickly gaining elevation. And then it ended abruptly, a big ol, slick cliff face with a tiny bit of water trickling through the cracks. Was this it? Was this the waterfall that we had been seeking? Nope. Alex thought it was, Benny was indifferent, I knew it wasn't. I'd seen pictures of the true falls and this one here looked nothing like it. But oh well. It was a waterfall of some kind so we were happy. Started the day in search of a waterfall, ended the day by finding one. It wasn't the right one, but that doesn't matter. 

We left the side canyon and stayed in the creek for a while until finally regaining the trail a bit farther downstream. The sun sat low in the sky, no longer warm. Orange light bounced off the trees and rocks, the surrounding country bathed in a late afternoon glow. We made it back to the trailhead sweaty, a little sunburnt, and caked with the perfume of the creek. It had been an awesome day. A good amount of wandering around, a good amount of exploring, a good amount of swimming, a good amount of relaxing. It was nice to slow down for a bit, to take life casually, to soak it up in the waters of the creek for a bit, to leave all worries and dreams and hopes and aspirations and whatnot behind for a while. 

That's the magic of the creek: it washes not only the body, but the mind as well. At least for a moment. When I got home, I was back on the grind, searching google earth, looking for these mysterious falls that we had missed. After about fifteen minutes I found them. I was sure of it. I could see them there, laying far up the canyon, much farther than what we had been told. Aha, this was more like it. 

Now that I had found them, I was soon to be back, back in the canyon, back in the creek. The hike would be much longer and whole lot harder, but that's to be expected. These falls are seldom visited for a reason. There was NO WAY that we were gonna make it with the supplies we had brought that day. But it was meant to be. We were destined to spend the day in the creek. And so we did. 

The Ojai Triple Crown

Years ago, before I knew anything about anything, I read a post on David Stillman's blog about a linkage of peaks that sounded absolutely horrible. Not because of technical difficulty, not because of hellish amounts of brush, oh no, no, no. It sounded horrible because the trek was just plain long. Hines Peak, The Bluff, and Chief Peak in a day. Twenty-eight miles. Over seven thousand feet of elevation gain. Lots and lots and lots of walking. Only the deranged mind of the brilliant Stillman could devise such a devious linkage of peaks. It was absurd. Stupid. Plain ol' masochistic. Of course, I had to give it a try.  

Stillman dubbed his creation "The Ojai Triple Crown." And ever since reading about it, I've always wanted to attempt it. Years came and went. The Triple Crown lingered. It sat there in the back of my mind, gnawing away at my conscious. It wouldn't give me a break. The knowledge of its existence troubled me. And so, on the frigid morning of April 2nd, I gave it a go. Had to put it to rest. Had to conquer the beast.

Good grief. Why do I put myself into these situations? Who knows. I certainly don't. I awoke at 4:15am, gobbled down some energy bars, and set off on the road, bound for Sisar Canyon. I started hiking a little after 5:15am. It was dark. Real dark. And nobody was out and about. Just me and the shadows. 

It was a wee bit eerie, walking by myself up that canyon in the dark. The feeble light from my dying headlamp illuminated the path forward, casting mysterious shadows every time I turned my head. I grew paranoid, feeling as if I was being watched or something. Every ten minutes or so I'd turn around, watch my back, scanning for glowing eyes in the darkness. Overly cautious, I know, but I didn't want to get caught by no mountain kitty cat.

The temps were in the low 40's. Frost dusted the ground. No birds, no animal sounds of any kind. Just the breeze whistling through the trees and the rushing creek by my side. I crossed it once, twice. The morning drew long. The sky turned from black to a dark blue, tinged with faint orange and yellow. I fell into a groove, putting one foot in front of the other. I wasn't thinking about the miles. I wasn't thinking about the mountains. I wasn't thinking about anything. Put my mind on cruise control and waltzed myself up the dirt road.

The sun popped up, casting light in the wide valleys to south. I, however, would not see it for some time, not until it crested the mighty Topa Topa Bluffs. I'd be in the shade. The cold, dreary shade. I started wishing for the sun's warmth. There was a gale warning for that morning, lasting until 2:00pm. Since leaving the canyon I was greeted by this wind, a cold, unforgiving kind of wind that blew in from the north and just wouldn't let up. Made the cold all that much worse. Oh well. Fighting the wind gave me something to do. Helped to keep my mind off the numerous miles passing underfoot.

I made it to the junction with Red Reef. I blew through White Ledge Camp. I busted through the horrible nonsense uphill section between White Ledge Camp and the ridge road. I didn't stop. Not once. I was on a roll. The wind kept my mind busy. I was fighting it. Fighting it all the way up to the ridge, walking straight into it. Patches of snow dotted the earth, the ground crunchy and hard. The higher I went, the colder it became. I whipped out my trusty windbreaker. Synched down the hood. Damn, too bad I didn't bring any gloves. Those would've been nice. Oh well. My hands would just have to brave the cold.

A frosty Elder Camp

I reached the ridge road. The wind was absolutely zippin' up there. I could see faint clouds over the summit of The Bluff moving at an incredible speed. The wind was here to stay. I was able to avoid it in some parts, it being blocked by foliage or a mound of dirt or by some invisible force of which I have no knowledge. I didn't care. I didn't mind. The wind was the reality of the situation. I accepted it and moved on. 

Past Elder Camp, past road's end. A low layer of clouds blanketed the peaks of Pine Mountain ridge, obscuring the summits of Reyes Peak, Haddock Mountain and Thorn Point from view. I expected these clouds to move across the valley and greet me with their presence sooner or later, much like they did the last time I was up there with Diego. But they never came. No matter how hard the wind blew, the cloud layer just stayed situated on those distant peaks, disintegrating as soon as they tried descending into the Sespe. 

I reached the saddle. Ah, Sun! At last! How I've longed for your warmth! The windbreaker came off. The snow started to melt. The wind even began to die down. Things were looking up. I banged out the last few miles to the base of Hines Peak without difficulty. 

Ah, Hines Peak. What a fantastic mountain. How I've yearned for the summit. I missed it. I missed it dearly. I missed the knife ridge, the steep ascent, the crumbly chute, the false summit. For the first time in my life I was actually looking forward to climbing the thing. I was excited. Hyped. It had been too long. Seeing this mountain was like visiting an old friend. I began the climb with great haste, not wanting to waste any more time reminiscing about past adventures. 

The climb was, simply put, awesome. I will say, it was a wee bit sketchy traversing the knife ridge with the wind blowin' like it was. But that was the scariest part of the ascent. After that, it was good, clean, nostalgic climbing. Before I knew it, I was on the frosty summit. Clear, crisp, expansive views in most directions. I went east, found some rocks, and sheltered myself from the wind. And there I stayed for a good 25 minutes, reaping the benefits of my labor. 

The last entry in the register was from June 8th of 2024. I found that hard to believe, especially since I saw some faint footprints on the use trail on the way to the summit. Perhaps that party didn't feel like signing the register. Who knows. Maybe Hines Peak is becoming unpopular. Maybe it's always been unpopular. I don't know. I signed my name, stated my goal, and then moved on. Goodbye Hines. I'll see you again sometime, old friend. 

On my way down I caught sight of Chief Peak, the last peak of the day, sitting far away to the west. Good Lord. That thing looked far. It was no surprise, however; that's what I signed up for so I said "yep, that's pretty far" and shrugged and kept on going. I was feeling great, the weather, though windy, was great. Everything was great. The day was shaping up to be a good one.

On the way to The Bluff, Hines Peak center left

It took me a little over an hour to go from the summit of Hines to the summit of The Bluff. The views, even more fantastic. The wind had pushed away most of the clouds and haze and filth that would normally mar such a tremendous view. Everything within sight exploded with immense detail. I could see every canyon, crack and crevice on Anacapa and Santa Cruz, two gigantic mounds of rugged earth rising out of the piercing blue jewel of the Pacific. Closer, on the mainland, was a scene of even greater detail. Verdant hills, patches of yellow and orange wildflowers, shadows of clouds—I could see it all. It's a view that never gets old, no matter how many times I see it. That day it was particularly good. Early spring brilliance paired with excellent visibility; a perfect combo. 

A totem

Two down, one to go...

The register for The Bluff was the messiest I've ever seen. Jumbled, disorganized, jam-packed with signatures from people of all walks of life from all sorts of places. I found an empty space in one of the many full registers and signed my name, my goal, and then continued on with my absurd journey. Two down, one to go. 

What came next was an exercise of mental and physical endurance. I descended The Bluff, got back on the road, and then started truckin'. Found my groove. Bobbed my head back and forth. The miles passed beneath my feet, the hours ticked on by, the sun shone bright overhead, melting my mind along with the remnants of snow still lingering in defiance of all things natural. 

Road miles. Lots of road miles. Lots of winding in and out and out and in. If it was a straight line from The Bluff to Chief Peak it wouldn't be so bad. But, hahaha, that would be too easy. Where's the challenge in that? The road was like a snake, curving and twisting across the landscape. I grew bored. My mind began to wander. I started humming tunes. Started whistling. For some reason, the song "Brokedown Palace" got stuck in my head on repeat. And of course, there was the ever-present wind, blowing with less intensity now, but still there, still lingering, still blowing in my face, still giving me trouble. 

Gettin' closer...

I was starting to lose my mind. But in a good way. The walking was turning into a sort of meditative experience, my breathing in synch with my steps. My feet were starting to protest. And so were my legs. The lactic acid was there. Fourteen miles, sixteen miles, on and on and on. I reached the junction with Sisar. I stopped, inhaled some calories and chugged some water. Stretched my legs, rolled out my ankles. Man, I really had to climb another mountain. The tiniest drop of doubt entered my mind. But it wasn't enough to stir my resolve. I kept going, leaving the junction in the dust, making my way to Chief Peak. 

I was tired. Hadn't gotten good sleep the previous two nights. And I was startin' to feel it. I saw Chief Peak, I saw its summit, I saw the approach. I walked from east to west, walked down the road, walked south of the summit, gave it a good, long look. I thought about climbing it. I knew I could do it. It was descending it back to the road, back down Sisar, that was buggin' me. But I didn't think about it too much. My mind was melting away. The summit was there. I was gonna get it. What else was there to do? I'd gone this far, might as well finish the deal. 

I left the road for the use trail to the summit. I didn't even look up. I was huffin' and puffin', my legs screamin', my lungs on fire. I was pushing the pace. I wanted to get it over with. Complete this Triple Crown odyssey and never look back. I hopped up the boulders, paying attention to nothing except the sound of my own breathing. A hop skip and a jump later and I was on the summit, screaming like a lunatic, waving my ams in the air, my jacket and pants ripplin' in the wind. Hallelujah. Never had I been more excited standing on the summit of Chief Peak. I found my usual spot—that comfy divot in the rocks—and conked out. 

East

North(ish)

My mind remained lucid. I lay there, my body asleep. I let it rest a bit, let it recover. Then I commanded it to move. I commanded it to eat more bars, to eat more sunflower seeds, to wash it all down with more water. Calories, calories, calories. Important stuff. I needed every bit of energy I could get. 

I signed the register, stated my completion of the goal, and then rested some more. Spent a good 25 minutes there on the summit, soakin' it all in. And then I locked in, preparing my mind for the descent, for the long-ass walk back to the car. I said my goodbyes and made my way off the summit, bracing mind and body for the hardest part of the day. 

Damn...

This is when the hike really began. It was what I'd been dreading all day. I was successful in reaching the summits, now all that was left was the walk down the road. And it absolutely sucked. I will spare the details of this most boring of walks. All I will say is that I took a different route than Stillman. He recommended descending Horn Canyon. I did not follow this advice. I stayed on Sisar the entire time, following it all the way back to the car. This added a couple more miles, making the total for the day closer to thirty, but who cares. It was long and very boring. But hey, at least the wind was gone. Hooray!

I started running. I ran from the junction with Horn Canyon all the way to the junction with the Red Reef Trail. And then I walked/jogged the whole rest of the way down, crossing the creeks again, baking in the afternoon light, my eyes bombarded by the bright green spring colors of the surrounding foliage. 

I passed a few people on the way down, the only people I'd seen all day. There was a mountain biker. A group of hikers. Another group of hikers. They were all sticking to the creeks, enjoying the cool water and stunning green scenery. I passed this one group. "Ahh, dressed for the occasion I see." "Yep." "Is that an OVS tie?" "Nope."

I sprinted the last chunk, because, well, why not? By that point I was so done with the whole endeavor that I just didn't care anymore about anything. Couldn't feel my legs, couldn't feel my feet. I was flyin' and it felt great. I passed the gate. Entered the parking lot. Stumbled over to the car, dropped my pack inside. Found me a flat spot on the ground and stretched and stretched like my life depended on it. The sun was still fairly high in the sky. Early afternoon. I'd completed the whole thing in 10½ hours. And not a minute too late. Any longer on that sunny dirt road and I think I would've truly lost my mind to boredom. 

Jiminy Christmas, that was a long one. I don't think I'll ever do that again, at least for a while. Each peak by itself is great, but doin' all three in a day? Absolutely insane. But as always, it was a great day in the sticks, complemented by fantastic temperatures, spring colors, and amazing views. I'm glad I finally got around to doing it after all these years.