The Ojai Triple Crown

Year 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.