Day Hike to Bluff Camp

04/27/25

Ah, Bluff Camp. What is there to be said that hasn't been said already about this legendary place? Abandoned, distant, hard-to-reach, beautiful, secluded, mysterious, alluring. Situated right on the border of "Bear Heaven," this place serves as a gateway to the sublime. Ancient fir trees, dense chaparral, red and purple sandstone formations, deep canyons, huge cliffs, impenetrable wilderness. Wild, wild country. Bluff Camp ain't just a camp. It's a holdout barely clinging to the vestiges of humanity, serving as a barrier between the known and unknown. I've wanted to see it with my own eyes for years now, to make the trek, to journey to this unique land of rock and oak and pine. Getting there would be difficult. But I had to see that it could be done. 

It was a clear morning, at least in some areas of Ventura County. I planned on meeting Carl at the trailhead at 6am, a fairly early start to what we we expecting to be a long, tough day. Neither one of us having a lot of time off, we'd both decided to attempt a day hike to Bluff Camp. This is not advisable, as a trek to Bluff Camp is certainly no easy feat. Sixteen miles roundtrip, nine of which are a mixture of cross-country travel, rock hopping, bushwhacking, and travel on trail so far gone that it basically doesn't exist anymore.

The skies remained fairly clear, the morning air crisp and cool. We started on the trail after a quick breakfast of sausage biscuits and a hash brown or two. Carl led the way with a blistering pace, neither one of us talking very much. Our idea was to chug out this easy section as fast as possible so as to give us ample time to navigate the brushier portions of the hike. Very few people were on the trail, all of them heading to the famous Punch Bowls. 

We made it to Big Cone Camp in record time, set our packs down and caught our breath. Someone had left an ice chest in the camp, completely empty except for a few slices of soggy, moldy cheese. A few empty aluminum cans and some plastic wrappers littered the ground, but no graffiti this time. We'd have to clean it up on our way back.  

After a little rest and a quick smoke, Carl and I set off on the trail, heading down the switchbacks to the east fork of Santa Paula Creek. We'd been up the east fork earlier this year and knew what to expect. We turned right, followed the trail until it puckered out, and then it was nothing but the creek. To our surprise, ALL of the orange flagging that we had seen earlier this year was gone. Very interesting. Someone must have taken it down. 

Heading up the east fork

Travel through the east fork was slow but pleasant. The water level was lower this time, making it very easy to keep our feet dry. The clouds started to roll in, blocking the sun, keeping the temperatures nice and cool. Verdant forest, imbued with the hue of brilliant springtime green, lined each side of the canyon, a feast for the eyes. Giant, moss covered boulders littered the creek, with strange riparian foliage hugging the banks, providing cover and shelter for creatures too shy to say hello. The farther we ventured up the east fork, the wilder the country, evidence of humanity disappearing with each consecutive step. 

We were able to find the spot to leave the creek and head to Cienega Camp by using our past knowledge of the area. We hadn't brought a GPS, so prior knowledge was crucial. The spot to leave the creek wasn't obvious whatsoever, the orange flagging that once marked the exit point nowhere to be seen. The only thing of note we found was a tiny cairn, two stones high, resting parallel to the exit point. We left the creek, scrambling our way up the side of a small rise, busting through brush to get to the trail that would take us to Cienega.

Good Lord. The trail was in much worse shape than when we did it back in January. Springtime growth had choked much of the trail, making it far more brushy than I had remembered. Add to that head high, unavoidable sections of poison oak and we had our work cut out for us. It had rained the day before, and all of the brush was still soaking wet. The cloud cover had prevented the sun from evaporating the moisture off of the brush, and we were promptly soaked. Shoes: wet. Pants: wet. Shirts: wet. Everything: wet. I had worn jeans thinking that they'd hold up well in a brush battle. They never ripped, but hiking in soaking wet jeans proved to be no fun at all. 

It was a slog to Cienega. Even with our past knowledge of the route we still lost the trail a few times, the new growth making navigation slightly annoying. There was no sign of anyone having been up there for a long time, no footprints to follow, no broken branches or bent brush. We took our time, eyes fixed on the ground, paying very close attention to the faint trail as it snaked its way through clumps of ceanothus and poison oak. 

Cienega Camp

We eventually stumbled out of the brush and into Cienega. Someone had cleaned up the place, fixing the benches and fire pit and grill and whatnot. It was in much better shape than when we had seen it back in January. We took a seat on the iconic table next to the oak tree and took a long break. I ate some bars, Carl ate more sausage biscuits and had another smoke. The clouds were in thick now, stretching across the sky. Santa Paula Peak was obscured in the clouds. And, to my dismay, the ridge up to Bluff Camp was obscured as well. Damn. That would make navigation difficult. Wandering through brush up a steep ridge to an abandoned camp in the fog would be a tricky feat. No view, no visibility. We'd have to be extra diligent. 

We sat for a while, mentally preparing for the next stretch. We knew this would be the hardest part of the day, and, not having any beta on the route, had no idea how bad the brush would be. Doubt creeped into my mind. But I let it pass. I was too busy shivering to be focused on failure. The temps had dropped, the clouds were gray, and my soaking wet jeans weren't making me any warmer. Time to get up and get moving. And so we did.

We knew we had to go in a straight line, pretty much directly north from Cienega, to get to Bluff Camp. So that's what we did. We followed the faint trail out of Cienega until it pretty much disappeared, only the slightest indentation in the earth noting its existence. We went through brush, found many animal trails, but each one of them took us to nearly impenetrable brush. This was not looking good. If we couldn't find the trail, it was clear that we weren't gonna make it to Bluff Camp. 

Just when I thought we were out of luck, I caught sight of some pink flagging. Hallelujah! We scurried towards it, looked around, found no evidence of a trail. But that was OK. The flagging meant that somebody had been there before, perhaps they knew the way. We went straight, looking for signs of humanity. And then—aha—I spotted a cairn on top of a boulder sticking out of the brush. I made my way towards it, telling Carl that I'd found something. And, sure enough, right beneath this boulder existed the remnants of a trail. A really old and brushy trail, but a trail nonetheless. My confidence surged. We might actually pull this off. 

Ahh, what a ridge. We'd follow the trail, look for cairns, our concentration sharp, our minds nothing but shear focus. But then the trail would disappear and we'd find ourselves in a sea of brush. Chamise, yerba santa, scrub oak, yucca, laurel sumac, ceanothus; it was all there, all of it head high or taller, all of it soaking wet and dripping with moisture. We became enveloped in the perfume of the chaparral, the brush scrubbing us clean like a giant, natural washing machine. It was a battle for sure, but we kept at it, straining our necks over the brush to look for flagging or cairns. And we'd see 'em, sticking out of the brush, and we'd fight our way over to 'em, hoping that they indicated relief. Sometimes they did, and that was great. The trail would reappear and it was back to fairly smooth sailing. Other times they didn't, often just serving as a waypoint, and we were back to slogging it through the brush. 

On the trail...

Trail sign: note the singular rock to the right of Carl

I knew we had to start heading east at some point, but the matter of when was a mystery. Lucky for us, the trail became a little more prominent near the upper portions of the ridge. We found us some switchbacks, a few cairns placed hear and there, and sure enough—the trail started heading east. We rounded a corner, marked by a small cairn, and then continued north. 

This is where things got interesting. The brush wasn't nearly as bad in this area (at least, not yet), but we had now entered the realm of the clouds. Couldn't see no more than 50ft in all directions. The temperature had dropped significantly, and walking uphill was no longer enough to keep us warm. I started losing sensation in my hands, my teeth starting to chatter. And just for the fun of it, the clouds unleashed a faint drizzle. Not that it would matter much, we were already soaked through from our battle with the brush. The drizzle just served as another annoyance, another obstacle to infect our minds, crush our spirits, sow the seeds of doubt to prevent us from reaching our destination. 

It was slow work; we had to be extra tedious. The trail was almost imperceptible. The brush wasn't too bad, but figuring out where to go was the tricky part. The drizzly fog didn't help at all. I started bending twigs and sticks as markers for our way back. Wouldn't want to get lost, especially in that weather.

With diligence and focus we were able to follow the trail until it lead to a point: on one side the land rose up steeply, almost like a cliff, and on the other was an open gray void of clouds. We were getting close. We'd follow the side of this "cliff" until it took us to Bluff Camp. Unfortunately, this last little section proved to be the worst part of the day. 

The poison oak was back, head high and unavoidable. Sections of trail were so choked with brush that they became nigh impassable, forcing us to skirt around and find another way. Progress was exceedingly slow, mostly from shear exhaustion. We had been hiking for over five hours, and we still had a long way to go for our return. I looked at Carl and asked him when he wanted to call it. He said, "I'm following you, but if you want to turn around I won't mind." Yep. That meant we had to call it soon. I said "Let's hike for another ten minutes." If we didn't make it in the next ten minutes, well, we'd just have to come back some other day and give it another shot.

I was having trouble gripping the brush to pull it out of the way. My hands were quickly losing feeling. "Jeez" I thought, "how cold is it up here?" And then, after clawing my way through a particularly dense chunk of brush, I saw snow on the ground. That answered my question. It was pretty damn cold. 

We steamrolled through the brush, giving everything we had. And then, suddenly, with no sign or warning, the trail opened up nicely, the ground clear and plain. Huge oak trees and ancient firs rose high overhead, with towering sandstone formations resting on either side of us. Hell yeah. We were close. 

The drizzle picked up to a light, chilly rain, the trees heavy and dripping with moisture. The area was almost completely silent, nothing but the sound of a gentle pitter-patter interrupting the stillness. More snow on the ground, more cold, tons of fog. I started laughing. This was awesome. Miserable, but awesome. 

And then, at long last, there it was: the lonely fire pit, the forgotten shovel, the remnants of the sign destroyed and splintered and swollen and damp. It was Bluff Camp. We had made it. 

Snow Plant

We did not stay long. I threw my pack down, shoved my hands into my armpits, and jumped around. Carl sat down on a log and had another sausage biscuit. The dude kept pulling them out of his pack like he had an endless supply of them. 

There we were, two loons existing in the quiet repose of the legendary camp. Couldn't see much. Everything was soaked in a dense layer of cold, misty clouds. The massive, sheer, moss-covered sandstone formations rose up and away into oblivion. Trees vanished in the fog, only their trunks visible. Numerous canyons beckoned exploration; the whole place exuded a sense of pure wonder and excitement. I had heard many things about this camp; what it looked like, what was there, who had been there, its close proximity to one of the most rugged, wild, and magical places in the entire forest. I had heard these things, pondered these things, and I can honestly say that, hopping around the fire ring with freezing hands and soaking wet jeans, everything said about this camp was true. The place is mystical. Ethereal. Unlike any place I've ever seen.

Lost in the Los Padres

There wasn't much in the camp. Just the fire pit, a couple logs, a few pieces of the broken sign, a shovel with no handle. I found Christopher Lord's register that he'd placed in 2019, but I couldn't open it. Hands were too damn cold. Couldn't get a grip on it. Oh well. These things happen some times. 

We probably stayed no more than five minutes in the camp. We came, we saw, and then we left. If the weather were better (or truthfully, if we had better gear) we would've stayed longer. But the cold was bothersome, and the skies were nothing but gloom. Carl finished up his sausage biscuit, I took a few more pictures, and then we said goodbye. 

We left Bluff Camp in silence. Nothing but the sound of falling rain and the quiet song of a few freezing birds tucked away in the cliffs. The clouds never abated, they never dispersed, they choked the land and sucked away all warmth. I crashed through the brush like a wrecking ball, no longer using my freezing hands to move it out of the way. 

Gravity was on our side. It was much easier going downhill through the brush and we made excellent time. We remained diligent, following the trail of broken sticks and bent branches that I created on the way up. Before we knew it, we were back on the ridge, out of the clouds, the east fork of Santa Paula Creek stretching far and wide before us, the views stretching out to Upper Ojai, Sulphur Mountain, the Santa Ynez Range, and even the tip of Santa Cruz Island. 

We took a more direct route on the way down. We'd follow the trail for a bit, then it would disappear, and then we'd use gravity to our advantage, steamrolling down through the brush until the trail reappeared once more. Eventually, we caught sight of a rock cairn far down the ridge, a little brown stain in a sea of green. We made a beeline to it, caught it, found the trail, and took it the rest of the way down the ridge. It spit us out just above Cienega Camp, near a gargantuan conglomerate boulder. We scaled the boulder, threw down our packs, and took a nice long break. 

The top of the boulder was level with the tops of most of the trees. We sat there for a minute, gazing upon the lush forest spreading out in all directions. I kept thinking how insane it was that none of this burned during the Thomas Fire. It would've been a real shame if it did, the scenery was stunning, absolutely stunning. 

Carl had a smoke and yanked out another sausage biscuit. I nibbled on some trail mix. Carl's gaze was fixed on a formation to the north east, a sheer, purply-brown cliff face with a big ol' crack running through it. Being a climber, Carl was instantly drawn to it the moment it met his gaze. Started talking about how he had to climb it one of these days, haul up the gear, spend a few nights at Cienega, put up a few routes, stuff like that. I mentioned that he'd probably be the first person to ever climb that cliff face, an idea that made the prospect even more alluring. I'm sure he'll be back one day. And if not, it'll definitely hold a place in his memory. 

We packed up our stuff, scurried off the boulder. We walked back through Cienega Camp, took a few more pictures, and then continued with our journey back down to the east fork. The clouds remained, but the weather had warmed a bit. My hands had regained sensation, my body, though still soaked, no longer tense and shivering. We rolled on down to the east fork like it was nothing. Broke through a few patches of poison oak, slipped on a wet log or two, and then we were there—back in the east fork, back in the creek.

Back in the east fork...

 

We were worn but happy, tired but satisfied, our legs spent but our souls fulfilled. We had achieved our goal. Now all that we had to do was get back to the trailhead. And so we bumbled along, no longer caring much about time. We scrambled down boulders, hopped across the creek, avoided some deadfall, found a few animal tracks. As we neared the end of the east fork, the spot where it meets the trail, I picked up a discarded plastic bag and started filling it with little bits of trash. A plastic bottle, an old bandana, a few wrappers, stuff like that. 

We met the trail, a godsend for the legs. We went up the switchbacks and took our longest break of the day at Big Cone. Carl sat on a log and had a smoke, I lay on my back, staring at the sky. A group of young men had set up camp at the first sight, the spot with the discarded ice chest. They had cleaned up the place a bit and were playing catch with a foam football. A few parties passed by, Carl engaging socially and giving directions to the Punch Bowls. We were in tremendously good spirits; the hard part was over. Nothing but smooth, defined, well-marked, brush-free trail lay ahead. We had it in the bag. 

We picked up a whole lotta trash on the way back. Mostly little things, like bottle caps and wrappers and stuff. There were many people on the trail, either coming from or going to the Punch Bowls. We passed one group of about fourteen people, all of them dressed in summer wear, all of them heading to the punch bowls. Families, students, couples, elderly folks, solo travelers, we saw them all. It was a bit strange seeing all these people after a day mostly spent in solitude. A shock to the senses. 

We made it back to the trailhead a little before 5pm. Carl and I hung around for a minute, sent each other some photos, and then parted ways. It had been an excellent day in the sticks, made more interesting with the chilly weather. It was great to finally get out there and see the place for myself, to experience it first-hand. And the best part? No ticks, no rash!