05/28/25
There's a land out there, a strange land, a land of rock and wind and brush and pines. What is it? Mountains? Desert? Both? Yeah, a bit of both. Sandstone and chaparral define the landscape, but the pines are what make it interesting. Big, tall, old, weathered—these pines are just as comfortable living in this weird environment as the rest of the hardy flora. They inhabit the valleys, carpeting the ground with a nice layer of pine needles. They're sprinkled on the northern slopes of the mountains, green and skinny and smelling of vanilla. They've been there a while and they'll stay there a while; such is the way of the pine tree. Why they chose to live in such a rugged and rocky land is beyond me. Perhaps they know something we don't.
Within this strange land is a man-made structure, a structure as weird and out-of-place as the pines. Built nearly one hundred years ago, it's a miracle that the thing is still standing. It's one of the last remaining fire lookout towers in the Los Padres, and perhaps the ONLY one that still has the original wooden structure still intact. I've visited the thing a few times in the past, and each time it was in a more advanced stage of decay. Hadn't been up to check on it since 2022, so it was high time for a return. Had to see if it was still alive and well.
Kellin and I had thought about a trip to this tower for a good month. It started in an ambitious manner, each of us wanting to haul up a bunch of cookware to make a tremendous feast. Pots, pans, fuel, canned goods, and a Coleman stove. As the trip deadline grew closer, we realized that this would probably be a very silly thing to do. The route to the top is steep, our packs would be obscenely heavy. So we settled on bringing all the fixings for quesadillas instead. Quesadillas and a couple of gallons of water. There ain't no water up there. Had to haul it up ourselves.
We drove fast, hit the bumps, knocked a few wires loose. A long dust cloud spilled out the back of the truck, hanging in the air for a few moments before disappearing altogether. The road was closed at the junction for Thorn Meadows, which meant that we had to walk an additional 1.5 miles to the trailhead. We got out, donned our water-laden packs, and then set off in the late morning heat.
Our destination, Thorn Point, loomed overhead, rising a couple thousand feet into a cloud-streaked sky. We crossed some water, noticed the road damage near the Cedar Creek trailhead. It looked like the road had become a small river, much like forest route 5N13.2 up Murietta Canyon. I couldn't see any recent progress, no construction or nothin'. The thing probably ain't gonna be fixed anytime soon. Just a hunch.
We took a small break at Thorn Meadows, taking off our packs and sweating in the still heat. The shot-up outhouse was no longer there, long since destroyed from too many bullet holes I imagine. The ol' cabin was still standing, but we didn't investigate. A small "keep out" sign was reason enough to not go inside what looked like a giant hantavirus incubator. After we had our fill of the sights and sounds, we geared up, drank some more water, and then began the short but steep walk to the summit.
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| Snow Plant |
Walkin' and talkin', talkin' and walkin'. We walked through the ferns and the deadfall, talked as our footsteps crunched on the carpet of pine needles. The first little bit of the hike was the only spot to do this; the trail is gentle at first, slowly making its way up, winding through a peaceful little valley of few sounds and much beauty. But just as you start enjoying yourself the trail smacks you in the face, and soon you're slogging up steep switchbacks with little relief. The walkin' continued, but the talkin' stopped altogether. Too busy suckin' wind.
We took a few breaks on the way up, stopping in the shade of the pines and observing the puzzle-piece latticework of their bark. We stood there sweating, not wanting to take off our packs again and again and again. The heat was there, but it wasn't unbearable thanks to the clouds. Stretching wide across the sky in a big, patchy, gray haze, they spared us from the angry sun.
Putting one foot in front of the other was the name of the game, walking steady and slow up one switch back to the next and the next and the next. The lookout tower eventually came into view, close but still far, and we kept going, more switchbacks, more up. Kellin's legs started cramping near the top. Couldn't keep 'em straight. Had to walk with a bend in his step. But that's alright. We were almost there, we were close now, we could see it there, no more than 100ft away—could see the sun-batterd wood and the glassy windows and the roof that was slowly falling apart. We walked under some scrub oak, rounded a corner and BAM—there it was, still alive, still standing in spite of nearly a century of wind and rain and cold and heat and snow.
We immediately set up our hammocks on the posts that support the tower. Then came the customary rifling through the multiple registers and whatnot, reading reports from those who had visited the tower in the past. Then came the looking and poking around, observing the condition of the tower and such. Less stuff was inside than I remembered from the last time I was up there. Just the springy bed, the water tank, the old oven, the cupboards and drawers. The door had been fixed, which was nice. And the ceiling was supported by a skinny little metal pipe. How long that pipe can hold the ceiling I don't know. Looks like the whole thing's gonna come down at some point. That pipe is the only thing keeping it all together.
Kellin returned to his hammock and fell asleep. I looked around for a bit, climbed a few of the sandstone boulders that dotted the summit. I set up shop on a small boulder northwest of the tower and sat there and read for a few hours. A light breeze had picked up, gently rustling the pines. I put the book down and laid on the boulder and promptly passed out, the scenery far too relaxing for my senses. I awoke an hour later, my whole being feeling much better than it did when we first got to the tower. Never underestimate the power of a nap!
We got situated, changing into evening attire, and started cookin' up the quesadillas. Tortillas, chicken, jalepeños, olives, and a whole lotta cheese. I somehow managed to eat an entire bag of cheese all by myself. Don't think I'll ever do that again. Far too much cheese.
Our feast complete, we moseyed on over to a rockier section of the summit that I had discovered on one of my previous visits. We sat there on the rocks for a bit, gifted with insane views of the Sespe Wilderness to the south and west. Hines Peak, the Topatopa bluffs, Chief Peak, and Nordhoff Ridge were well in view, rising sharp and high and blocking the marine layer from penetrating any farther into the wilderness. Piedra Blanca sat far below, the massive sandstone formations looking like little pebbles in a sea of green chaparral. The sun continued its slow free-fall out of the sky, growing calm and orange in the process. Soon it would vanish behind the horizon altogether. We had to get back to the tower before that happened. Had to see the sunset up there. It's required.
We climbed the narrow steps to the top the the tower, the wood platform creaking and crunching under each step. We posted on the western side, watching the orange fireball slowly disappear behind the high peaks of the Los Padres. Cedar Peak was there, and so was Haddock and Reyes Peak. Even Samon Peak could be seen, wayyy out in the west, rising like a giant shark fin out of the haze.
The whole area took on a different vibe as it was washed in the orange and purple light of the setting sun. Darker, calmer, more mellow, more peaceful. The breeze had picked up even more, no longer a breeze, but a gentle wind. The pine trees swayed in the wind, filling the air with a constant WHOOSHING sound. The light danced across the thousands of canyons in the Cuyama Badlands, seemingly evaporating away like water spilled on sand. Soon all light had escaped the canyons, now only illuminated by the faint luminescence of twilight.
More whooshing, more wind. The mountains were dark, the valleys darker. Lights began to spring up in the north, no doubt the residences of Lockwood Valley and whatnot. The sun gone, the wind blowing, the light fading, it was time to go. We took a few more pictures and then carefully climbed back down the steep stairs, back to the hammocks, back to the ground.
We sat around the improvised fire pit. There was plenty of wood, the pit was deep, and it was mostly blocked from the wind. We made a small fire, huddling around as the temperatures significantly dropped. Ahh, gotta love the high desert. Super hot in the day, super cold at night. That's just the way it goes.
We didn't keep the fire going for long. Much too tired. We returned to our hammocks and promptly called it a night. The temps kept dropping, the wind getting stronger. Must've been 30mph gusts. It was roaring up there, blowing our hammocks from side to side, the trees whooshing, the dust zooming, the rocks and twigs and pine needles constantly rearranging themselves. And it was like that the whole dang night. Didn't get much sleep. That's just the way it goes.
The moon was a thin crescent hovering in the sky to the west, seemingly unaffected by the chaos of the wind. The stars shone bright and peaceful, not a care in the world. Rocking around in the wind, I got this idea at around 4am to get out of my hammock and watch the sunrise. It would be cool to see it rising out there, illuminating Cobblestone Mountain and the eastern Sespe. But it was too dang cold and too dang windy and I was too dang tired. I rolled around in my hammock and finally managed to get some rest just before 5am, completely missing the sunrise. Ahh well. I'll have to do that some other time I suppose.
The wind was still roaring in the morning, unrelenting, unstoppable. We didn't even have breakfast. Just packed up our things and got out of there. We waved goodbye to the tower and quickly made our way off the wind-blasted summit, hoping that the rest of the day wouldn't be as windy.
Sure enough, as soon as we left the summit, the wind all but disappeared. Ahh, how nice. The pines were still whooshin' and swooshin' overhead, but the wind was gone. We zoomed down the trail, our packs light as a feather. No more water, no more food. It was easy walkin' down that trail. If only it was that easy on the way up.
We made it back to the truck in about half as much time as it took us to get up to the tower the day prior. Kellin started 'er up and we drove around for a bit, checking the condition of the road out to the Johnston Ridge Trailhead. We didn't see anything as bad as the damage by Cedar Creek, but the road was still rough in parts. Getting a 2wd vehicle back there would be mighty interesting.
After we had our look around, we headed back, driving back up the road to civilization. On our way back, we met a guy who was herding his goats. He had seven of 'em, and they all had collars. The guy was lean and lanky with a scraggly beard and a permanent tan. He didn't really know where he was going, something about "that camp up there." I mentioned Pine Springs and he said "Yeah, that one I guess." We talked for a minute, the conversation limited and strange. One of his goats crawled under Kellin's truck. The goat man dragged it back out. We left shortly after that. There was nothing more to say.
We drove back into town, noticing that the same guy we had seen yesterday was still parked at gate. Even more odd was that there was no trailer or any other vehicle to be seen. Where had the goat man come from? Who knows.
This other guy was another enigma. He had sat there all day yesterday and all of the morning, just sitting there, staring into space. We later saw him driving on the road back to Santa Clarita. Perhaps he was just meditating. Perhaps not. These are mysteries that will never be solved. And that's ok; they make life interesting.
And that about sums up the Thorn Point overnighter. It's always a good time up there; it's such a unique area. I've never encountered another place on this planet quite like it. I've been up there five times now, and I'm still not sick of it. There's always something new to see each time I go up to that gnarly ol' lookout tower. It's an amazing place, one that I hope continues to stand the test of time. Lot of history in that tower. It'll be a sad day if it ever collapses.
