Antimony Peak, Eagle Rest Peak

06/04/25

Ah yes, time for another knee-basher. This one's been on the list for a long time. Two peaks, eleven miles, 5,500ft of elevation gain. Absolutely disgusting. I was wary of trying this for a while, not wanting to attempt it until I got a few other peaks under my belt. Even then, after climbing Cara Blanca, Cobblestone Mountain and White Ledge Peak, I was still wary. I studied the route for a good week, the most work I've ever put into preparing for a route. I read an invaluable trip report by Iron Hiker several times, memorizing every detail no matter how minute. If I was gonna do this, I was gonna do it as quickly and efficiently as possible. 

I awoke the morning of June 4th with a groggy mind and no determination. I did not want to climb these peaks. I knew I had waited too long, I knew the foxtails would be out in full force, I knew the weather would be hot and the brush thick and the grade—hellish. But sometimes you just gotta do things. And so I willed myself out of bed, ate a quick breakfast, and then hit the road. The long drive didn't help settle the nerves. Just gave me more time to stew.

It was a foggy morning, the marine layer stretching almost all the way to Gorman. No longer protected from the sun, the surrounding country beamed with warmth, the sun bombarding the ground with heat and light. I got off the I-5 and turned onto Frazier Mountain Park Rd. I took this all the way to Cuddy Valley Rd, following it until I reached forest route 9N22.

This road was an absolute pain in the neck. Deeply rutted, I barely made it past the worst obstacles. Things mellowed out once I turned left onto 9N19. Hardly any ruts, relatively smooth. It was easy driving the rest of the way to the trailhead. I parked in the shade and observed my first objective of the day, Antimony Peak.

I could see it through the pinyon pines, looming to the north. The summit was almost at eye-level, which meant that I'd have to descend a ways to a saddle before I could climb it. Starting a hike by going downhill is nice, but it ain't so nice on the way back. I left the trailhead and began a steep descent down an abandoned road, keeping in mind that I'd have to climb up all of that nonsense on my return. 

The morning was cool, but I could tell that it wouldn't last long. I enjoyed every second of the lovely early morning weather, walking in the shadows of the pinyon pines, steadily loosing elevation until I reached a saddle. Antimony Peak rose tall overhead, its southeast face glowing bright and white in the morning sunshine. I started up the thing without any hesitation, trudging up the switchbacks, avoiding the occasional patch of yucca.

The trail, which used to be a road, was easy to follow but very steep. All focus shifted to climbing the mountain. Heavy breathing and profuse sweating ensued, but I kept going, refusing to stop. I found a cadence that I could maintain and trucked the rest of the way, enjoying the view of Pine Mountain Club to the west. 

Eagle Rest Peak

Eventually the grade lessened and I found myself on a saddle of sorts; before me was an open patch of country between two forested areas to the west and east. I could now see my second objective, Eagle Rest Peak, sitting to the northwest. It looked distant, hot, uninviting—an absolute pain in the butt to reach. I stopped looking at it for a bit, shifting my focus on summiting Antimony. I turned east and followed a use trail through the scraggily pinyon pines and occasional scrub oak. 

Antimony Summit

I topped out on the summit in no time, the short climb from the saddle obvious and pleasant. I quickly found that Antimony didn't have much of a view, which was OK. What I could see was plenty pretty. Views to the south revealed Mt Pinos and Company, southeast sat Tecuya Ridge, and way off in the distance was Frazier Mountain, the radio tower on its summit tiny but visible. To the east I could see the haze of Bakersfield, the distant mountains obscured in a thick film of translucent vapor. I sat down, rested my legs, allowed my heart rate to return to a more reasonable BPM. Couldn't hear no birds, couldn't hear no bugs. It was quiet up there, just me and the rocks and the foxtails and the pinyon pines. 

I located the register, placed by Christopher Lord on July 5th of 2021. The most recent entry was from April 25th of this year. I left my marks, chugged a bunch of water, and then scurried off the summit. It had taken less time than I had imagined to climb Antimony, which left more time available to tackle Eagle Rest. To be honest I didn't really want to climb Eagle Rest at all, but I'd come all this way and it was still early so I figured hey, what the hell. I returned to the saddle and headed west, into the woods, following a faint use trail that quickly lost elevation. Ah man. No turning back now.

I followed the use trail down the northwest side of Antimony, thinking about nothing but the climb BACK UP THE THING. Yep, the cool aspect of this hike is that there's more elevation gain on the way back than there is on the way in. Easier on the way there, harder on the way out. Gotta love that. 

Pinyon, scrub oak, buckthorn, deadfall—all of it was there but it wasn't awful, at least not yet. The use trail was faint but well marked with cairns; I had little trouble figuring out where to go. And when I did? Well, I developed a little mantra: "When in doubt, just go down!" That seemed to work. I finally reached a saddle after descending for a while, looking up at an additional obstacle I had to surmount. 

Before me was Peak 6000, a little bump that separates Antimony from Eagle Rest. I climbed up the northern face in no time, the brush minimal and the use trail very obvious. I topped out on the sunny summit and took a small break. This peak had poorer views than Antimony, but it was still a nice little mountain. A small cairn marked the summit, no USGS marker, no register, nada. I looked around, saw nothing of particular interest, and then made my way off the summit towards Eagle Rest.

Peak 6000

The descent of Peak 6000 was much more difficult than the ascent. I was on the shady side of the mountain now; more foxtails, more pokey things, more obstacles, less use trail. At times it disappeared altogether, leaving me no choice but to bash my way through thick bunches of scrub oak. My mantra of "when in doubt, just go down!" no longer held much validity, as the way straight down was usually met with impassable brush. Had to be smart about it now, zigzagging and dodging and weaving, had to find the path of least resistance. Common sense and experience with off-trail navigation proved supreme, and I soon found myself out of the brush on an exposed saddle, standing shin-deep in foxtails and covered in pollen, leaves, dirt, and sweat. 

San Emigdio Canyon

I thought that the worst of the brush was over at this point, but nope. Soon after walking through the field of foxtails I was hit with another wall of brush. I did not find the easiest way through that mess. Being too hasty I was, much too focused on getting a quick summit. This cost me precious time and energy, but I did manage to stumble on an old abandoned camp, which was interesting. Cans, bottles, an old stove, and what I assume to be the remnants of a tent and sleeping bag littered the ground, worn and weathered by years of sun and wind and rain and snow. Why anyone would want to camp in the middle of a brushy ridge is beyond me. Perhaps they were looking for gold or something. Who knows.

It wasn't long after finding the old camp when I finally got through the worst of the brush and began the sharp ascent of Eagle Rest. This was the steepest peak of the day, with most of it being exposed to the sun. I made my way as quickly as I could up the thing, sweat drippin', heart poundin' legs achin'. I lost the use trail, now slogging up a steep slope covered with thousands of golden foxtails. Eagle Rest Peak? More like Foxtail Peak. Them little bastards where everywhere, cramming their seeds in every possible nook and cranny in my shoes, socks, and pants. I didn't stop to take any out; would just get more on the way back. So I kept on truckin' slogging my way up the steep slope through the field of foxtails, my feet sinking in the dirt with every other step. 

I reached the cliff band out of breath, heart racing, my legs weighed down by the additional 5,000lbs of foxtails hiding in my shoes and socks. I looked up at a wall of sandstone, steep, crumbly, dotted with manzanita here and there. According to the existing literature, the way up this cliff band should be no harder than Class 3. Unfortunately, I had lost the use trail, and resorted to scanning the cliff band for the easiest way up. Most of it was Class 5, some of it was sketchy Class 4. I shimmied on up the cliffs, pressing myself against the sandstone, the manzanita serving as a buffer to the drop-off. I eventually found something that could be defined as Class 3, a short little climb with good holds and little exposure. With that done, I could now see the summit block. It was close, no more than 500ft away. I slowly made my way to it, climbing up a very steep slope, using the occasional chaparral to hoist me onward. 

I stopped just east of the summit block, noticing a little register under a rock. I set down my pack and scurried up some Class 2/3 nonsense to get on top of the block. I had to wrap around the north side as I was unable to find an easy way from the east. As I made my way around, I noticed another register with a skull and crossbones on it hiding under the summit block. Huh. Two registers? I'd have to check that out on my way down.

The summit block was easier to climb than the way I took to surmount the cliff band. I scurried up the thing with little issue, standing on the airy summit and taking in the impressive views of the surrounding country. Man, I sure didn't find the easiest way up that mountain. But hey, it worked out and I'd made it. Even though I'd only walked about 5.5 miles, it felt as though I was deep in the woods, standing on a remote mountaintop in the middle of nowhere. To the north was the hazy expanse of the San Joaquin Valley, to the west rose San Emigdio Mountain, tall and rugged. East revealed Lost Canyon and distant mountains of which I am unfamiliar. And south, well, I didn't much like the view south. Looking south revealed all of what I had left to hike; all the thorns, sticks, twigs, foxtails, scrub oak, manzanita, all the gains and losses in elevation, the steep descents, the steeper ascents. Ahh man. The real hike was just getting started.

East

West

I left the summit block and checked out the register with the skull and crossbones on it. Turns out the crossbones were actually ice axes—real creative stuff right there. Would shiver Blackbeard right to the timbers I tell yah. Anyway, as soon as I opened it, about 100 earwigs spilled out of the thing, squirming and twirling around in the dirt. I let out a gasp, a little shocked by the unexpected insect rave. I brushed away a few of 'em to sign my name. The last person to sign it visited May 19th of this year. I didn't check to see when it was placed. Too grossed out by the earwigs. I put the register back and made my way over to the other one, hoping that that one was insect-free.

Praise be to the Most High, the thing was devoid of all insects. The booklet was in far better condition than the other, almost looking brand new despite being placed May 13th of 2017. The most recent entry was from May 5th of 2021. Not a whole lotta signatures in between; I suppose the other register is the more popular of the two. Why this peak has two registers is a mystery to me. I didn't think about it much though, I had bigger fish to fry. I left my signature, guzzled down some water, and then made my way off the summit. I hadn't spent more than ten minutes there. Needed to beat the heat. Wouldn't want to be slogging it up Antimony during the hottest part of the day, you know?

What? Two Registers?

The way back...

Back down the cliff band, back through the field of foxtails, back through the brush. I took a slightly different path on the return yet still managed to stumble upon that ol' camp. I guess it wasn't as different as I thought. 

I crawled on my hands and knees at points, tunneling through the only available space in an otherwise impenetrable wall of scrub oak. At other times it was easy-peasy, just dodging and weaving, moving through the brush like water through a canyon. As I made my way to the base of Peak 6000, I mentally broke up the hike back to the car in three big chunks: the climb up Peak 6000, the climb up Antimony, and then the climb back up to the car. First up was the climb up Peak 6000, which I was expecting to be the worst of the day what with all the brush and whatnot. I stopped in the shade, took a breather, ate a tangerine, and then began the bushwhack up to the summit. 

On the way up Peak 6000

The climb up Peak 6000 just plain sucked, simple as that. Wasn't particularly hard, wasn't particularly scary. It just sucked. I had left some arrows in the dirt that I'd made out of broken twigs; these helped ease the navigation a little bit. Figured it would be a little harder finding the path of least resistance on the way up since I no longer had gravity on my side. Turns out I was right; thank goodness I left those arrows 'cause I would've had a far less efficient time going up had they not been there.

I topped out on the summit, tired and sweaty but glad to be finished with that nonsense. There were a few holes in my shirt that weren't there earlier that morning but ehh, whaddayah gonna do. I sat for a bit, removing some of the more pernicious foxtails from my socks. There was a yellow-bellied horny toad basking in the sunlight on a rock, eyes closed, not a care in the world. I caught the guy. Didn't put up much of a fight. Kind of just sat there limp in my hand, indifferent. It wasn't until I tried to flip him over to look at his belly when he put up a fuss. Squirmed right out of my hand and darted off into the bushes, never to be seen again.

I left the summit, staring at Antimony the entire way down. I knew this next chunk would be, as David Stillman once put it, "a recipe for suffering." I knew it wouldn't be as brushy as the backside of Peak 6000. But man was it steeper. Much steeper. I'd just have to put my head down and trudge my way up the thing. So that's exactly what I did.

Lost Canyon

I took one break on my way up, a quick tangerine refueling session. Other than that, it was just a long, hot, steep slog up a partially shaded slope. For some reason, I didn't find it to be as bad as I thought it would be. I can deal with steep. I eat steep for breakfast. Peak 6000 was much worse in my opinion. Iron Hiker was right; that definitely was the crux of the route. 

Once at the saddle, I knew that I was almost home free. I took one last look at Eagle Rest, shocked that I'd actually climbed the thing. I waved goodbye and made my way back down the steep road, stopping every now and then to enjoy the view of Pine Mountain Club to the west. 

Antimony ore?

The rest of the way back was uneventful, just a long, relatively steep trek back to the car. Not much shade, not much relief, but at least I wasn't hikin' during the hottest part of the day. On my way up, I stumbled across a bunch of rocks that were shining in the afternoon sunlight, something that I hadn't noticed on the way in. They looked to be full of antimony ore, but I ain't no geologist so I couldn't be sure. Them's sure was pretty in the sun though, all shiny and sparkly. I admired these lustrous rocks for a minute, taking a few pictures and whatnot. Then it was back to the grind, back to the hike, back to putting one foot in front of the other until finally reaching the car.

The whole ordeal took a little over 5½ hours, but it felt much longer. My legs were spent, I was covered in srcapes and scratches, my face caked with a thin, salty crust from sweat that had long since dried. Yup, it had been a good un alright. Another excellent day in the sticks. 

Cuddy Valley, Mt Pinos (Iwihinmu)

Since I'd finished much earlier than expected, I decided to drive around the land for a little bit, see the ol' sights, maybe grab a bite to eat. I drove back down the road, back across the devious ruts, my tires spinning out from under me. Down Cuddy Valley Rd, down into the valley, down into Pine Mountain Club. I stopped at La Leña and had me a chile relleno and enchilada combo. Stuff was damn good. Ate the whole thing in 2 seconds. 

After that I decided to drive up to Marion Campground, just to see what was up. Hadn't been there in a fat minute though, so I messed up with the directions and took the wrong dirt road and ended up on top of San Emigdio Mountain instead. Not that I was disappointed; before me stretched a magnificent view of all three peaks that I'd climbed earlier that day. I sat there for a good half hour, staring at the view, studying the peaks that I'd just climbed, watching the puffy clouds move lazily over Bakersfield, observing the crows ducking and diving in the wind. It had been a good day, an efficient day, a day that I wouldn't have any other way. Except for those foxtails. I'd change that in a heartbeat. To this day, I'm still pulling those little miscreants out of my shoes. It's a Sisyphean task. No matter how many I remove, there's always more to be found.