Gettin' Sunburnt on Tecuya Mountain

 02/26/26

I was quite sore in the morning. The previous day's speed march up Montecito Peak and Gaviota Peak really did a number on my already tired legs, prompting my brain to suggest a day's worth of total sloth. But there's always something to do and I was darn well gonna do it so I decided to set off on another adventure, defying my body's best interests.

Liam picked me up at my Uncle's place, the two of us driving down into Ventura to meet up with Daniel. We switched cars, Daniel driving up Highway 126 to the I-5, bound for good ol' Frazier Park. When we arrived at said destination we drove straight through town, taking note of various points of interest. Ahh yes, there's Big John's. And over there is the Ace Hardware store. Caveman Cavey's? Oh yeah. Real good pizza right there. This fantastic sightseeing tour lasted until we reached Fire Station 23, where we made a right onto West End Drive, parking next to the closed gate. We got out, looked around, and then immediately began walking, 

Our goal, Tecuya Mountain, rose ahead of us somewhere. Like the day before, I had done absolutely zero research on this mountain; all I knew was that you could drive to the top, but who wants to do that? Plus it was still technically winter, so all the gates were closed anyway so even if we wanted to drive up to the top we couldn't. That left us with walking, and walk we did, bringing nothing but the clothes on our backs and the shoes on our feet. No water, no hat, no sunscreen. Yep. We was gonna get burnt all right.

We followed the road, making a slight left at one point. Liam commented on how dead the place looked. Daniel sarcastically said how awesome it was. The two of them were hiking up in leather cowboy boots, a likely reason for these disconsolate remarks. With tule fog blowing up from Lebec, the breeze light and the sun happy we pressed on, the road narrowing the farther we went. We hit a metal fixture of sorts. Crossed it. No more road. Just a single track path now, dirt bike tracks visible in the mud, patchy snow in the shade, soft green grass under the trees. Only one way to go. Onward and upward. 

We took a few breaks, removed our shirts. Daniel discovered that wiping snow on the chest and back was actually quite pleasant. We all did this for a while, walking uphill, wiping snow on our skin, the UV rays hitting hard, a slight burn beginning to materialize. I put my shirt back on. Didn't wanna damage my skin again. Been there, done that. Too bad I didn't have a shirt for my face. Oh well.

We hit a junction, made a hard right up a steep ridge and followed it the rest of the way to the summit. A little slip here, an achin' leg there. We each took turns leading the pack, Daniel removing his pants at some point. "Too tight" he said. Couldn't get enough movement apparently. And so he walked on up the mountain in nothing but cowboy boots and underwear, his pants and shirt slung over his shoulders like a damsel in distress.

After a particularly steep section we stopped hiking and sat on down and rested a bit, the sun slowly cooking our skin, the surrounding landscape coming into view. Frazier Mountain rose to the south, its northern flank still covered with a fair amount of sparkly snow. Off to the southwest sat Lockwood Valley, Thorn Point and Company visible in the distance. And to the southeast sprawled Frazier Park, the buildings tiny, the I-5 a small line cutting across the land. Good views, good sky. Couldn't stay there too long though. Had a mountain to climb. So we got up, stretched the legs, and pressed on, the summit soon coming into view. 

Tecuya Mountain Summit

Cool summit art

I tried carrying Daniel up the final push to the summit. I probably made it 50ft before giving up. Very embarrassing. I'd have to redeem myself later. While this was going on, Liam had taken the liberty of removing his trousers, preferring to hike in his running shorts. What a strange sight we must have been reaching that summit. Good thing we were the only ones there. 

The views at the top were pretty good to say the least, good enough that even Liam and Daniel had positive things to say about them. "Yeah, I guess it's alright." "Yep." "Pretty good." Stuff like that. Mt. Pinos and Company rose to the west, still covered in snow, still lookin' great as always. San Emigdio Mountain could be seen hiding in the distance, Antimony Peak a small forested bump bracing the tule fog pouring in from the north. Frazier Park looked smaller than ever, the Flying J truck stop a tiny, unassuming cube with even smaller cubes spread out around it. We sat down on a log and reaped the benefits of our labor, Liam and Daniel finally donning their shirts and pants. 

Tule Fog

Frazier Park

Mt Pinos and Company

I got up and walked around, finding the neon green register hiding under some metamorphic rocks. The booklet inside was brand new, just recently placed on July 20th, 2025. There were only a few entries since then, the most recent one signed February 1st of this year. We passed the booklet around, made our marks, and then decided to check out the northern side of the mountain. Descending a bit, we entered a patchy forest of Jeffery Pines, shooting for an opening that we thought would offer good views of the tule fog to the north. Alas, the views were just ok. Just saw much of what we had already seen. So we trudged on back to the summit, taking another few minutes to enjoy the day before heading back to the car. 

Headin' back...

Down, down, down, our faces burnt, our legs tired. We reached the junction, walked on down the single track. Found a large yucca branch. Took turns throwing it as far as we could. Daniel made a pit stop, Liam and I laid flat on our backs in the sun, our faces slowly transitioning from medium rare to medium well. And then we grouped up again and trucked on down to the car, started 'er up, rolled the windows down and screamed "Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound" all the way down the road. 

We tuned right, drove into PMC. Stopped at La Leña. Excellent food. Drove to Fern lake. Ain't no fish in there to be seen. And then we drove around town, no particular destination in mind. We pulled off the side of Freeman Drive and had an impromptu snowball fight that lasted longer than expected. And there was a steep hill and Daniel said, "I bet you can't carry me up that hill" and I said "yes I absolutely can, 100%" and he said "no you can't" and I said, "yes I can" and then he hopped on my back and I walked up the stupid hill all the way past the stupid stop sign and then collapsed on the stupid ground and Daniel laughed and I felt a simultaneous sense of accomplishment and regret. And then we all realized that we were dying of thirst so we drove on down to the General Store and got us some water and then we drove on out of there, off to the I-5, onto the 126, all the way back to Ventura.

And then Liam and I said goodby to Daniel for the moment and drove on over to the Downtown area where we met up with Nick and Bryan and a whole bunch of strangers for a running club. And of course we went wayy too fast and were soon drenched in sweat and my legs were crampin' and when we finished I was about done for the day And then we walked on up to Dargan's and met up with Daniel once again and had a few pints and that about ended the day. 

Friday was a rest day; didn't do nothin' stupid that would jack up my legs even more than they already were. And on Saturday I said goodbye to California and drove all the way into Utah to begin my new job. I've been training these past few days, gettin' to know the ropes and such. So far all has been well; nothin' but good weather and good folks and good times. Still trying to figure out what it is I'm gonna do on my days off. Whatever it is, I'll be sure to write about it. 

Time Crunch on Montecito Peak, Gaviota Peak

02/25/26

A whole assortment of menial, boring errands ate up the next couple of days after the half marathon. Necessary car maintenance, a tax appointment, stuff like that. As such, I only had three more days to explore, socialize, observe, contemplate. Had to get out there and see the sticks, touch some dirt. Wanted to see some place I ain't ever been, so I decided to check out Montecito Peak in the Santa Barbara front country. 

Not wanting to do something terrific that would destroy my already tender legs, Montecito Peak seemed like the perfect idea. I had spent the night at Liam's place, leaving somewhat late the next morning for the Cold Spring Trailhead off of East Mountain Drive. Not a whole lot of people were parked in the pullouts along the road. Perhaps that's what it's always like on a late Wednesday morning in February. I found a spot, parked the car, packed up my valuables, grabbed half a liter of water, and then set off on the trail.

Warm air, cool breeze, rushing water, green grass, miner's lettuce, purple flowers. Everything green and bright; looked more like April than February. I walked along, enjoying the phenomenal weather and lush scenery. Gaining elevation, the views began to materialize, as well as the sweat. Sweat on my head, sweat on my back. Before long, I was nice and soaked, my mind racked with flashbacks of all those times I trudged up Arlington Peak without enough water. Ah yes. The good ol' Santa Barbara front country. It was good to be back. 

I hit a junction with the Ridge Trail (or something like that, I wasn't paying much attention), hooked a left, and continued up to the peak. I could see it clearly now, a brushy, pointy lookin' summit that stood not too far off in the distance. I saw the trail cutting across the mountain, taking the long way. I considered cutting the trail and just going straight up the south ridge, but I'm a lazy bum and a trail purist so I put one foot in front of the other and kept on trucking up the path. 

I passed some young folks making their way up; they seemed to be enjoying themselves, talking about everything and everything. I kept on walking and walking, not stopping until I found some shade in a small group of eucalyptus trees. I chugged my water, sat for a bit, and then carried on, the peak getting closer with every step.

Before long, I reached a junction with a well-worn and obvious use trail that branched off towards the peak. A short and steep moment later I was staring up at the pointy summit, the trail directly ascending its northern side. I continued along, smaller use trails branching off from the main one in a few directions, all of which were viable options (although a tad brushy). The grade eventually mellowed out and the trail wound its way to the east of the summit before wrapping around south and spitting me out on top. 

Montecito Peak

Montecito Peak Summit

No register, no benchmark to be found (although I'll admit I didn't look too hard). A small gravestone was placed on the summit; didn't read it, didn't look at it. The views were much better a bit farther to the south, so I waved a slight wave to the summit and went off in that direction. A short while later and I was sitting on top of a bunch of sandstone boulders, staring at some of the best views of Santa Barbara and the Channel Islands I've ever seen.

Nice skies, crystal blue water, mild haze, green country, shining city. Close enough to see civilization, far enough to be deaf to its existence. Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, and San Miguel all within frame, all of them obscure, isolated, mysterious. Oil rigs in the channel, a boat here and there, microscopic cars moving like blood cells through a vein on the 101 freeway, clouds in the air moving slower than a stoned sloth, sunshine, fresh air and the mighty Pacific, all there before my eyes, blazing the scene upon my overstimulated retinas. I forgot how good the views are in the Santa Ynez Range. On a good day, they're truly something else. 

The young people reached the summit; their muffled voices and footsteps breaking the silence. They didn't stay too long, just long enough for a few pictures, a snack and some light conversation. They packed up and left, and so did I, slowly making my way through the light brush back to the use trail. I took one last look at the gorgeous view, said my goodbyes, and then trotted off the summit. 

The young folks were taking their time on the way down. I became impatient almost immediately and took one of the side routes, zig-zagging down the the mountain until meeting up with the main use trail. It spit me out at the junction, which meant it was back to trukin'. I skipped and hopped on the downhill, walking occasionally to save my wobbly knees. There was a woman with eight or nine dogs resting at the eucalyptus trees, all of them leashless, all of them extremely well-behaved. Down, down, down, the sun in my face, my water supply holding steady, the lighting and the scenery growing better and better as the day wore on.

I reached the junction with the Ridge Trail (or whatever it was called) and decided to follow it the rest of the way down. Part of me thought that it would save me some distance, but really I was just curious to see what it had to offer. And offer it did. About halfway down I nearly stepped on a big ol' gopher snake sunbathing in the middle of the trail. I looked at it and it at me and then it slithered away into the bushes, quite vexed at having its sunbathing session so rudely interrupted. I trotted the rest of the way, finishing the whole hike in a little over three hours.

Three hours was much longer than I thought it would take. Oh well. That's what happens when you do zero research on a route. For some reason, I thought the hike was only 2.5 miles. It was closer to 7. Oopsie. Now I had to make a decision: bag another peak or relax and grab a bite to eat in town. I had to meet my Dad for dinner at 5:30pm, which was four hours away. The closest peak of interest, Gaviota Peak, was about 40 minutes away, the hike to the summit a fairly steep 6 mile roundtrip hike. I'd have to be finished with the peak by 4pm, 4:15 at the latest in order to make it to dinner on time. It was currently 1:05pm. I'd have to climb the whole thing, up and down, in 2 hours. Oooh brother. This would be close.

The wise choice would've been to relax and grab a bite to eat, maybe even go to the beach and read a book, but of course I didn't do that. I like me a good challenge, and the time crunch made it all the more exciting. I jumped in my car, started 'er up, and drove straight to the trailhead for Gaviota Peak. Only two cars were there, one of which was a parks service vehicle. Not wanting to be an easy ticket, I reluctantly payed the $2 parking fee in quarters, dropping the envelope in the little metal box by the trailhead. And then it was on!

Heading up to Gaviota Peak...

I began the thing at an easy jog, which was a mistake. I jogged and walked, jogged and walked, following the wide dirt road up and up and up through a forest of typical Southern Californian foliage. I payed no mind to the trail for the hot springs; didn't have no time to see those today. Just kept on jogging and walking, jogging and walking, down a little bit and then up and up and up pretty much the whole rest of the way to the summit.

My legs were on fire, my heart felt like it was gonna jump out of my neck. I was completely drenched in sweat, big fat globs of it plopping on my sunglasses ever minute or so. I took them off, wiped 'em on my shirt, and kept going. I was panting like an overworked sled dog, my breath heavy and labored. I started dry heaving and then I was like, "hey, this is completely optional by the way" and I sat flat on the ground and took a five minute break, just enough to get my heart rate back to a more agreeable rhythm. 

I didn't jog anymore after that. No sir. Just found my groove and kept on walking up the dirt road, up and up, until it finally reached the summit ridge. I pushed onward, kicked it into another gear, and finished up the last little push to the summit in no time. 

Last bit to the top

Gaviota Peak Summit

It had taken me a little over an hour and ten minutes to get to the summit. No time for dilly-dallying. I took a few pictures, a little tinkle, and then immediately started heading back. It was windy up there anyway, and my soaking wet shirt didn't help much in making me comfortable. So I trotted on down, taking a few more pictures of the Pacific Ocean and Santa Cruz Island in the distance.

Headin' back...

I jogged until my legs screamed "no thank you" and relegated me to walking for the rest of the afternoon. A few others were making their way up, all of them much more relaxed and a heck of a lot less sweaty than me. Down the road, down the curves, through the green, across the mud, under the oaks with the Spanish moss, past the poppies, past the miner's lettuce, down down down. I reached the parking lot. There were a lot more cars there now, with no parks service vehicle to be seen. I walked up to my car. Threw my bag in the back. Downed some electrolytes. Sat down. It was 3:52pm. Hahaha. I had time to spare.

The drive back into town was uneventful. Typical Santa Barbara traffic didn't surprise me one bit. I took Highway 150, stopping at an overlook of Lake Casitas to stretch my angry legs. Met up with my Dad at Boccali's. Had me the pasta primavera. 'Twas very good. My hamstring only cramped up once during dinner, which was nice. Coulda cramped up a thousand times. Always gotta look on the bright side, you know? 

Mt. Magazine and the Long Drive West

Those meteorologists weren't joking. The fabled storm came and went, leaving behind snow and ice and slick roads and a wall of cold air that never seemed to go away. Our area avoided the worst of it, thank goodness, but the lingering cold and snow reminded us that yes, it was still winter and yes, it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Cooped up inside, I began surfing the net out of boredom, searching for nothing in particular, just trying to pass the time. Well, wouldn't you know it, I found me a seasonal job that was hiring out west and by some twist of fate actually managed to get myself employed. Very exciting news indeed. So I packed up my things, said goodbye to the family and began the long drive west, heading into the unknown, setting off for a future of endless possibilities. 

I left on the 17th, a sunny, cold day filled with weak winter lighting and clouds so thin they didn't look real. I met up with good ol' Interstate 40, my soon-to-be closest companion for the next four days. Travelin' on the road, passin' trucks, pullin' over at the rest stops, gettin' gas, munchin' on granola bars, all day, every day. I drove and drove and drove, traveling across the entire state of Tennessee, crossing the Mississippi, off into Arkansas, passing through Little Rock, stopping in Conway. I made it to the Hotel, dumped my bags in the room, and then walked around town to stretch the ol' getaway sticks. Walking. walking, walking. Sidewalks, blacktop, many many restaurants. I walked by the local college, walked by the track and gym, walked the road to the main campus. Sunset, faint light, orange skies, students flocking to the cafeteria. Didn't linger too long; drivin' all day had worked up quite the appetite. Legs stretched, feet fine, arms akimbo, I got back in the car and drove to a Thai place that was actually pretty dang good. And then it was back to the hotel, off to sleep, ready to do the same thing all over again in the morning. 

I awoke at dawn and trucked on out of there, leaving my friend the I-40 for the time being to make a quick detour to Mt. Magazine. I'd seen signs for it last year when we all moved out to Tennessee and have always wondered what it was all about and whether or not there were magazines at the summit or whatever.

Russellville, Dardanelle, Chickalah, Ranger. Tiny towns in rolling hills, pine trees everywhere, houses falling apart, houses standing strong, houses with trash in the yard, houses with nothing in the yard, a pig in the mud, a peacock on the roof. I turned onto Hwy 309 and made my way deeper into the mountains, slowly ascending through a healthy pine forest, barren deciduous trees, and cool lookin' rocks. I reached an overlook and immediately checked it out. Southerly views stretched before me, the landscape completely foreign. I found me a trail and walked on it for a moment, following it along the gray cliffs and wispy pines. The views stretched on and on; these were probably much better than those on the summit. I'd done enough southeastern summits to know that it's more about reaching the top than it is to see a view. Most of them peaks is forested. Mt. Magazine is no different. 

Turned around, hopped back in the car, pedal to the metal and back to driving, driving, driving. Down the road, past the visitor center. I found a place to park and then set off on the mellow summit trail, a well-maintained path barely half a mile in length. Had I more time, I would've slowed down, smelled the air, listened to the birds, twiddled my thumbs, watched the paint dry, you know, stuff like that. But I had to be in Amarillo that evening, and Amarillo was a long ways off. So I rushed through it, reaching the popular summit in great haste, signed my name, took a few pictures, and then turned around and ran the whole rest of the way back. Didn't find me no magazines at the summit either. How utterly disappointing....

Mt. Magazine Summit

I took the scenic overlook drive, stopping at the various viewpoints, stretching my legs, despairing at the long drive ahead. Here, on the north side, the views seemed a little more expansive. The skies were clear, the Ozark Plateau stretched out before me, rocks and cliffs and sticks and water rushing somewhere, audible but hidden from view. I checked out some cliffs, sat on the edge, said, "hmmm" or something like that, looked at the sun, took a few more photos, realized that this place was legit, and then got on out of there. 

Down the road, out of the mountains, down, down, down. Corley, Paris, Roseville, Ozark. Back on the I-40, my ol' friend, beautiful, amazing, totally-not-boring concrete companion, guardian of the semi truck, keeper of the potholes, host to the occasional accident. Off into Fort Smith, off into Oklahoma, driving along, going, going, gone. OKC, Weatherford, Clinton, Elk City. Flat country, not a whole lot out there to please the eye and tingle the senses. Prairie fires, smoke columns rising like miniature volcanic eruptions, the air warm and dry, the grass dead and brown. I rolled into Amarillo. Ran 6 miles on the treadmill. Ate some Tex-Mex. Went to sleep. Got up. Kept on driving. 

On the road...

It was dark. Not a lot of lights; very sleepy towns. The sun crested the horizon just as I crossed the border into New Mexico. Cold out there, 38℉ and dropping. Stopped for gas in Tucumcari, everyone there wearing hoodies and sweatpants and jeans, bundled up with their hands in their pockets, their breath visible in the faint morning light. Battled some crosswinds on the way to Santa Rosa. Trucks swaying, drivers anxious. Rolled on into Albuquerque, snow-capped mountains, cloudy skies. Off into the desert, now in the proper southwest, the rocks red, snow on the ground, 24℉ and dropping. Grants, Thoreau, Gallup. Salt on the windshield, the road slick, the cars filthy. Stopped at a gas station, 22℉ and dropping. Broke up the ice in the bucket with the squeegee and cleaned that crap off my windshield. And then it was back to the road.

Crossed into Arizona, snow disappearing, going, going, gone. Warmed up a bit, 40℉ and rising. Left my friend the I-40 once again and checked out Petrified Forest National Park. Why not? It was right there, I saw the sign, plus I had me a hankering to see some good ol' wood, petrified or not. 

Blue Mesa

Took a dump, drove around, stretched my legs, saw the sights. Stopped at Blue Mesa and walked on a paved trail, gawkin' and gazin' at all the petrified wood. I imagined what it looked like before anyone found it, before anyone took home a souvenir, before the masses came and the roads were built and the signs were posted warning those that a curse will be placed on ye who steals this wood (there are no such signs, but I believe they would be a lot more effective if they said that, don't you agree?). But there was still a good amount of old wood left and all of it was beautiful; silica, silt, and time workin' together to preserve the shape of a living thing that died hundreds of millions of years ago. 

I hiked on out of there, got back in the car, stopped at a couple more spots. Checked out the Jasper Forest. Checked out the Crystal Forest. And that was it. Left the park, made a right, drove through Holbrook, and I was back on the 40, back to the land of zooming trucks and zoomier cars and zoomiest motorcycles and the occasional RV going 55 in the fast lane and making everyone's lives all the more excitable for a brief yet excruciating moment of time. 

Drove through Winslow, saw Humphrey's Peak in the distance, its summit obscured in clouds. A winter storm warning had been issued, but the clouds didn't look too bad, at least not yet. Rolled into Flagstaff, checked into the Hotel, walked through slick snow to one of the best Indian Restaurants I know. Back in the Hotel, the room warm, the clouds a little darker outside, the bed comfy, sleepy time as imminent as the coming dawn.

Morning time, one last drive. The storm dropped a few inches of fresh powder. Everything glistening and sparkly and fresh. People out and about, brushing the snow off their cars, pushing their suitcases unsuccessfully through the powder. I got on out of there, coasting out of the mountains, my car turning into a salt-mobile. Down, down, down, out of the mountains, out of the snow. Kingman, Topock, Needles, a jump in gas prices, California at last. Nothing but Mojave desert for miles around; nice, clean, empty. And then there's Barstow and I ditched my friend the I-40 for the I-15. Goodbye, and good riddance. Victorville, Pearblossom, Acton, Santa Clarita. Hopped on Hwy 126, following it the rest of the way to Daniel's place. He was outside. I rolled down the window. We shook hands. Finally, the days of driving had come to an end. 

I had planned on stayin' in town for a week, spending the days catchin' up with friends and family and maybe go on a hike or two. The day after I made it into town, on Saturday, the 21st, my Uncle, cousin and I rode up to Rose Valley to check out the Sespe. Lots of water in that thing; flowin' nice and strong. And then the next day Ry, Liam, and I ran a half marathon. I signed up for the thing back in September and had trained on and off over the following months, nothing consistent, my legs unconditioned, my cardio unprepared. But we ran it anyway and we ran it well, talking most of the way, me making jokes, Liam commenting on the strange medal design, and Ry glad that we picked up the pace near the end which made me shut up with my vocal diarrhea, sparing him from further public embarrassment. McKenna ran the same race as well, breaking the 2 hour mark, a remarkable accomplishment. A very good race indeed.

The Sespe

Later, after a nice hot shower and a lunch at the Ojai Beverage Company, Ry, Liam, Daniel and Company drove up the 33 to a little spot I knew just to check it out. And the water was cold and Nick was gonna jump in only if Liam would do it first, and Daniel tried some fishing but came up empty handed. And then we threw rocks into the water like the idiots we are and Sophia participated at first but then ended up standing there, watching our shenanigans with a look of bemusement and mild apathy. And then we drove to the large dirt pullout by Dry Lakes Ridge and watched the sunset and threw more rocks and all I could think was that it was nice to be back in town, at least for a little bit.