Water in the Desert

 02/28/24

Hit the road before the sun came up. I was not alone. Early morning commuters jammed the freeway, driving at speeds that I thought were only reserved for night owls. Man those early birds drive fast. Must be that morning coffee that gets them all in a tizzy. 

Merged onto the 126 with all the other speed demons and zoomed on through Santa Paula, Fillmore, Piru. Sun made its welcome just before the junction with the I-5, golden, shimmering and brilliant. Merged onto the I-5 and joined the pulsing superorganism of vehicles that rushed across the pavement like blood cells in vein. Hit the exit for the 14 and settled in for one of the longer portions of the drive.

The 14 undulates and meanders through a country defined by dry chaparral, dust, and a lot of suburban housing before leaving all of that behind for desert, desert and more desert. Palmdale, Lancaster, Rosamond, Mojave and then it's empty for a while, passing the occasional podunk congregation of beat up trailers and sun bleached houses. 

After driving through the desert for a good minute I ditched the 14 in favor of the 178, now in search for a gas station somewhere in Ridgecrest. Drove through Inyokern, the town that famously declares it's "100 Miles From Everywhere" despite the fact that it's only a 12 minute drive from there to Ridgecrest. I guess "100 Miles From Everywhere Except Ridgecrest" would just look too silly to put on a sign. Made it to Ridgecrest without issue, found a gas station, and topped off my tank with 91 Octane that cost exactly as much as the cheap stuff back in Ventura.

I left Ridgecrest, driving in an easterly direction. I saw the tippy top of Telescope Peak poking up from the northeast, easily towering over all of the other desert peaks. Its snow capped summit made it hard to miss. For the first time that day, I was completely alone on the road. I was in real desert now, the kind of desert that's so vast, empty and wide that it can swallow you whole if you're not careful. Every now and then a freak in a luxury vehicle or beat up piece of junk or modded out Jeep would fly past me, likely exceeding speeds over 100mph. Those desert drivers are the fastest there are. They'd beat the morning commuters by a mile.

I wasn't too keen on going fast as I had never been on that section of road before and was much more interested in observing the country at a leisurely pace. I passed by the Trona Pinnacles—little chocolate Hershey's Kisses sprinkled over a dry and desiccated basin. Rounded a corner and I was in the Searles Valley, immediately noticing the steam billowing out of the Searles Valley Minerals factory located in Trona. 

Driving through Trona was like driving through a land frozen in time. It's only one valley over from the infamous Death Valley, separated by the tall and forbidding Panamint Range. Both valleys get stupidly hot. Houses boarded up and abandoned and bleached and broken down. A quiet gas station. A closed drive in. An antique store. Tons of old cars and trucks. Dirt roads. Dust. Because of the mineral content in the soil, along with a lack of water and scorching temperatures, the local high school football field is composed entirely of dirt. Known colloquially as "the pit." The whole town looks like it hasn't changed much since the 40's. Save for the lack of people. The place is practically a ghost town. 

After passing north through Trona I became fully immersed in the vast expanse of undeveloped, unpopulated, unburdened desert. Except for the road and some power lines, there was no other sign of man and his creations. And then I saw it. A glimmer in the sky. A flash, a whoosh, and it was gone. I pulled over the first chance I got, hopped out of the car and waited for it to circle back.

Sure enough, I heard a sonic boom, and suddenly it appeared overhead, a tiny speck in the sky, zooming straight forward before making a hard left to the east and circling back. It did this two or three more times before disappearing completely. It was a fighter jet of some kind, like the ones in those Top Gun movies. Those things move pretty fast, but not as fast as those desert speed junkies. 

Just before reaching the junction with the 190 I got my first look of water in the desert. The usually dry Lake Panamint was like a brown reflection pool, likely containing no more than a few inches of salty water. Some folks, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, pulled over as well, enjoying the serene beauty of this ephemeral lake. Telescope Peak rose to the east, Maturango Peak to the west, both of them snow capped and shining and brilliant. Some yellow desert flowers carpeted the landscape, and the numerous creosote bushes and desert holly glowed with a quiet and subdued green, grateful for the surplus of moisture that they had received with these past rains. 

Telescope Peak in the distance

Lake Panamint

I made a right on the 190 and ventured up out of the valley and into the mountains. I reached Towne Pass and could make out Pinto Peak to my right, a smattering of snow covering its summit. From there it was a long descent of roughly 5,000ft into the bowels of the hottest and driest and lowest place in the country: Death Valley.

Mesquite Flat Dunes

Out of curiosity, I decided to walk a bit into the Mesquite Flat Dunes located a little ways past Stovepipe Wells. There were a few people out and about, most of them taking selfies with a dune in the background. The sand looked a lot like that of a beach. It was trampled and beaten and well worn, the result of heavy traffic over the years. I trekked a little farther than I probably should have, shooting for the highest dune in the bunch. Climbing up a sand dune three days after running a half marathon with no training was not the best idea and made my legs very unhappy with the rest of my body. But the view was worth it and the sand was soft and the weather—forgiving. 

With angry legs I got back on the road and made for Badwater Basin. But before I got there, I decided to make my legs even more angry by going on a quick jaunt up Golden Canyon. Saw the sign, saw the cars, looked like a popular spot and I'd never been there before, so I went! There were more people there than at the dunes. A group of cyclists had stopped and were eating their lunch in the shade of the canyon. Some type of school group was huddled in the shade, a few of the children's faces red and miserable. A young couple had ventured off trail and were scrambling on the side of the canyon. Elderly folks with walking sticks and spongy shoes moseyed up the trail, offering a remark every time they saw a cool formation or  a rock or something eye catching. The canyon itself was fairly impressive; reminded me a lot of the terrain in and around Quatal Canyon in the Cuyama Badlands. As for the name "Golden Canyon," I'd say it's a bit of a misnomer. Though the rock was quite gorgeous it wasn't exactly "golden." "Chalky Yellow Canyon" would be more apt.

Golden Canyon

I made it to the "Red Cathedral" formation before deciding to turn around. The formation is a big ol' red cliff that looks like the interior of a cathedral, minus the fresco paintings and the stained glass and the chanting and the incense and whatnot. I climbed the mound of compact dirt that lays in front of it and took a little breather, giving my angry legs a rest while admiring the view back down Golden Canyon with the Panamint Range in the distance. 

On the way back I passed more people: Some dudes walking shirtless, some obvious tourists from Vegas who looked like they'd never been outdoors in their lives, some outdoorsy types who carried big ol' packs with hydration bladders, some people decked out in long sleeved button ups with sun hats and khaki pants and boots, and others who looked like they were having a hard time but were enjoying themselves nonetheless. I made it to the mouth of the canyon at the same time as that school group. One of the trip leaders said something about putting on swim gear. The cyclists had finished their lunch and where talking about the lake. Uh oh. I had to leave soon; had to get there first, had to beat the traffic.

I found a spot close to the water's edge. There were a good amount of people out and about, but it wasn't slammed. People were oddly respectful. Weren't too loud. Weren't too obnoxious. Didn't see a speck of trash or graffiti or nothing. Some people had brought chairs and were just sitting on the shore, enjoying themselves. Others had brought kayaks and inflatable rafts, some of which could be seen miles away on the other side of the lake, just teeny tiny specks against a mirror of silvery blueish brown. Some people were paddle boarding. Most were wading. One freak fully submerged himself. Didn't see anyone else do that. He was one-of-a-kind. 

I walked up the the lake, took off my shoes, and like most everybody else, waded in up to my knees. The water felt like nothing. It wasn't noticeably cold or noticeably warm. Must have been exactly the same temperature as the atmosphere, which was in the upper 70's. Salt crystals sprinkled the surface, appearing almost like snowflakes. Other than the gentle lapping of microscopic waves against my legs it was mostly quiet. The voices of the others were hushed and subdued; nobody was making a ruckus. I walked farther and farther into the lake, occasionally stepping on a soft spot and sinking up to my crotch. As my legs sank into the muck, pointy rocks scratched and scraped my bare skin. The salty water didn't make those scratches feel much better I'll tell you that much. Boy, that water was salty. It burned my already dry skin, sucking away what little moisture there was to begin with. Paired with the scratches it made for a rather uncomfortable experience, vexing my legs to a point where they surpassed anger, went straight to bargaining, fell into a brief depression before finally accepting their miserable condition. 

The ephemeral Lake Manly

Salt Crystals

I stood in the water for a good ten minutes. Not wanting my legs to ditch me in my sleep later that night, I decided to get out and head on back to the car. As soon as I was out of the water the salt on my legs began to crystalize. It felt like I was wearing a second layer of skin—a dry, itchy, stinging second skin. I used the remainder of my water to wash off the salt. Did I expect this to happen? No. Did I think things through before going into the lake? Also no. But it was worth it in the end. Standing in that water is something that I'll likely never be able to do again. 

I got in the car and retraced my steps. Listened to a little Cibo Matto and John Coltrane. The day grew long as the sun stretched across the sky. On my way back over Towne Pass, I was gifted with a view of the Sierra to the west—just able to make out the summits of Lone Pine Peak and Mt Whitney. Spotted some wild burrows just standing out there in the desert, close to the hills. As the sun began to set, I decided to make one last stop before callin' it a day. I veered off the road and drove on towards those good ol' Trona Pinnacles. They were a lot bigger up close. And they no longer resembled Hershey's Kisses. They were pokey and porous and crumbly and ancient. They stand there, the towering monoliths that they are, in the middle of a dry, flat basin. There were two others there with me: a dude in a camper van and some family celebrating a special occasion of some kind with a bottle of unopened Champagne in one hand and a toddler in the other. I goofed around the pinnacles for a bit, trying to climb a few of the bigger ones but then thinking better of it. I did manage to climb one of the smaller ones and on this one I watched the last remaining rays of light disappear behind the mountains.

The drive back was long and dark. A section in Lancaster offered hideous traffic as the highway had been newly converted into a single lane. Got back home well into the night. Took a shower and tried to make it up to my legs, promising that I'd treat them better in the future. 

Lake Manly was a strange sight to behold. It wasn't bombastic or in-you-face like a lot of other natural wonders. It's a weird phenomenon located in a weird place where lots of weird things happen. Just recently, some winds had whipped it 2 miles to the north, spreading the water out thin, greatly increasing its rate of evaporation. How weird is that? Very soon it will be gone, reappearing who knows when. I'm very lucky to have gotten the chance to see it, something me and my legs will never forget. 

How to Run a Half Marathon with No Training

I am not a runner. I also don't go to the gym. There are some people out there who possess the discipline and gumption to dedicate a few hours of their day to pain and misery. People who develop a routine, follow it, and get desired results. People who thrive off that endorphin rush and choke down that creatine and take pictures of their progress in the mirror. I am not one of these people. Setting a regimented training schedule and sticking to it is something I find extremely undesirable. I used to be a runner, but that was a long time ago. Since then I've ran off and on, but not to the extent to where I'd call myself a "runner." Usually, I'd run for a week to build up some cardio for a big hike. And as for strength training, a steep trail is much more preferred than a StairMaster. Yep, I am not a runner. What I am is an idiot.

I've done a lot of stupid things in my life. Running a half marathon with no training is up there with some of the stupidest. Sleep was scarce the night before the race. Woke up feeling like a crumpled $50 bill. Gobbled up some oatmeal with peanut butter and washed it down with a healthy amount of caffeinated tea. I don't normally drink caffeine but today was an exception. I imagined it would turn me into the Energizer Bunny.

I met up with Ry, who graciously decided to run the race with me and help with pacing. We parked near the start, got out, prepared for a warm-up, and then Ry realized he forgot his racing bib. Uh oh. Looked like we were gonna have to meet up with each other at the start.

As Ry burned rubber back to his place, I jogged down the road to the start line, the crisp morning air burning my hands and ears. Other runners were out and about, stretching, trotting, repeating actions that they'd likely been doing for months in preparation for the event at hand. I was able to get a few stretches in before the national anthem. After that, I kinda just bounced up and down, trying to activate the caffeine in my system. 

I met up with Ry and we positioned ourselves somewhere in the middle of the huge throng of runners. It was a wave start, so the race officials only let certain chunks of people go at a time. The race began, and the first wave was off. And then the second, then the third. Waves of folks kept on getting sucked through the corral, me and Ry stepping closer and closer to the inevitable. Three...two...one...and off we went, jogging down the road without ever looking back. 

Felt good the first couple of miles. Ry and I talked a lot, our conversations revolving around snippets of life stories, the future, and running. We were the only ones talking. Everyone else was locked in, not wanting anything to distract them. Too busy keeping track of their breathing and cadence and whatnot. Very serious. There were a few times, however, where our conversations grabbed the interest of other runners. There was this one guy, probably early 40's, who talked with us for a bit. Said he wanted to keep on running for as long as he was able. Said at least 38 more years. I thought of making a dumb joke that this race had an end and that he couldn't keep on running and that Forrest Gump only managed three years but I thought better and kept my mouth shut. 

As the miles progressed the rate of conversation declined, at least on my end. The race was sucking the loquaciousness out of my body. Carrying a conversation became more and more labored. Luckily, the caffeine was making its presence felt, but not without consequence. There was a strange storm brewing within. Felt it around mile 4. Thought I could control it. Thought I could suppress it. But it kept getting worse. A few miles later and this storm was about to make landfall. I shifted gears and went full throttle down the course, Ry remarking that we had significantly increased our pace. We made it to the aid station, I zooming past the volunteers and water straight to the portable toilets. The first one I nabbed was locked, the second was not. I opened it up and saw that the seat had a nice glaze of sweat. Didn't care. I weathered the storm. 

Feeling much better and much lighter, I caught up to Ry and we continued on our way. We were catching people left and right, passing those who probably went out too fast in the beginning. I tried passing someone on the right and nearly ran into them; they were not too happy about that. Oh well. Can't have a race good race without a little bit of drama. 

Everything was going swell until around mile 10. At this point I was practically nonverbal, only able to utter a few words. My legs were telling my brain that they'd had enough, that they didn't understand why my brain woke up one morning and made them run so far for so long for no reason. They were beginning to lock up, and keeping them going was progressively becoming more excruciating. 

Ry kept a good pace, offering much needed motivation. We tried catching up to this one dude, but he kept on trucking, refusing to let us pass. We'd run right up to him and push the pace, and then he'd push back. Since we were running neck and neck for a while, him and Ry eventually broke into conversation. I wasn't really paying attention to what they were saying. Too busy trying not to puke. Seemed like my legs had made a deal with my stomach to get me to stop. Sly fellows those two are. 

I heard that the dude was a carpenter and that he was running much faster than he had planned and that was about all I picked up from the conversation. I slowed down at an aid station to grab some water and that was that—we were never able to catch him again. From then on my pace kept slowing, our splits no longer negative. Ry kept on motivating me, offering uplifting words of encouragement. I now could barely talk, let alone whisper. All of the energy in my body had evaporated, I felt like a hollow shell. 

By some miracle we caught up to one of the official pacing groups, and not too long after, they made an announcement that I'd been waiting to hear all day: "Ok guys, break away, break away! One mile to go, you got this!" The group fractured, some sticking behind and others finding another gear and zipping on towards the finish. Ry and I slowly broke away, I unable to find any gear that could propel me out of this misery. 

That last mile actually went by pretty quick. Kinda just turned off my brain and trudged along, making sure I never widened the gap between me and Ry. If it wasn't for him and his rallying words of encouragement I probably would have stopped. We rounded a corner and entered the home stretch, the booming screeches of onlookers motivating the runners to the finish line. Ry picked up the pace, I tried to stay with him, and before I knew it we were both across the finish line. 

I kept going. If I stopped I was sure that my legs would give out. They needed to cool down a bit. I jogged a bit past the finish line up the street and then jogged back, meeting up with Ry. We then walked for a little bit, observing all the other folks who were either stretching or massaging their legs or just laying there pale and motionless, hands over their eyes wheezing. 

I don't think I'll ever do something like that again. It was really stupid. But also interesting. Learned a few things about myself that I would have never learned otherwise. It was a good time. One for the memory books. One thing's for sure: I ain't never drinking caffeine before a race again!

Potrero John Falls, The Upper Sespe, and a "Secret" Campsite

Got a late start to the day, not leaving the ol' homestead 'til just before noon. Weather was looking great, the surrounding land saturated and colorful after the recent rains. I breezed up the 33, not having to wait very long at any of the solar powered traffic lights. Remnants of snow clung to the backside of the Topa Topa ridge. The south faces of Reyes Peak and Haddock Mountain only possessed a smattering of white, most of the snow having retreated to areas more friendly to the cold and hidden from the sun's searing gaze. No one was parked at the turnout for the trailhead. Looked like I was gonna have the whole trail to myself. 

The trail moseyed along for a brief moment before leading to the first creek crossing. The creek was significantly higher than normal due to the rains. With some dexterity (and perhaps some ninja skills) you could cross it without getting so much as a drop of water on your shoes. Unfortunately, I possess no such skills. Got my feet wet pretty quickly. And they were to remain wet as I would have to cross the creek an additional 10+ times.

The trail is relatively short; it's about three miles from the turnout to the falls. But what it lacks in distance it makes up for in beauty. Hardy chaparral, scrub oak and budding deciduous flora line the trail, the steady hum of the rushing creek providing a relaxing ambience. After walking on this trail for no more than half a mile it felt like I had been transported deep into the woods, miles away from civilization. The farther you go, the more wild it seems. Sections of trail had turned into miniature streams, the water bubbling out of the ground taking the path of least resistance. There were a few footprints in the mud but they didn't look fresh. The trail was washed out in a few sections, evidence of the creek trying to restore this wilderness back to its natural state. And there was this nearly inaudible, whisper of a breeze that created this immense feeling of solitude. 

After crossing the creek a few times I reached the turn off point for Potrero John Camp. I would explore it on my way back for I had an objective to meet. The camp is tucked away in a sheltered location surrounded by trees that offer a lot of privacy. Upon inspection on my return, I discovered that it looked exactly as it did the last time I'd seen it four years ago. It's in great shape with a big ol' fire pit and many flat spots to pitch a tent. 

Potrero John Camp

The quality of the trail deteriorates rapidly after passing the camp. Very soon I reached a narrow tunnel of chaparral. Felt like I was traveling through a portal to another reality. When it spit me out on the other side it seemed like this was almost true. The canyon had narrowed slightly the farther I had gone, furthering the extreme sensation of solitude. It was almost eerie in a way—kind of felt like I was being watched. Not by animals or anything like that. Felt like I had the eyes of a zillion woodland critters and sprites and spirits fixated on my every move, judging my heavy steps and strange garb. The creek was loud, echoing off the sides of the canyon, but the oaks and the evergreens and the manzanita and the moss and lichen were dead silent. All of it made for quite a peculiar vibe.

If you've never been on this trail before and/or don't know exactly where it enters and exits the creek I recommend using a GPS. Most of the trail is in good shape; it's just a little hard to follow. Someone left pink flagging but this was few and far between. Either way, it ain't easy to get lost; all you gotta do is head up the creek. Some parts of the trail had disappeared entirely which left me no other option than to travel in the creek. Hanging left is a good move; most of the trail is on the left side of the canyon and it eventually leaves the creek (on the left) and continues just above it. 

Chaparral Tunnel

About a quarter of a mile south of the falls, I reached an unofficial campsite that rests in the shade of several oaks. This spot was way cooler than the established Potrero John Camp and its proximity to the falls makes it a primo location. 

A little ways past this camp the canyon narrows even more so, suggesting that a huge waterfall exists not to far away. It was also past this camp where the trail all but disappears. But no worry, it's obvious where to go. I rounded a corner and was met with a series of smaller waterfalls roaring across huge rocky slabs. I was getting close, the canyon now seemed to be narrowing to an impasse of some kind. I stuck to the left side of the canyon and before I knew it I got my first glimpse of this impasse: the glorious Potrero John Falls!

cool camp

I had never seen the falls like that and I will likely never see them that way again. Instead of a gentle flow or trickle, these falls were absolutely booming. All that rain turned these normally quiet and reserved falls into a force of nature. The water pouring over the top of these 50ft falls generated enough force to create a strong wind at the base, soaking the low lying shrubs with a steady mist. And my oh man were they loud—could barely hear myself think. I know this word has been overused to the point that it's lost all meaning, but seeing these falls was an awesome experience, in the truest sense. I couldn't help but sit there at the base in the mist, mouth agape, unable to take my eyes off the sublime majesty of cascading water. 

Potrero John Falls

A curious feeling of doing something really stupid seeped its way into my brain, so I decided to scale the falls to see what lay on the other side. I found a bit of a use trail that avoided dangerous scrambling, but it eventually disappeared and I was left side hilling it to the top of a crumbly slot that led down to the top of the main falls. Avoiding pointy yucca and other prickly vegetation, I carefully climbed down this chute and made it to the creek, the top of the falls just a few feet away. I'd never been up there before and it was definitely worth the climb, though it's something that my mom would not approve of. I hung around for a few minutes before slowly and safely climbing up out of the creek to the use trail and back to the base of the falls.

This 20ft waterfall behind the
main falls was a nice surprise

Top of the main falls

I spent a good half hour admiring the falls. Not wanting my eyes to be too gluttonous, I said my goodbyes and sped on down the trail. The way back went by much quicker than the way up, probably because it was slightly downhill. Figures. On my way back I saw the first person of the day, although I don't know if they saw me. They were down in the creek facing away from the trail, perhaps looking for the trail or maybe just vibing. Who knows. I didn't stop for chit-chat. A little while later I met a dude with his two dogs. We talked a little bit, both of us admiring the amount of water in the creek. We wished each other a pleasant walk and went on our separate ways. 

Section of trail converted to a stream

I got back to the car a lot quicker than I had anticipated so I decided to do some extra credit. I thought about this "secret" campsite that I found a few years ago after reading the hints from both Stillman and Christopher Lord's respective posts, diligently studying google earth until I figured out where it was. Hadn't seen it since 2021 and with the surplus of water from the rain I suspected that it would look pretty cool. So with nothing better to do, I set forth on my journey of revisiting this confidential camp.

In keeping with the tradition of writing about this camp, I will not reveal it's location. It's just one of those things that you gotta go out and find yourself. Plus, it wouldn't be a secret anymore if I tell yah where it is. What's the fun in that eh? 

The camp itself is flat and sandy, nestled underneath a rock overhang and protected from the elements. There are a few springs that seep out of this overhang, each one of them ringed with soft, emerald, mossy plants. I made it to the camp in good time and immediately noticed that there was a LOT more water than the last time I'd seen it. The falls near the west of the camp were flowing pretty good, something that was expected because of all the rain. What was not expected was this new waterfall that was spilling over the overhang. Never even knew there was a drainage up there. Looked a lot like Weeping Rock in Zion National Park, just a lot smaller and without all the tourists. The fire pit looked like it hadn't been used in a while and the footprints that I found were old and nearly worn away. Still looks like this spot doesn't get a lot of traffic. 

The "Secret" camp

Petroglyphs

I checked this spot off my to-do list for the day and made it back to the car without issue. I still had some daylight left, so I spent the remaining hours goofin' around the upper Sespe before callin' it a day and heading back down the 33. Like the falls I had seen earlier, the river was a lot bigger than normal—huge and swollen and moving and churnin' from the surplus of water, a pale green mass meandering down through boulders and canyons and deadfall. Found a few spots where there'd be some great swim holes once the river calms down a bit and the mud settles and the weather gets a little warmer. A swim in the river these days is a little too chilly for my taste. Gotta wait 'til spring. 

I enjoy low mileage days like these. They give yah a lot more time to explore and appreciate stuff. See things you wouldn't normally see. Find stuff you wouldn't normally find. Late start to the day, no pressure, nothing but the setting of the sun acting as a time limit. Good stuff, good stuff.  

Willett Hot Springs

Hadn't been to Willett since April of 2021 so it was high time for a return. I left on the morning of the 10th, bound for the newly reopened Highway 33. Three solar powered traffic lights later and I was sitting in the Sespe trailhead parking lot, putting on the layers and preparing for the long walk ahead. The car thermostat read a balmy 31 degrees Fahrenheit, but when I stepped outside it felt much colder. There was frost on the ground and a slight breeze that stung my face. Though the sun had risen it hadn't crested the ridge of the valley. Looks like I was in for a frigid morning walk.

There was only one other vehicle in the parking lot. I started down the trail, the frozen ground crunching beneath my feet. The creek crossings were not bad and I breezed my way towards the wilderness boundary. It was a quiet morning, with no signs of any animal activity. No birds, no critters, no nothing. Just that ever present slight breeze and the sound of my own breathing.

Frozen ground

Pretty soon after I passed the wilderness boundary the sun crested the valley ridge, bathing the surrounding country with blessed warmth. I took off a few layers and continued along the trail, heading towards the next checkpoint: Bear Creek. So far, the trail had not changed much from how I remembered it. The small burn area just past the wilderness boundary had already grown back quite a bit. Aside from some minimally brushy sections, the trail was practically good as new.

The same cannot be said for Bear Creek. The Sespe completely steamrolled through the camp during the January storms last year, erasing the established campgrounds from existence and littering the side of the creek bed with some debris. The sun hadn't quite reached the camp when I arrived; the ground was frozen and covered with frost. I found one camp spot near the creek crossing that looked to have been recently spruced up, a rock ringed fire pit marking the spot. As for the creek crossing I was unable to find a way across that would keep my feet dry. Man oh my that water was cold. Even with shoes and socks on it felt like someone was sticking needles in my feet. 

Cold crossing at Bear Creek

A little ways after passing Bear Creek and just before reaching Kerr Spring I came upon the slide. It's gigantic—looks like half the hill slid into the Sespe. The slide took out a large section of the trail, leaving a jumbled mess in its wake. A use trail weaves its way through the slide. It's easy to follow but definitely needs some work. Lucky for me, sections that would usually be muddy and slippery were completely frozen. Small streams that would normally be leaking out of the hillside were frozen solid as well, appearing as white streaks against the red and brown backdrop of the slide. 

The slide

Once I surpassed the slide area the trail became slightly harder to follow. And by slightly harder to follow I mean a little more brushy. Brushy enough that in some parts somebody thought it was necessary to mark the trail with pink tape. Having not been properly maintained in over a year, the wilderness has slowly reclaimed this once highly trafficked trail. It was honestly refreshing to see it in this condition. The trail just felt different. Had a different vibe and everything. Felt a whole lot more peaceful and secluded. I didn't think it needed the pink tape however. Seemed like overkill. Though there was slightly more brush than usual it was still very obvious where the trail was and I had no difficulty following it to the next crossing.

I kept on truckin' along, mile after mile passing under my feet. A certain, thorny, spiky, thistly plant dotted the sides of the trail in some parts, averaging in height anywhere between ankle and stomach level. I'm not too sure what this plant is (maybe star thistle?) but it poked through my pants and scratched up my hands a good deal. I remember walking through some of it a few years ago on a Sespe jaunt, but that was off trail and the plant was only shin high. Looks like it's spread since then, overtaking the trail in some parts and completely unavoidable. 

I breezed past Kimball Canyon and Oak Flat, the latter of which looked to be in good condition from afar. Upon closer inspection I was amazed to discover that one of the campsites along the side of the Sespe had actually survived the storms (that or somebody built it anew). There were also excellent swim holes near the camp, swim holes that I don't remember being there previously. After passing Oak Flat I noticed that there were less shoe tracks in the dirt. I trucked on, brushing through the grass and purple sage and that annoying thistly plant. 

Oak Flat

I eventually made it to the junction where I would leave the trail and head for the hot springs. I stuck to the use trail that I followed in 2021, trying to remember little details that would make my life easier. The campground that used to be there (Thacher Camp?) was mostly destroyed during the storms; nearly all of the primitive campsites had been washed away. I stayed to the side of the creek, the use trail disappearing into fairly thick riparian brush. Not finding a way across via rock hopping, I continued along the side, making my way to a muddy embankment where I could cross without getting my feet wet again. But as fate would have it, I ended up slipping in the mud and falling nearly up to my waist in the frigid waters. If I wasn't awake before, I was surely awake now. Boy, after that plunge I discovered a new energy deep within that I didn't know I had. I scurried across the creek, made it to the other side, and made a beeline to the thicket of trees near Willett Camp.

Once at the thicket of trees I again managed to somehow slip in the mud, only this time I fell ankle deep in a stagnant muddy pool. Either I'm gettin' clumsy or I need knew shoes (it's probably the former). I discovered some footprints in the mud and followed them to the spur trail that goes up to the Hot Springs. Once on that spur trail, it was smooth sailing the rest of the way. 

On my way up to the hot springs I couldn't help but wonder if the tub was still there. Ever since last year's January storms I've wondered if it was spared or completely destroyed. I hoped it wasn't destroyed. With the cold air and my unplanned polar plunge, soaking in a hot tub was something I wanted desperately.  

And lo and behold, there it was—and emerald jewel glistening in the sun. Man, those hot springs have never looked so inviting. They were pristine; the water was clear, the tub empty (save for one big rock in the corner), with nobody around for miles and miles. It was apparent that some awesome person had cleaned up the place, clearing some debris around the sides of the tub, rebuilding the feed pipe and scrubbing the floor with a wooden brush. A skinny tree, somehow still clinging to existence after surviving a slide, was bending over the middle of the tub, a bird's nest tucked between its branches. 

Bird's nest

I spent a good hour there sitting in the tub, listening to the water and watching the steam evaporate into the sky. Definitely going back there; the tub is still in need of maintenance. What could be cleared by hand has already been cleared, so I'll have to bring in some tools to remove the bigger stuff. The walls of the tub are caving in slightly, and I fear that if any more debris comes crashing down during a storm they wouldn't be able to stand the pressure. 

After a nice lunch and one more soak, I packed up my things and begrudgingly began my way back down to the Sespe. 

Headin' back

I managed to get across the creek without issue this time. Once on the main trail, I waved goodbye to Willett and began the long walk back to the parking lot. Along the way, I thought of properly exploring Oak Flat but then decided against it. Then I thought about hitting up ol' Timber Canyon but decided not to do that either. I was lookin' at a near 20 mile day and since I ain't done that kind of mileage in a while I thought it best to save the exploring for later and save my legs from unnecessary soreness. 

Cool Fossils

More Cool Fossils

The way back went by quicker than the way out. There were some shady sections of trail that never got thawed out. Parts of the slide area were still frozen when I returned. Bear Creek was just as cold crossing it the second time as it was the first. And I had the whole trail to myself, which was kinda surreal. Every time I've walked that trail there's always somebody. I either see 'em hiking on the trail or camped in one of the many backcountry campgrounds. I hadn't seen a single soul the whole day long, something that I'll likely never experience again. It was really, really weird...but in a good way, you know?

Just before I reached the parking lot I met the first people I'd seen all day— a couple who were heading down to that big swim hole near the old Lions campground. Once in the parking lot I immediately noticed that there were more cars but not much; including mine and the truck from that morning there were six in total. Where those other people were I do not know as I didn't see nobody until just before the parking lot. Perhaps they were all partying it up at Piedra Blanca. Regardless, it was great seeing Willett again after so many years and I'm grateful for the person who cleaned it up. It was great being back out there and now that the 33's open I'll try and make a habit of going up into the local woods more often.