A Snowy Topatopa Saunter

It stormed in the mountains on Sunday, the 26th, coating the high peaks of the wilderness in a blanket of white. A full, cloudless day followed, melting a good portion of what had fallen the previous day. On the morning of the 28th, I figured there wouldn't be much left. But there was only one way to find out for sure. 

There was a freeze warning that morning. The windows of my car were caked with a thin layer of ice. Used one of the cards in my wallet to scrape it off. I do not have an ice scraper in my arsenal. Didn't think I'd ever need one. Five minutes of vigorous scraping put up a good argument to change my mind. Might just have to make an investment...

The morning was quiet and calm. The sky, infinite and cloudless. Nick and I drove to the end of Sisar Rd and met up with Alex. No wind, no sound of any kind. Just the cold, crispy morning. We gathered our things and began our trek up the trail around 5:40am.

The morning continued to be defined by silence. We'd talk for a bit, speaking of things that are common subjects for the trail. And then we'd stop as soon as we'd started, with coughs, burps and snorts being the only things that disturbed the freezing, peaceful morning.

We walked under the shadows of the oaks, listening to the sound of the creek gurgling just off to the side. We crossed it once. We crossed it twice. The sky slowly changed from black to gray to a faint blue, the sun slowly cresting the frozen horizon. Clouds began to form, but they were benevolent clouds. High, soft, lofty—they appeared out of the morning sky and caught the first pink rays of the rising sun. 

The dirt road turned left and soon we were leaving the canyon. We could see the Bluffs now, looking cold and distant and quiet. To my surprise, there was still a decent amount of snow on them. We stood for a bit, admiring the view. I silently hoped that we would make it up there before the snow turned to slush. Wouldn't be no fun hiking in slush. Been there, done that. 

We continued up the road, the clouds growing in size. The sun was up now, but it was still hidden behind the mountains. Walking provided circulation, circulation heat, and heat sweat. Layers were removed. Laces tightened. Water ingested. We hit the junction with the Red Reef Trail and made our way up to White Ledge Camp.

The sky turned from pink to orange, the clouds stretching over the mountains in long puffy streaks. Hadn't heard any animals or seen any sign of animals all morning long. Must've been too cold. The ground became hard and crunchy the farther we went along. Frozen dew clung to some of the plants. A patch of snow here, a patch of snow there. We arrived to White Ledge Camp in good time, dropped our packs, and took the first real break of the day. 

A break at White Ledge Camp is customary. That's because the worst part of the day lays just ahead, that being the brief but steep climb to Nordhoff Ridge Rd. One could argue that an ascent up Topa Topa Bluff or Hines Peak is worse, but at least that ascent is fun. I don't know. There's just something about that brief section of trail from White Ledge to the road that just ain't fun. So naturally, we enjoyed a good long break, preparing our minds for the arduous walk ahead. 

We suited up and got going. There was still plenty of snow left over from the storm two days prior, hard, slick, and frozen solid. The clouds in the sky had now stretched wide and thin, turning the sky gray. And then in the course of mere minutes, the sun burned them away like they were marshmallows in a blast furnace.The sun crested the mountains, bathing the hillsides with brilliant golden light. Trillions of sparkles met our eyes, the light reflected off the snow a tad overwhelming to the retinas. Sunglasses were a must. Good thing we all brought 'em. 

There were tracks in the snow. They were deep set and had melted the day prior, the slush now frozen and slick. It was hard goin'. Our pace slowed. Calves began to burn. It was almost easier to make our own path in the snow than to follow the slick tracks. The morning drew long, whatever clouds that remained in the sky hung high and wispy, and the snow began to thaw, turning from slick to crunchy to something actually quite pleasant. 

We arrived at the ridge road. Visibility was excellent. No smog, no haze, no clouds of any kind blocked our view of civilization to the southeast.  The Santa Monica Mountains, Oxnard, Hueneme, Ventura, Sulphur Mountain and Upper Ojai were all clearly visible. Anacapa, Santa Cruz, and even Santa Rosa could be seen, each one stark and crisp amidst a brilliant and shining Pacific Ocean. It was one of the better views I've seen up there. And the snow seemed to elevate it into something really special. Don't know why. Snow just seems to beautify things. Makes things look prettier than normal, you know?

We walked up to Elder Camp, took off our packs, sat on the bench. The day had proven to be more difficult than Alex had imagined, so we decided to shift to Plan B, which was summiting the Topa Topa Bluff. Our original plan was to climb Hines Peak. This would not have been ideal. None of us had expected this much snow to still be up there, so of course none of us brought the adequate footwear. All of our shoes were completely soaked through. A slog up Hines in this much snow would require a little more preparation and gear. Preparation and gear that we severely lacked. 

And so, with the decision made, the day became a lot more enjoyable. Instead of 21 miles, we were looking at about 16. The whole vibe had shifted to something more relaxed. But we weren't out of the woods yet. A climb up the Bluff is still tough, and the snow would make it all the more miserable. So we donned our packs once again and started in the direction of the Bluff.

It looked like nobody had climbed the Bluff since the storm. The snow was shining, clean, untouched, pristine. We began the ascent, breaking through shin-deep snow one step at a time. We moved slow and steady, still enjoying the morning air. The views improved with each foot of elevation gained. Clear, nearly cloudless views that stretched for miles and miles. We'd stop often and take a breather, soak in the views, listen to the faint sound of melting snow. Silence pervaded. It seemed to be the theme of the day.

The snow was fine and powdery most of the way, which made the going easier than expected. It wasn't until we neared the top where things got interesting. The final slog to the summit proved to be the most challenging part of the day, the snow being thigh deep in some places. And unlike the powdery fluff that we had so graciously been traveling, this snow was hard and unforgiving. Breaking trail was a chore and a half, but slowly and surely we made our way, reaching the summit at 10:48am. 

There was a large bald spot on the summit that was free of snow. We dropped our packs and took in the views to the north, south and west, each one spectacular. To the west we could make out Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa Island, the Santa Ynez Range, some peaks of the Santa Barbara Backcountry and the entire Ojai Valley. We could even make out the oil rigs that rest off the coast by Highway 101. The mountains to the north had a light dusting of snow, less than I expected. There was probably a whole lot more on their northern slopes. Just for the fun of it, Nick and I hiked a few hundred feet east to get a look at Hines. It looked cold and intimidating. Probably a good thing we didn't climb it that day. 

West

 

North

South

We spent over two hours on the summit. Alex said something like, "Well, we worked our asses off to get here, so we might as well enjoy it." And enjoy it we did. The visibility seemed to improve the longer we remained. We sat, ate some food, replenished lost liquids. An occasional icy breeze would blow and send us ashiver, causing us to retreat to a windbreak of hardy, snow-encrusted chaparral. I even took a nap. Yep, just laid down on the cold dirt and took a 45 minute snooze. It's been a while since I'd been so casual on a hike. I gotta do that more often. 

We walked around the summit a few more times, took in the views, and then said our goodbyes. It was time to head back. We left the summit a little after 1:00pm, well rested and more than ready for the fun descent. 

Going down was a breeze. We just made a line and took it, zooming down the mountain, jumping through the snow. We weren't even trying to go fast. Gravity did most of the work, and before we knew it we were off the summit and back on the road. It took us 22 minutes. 

The snow had receded quite dramatically since that morning. The road was mostly slush, our footprints from earlier in the day having melted together exposing the brown earth underneath. The melt was well underway. The winter wonderland was disappearing. The slush gave way to mud, the mud slippery and oversaturated, the trail like a miniature stream in some sections. And then, just a little ways down the trail, the snow disappeared altogether. Just damp, squishy earth. Our feet, numb beyond sensation from the cold and wet, carried us down the trail, back to White Ledge, back to Sisar. The Bluffs looked absolutely magnificent in the afternoon light, the remaining snow still lingering on the cliffs, sparkling bright. The visibility continued to improve, the ocean so clear and bright it looked like a giant pane of glass. 

It was just after passing through White Ledge Camp where we saw the first person of the day. A lone dude making the long trek to see the snow. Wished us a "happy trails." Nick said he'd never been "happy trailed" before. Didn't know how to respond. And to be honest, I didn't either. "You too?" I suppose that's adequate. 

After that encounter, we saw just a handful of others. Another hiker. A trail runner. A mountain biker. Two people on E-bikes. We trudged along, descending through the oaks, crossing the creek, talking about food and food and more food. We made it back to the trailhead at 3:42pm, our journey from the summit of the Bluff taking a little less than three hours. 

It had been a good, long, relaxing day. Snow in the local backcountry is seasonal, so it was good to enjoy it while it was there to enjoy. 

The Cienega Overnighter

I have never visited Santa Paula Canyon. Never been up the east fork. Never been to Last Chance or Jackson Hole. Never even been to the Punch Bowls. I've never once set foot on that trail. Ridiculous, I know. Been all over this forest, done all kinds of crazy hikes and climbed all kinds of crazy mountains and seen all kinds of awesome swim holes—and yet I've never ventured on what some would say is the most popular trail in the county. I've driven by it hundreds of times. Never stopped. Why? Couldn't say. Figured I'd get around to it eventually. I suppose I was waiting for the right moment. 

Whelp, turns out that moment was New Year's Day, 2025. Me and a couple of coworkers cooked up this grand overnight backpacking trip that would take us through Santa Paula Canyon. New Year's day was the closest date where our schedules aligned. There was an opportunity, so we took it. 

We met at the trailhead at 8:00am, dressed warmly, the January sun cold and hazy. There were a few cars in the lot, all of them avoiding this pile of broken gym equipment that appeared to have been dumped and forgotten. Carl and Alex had their obligatory pre-hike smoke. Once that was done, we checked our gear, suited up, and set out a little after 8:15am, passing by some discarded Cookie Monster pajama bottoms right at the beginning of the trail. 

The trail crossed the creek several times. Alex joked that there were about "5 million" total crossings, a statement that soon turned into a mantra whenever we crossed the creek. I found the travel very easy and relaxing. The trail itself was well marked and easy to follow; several signs, rock cairns, and spray paint showed the way. We walked by the college, past the drilling rigs, each step taking me farther into a canyon of which I had never traveled. The farther I went, the more I kept thinking "why haven't I come here sooner?" Aside from the spray paint and other human detritus, the canyon was incredibly scenic, growing more beautiful the farther we ventured. 

We passed by the first people of the day, two old timers making their way to the Punch Bowls. We hit the switchbacks up to Big Cone Camp, our pace slowing ever so slightly because of the grade. There was a small neon green Cheeto lookin' thing hiding in the bushes on the side of the trail. Looked like an alien turd. Jokes about being abducted and probed later on in the night soon commenced after having viewed this strange neon object. Layers came off, sweat poured out, and soon we had made it past the switchbacks, dropping into Big Cone where we took the first real break of the day. 

We walked to an overlook of sorts where we could see a good chunk of Santa Paula Canyon. Carl pointed out the Punch Bowls for me. It was a bit strange seeing them for the first time. I've heard so much about them over the years; even seen a few pictures of some of the pools. But seeing them with my own eyes was a bit of a trip. I could finally put my own mental image to the stories. What was once imagined was now real. The Punch Bowls that I had previously pictured in my mind will never be the same.

There were a few people at the first punch bowl, all of them too scared to jump into the frigid water, their conversation a steady hum in the otherwise silent morning. We hung out at Big Cone for a while, relaxing in the cool mid-morning air, shooting the breeze, exchanging stories. Big Cone was in surprisingly good condition; we found very little trash and much of the graffiti had been washed away. Satisfied with our break, we started hiking again a little after 10:00am. The easy part was over. Everything from that point onward would start getting more difficult. 

We descended some switchbacks, hopped across some rocks, did some side-hilling, and then entered the east fork of Santa Paula Creek. At one time there used to be a trail that passed through here. Not anymore. Years of disuse and some major flooding have pretty much erased this trail from existence. There were a few remnants of it still lingering on the sides of the canyon, but we found sticking to the creek to be the most convenient form of travel. 

Some person had taken the time to flag the route. They used an excessive amount of flagging, the most generous and unnecessary flagging I've ever seen. We started to refer to this mystery person as "Flag Boy 805," sarcastically thanking him for showing us the proper route. The farther we travelled up the creek, the less tape we found. Flag Boy 805 must have realized that if he kept flagging every third tree in the creek he'd run out of tape. 

The canyon narrowed, the canyon spread wide, we skirted, slid, jumped, ducked, squatted and crawled our way up the creek. Flag Boy 805's trail markers became a rarity; we'd see them every now and then as we climbed up small waterfalls, ducked under deadfall, avoided poison oak, all the while trying not to roll an ankle or lose footing and fall into the creek. Though we hadn't travelled far, it felt as though we had been transported deep into the wilderness. Hardly any sign of human activity could be seen. That canyon was wild. Bear tracks, deer tracks, cat tracks galore. 

We took a little breather on a sandy bank, the creek rushing past us. Creek miles are much more taxing than they seem, and walking along with heavy packs was quickly diminishing our energy supply. We still had a ways to go, but spirits remained high and the beauty of the canyon provided us with more than enough motivation to carry on with our expedition. 

To my surprise, much of the canyon was brush-free. The last two winter storms of '23 and '24 really did a number here, completely gutting the canyon of most vegetation. That's not to say that the travel was particularly easy. Soon after our break, we began to quickly gain elevation, hopping up the canyon from one boulder to the next. So many boulders, so much debris. Eventually the canyon opened wide and clear before our eyes, the creek disappearing underground. It looked like we were ascending a boulder-strewn gully on the side of a mountain rather than a creek. Purple mud lined the sides of the canyon, giving the whole area a mystical vibe. Carl mentioned that we were getting close to the exit point; the purple mud serving as a checkpoint in his memory from the last time he was up the canyon. 

The creek reappeared once again, the purple mud subsided, and we found ourselves in a rather peaceful section of canyon with very little debris and deadfall. Carl took a nasty fall in this section, scraping his knee on a sharp log. He took a second to gather himself and then, after confirming to us that he was alright, we set off, our eyes scanning the sides of the canyon for the exit point.

Flag Boy 805 pulled through for us. We saw some tape up on the side of the canyon, shining bright orange amidst a wall of green. A small cairn confirmed that this was probably the exit point. Just before exiting the creek, we were all hit with an overwhelming scent of skunk. Carl thought that it was 100% marijuana, thinking that maybe there was a grow site nearby. Alex said that it was definitely skunk. They argued for a bit until Alex found the recently killed carcass of a skunk. Suffice it to say, things quieted down after that. 

We picked up the trail, following it as it steeply switchbacked its way through prickly brush and deadfall. Carl and Alex both mentioned that the trail was in much worse shape than when they did it last. After slogging it in the creek most of the day, this last little chunk was proving exceedingly difficult. We took another break, this time sitting in complete silence as the weak light of the sun shone through hardy pines that had somehow survived the Thomas Fire back in 2017. 

After our break we continued up the trail, following Flag Boy 805's path. We got turned around a few times. There were several animal trails that looked exactly like the old trail, each one possibly providing an easier route. We'd go up one and it would peter out, then we'd follow another and it would get us nowhere. Flag Boy 805 seemed to have been following waypoints on a GPS rather than the old trail. We soon found ourselves obviously off route, whacking through brush, sweaty, sticky, and covered with pollen. We took another break, Carl darting off ahead to look for more of Flag Boy 805's flagging. 

The brush was high, the brush was low, sometimes it was clear, sometimes it was soul-crushingly dense. Alex had started voicing remonstrances, his legs cramping up from the intense grade and constant bushwhacking. We started up again, calling after Carl. We heard him up ahead, lurking somewhere in the head-high brush. Told us to hang left and then go straight. We caught up with him, having once again found Flag Boy 805's sparse flagging. Alex whipped out the GPS and said that we were almost at Cienega. We broke through some scrub oak, skirted alongside some deadfall, and then entered a pretty meadow. We made a left and soon found ourselves in the shade of several oaks. I heard the rush of a creek, a good sign that we were nearing our destination. 

I set off ahead, following Flag Boy 805's flagging through dense riparian brush. There was this one awkward move that required climbing up and between two branches—a smaller one up top and a bigger one on the bottom. I picked up the trail a little ways after this obstacle, following it as it dipped down into another small creek and then up to a wide, flat area. It was slightly overgrown and littered with deadfall, but it was Cienega alright, and it looked amazing. I went on back to spread the good news.

Almost immediately after turning back I heard Alex yell and then shout obscenities. That tricky obstacle had proven difficult for him. Apparently the smaller branch up top had snapped and he fell head first, upside-down into the brush. Luckily he escaped with just a few scrapes and scratches. I told them that the camp was only about 300ft away. We high-tailed it over there, Carl and Alex about done for the day. 

We settled down, taking a long, long break. We'd gotten to the camp a little after 2:00pm. We had made good time, but the day had proven more difficult than we'd expected. We'd originally planned on hiking all the way to Bluff Camp, but that seemed highly unlikely at this point. Carl and Alex were both ready and willing, but I could tell that they were pretty beat and, with only three hours of daylight left, we decided to end our journey at Cienega. I was very happy with the decision. Spending the last few hours of the afternoon bushwhacking up a steep ridge didn't seem like a good way to cap off the first day of the new year. After we'd made our decision the evening suddenly took on a more relaxed tone. We could now sit back, relax and enjoy ourselves. 

We sat around the fire pit, lazily set up our tents, took stock of all of the tools that had been left at the camp. Cienega used to be the king of backcountry camps, Alex saying that he remembered it looking a lot like Steckel Park in Santa Paula. This is not the case anymore. It's still much nicer than a lot of the backcountry camps I've visited in the Los Padres, but nature is slowly taking it back. The 20ft table, oak benches, ice can stoves, and grill are all still there, but weeds, grass, and deadfall have choked up much of what was once clear. 

I spent some time scouting the water sources, finding a fairly deep pool a little ways north of the camp. We spent the last few hours of daylight chatting, telling stories, sprucing up the camp a wee bit. Stayed up late into the night huddling around the fire pit in the dark, talking about cats seeing into other dimensions, street fights, etiquette, and every now and then looking up at the twinkling stars. 

Sleep was hard to come by, but at least it wasn't freezing. The mornings had been quite frigid recently, but for whatever reason the cold that night seemed to pass us by. We woke late, around 7:00am. Carl and Alex had their coffee, I gnawed on a Cliff bar. We lingered around the camp for a bit, picking up some small pieces of trash, trying to leave the place better than we found it. We broke down the tents, filled up our bottles, and then said goodbye to Cienega, leaving camp a little after 9:00am. 

We disregarded Flag Boy 805's route, instead searching for the old trail. Sure enough, we found it pretty soon after leaving camp, following it as it faintly made its way underneath the oaks. Following the trail was significantly easier than the route we took the day prior, completely avoiding much of the brush that was causing us so much trouble. And the funniest part was that we were just next to it the previous day; we could see Flag Boy 805's flagging in the brush no more than 20ft off to our right. 

We managed to stick to the trail most of the time, having a much more enjoyable experience compared to yesterday's bushwhack. Worn and faded pink flagging marked the true trail, but this was few and far between. But it was fairly obvious where to go and before long we were back at the creek. Alex realized that he had lost a whole liter of water somehow; the bottle just up and jumped out of his pack and rolled off into the brush somewhere. Carl poked and prodded the skunk carcass, saying that he could make a hat out of it. We didn't encourage him. That thing was nasty. 

Travel in the creek was slow work, but we made our way down at a steady, determined pace. We stopped at our break spot from the previous day by the sandy bank and had lunch, Carl realizing that he had actually bivvied there once on one of his recent unsuccessful attempts at reaching Cienega. With bellies full, we continued on our journey down the canyon, hopping across boulders, down climbing small waterfalls, walking across fallen logs. 

The closer we got to the main trail, the more trash we found. We picked it up as we went along, Carl stuffing most of it in a bag he strapped on the top of his pack. We eventually made it back to the main trail, noticing the first people we'd seen since yesterday. Carl and Alex decided that it would be a good idea to check out the Punch Bowls since I'd never seen them. Plus, it would be a supreme opportunity to dip the ol' feet in some cool water and take a load off for a little bit. 

They showed me some of the pools, deep and emerald blue in color. I could see why they are so popular; they're some of the best swim holes I've ever seen. We made our way down to the first punch bowl, tossed our packs aside, and took a nice long break in the shade. It had grown unseasonably warm for some reason, the temps feeling like they were hovering in the high 70's. There were a few others gathered at this first punch bowl, some of whom were courageous enough to brave the frigid waters. Alex and Carl dipped their feet, I soaked my buff and hat and sat in the shade, watching the light sparkle off the crystalline blue water. 

The hike back to the parking lot was pleasant, at least for me. Being back on a well-worn trail was heaven for my feet. More people were out and about that day, all of them either heading to or coming back from the Punch Bowls. The Cookie Monster pajama bottoms were still there at the beginning of the trailhead, as well as the broken gym equipment. We met Dan in the parking lot, an old search and rescue guy that helped build the table up at Cienega. It was cool talking to him, hearing all his stories about the Los Padres back in the good ol' days. 

The trip had been a good one, not only as a great way to start the year but also as a great introduction for future explorations of Santa Paula Canyon. I can't believe I've waited this long to check out the place; it's one of the most unique, scenic, and oddly remote places I've been to in the Los Padres. There's a certain ruggedness to it, a feeling that it's more isolated and secluded than it really is. The opportunities for exploration are practically endless up there. We're bound to go back. Still gotta get to Bluff Camp. That place has been on my hit list for years now. I think it's finally time to check it off that list once and for all. Bluff Camp, I'm comin' for you!

Year in Review 2024

Contrary to what the citizens of the People's Republic of China may believe, this year most certainly was NOT the year of the Dragon. It was the year of CONSTRUCTION. From January 1st all the way to today, from sunup to sundown, day in, day out, there was always construction going on somewhere. Everywhere I went I saw it. Every time I drove up the 33 it was there. Every time I drove past Nordhoff High it was there. The school tore down the bleachers, started building a new pool, and now the city's messin' with the sidewalk. And not only that, but the city also done torn up main street and replaced all the damn pipes. Back in 2022, while working the music festival, I remember talking to a construction worker who mentioned a project like that. He said they were supposed to do it that year. I guess it got postponed. And why not? This was the year of construction after all. Perhaps all construction projects got postponed to this year. If there was any time for construction, this was the time to do it.  

So many projects, so much paving, scraping, demolishing, rebuilding. Saw it driving to work everyday, saw it happening on the promenade by Surfer's Point. Saw it on the bike path, Ventura Avenue, the Botanical Gardens and the Serra Cross. Construction workers on the move, sweeping, paving, riding in the back of massive vehicles, tearing up the ol' skate park and putting in a new one, digging up the ol' pipes on Seaward after a gas leak. Hell, they even reopened the Ojai theater. It was a gawl dang miracle. That thing's been under construction longer than the Pyramids of Giza and this was the year they finally finished it. Of course this was the year they finished it. It's the year of construction after all!

And when I thought I could escape it by leaving town, escape the noise, the traffic, the ruckus, I quickly found that this was impossible. This was the year of construction. There was no escape. Santa Barbara, Los Angeles, Santa Clarita—in all of these places I saw major construction on highways, byways and sidewalks. Even driving up to the Sierra and out to Death Valley proved futile. The 395 is adding in another lane, Whitney Portal Rd near Lone Pine is being replaced after having been washed away, and Wildrose Rd, west of the Panamint Range, was closed due to flood damage. I've said it once and I'll say it again: this was the year of construction. There was no escape. 

Perhaps that was a good thing. Because this year of construction not only set the precedent for improving the local infrastructure, it also set the precedent for improving myself. I engaged in my own personal construction. Worked on my mind and body. Ran three half marathons, climbed twenty-three mountains, read twenty books, wrote a sixty-five page, 40,000 word manuscript, and biked to work almost every day from March to October. I was on one this year. Felt obligated to do stuff, mostly out of fear that if I didn't time would slip by all too fast. And so I did a whole lotta stuff this year, some of which I documented on this blog. But there were a few things that I didn't mention. 

Back in January, a solid group of hooligans high-tailed it to State Street to celebrate John's birthday. It was a partly cloudy night with a bright moon, perfect weather to engage in some buffoonery. The evening's festivities began at a Mexican restaurant of which I cannot recall the name. There were six of us, half wearing cozy sweaters, half wearing short-sleeved shirts. Half had mustaches, half didn't. All of those wearing short-sleeved shirts had mustaches, all of those in cozy sweaters did not. When we sat at the table we subconsciously split into groups: those in cozy sweaters and no mustaches sat on one side of the table and the rest sat on the other. Those with mustaches consumed copious amounts of drink, those without stayed sober (although only one of them would remain so by the end of the night). 

After the meal we walked around, entered a few of the bars, danced around, ordered more drink. John ended up shirtless after having champagne spilled all over his person. We walked up and down the street, always returning to this one bar in particular that had this drink with about a trillion straws and one rubber shark buried at the bottom of it. Then we tried getting into a club of sorts, but one of our group (I ain't sayin' who) was a bit too tipsy to enter. "Your buddy's gotta sober up" is what the bouncer said. And so, distraught, we walked back to that bar with the rubber shark beverage and that buddy of mine did the exact opposite of what the bouncer told him to do. 

I remained outside of the bar. My ears needed a break. Those bars play their music just a tad too loud. The evening was surprisingly quiet. A few street vendors had set up shop outside the bars, grilling overpriced hot dogs and kabobs, lying in wait for the hapless drunks to stumble out on the street, hungry and unhinged, their stomachs craving nothing but greasy food. I saw a guy steal a hot dog. Just walked up, grabbed one, and then took off at full sprint. The vendor chased after him, giving up the chase after about a hundred feet. I offered to pay the vendor for what was stolen; he denied. Drunks started spilling out of the bars and soon he was busy with plenty of customers.

The night grew long, the moon shone bright, we went to another bar, Marco joined me outside by some tables where we talked about Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, the street life died away, the vendors closed up shop, and John's birthday celebration came to a close. One stayed in Santa Barbara that night, the rest carpooled with the only sober member of the group. Got home late and went to work a few hours later. That's just the way it goes sometimes. 

February and March brought cold skies and stormy weather. Though the rain was not as violent as it was in 2023, it was a hell of a lot more consistent. It rained off and on for days, flooding rivers, washing away roads, and finally filling Lake Casitas to capacity. First time that's happened in over twenty years. I remember cycling over to the ol' lake a few times during this time of year to check it out, watching each time as the lake rose a few inches, swallowing more of the boat launch, drowning more of the helpless plants situated on its shores. 

At work I'd go on walks during my lunch break, mostly to the Serra Cross that overlooks the city of Ventura. One day in mid February I decided to visit the cross in the rain. Got absolutely soaked. I went up there, took in the hazy views, enjoyed the solitude (ain't nobody was up there but me) and then ran all the way to the beach. I watched the brown surf, watched the Ventura River spill into the ocean, dragging with it rocks, earth, trees, and a fair amount of hypodermic needles. I ran down the promenade, out near the pier, and then circled back. Luckily, I had a change of clothes in the ol' car. When I returned, one of my coworkers looked at me, their face confused. "Did you take a shower or something?" "Yup, something like that."

Lake Casitas in March

March also meant it was time to see Nick Shoulders. He was performing at the Ventura Music Hall. We'd bought tickets months in advance, anticipating his arrival with great excitement. He put on a good show, played all the hits, drank tea out of a chalice with a skull on it. He sang the songs, donned a spooky cloak, and then him and his band left the stage, never to return. I ended up seeing two more shows at that venue over the course of the year, each one bringing in a slightly different crowd. 

April brought a marine layer that never seemed to go away. April was graypril. But by some cosmic miracle it was totally sunny on the day of the solar eclipse. The boss bought us all eclipse glasses so we could watch it. Being situated in SoCal meant that we'd only see a partial eclipse, but that was still plenty interesting. Carl, in particular, thought it was really cool. So cool, in fact, that he wanted to see it with his own eyes. Just seconds before the eclipse reached its peak, Carl darted across the street and took off his shoes. He stood in some grass on the other side of the street, barefoot, his toes digging into the dirt. Had to ground himself, you see. And then, with arms outstretched, Carl stared directly at the eclipse for a good fifteen seconds. When he came back from across the street he said, with blinking eyes, that it was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. "There were sparklies" he said. "Thousands of sparkling, glittering things." I'll take his word for it. Next time there's an eclipse, I doubt I'll try his viewing methods. 

The marine layer lasted through May, which ended up having more gray days than April. May was Gray, in the truest sense. I remember reading in the VC Reporter that about 90% of the days in May were overcast. This was not always true for the mountain and valley communities. Some mornings I'd start the day with plenty of sun, and then I'd ride head first into the wall of the marine layer. I'm a firm enjoyer of the sun, and so every chance I got I'd drive up into the mountains to bathe my skin with its harsh rays. One day, Bill, Marco and I escaped the gray and visited the Sespe, hiking to this swim hole that's off the beaten path. Hadn't been there since the fabled Sespe Jaunt of 2022, and it was interesting to see how the rains had changed it. Less trees, less shade, more sand, less hole. A lot of it had filled in, unfortunately. But it still remained incredibly deep, allowing us to jump from precipitous heights, doing backflips, front flips, cannonballs. We spent a good chunk of the afternoon there, soaking in the creek, catching some rays, and then it was time to head back down the trail. Back to the car, back down the 33, back to the gray. 

The marine layer as seen from Chief Peak

June had some gloom, but as it progressed it finally brought the end of the marine layer. Soon is was sunny sunny hot hot hot. Carl and I decided on climbing Chief Peak on one of these broiling days. I do not know why. We just did it. Besides, he needed to train for a Whitney expedition that was happening just a few days later. Carl hadn't done a single hike yet this year. Chief Peak would give him all the training he needed. He has a saying: "If you can hike in these woods, you can hike pretty much anywhere." He ain't wrong about that, I tell yah. 

We took the short way from Rose Valley. It was already in the upper 80's by the time we started, the morning still, not a single cool breeze in existence. Carl was dismayed at having forgotten his socks. He elected to hike in flip-flops, bringing his shoes along for the final push to the summit. We started at a brisk pace, and then the heat took over, bringing our pace to a crawl. Carl took off his shirt, now hiking in nothing but flip-flops and baggy shorts. A car drove up the road. They gave us a weird look. By the time we made it to the junction with the ridge we were both drenched in sweat. We hunkered down in what meager shade we could find, Carl had himself a smoke, put on a sun hoody, and then we stayed there, psyching ourselves up for the rest of the hike.

We reached the summit. It was hot alright, but thankfully there were no bugs. Carl had himself a celebratory smoke at the top. On the descent he elected to stay in his shoes. He taped up his feet the best he could and we trucked on down the road, the day only growing hotter.

Carl became uncharacteristically quiet on the descent. Started stumbling around. I remember asking if he was alright. "I'm done, but I'll make it" was all he said. When we got back to Rose Valley the temperatures were hovering in the low 100's. "Gimme a second" Carl said. "I gotta lay down for a second." He took off his shoes, his skin raw and bleeding from numerous heat blisters. Didn't complain once the whole way down; I had no idea his feet were that screwed up. And then he sprawled on a table and passed out for a good half hour. When he was done re-charging, he got up, wandered over to the shallow creek, and poured some water on his head. That was all he needed. Drove back into town with the windows down the whole way, and that was the end of that. He ended up successfully summiting Whitney a few days later. That man is built different. 

Later on in the month, Gramps rented a pontoon boat and the fam spent a day gliding around Lake Casitas. The water was like glass. The whole lake looked like a giant reflection pool. The day started out overcast, and then, ever so slowly, the sun burned its way through, turning the gray waters into a brilliant deep blue. We circumnavigated the lake, checked out each and every nook and cranny. The water remained still, the day remained peaceful. I'd never seen the lake so still in my entire life. I'd be lucky to see it like that again.

Three days after this pontoon adventure, the fam trekked up to Solvang to for a duel celebration: Father's day and Grace's early birthday. We spent the first half of the day at a rope's course, riding the zip line, climbing around the obstacles like complete freaks. The next half of the day was spent walking around Solvang, poking in a few of the shops and having a grand ol' dinner at AJ Spurs. Had me a tomahawk steak that was under $100. Father's day special. 

In July I took a mini vacation and flew out to Tennessee to visit the Grandparents. First time flying by myself. It wasn't anything to write home about. Smooth flight, no turbulence, no inflight drama. Tennessee was as green and humid as I remembered it, still laid back and quiet. Except for the 4th. My Uncle bought a whole bunch of mortars. I got a few cakes. Sparkers, dixie dynamite, and fireworks galore. As soon as the sun went down we were outside, soaking wet from the humidity, lighting off fireworks with reckless abandon. One in particular, called Vietnam in a Box, refused to ignite. We doused it in water and set it aside for later. In the morning, my Uncle and I tinkered with Vietnam in a Box and successfully ignited it. We did not warn anyone beforehand. It was a great way to start the day. 

We relaxed most of the time while we were out there in Tennessee, lounging on the porch, reading books, saying hello to Sweetie-Pie, the stray cat that lingers around my Grandparent's property. We drove through the mountains, checked out Pigeon Forge, rode an "Alpine Coaster" and had some Cledis burgers in Nashville. It was a nice little vacation, the only one I took the whole year. 

Johnson City

In August my pumpkin finally died. Bought the thing in October of 2023 and kept it on the back porch. It was gigantic and it was beautiful; I didn't have the heart to carve it up for Halloween. And so it sat there for months as a decoration, refusing to rot, sitting tall and orange and bright. And then one day it started leaking fluid and that was the end of it. It slumped forward, sagged, emitted a foul oder, and died. Ten months it lasted. It was sad to see it go.

I continued biking to work, cloudy days a thing of the past. I'd see herons in the morning by the Ventura River, see the weird black beetles crossing the path in the evenings. Sometimes I'd get a flat, sometimes my chain would fly off, sometimes I'd get stuck in construction. I'd see all sorts of things, hear all sorts of sounds. One time I saw a homeless guy chopping up the wooden posts by the path with a hatchet. Dude had a project in mind. I'd never seen such focus. This other time an old oak tree decided to die and fall across the path. By evening it was already cleared. Maybe it was the handiwork of that homeless guy with the hatchet. The world may never know...

On one particularly hot day I drove down to Liam's new place in Burbank for a group barbecue. It was a grand ol' get together, Liam a gracious host, grilling up some Tri Tip with rice, vegetables, garlic bread and such. We walked around the neighborhood, stopped by the liquor store that was made famous in the movie Superbad. The night air was warm and spirits were high, people were out and about, some having barbecues of their own. Back at Liam's place we sat in a circle, talking about life, each one of us wearing a different one of Liam's hats for some reason. August slowly progressed, the days slowly growing shorter, the nights slowly growing longer, the weather hot and dry, the concept of rain foreign and strange.

In September I ran the community Three-miler at the Ojai Invitational, just three days after hiking White Ledge Peak from the Ventura River Preserve. It was one of the more painful three-milers I've ran, but if it weren't for that race I likely wouldn't have trained for the Joshua Tree Half in November. The thing woke me up and slapped me around. Put me right and set me on my way. 

September was my last hurrah with the Sierra Nevada, my last hurrah for most things hiking now that I think of it. Once the month ended I was runnin, runnin, runnin, focusing all my additional energies on training for the Joshua Tree Half. 

In October I went on a date for the very first time. Ate at a ramen place in downtown Ventura. Went on a lil' walk afterwards, taking in the absolutely stunning infrastructure and superfluous amenities of the positively gorgeous downtown area. Then we both drove to Santa Barbara to meet up with Daniel and Sofia. Turned into a double date. 

I once again found myself on State Street, although this time it wasn't nearly as insane. We visited a quiet bar, a real hole-in-the-wall, the Tiburon Tavern. Most of the patrons were 40+. They had karaoke there. This old guy sang a bunch of Frank Sinatra songs. I sang two songs with Daniel. Meet in the Middle and Family Tradition. I was completely sober. Daniel was not. Afterwards he said, "Man, I'd never do that sober." I can see why. But it was fun nonetheless, the small crowd dancing around, the music at a comfortable loudness, the double date going very well. And Santa was there. He was drunk. No doubt stressed about Christmas. He sang a few songs in a drunkenly manner, stumbled around the small confines of the bar, and talked to Daniel for a long, long time. To this day I do not know what they talked about. I bet it was the most scintillating of conversation. 

The year wrapped up fairly quickly after that. I stopped biking to work, too afraid of riding home in the dark. Started walking to the beach on my lunch break to watch the waves and the surfers and the birds and the clouds. There were these two big ol' black cats that would always say hello as I walked by. They lived in the reeds by the side of the river. Someone had left a bowl of food for them. 

One day as I was squatting there saying hello to the cats, this guy rolled on by riding the longest skateboard I'd ever seen in my life. It had to be 20ft long. It looked homemade. Two long pieces of plywood joined together in the middle. He stood on the front edge of it, giving me this goofy grin as he rolled by. He was wearing a baggy brown sweatshirt and baggy brown pants, his long blond hair blowing in the wind. He rolled on by, hands on his hips like Jack Sparrow, riding toward the beach. Even the cats were impressed. They watched him the whole way down. 

December ended with Ehab's wedding. Lots of dancing, lots of eating, and lots of caffeine. The caffeine man stood in the corner, brewing the strongest coffee I'd ever had in my entire life. No wonder everyone was dancing so much. That stuff was hardcore. 

And that about wraps it up. It was a busy year. Next year will likely be even busier. I've got a whole lotta hikes planned for the future. Loose ends and unfinished business in the Los Padres and beyond. 

Porro et sursum