Arlington Peak, Cathedral Peak, and a Lesson in Dehydration

 05/08/25

I ripped off my toenail when I returned home from Bluff Camp. The thing was stupidly loose, like a baby tooth barely clinging to the gums. Fluid leaked out from the nail bed; sounded like some air was escaping. I squeezed the sides of the nail, stuck my thumb underneath the top, lifted it, and then ripped it clean off. A sensitive membrane was now exposed to the world, ready to grab life by the horns. 

It had been a little over two months from the time that I blackened the nail to the time that I ripped it off. And when I had that nail on my toe, I was doing things. Climbing mountains, crossing creeks, busting through brush. Long miles, sunny days. When I lost that nail, I lost some drive. The nail seemed to be the only thing saving me from sloth. Now that it was gone, I had no motivation to do anything, especially if it related to the outdoors. 

I didn't do anything for almost two weeks. Maybe I did it to let the membrane harden a little bit. I don't know. What I do know is that I needed to get back out there and do something I've never done before. Enter Arlington Peak. 

I've known about Arlington Peak for a few years now. I've seen it many times while driving up and down the 101 freeway, its rocky summit beckoning adventure. It looked like a relatively easy peak to reach, short and steep. Additionally, when viewed on a map, it looked possible to connect a few other peaks as well, turning the whole endeavor into a nice little loop. It would go something like this: start at the Tunnel Trail, leave the trail and climb Arlington, walk over to nearby Cathedral Peak, and then ascend La Cumbre Peak. After that, follow Camino Cielo east down to the northern terminus of the Tunnel Trail, and take it all the way back to the trailhead. Staring at the map, this looked feasible, with relatively low mileage. So, on the 8th, I decided to give it a look. 

I left home around 9:30am with hardly any food and only one liter of water. I've brought the same supplies when hiking up to the Nordhoff lookout tower without suffering any issues, so I figured it would be enough for this hike, especially since it would be shorter mileage-wise. Hahaha. One would think I've learned my lesson about never underestimating the difficulty of a hike. Cobblestone Mountain was a prime example of that. But here I was, nearly a year later, making the same mistake. If I didn't learn it on Cobblestone, maybe Arlington would hammer it home (spoiler: it did). 

I made it to the trailhead a little after 10:30am. Lots of people out and about. Had to park in the overflow "lot" a bit farther down the road, requiring a bit of a road walk to get to the trailhead. I walked with a gait that was measured and fast, passing many people as they casually made there way to wherever they were going. Bikers, hikers, trail runners—everyone was there, a lot of them heading back down the trail. Those that were heading in were likely going to the waterfalls up Mission Creek. I don't blame them. The heat was already quite noticeable, only interrupted by a faint, cool breeze. Spending the day in a nice cold creek would be far more pleasant than slogging it up steep mountains. Takes a special kind of stupid to do something like that. Good thing I fit the bill. 

Mission Creek

I made it to Mission Creek in a flash, taking a little breather in the shade. The water was dirty in some of the more shallow pools, algae and muck covering much of the surface. The creek trickled gently down the canyon, lazy and carefree. I looked around a bit, absorbed the vibe of the place. It was here at Mission Creek where I would start the climb to gain the steep ridge that would take me to Arlington Peak. Only problem was that I had done zero homework on the route and had no idea which use trail to take. There were a bunch of 'em, all snaking in different directions. I'd take one and follow it for a ways, then it would fork and I'd go a different way. I figured that as long as I was going up, I would be fine.

Onward and upward

The use trails were well-worn but very steep. Sometimes they were clear of brush, sometimes I had to bend over and squat-walk up a brush tunnel. At one point my chosen use trail eventually spit me out on what looked like a defined path, so I stayed on that for as long as I could. I noticed Vans prints in the dirt and hypothesized that this was the proper route to the ridge.

I was correct, the thing took me all the way up to the ridge lickety-split. There were a few instances of mild class 2 scrambling, but for the most part the thing was pretty easy, albiet steep. Once on the ridge, I had tremendous views of the surrounding country and a clear picture of the coming slog to the summit. It looked steep, sunny, hot, but fun. I spent a few minutes catching my breath and then off I went, snaking in and around multiple sandstone boulders.

Arlington Peak

I found the ridge very interesting. Huge sandstone boulders, worn and rugged and covered with lichen, stood in stark contrast to the brilliant green of hardy chaparral. Holes, divots, bumps, hollows galore. The place was a scrambler's paradise. So much to see, so much to explore.

The "trail" was fairly easy to follow, marked with painted white dots and some black arrows. I'd weave in and out and around a bunch of formations, sometimes ducking under them, sometimes going off trail to inspect small caves. I was having a blast, but I was burning through my water supply too quickly. It was much hotter than I had expected, the sandstone absorbing the heat of the sun and then shooting it back out like a gigantic radiator. The strenuous grade wasn't helping much. My heart was beating out of my neck, my body drenched in sweat. I started conserving water, hoping to make it last. 

Some scrambling required

I followed the "trail" as it curved to the southeast side of the mountain. Here, route-finding was a little more difficult. If I wasn't paying close attention, I'd soon find myself scurrying up some class 4 boulders. No bueno. I turned around a few times, always searching for those Vans footprints. They were a good indicator of the path of least resistance. 

Arlington Peak Summit

I followed the Vans footprints to the summit, a rocky and brushy place with very little shade and a whole lot of sunshine. I had drank half of my water supply by this point and was just starting to feel the effects of mild dehydration. A bit tricky to swallow, some mild dizziness, fatigue, golden urine. Yup. Been there before. I knew the drill. 

I scrambled up to the summit block, a lone boulder that overlooked the whole scene. It had a little hole in the side of it where someone had placed a big ol' plastic insect. I didn't find a register, but then again, I wasn't looking for one. I sat on the summit and admired the views. The whole swath of Santa Barbara and Goleta lay before me to the south, the ocean hazy from the morning fog, the Channel Islands barely visible. Another boulder, carved with the names of those who had conquered the summit, lay in my field of vision. It looked like a work of modern art; so many names, all carved in different years, some fresh, some so old and weathered I couldn't even tell what they said. 

I pondered my situation. To the east I could see the Tunnel Trail snaking its way down from Camino Cielo. It looked far and hot. To the northwest was Cathedral Peak, a rocky knob in a sea of brush. To the north rose La Cumbre Peak, the lookout tower on its summit small and unassuming. I had half a liter of water left. I could possibly make it last to La Cumbre Peak, but after that I'd be SOL. Maybe I could just coast the downhill from La Cumbre back to the trailhead. Who knows. Not wanting to waste any more time and energy thinking about it, I got up, grabbed my stuff, and headed towards the second objective of the day: Cathedral Peak.

Cathedral Peak

The route to Cathedral Peak was very easy to follow. I lost some elevation on the way over but quickly gained it back as I approached the base of the climb. From the base it was a very straightforward hike/scramble to the summit. There was a big ol' ammo can on the summit full of multiple register booklets and another plastic insect. The views were much of the same as those on Arlington. I signed my name, took a few pictures, and then scampered off the summit in search of the route to La Cumbre Peak.

View east, Arlington Peak right

View west

Cathedral Peak is a popular spot for rock climbers. As such, there are numerous use trails that surround the summit, all leading to different places. I'd follow one, hit a class 4 obstacle, climb down it, follow a faint path through the brush, and then hit an impasse. Then I'd waste a bunch of energy climbing back up what I'd just descended. Each trail I followed took me to a dead end. Lots of backtracking, lots of wasted energy. Things weren't looking good. I sat down, scratched my head. 

I decided to turn around. It was a tough decision, mostly because it meant that I had to admit to myself I was super lazy in the preparation for this hike and that it was because of this laziness that I wouldn't be able to complete the loop. Ain't nobody's fault but mine. And that was frustrating. My legs felt pretty good, I was still fairly fresh, but I was definitely dehydrated. Dry tongue, a little nausea, and I wasn't sweating as much as I was earlier. I had enough water to make it back, maybe. But for the loop? Not a chance. Plus, I had no idea how to get to La Cumbre Peak anyway. If I had studied the route beforehand it would've been a different story. Since I didn't have a map, I was stuck to wandering. If I took my time, I'd probably find the use trail to the summit sooner or later. But I didn't have time to spare. And so, with my hubris crushed, I turned around and made my way back to Arlington Peak. 

La Cumbre Peak

I spent a good fifteen minutes on Arlington Peak, soaking in the view, drinking the rest of my water. Man, if I'd only brought just one other bottle, things would be different. But that's the way things go sometimes. Had to learn the lesson the hard way yet again. I was so bummed with myself that I promised to never make the same mistake again. No matter the hike, I'm always bringing more water than I think I need. End of story. 

After my self-reflective-summit-introspection-session, I gathered my meager belongings and slowly made my way back down to Mission Creek. For some reason, it was a lot trickier following the trail on the way down than on the way up. I got off route a few times, finding myself cliffed out on one occasion. I retraced my steps, searching for those ever-reliable Vans footprints. 

I stumbled along, the rough sandstone doing a number on my fingers. I nearly stepped on a medium-sized rattlesnake at one point. The thing was sitting in the sun, minding its own business. And then I came along and ruined its afternoon. It coiled up in the blink of an eye and was ready to strike, its rattle buzzing in warning. I jumped about 800ft in the air. When I got back down to Earth, I made sure to be extra diligent where I placed my feet.

After a while of scooting, jumping, sliding and hopping down sandstone, I took a break in the shade of a pine tree and guzzled down the last few drops of water still clinging to the inside of my bottle. I laid on a pointy rock covered in lichen and pine needles, listened to the faint breeze rustling through the branches of the lone tree. I could here voices coming from far away. I sat up, looked around. Way off in the distance, out on the Tunnel Trail, I made out three dots, all of them moving at a brisk pace. Them's were the chattiest dots I've ever heard. They never let up. 

Back on the trail...

I zigzagged down the ridge, the route now very obvious. I saw some folks hanging out at one of the many waterfalls up Mission Creek. I could hear their voices as well. Crazy how far sound can carry in the wilderness. 

I followed the well-defined path the rest of the way to Mission Creek. There were a few people milling about near the creek. One of them asked me if I was coming from the falls, wanting to know how much water was up there. I said I was coming from Arlington Peak and they didn't seem to understand what that meant. 

I made it back to the car after a little more than 3½ hours of total walking. Sometimes, that's all it takes to get dehydrated in these woods. I had left a spare bottle of water in the car and guzzled it down in one go. The drive home left me time for more introspection. I was happy to finally get back out there, to see something I've never seen before. But I was also disappointed with my lazy preparation. I'll have to attempt this one again someday. Earlier start, more food, more focus, and definitely more water. 

Day Hike to Bluff Camp

04/27/25

Ah, Bluff Camp. What is there to be said that hasn't been said already about this legendary place? Abandoned, distant, hard-to-reach, beautiful, secluded, mysterious, alluring. Situated right on the border of "Bear Heaven," this place serves as a gateway to the sublime. Ancient fir trees, dense chaparral, red and purple sandstone formations, deep canyons, huge cliffs, impenetrable wilderness. Wild, wild country. Bluff Camp ain't just a camp. It's a holdout barely clinging to the vestiges of humanity, serving as a barrier between the known and unknown. I've wanted to see it with my own eyes for years now, to make the trek, to journey to this unique land of rock and oak and pine. Getting there would be difficult. But I had to see that it could be done. 

It was a clear morning, at least in some areas of Ventura County. I planned on meeting Carl at the trailhead at 6am, a fairly early start to what we we expecting to be a long, tough day. Neither one of us having a lot of time off, we'd both decided to attempt a day hike to Bluff Camp. This is not advisable, as a trek to Bluff Camp is certainly no easy feat. Sixteen miles roundtrip, nine of which are a mixture of cross-country travel, rock hopping, bushwhacking, and travel on trail so far gone that it basically doesn't exist anymore.

The skies remained fairly clear, the morning air crisp and cool. We started on the trail after a quick breakfast of sausage biscuits and a hash brown or two. Carl led the way with a blistering pace, neither one of us talking very much. Our idea was to chug out this easy section as fast as possible so as to give us ample time to navigate the brushier portions of the hike. Very few people were on the trail, all of them heading to the famous Punch Bowls. 

We made it to Big Cone Camp in record time, set our packs down and caught our breath. Someone had left an ice chest in the camp, completely empty except for a few slices of soggy, moldy cheese. A few empty aluminum cans and some plastic wrappers littered the ground, but no graffiti this time. We'd have to clean it up on our way back.  

After a little rest and a quick smoke, Carl and I set off on the trail, heading down the switchbacks to the east fork of Santa Paula Creek. We'd been up the east fork earlier this year and knew what to expect. We turned right, followed the trail until it puckered out, and then it was nothing but the creek. To our surprise, ALL of the orange flagging that we had seen earlier this year was gone. Very interesting. Someone must have taken it down. 

Heading up the east fork

Travel through the east fork was slow but pleasant. The water level was lower this time, making it very easy to keep our feet dry. The clouds started to roll in, blocking the sun, keeping the temperatures nice and cool. Verdant forest, imbued with the hue of brilliant springtime green, lined each side of the canyon, a feast for the eyes. Giant, moss covered boulders littered the creek, with strange riparian foliage hugging the banks, providing cover and shelter for creatures too shy to say hello. The farther we ventured up the east fork, the wilder the country, evidence of humanity disappearing with each consecutive step. 

We were able to find the spot to leave the creek and head to Cienega Camp by using our past knowledge of the area. We hadn't brought a GPS, so prior knowledge was crucial. The spot to leave the creek wasn't obvious whatsoever, the orange flagging that once marked the exit point nowhere to be seen. The only thing of note we found was a tiny cairn, two stones high, resting parallel to the exit point. We left the creek, scrambling our way up the side of a small rise, busting through brush to get to the trail that would take us to Cienega.

Good Lord. The trail was in much worse shape than when we did it back in January. Springtime growth had choked much of the trail, making it far more brushy than I had remembered. Add to that head high, unavoidable sections of poison oak and we had our work cut out for us. It had rained the day before, and all of the brush was still soaking wet. The cloud cover had prevented the sun from evaporating the moisture off of the brush, and we were promptly soaked. Shoes: wet. Pants: wet. Shirts: wet. Everything: wet. I had worn jeans thinking that they'd hold up well in a brush battle. They never ripped, but hiking in soaking wet jeans proved to be no fun at all. 

It was a slog to Cienega. Even with our past knowledge of the route we still lost the trail a few times, the new growth making navigation slightly annoying. There was no sign of anyone having been up there for a long time, no footprints to follow, no broken branches or bent brush. We took our time, eyes fixed on the ground, paying very close attention to the faint trail as it snaked its way through clumps of ceanothus and poison oak. 

Cienega Camp

We eventually stumbled out of the brush and into Cienega. Someone had cleaned up the place, fixing the benches and fire pit and grill and whatnot. It was in much better shape than when we had seen it back in January. We took a seat on the iconic table next to the oak tree and took a long break. I ate some bars, Carl ate more sausage biscuits and had another smoke. The clouds were in thick now, stretching across the sky. Santa Paula Peak was obscured in the clouds. And, to my dismay, the ridge up to Bluff Camp was obscured as well. Damn. That would make navigation difficult. Wandering through brush up a steep ridge to an abandoned camp in the fog would be a tricky feat. No view, no visibility. We'd have to be extra diligent. 

We sat for a while, mentally preparing for the next stretch. We knew this would be the hardest part of the day, and, not having any beta on the route, had no idea how bad the brush would be. Doubt creeped into my mind. But I let it pass. I was too busy shivering to be focused on failure. The temps had dropped, the clouds were gray, and my soaking wet jeans weren't making me any warmer. Time to get up and get moving. And so we did.

We knew we had to go in a straight line, pretty much directly north from Cienega, to get to Bluff Camp. So that's what we did. We followed the faint trail out of Cienega until it pretty much disappeared, only the slightest indentation in the earth noting its existence. We went through brush, found many animal trails, but each one of them took us to nearly impenetrable brush. This was not looking good. If we couldn't find the trail, it was clear that we weren't gonna make it to Bluff Camp. 

Just when I thought we were out of luck, I caught sight of some pink flagging. Hallelujah! We scurried towards it, looked around, found no evidence of a trail. But that was OK. The flagging meant that somebody had been there before, perhaps they knew the way. We went straight, looking for signs of humanity. And then—aha—I spotted a cairn on top of a boulder sticking out of the brush. I made my way towards it, telling Carl that I'd found something. And, sure enough, right beneath this boulder existed the remnants of a trail. A really old and brushy trail, but a trail nonetheless. My confidence surged. We might actually pull this off. 

Ahh, what a ridge. We'd follow the trail, look for cairns, our concentration sharp, our minds nothing but shear focus. But then the trail would disappear and we'd find ourselves in a sea of brush. Chamise, yerba santa, scrub oak, yucca, laurel sumac, ceanothus; it was all there, all of it head high or taller, all of it soaking wet and dripping with moisture. We became enveloped in the perfume of the chaparral, the brush scrubbing us clean like a giant, natural washing machine. It was a battle for sure, but we kept at it, straining our necks over the brush to look for flagging or cairns. And we'd see 'em, sticking out of the brush, and we'd fight our way over to 'em, hoping that they indicated relief. Sometimes they did, and that was great. The trail would reappear and it was back to fairly smooth sailing. Other times they didn't, often just serving as a waypoint, and we were back to slogging it through the brush. 

On the trail...

Trail sign: note the singular rock to the right of Carl

I knew we had to start heading east at some point, but the matter of when was a mystery. Lucky for us, the trail became a little more prominent near the upper portions of the ridge. We found us some switchbacks, a few cairns placed hear and there, and sure enough—the trail started heading east. We rounded a corner, marked by a small cairn, and then continued north. 

This is where things got interesting. The brush wasn't nearly as bad in this area (at least, not yet), but we had now entered the realm of the clouds. Couldn't see no more than 50ft in all directions. The temperature had dropped significantly, and walking uphill was no longer enough to keep us warm. I started losing sensation in my hands, my teeth starting to chatter. And just for the fun of it, the clouds unleashed a faint drizzle. Not that it would matter much, we were already soaked through from our battle with the brush. The drizzle just served as another annoyance, another obstacle to infect our minds, crush our spirits, sow the seeds of doubt to prevent us from reaching our destination. 

It was slow work; we had to be extra tedious. The trail was almost imperceptible. The brush wasn't too bad, but figuring out where to go was the tricky part. The drizzly fog didn't help at all. I started bending twigs and sticks as markers for our way back. Wouldn't want to get lost, especially in that weather.

With diligence and focus we were able to follow the trail until it lead to a point: on one side the land rose up steeply, almost like a cliff, and on the other was an open gray void of clouds. We were getting close. We'd follow the side of this "cliff" until it took us to Bluff Camp. Unfortunately, this last little section proved to be the worst part of the day. 

The poison oak was back, head high and unavoidable. Sections of trail were so choked with brush that they became nigh impassable, forcing us to skirt around and find another way. Progress was exceedingly slow, mostly from shear exhaustion. We had been hiking for over five hours, and we still had a long way to go for our return. I looked at Carl and asked him when he wanted to call it. He said, "I'm following you, but if you want to turn around I won't mind." Yep. That meant we had to call it soon. I said "Let's hike for another ten minutes." If we didn't make it in the next ten minutes, well, we'd just have to come back some other day and give it another shot.

I was having trouble gripping the brush to pull it out of the way. My hands were quickly losing feeling. "Jeez" I thought, "how cold is it up here?" And then, after clawing my way through a particularly dense chunk of brush, I saw snow on the ground. That answered my question. It was pretty damn cold. 

We steamrolled through the brush, giving everything we had. And then, suddenly, with no sign or warning, the trail opened up nicely, the ground clear and plain. Huge oak trees and ancient firs rose high overhead, with towering sandstone formations resting on either side of us. Hell yeah. We were close. 

The drizzle picked up to a light, chilly rain, the trees heavy and dripping with moisture. The area was almost completely silent, nothing but the sound of a gentle pitter-patter interrupting the stillness. More snow on the ground, more cold, tons of fog. I started laughing. This was awesome. Miserable, but awesome. 

And then, at long last, there it was: the lonely fire pit, the forgotten shovel, the remnants of the sign destroyed and splintered and swollen and damp. It was Bluff Camp. We had made it. 

Snow Plant

We did not stay long. I threw my pack down, shoved my hands into my armpits, and jumped around. Carl sat down on a log and had another sausage biscuit. The dude kept pulling them out of his pack like he had an endless supply of them. 

There we were, two loons existing in the quiet repose of the legendary camp. Couldn't see much. Everything was soaked in a dense layer of cold, misty clouds. The massive, sheer, moss-covered sandstone formations rose up and away into oblivion. Trees vanished in the fog, only their trunks visible. Numerous canyons beckoned exploration; the whole place exuded a sense of pure wonder and excitement. I had heard many things about this camp; what it looked like, what was there, who had been there, its close proximity to one of the most rugged, wild, and magical places in the entire forest. I had heard these things, pondered these things, and I can honestly say that, hopping around the fire ring with freezing hands and soaking wet jeans, everything said about this camp was true. The place is mystical. Ethereal. Unlike any place I've ever seen.

Lost in the Los Padres

There wasn't much in the camp. Just the fire pit, a couple logs, a few pieces of the broken sign, a shovel with no handle. I found Christopher Lord's register that he'd placed in 2019, but I couldn't open it. Hands were too damn cold. Couldn't get a grip on it. Oh well. These things happen some times. 

We probably stayed no more than five minutes in the camp. We came, we saw, and then we left. If the weather were better (or truthfully, if we had better gear) we would've stayed longer. But the cold was bothersome, and the skies were nothing but gloom. Carl finished up his sausage biscuit, I took a few more pictures, and then we said goodbye. 

We left Bluff Camp in silence. Nothing but the sound of falling rain and the quiet song of a few freezing birds tucked away in the cliffs. The clouds never abated, they never dispersed, they choked the land and sucked away all warmth. I crashed through the brush like a wrecking ball, no longer using my freezing hands to move it out of the way. 

Gravity was on our side. It was much easier going downhill through the brush and we made excellent time. We remained diligent, following the trail of broken sticks and bent branches that I created on the way up. Before we knew it, we were back on the ridge, out of the clouds, the east fork of Santa Paula Creek stretching far and wide before us, the views stretching out to Upper Ojai, Sulphur Mountain, the Santa Ynez Range, and even the tip of Santa Cruz Island. 

We took a more direct route on the way down. We'd follow the trail for a bit, then it would disappear, and then we'd use gravity to our advantage, steamrolling down through the brush until the trail reappeared once more. Eventually, we caught sight of a rock cairn far down the ridge, a little brown stain in a sea of green. We made a beeline to it, caught it, found the trail, and took it the rest of the way down the ridge. It spit us out just above Cienega Camp, near a gargantuan conglomerate boulder. We scaled the boulder, threw down our packs, and took a nice long break. 

The top of the boulder was level with the tops of most of the trees. We sat there for a minute, gazing upon the lush forest spreading out in all directions. I kept thinking how insane it was that none of this burned during the Thomas Fire. It would've been a real shame if it did, the scenery was stunning, absolutely stunning. 

Carl had a smoke and yanked out another sausage biscuit. I nibbled on some trail mix. Carl's gaze was fixed on a formation to the north east, a sheer, purply-brown cliff face with a big ol' crack running through it. Being a climber, Carl was instantly drawn to it the moment it met his gaze. Started talking about how he had to climb it one of these days, haul up the gear, spend a few nights at Cienega, put up a few routes, stuff like that. I mentioned that he'd probably be the first person to ever climb that cliff face, an idea that made the prospect even more alluring. I'm sure he'll be back one day. And if not, it'll definitely hold a place in his memory. 

We packed up our stuff, scurried off the boulder. We walked back through Cienega Camp, took a few more pictures, and then continued with our journey back down to the east fork. The clouds remained, but the weather had warmed a bit. My hands had regained sensation, my body, though still soaked, no longer tense and shivering. We rolled on down to the east fork like it was nothing. Broke through a few patches of poison oak, slipped on a wet log or two, and then we were there—back in the east fork, back in the creek.

Back in the east fork...

 

We were worn but happy, tired but satisfied, our legs spent but our souls fulfilled. We had achieved our goal. Now all that we had to do was get back to the trailhead. And so we bumbled along, no longer caring much about time. We scrambled down boulders, hopped across the creek, avoided some deadfall, found a few animal tracks. As we neared the end of the east fork, the spot where it meets the trail, I picked up a discarded plastic bag and started filling it with little bits of trash. A plastic bottle, an old bandana, a few wrappers, stuff like that. 

We met the trail, a godsend for the legs. We went up the switchbacks and took our longest break of the day at Big Cone. Carl sat on a log and had a smoke, I lay on my back, staring at the sky. A group of young men had set up camp at the first sight, the spot with the discarded ice chest. They had cleaned up the place a bit and were playing catch with a foam football. A few parties passed by, Carl engaging socially and giving directions to the Punch Bowls. We were in tremendously good spirits; the hard part was over. Nothing but smooth, defined, well-marked, brush-free trail lay ahead. We had it in the bag. 

We picked up a whole lotta trash on the way back. Mostly little things, like bottle caps and wrappers and stuff. There were many people on the trail, either coming from or going to the Punch Bowls. We passed one group of about fourteen people, all of them dressed in summer wear, all of them heading to the punch bowls. Families, students, couples, elderly folks, solo travelers, we saw them all. It was a bit strange seeing all these people after a day mostly spent in solitude. A shock to the senses. 

We made it back to the trailhead a little before 5pm. Carl and I hung around for a minute, sent each other some photos, and then parted ways. It had been an excellent day in the sticks, made more interesting with the chilly weather. It was great to finally get out there and see the place for myself, to experience it first-hand. And the best part? No ticks, no rash! 

Seldom Visited Falls

04/15/25

Ok, time to do this for real. Earlier start. More supplies. Focused mindset. These falls exist, they're out there, located far up the canyon, well off the beaten path. Getting to them would be an all-day excursion. We were ready for that. Hell yeah. This was happening.

These falls have eluded me for years. I've known of their existence for quite some time, just never figured out how to get to them. I've seen pictures. A few pictures. "Gah! Where is that? It looks so cool!" A huge cliff face, crumbly, sheer, dotted with moss, a white torrent of water gushing down the middle. They looked awesome. I had to see them in person. And I had ideas of where they were. Just ideas. And then came the info from the friend. And then came our excursion in the creek. And when I got home after that little outing I looked on good ol' Google Earth, searched around, and then—ZINGO—there they were. 

It had to be them. It made sense. As it turned out, the info we received from the friend was somewhat correct. These falls really did exist up a side canyon to the left, just much, much farther up the canyon than we had expected. It was looking like I was in for another long day in the creek, a modest price to pay to view the incredible. 

On April 15 I met Alex at the trailhead, both of us wearing wide brimmed hats, synthetic pants, breathable shirts, and shoes that we were alright with getting absolutely destroyed. We started much earlier this time, our packs laden with extra supplies that would help us get through the long day. The weather was cool and nice with a thin cloud cover stretching across the sky that blocked the wrath of the sun. 

The morning was slow and steady, much like it was the week prior. We walked for a ways in an unhurried fashion, neither one of us thinking much of how far we had to go. Truth be told, we really didn't know exactly how far we had to go. All that we knew was that these falls were way the hell up the canyon and that getting to them would be, as one friend who had been there put it, "an all day thing." We had prepared for that, but thinking about it was a little intimidating. Best to stare at the feet and keep truckin' down the trail.

We eventually entered the creek, stuffing the electronics in the good ol' dry bag. From that moment on we pretty much remained in the creek until we reached the falls. I don't think I've ever spent so much time in a creek. Jumping, hopping, climbing, striding, slipping, skipping, squatting—we were getting a full-body workout in that creek. So many boulders, so many slick rocks, so much deadfall and foliage and cool, clear water. Our shoes suffered through the creek, falling apart the farther we went. 

We made good time, having received our "creek legs" the week prior. If it weren't for that preliminary expedition, we likely wouldn't have made it to these elusive falls. Our legs were accustomed to the ways of the creek, and we zoomed up the canyon as fast as we could, trying to find the path of least resistance. 

The farther we ventured up the canyon, the less we saw evidence of humanity. No foot prints, no broken branches, no cairns, nothing. The canyon was a wild place, carved out and gutted by the gentle creek in which we were traveling. Huge rocks and debris from previous winter storms littered the canyon floor, offering many obstacles that impeded our progress. We took special care to look up every once in a while at the towering 100ft+ cliffs that lined the canyon, crumbly and falling apart. Wouldn't want to get brained by a falling rock now, would we?

At times the creek disappeared underground, leaving us wandering around dry boulder fields like those at the bottom of an alluvial fan. And then the creek would reappear, slowly at first, appearing in shallow, stagnant puddles. And then it was as if the faucet was turned back on and the creek would be running like clockwork, free and wild and cool and clear as ever. Frogs and fish inhabited the deeper pools, while several insects seemed to enjoy the shallower, more mellow portions of the creek. 

We had been slogging it in the creek for a while now, boulder hopping, busting through brush, scaling small waterfalls, crawling under deadfall. We came to a spot in the shade of an old sycamore tree and took the first good break of the day. I hadn't been checking the time so far and was astonished to see that we had been hiking for over four hours. Oof. That meant that we had better turn around soon, since it was likely to take just as long going back as it would going in. We planned on giving ourselves another hour to find these falls. If we didn't find them within the next hour, well dammit, we'd have to call it quits. 

And for a moment it seemed like that would be the case. Not long after we finished our little break we encountered the crux of the day, a section of creek that I called "The Boulder Problem." It was a dry, steep section of creek, littered with gigantic boulders bleached by the sun. Some class 3 scrambling was required to move through this problem, severely limiting our efficiency through the canyon. Wandering through this hodge-podge mess of boulders was taking a lot of time. I began to wonder that if the creek continued to be like this for much longer, we definitely wouldn't make it.

Looking down at "The Boulder Problem"

But then, after surpassing this obstacle, I noticed the canyon narrow to a chokepoint. Beneath this chokepoint appeared to be a drop-off. Much of it was obscured by trees, but I had a feeling that what I was looking at had to be these elusive falls. I shared this idea to Alex, and he said something like, "it better be." No time to waste. We continued past the boulder problem towards the chokepoint, the canyon getting much steeper the farther we went. 

The creek reappeared beneath our feet, gushing in small torrents down the numerous boulders that inhabited the canyon floor. Foliage soon began to choke the canyon, blocking out the light of day. A sound reached our ears, not very loud, but unmistakable as nothing other than that of a large waterfall. We scaled a few more boulders and then reached a flat area, the creek running steady and calm. A small, fairly deep pool of emerald green water was before us, flanked in a semicircle by young sycamores and California bay leaf. And yeah, towering above all of this—at last!—were the elusive, magnificent falls. 

Water seeped out of the rock, dripping down the face of the cliff like a million little tears. Moss and other delicate foliage dotted the face, dripping with moisture and shining bright in the cloud-filtered light of the sun. Numerous, miniature cascades poured down and around the cliff, feeding the small pool at its base. The place looked a lot like Weeping Rock in Zion National Park, just without all the red sandstone and tourists and easy access and whatnot. This place felt isolated, wild, yet strangely peaceful. There was a feeling about the place that was simply indescribable. Was it the beauty of the falls? Their isolation? The knowledge that very few people have ever seen them? I couldn't say. I just sat down, ate a sandwich, and stared at them for a long time, admiring every little feature, every detail, cementing the picture of these falls in my mind. 

Alex cracked open a pilsner and ate some mustard "to help prevent cramps." We both walked around a bit, trying to see these falls from every possible angle. They looked a lot different from the pictures I had seen, but then again, those pictures were fairly old. Nature has a way of changing things; ain't nothing permanent in nature. 

We looked around, taking a bunch of photos. I scampered on over to the base of the falls, above the pool, and got a nice cold shower. The cloud cover had now thickened, and the water chilled me to the core. Thoughts of splashing into the pool at my feet, which just a few moments ago seemed very inviting, now seemed like an endeavor in misery. I scurried back to where I ate my sandwich and jumped around, wishing for nothing but warmth. 

Bird nest

We stayed at the falls for almost an hour, enjoying them as much as possible since we knew that neither one of us would likely ever see them again, especially how we were seeing them at that moment. Another good winter storm and the whole area will change again. Who knows? That pool might disappear, the trees might be washed away, the falls might even take a whole new shape. We soaked up as much of the scene as we could. But we had to leave at some point. Couldn't stay there forever. And so, with one last look, we waved goodbye to the falls and slowly made our way back down the canyon. 

Going back down the canyon was the same as it was going up. The same boulders, the same deadfall, the same brush, just a different direction. Alex impressed me by descending the boulder problem with a beer in his hand, although there was one spot where I had to hold it for him. We made it back to the trailhead in about the same amount of time as it took us to get to the falls, the whole day taking just under ten hours. Alex and I bumped fists and parted ways. And that was that—finally, after all these years, we'd made it to these elusive, seldom visited falls. And they were every bit as amazing as I imagined them to be. 

In my hunt to find these falls, I discovered a phrase that was repeatedly used in conjunction with them: "if you know, you know." So in keeping with the ethos that surrounds these falls, I've explicitly excluded any obvious information as to their whereabouts. Where is this "creek" and "canyon" anyway? I ain't gonna say. Part of the allure of these falls is their confidentiality. It keeps them quiet and secluded, unburdened by the negatives of popular visitation. I believe that those who put in the effort to find these falls on their own are likely to treat them with the respect and courtesy that they deserve. And I'll leave it at that.

A Day in the Creek

A day in the creek is a day well spent. Sunshine, moving water, smooth rocks, little fishies, shady trees—what's not to enjoy? Maybe that creek smell. That's the only thing that comes to mind. It can be a little obnoxious to the nostrils, I know. But coming home, smelling like creek, well that right there is what it's all about. It's an earned aroma, one that can only be obtained by spending the entire day in the creek. And last week, on a bright and sunny April Tuesday, that's exactly what we did. 

We began the day with determined minds to reach a determined goal. And that goal was not spending the entire day in the creek. Funny how things work out like that. We had prepared for a fairly arduous day, a day of labor rather than leisure. We had planned on reaching an elusive, seldom visited waterfall, one that has been on my list for quite a long time now. Hardly any information about this waterfall exists, save for a few colloquial names and pictures from those who've been savvy enough to figure out where it's located. I had a good idea of where it was, but I wasn't 100% sure. And then came the intel. 

We received directions from a friend who told us the exact location of the falls. He'd been there himself, discovering them on accident after descending the wrong canyon. He informed us, to my surprise, that these falls are actually pretty easy to get to, at least a lot easier than what I expected. Granted, it had been over 20 years since he discovered these falls and his memory could be a little fuzzy, but information is information. Sure I was skeptical, but there was only one way to see if these directions were correct. We gave 'em a go. 

I packed light knowing that we were looking at a fairly low-mileage day. Just a fanny pack, some bars, and one bottle of water. Benny brought his fishing stuff. Figured he'd scout out some pools on the way back. Alex brought the essentials: food, water, and beer. We met at the trailhead at 8:40am, mingled a bit, and then set off for the falls a little after 9:00am. 

Sunlight peered through the canopy. Birds sat chirping in the trees. The mushrooms lingered in the shade while the spring flowers pushed and shoved for time in the sun. The creek flowed nearby, the sound of its rushing waters soothing to the mind. Already, not even ten minutes into the hike it was calling us, beckoning us, manipulating our minds to give up our goal and enter its waters and rest and be lazy. We did not listen. We pressed on. 

It was a cool morning, but one that hinted at coming warmth. The local fauna were in no hurry to do anything. Laziness permeated the air. A snake sat in the sun, charging up, getting ready for the day. It made no effort to escape when I crouched down and nabbed it. The snake sat comfortably in my grip, making no protest. I handed it to Benny. Benny looked at it. Benny put it down. It slowly slithered away, annoyed, no doubt, by this most rude interruption to its morning sunbath. 

We took a break, ate some foodstuffs. Benny packed an excess of tangerines and offered them to the group, my stomach now bearing the extra load. We reached a viewpoint, one where we could see much of the canyon that lay ahead. Fingers pointed. Imaginary lines were drawn in the air. "We go this way, then we turn left, up a side canyon somewhere." As we discussed our route, the morning dragged lazily along, the sun slowly rising in the sky. 

We descended the highpoint and dropped into the canyon. Soon after we left the trail and entered the creek. I got out the dry bag. Things were going to get wet. Goodbye, dry shoes, goodbye, dry clothes, goodbye, dry everything. We were promptly soaked, sloshing and wading and swimming through numerous blue-green pools. 

The canyon walls rose high above us. Sometimes they narrowed, hugging everything close together. The rocks and twigs and trees and such were mostly absent in these narrow sections, no doubt the cause of flash flooding. At other times the canyon opened up, allowing ample room for foliage to grow without worry of being carried away in a flash flood. 

Numerous shady trees with hyper-green leaves grew within the canyon, their smell fresh and lovely, the classic perfume of spring. Underneath the canopy was the creek, meandering its way through several huge boulders, forming large pools every now and then. Within these pools sat smooth reddish stones and numerous small fish. Benny was elated. The creek, still trying to convince us to give up and relax, was starting to win Benny over. He set up his pole, cast a few lines. "One more, just one more" he would say. We kept going, our pace slower now. The day was starting to shape up for what was to come. Our goal was slipping.

The sun rose higher, its heat growing noticeable. We walked through the water, succumbing to its soothing song. There'd be a break in the trees and we'd take a breather on the warm rocks, eating more tangerines and such. In the sun the water possessed an aqua-blue color, a sight most inviting in this late morning heat. Benny saw fish through his polarized glasses. He cast more lines. The creek had won him over. The waterfall was of little interest to him now. And to be honest, it was of little interest to me too at that point. 

The water looked so nice. The weather—perfect creek weather. Plus, we'd gone much farther than we had planned, the directions looking to be incorrect. We had seen no side canyon. No fork in the creek. But ehh, maybe we just hadn't seen it yet. Curiosity drove us forward, and so we continued with our hike. 

Benny slipped on some underwater moss. He slid into shallow water and landed on his ankle, bruising it and tearing a nice hole in the flesh. That about sealed the deal. Not much long after that incident he called it quits and remained at a nice pool to fish. Alex and I continued on, still driven by some mild curiosity.

We hadn't hiked more than ten minutes before we reached an impasse. A waterfall, but not the right one. This one can be accessed by a trail, albeit one that is in disuse and overgrown. Alex had visited it about two weeks prior. "I knew this section of creek looked familiar!" he said. We both looked at it, stunned. Had we really gone that far up the creek? Yes, yes we had. And that meant that the directions we received were totally, most definitely, absolutely 100% incorrect. We had been told that our elusive falls were located a good ways downstream from this waterfall at which we were now observing. The elusive falls can only be accessed via creek, not trail. And we'd been in the creek most of that morning, looking to the left for a supposed side canyon. We saw no such thing. The directions were incorrect, our attempt at reaching the elusive falls a failure.

We trekked back down the creek, noticing a faint use trail descending down the side of the canyon through the brush. "Ahh, yes, I remember it now! There it is!" Alex said as he pointed to the trail. We would not be taking it back. First, because we had to get Benny. Couldn't just leave him in the creek. And second, because the creek was awesome. We could no longer resist its siren song. We had become fully entranced.

The day slowed. Unhurried and leisurely vibrations, emanating from the creek, set the tone for the trek back to the car. We were casual, nonchalant, lazy, relaxed. We took our time, enjoying the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees, watching the frogs as they leapt into the creek, hiding underneath the smooth reddish stones. We regrouped with Benny, who said he'd caught five little fish, all trout. We lingered a bit by his chosen pool, had a snack lunch. And then we were off, slowly making our way back down the creek, enjoying the lovely spring air as much as we could.

Benny was in full-blown fishing mode, now determined to catch "the big one." He'd cast a few lines in a pool, study it, ponder a bit, and then move on to another. Alex and I hung back, enjoying the water and the warm boulders. I laid down, put my straw hat over my face, and took a little snooze in the sun. Benny kept at his fishing, Alex soaked in the cool water, beer in hand. The hours ticked by, the light in the canyon shifted. The creek provided much of the soundtrack for the day, but every now and then we'd hear the call of a random bird, its shrill cackle noticeable above the gentle hum of the water. 

And then there came another sound. The triumphant screeches of a successful fisherman. Alex and I made our way down the creek, sliding down boulders, wandering over to the sound of Benny's shouts. We found him sitting on top of a large boulder, his line cast in a deep blue pool fed by a small waterfall. Told us he caught a good sized trout, about ten inches. He tried holding on to it for a bit so that we could get a picture of it (he had forgotten his phone at home) but it wriggled too much and he let it go. Ahh well. The catch will have to live on in his memory. 

We stayed at that pool for a while, Benny still trying to catch another trout of that size. He was unsuccessful. Alex took some pictures and I wandered around, observing the creatures of the creek. Frogs, little fishies, water bugs, toe-biters, slugs, and these tiny little, weird lookin' leech things. Alex found a toe biter with a bunch of eggs on its back. I found a water snake slitherin' around, enjoying the sun. This one, being fully charged, was much harder to catch than the one I'd bothered earlier in the morning. I followed the snake down the creek, slipping on slick rocks in the process. The thing was too quick, always escaping my grasp. I almost had it and then it slipped into the water and rode a small waterfall into a small pool. I never saw it again. 

We continued down the creek, Benny now realizing that he was unlikely to catch another winner. In fact, he wasn't catching much of anything anymore. Word must have got out. The fish were no longer visible, most likely hiding under the smooth reddish rocks with the frogs. 

We spent some time at this one large pool for a while, swam a bit, got cold, stood in the sun. The light was now creeping up the canyon's eastern wall. We were soon in the shade. The day was coming to a close, the afternoon light slowly receding with every passing second. We geared up and got going. 

A little ways before joining the trail, we decided to stay in the creek and check out this side canyon we had seen on the way up earlier that morning. The elusive falls were surely not located up this canyon, but hey, we had to check it out just to be sure. We re-entered the creek, hopping, sliding, and jumping down the boulders. 

We made it to the entrance of the side canyon. It was short and steep, containing almost no water and several sharp rocks and large boulders. It was a steep little canyon, quickly gaining elevation. And then it ended abruptly, a big ol, slick cliff face with a tiny bit of water trickling through the cracks. Was this it? Was this the waterfall that we had been seeking? Nope. Alex thought it was, Benny was indifferent, I knew it wasn't. I'd seen pictures of the true falls and this one here looked nothing like it. But oh well. It was a waterfall of some kind so we were happy. Started the day in search of a waterfall, ended the day by finding one. It wasn't the right one, but that doesn't matter. 

We left the side canyon and stayed in the creek for a while until finally regaining the trail a bit farther downstream. The sun sat low in the sky, no longer warm. Orange light bounced off the trees and rocks, the surrounding country bathed in a late afternoon glow. We made it back to the trailhead sweaty, a little sunburnt, and caked with the perfume of the creek. It had been an awesome day. A good amount of wandering around, a good amount of exploring, a good amount of swimming, a good amount of relaxing. It was nice to slow down for a bit, to take life casually, to soak it up in the waters of the creek for a bit, to leave all worries and dreams and hopes and aspirations and whatnot behind for a while. 

That's the magic of the creek: it washes not only the body, but the mind as well. At least for a moment. When I got home, I was back on the grind, searching google earth, looking for these mysterious falls that we had missed. After about fifteen minutes I found them. I was sure of it. I could see them there, laying far up the canyon, much farther than what we had been told. Aha, this was more like it. 

Now that I had found them, I was soon to be back, back in the canyon, back in the creek. The hike would be much longer and whole lot harder, but that's to be expected. These falls are seldom visited for a reason. There was NO WAY that we were gonna make it with the supplies we had brought that day. But it was meant to be. We were destined to spend the day in the creek. And so we did.