Santa Rosa, Day 2

The frighteningly cacophonous sound of a phone alarm brought us out of the peaceful realm of dreams and into the harsh reality of the brand new day. I ain't ever heard no phone alarm like this one. Literally jolted the both of us out of the bunks. It was like the equivalent of some fool dumpin' water on somebody to wake them up. Who needs coffee when you got a loud-ahh phone alarm?

It was 6:30am, a time that I haven't been too familiar with in a good long while. I usually start my day at the crack of noon, so it was interesting to see how the world looked during these early hours. There was no wind. Not even a breeze. It was perfectly still, a condition that was as surprising as it was welcomed. A day with no wind on Santa Rosa means it's gonna be a really good day. Or a really hot day. One of the two...

We walked out of the station, down the road, off to the beach. On the beach we split up and did our own thang. I sat down cross-legged and watched the sun slowly starting to peek its way over the canyon and cliff bespeckled landscape of Santa Cruz. And the water was like glass, and the waves were small and gentle, and the sand was white and soft and full of microscopic shards of shell and stone and biological detritus. And the sea possessed a sheen of some kind, increasing in intensity as the sun become louder and louder. The colors were placid and calm and cool, and a pathway of shimmering gold shone from the glowing orb of the rising sun and down across the sea, an early morning golden highway of sorts, hovering over the tranquil water. And the only sound that met my ears was the sound of the waves hitting the rocks and the cliffs and the sand and the pier. And it was good sittin' there, and everything was nice. Definitely somethin' worth seein'.

After this early morning meditation we went on back to the station to prep for the day. Made breakfast, made lunch, filled up the ol' water bottles. Today's assignment was a walk out to the Torrey Pines. I ain't ever seen no Torrey Pines before. Seemed like it was gonna be a good walk.

As a group, we left the station, walked down the road, and started our walk on the Coastal Trail. By now it was obvious that today was gonna be hot, but not too hot. Nothin' that a bunch of SoCal locals couldn't handle. High 80's. That ain't nothin'.

Coastal Trail

It was interestin' walking on that trail. Flat and maintained, it offered tremendous views of the coastline. Unlike Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa has some pretty darn nice beaches. Sand dunes and everything. And the bushes on the side of the trail were all bent at a 45° angle and there were huge cracks near the side of the cliff that would eventually break off and fall into the sea. We were told to stay away from these cracks. We obeyed.

Eventually we approached Water Canyon, the steepest part of the day so far. And down in the bottom of said canyon was, you guessed it: water! And it looked like split-pea soup and was full of reeds and had a briny smell to it but it was water nonetheless. I always like it when the name of a place actually makes sense. If somethin's named "water canyon" it better jolly well good have some dang water in it!

We took a quick break after conquering the steep down and up of Split-Pea Soup Canyon and after that—there they were—the pines. And we walked down the road and we all looked at these strange trees, trees that looked like they didn't belong there at all. In one moment we were walkin' out on a windswept and dry and exposed cliff face, and then suddenly—BAM—pine trees and pine needles and pine cones galore. And they had a pleasant, clean aroma to them and the ground was covered in dead and dry needles and cones and twigs and the like. And I could imagine that if it had been breezy there would be that signature, relaxing, "swooshing" sound of the wind weaving its way through the pines. A very nice area indeed.

Learnin' about the pines

After learnin' a bit about these trees and about a few endemic succulents that dotted the ground here and there we split up into two groups: those that wanted to climb up a hill and those that didn't. Those that didn't found a nice spot in the shade and had lunch while the rest put one foot in front of the other and ascended the hill into the pines. It was steep goin' up that hill but it was shady; the pines offering great shelter from the sun and nonexistent wind. 

Going up

At the top we were gifted stupendous views of the surrounding country. Santa Cruz, Skunk Point, East Point, Southeast Anchorage, Becher's Bay, Carrington Point and beyond. We could even see the mainland from up there; the stupidly clear conditions making it all the more impressive. We could actually make out textures and canyons and such—the visibility was absolutely remarkable. And it was quiet and still and peaceful and warm. A little too warm though; we quickly made our way back down to where the temperatures were more agreeable near the coast. 

Santa Cruz

Skunk Point to the left, East Point to the right

Niebla Homalea

Becher's bay

We met up with the other half of the group and enjoyed a nice lunch in the shade. After a little while of eatin' and digestin' and hydratin' and whatnot, the opportunity arose for a quick walk out to Skunk Point for anybody interested. Seven were interested, and at around 12:30pm we said our goodbyes to the group and headed off to our destination. The walking was quick and flat, and after we left the pines we were graced with a clear view of our destination. We'd be there in no time!

I ain't never seen the ocean so blue and so vivid. It was loud, both in color and sound. Nearer the coastline it possessed this crystalline turquoise appearance and we could see clear on down to the bottom. Several fish and a few manta rays were spotted swimmin' around down there. And out in the distance this turquoise would abruptly shift into a deep and vibrant and radiant blue. And out there was were all the spooky stuff was, where all of the crazy stuff was...basically where all the sharks was. And the coastline was dotted with both endemic and invasive species: ice plant and verbena and a whole bunch of pink and yellow and purple flowers that I don't know the names of. And as we approached the sand I noticed just how much stuff was imbedded in the cliffs and soil. It seemed like the soil was infused with hundreds of thousands of broken shells and sun-bleached fossils and and a whole other myriad assortment of natural debris and refuse. And on the beach itself lay a whole assortment of wind-blasted dunes and driftwood and dried up animal carcasses. Near the point, we made sure to step around a complete mummified dolphin carcass that had been layin' there, bleachin' in the sun, for who knows how long. I figured that this is what SoCal beaches used to look like. I wished they still did, cause seein' the coastline like that was truly something spectacular.

Skunk Point

Skunk Point didn't have no skunks, but I guess a lot of surfer types get skunked out on the waves out there. It looked, in the words of one of our trip supervisors, "like a land lost in time, like, you know...kind of like Tatooine." There was the skeleton of a shipwreck washed up on the beach. And the sand seemed to stretch on forever, and we could see the canyons and cliffs and mountaintops and caves and coves of Santa Cruz with incredibly clarity. And the water here was turquoise and clear and cool, and people had brought their boats and anchored off shore and there was one guy out there surfin' his butt off. And there was no wind. No wind at all. No sand flyin' everywhere, stingin' your legs and burnin' your eyes. It was surreal: the evidence of wind lay scattered all around us, yet it did not exist. So we stayed there for a while and swam a little and enjoyed this special moment, a moment that none of us will likely ever experience again.

Remarkable Coastline

On the way back we ran into one of the folks who helped instruct us on how to build a cloud fence. She was drivin' a truck and had flippers and a boogey board; headin' out to Skunk Point no doubt. We chatted a little bit and she informed us that it was 94° in the interior of the island. No wonder it was so hot up on top of that hill!

The walk back went by very quick. Don't know why—it just did. Sometimes it works like that. At Split-Pea Soup Canyon we decided to take another dip because it was a warm day and we had gone on a long walk and our legs wanted to feel the cool ocean just one more time. So we went to the beach and the dunes were huge and there were several campers there and the water was almost perfectly still; the waves having never increased in intensity since the morning. And there was a kid who climbed up one of the dunes and he rolled down the dune like a crazy person and one of our group members did the same thing, totally inspired. And then the kid said he wanted to do it again but on a bigger one and off he went, a man on a mission. And we got in the water and floated like otters and the water was like a dull emerald and if you closed your eyes it felt like you were in a floatation tank and nothing else mattered except you just floatin' there. 

Dunes

We made it back to the station, a little sore but feelin' good. And for dinner there were tacos and rice and beans and chips and salsa and habanero peppers. One of our group ate one of those peppers and his face turned hot read and his eyes glazed over and tears started runnin' down his cheeks and he said, "Yep, that's pretty hot." And after dinner and dishes we set up the Celestron and looked at the moon and tried to look at Saturn but it was too far away. And we walked down to the pier again and enjoyed the night air and looked for bioluminescence and starfish and crabs and stuff and the breeze finally decided to make an appearance and it had something to say. And you know what it said? It said that tomorrow was gonna be a hot, hot day. No matter. We were ready for it. But we were more ready for sleep—it had been a long, extraordinary day. 

Santa Rosa Island, Day 1

Maybe you don't like the islands. Maybe they look boring, uninteresting. You can see them from the 101 freeway—and they're just sittin' there doing absolutely nothing. They're uninteresting. Nothin' going on out there. Ain't no Micky D's out there. No shops, no paved roads. No wifi, no cell service, no showers, no street lamps, no cars, no noise, no skyscrapers, no nothin'. But when you're offered an opportunity to go out to the islands—you better jolly well go. At least that's what I say. Who knows. You may end up likin' it very much.

At 7:00am we arrived at the harbor. A guy who looked like the offspring of Ron Perlman and Santa Claus was organizing the luggage and tellin' people where to go. Every time he had to enunciate or raise his voice or tell people to "not stand there, sir, SIR, YOU CAN'T STAND THERE," he'd take off his mask and then immediately put it back on. He continued doing so until taking it off and putting it back on became too much of a hassle so he just took it off and threw it in the trash. And there were others walkin' around, others in khaki cargo shorts and converse sneakers and white cotton socks and the signature blue collared polos, all of them organizing, shuttling, informing, and herding the passengers onto the docks. 

And there was a guy with his hair in a bun standin' there by all the college luggage handing' out parking passes. And the group of students formed around him and he had the boarding passes and he handed them out to all of the students and he kept reminding us that we "needed a parking pass if our car is stayin' here overnight—remember—you guys—parking permits if stayin' overnight—." And the students were just faces and they were clean faces with clean clothes and clean bags and clean attitudes. And I didn't know any of them too particularly well—not a clue of who they were or where they came from or why they chose to go on the trip or what kind of ice cream they liked or whatever. There we were, standin' around in a circle, filling out  last minute paperwork, checking' off names, names that went through one ear and out the other. Faces, just faces, standin' around in a circle, waitin' to get on the boat, waitin' for the excursion to commence.

A surfur dude with a surfer accent gave us the lifejacket safety lecture. His mannerisms and posture told us that he had given this spiel many a time before and was likely sick of doing so—but his voice was crisp and clean and clear and effervescent and made all of us feel very safe and confident. And the boat roared to life and off we went, out of the harbor, out into the blue. And some people walked around and some people snacked inside and some braved the wind at the bow and others sat silently in the stern, souped up on Dramamine, praying for the ride to be over with as quickly as possible. 

The boat was packed. Stuffed to the brim. And interspersed with the faces of the students were the faces of complete strangers—strangers that I will likely never see again. There was the old guy with the floppy hat and Ray-Bans standin' at the bow with his arms crossed staring into oblivion. There was the tall woman in the synthetic t-shirt and cargo pants with hair blowing in the wind, not a single goosebump on her arms. And there was the bearded individual who looked like an intellectual wrestler and the guy in the Hawaiian shirt with only three buttons in use and his hairy chest sticking out and his bucket hat and aviator sunglasses and he kept on saying, "in about 45 minutes we should be in whale territory." And there was the elderly Asian couple sitting upstairs and a skinny Jason Momoa lookalike and his Angelina Jolie girlfriend walking' around, both of them trying do find something to do to pass the time. And there were dolphins and pelicans and seagulls and waves and cold water splashing up on the sides and Santa Cruz to our left and the mainland to our right and the wind was loud and cold and nice and the ship moved like a zipper across the channel—stopping only for wildlife and mylar balloons.

Santa Cruz

Our going was good. We were making good time. We skirted the edge of Santa Cruz with its imposing, scat encrusted cliffs falling into the ocean. Around the western tip we caught our first glimpse of our destination: Santa Rosa. There it was, the land of little foliage and excessive wind. And the closer we got the more was revealed. Brown grass, deep canyons, sandy points. Santa Rosa, land of wind and heat and arroyos and ravines and secrets and wind and bent trees and bent grass and bent sticks and sand and wind and dunes and desolation and wind and wind and wind. Lots of wind. 

Northwestern tip of Santa Cruz

Santa Rosa

We arrived at the pier. Left the boat. We made a human assembly line. Passed the gear from the boat to the people to the pier. There was a Ranger on the pier. Super tan with tattooed arms. Handle bar mustache. Filthy boots. Pistol at his side. He gave the Island lecture to all of the visitors except us: "If you're with the college...you'll get your own orientation." And so we left and walked to the research station and we learned the rules of the game and what to do and what not to do and we picked rooms and put everything away and then chilled out for a little bit before headin' on out into the hinterland for our first assignment.

It was dry and barren; looked like the whole place was just itchin' for some rain. And the wind was ever present and getting noticeably stronger every hour or so. And we walked and we talked and we arrived at the assignment and we wove sticks together and cut fabric and made "cloud fences" to catch the morning fog. And we were told that a total of four inches of rain graced the island last year. No wonder it looked so dry! These cloud fences would sure come in handy. And we talked and worked and drank water and talked some more and the wind kept blowin' and we ended up makin' 28 fences but had to re-do 13 of them because we made them upside down. And it felt good makin' those fences and seein' our progress and gettin' to know one another and before we knew it the work was done and we had to head on back. 

Cloud Fences

And on the way back we saw some history in the form of old buildings and forgotten boats and rusted vehicles and temporary structures and old hunting tents with the old sun-bleached skulls of some deer species mounted on the outside. And the Eucalyptus windbreak was old and dry, and the trees were bent at  45° angles and the sun was going down and the wind just wouldn't quit and Santa Cruz stood in the distance—a golden, sun-baked stretch of mountains and canyons and who knows what else. 

Santa Cruz in the distance

A relic of the past

Spooky

Back at the station we had some free time before din-din so a few of us ventured on down to the beach. It was far too windy and cold for me to venture into that icy blue beyond but it didn't stop the others. They dove in without hesitation and swam and floated and let the wind whip the water over their faces and it looked like they were having a good time and I walked down the beach lookin' out across the channel and out at the pier and at the waves breaking on the rocks and the sand whipping across the beach and the little tiny invertebrates crawling around in the washed up seaweed and everything was good, everything was nice.

But after a while we had to head on back and the wind was gettin' stronger and stronger and while we were waitin' for din-din I talked to one of the students and she told me her father was good friends with one of Tolkien's sons. And she told me how she grew up reading British literature and all of the classics and about the new story she was workin' on and how she once had a poetry teacher who told her that her style of writing sucked because she used big words and I told her that that must have been a pretty bad poetry teacher and she said yes and we laughed and chatted and our voices were carried away with the wind.  

And for dinner there was angel hair pasta with marinara and vodka sauce and Italian sausage and salad and breadsticks and whoever helped cook this meal did a fantastic job and it was warm and cozy in there with random bits of conversation and dinnertime ambience bouncing back and forth across the walls and out of the open screen windows and into the wind and across the island. 

I helped with the dish crew and the dishes were dried and before we knew it it was 9:00pm and it was time to walk out to the pier to look at the stars. And out there on the pier and lookin' at the stars we sat and chatted with shivering bodies and chattering teeth and had philosophical conversations about the meaning of life and how beautiful the night sky was and how pretty the island looked at night. And some students wore two jackets while others wore flimsy windbreakers while one was wrapped up in a sleepin' bag. And the wind was loud and the wind was cold and the wind was nice and it never stopped and it never seemed like it was gonna stop and that seemed like a good thing. 

Back at the station we were informed that we should see the sunrise in the mornin'. 6:30am to be exact. Told that it would be one of the prettiest darn things that we would ever see in our entire lives. That's a pretty bold statement. Had to see if it was true. I set my alarm, day one complete, excited for the next. 

Nordhoff Peak, The Fun Way

I've visited the ol' lookout tower on Nordhoff Peak more times than I can remember. It's a nice little destination that can be accessed by nice and easy, well maintained trails. But you can only go up Pratt or Gridley so many times before they become routine and predictable. Turns into more of a regimented workout than a relaxing walk. So you start doing combinations. You start at Cozy Dell and then go up Pratt to the top. Or you drive up the 33 to Rose Valley and take the Howard Creek trail to the top and then descend either Pratt or Gridley. Or you start at Shelf Road, go up Fox Canyon or Lucy's Trail to the Fuel Break Road and then on to Pratt or Gridley to the top. Or you start at Shelf, take Lucy's to the Fuel Break, go up Pratt to the summit and then down Gridley and across Shelf back to the pipin' hot car that's been sittin' in the sun too long. And when you get tired of doing that, you start ditchin' Gridley and Pratt at random points and go up random canyons and whatnot hoping to find some cool route that you can take to quench your thirst for exploration for just a little bit until you need to find some other silly way to slice that cake.

This past Wednesday I decided to attempt a route to the summit that I've been wantin' to try for a good long while now. You access the summit via the Northwest ridge, starting near the Wheeler Gorge Visitor Center. To make our trip a little longer (the whole ridge is just under 2 miles) we decided to descend Pratt on our way back. The ridge looked short, steep, slightly brushy, and highly doable. My mother and uncle tackled this very same route when they were my age so you know I just had to do it. At around 7:40am, with one car waiting for us at Pratt, Daniel and I laced up our shoes and crossed the highway and began the hellishly steep first section of the ridge.

The start of the ridge, just past the leaking rock beyond the last tunnel

The first section of this ridge is a little demoralizing. It's steep. Crazy steep. The type of steep that forces you crawl on all fours and makes you feel like losing your breakfast. And the ever present loose shale prevents you from gettin' solid traction so you end up in this funny situation of takin' one step forward and three steps back. And you can't see beyond the first hump and then you begin to wonder if the rest of the ridge is  gonna be this steep and loose because if it is then you definitely should've brought more water because brother—it's gonna be a long day. The only positive thing about this first section is that once you actually make it up to the ridge line from the highway the brush is practically nonexistent; though it would have been nice to grab it and use it to pull ourselves forward.

Steep!

After gettin' our butts kicked on this first section we were pleased to see that the rest of the ridge looked incredibly pleasant. Once we surpassed the first hump we were gifted with our first view of the lookout tower. Even though it looked pretty far away, we knew that we could get there; the worst of the day was behind us. Smooth sailing from here on out!

There ain't nothin' better than walkin' on a good ridge. It's impossible to get lost, the views are fantastic, and the brush—minimal. Occasionally we would plow through a small forest of laurel sumac and chamise and sage and buckwheat and yerba santa and a collection of prickly and pokey miscellaneous chaparral, but for the most part the brush was not that bad at all. There appeared to be a faint use trail or animal trail snaking its way up the ridge line; we used this to our full advantage. 

After a little while the use trail snaked off the ridge and skirted around a brief steep section. Curious to see where it went and eager to get out of the already boiling morning sun, we followed this trail a little ways until it completely disappeared into the scraggly brush. It took a lot of extra effort to re-gain the proper ridge line so if anyone were to attempt this route I highly recommend just sticking to the ridge the whole way up. It'll save you a lot of time and sweat. 

Leaving the ridge

Once we made it back to the ridge we took a little breather. Drank some water. Chatted a little bit. By this point we had been hikin' for a good hour and a half and we were a little fatigued. Shirts completely soaked through, streaked with pollen and stickers and thorns and char. Arms scratched and glistening and covered with buckwheat dust. The sun was unkind to us, and in a few hours there wouldn't be a single shady place on the entire ridge. Maybe next time we'll climb it in winter. Just an idea.

Highway 33

We pressed on, the view of the surrounding country gettin' better and better with each step forward. Nearer the top of the ridge, most brush disappeared, and we were able to poke around and find some shells and fossils and old rusty saws and ancient stoves and exploded propane tanks and other artifacts that probably haven't been seen in a good long while. And from here we could see the lookout tower and Chief Peak and most of all of the Matilija backcountry and the zigzaggin' Ortega Trail and Dry Lakes ridge and beyond. And so far, much to our delight, we hadn't seen a single sign of reptilian activity all day long. That's always a great thing. Especially when it's summer and your walkin' in a place where you won't see the snake until the snake sees you.

Nordhoff Peak

One of the things we found

Not sure what this path is. Deer seem to like it.

Matilija Backountry

In just under 2 hours, we finally made it to the end of the ridge. Looking back at what we just did, it was hard to believe that we hadn't even walked 2 miles yet. It looked much farther. But that's just the nature of this particular ridge. It's like Hemingway's writing: short, concise, sometimes brutal but always rewarding. I will definitely use this route again in the future. Much more fun than Gridley and Pratt. 

The last chunk

End of the ridge

We left the ridge and made our way up the road. After walking through steep and brushy terrain for nearly 2 hours, this road was a godsend. We made it to the tower just before 10:00am and took a nice long break, enjoying the lovely midmorning atmosphere emanating forth from the civilized humdrum to our south. 

No marine layer=stupidly hot day

Since we were feelin' pretty stoked about completing our objective relatively quickly, we decided to take the long way back by descending Gridley to Shelf. Good thing it was all downhill. As the sun got higher so did the temperature, and by noon the breeze was no longer cool and the heat berated our beings as it bounced off the unforgiving and dry and thirsty slopes and slides and canyons. We didn't see a single person hikin' up Gridley; had the whole trail to ourselves. And when we eventually got to Shelf we only saw a handful of fatigued individuals walkin' with their shirts off and carryin' jugs of water. By the time we got back to the car at the Pratt trailhead we were pretty spent but satisfied upon experiencing another great day in the local wilds. 

Gridley

Shelf