(no subject)
it's funny, the things you neglect. I go to work and spend my days hammering away at a keyboard, writing more corporate dreck I never believed in, and by the time I get home, the last thing I want to see is a keyboard. I ignore it - ignore the writing I enjoy so much. It's been building in me for awhile, maybe it's time to return to the world of LJ (helloooooo? anyone still out there?) and hammer away some words I actually believe in every now and then. No promises, but you never know...
A couple weeks ago now, I went on the best Southern California hike I've ever been on. It was exhausting, slightly harrowing, and brutal. I returned covered in a layer of dust, sunblock, bug bites, dried blood, blisters and sunburn, limping on sore legs and grinning ear to ear. The next day at work, I wrote about it with the intention of posting it here - then I got home, re-read it, and said "nobody cares. I don't even care about reading this crap" and forgot about it. But, what the hell. Here it is - if for no other reason than to share some nice pictures:
It’s one of those things that just happens completely by accident and entirely unexpected. It isn’t sudden, like an explosion or a shooting star. Instead, it’s always a gradual transformation - you’re driving a road you’ve been on a hundred times, you look up and somehow - call it a trick of the light - everything has become unbearably beautiful while you weren’t paying attention. And then, it passes, and you find yourself driving that road more often, trying to re-create the moment and always falling short. All you can do is hope it happens again, somewhere, when you least expect it.
Saturday, this moment found me as I sat in a cool, shady alcove 3,000 feet above the pacific shoreline with a cold Foster’s in my hand, watching a nesting pair of peregrine falcons on an opposing cliff while contemplating the words of “Desiderata,” carved into a slab of wood found in the alcove. But, as I said, this was no sudden thing - getting there, everything that brought me to this point, that is what made this moment so overwhelmingly beautiful that I could say nothing, and could only sit in silence next to my friend, grin plastered on my face. The devil is in the details, they say. god can be there too - whoever and whatever that may be.
It began with a text message, as most things these days do. “Drinking Friday, hiking Saturday. One? Both?” Frank hasn’t been back in the states long enough to adopt to the unspoken rules about ignoring calls/text messages until a repeat reminder, so his response was quick: “Yes to both.” I knew I wouldn’t need to remind him all week (like I would most people), so I wasn’t worried when I hadn’t heard from him until Friday with another text: “coming.”
Then he was there, carrying a plastic bag containing coca cola and pisco. I finished my wine while he mixed the drinks with a heavy pouring hand, and then we finished them, talking in the kitchen. More drinks were made, a guitar came out, later some cds were burned. At midnight, my brother showed up with a bottle of wine. Things got blurry. I ended up in bed somehow - the last thing I saw was the clock shouting “3:00” angrily in finger-high green letters.
Goldfinches woke me up, sitting on the fountain and singing - it's like a movie, my place, sometimes. Waking up to singing birds, how cliche. It was 8. I got some water, and tried to go back to sleep, but I heard stirring from the living room, so I pulled myself out of bed, threw on my shorts, shoes, and a t-shirt, grabbed my backpack and hat, and kissed Marie bye.
Frank was on the couch, tying his shoes. He happily clapped me on the shoulder when I emerged, pale, shaking, backpack in hand. “We drank all the pisco, man!” I felt weak, out of breath, dried out, but there was no question about foregoing the hike. So, we grabbed some walking sticks and left the house quietly. At some point in the morning, Dustin had already left - tired of being accidentally kicked in the face by Frank on the other end of the couch. It would just be the two of us.
After McMuffins, orange juice, and a stop at the convenience store for 2 gallons of water, 4 pints of beer (Fosters for me and High Life for Frank), pretzels, and jerky, we were on the Ventura highway, windows down, music loud, heading toward Sycamore Canyon.
A couple weeks earlier, I dragged a hung over group here for a short (4 mile round trip) hike to a nearly-dry waterfall. Above us for the entire hike, the jagged rocks of a peak named Old Boney called. It wouldn’t be an easy hike, and people had timeframes that day, so we put it off for another day. Now, driving there, it was decided (with much punning) that Old Boney would be our goal for the trip.
But there would be complications. The first uphill stretch of trail, I began to feel faint and needed to stop, cursing myself for accepting that last PisCola. A short time later, Frank, in the lead, stopped my with a raised hand while a black rattlesnake coiled angrily on the trail. We watched as it slowly crept into the brush, eyes on us always, ready to strike. We climbed a couple switchbacks, and I thought I was going to be sick. I stopped us, considered it, and brushed it off. We moved on.
About a thousand feet up, the brush on the trail grew thicker and taller. My stomach was still churning, sapping my legs or strength, so I decided now was the time to be out with it. I left Frank with my pack and stumbled through the overgrowth and down the steep slope until I was far enough from the trail to be unobserved. After throwing up and wiping my face with the napkins we’d taken from McDonalds, I noted the corpse of a large scorpion nearby, before trekking back up the hill to the trail, feeling a hundred times better.
Meeting back up with Frank, he informed me that an elderly man had passed by while I was in the bushes. Another couple switchbacks up, and we caught up with him at a place where the trail split into three directions. My Garmin was of no help (according to it, we hadn’t been on an actual trail for miles), but the older man proved to be very helpful. He said something about the north fork heading to some cabin ruins, the south fork being Boney trail, and the east fork (barely a scratch in the earth, overgrown, rocky and steep) leading to hill 1918 (for its elevation, I think). We started down the south fork, except, rather than leading up to Old Boney, it headed straight downhill, towards the main paved Sycamore Canyon road used by cyclists to bike from Newbury Park to the ocean. The old man had taken the east fork, and we decided to follow him.
After some rough and steep uphill climbing, we reached an NGS marker, proclaiming hill 1918. The man was there, shading his eyes and looking ahead to where Old Boney jutted like a compound fracture. He explained that there was a much easier trail to Boney up the north side. This trail, he admitted, he had never hiked - but he had met people on the Boney trail who had come from this way. Without sounding too much like the oft-misunderstood Bob Frost, the less-traveled and rougher trail was by far more appealing to us. The old man headed off on the trail, while we stopped for jerky and water before moving on, watching him crash through the overgrown brush on his steep climb.
When we set off, we overtook him quickly. Soon, the trail became extremely rough - very steep and covered in loose dirt and rocks. Because of the slipping and sliding, it took ten steps to cover the distance of one. We clung to tree roots or bare rock walls to find purchase. I noted that there were no other footprints in the dirt, save ours and those of lizards.
Uphill climbing, particularly steep uphill climbing, is very deceptive. You look up and see the horizon, and convince yourself that you’re looking at the top of your climb. However, most climbs are situated more like steps - you reach the top of this one step - arrive at that horizon, only to see, ahead and above you, another step. Always another step. Higher and higher. We rested at several of these steps. There was no sign of the old man on the hillside below, and we’d decided he probably turned back. It was hard enough for us to get up there on our 26 year old knees - he was at least 55.
It was at one of these steps that we found the alcove. It looked like the top of the climb - we thought we were done. We thought this was the top of boney. Frank left the trail and headed straight for the alcove’s shade and the view it offered. Then, leaning into the alcove, he paused, observing.
“What? Snake? Nest?”
“No, I don’t know”
There was a square of wood sitting there, about the size of a book. Next to it, a black Sharpie marker. The alcove was large enough to sit in comfortably. Three feet in front of it, the rock fell off into a 200 foot cliff. We sat down, took our packs off, and opened our first beers.
It was originally Frank’s idea that we bring beers. Often, we’ll embark on these masochistic deathmarch hikes, returning often after dark, filthy, scratched, aching, and jubilant. On these hikes (many of which off-trail and completely reckless), we would talk, during the return to the trailhead, about getting a steak and cold beer upon returning to civilization (something we routinely did, despite the regular restaurateur’s distress our at bedraggled appearance). Finally, Frank decided, why wait for the beer? Since then, we’ve brought a beer along (two for long trips), to celebrate reaching our goal, and to ease the hike back to the car.
Our alcove was on one end of a horseshoe shaped cliff, with the other end being about 40 feet away. From where we sat, we could see the Channel Islands, the fields of Oxnard, and even, somewhat hazy, the mountainous point of Santa Barbara, some 50 miles away. Below the cliff, Sycamore Canyon stretched in its entirety, from the lot where my car was parked to the pacific shore. “This is the best hike in a long time” Frank said - and I agreed, upping the stakes by saying, “This is the best southern California hike I’ve ever been on.” After some thought, Frank agreed with me.
The cawing of a bird of prey brought our attention to the other end of our horseshoe. Directly across from us and 10 feet down, the white streaks of droppings under an awning indicated a nest. We couldn’t actually see the nest, but a minute later, two gunmetal peregrine falcons dove from under the awning and soared out over the canyon. The crying of their nestling continued intermittently as they sailed out of sight.
Frank picked up the piece of wood and looked at the backside. It was covered in the marker scribbles of those who’d came before. Most of the scribbling were typical things - Justin was here, Chris hearts Wendy, etc. At the top, someone (likely, whoever placed the board there in the first place), had written, “May God bless all who have found this magical place.” Then we turned the board around, expecting the other side to be covered in more of the same.
Instead, the other side was varnished, bare of marker. Professionally carved on it was the poem “Desiderata.” Judging from what was written on back, most of the other visitors to this alcove couldn’t have been out of high school yet - however, nobody had defaced the front side with marker-scribblings. Even as the backside was nearly completely full, nobody had touched the front.
Sea breeze in my face, sipping my beer, I read the poem:
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
There it was - all together into that shining perfect moment. A crescendo of all the little songs of beauty - the view, the birds, the shade, the poem, the impossible trek up the steep mountainside, even the beer - it all came together like the tremendous Bb of an orchestra tuning up, then gradually faded. Soon, conversation began again.
We sat talking, slowly drinking and eating pretzels, for a half hour, when suddenly a new noise caught our attention. Frank found its source first, announcing it with an utterance of, “I can’t believe it.” There, some hundred yards downhill from us, crashing through the brush of the trail, was the old man. We put the empty cans back into our packs and rose to meet him.
Boney Peak, he told us, was only another mile or so up the trail. Realizing we hadn’t achieved our goal yet, we headed back off - the old man still slowly climbing behind us on the trail. Soon, we came to another unmarked fork, so we waited for the old man to catch up.
One way, he informed us, went to Tri-Peaks, three rocky outcroppings jutting 150 feet into the sky. The other way crested Boney Peak and then headed back down into the canyon. We also learned that he was training for a Whitney ascent with his son, and would be on this trail every week until then. We decided to go to Tri-Peaks first, then climb Boney before descending. The man bade us goodbye, and headed for Boney, while we went the other direction.
Frank, typically, is a faster hiker than me. On this overgrown trail, I soon lost sight of him - and gradually, couldn’t hear him anymore. The trail quickly dives into several rock grottoes, where various slot-like cracks lead to unknown destinations. There was a good amount of garbage here - a piece of twine tangled around a dead branch, lunchmeat wrappers, an XL green t-shirt hanging from a tree. The trail became no more, so I followed one of the cracks which looked to be leading in the right direction.
I climbed up from rock to rock (stumbling upon a beehive on the way) and finally reaching one of the three peaks. Frank was nowhere to be found, but my position gave me a clear view in all directions, so I knew I’d see Frank should he emerge from the maze of rock below. I sat down with my water and pretzels and waited. Eventually, Frank emerged on one of the other peaks. Through a shouted conversation, I learned that there was no view from there. My rock offered a very spectacular view, so I invited Frank to join me for our other beers.
After he reached me, Frank revealed that he had stumbled on someone reading at his rock. After finishing our 2nd beers and hiking back down, we found another rock alcove with more garbage and a Tupperware of provisions - revealing that someone (our reader or otherwise) was likely living there.
Boney Peak turned out, actually, to be rather anticlimactic. It proved to be simply a small rise on the ridgeline, offering no special view to reward the climb. We hiked down quickly, passing the cabin ruins (a hearth and chimney upon the ghost of a foundation) and returning to the main trail. With about a mile to go, I drank the last of my water. The downhill had rattled the aches out of my knees and feet. The car, finally, felt great, and I was able to take stock of the various cuts and scrapes on my legs from the stray yucca here and there.
So, that was about it. I came home, watered the flowers, planted some yucca seeds I found on the hike, showered, and then took Marie out for Italian.
I’m going back in 2 weeks - taking Dustin and Tony for a pre-Escalante warmup. Can’t wait. I can honestly say that this hike, by far, was the best Southern California hike I’ve ever been on. And even if I never am able to recreate that one moment of pure perfection, it will still continue to be the best hike in the region. 13 bone-jarring, filthy, overgrown and exhausting miles of prime California beauty.
**edit**
this last weekend, we tried again. It was much warmer out, muggier, hazier, and we had a larger group. Marie got sick 4 miles in (combination of the heat, coffee, and mcdonalds breakfast) and we had to turn back. Tony joined us walking back later. Only Dusty and Frank made it to the top...
A couple weeks ago now, I went on the best Southern California hike I've ever been on. It was exhausting, slightly harrowing, and brutal. I returned covered in a layer of dust, sunblock, bug bites, dried blood, blisters and sunburn, limping on sore legs and grinning ear to ear. The next day at work, I wrote about it with the intention of posting it here - then I got home, re-read it, and said "nobody cares. I don't even care about reading this crap" and forgot about it. But, what the hell. Here it is - if for no other reason than to share some nice pictures:
It’s one of those things that just happens completely by accident and entirely unexpected. It isn’t sudden, like an explosion or a shooting star. Instead, it’s always a gradual transformation - you’re driving a road you’ve been on a hundred times, you look up and somehow - call it a trick of the light - everything has become unbearably beautiful while you weren’t paying attention. And then, it passes, and you find yourself driving that road more often, trying to re-create the moment and always falling short. All you can do is hope it happens again, somewhere, when you least expect it.
Saturday, this moment found me as I sat in a cool, shady alcove 3,000 feet above the pacific shoreline with a cold Foster’s in my hand, watching a nesting pair of peregrine falcons on an opposing cliff while contemplating the words of “Desiderata,” carved into a slab of wood found in the alcove. But, as I said, this was no sudden thing - getting there, everything that brought me to this point, that is what made this moment so overwhelmingly beautiful that I could say nothing, and could only sit in silence next to my friend, grin plastered on my face. The devil is in the details, they say. god can be there too - whoever and whatever that may be.
It began with a text message, as most things these days do. “Drinking Friday, hiking Saturday. One? Both?” Frank hasn’t been back in the states long enough to adopt to the unspoken rules about ignoring calls/text messages until a repeat reminder, so his response was quick: “Yes to both.” I knew I wouldn’t need to remind him all week (like I would most people), so I wasn’t worried when I hadn’t heard from him until Friday with another text: “coming.”
Then he was there, carrying a plastic bag containing coca cola and pisco. I finished my wine while he mixed the drinks with a heavy pouring hand, and then we finished them, talking in the kitchen. More drinks were made, a guitar came out, later some cds were burned. At midnight, my brother showed up with a bottle of wine. Things got blurry. I ended up in bed somehow - the last thing I saw was the clock shouting “3:00” angrily in finger-high green letters.
Goldfinches woke me up, sitting on the fountain and singing - it's like a movie, my place, sometimes. Waking up to singing birds, how cliche. It was 8. I got some water, and tried to go back to sleep, but I heard stirring from the living room, so I pulled myself out of bed, threw on my shorts, shoes, and a t-shirt, grabbed my backpack and hat, and kissed Marie bye.
Frank was on the couch, tying his shoes. He happily clapped me on the shoulder when I emerged, pale, shaking, backpack in hand. “We drank all the pisco, man!” I felt weak, out of breath, dried out, but there was no question about foregoing the hike. So, we grabbed some walking sticks and left the house quietly. At some point in the morning, Dustin had already left - tired of being accidentally kicked in the face by Frank on the other end of the couch. It would just be the two of us.
After McMuffins, orange juice, and a stop at the convenience store for 2 gallons of water, 4 pints of beer (Fosters for me and High Life for Frank), pretzels, and jerky, we were on the Ventura highway, windows down, music loud, heading toward Sycamore Canyon.
A couple weeks earlier, I dragged a hung over group here for a short (4 mile round trip) hike to a nearly-dry waterfall. Above us for the entire hike, the jagged rocks of a peak named Old Boney called. It wouldn’t be an easy hike, and people had timeframes that day, so we put it off for another day. Now, driving there, it was decided (with much punning) that Old Boney would be our goal for the trip.
But there would be complications. The first uphill stretch of trail, I began to feel faint and needed to stop, cursing myself for accepting that last PisCola. A short time later, Frank, in the lead, stopped my with a raised hand while a black rattlesnake coiled angrily on the trail. We watched as it slowly crept into the brush, eyes on us always, ready to strike. We climbed a couple switchbacks, and I thought I was going to be sick. I stopped us, considered it, and brushed it off. We moved on.
About a thousand feet up, the brush on the trail grew thicker and taller. My stomach was still churning, sapping my legs or strength, so I decided now was the time to be out with it. I left Frank with my pack and stumbled through the overgrowth and down the steep slope until I was far enough from the trail to be unobserved. After throwing up and wiping my face with the napkins we’d taken from McDonalds, I noted the corpse of a large scorpion nearby, before trekking back up the hill to the trail, feeling a hundred times better.
Meeting back up with Frank, he informed me that an elderly man had passed by while I was in the bushes. Another couple switchbacks up, and we caught up with him at a place where the trail split into three directions. My Garmin was of no help (according to it, we hadn’t been on an actual trail for miles), but the older man proved to be very helpful. He said something about the north fork heading to some cabin ruins, the south fork being Boney trail, and the east fork (barely a scratch in the earth, overgrown, rocky and steep) leading to hill 1918 (for its elevation, I think). We started down the south fork, except, rather than leading up to Old Boney, it headed straight downhill, towards the main paved Sycamore Canyon road used by cyclists to bike from Newbury Park to the ocean. The old man had taken the east fork, and we decided to follow him.
After some rough and steep uphill climbing, we reached an NGS marker, proclaiming hill 1918. The man was there, shading his eyes and looking ahead to where Old Boney jutted like a compound fracture. He explained that there was a much easier trail to Boney up the north side. This trail, he admitted, he had never hiked - but he had met people on the Boney trail who had come from this way. Without sounding too much like the oft-misunderstood Bob Frost, the less-traveled and rougher trail was by far more appealing to us. The old man headed off on the trail, while we stopped for jerky and water before moving on, watching him crash through the overgrown brush on his steep climb.
When we set off, we overtook him quickly. Soon, the trail became extremely rough - very steep and covered in loose dirt and rocks. Because of the slipping and sliding, it took ten steps to cover the distance of one. We clung to tree roots or bare rock walls to find purchase. I noted that there were no other footprints in the dirt, save ours and those of lizards.
Uphill climbing, particularly steep uphill climbing, is very deceptive. You look up and see the horizon, and convince yourself that you’re looking at the top of your climb. However, most climbs are situated more like steps - you reach the top of this one step - arrive at that horizon, only to see, ahead and above you, another step. Always another step. Higher and higher. We rested at several of these steps. There was no sign of the old man on the hillside below, and we’d decided he probably turned back. It was hard enough for us to get up there on our 26 year old knees - he was at least 55.
It was at one of these steps that we found the alcove. It looked like the top of the climb - we thought we were done. We thought this was the top of boney. Frank left the trail and headed straight for the alcove’s shade and the view it offered. Then, leaning into the alcove, he paused, observing.
“What? Snake? Nest?”
“No, I don’t know”
There was a square of wood sitting there, about the size of a book. Next to it, a black Sharpie marker. The alcove was large enough to sit in comfortably. Three feet in front of it, the rock fell off into a 200 foot cliff. We sat down, took our packs off, and opened our first beers.
It was originally Frank’s idea that we bring beers. Often, we’ll embark on these masochistic deathmarch hikes, returning often after dark, filthy, scratched, aching, and jubilant. On these hikes (many of which off-trail and completely reckless), we would talk, during the return to the trailhead, about getting a steak and cold beer upon returning to civilization (something we routinely did, despite the regular restaurateur’s distress our at bedraggled appearance). Finally, Frank decided, why wait for the beer? Since then, we’ve brought a beer along (two for long trips), to celebrate reaching our goal, and to ease the hike back to the car.
Our alcove was on one end of a horseshoe shaped cliff, with the other end being about 40 feet away. From where we sat, we could see the Channel Islands, the fields of Oxnard, and even, somewhat hazy, the mountainous point of Santa Barbara, some 50 miles away. Below the cliff, Sycamore Canyon stretched in its entirety, from the lot where my car was parked to the pacific shore. “This is the best hike in a long time” Frank said - and I agreed, upping the stakes by saying, “This is the best southern California hike I’ve ever been on.” After some thought, Frank agreed with me.
The cawing of a bird of prey brought our attention to the other end of our horseshoe. Directly across from us and 10 feet down, the white streaks of droppings under an awning indicated a nest. We couldn’t actually see the nest, but a minute later, two gunmetal peregrine falcons dove from under the awning and soared out over the canyon. The crying of their nestling continued intermittently as they sailed out of sight.
Frank picked up the piece of wood and looked at the backside. It was covered in the marker scribbles of those who’d came before. Most of the scribbling were typical things - Justin was here, Chris hearts Wendy, etc. At the top, someone (likely, whoever placed the board there in the first place), had written, “May God bless all who have found this magical place.” Then we turned the board around, expecting the other side to be covered in more of the same.
Instead, the other side was varnished, bare of marker. Professionally carved on it was the poem “Desiderata.” Judging from what was written on back, most of the other visitors to this alcove couldn’t have been out of high school yet - however, nobody had defaced the front side with marker-scribblings. Even as the backside was nearly completely full, nobody had touched the front.
Sea breeze in my face, sipping my beer, I read the poem:
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
There it was - all together into that shining perfect moment. A crescendo of all the little songs of beauty - the view, the birds, the shade, the poem, the impossible trek up the steep mountainside, even the beer - it all came together like the tremendous Bb of an orchestra tuning up, then gradually faded. Soon, conversation began again.
We sat talking, slowly drinking and eating pretzels, for a half hour, when suddenly a new noise caught our attention. Frank found its source first, announcing it with an utterance of, “I can’t believe it.” There, some hundred yards downhill from us, crashing through the brush of the trail, was the old man. We put the empty cans back into our packs and rose to meet him.
Boney Peak, he told us, was only another mile or so up the trail. Realizing we hadn’t achieved our goal yet, we headed back off - the old man still slowly climbing behind us on the trail. Soon, we came to another unmarked fork, so we waited for the old man to catch up.
One way, he informed us, went to Tri-Peaks, three rocky outcroppings jutting 150 feet into the sky. The other way crested Boney Peak and then headed back down into the canyon. We also learned that he was training for a Whitney ascent with his son, and would be on this trail every week until then. We decided to go to Tri-Peaks first, then climb Boney before descending. The man bade us goodbye, and headed for Boney, while we went the other direction.
Frank, typically, is a faster hiker than me. On this overgrown trail, I soon lost sight of him - and gradually, couldn’t hear him anymore. The trail quickly dives into several rock grottoes, where various slot-like cracks lead to unknown destinations. There was a good amount of garbage here - a piece of twine tangled around a dead branch, lunchmeat wrappers, an XL green t-shirt hanging from a tree. The trail became no more, so I followed one of the cracks which looked to be leading in the right direction.
I climbed up from rock to rock (stumbling upon a beehive on the way) and finally reaching one of the three peaks. Frank was nowhere to be found, but my position gave me a clear view in all directions, so I knew I’d see Frank should he emerge from the maze of rock below. I sat down with my water and pretzels and waited. Eventually, Frank emerged on one of the other peaks. Through a shouted conversation, I learned that there was no view from there. My rock offered a very spectacular view, so I invited Frank to join me for our other beers.
After he reached me, Frank revealed that he had stumbled on someone reading at his rock. After finishing our 2nd beers and hiking back down, we found another rock alcove with more garbage and a Tupperware of provisions - revealing that someone (our reader or otherwise) was likely living there.
Boney Peak turned out, actually, to be rather anticlimactic. It proved to be simply a small rise on the ridgeline, offering no special view to reward the climb. We hiked down quickly, passing the cabin ruins (a hearth and chimney upon the ghost of a foundation) and returning to the main trail. With about a mile to go, I drank the last of my water. The downhill had rattled the aches out of my knees and feet. The car, finally, felt great, and I was able to take stock of the various cuts and scrapes on my legs from the stray yucca here and there.
So, that was about it. I came home, watered the flowers, planted some yucca seeds I found on the hike, showered, and then took Marie out for Italian.
I’m going back in 2 weeks - taking Dustin and Tony for a pre-Escalante warmup. Can’t wait. I can honestly say that this hike, by far, was the best Southern California hike I’ve ever been on. And even if I never am able to recreate that one moment of pure perfection, it will still continue to be the best hike in the region. 13 bone-jarring, filthy, overgrown and exhausting miles of prime California beauty.
**edit**
this last weekend, we tried again. It was much warmer out, muggier, hazier, and we had a larger group. Marie got sick 4 miles in (combination of the heat, coffee, and mcdonalds breakfast) and we had to turn back. Tony joined us walking back later. Only Dusty and Frank made it to the top...