Hurricane Deck

After the cool, shaded climb from the Sisquoc the light and heat of the open Deck are almost shocking. To the North, the far blue mountains are soft, rumpled against the pale winter sky.

To the South, the trail hugs the edge of a vertigo inducing precipice as it climbs steeply up the first of many 'hills' before it meets the junction of the Potrero Trail. It's like looking along the spine of an enormous dragon, scales and all.



For the first several miles the trail is relatively clear, then without warning it completely disappears in a tangle of chamise and star thistle - the bane of back country hikers. We thrash back and forth for some time searching for the track. Hot, discouraged, we are on the point of turning back when the chaparral suddenly and mysteriously opens up again into a wide and well marked trail.

Mile after mile, we climb sharply up, then just as precipitously the trail drops, then up again, now down. As the sun begins it's slow descent to the West, we climb our last, long hill and finally, thankfully see the rusty trail marker for the Potrero Trail.

Golden grass backlit by the setting sun along the aptly named Potrero Trail.

View toward Zaca Peak.

At the base of the Potrero Trail, we encounter a herd of pack goats and their owner, settled in for the night. After chatting for a bit, mutual acquaintances are discovered and as we move down the trail in the gathering dusk, the smallest goat runs after us, baa-ing plaintively.

Manzana Schoolhouse

The light is clear, the air soft and warm as we set out for Manzana Schoolhouse. The trail crosses and recrosses the creek, but the water levels are low which makes the crossings effortless.

October rains have kept the water flowing nicely - new grass is brilliantly green against golden Sycamores and delicate grey pines shimmer in the sun.

Manzana Camp is soon reached and we climb the bluff up to the Schoolhouse. Traces of the 2007 Zaca Fire are still visible around the edges of the clearing - but concentrated efforts by fire crews saved both the Schoolhouse and the nearby Dabney Cabin from the conflagration. Built in the early 1900's, it served both as schoolhouse and meeting hall for the 100 or so homesteaders in the area.

Drowsing in the late morning sunlight, the clearing is utterly deserted and silent. The front door yields, we venture a few steps inside but are greeted with the overpowering scent of dust, mildew - the sight of field mice droppings forces a hasty retreat.

Resting in the cool shade of Manzana Camp and gazing out across the beautiful Sisquoc River delta, the idea of returning via the Hurricane Deck is considered. We check our supplies: (short on water, but still do-able since the day is relatively mild) headlamps, fleece.... we are ready!



The trail begins by cutting steeply up the backside of the Hurricane Deck - shaded by ancient oaks, it is cool, verdant - a striking contrast to what follows.

San Carpoforo

After losing most of the summer to a mysterious illness, I jump at the chance to hike in Ventana Wilderness with B this weekend.

A 5:00 a.m. departure is unappealing; we compromise on 6:00. Santa Maria, 5 Cities, San Luis Obispo - the miles fly by as we chat - catching up on the events of the past several months.

An opalescent dawn has given way to a cool, misty morning as we head up the first steep switchbacks of the Cruikshank Trail.

Climbing rapidly away from the nearly shoreless sea, we move through fields of golden grass and ruddy buckwheat - a few lone pine trees etched against the pewter sky.



Buckeye Camp is deserted, almost desolate. We eat lunch quickly, a chill wind making us disinclined to linger. A spur of the moment decision is made to return to the car via Soda Springs Trail - B's motto being "There are no wrong trails......"

The fog lifts, a vivid blue sea stretches endlessly to the horizon and beyond. Soda Springs trail winds down, down through stands of scrub oak and Pampas Grass, the trail slippery with fallen leaves.





Then south along Highway 1 to San Carpoforo Beach. It is unbelievably beautiful in the pale, wintery sunlight and the ceaseless roar and hiss of the surf is hypnotic, soporific. B naps in the sand - but I cannot help myself and begin picking up rocks, each more beautiful than the last. Pockets soon stuffed, I pull off my fleece and use it as a kind of collector's sack.



Finally, reluctantly, we head south to a much appreciated coffee in Cambria, dinner at the Firestone Grill and then home in the gathering dusk.

Grass Mountain

To B's chagrin, I propose a 6:00 a.m. start time to our Grass Mountain loop. The last time I did this hike we got a very late start on a blisteringly hot day. I am not eager to repeat that experience.

As we set out, the mountain shimmers - distant, dreamlike - in the early morning light. We follow the stream for a while before climbing up through the grassy potreros to the first ridge line.

Far to our right, Grass Mountain warms in the rising sun.



We are too late in the year for poppies - but the grasses, verdant and cool, slip sensuously through my fingertips as we climb up, up, up.

We pause for a snack (homemade butterscotch bars) on a rocky outcropping. Far below us, young turkey vultures lazily ride the rising currents of warm air.



Engaged in conversation, we somehow miss the connection to the Zaca Lake trail and have to retrace our steps - bushwacking through thick stands of scrub oak. Clouds of golden pollen rise, drifting, swirling - then settle ever so gently along bare, scratched forearms.



Then along the connecting ridge to the face of Grass Mountain, over the precipitous edge and down the chalky, loose trail we descend. It's hellishly steep - and I've done this loop both ways. A quad-busting climb up the face, or a slip/slide down the face.



Near the bottom, we encounter a man and his dog hiking up. He is vaguely Sikh-like in appearance: hair screwed into a topknot, extremely thin, nearly naked. (The large Bowie knife he clutches in one hand strikes an off-note, however.) As his dog seeks the shade, panting heavily, he begins a discourse on the continuity of life. We listen politely for a while, then excuse ourselves.

Looking back over my shoulder, I see him slowly making his way up the steep trail, heat waves rising from the baked earth.

Somewhere in The Sespe

Waking suddenly from a bad dream, my heart is hammering in my chest. Peering at the luminous dial of the clock, I see the time: 4:10 a.m. For a few minutes I consider 'calling in sick' to the hike - spending the day curled up under a quilt, completely disengaged from the world.

But by the time we set out from the trail head in the crystalline light of early morning, the usual anticipation lightens my step. The trail winds for miles through golden grass and lichen stained rocks; ancient, ageless.

The view to the West is vast, expansive, with fold upon fold of jagged rock stretching as far as the eye can see. It seems exactly the right home for the primordial Condor.

We begin the very steep descent into the gorge, past stands of big leaf maple blazing gold against the brilliant sky. The canyon is narrow, deep - framed by towering rock formations it is cool and damp even at noon.

In search of a cave purported to hold Chumash cave paintings, we scramble far up the creek, crossing and recrossing the water. Brambles rake exposed skin, bear scat is evident all along the banks.



At last the cave is located, high above the creek. Wind and rain have sculpted the sandstone in dramatic and sensuous curves, but nothing prepares me for the art work painstakingly worked into the walls and ceiling of the cave.

Mysterious, magical - is this the work of the Ventureno Chumash - or more ancient tribes? Are these runes part of a vision quest, sacred rituals of initiation?

Voices hushed, taking great care not to kick up the sand and dust on the floor of the cave, we spend some time examining the fading symbols, the pictographs worn almost smooth by the slow passage of time.





As we climb out of the gorge in the late afternoon, the fading sunlight gilds the mountains to the East, a blue smudge stretches across the horizon to the West. Remote, wild, utterly mysterious - I think I understand now the pull this region exerted on my father; why he spent so many summers exploring here.



Darkness falls long before we reach the cars, above us Venus and a new moon kiss gently in the indigo skies.

Adventures at The Hotel "W"

After a very long day, we arrive at the "W" just at dusk. A thunderstorm is brewing; dark clouds obscure the setting sun and a chill wind rattles through the dry shrubs along the side of the building. The hotel is old - it's very bones seem tired.

Inside, the lobby is shadowy and empty. We appear to be the only guests......

Lugging duffel bag, day pack and cooler up a very steep, dark staircase, we see the upper hallway is lit only by a single bulb. The silence is complete, the scent of dust and mildew heavy in the air. Our rooms are at the very end of that long, dim hallway - right next the the back door with a jimmied lock and splintered frame. The desk clerk (the owner, actually) is completely agreeable to a change however, and we finally decide on two rooms, directly across the hall from each other.



It is now completely dark and silent outside: no streetlights, no traffic - the town seems utterly deserted. But hunger drives us forth and we brave the elements in search of a restaurant. Hurrying along the broken, rutted sidewalk in the dark, we pass an abandoned building, almost entirely hidden behind a wall of tangled shrubs. Something on the porch creaks slowly back and forth in the autumnal wind and suddenly it is all too reminiscent of that scene from "To Kill A Mockingbird" and with slightly nervous, self-conscious laughter we hasten onward.

Later, we 'borrow' a heavy table from the hallway and Z helps to wedge it between the bathtub and the door that opens into the dark, empty room next door - in order to prevent something like this:



Despite exhaustion, sleep is a long time coming. There appears to be a 2 x 4 running length-wise under the thin mattress and if we are not careful, the slope on either side of that propels us toward the floor.

But in the morning, the sun is shining - and best of all Frank (the owner) is in the kitchen, whipping up some strong coffee, blueberry pancakes and the biggest frying pan of bacon we have ever seen.

Mt. Langley

All pictures by D:

We first become aware of Mt. Langley on the way back from climbing Cirque Peak. Far distant, it's snowy flanks catch the sunlight. We must go there.

Weeks later, the 21 mile hike begins in the chilly pre-dawn after an almost sleepless night. (Below freezing temperatures and anticipation have made sleep difficult.)

The rising sun warms Cirque Peak, barely visible across the tree tops. The trail winds gently alongside stream and meadow for 5 or 6 miles, gaining little elevation, and then seems to dead end at a sheer granite face on the north end of the last Cottonwood Lakes. We retrace our steps, thinking we have missed the turnoff to Old Army Pass, but indeed the trail does climb the almost vertical granite wall in front of us.

D leads the way, I focus on his feet in front of me, and try not to look at the abyss below. But near the top we are forced to negotiate a snowbank that stretches across the trail, by climbing down off the trail, clinging to rocks that hang 1,000 feet above the lake. A cold sweat breaks out, fingers scrabble, then clench on the chilly granite slabs but at last we are safe at the top of the pass.





A cool wind blows steadily across the top of the pass, to the North the Whitney Range is visible. We turn into the large, sculpted bowl that lies on the approach to the summit. It is all sand and gravel; two steps forward, one step back.

Then on to the class 2/3 rock scrambling all the way to the summit. Shasta is courageous and obedient; D lifts her patiently over the worst of it.

The summit is finally gained, bringing enormous smiles of relief and joy. We linger for some time, enjoying the near perfect weather. Brilliant blue skies, views of Mt. Whitney to the North, White Mountain to the East, Black Kaweah to the West.... we reluctantly start the trek down.

Somewhere on the vast talus slopes my camera falls from my pack - I retrace my steps but it is impossible to find. Then Old Army Pass again: going up was difficult, going down is terrifying. Tired feet slip and skid on loose gravel, hands grip Shasta's collar. Solid ground is reached, tears of relief flow.



The last 5 miles back to camp seem to stretch endlessly as the afternoon light fades. Hot tea, an excited recounting of our adventure to a neighboring camper - then blessedly home.