The Yeti of Ranchita

Are you ready for the Yeti?

I’ll never forget the first time I saw the Ranchita Yeti. The constant drip-drip-dripping of a San Diego downpour had woken me from a sound sleep that Sunday morning. After I had gotten out of bed, I had shuffled over to my rain-streaked kitchen window, and after squinting through it at the conditions, decided that after a week of clouds and rain, I needed some sun. I packed up some gear, and headed out to my car. I wasn’t quite sure where I was going, but figured that I could explore around part of the Anza-Borrego desert for the day without any trouble at all. There weren’t many cars or drivers willing to brave the wet conditions on a weekend on the city streets, and by the time I reached the 78/79 split in Santa Ysabel, the roads were completely vacant.

On that day, however, vacant roads did not mean calm roads. At that elevation, and at that time, the mountains were acting like highwaymen, yanking the clouds down toward the ground while stealing all of the moisture inside of them. Sheets of water cascaded over my car, and unpredictable yelling gusts of wind buffeted it between the yellow lines and the shoulder. As I turned toward Ranchita on the S-22, I could feel the temperature drop suddenly though the windows. As my visibility dropped, I nudged my brakes and kept moving – slowly toward Ranchita and the pass beyond. I could see light ahead of me though, through the haze of wipers and water on my windshield, and knew that once I cleared the pass, I’d be fine. As I edged into Ranchita, the last vestiges of the storm turned into a torrent of rain. I could not see. It was too dark and too confused. I pulled over and waited for it to pass. As I sat there, engine ticking, rain falling, I looked across the street. I couldn’t see much, my windows were foggy, it was raining, the light was low. But I saw something that looked like a person standing motionless in the downpour.

After a minute or two, I rolled down the window, and yelled something really snappy, like, “Hey dumbass, get out of the storm!”, while water cascaded into the driver’s side. As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized it was futile: there was no way he/she could hear me over the wind and rain. But now, I was curious. After triple checking to see that the route was clear, I drove across the road, intending to see what sort of moron stands outside in the middle of a cold weather storm. As I pulled up I realized that it wasn’t a person at all.

It was a Yeti. Moreover, it wasn’t even a real Yeti. It was a statue of a Yeti.

I started laughing at myself. It answered the question perfectly: no one in their right or wrong mind would be outside in that type of weather. And, I told myself, only in this type of bad weather could someone such as myself confuse a statute for a real person.

I’ve been back through Ranchita a bunch since then. The Yeti is still there, come rain or come shine. And, fortunately for me, I’ve never thought it was a real person – or a real Yeti ever again.

How To Get There (ARE YOU READY FOR THE YETI?): The S-22 goes through Ranchita East-West. You can see the Yeti going either way. It is right on the road, and very visible. More information about it here: http://www.signonsandiego.com/uniontrib/20080518/news_1x18yeti.html

The Pre-historic Metal Creatures of Borrego Springs (or, if you prefer, DINOSAURS).

Saber Tooth Tigers, even wearing bird-poop, are not dinosaurs.

One of the things that fascinates me about the desert is the knowledge that millions of years ago the desert wasn’t always the desert. Not all of the features of the planet can make that claim. Large portions of the world’s oceans were always oceans, especially the deepest most mysterious bits. Mountains, by and large, usually have been standing in the same spots for millennia; and in some cases, have grown shorter by the long wait. Deserts, on the other hand, are mutable creatures. East of the Sierra Nevada, the Owens Valley sits in barren desolation today. Thousands of years ago, this valley was a giant glacial lake, likely over two hundred feet deep, and covering an area of over two hundred square miles. Aside from the salt flats and water pockets that remain in certain places, the only remnants of the lake are in spectral mirages that now shimmer on hot summer days.

Some of these desert transitions are easy to imagine, as they leave historical remnants behind, or provide ethereal gateways through which one can peer in a hopefully non-delusional way. Other times, it’s impossible to see how the desert could have been anything but desert. Sometimes, the desert finds a way to reach out and metaphorically smack even the most unimaginative with what it used to be eons ago, when man was not the central player on the planet. Galleta Meadows, outside Borrego Springs, California, is one of these places where everyone has a time machine and can see the pre-historic creatures of the past.

Yeah, that’s right; I said “pre-historic creatures”, and not “dinosaurs”.

Metal creatures hunting other metal creatures...but still not dinosaurs.

There’s a reason for that. The creatures you will see at Galleta Meadows aren’t dinosaurs. Dinosaurs were a group of small to large reptiles that roamed the planet for thousands of years that were terrifying in some cases. And again, that’s right, I said, “reptile”, and not lizard, because they were reptiles, even though their name “Dinosaur” means, “terrible lizard”. The creatures that you can see in Galleta Meadows lived in a time after the dinosaurs became extinct. They were large. They were fierce. But they were not dinosaurs. Let’s take a small sample of some of the things you will see at Galleta Meadows. For starters, you will see Wooly Mammoths. Would you ever call a Woolly Mammoth a dinosaur? I think not. You will also see a pack of Saber-Tooth Tigers. Would you call a Saber-Tooth Tiger a dinosaur? Of course not. You can also see GIANT SLOTHS. Would you ever call a GIANT SLOTH a dinosaur? Of course not, it’s clearly warm blooded, even though it’s a lazy sloth.

 Now, I don’t want to sound like a crotchety old man, so let me place this disclaimer here after the bantering of the previous paragraph: even though they are pre-historic creatures, you can call them dinosaurs if you want. Especially if you are a small child, because you’re just learning these distinctions and it’s probably just extra cool to you to see these things.

This is a Woolly Mammoth. It has tusks.

But, to the adults, let me also say this: you’re not going to impress anyone by calling them dinosaurs. Because they’re not dinosaurs. Seriously. So, if you want to sound extra cool, smart, and witty, be sure to say to the other people in the car when you drive by and or get out to gape enthusiastically, “Look at those pre-historic creatures”. If you do this, I guarantee everyone will be impressed at your knowledge, even if you know nothing else, and can’t tell the difference between a Mammoth and a GIANT SLOTH. (Here’s a hint though: GIANT SLOTHS do not have tusks).

 Now, if you have decided to focus on what the creatures are called, you may have missed the surrounding pictures in this blog about what they look like, and may be wondering what I am talking about. What I am talking about are giant metal creatures in the desert, some of which are fifteen to twenty feet high. I’m talking about a metal herd of Saber-Tooth Tigers stalking metal pre-historic horses. I’m talking metal Mammoths thundering down a stationary hill. I’m talking about metal sloths that are perpetually hungry because they’re frozen in time. All of these creatures are here for two reasons: first, because the landowner, Dennis Avery has a passion for fossils and pre-historic creatures. Second, because Dennis Avery was able to find a unique and talented artist, Ricardo Breceda (http://perrisjurassicpark.com/) to bring his passion for fossils to metal life. So, regardless of whether you like dinosaurs, pre-historic animals, or just plain art, I highly recommend checking this out if you are in the area – it’s one of the easiest adventures I’ve posted, and it’s a lot of fun. And, don’t worry: GIANT METAL SLOTHS don’t eat people. (Except in B-grade movies, which as everyone knows, aren’t real in most cases, so you should be totally fine, unless you’re visiting the art during a comet fly-by, weird Northern Lights, nuclear attack, or during the thirteenth day of the thirteenth month of 2013 at 1313. Then you might have a problem). 

The GIANT SLOTH. He just wants to give you a hug

How to Get There (I Don’t Care What They’re Called, How do I see GIANT METAL ANIMALS?): There are a number of ways to get to Borrego Springs, California, the nearest town. However, once you are in Borrego Springs, take Borrego Springs Road, and go either North OR South to see the creatures. More information here: http://www.galletameadows.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=52&Itemid=69 , http://www.roadsideamerica.com/tip/19170

Salvation Mountain

The yellow brick road at Salvation Mountain

As I stepped out of the back of the Jetta at Salvation Mountain, I tried to unobtrusively rub my butt. The long ride had made my left cheek go completely numb. At that point, it was very clear that the seating arrangements in the Jetta TDI were not one of its positive attributes. While it   did seat five adults, it was definitely not comfortable for a long journey. Then again, when we had left Mogfest in the Jetta, Denver had told us that it was only going to be a twenty minute drive to Niland. Forty-five minutes later, we had finally passed through Niland, and into Slab City. Nothing had been moving on the streets of Niland, but then again, we hadn’t seen many signs of active human habitation since we had left.

There had been plenty of signs of habitation along the way, but there had been no people. We had passed empty houses that were slowly being reclaimed by the drifting sands of the desert. We had passed through towns with empty businesses that sat behind cracked parking lots with boarded windows and doors, their painted hours of operation from years past flaking off cinderblock walls. The trappings of civilization were all around us, but there were no explanations provided or given about why they had faded. It was easy to imagine fantastical scenarios about what had happened in that landscape. As I sat there, and watched everything go by, it reminded me of many things – of apocalyptic books and movies I had seen or read; of half-remembered dreams; and of what the area had looked like when I had been there before.

 Mainly, what I had ended up thinking about while my back and butt had grown numb and my fellow backseat travelers had fallen asleep, was that the desert was still the place of the unknown. (http://lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/5/14/the-general-wastelands-are-not-lightly-traveledstories-and-t.html).

The Salvation Truck!

I didn’t know what had happened in all of these places; wouldn’t know; couldn’t know, and could only speculate. All I could determine was that the desert was a hard place as it took portions of you and changed you, weathering you in ways that you could not hope to fathom. In such an absolute terrain, I theorized, wouldn’t like the changes that they found the environment making to themselves, and fled. And, others, like Leonard Knight, liked what the solitude changed in them, and in turn, used those changes to in turn change the world around them.

With this in my mind, and minor butt pain, there I was, staring at Salvation Mountain. Next to me, Denver and everyone else was transfixed by the vibrant colors of Salvation Mountain that contrasted with the dull browns and grays of the Mojave Desert. Next to me, someone whispered to me, “That’s pretty awesome in a creepy way, but it’s no mountain!” I laughed, the sound breaking the late afternoon silence before bouncing off the plastered yellow brick road ahead of us. Salvation Mountain while many things, is most definitely not a mountain. It’s a giant work of folk art, writ large across the face of the desert in paint, plaster, and hay bales that occupies a small hill halfway between Niland and Slab City.

Salvation Mountain is and has been the work of one man – Leonard Knight, who, after serving in the Korean War, and doing a variety of other odd things, ended up outside of Niland after his plans to build a giant hot air balloon which would say, “God is Love” fell apart. (Literally. According to Leonard himself, the balloon pieces rotted and fell apart). Rather than giving up, he began constructing a massive edifice on the present location out of hay and plaster, which he then painted.

Jesus bulldozer. Handles old and new testament alike!

At some point, the original Salvation Mountain collapsed, but again, Leonard did not give up, and rebuilt it into the form that we were viewing.

As we approached the mountain, we passed by rusted vehicles of man, a bulldozer, a truck, and even a boat, all covered with painted scripture, and Leonard’s signature “God is love” slogan, slowly weathering in the endless sun of the desert. Just as we stepped onto the first portion of the “Yellow brick road” of Salvation Mountain, Denver approached me. “Dude…” he whispered, “I think Leonard’s dead now, he’s…”

Exactly what Leonard was or was not, I never learned from Denver, because at that point, Leonard, looking very alive, popped out of one of the caves in Salvation Mountain, greeted us, and began to give us a tour of the forest he had recently built on the side, while discussing the plastering and painting techniques he had used. Eventually, we left Leonard behind, after thanking him for his time, and headed up to the top of Salvation Mountain, while laughing and razzing Denver for both his poor timing, as well as his poor identification skills of whether people were alive or dead. From the top, we could see the hazy outlines of the Salton Sea to the west, and the irregular clumps of Slab City to the East. After an appropriate moment of silence to such a mammoth piece of folk art, everyone started talking at once about what they thought about it. I know what I think about it. It, like many other things in the desert is the unknown, and it’s good to experience it.

Dragon on the "Wheel of War" - made from real shotgun shells...

How to Get There: I’m going to keep this simple. If you’re in Niland, California, head east. You can’t miss it. Trust me. If you need better directions, check out the Salvation Mountain website, here: http://www.salvationmountain.us/map.html .

Other Tips:  If you like folk art, you should also check out the “Slab City Water Towers”, which are a fifteen minute walk from the top of Salvation Mountain to the East (very visible from the top). They feature two very interesting pieces: One, the “Wheel of Kama” (the pictures I took are too racy for my G-rated site!); and second, what we named the “Wheel of War” (featured herein) at the end. I’m sure they’re not affiliated with Leonard, nor the mountain, but, they are great viewing nevertheless. And, if you get a choice for your parting gift from Leonard, I’d take the jigsaw puzzle rather than the DVD – because puzzles are that cool!

Mogfest – October 22-24, 2010

The infamous Good Ship 404 surveys its way down...

When I was small, I had my own sandbox. It was a giant green turtle whose shell came off to reveal an area that could be anything that my imagination created. In that mutable space, my trucks and cars traveled over the highest peaks, down the steepest grades, through the deepest swamps and oceans, and over the hardpan of the hottest deserts. Unless there was a dinosaur attack – or an intentional wreck, my vehicles never had a problem crossing the backcountries of these imaginary worlds. Years later, when I began off-roading, I was disappointed at first to find that the real world was not like my sandbox; in the real world things became stuck, clogged, flooded, and broken at a minimum. This disappointment vanished when I realized that real-life off-roading presented a myriad of challenges for both my imagination and practical knowledge. I quickly realized that when disaster struck in the backcountry, the proper tools and materials would always be lacking; and what tools and materials that you had were the proper tools ones, as long as they could at least get your vehicle back to a road and you didn’t maim or blow yourself up trying to fix things.

Today, the thing that I like the most about off-roading is its ability to change time. There are beautiful places in the world that are sequestered by near impossible approaches. The wondrous thing about off-roading is that it shrinks the time it takes to make that approach, and makes it a real, possible adventure, rather than a two month impossible and improbable trek. I’m not going to say that roads or vehicle trails should be blazed everywhere to every pristine spot on the planet, and in general, I’ll take a fantastic climb or hike over time in a vehicle any day, but in terms of accessibility and making adventures fit into the practical confines of regular life, off-roading is a positive time altering bonus. And, in all fairness, should you not know how to drive; or should the conditions be poor; or should anything go wrong mechanically with your vehicle (which, despite proper maintenance and regular care, is quite likely due to the stresses of rugged terrain), off-roading can be a time killer. You may find yourself stuck beyond the pale of civilization; miles from your destination, with nothing but time, as your wrack your brain of a solution that will at a minimum, see you to safety. Off-roading, then, is something that has the power to bring the joy of discovery quickly; and the despair of failure slowly.

The 2010 Mogfest convoy rolls uphill.

This is not a column about the vagaries of off-roading though. This is a column about what is in my journeyman’s opinion, the best off-roading vehicle you can obtain right now; and where you can go with that vehicle when you have it. I’ve been through all sorts of terrain – jungles, mountains, beaches, deserts – in all sorts of vehicles, from those with low slung axles and no gearing, to those with modifications made to every aspect of the drive train and frame. I had some theories, and some favorites for a while, but all of that changed when my friend Good Ship showed me his Unimog, and offered to take me to Mogfest.

At this point, I can hear the questions: Wait, what’s a Unimog? What’s a Mogfest? A Unimog is a four wheel drive truck made by Mercedes Benz, and in my opinion, probably the best vehicle to get any adventurer anywhere in the world. (More on Unimogs here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unimog). The vehicle, for starters, is huge. They’ve been used as troop transports, farm vehicles, fire vehicles, industrial vehicles, and general adventure vehicles. The clearance on the axles is superior to anything I’ve seen, and the gearing on all of the models I’ve seen demonstrates that they can go over and through any obstacle with a competent driver. 

I could talk technically about Unimogs for a bit, but like I said, I’m a journeyman off-roader; my technical level of expertise as an expert is mountaineering. If you want to learn more, the above link is a good place to start. Mogfest, as should be evident, is an American gathering of owners of Unimogs. For the last couple years, it was held in Calico, California. (http://www.mogfest.com/photos.asp).  It’s a chance for Unimog owners to bring their vehicle out, show off the modifications that have been made to it, and an opportunity to demonstrate their driving skills and the capabilities of the vehicles. Moreover, it’s a chance for Unimog enthusiasts to share knowledge, bond, and relax while having an adventure with friends.

True story: if your Unimog is red, it goes faster.

To me, Mogfest is many things. It’s the sheer gut check terror of riding in a monster vehicle up vertical slopes, and knowing that if things go wrong, it’s either a leap to safety, or being crushed to death. It’s the feel of icy cold air whipping into the bed of the truck at forty miles per hour with a deafening howl that overpowers the murmur of the engine as we cross mountain passes. It’s the sheer unpredictability of the night run, where stars cover their eyes as we pelt across the desert. It’s jokes at all hours of the day; of cracks about flying scorpions; and general camping problems. It’s smoked meat; so much smoked meat over three days that I even consider becoming a vegetarian. It’s the non-stop thrill of thinking, “there’s no way we can cross that obstacle”, and then finding ourselves over it; and at approaching another, larger obstacle. It’s waiving to people cheerily on the main roads as they look at you with astonishment, and, it’s the comfort of traveling no faster than forty-five miles an hour ever in jolting, bumpy style, while sometimes having to change tires. 

That’s Mogfest to me. There’s a lot more that goes on – exploring caves, mines, creepy shrines,  meeting new and interesting people, and hearing stories of the world. But at some level, it’s like being a boy again in that sandbox, and knowing that your vehicle can make it anywhere. Someday, I’d like to think that I’ll travel to difficult places of the world in my own Unimog. But for now, I’ll settle for Mogfest, wherever it is, because it’s that unique and entertaining and good.

More on Mogs and Mogfest here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVkVB8mPtRA, http://www.billcaid.com/2010/1017ACamperConstruction20100921/Part7/Part7.html

How to reach the wreck of the Dominator: Ranchos Palos Verdes, California

All roads lead to the sea...

I stepped off the slick rock I was standing on, and hopped onto a large rusted panel that was wedged between rocks and tidepools. After steadying myself, I took a cautious second step, and then a third step to satisfy myself that it wasn’t going to collapse under my weight; which, if it occurred, would no doubt drive shards of rusty metal into my lower legs and ankles in a painful tetanus inducing manner. Only then, after watching my feet for the last forty-five minutes, did I look up and survey the wreckage around this portion of the shoreline. In the sudden low tide silence that followed my stop, I heard the clear clattering of a myriad of crustacean legs running over other pieces of metal. At that point, I allowed myself a rueful grin and wondered for the first time if heading out to the wreck of the Dominator had been a good idea.

I had not been phased by getting mildly lost on the streets of Rancho Palos Verdes, nor by the difficulties I had experienced in finding the trail down to the wreck, nor the cobblestone covered beach, rogue waves, rotting seaweed, squatters shacks, or the aforementioned rusty bits that could poke and jab exposed flesh and deliver all sorts of disease. But, the idea of being attacked by a horde of angry crabs made me pause for a split second before I started laughing at the ridiculousness of the idea. I took two more steps, and found myself at the base of the main remaining section of the wreck, which was now broken up into three large components. In 1961, the then SS Dominator, a Greek freighter ran aground in heavy fog, and since that point in time, the remains of the ship have been slowly disappearing into the sea. (http://laist.com/2008/07/05/laistory_the_wreck_of_the_dominator.php).

Captain Hook would be proud!

After hearing about the wreck from a friend of mine, I was curious to see how much of the ship was left; and was curious to see if I could even find the wreck. From what I had read prior to leaving on my weekend adventure, either some or none of the ship was left, after fifty years of weathering from the Pacific Ocean and scavenging from various tourists, and that it was near impossible to traverse the beach to get to the wreck. However, like a lot of urban legends, I quickly found that both assertions were incorrect. While I had technically been seeing portions of the wreck from the moment I made it down to the beach in small bits and pieces, broken gears and rusted beams; I had found three large sections of the wreck clumped together about a mile from where I had descended.

The first section, which I was standing beneath after my brush with the potential crab army, appeared to be the ruined section of a tractor, or large hoisting device for the ship. As I circled around the rusted and partially seaweed covered remains, I marveled at how the gears of the device had swollen into place, but still retained their distinctive forms and markings in many circumstances. After examining the gears and a large hook, I moved a short ways down to what were clearly two former sections of the hull which had turned a burnished orange over the last decade. As I looked around at the different pieces of the wreck which remained around these sections, up at the base of the cliff, and down at the tideline accompanied by only the silence of the tiny low tide waves and the wind, I thought of the fleeting nature of the works of man as compared to the timelessness of the planet, and universe. Then, on a less serious note, I thought about how the wreck reminded me of the end scene of the original version of the Planet of the Apes. But, before I could spend much more time thinking about serious or non-serious thoughts, I saw a group of thirty hikers heading up the shore toward me, and I decided to take my thoughts elsewhere while they explored the wreck on their own.

How to Get There: The best directions I found to the wreck (which I used) were as follows: park at the intersection of Cloyden and Paseo Del Mar. There is ample street parking. Immediately to the West of Cloyden, a foot trail exists between two houses. The trail descends down a large drainage pipe toward the beach. The area around the pipe is paved and gradually sloping, which is easily traversable, and in my opinion, substantially easier and safer than attempting to descend down any other area of the surrounding sandstone cliffs. From the base of the pipe, it is approximately a mile walk South to the main portion of the wreckage described and pictured above.

I went at low tide, and I would recommend that if you are to attempt this hike, you do the same, because the beach is very narrow and full of large cobbled stones. It is my opinion that at high tide, there would be no beach, and you would be forced to navigate the base of the cliffs, which would be a tricky proposition. Prior to attempting this hike, I read many accounts about how the beach was too difficult to traverse. The truth regarding the beach is as follows: the beach is chock full of cobbled stones to boulders. Yes, you will have to watch your footing. No, it is not impossible, or untraverseable. It’s an adventure!

There also may be large swathes of seaweed at low tide that you may have to cross, which is a little gross, but again, it’s nothing that can’t be handled easily. Sadly, there is a fair amount of new trash along the beach (cans, and other items that have washed up), but if you feel inspired to fix this problem, you can pick up a couple pieces on your return trip to throw away later. In terms of time, it took me two and one half hours to explore the wreck leisurely and return to my car. I’d imagine the hike could be done in an hour to an hour and a half, if people were in a rush, but take your time, have some fun exploring, and enjoy the remains of the wreck while it lasts.

Even on San Gorgonio, nothing is the same.

Had I seen these shrubs before?

Nothing is the same. If I was to teach a class about mountaineering, that would be one of my first precepts. No matter how many times you go to a location, it is still the wild, and there is always something different about it: it may be hotter, it may be colder, the rocks may be a little more loose, the route may be harder to find, there may be animals, or that tree that was half fallen may be all the way fallen, or the grass slightly greener, but nothing, nothing is ever exactly the same. It may seem the same, but it is not. Everything is different. Nothing is the same. This is a mantra that helps to keep you alive out in the wild as well. It allows one not to take anything for granted; not to shortcut a spot, use an old hold, or use old protection that should be pulled. Nothing is ever the same.

Aside from keeping one alive, it is the best mantra for the wild, and life, in my opinion that one can have. Nothing is the same. Everything is unique. (http://lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/3/1/interregnum-the-past-is-the-past-the-future-the-future-and-t.html). Sure, it’s hard to appreciate the uniqueness of the third Wednesday of the month at work, in the same way that one approaches an old growth forest that is dusted with dew, but in my book, it’s a universal truth. Nothing is the same. Every unique and different moment of life should be enjoyed, whether it’s pushing paper, or discovering something in a far-far-off land. Unfortunately, it’s too easy to sleepwalk through life. Sometimes, too many irreplaceable things are lost, like remembering a good 7/8’s moon with good company or long lost friends, or who you are as a person. That is why I always try and tell myself every day, that phrase – “nothing is the same”, because even though life may be ghastly and difficult at times, it’s still beautiful – and I wouldn’t want to miss that beauty for anything.

Despite having this as one of my personal mottos, with all of the complicated practical and personal baggage that it brings, when I was on Gorgonio on July 31, 2010, I found myself repeating the phrase in the shadows cast by the gloaming light as the day ended. I could feel the rough rasp of the bark of the tree my hand was resting upon. Nothing is the same, I told myself. I could see the pale blue sky fading behind the black branches and needles above me. Nothing is the same, I told myself. I could smell the musty odor of long decayed plants, the dust of the valley below, and the sweet tang of summer growth. Nothing is the same, I told myself. I could hear the low, almost inaudible babbling of Vivian Creek next to me, speaking of frozen winters, falling rain, and melting snow. Nothing is the same, I wondered.

 

At this point, I was no longer sure if my eyes were open, shut, or if some cataclysm had struck the planet, and my mind had passed on from my body. The last time I had been on Gorgonio, in 2002, I had stood in this almost exact spot on my descent, and marveled at the timelessness of the forest. I had stopped to pull out my camera, felt my legs complaining tiredly, fixed the aperture, and shot a photograph that still hung on my wall. If I had been in black and white, I would have known that somehow, I had been transported into that picture. I shifted uneasily. I was hesitant to reach for my bag – what if I reached for it, and instead of a digital camera, my old film version fell out? What if, despite what I thought I knew, I was still there in 2002, and had fallen asleep, and the last eight years had been nothing but a detailed dream. Suddenly, I was stock still. All I could hear was my calm breathing. All I could feel was my heart beginning to cycle faster. Was it really 2010? As far as I knew, it could have been any time where I stood.

Then, I heard it: Hi Fi Killers rumbling away into the distance under Rude Boy’s tired legs. (http://lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/8/19/san-gorgonio-july-31-2010-vivian-creek-to-summit-156-miles-r.html). The spell was broken. I felt foolish, laughed at myself, and started moving quickly down the trail after him. Nothing was the same. I told myself as I whipped through the familiar trees. Even though sometimes, it sure as hell feels that way.  

San Gorgonio – July 31, 2010, Vivian Creek to Summit – 15.6 Miles Roundtrip, or Greater?

Summer wildflowers near High Camp, Vivian Creek Trail, San Gorgonio

Just ahead of me, I could hear the muffled dub beats of the Hi Fi Killers (http://www.amazon.com/Hi-Fi-Killers/e/B000AQ4NLG) coming out of Rude Boy’s backpack pocket interspersed with his tired but now vocal cursing. A half-mile back, he had cranked the volume on his iPhone, set it to shuffle, and hit play in an effort to inspire himself to get down the last bit of San Gorgonio. While he had been occupied with that, I had been ransacking my gear to find my last liter of water, while my brain again had crankily noted for the third or fourth time that the Vivian Creek trail felt a lot longer than 15.6 miles on the descent; and this, according to my brain, was something that I had already known, and not forgotten, but ignored, which it, and my body were not happy about. Five minutes after hearing the Hi Fi Killers, I was about to experience one of the more surreal moments of my life, but at that moment, fifteen minutes before the Hi Fi Killers, and ten minutes before an intangible loss of reality, all I was thinking about was about how damn long that Vivian Creek Trail felt. That, and how much I hated giving blood to mosquitoes on a voluntary, or involuntary basis.

We had left that morning from San Diego for San Gorgonio, getting an early start at 5 a.m. Back in San Diego, there was no orange glow of the reflected late night onshore flow. What there had been was a heavy drizzle that soaked the pavement and chilled my bones with its soupy moisture. As I flipped the wipers on that morning, I had shaken my head for the 1,012^th time at the strange San Diego weather of 2010. After Whitney (http://lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/6/24/mt-whitney-portal-to-summit-june-21-2010-part-one.html), San Gorgonio was the next peak I had interested the group in climbing. Gorgonio, as you may or may not know, is the tallest peak in Southern California at 11,503 feet, rising up out of the smog and foothills of Los Angeles, to tower over the City of Angels and the surrounding mountains and desert. Based on my past experience, I had suggested to the group that we would take the Vivian Creek route, which, according to my information – and memories, was 7.8 miles one way. I had climbed “Old Greyback” as San Gorgonio is also known several times, and twice by that route, so I knew that it was definitely do-able, although, I also knew it would be a long day.

From San Diego, it’s an easy drive up to Gorgonio – you follow the I-15 North, to the I-215 (also North), to the I-10 (East), to the Highway 38 exit in Redlands. Up to that point, my passengers – Rude Boy and Pratt - had been pretty quiet, but once we hit Redlands, they began to stir, and note that we could finally see the sun – and that there were a lot of tattoo parlors in Redlands. (Maybe it was just the exit we got off at). In any case, I had plenty of eyes to help me find the Forest Falls Road intersection, which one makes a right turn at, toward the Falls Recreation Area. Once we had arrived at the end of the road at the Falls Recreation Area we found...people! Tons of people! Whether it was the lack of sleep or my own personal naiveté, I had not expected nearly the amount of hikers out and about on the Vivian Creek trail. As we circled the lot, I realized that I had based my assumptions about the trail’s popularity on my experiences climbing the peak eight years ago on a Wednesday in May. Fortunately, Pratt and Rude Boy were nonplussed about the amount of people, and accepted my sheepish explanations about trail usage. (However: do not pull a LA! Be sure to get your permit in advance for this trail, as it is now quite popular!).

I parked the car, and in a matter of minutes we met up with Brother Bear and Tan and set off up the wash after Cash and his friend, who had left an hour earlier in order to beat the purported “90 degree temperatures”. As we traversed the wash, the air had the cool crispness of a fall day, not July 31^st – a fact that made us all realize that we had lucked out with another great hiking day. One of the other things I had remembered about the Vivian Creek Trail was that the first segment of the trail after the wash was a brutal, steep climb. Unlike the amount of traffic the trail received, this fact had not changed. By the time we arrived up in the hanging valley next to the Creek, all of us were sweating and panting in the cold tree shadows at 7100 feet.

 Summit approach on Gorgonio - too high for trees!

Once we had our breath back, we kept trekking through the late growing valley, and up into Halfway Camp and then up into High Camp, where there were some great summer blooms. Just after High Camp, we ran into Cash and his friend at the ridgeline, resting up for the summit ascent. From the ridgeline, which is also roughly treeline and is at roughly 10,000 feet, it is easy to see why San Gorgonio is known as “Old Greyback”, as the top of the mountain is covered with a rolling grey boulder-and-talus filled slope. After cracking a few jokes, there was nothing to do but suck heaping breaths of the now thin air, and push up through the dusty, exposed slope one boot at a time.

 I’d say that we reached the summit quickly, but the summit approach and the first section of the trail are the steepest – and toughest in my opinion. Since it was cooler, we didn’t get cooked to a crisp like ants under a magnifying glass on the approach, and were in great spirits by the time we reached the summit. After lounging with the herd of other hikers who had made it that day on the summit blocks, and making friends with our Angel Share, and marveling at the remaining snowfields, we turned back down, and were making record pace until people began to tire just after Halfway Camp and into the hanging valley, which was when the aforementioned Hi Fi Killers were turned on, which, among other things, powered us back to the cars in a tired but accomplished fashion.

After we had returned home, I received an e-mail from Cash, telling me in his own sardonic way, that I had misled the group into thinking it was a 15.6 mile hike roundtrip, when in reality, his friend had measured the hike at 18.0 miles roundtrip on his GPS watch. I was puzzled. After all, when I had started mountaineering, all we had to measure distance was maps, compasses, sextants, and pieces of string and no one ever allowed us to question things like distance, and all hikes were uphill both ways. Placing such thoughts about how times had changed from my mind, I focused on the memory of how damn long the trail had felt.  Moreover, I was sure I had told everyone the correct distance – hadn’t I?!?!?

Summit crew and Angel's Share on Gorgonio. He's not dead, just napping. At this point, it was now a question of mountaineering honor for me, the LA! I began to research it, and I found out some interesting things: Most sites, including my old resources list is as 7.8 miles one way (At this, I felt better – my honor was safe – I had not intentionally misled anyone!); however, some sites list it as 8.4 miles one way (http://www.summitpost.org/mountain/rock/150533/san-gorgonio.html); and even more interestingly, the most recent USFS handout lists that trail as 8.6 one way (http://www.sgwa.org/trails2.htm). Now, you are probably wondering: how long is the Vivian Creek to summit trail? My answer: honestly, I now have to admit I have no idea! I think, based on having climbed the peak on that trail a number of times and reviewing my maps, I’d have to admit that it’s probably longer than 15.6 roundtrip. Is it 18-19 miles roundtrip? Probably not. Is it 17.2 miles roundtrip? I’m not sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was. In the end, all I can say is that it’s a great hike and a great time – but if you’re going to do it, be prepared for the extra mileage, and be sure to have fun doing it.