Chasing Waterfalls Again...

Being in the “city” again, it’s easy for me to forget that there are plenty of unexplored wild places quite near to us. We’re not desert people; the sandy, hot earth of Santa Fe just isn’t our vibe. We like the forests, the lakes, oceans, and waterfalls; the towering redwoods and the sound of the wind through the leaves.
​
While there are no redwoods nearby, there are some pretty decent substitutes for everything else we enjoy. Verdugo and Griffith, out nearest parks offer up a getaway while not being far away, and have some pretty impressive views:

But with a short gig lined up from home, it was time to get exploring as we would on location: comb through some hiking books, search on AllTrails, and then hit the trails. Winter in Los Angeles means it’s actually not life-threatening to go for a walk under the sun during mid-morning or afternoon—our two prime times for walkabouts. We will never be the early morning risers.

Thanks to the winter storms which had closed the freeway north with snow, the mountain top lakes and rivers were now full of water, running downhill to the lower elevations. Which meant: waterfalls down here.

AllTrails showed me a multi-waterfall trail only twenty minutes from home. Interestingly, it was located in the high desert. While most people said it was dried up, a few lucky folks found water right after the storms. It had been a few weeks, but I was hopeful. I wasn’t expecting Oregon-style waterfalls, but a southern California style waterfall would bring me some joy.

​I took the exit off the 14 freeway and stopped in the park-n-ride parking lot which was the only thing I could see to the right of the off ramp. It wasn’t until I got out of the vehicle that I saw had I just gone around some cars, I could have parked in the proper lot for Whitney Canyon.

The reason I seldom do canyon hikes it that it usually involves starting at the top of a mountain and descending into the canyon, which ultimately means that I have to go back up—after I’m already tired and worn out from the rest of the walk. I prefer to start at the bottom, so that should either Tucker or I tried out, the way home is all downhill.

Whitney Canyon is gracious enough to start and end on the canyon floor. There are some ups and down, but nothing excessive.

The hard-packed dirt trail was lovely. No sand to kick up even with a slight breeze, but soft enough to not feel like I was walking on pavement.

The bright green grass on the hill slopes had been invigorated by the winter rains, and the twisted trees gave the canyon an expressive and unique character.

There was a video game I used to play late at night on my old Tandy 1000, when I had finished writing for the day. I do not remember the name of the game, only that it was about a princess who was on a quest to find something. I cannot remember what the elixir even was; what sticks in my head is the music and the visual: the hillsides of vibrant green with these cypress-like trees. I am always reminded of it when in the Bar Area. Here it was again in this canyon.

The rocks we walked beside was clearly a riverbed. When the rains are long and hard, I imagine this is utterly magical. For now, it only retained the memory of what it was then and the hope for what it would be again.

About a mile in, we reached the beginning of the end of the water—the first pool.

It was actually pretty deep, and took some calculations to get Tucker and myself safely up the rock stair to the next level. It was entirely worth the effort.

Lacking water made it easy to keep on the trail, staying on dry rock and hopping over the streams.

Tucker sampled the water; he felt it was quite good.

Up again we went, finding footholds on dry rock and listening to the fall of the water as it ran over rock and sediment.

Tucker wanted to walk in the water more than did (it made it easier for him to taste it, I suppose).

Each level was more and more beautiful.

And then we came upon this pool and falls.

A couple we had passed up on the trail and was already up and out of sight. But I saw how much effort it took these twenty-somethings to get up and over. Had I been alone, I might have been able to do it. But had I been alone, I wouldn’t have been here at all. Tucker is the one who leads the way. Even when he doesn’t know it, long before we get in the car, it’s his pleasure I think about when choosing to explore a new trail. I knew he’d enjoy this one. And I also knew the two of us could not surmount that obstacle.

He appeared willing to to give it a go—finding a way up the falls to get to the next level of the stream.

But I couldn’t work out how we’d both safely get up there, without me standing knee-deep or more in the water.

And while water and rock is stunning to look it, it’s not real fun to fall in. The pool was too deep to walk through, but not really deep enough to break a fall. Slipping could involve cracking heads or breaking bones—for Tucker or me.

So while I was envious of the couple who disappeared from sight up and over the falls, I had to call it: this was the end of the trail for Tucker and me.

As we walked back, I took in the new perspective, the same one the falls has on the way down.

The high walls of the canyon framed the mountains and sky in the distance.

And here, I imagined that ages ago a band of witches stood around a cauldron, putting together a solution from which to solve the canyon’s problems. The missing piece was sacrifice, an so sacrifice they did—they turned themselves into trees, their cauldron still in the middle.

The stand today as testimony to the lives they gave, and that they will forever keep this canyon safe.

I will return to see the riverbeds full, but for now, my imagination filled in the blanks, as well as appreciated this canyon for what it was in this moment: potential—the potential to carry life from the mountain tops to the valleys, nourishing all who cross its path along the way.