It’s hard to believe we’ve been holed up here at our basecamp in Southern California for nine months. And in all that time, I haven’t written of our adventures. Not that there were many. But now that we come to the end of 2020, I’m looking back at pictures and realizing we did find some moments of joy in this, we did have take some time in nature, and eventually, while nothing will ever be the Bay area, we did find some beautiful bluffs to walk along and some sandy beaches to explore. And that's worth sharing.
So here is the first of a few places we found along the way to spend our isolation and how we arrived at them…
So here is the first of a few places we found along the way to spend our isolation and how we arrived at them…
Hiking in Southern California is limited by the seasons—at least for Tucker and me who don’t do physical activity well when it’s over 80 degrees. Our return in April meant we only had a couple of months before the heat would set in and we would be done with hiking till fall. I suppose we could have hiked between the hours of 4am and 6am, but that’s rather unrealistic given that we know ourselves and that we only see those hours if still up from the night before.
I had been optimistic when this all began. I encouraged people to go out and about in the wilds; to find themselves in nature. But then I figured out that most people, sadly, don’t respect nature if they’ve never been in it. I never realized there was etiquette to be observed. But once the woods and wilds became the one place anyone was allowed, everyone went. Which resulted in the worst consequence: Los Angeles closed nature.
Luckily at the end of April, just one county over where there were far fewer people and even fewer people infecting others, people were allowed to be nature. They adhered to the logical rules of being in nature: not littering, being quiet, going alone or with one other person, and being respectful. They also adhered to the new corona-virus norm: staying at least 6 feet (but preferably 6 miles) from any other human, and if close contact was required, wearing a mask. So Nature was open for recreation there.
However, they encouraged people to not stray far from home. Only go to nature you can walk to. Do not drive. To discourage this, they closed the parking lots. If you know anything of the car culture in Southern California, you know that lack of a legal parking space does little to deter people from driving or parking.
San Francisco Open Spaces had used a different and wholly effective strategy: they merely reduced the number of spots in the parking area and added barriers along the roadside to make it impossible to park unless you were lucky enough to get one of the prized spots in the lot. This kept people out. Ventura, on the other hand, closed the safe parking lots, but left open the precarious roadside (which was also cliffside in the mountains) for which one could park and walk down to the trails.
I did not know this was the situation until I arrived, but like any good Southern California driver, I did not let a closed parking lot stop me. After all, it distinctly said the trail was open… just the parking lot was closed. There was not a single house within ten miles. I’m not sure who they expected would be trekking through without a vehicle. Or if this was a sort of like the stop smoking campaign that was really “Cigarettes are still legal, but you can’t smoke them anywhere” tactic. “You can hike here—but only by hiking TO here.
I had been optimistic when this all began. I encouraged people to go out and about in the wilds; to find themselves in nature. But then I figured out that most people, sadly, don’t respect nature if they’ve never been in it. I never realized there was etiquette to be observed. But once the woods and wilds became the one place anyone was allowed, everyone went. Which resulted in the worst consequence: Los Angeles closed nature.
Luckily at the end of April, just one county over where there were far fewer people and even fewer people infecting others, people were allowed to be nature. They adhered to the logical rules of being in nature: not littering, being quiet, going alone or with one other person, and being respectful. They also adhered to the new corona-virus norm: staying at least 6 feet (but preferably 6 miles) from any other human, and if close contact was required, wearing a mask. So Nature was open for recreation there.
However, they encouraged people to not stray far from home. Only go to nature you can walk to. Do not drive. To discourage this, they closed the parking lots. If you know anything of the car culture in Southern California, you know that lack of a legal parking space does little to deter people from driving or parking.
San Francisco Open Spaces had used a different and wholly effective strategy: they merely reduced the number of spots in the parking area and added barriers along the roadside to make it impossible to park unless you were lucky enough to get one of the prized spots in the lot. This kept people out. Ventura, on the other hand, closed the safe parking lots, but left open the precarious roadside (which was also cliffside in the mountains) for which one could park and walk down to the trails.
I did not know this was the situation until I arrived, but like any good Southern California driver, I did not let a closed parking lot stop me. After all, it distinctly said the trail was open… just the parking lot was closed. There was not a single house within ten miles. I’m not sure who they expected would be trekking through without a vehicle. Or if this was a sort of like the stop smoking campaign that was really “Cigarettes are still legal, but you can’t smoke them anywhere” tactic. “You can hike here—but only by hiking TO here.
*Note, sign blocking parking lot says the park is closed Friday 2pm till Monday 6am. We took this photo at 11am Tuesday.*
Driving back up the mountain from whence we came, since we could not park here, I found a not-so-precarious spot in which to lead my steed. It was near the other end of the trail--not the campground. I have a habit of taking the long way around and starting at the end, so my strategy wasn’t a strategy but just my way of doing things.
Tucker and I found the trailhead easily only a short ways from where my trusty steed held her ground on the edge of the cliff. It was a relatively un-busy stretch of roadway, so we were able to walk along the shoulder without incident (no one came close to running us over) on the windy mountain road.
I chose Circle X Ranch trail because not only was it legal to hike there, but it featured a waterfall. I wasn’t sure if we’d be able to hike to it, but seeing water on any hike in Southern California is kind of magical.
The trail was narrow, but we only passed three people—all of which (including me) put up our masks as we passed—after we smiled and said Hello of course. These were regular hikers. They were silent while walking, but shared pleasantries with those they saw.
To be out in the wilds was spectacular after a whole month of being where the vast majority of land is concrete and the only naked earth nearby was off limits.
The trail was narrow, but we only passed three people—all of which (including me) put up our masks as we passed—after we smiled and said Hello of course. These were regular hikers. They were silent while walking, but shared pleasantries with those they saw.
To be out in the wilds was spectacular after a whole month of being where the vast majority of land is concrete and the only naked earth nearby was off limits.
It didn’t feel particularly warm, but Tucker took to the water when it crossed our path. He sampled it first, determined it to be of adequate taste, and lay down in it.
It was at a crossroads, and given that he seemed to be worn out already after only 3/4 of a mile, I opted to take the trail where there should have been shade. The reviews stated there was shade, but we had yet to encounter it. Sure enough, there it was — on the short stretch of trail that landed us…
At the closed campground and parking lot.
It gave Tucker the opportunity to sit on places I never let him—like on tables.
It gave Tucker the opportunity to sit on places I never let him—like on tables.
And it offered us a rest in the shade. It wasn’t terribly warm, but the climate was decidedly different from San Francisco, where we had been hiking regularly for five months.
I still hadn’t seen the waterfall, and decided we’d keep hiking till I could see it. I didn’t think Tucker would collapse from heat exhaustion, and I’d brought an umbrella to provide shade from the sun for him.
I still hadn’t seen the waterfall, and decided we’d keep hiking till I could see it. I didn’t think Tucker would collapse from heat exhaustion, and I’d brought an umbrella to provide shade from the sun for him.
We walked back to the stream,
crossed it,
and kept heading west, which took us further into the canyon.
I’m always hesitant to do any hike in which we are forced to go uphill on the walk back. I like to get the hard part out of the way. But with only 300 foot elevation change, I hoped we could do it—even with taking a month off since out last natural expedition.
About a quarter mile away from the stream, I looked back and there it was. That stream we had crossed was the top of the waterfall. The placid pool gave no indication that it was a masterful cascade only a short bit down the canyon.
About a quarter mile away from the stream, I looked back and there it was. That stream we had crossed was the top of the waterfall. The placid pool gave no indication that it was a masterful cascade only a short bit down the canyon.
It’s hard to really understand how tall this waterfall is, as the mountains around them are staggeringly large. We had only dipped down 300 feet from the roadside (above and out of frame) to where we stood, and the waterfall itself continued downward several hundred more feet.
I didn’t see an easy way down into the canyon to be stream-side, but I also had no desire to go, as it would involve eventually having to hike back up the mountainside.
Tucker and I kept walking westward across another meadow until I felt that the descent was getting steep enough to not warrant us going any further. There were plenty more miles of mountains we could explore, but Tucker seemed done, and that was enough for me to turn around.
Back at the top of the waterfall, Tucker lay again to cool off, but then remembered he hates being wet. Looking rather ridiculous like a footman from the 1800’s carrying a parasol for a royal princess, I followed Tucker, holding the umbrella between him and sunshine.
The overcast skies of the Bay were not here, and while Tucker enjoys a good sunbathe, he cannot do strenuous experience under its powerful rays. Heeding to the limitations of my partner, I succumbed to the reality that our hiking season was over—and it was only the end of April. Without trails being open closer to home, it seemed like the universe had aligned for us to find new activities until the weather cooled off and nature was legal again—or we both learned to get up before dawn. The latter seemed impossible.
But we’d find a way. Because nature is where we need to be to feel whole again. And it was going to be a long season ahead.
But we’d find a way. Because nature is where we need to be to feel whole again. And it was going to be a long season ahead.
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