The Big Three, er, The Big Two?
The Big Three, er, The Big Two?
Leaders: Byron Prinzmetal and Mars Bonfire
10 and 11 November 2001
And then there had been our earlier backpack, not nearly as magical,
not as successful, but strangely satisfying in its own way: the
weekend before Villager and Rabbit Peaks, we had tried and failed to
do the Big Three. It went kind of like this...
Brian and I had no clue how long it would take to drive to Cachuma
Saddle, but did know Mars Bonfire was collecting several hikers at
Sylmar at 7:30AM, so timed our departure so we'd be roughly
synchronous. En route, we received a series of calls from Byron
Prinzmetal on our spiffy new cell phone, hinting (I think!) that he
wanted us to talk him out of the trip entirely: "Rain! Rain! Rain!
It's going to rain all weekend! Are you sure you want to go through
with this?"
Well, I'm a bit of a Pollyanna, and had already crawled all over the
Web, trying to make sense of the various weather forecasts. The
problem is, forecasts tend to be tied to cities -- Los Angeles, Santa
Barbara, Lompoc, Fresno. You get the drift. Not to Cachuma Saddle
or McKinley Springs Campground or Santa Cruz Peak. Plus, I'm not sure
the meteorologists really have much of a handle on the microclimates
of our mountains, anyhow. But I'd attempted to interpolate and
extrapolate and rationalize, and really did think (from personal
experience with the forecasts for my local mountains here in Pine
Mountain Club) that there was a good chance the first storm would be a
no show, or, even if it did happen, it wouldn't be too nasty. The one
on Monday sounded bad, though. So Byron's proposed revision -- hike
in and get the two easy peaks on the first day, get the third peak on
the second day and scurry out -- sounded like a winner. We could sit
out the first storm overnight (if it happened at all) and be gone
before the second, doing all our hiking in good weather.
Yeah, sure, right.
But the plan did work out for awhile. Led by Byron, swept by Mars,
our group (Pat Arredondo, Winnette Butler, Joanne Griego, Barbara
Guerin, Brian and Karen Leverich, and Roy Randall)
headed up the recently grated road. The temperature was pleasant, the
views lovely (though the clouds creeping over the seaside foothills
seemed a tad ominous), the route definitely easy to follow if a bit
serpentine at times.
Brian pointed at a road in the distance steeply cutting across the
face of a mountain, and wondered if that was our road. It looked a
long climb to get there, and sure enough, that was our road. The good
news is that by the time we got there, we were basically all the way
up. The road wraps around the shoulder of the mountain and undulates
gently for, oh, maybe another mile through a skeletal forest of dead
trees, reaching whitely up through the chaparral, and suddenly ... the
campsite. The bad news was ... it was a long climb to get there.
Because we'd all been aware of the probability of wet weather, we'd
come fully accoutered. Most of us had tents, including Mars. Mars,
Brian and I set up our tents in an open area, everyone else up under
the trees. (I can't speak for Mars, but I wanted to be in the open
because storms made me real nervous of deadfall.)
It was getting late, so we didn't know if there'd be time or energy
for two peaks, but certainly enough for one. Byron and Mars
conferred, and all of us except Brian (the trip up had taken more out
of him than expected) headed up the road to McKinley Saddle, then left
up an easy trail towards San Rafael Mountain.
It was getting towards dusk when we were startled to meet not one, but
two hikers descending from the peak. No, not Ron Zappen, but the
nearly as ubiquitous George Wysup and Laura Joseph. Wisely eschewing
a probable campout in the rain, they had opted to power through all
three peaks as a day hike. This had been their third peak -- success!
Impressive! They still looked strong, which was a Good Thing, as
several miles still separated them from their cars, and it was going
to be a bit of a race to beat the rain. (See George's write up of
their trip -- they made it out in time, although just barely.)
When we got back to the saddle, I lobbied for doing McKinley Mountain,
too ("I'd rather do it in the dark than in the rain!") but I think I
was a minority of one. Everyone else yearned for dinner and warm
sleeping bags.
By 8:30 or so, we were all snug in our beds, our food safely stashed
in bear canisters. As if the bears would be out in the weather that
was about to hit us -- I'm sure they had way too much sense and stayed
in to watch TV that evening. Because, seemingly mere minutes after we
crawled into our tent, here it came: at first, just a few sprinkles,
but eventually it was as if someone were spraying our tent with a
hose. In the distance, we could hear the wind gathering, then closer
and closer, and wham! We peeked into our vestibule and found a river
running through it, so hauled everything into the tent, and settled in
for a long night.
Good news -- our tent didn't leak. Silly news -- the floor got wet
anyhow, because one of the water bottles in my pack leaked. Annoying
news -- condensation can drip onto your face and make you paranoid
your tent is leaking even when it is not.
6:30AM or so. The wind seemed quieter if not completely gone. Water
still spattered against the tent, but maybe not as energetically as
before. A beautiful tune was whistled nearby, "Oh what a beautiful
morning! Oh what a beautiful day!" I couldn't help it, I had to
laugh out loud. Mars (who else could it have been but Mars?) wished
us a good morning and reported that the rain had pretty much stopped,
we were just sitting around in a fog bank.
Hmmmm, so maybe Byron's Plan B was still a go? That is, bag the two
last peaks in this window between storms, and then hike out. Though
sunshine would have been a more auspicious sign than drippy fog, for
sure.
Plan C evolved -- we would go do McKinley, even if it were raining,
but only do Santa Cruz if the sun came out or at least if things
cleared up a bit. We left our stuff set up (so we'd have a place to
warm up and dry out, if necessary) and headed back up towards the
saddle.
A problem with saddles is that they funnel the wind. A problem with
funneled wind and soggy fog is, well, you can guess: it's wet and cold
and nasty. I'd been right the night before, even if no on had
listened to me: climbing McKinley in the dark would have been oh so
much more pleasant than doing so in the rain. Yuck!
But we did it! Two down, one very difficult orphan to go. But the
weather was sufficiently uncomfortable that we all concurred with
Byron and Mars' decision to call it done and hike out. Some other
day, some other way, we would tackle Santa Cruz. When and how remains
to be seen. (Byron may be able to get a key and we can drive up to
McKinley Springs, in exchange for some volunteer pruning. Sounds good
to me. Fingers crossed!)
Having decided to go, it was important we do so quickly. "Half an
hour!" insisted Byron. But Brian and I were totally new to our gear.
Putting each item back was a puzzle -- did it fold this way or that?
How could we squeeze out the water? Etc. etc. I think it took us an
hour to get everything dismantled and packed away. Mars waited
patiently, but how mortifying! Oh well, maybe with practice we'll
meet Byron's standards. One disappointment, though: everything was
sopping wet, so our packs weighed more rather than less than they had
on the way in. Boo!
At first, I found the hike out to be quite enchanting. The wind had
died down, as had the rain, and we strolled through a misty forest.
Where the dead forest had been skeletal the day before, white branches
against blue sky eerily reaching through the chaparral, today they
were dark with moisture against white fog. Eerier still.
We were only a few miles on our way, though, when we made an unhappy
discovery. Take one dirt road, add liberal quantities of rain, and
what do you get? Sigh... Mud. Sticky, slippery, gloppy, annoying
mud.
Joanne, Winnette, Brian and I were hiking roughly grouped together
when we found the stuff, and marvelled at how quickly it could build
up on our boots, and how difficult it was to remove. There had to
be a better way, we were sure. So imagine our disappointment when
Mars joined us and we discovered there was no Martian magic for
dealing with mud -- he was stuck slogging through it just like the
rest of us. Actually, he had it worse: those size 13 shoes of his
have more surface area so can carry even more mud. Lucky Mars!
Barbara had been one of the few who had successfully met Byron's 30
minute packing deadline, so was somewhat ahead of us. But we knew she
was in some kind of trouble -- we found a tent stake here, a tent pole
there, her poncho in a bush further down the trail. We assumed a
zipper on her pack was open, nothing worse, so were dismayed to find
her sitting on the road bank, covered in mud, her pack a shambles.
Here we were, being grumpy about mud sticking to our boots, when in
Barbara's case, it had made her totally lose her footing and take a
nasty fall.
Mars helped her get reorganized, then we walked out with her as a
group for that last seemingly endless mile or two. Who says the
weather has no sense of humor, though? By the time we reached the
cars, the sun had come out, the skies had cleared, the views were
lovely. (Still, it's good we were out -- the storm that slammed in
the next day really was a doozy.)
Byron proposed we celebrate our successful escape with some good
seafood -- he knew a place in Ventura that turned out to be delicious
albeit hard to find (at least if you take the wrong exit.) Pat,
Joanne and Barbara all had delicious looking fish and chips. Byron,
Mars and I opted for halibut, salmon, and catfish, while Brian had an
interesting chowder in a loaf of sourdough. I wish I knew what the
place was called or where to find it, because I'd sure as heck like to
eat there again sometime.
Such as ... after we (someday) successfully return and deal with that
orphan we all have. Santa Cruz Mountain, here we come??? (Hey, and
we can all celebrate Barbara's list finish while we're there. I can't
wait!)