Abandoned Campsites and the Bear Who Ate My Backpack

After my harrowing jaunt a few weeks ago, I felt determined to revisit that path. (If you missed my last blog in which I felt I was being hunted, you can find it here). And like last week in which I just sort of "felt" something was off, this time I "knew" we were going to have a bear encounter....which is why I brought along my trusty friend, Dan. Lol.

Dan and I hit the trail about 2:00 pm on Sunday. We were traveling the Silver Moccasin Trail from the Angeles Crest Highway mile marker 43.30 down 3.88 miles to the West Fork Campground. Actually, this was my 3rd attempt at making West Fork. During my 2nd foray ever, before I learned to read a map (and take one along), I turned around before I got to the cut off. Last week, I turned back after I had a very scary feeling I was being hunted.

  This week, the skies were blue, I had a companion for safety, and everything was pointed in the right direction. About a mile down, we passed a couple coming up the trail we were headed down. They warned us that the campsite was eerie. There were a number of abandoned tents there. "It's pretty weird", the lady told us, as we conversed. I asked them about the trail and how easy it was to follow. The gentleman told me it was easy, and I should just follow his big footsteps.

Hmmm, I thought. Sounds good. I had lost the trail somehow last weekend (I'm good at that), so I was hopeful this time would be easier, and it was. A mountain biker came up behind us about a half mile later. He passed us, then we caught up to him. He was busy sawing down one of the many branches blocking the trail from an easy biking path. One thing about this trail, there were more fallen trees to go over and especially under than on any path I've been on thus far.

I hate when I have to go under a tree. It always involves me walking on my knees, and save for my trekking poles to help me, it's always a bitch to get back up with my big pack on my back. Sherpa Dan seemed to have no issues with these. Yeah, whatever.

As we got to the valley of the mountain, bug season began. We should've been warned when we noticed the cyclist wearing a full on safari hat with a mosquito net. O.M.G. Swarms of flies and mosquitoes followed our every move. My veritable windshield wiper arm went up again, as did the lower lip trumpet I use--exhaling every breath vainly upward to blow the flies away from my tear ducts. F**kers! We sprayed ourselves with deet liquid mixed with a citronella spray a friend had given me a few weeks back, which unfortunately didn't work too well on its own. This alleviated our issues by about 25%. Crap.

The buzzing around our ears was probably the most annoying. It's like chinese water torture, only worse. Finally, in a fit of utter frustration, Dan came up with the Aunt Jemima head wrap. We both wrapped our bandanas like Aunt Jemima does with the tie on the top, our ears covered from the incessant buzzing. Although the swarms didn't stop, the buzzing was muffled significantly, and we reached our campsite sanity still in tact.

Dan started a fire, so the smoke would rid us of the flies, while I set up my bird trap again. A mosquito pierced my shoulder over and over and over before Dan finally mashed it. I had 27 bites there to show for it's blood-letting the next day.

After about half an hour, I set the trap out near a nearby dry creek bed, where I'd seen and heard lots of birds, and we headed back to set up our tent.

The campsite was odd. There were 3 small 1-2 man tents all by the same company that were abandoned--two blue and one green. The green one had been moved, blown, pushed into another nearby creek bed about 15 feet away, while the other 2 were positioned around a picnic table in which loads of trash remained. In another adjacent site, a larger 6 man tent stood empty. How weird. It's as if everyone in this party got spooked and left at the same time. The food and trash looked like it had been there for awhile. The big tent's door was open. The green tent in the creek was closed up. In one of the other small blue tents, a large apple juice bottle half filled with what looked like urine remained. A sleeping bag with a flannel liner had cobwebs in it.

There was a fire starter log in the same tent. In the other tent were just the tent directions and leftover tent poles.  On the picnic table was a broken bottle of beer and a bottle of Wild Turkey with a bit remaining. Weird. How long had this been like this? It really looked like it had been months.

The couple we passed had told us one of the tents appeared to still be occupied, but we could tell right away we were going to be the only ones there this night.

We set up our tent on the opposite side of the fairly small campground, about 25 yards away.

Here's what the set up looked like if you drew a square. On the east side was a creek cutting diagonally to the north, On the north side was a dried creek bed where I set my trap. On the west side was another trail and to its right a largish hill covered in leaves. We were on the south side. The whole campsite was maybe 30 yards by 30 yards.

Dan and I set up our tent, ate a few Cliff Builder's Bars and stayed up talking until about 11 pm, when we decided to turn in for the evening. I'd been up since 5 am, had run 10 miles in the morning, and I was beat. I knew he'd struggle with sleep, since he stays up until 2 am most evenings. Right before we went in the tent, we went over to check my bird trap (empty) and put my back pack with all our food in it about 12' up in a tree. I knew 15' was recommended, but 12' was what we found. It was late. I was tired.  Additionally, everything in my bag was in a a bear-smell-proof bag, so I felt we were golden.

Wrong!

The biggest problem with West Fork Campground and also with Valley Forge is the sheer number of acorn trees on the premises. To a novice, every acorn dropping sounds like a wild animal. As I had already camped at Valley Forge, I wasn't even remotely disturbed by these sounds, Dan on the other hand was sure he was hearing animals everywhere.

I can laugh now, but he reminded me of my first night alone up in Trail Canyon. I "knew" I was safe, but my mind made everything larger than it was.

After about 1/2 an hour, Dan woke me up. "Did you hear that?", he said? I listened. Nothing. "It's acorns, Dan. Go back to bed." Another 1/2 an hour, "Shannon, I heard an animal pass by."  "Dan, honey, it's nothing. It's acorns. Go back to bed."  An hour later, "Shannon, no seriously, I heard a growl. Listen." I listened. "There it was again, did you hear it?" Nothing. "No, babe, nothing. I heard nothing." I sat up with him awhile trying to encourage him. Dan's strong, brave, he's not a dummy, and he has more backpacking experience than I have. However, it had been awhile (a) and (b) this was one noisy-ass campground.

I sank back into sleep. I could've slept through an earthquake, I was so beat. About 2 am, Dan woke me. "Hear that?" This time, I DID hear it. There was a distinct munching sound. It was clear an animal was in our campsite and he was munching on something heavy and plastic. "It's that apple juice bottle filled with pee", Dan said. "No bear's gonna be attracted to pee, said I. "I think he got a hold of my back pack and has my new $35 bladder in his teeth.

We both sat there, all the hairs on our necks being drawn to the moon by some invisible static electricity. Then we heard the unthinkable. The bear knocked down one of the abandoned tents. Then we heard him walk over and tear another one. Although we never deigned to look out of our tent, we both knew it was a bear. What else could it be?

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

We were nothing short of terrified. Having a bear in your campsite was one thing, but a bear that was strategically tearing through each tent in succession was another. We wondered if it would only be a matter of time until we were next. I pulled out my bear-spray and readied it. Dan got out his knife. We sat up, quiet, still.

The bear sat munching, crunching, smashing that plastic whatever-it-was and making lots of noise for over an hour. Finally, he went away.

Oh my god. That was even scarier than last week!! We laid back down, shaking, amazed and marveled at how crazy this had been. We regaled stories of "what ifs." What if there had been no back pack, would he have come for us? His demolition of two of the tents made us wonder.

What if we'd been lazy and put the bag in our tent? O. M. G., we would be telling a far more terrifying tale now, we knew that for sure. After another half an hour of calming ourselves down, we finally sank into sleep.

I learned a TON this weekend. #1: Bear proof bags are B. S.  I had a hunch, but until this occurrence, I couldn't be sure. They're supposed to be "smell proof". Nope, don't believe it.  #2: NEVER be too lazy to hang up your pack. #3: Twelve feet is not high enough. #4: If you're in a campsite with lots of trash, clean it up to prevent a bear from thinking there's dinner. #5: NEVER sleep with your food in your tent. Just don't do it.

Out of curiosity, I looked up statistics on bears in our area.  Did you know that ALL black bears in So Cal are the descendants of 27 bears shipped here from Yosemite in 1933? Did you know that only Grizzly Bears are native to So Cal, but that they were hunted to extinction--the last one was killed February 26, 1908. (Source: http://www.kcet.org/updaily/socal_focus/history/la-as-subject/a-brief-history-of-bears-in-the-los-angeles-area.html)

Did you know also that "Fish and Game reports 12 known wild bear attacks in California since 1980 not including one last year in the Tahoe Sierra. The last Californian killed by a wild bear died in the 19th century, and the bear at fault was a grizzly." Most black bears avoid humans. I also read that one should bring a bear proof tin whenever camping, as most bears had long ago figured out how to get bags out of trees. Lol!

The next morning, I awoke first. I grabbed Dan, so we could head over to survey the damage. The one tent was completely flattened. Can you imagine if someone was in there? The other tent had several big slash marks, where the bear just decided he wanted to see what was inside. The large tent was

untouched. The trash that was on the picnic table was now scattered everywhere, the Wild Turkey bottle was broken and it's contents spilled, and the apple juice bottle filled with pee was totally smashed.

I walked to my backpack. Wow. Only part of the waist strap clung to the tree. The rest of its contents, and all the baggies were ripped open. Six of 8 Builder's Bars we had in there were gone. (I guess he was full.) All the trail mix had been eaten, teeth marks punctured my tiny bottle of Ibuprofen I carry. (Glad he didn't get that; it might have killed him.) My brand new $35 bladder I bought to save me from having to stop every 15-30 mins to drink Gatorade was emptied and shredded. (Guess bears like Gatorade as much as I do.) Both our toothbrushes had dirt ground into them and our toothpaste tube was punctured. The entire bottom of my backpack had been torn off. 


Not to mention that the bear had tripped my dang bird trap and had eaten all the seeds and berries I'd left there. Go figure.  And to top it off, he'd laid a huge-o-mongo shit there too. I mean, this baby was easily 4" in diameter.  We figured with the size of that poop, the claw marks, and the fact he had to reach at least 12' to get to my back pack, this was one big bear.

We laughed again at our good fortune and how crazy the whole experience had been, thankful it had turned out the way it did.

Fortunately this bear didn't care for coffee. We lit a fire and had a few cups along with the two remaining uneaten Builder's Bars for breakfast.

Then, not wanting to leave the campsite in the terrible disarray we found it, we set about cleaning up all the trash left behind by the other party as well as our own, burned it all, broke down one of the tents for me to take home (since mine leaks and sucks) and prepared to break camp.

There was one small problem that now presented itself. Now we only had one pack, yet we had to hike out with everything we came in with plus one additional one-person tent. I'd also hiked in with all the sticks necessary to make my bird trap, since cutting them to size is incredibly time-intensive, and I wasn't willing to leave them behind.

I packed the sticks in one of the leftover tent bags, tied that to the other "new" tent I was taking, tied my sleeping pad to that, stuffed my sleeping bag in that sleeping pad, tied the tent we brought to that and tied a large loop around that big enough to be worn around the forehead with the items dangling behind. It only weighed about 20#. It worked fantastically.

We felt great, so Dan started out with the now 50# framed backpack he brought, and I wore the head-wrap pack. Off we headed, Aunt Jemima scarves pre-tied, as the sun was up and the bugs were already biting.

We waded through tall grasses, and forest that resembled jungle, as we wound our way out. Finally, after about 35 mins, we started heading back up the mountain. Dan, unused to hiking hills with a weighted pack, quickly fatigued. Realizing if we didn't pick up the pace, I wouldn't be back to work on time Monday afternoon, we traded. 

We made great time taking about 2 hours and 15 mins to reach the car. Our legs and lungs burned from a 1550 foot elevation gain. It was slow and tiring work. Dan was fried, but I was starving. After a quart of orange juice, a 32 oz bottle of mango protein drink and a half a Hamburger Habit Santa Barbara Style Bacon, Avocado, Cheeseburger, I felt satiated, and we called it a day.

Now that was an adventure I'm in no hurry to repeat!

Being Hunted

Sunday felt off. Right from the beginning, I just "had a feeling" about today's journey that didn't sit right with me. Not prone to these feelings, I generally at least take notice, which I did, but decided to write it off as unwarranted fear and get my hiney moving.

My plan today was to access the West Fork Camp Ground, a trail camp, via the Silver Moccasin Trail off the Angeles Crest Highway. It would be a short hike (3.8 miles), but I was more interested in practicing setting bird traps than I was in the hike, so that was intentional.

I'm really having fun learning about survival skills, and I'm a big believer in learning by doing. Thus, although any bird I catch, I will set free, as trapping is illegal, I just want to know what I've been taught would work should I ever have the need to really use it. I had pre-cut dozens of sticks with the intention of finishing up the trimming down here, making the triggers and adding the finishing touches. They hung from my back like long pieces of kindling, all bundled up in a horizontal roll. My pack was a bit wider as a result, and as I hit many trees along the path going down, I was noisier than usual.

Someday I envision living in the wild for a bit. Someday I'd like to put these skills to the test.

I arrived at the trailhead at 2:30 pm. I figured worst case scenario, I'd get to the camp site by 4:30, make my traps (which still needed a lot of work), set up camp and get some sleep.I started my hike down the trail, getting down about 800 meters, when I realized I hadn't yet let anyone know where I was going. There are lots of things negotiable about my escapades, but this is not one of them. Add to that the fact that there were a few signs warning me not to disturb the vegetation, and that odd feeling crept up on me again. I've been out on a dozen hikes now, and I'd never seen these signs. 

Was the trail closed? Did this mean I should simply avoid the plants? I was a bit perplexed.

Vainly, I tried to get a cell signal, but to no avail, so I headed back up the hill to my car, so I could drive back down the mountain a bit.

The Hahamonga Cultural Center sits at the corner of Red Box/Mt.Wilson Rd. and the Angeles Crest Highway. Eddie, the purveyor is an affable man, who knows the area as well as anybody. He sells maps and gatorade and provides free advice on the trails in the area. I used the payphone outside of here to call a friend with hiking plans, and asked Eddie about the signs.  "Just stay on the trail", he advised. "That's all those signs mean."

Good. I thought. At least I won't arrive on Monday morning back from my hike to an angry ranger admonishing me.

I got back in my car and headed back to the trailhead. It was now a little after 3pm.  I figured I'd be in camp by 5:00--still plenty of time to get my work done.

The trail was beautiful and, as usual, I was the only one there. It wound through loads of newly grown grass, made present by our recent unusual Fall rainfall. Wow, what a paradise! Parts of the trail, per usual, were overgrown, even more so due to the presence of more young grass. It appeared one other person had been here over the weekend, however, as some of the grass was mashed down making the trail a bit easier to follow than it would be otherwise.

There were several wild cherry trees (bushes) still plump with loads of ripe cherries for the taking. Clearly some local bears were enjoying them too, as I saw piles of fairly recent bear poop.

I continued down the mountain for about a mile. More bear poop. In the span of the next mile, I saw 7 piles of bear poop in various stages of decay. Due to the fact that we'd had some recent heavier rains, the fact that all the cherry pits were still assembled in a loose-knit pile left me believing none of these piles were more than a few weeks old. Maybe I was following a bear trail. Maybe all that mashed down grass wasn't created by a human at all.

Clearly bears lived down here, and likely more than one.

And blackberries! When Springtime comes, I am gathering a bevy of my friends with buckets and coming back here. Nearly every trail I've been on (except the very high ones) have some blackberries, but I have literally never seen so many blackberry bushes in my life in one place! No wonder the bears like it here! Wild cherries, berries, water, grasses and dense underbrush. Bear heaven.

My wide-load stick pack must've brushed up against a Yucca tree. Suddenly what sounded like a dozen rattlesnakes shocked me to attention. Oy vey! The seed pods were just rattling. I hate these false alarms. They're so unnerving!

As I got to the bottom of the mountain, I crossed a small creek bed with a bit of water. The trail started to become lost then found. I kept following it down until it dead-ended at the bottom of the mountain, in a valley, in a dry creek. 

I started boulder hopping trying to find the trail. Crap! My wide-load stick pack was a bit cumbersome, but I managed.

The creek bed was about 8 feet wide with a 15 foot cliff face on one side and a more gradual climb up the other side of the mountain on the other. There were downed trees at regular intervals, forcing me to climb over or under them to get through. The mashed down grass which I was following became harder to find. Seeming trails were everywhere, but none lead me to where I wanted to go.

A rock about the size of a baseball dropped over my left shoulder.  There was an animal up there.

I've learned to be alert, listen and watch. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I looked up that precipice for a few minutes, silent. Nothing.

I proceeded down the ravine, the dry creek bed. Another 50 feet and there was a loud crash not 15 feet from me. Something had either just landed there in the tall grass or had pushed a very large boulder over the edge. The brush was thick. There were downed trees. Something could be that close to me yet still remain camouflaged.

I was now certain I was being hunted.

Not seeing anything specific, I made myself as large as possible and yelled out the loudest biggest yell I could muster. "Yaaaaaaaah!" I stood there, frozen, looking. My eyes scanned the area. I was on full alert, heavy breathing, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Part of me wanted to go closer to where the rock fell out of sheer curiosity, but the saner side of me said, "Get the Hell Out!".

I pulled out my bear spray and readied the trigger. I scanned the area for definite signs of what it was. Nothing.

I slowly backed away from the area, my eyes darting back and forth across the area in front of me. I felt like a cop on one of those TV shows when they're trying to keep from getting killed by the bad guy.

I backed over the log I had just crossed. Still nothing. I kept backing away.

I backed up that trail a full 1/4 mile watching, looking, then I finally turned and hurried away. I still took a cursory glance over my shoulder every 20 feet or so until I was a full mile away.

That was the most scared I've ever been.

When I got back, I set about to finish making my bird traps, and I did some research on mountain lion hunting behavior. No bear would hunt me that way. Bears attack when provoked or when they're in fear for their young. Mountain lions stalk and silently hunt.

All that bear poop had me ready for a bear encounter. I wasn't even thinking about a lion.

I found this video which I believe is telling. You cannot even see the mountain lion even though it is less than 50 feet away. Even as it approaches, without the telephoto lens, it would be invisible.

I watched another video of a girl who was being stalked while hunting elk. She wound up shooting the lion point blank from 5 feet away. Then there was the lion who despite the man's stern protestations to back off, kept coming forward. It's their nature. Ultimately it did not attack and turned around.

I think it's time to get a gun.

Bridge to Nowhere, Prospector's Blues, Rock Slide, and a Spine

Last weekend I went out with my old long-time boyfriend, Dan. Although we are officially separated now, we remain great friends. Despite my odd proclivity for solo adventures, he's been very supportive of them. I decided to invite him along on this one, as I had a few specific tasks in mind. Add to that the known dangerousness of this area when it rains, and I thought I'd be better off being smart than being solo.

The Bridge to Nowhere is a bridge built in 1936 as part of an abandoned attempt to connect the San Gabriel Valley with Wrightwood. Apparently the frequent flash floods wiped out the attempt early on, so the bridge was abandoned. Now it stands as an odd sublime sculpture amidst monolithic rock faces leading into the Narrows, home of gold prospectors, rapid rivers and bones.

Many people have lost their lives here, mainly due to the flash floods which roar through the area carrying unsuspecting hikers to an early grave. That being said, many more people have made it through successfully, and I planned to be one of those. Sure enough, fliers announcing the funeral for a long-time prospector in the area who was 65, hung from nearby trees. The last torrential rain brought forth a flash flood, which cost him his life.

On Sunday morning, it was lightly drizzling, and the forecast called for some rain. We drove over an hour to get to the trailhead parking lot, arriving about noon.

We had plans to hike in as far as we could, potentially to Fish Fork, no more than a six mile day. However, with unsure footing and wetter weather, we mostly just wanted to enjoy the ride. My plan was to build, then set a trap for a bird and successfully build a fire in wet conditions. We wanted to arrive to camp early, so we could set up camp early and get these things done.

Dan set a fast pace, and we unknowingly lost the main trail right away finding ourselves on a path that had us crossing the river about a dozen times. No crossing was higher than the knees. We went in knowing we were going to get wet. Soaked through within the first 30 minutes, we weren't disappointed. At least it wasn't too cold out!

On our way, we saw some really interesting things. The first one was an 8 inch section of what was clearly some animal's spine. I've seen turtle bones, some craniums, some leg bones even, but I'd never seen an animal's spine. It was an eerie reminder that there were animals out here capable of ripping apart flesh leaving almost nothing behind.

We quickly came upon a bevy of young gold prospectors. Dressed like young tarzans, they both looked like mere boys, high as kites, their pails holding hopes of daily bread.

Dozens of people passed us heading out as Dan and I made our way in. It was Sunday after all. We both had the next morning off; apparently they did not.

We passed by Swan Rock. If you look closely at the photo, you'll see the resemblance.

A stream of 8 guys and girls that were twenty-somethings streamed past us one by one. Their fearless leader, donning a curled moustache made stiff by wax proudly announced that they had come via the back way through Fish Fork. I told them I was impressed, as that was the only journey I have had to abort. He was dressed like a prospector of old donning tall black lace-up boots and what appeared to be vintage military riding pants.

Odd. People are so interesting.

We passed by a blue tarp, home to yet another prospector. They must be gold up here somewhere, because there sure are a lot of people up here looking for it.

Dan and I continued on our way. We followed sandy almost-trails and animal trails. We knew as long as we followed the river, we'd reach our destination.

A few hours in, we arrived at the Bridge to Nowhere. Forbidding warning signs were everywhere. Two large forest green shipping containers with a wire fence protesting "No Trespassing" stood like fortresses against the forbidding rock face back drop. A set of aluminum stairs led into the mountain like an Escher drawing. The first step was about 18 feet off the ground, and they lead directly into the cliff face. Strange. Two diving flags were placed oddly on two separate cliff faces, which could've only been reached via rope by an expert climber. Signs were everywhere ensuring we knew that this was private property, damn it, and if we dared to camp, prospect or do anything other than pass through anywhere within 1/2 mile in either direction, there would be dire consequences.

Creepy. Glad you're letting us pass through your land, buddy, but we get the message.

We decided to stop on the Bridge and have a bite to eat. The wind picked up. We huddled around the corner to break the chill and stood silently eating our Cliff Bars and Gatorade.

Suddenly a rushing started. It sounded like a very large waterfall had just turned on or some sort of an engine. Dan and I stood puzzled, wondering what in the hell it was. "Rock slide", Dan finally said, noticing what was happening.

"Holy shit! You're right", I loudly exclaimed! On the west facing mountainside behind the bridge a steady stream of smooth gray stones rushed down the mountainside. It was truly a waterfall of rocks. Rain and wet conditions often cause these slides, but I'd never had the opportunity to see one for myself. Safely on the Bridge out of harm's way, we watched the rocks slide down a full 8 minutes. Larger rocks tumbled down, hitting other rocks, then bouncing out of the way, but mostly it was a steady long stream of smallish gray rocks, pouring down the mountain literally like a stream. A pool of rocks lay at the bottom creating a dam to block the bottom of their path.

I thought of all the times I've crossed gorges with rocks similar to those and wondered how weird it would be to suddenly have those rocks give way. Majestic. Beautiful. Nature has shown me its awesome ferocity and beauty every weekend in some unique way.

After the slide finished, we gathered up our packs and set off to find a campsite at least 3/4 of a mile away. Within a few hundred yards, the trail became precarious. I mean, it was present, sort of, and it was stable, but there was a portion that was kind of missing. The trail became about 10 inches wide, and you had to step down and across a few places where the rock faces had been shaved off.

Dan, a born sherpa, quickly darted across this gash in the rocks. A slip would've sent him bounding down, rolling over and over the steep angle a 1/2 mile to his death. I set out, but after a few tries, became too afraid, and we turned back.

We opted for a trail that took us down to the river instead. Honestly, the trail was scary, but not crazy perilous, but somehow I've developed a fear of heights--specifically when your walking across them and falling means your certain end of this life. I understand that fear has a purpose, but this fear was more akin to learning to box jump. The likelihood you'll fall if you're aware, careful and brave is slim. It's when the fear takes over than you're skinned to the bone, and I was gripped with a vertigo like sensation and sheer terror.

Lol! We made our way down the lower trail, then followed it back up when it once again became more safe. We saw so much left behind trash! We saw several pairs of men's underwear, some shoes (mismatched and in different places), cans, bottles, a pillow, two abandoned sleeping bags. I was embarrassed for these folks. Really? We saw left-behind tent poles and cooking grates and utensils. Usually folks who dig nature take care to leave it pristine, but apparently lots of folks who come here don't feel the same.

We passed by one fire pit. No. I think it's still within 1/2 mile of the Bridge.

We passed by another potential spot. No, if there was a rock slide, we'd surely die.

Finally, trapped by the Narrows, with the only way through meaning we'd have to hike upstream in the water and no foreseeable options close by, we settled for a spot out of the way of rocks, yet a little closer to the River than would be preferred. The water would've had to rise pretty high to get us, but we were aware of its potential.

I set about to make a fire pit and we both set out to find some dry-ish wood.

Wow! There must really be gold in these mountains. We found hoses and wheel barrows, loads of camping gear, buckets, sieves, pans, pumps, you name it. Clearly a full-scale operation was going on here, and we wondered if this was part of the "Bridge Guy's" turf. We'd traveled 30 minutes. It would be pretty bad if we didn't cover at least 1/2 a mile. Besides, the map indicates this part does not belong to him. We decided to take our chances and stay.

I made feather sticks. Dan cut down a dead Yucca tree. I gathered wood. Dan cut it up into various sizes. The feather sticks made from wet wood worked fantastic. We used cotton balls soaked in vaseline to get everything going, and before we knew it, our fire was roaring. The Yucca didn't burn like we thought it might, but it was a good experiment anyway.

I set about to build my bird trap, while Dan put up the tent. The trees in the area didn't offer many straight sticks, so I wound up using some reeds of a plant I can't yet identify. They were a little light, but I thought they might work fine.

No sooner did I get the trap set, did rain start coming down, so Dan and I holed up in the tent content to play hangman for the night.

This tent was waterproof! It didn't leak, and we were dry. A chill had set in on me, however, and I was thrilled I'd thought to bring along my trusty wool socks, some leggings and some warm clothes for the night. We listened to the swell of the river, as we wanted to be aware of any potential danger that might be found. It seemed fine.

After a few hours, the rain died down to a drizzle, and we sank into sleep.

The alarm went off at 5 am, but it was pitch black. It took us 4 hours yesterday to travel a mere 5 miles. I was concerned I wouldn't get to work on time today. We set about to break down the tent and eat breakfast, but we opted to wait for daylight to begin our hike. The terrain was simply too dangerous to traverse at night. Add to that the rain from the prior evening, and we decided to wait for the light.

I checked my trap. It had been sprung! Alas, however. All the bait was gone, but there was nothing inside. I think the reeds were simply too light, and whatever it was just lifted it up and got away. Better luck next time.

Knowing we were there for awhile, I gathered some water from the stream, and we made coffee--enjoying watching the sun rise over the cliff face just ahead. Finally about 6:20 am, we set off. We decided to focus on speed, just in case we ran short on time. We followed the path, up and up. I knew it was going to lead us back to the trail I was too afraid to cross yesterday, but today I felt ready for the task.

Handing off my pack to Dan, I faced the cliff wall and shimmied across the path. As long as I didn't look down, I was fine. I made it across. My proverbial super-tall box jump was a success. I find as long as fear can be kept at bay, reasonable risks can be made to no ill effect.

We wound up finding another trail that followed the river on the opposite side. It was higher up, against the mountain, and it was easy to see. We picked up the pace making stellar time.

We passed wild cherry and stopped for a bite. My edible foods class with Christopher Nyerges was paying off. I identified Mallow, Filaree and Buckwheat too. I can identify Mule Fat and some Willow, Cottonwood, Sycamore, Laurel and Oak.

We only had to cross the river 4 times on the way back, and we made it to the car a full 90 minutes faster than yesterday.

Fantastic! We drove back to Pasadena recounting the cool things we saw. We'd have time for another cup of coffee to start the day.

Bird trap made and set. Check. Fire made with wet wood in wet conditions. Check. Another beautiful trip in our bountiful California Wilderness. Check.

I can't wait to do it again next weekend!

Day 2 South Fork Trail to Manzanita Trail Back to Vincent Gap

On Day 2 of my journey, I opted to "sleep in". My knees the night before were throbbing, and after a full week of too little sleep, I realized that I didn't "need" to do 20 miles today. After all, the idea of this was to build up to being able to do that. I decided I'd rather not risk injury, so at 7:00 am, I awoke.

If you've never been camping, sleeping in a bag in a tent on the ground makes you want to wash the feet of the memory foam mattress guys. It is ungodly uncomfortable. My hiney hung out in the chilly mountain air all night because my new sleeping quilt kept coming off of me, I slid down my mat all night, because I didn't take the time to level out the mere 15 degree tilt of the land, and my poor excuse for a pillow left me with a kink in my neck like a cramp in a tired runner's leg.

Although I "rested" a full 8 hours, I probably only slept about 5.

I got out of my tent. A silver car was parked in the space of the campsite I had mistakenly taken the night before. (To read Part 1, go here:here ).  After walking over to the next-door campsite and making my apologies, I was relieved to find out that they had just arrived. Good. I quickly packed up everything and set out on a new course. Rather than hike the Burkhart Trail out of Buckhorn Campground to the High Desert National Recreation Trail to the Manzanita Trail back to Vincent Gap, I decided to cut off 9.5 miles and take the South Fork Trail to Manzanita instead.

Rather than a 20 mile day, I opted for a mere 11.5.

Deciding to take the minimal amount of water I would need, as I chronically bring too much, I lightened my pack by about 10 pounds as I poured Gatorade onto the pine needles of my site. Another 2 delicious vanilla almond Cliff Builder's bars for breakfast, and I headed back out to Highway 2 to hitch a ride.

 It was a glorious morning! Something just told me I'd be able to get a ride in.

Two cars passed, I stuck my thumb out. Nothing.

A bunch of black motorcycles passed, their riders all pushing the speed limit, pure joy splashed all over them, but no room for two.

A couple of hippies in a van waved at me, but then they drove by. I kept walking--about a mile.

Then, another freaking brand new black BMW with a cream interior pulls over, and two awesome Armenian guys offer to give me a ride.

We started chatting about backpacking. The one guy was a former rock climber, and we chatted the whole way to Islip Saddle, where I'd be picking up my trail head. He pointed out Williamson Rock and how by way of lack of organization on the rock climbers' side, that area of the trail had been closed for years to protect a little frog. He recognized the climbers probably didn't help the situation, as they used to go out there, party and leave beer bottles everywhere. "It was the late 70's man!", the one heavier dude said, the more talkative of the two. I could see the memories enveloping him like warm water slowly poured over his head. He said he now had a desk job--bemoaning his new-found bulging belly and his lack of outdoor time.

They wished me luck, and I got out. The two hippy guys with the white van said hi. They apologized for not picking me up, but their van had no back seats and no room, because their mountain bikes were in there. "No worries!", I said. We chatted briefly about life, nature, and the trails ahead.
They asked me where I was going and assured me I would see no one on those paths.

"Great!", I said. "I prefer it like that."

And with that, I set out on South Fork Trail heading North.

The trail looked much different than the trail I'd been on the day before. With about a 2000 foot elevation loss from 6670 at Islip Saddle to 4550 at South Fork, it was far more rocky, dry and barren. A few shaded parts began the path, but it was interesting to note the stark difference between the higher elevations and now.

The trail was easy to see. I pushed along as fast as I could, my trekking poles keeping time. I felt like four-legged animal. The right pole would reach out, then the left foot. The left pole would reach out, then the right one. Sometimes I'd approach it more like cross-country skiing, with both poles reaching in front of me, pulling me forward, as I pushed my legs through from behind.

I was so busy admiring how much easier it was to traverse the terrain with four legs, that I nearly missed the baby rattler crossing the path in front of me. It was clearly agitated, it's rattle sending off alarm signals into the air. "Go ahead, little baby." It struggled to move quickly up the rocky mountainside on my side of the path. I watched him, waiting for the right moment when I could safely cross.

I finally pushed forward, and he stared at me--his terrified yet threatening body shaking it's now very high rpm rattle at me.

I moved along the trail noticing how many parts of the mountain were made of rock slides of years past, and  kept moving slowly down, down down. I noticed a more stark view, still wildly beautiful in its barrenness.

At South Fork, I saw a family out in the dry creek bed. The trail had ended here, and I was trying to figure out where to go next. I asked them if they knew where the Manzanita trailhead was. They had no idea.

I passed by them and came upon one of the ugliest campgrounds I've ever seen. It was a big circular parking lot of dirt. There was a pair of camping restrooms right in the middle of the dirt circle. A few picnic tables lined the dead end where the road met the mountains. On them, a family had abandoned paper plates with caked on food, orange sodas, beer cans, Tostitos, hot dogs, mustard. They were all probably on a nearby trail somewhere.

I was half way to my goal, but I needed to know where to go from here.

The map was a bit unclear, so I got out my compass and followed it's lead. The two possible trailhead's diverged, and I took the one I was pointed to. Good choice.

The trail wound up the back side of a mountain, through lots of trees. About half way, I came across a wide sandy and rocky river bottom. Enough water trickled through it that I was able to fill up. I was becoming a bit lower than I'm comfortable with, and the day was warmer here than on higher ground.

I pushed on. Another mile in and I heard what I thought was a large fan. A torrent of water was coming down the mountainside, pushing over rocks, creating a 4' wide stream. Yes! Here was the most water I'd seen on any trail I'd been on all Summer long. The rains we'd been having lately were clearly taking a positive toll. I thought about how interesting it would be to revisit some of the trails I traversed after the rainy season. I imagine many of them will be impassable.

After about 5 hours, I finally wound up back at Vincent Gap. I was glad I'd gone easy on my knee and on myself, for I felt challenged without being wiped out.

I got in my car and headed to Wrightwood for a burger and an iced tea. I ate at the same cafe as before, only today's waitress was clearly not in a good mood. She was racing around, like she had a dozen tables, but there were only 2. She forgot my dressing, my salad, and my tea.

No matter, I tipped the busboy instead of her, since he brought me all three, but I was still thrilled to have real food and a place to sit down for awhile. I headed back to my car and the long drive home, pleased with myself for putting in over 30 miles in two days.