Joshua Tree National Park has a rich mining history, wrought with all the lore, legend, and fantastical characters of your average, corny western flick.  Backstabbing, shooting, horse-thieving, hidden treasure, and forbidden Indian romance are just some of the backdrop of this magnificent land.  But one of the most interesting stories to me I don’t even know.  In fact, there really isn’t much of a story, if any.  But the oddity of Carey’s Castle I find absolutely compelling.  Carey was a miner who worked his claim in the early 1900′s east of Eagle Mtn.  Rather resourcefully, he built his home under a large boulder near his claim.  Walled in by boulders all sides, it stays surprisingly cool.  The gaps between boulders have been walled in and the lone window consists of chicken wire.  To this day many of his belongings remain intact, though most have surely wandered off in some visitor’s pack.  But the bed frame remains, as do several cans and tools on a shelf by the door.  Even some ancient native petroglyphs survive on the low ceiling.

As interesting as the site is, the hike there is its equal.  There are no trails, no markers, no indications whatsoever where you might or should be going.  It’s just four miles up a wash with a couple of turns.  And a beautiful four miles it is!  We headed out on a hot spring day, so the critters were out en force.  We saw tons of side-blotched lizards, dozens of zebra-tailed lizards whizzing about with their tails curled up like little velociraptors, perhaps a dozen desert iguanas, a couple chuckwallas, including a baby, a little rat, bats, hummingbirds, a centipede, a hawk, and two rattlesnakes.  Actually, it was probably the same snake twice.  And this was all set amongst the mesquites, desert willows, palo verdes, brittlebush, and my favorite, lovely desert lavender.

This hike was one of my favorites and deserves a return.  Especially since my camera quit on me most of the while, leaving me with only a few photos to share.  But here they are:

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This bristlecone pine wove itself into a fence-like pattern.

The bristlecone pines residing in the White Mountains, east of Bishop, CA, are the world’s oldest non-clonal organisms.  Currently, the oldest verified tree is Methuselah, age 4800+ years.  Only one other bristlecone, named Prometheus, has been verified older.  Unfortunately, this was unknown at the time and the tree was cut down for research.  As sickening as that discovery was, it turned out to be an important one.  Known as dendrochronology, the study of tree rings has provided several millennia worth of climatic data, and even revised the carbon dating process, critical to science and our understanding of both natural and human history.  The bristlecone pine’s hardiness allows it to thrive in a harsh, preservative climate, which makes it the perfect natural record keeper.  And they’re fascinatingly gnarly!

The following gallery is from my 2008 visit, just after the visitor center burned down.

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The Boys Are Back In Town

This weekend Cris and Albert and I made what has inadvertently become a sort of traditional spring trip to Borrego Springs to tour one of its many canyons, find some waterfalls, catch some frogs, and sleep in the shadow of some hanging rock.  Since our trip to Evolution Valley last September, neither Cris or Albert had been backpacking, and I had only been on an overnighter to Encinitas (hardly wilderness).  Six months is far too long, so this trip was as welcome as any before.  We wore ourselves out rock scrambling and shared some good laughs and tangerines.  And with our first excursion of the year in the books, it’s time to plan another.

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Cardiff State Beach

The Long

Six months of trail-less mundanity and urban domesticity have wrought in me a deep and dismal discomfort most people know as their day-to-day.  The city has skyline in place of sky.  Sirens in place of birdsong.  Fountains in place of falls.  And happy hour lasts only a small part of the day.  Even as beautiful as San Diego is, and despite the greatness of its much ballyhooed beer scene, the urge within me to escape it all for even just a night has become an unscratchable itch.  As it recently turned out, I had an option to escape not only within reach of great beer, but to one of the best locations in the county to find it.  And camp as near the beach as is legal.

Hiking the 12 miles from La Jolla to Encinitas barefoot should have been a leisurely, uneventful stroll along the beach.  However, recent high tides had compacted the sands all the way from water to bluff, leaving no soft footing whatsoever and giving my feet hell the entire distance.  And wearing my camp shoes to ease my blistering soles only exacerbated things, like liquid sandpaper rubbing the tops of my toes raw.  By the time I reached San Elijo State Beach, the pain was nearly unbearable.  After painstakingly pitching my tent (Pain?  Staking?  Tent?  Get it?  Hahahahhh ohhh, boy) at a record slow pace, my friend Janessa picked me up for beer and burgers at the Encinitas Ale House.

Stumbling into the pub as if I’d already been drunk, I quickly set about drowning myself in a pint of Mammoth Brewing’s 395 DIPA, with a modest 8% abv, instantly easing the day’s pains and calming the tension in my weary, sunburned legs.  Janessa and I split a couple of burgers and played osmosis with some fine Belgian ales over a long and pleasurable chat.  And once my jabber gems had devolved into a rambling slur, we called it a night and J dropped me off back at camp.

That night, despite a mid-night trip to refill my water bottle and the Amtrak passing by half a dozen times just a stone’s throw away, blowing what had to be the world’s largest, loudest horn, I slept surprisingly well.  It’s amazing the power a good ass-kicking has.

When I finally dragged out of my tent in the morning, I grabbed a pork burrito at the campground taco shop and had breakfast with an ocean view – pelicans flying in formation, kelp dancing in the shallows, surfers wiping out below. My friend Pete planned to pick me up and drive me home since I was in no shape to repeat yesterday’s journey, but he wouldn’t arrive until the evening.  So I literally had all day to do nothing and spent the time accordingly.

About a mile north of the campground lies the Self Realization Center, a meditative retreat for those who feel the need for guidance of such in a well-manicured facility – pay to pray, if you will.  Nevertheless, it’s an interesting place, and perched atop the ocean bluff lies their beautiful mediation garden which they leave free and open to the public.  Tucked discretely away in the peace of the abundant greenery are little benches where you take a load off, gazing over the ocean or peering into a koi pond, pondering deeply the crystal perfection of absolute nothingness – or mummifying your hamburgered feet in athletic tape to abate further damage so any stumbling later can be attributed solely to mass imbibing.  The garden is a pleasant little respite from the droning hum-buzz of town, and I’m glad I was told about it since I had no idea it was there.  As a bonus, I was allowed to watch a mother hummingbird feeding her tiny young while there!

Having spent a good while at the garden, I made my way to the less interesting north end of town.  I was in no condition to walk on the beach and spent what had to be the rest of the afternoon napping on a bench next to a garbage can and a squirrel at the D Street overlook while dolphins dove rhythmically in the distance.

Feeling weak from an abundance of sun and a deficiency of humulus lupulus (hops), I set south for the ale house again.  When I got there I opted to go Belgian, as opposed to my normal hoppy, and started with a Bacchus Sour (a wimpy 4.5% abv).  I proceeded through at least a Trois Pistoles (9% abv) and an Ommegang Aphrodite (8.9%) before Pete arrived.  Then we hit the High Dive down by Mission Bay where I had a couple of strong I-don’t-remember-****s  and a cheesy pile of nachos.

Thuh end.

The Short

• Blistered feet
• Sore legs
• Plenty of sunburn
• Hiked through a nude beach (not necessarily a good thing)
• Got drunk with a friend
• Slept in my tent near the beach – and the world’s loudest train
• Ate a pork burrito for breakfast with an ocean view
• Visited a free botanical garden
• Watched a mother hummingbird feed her babies
• Watched another building her nest
• Napped on an ocean view bench just to burn time
• Imbibed some tasty Belgians before Pete showed up
• Imbibed some tasty IPAs after Pete showed up
• Ate nachos while drunk with a friend
• Came home to a happy Zeus!

The Really Short

Sore feet.  Tent night.  Good friends.  Good beer.  Happy rat.  Good trip.

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New York Mountains

Leave me high and dry…

I absolutely love the desert.  Long ago, before I even realized how special a place it was, it had me unknowingly captivated.  It could have been the openness of the place, both the land and sky naked, wide, and unhindered – the space to run free, which I think is essential to a boy growing up, that sank the first hook.  The expansive landscape is perfectly suited to inexhaustible childhood energy and open to exploration, that root of creativity in us all which we too often ignore or suppress with age.  Perhaps it’s all this endless, wild license that nurtured in me my most real sense of home, for nowhere do I find more comfort than in the arid, sunny vastness of the Mojave.  And I’ve been long overdue for a visit.

With work being so slow (stalled, even), I took a week off to spend some quality time with family in Apple Valley.  We spent a couple of quiet days site-tripping through Mojave National Preserve, spending a night among the whimsical granite sculptures of Caruthers Canyon.  Being that the 1.6 million acre preserve’s roads are nearly all dirt, it made for quite a dusty affair.  However, whilst taking in the quiet grandeur of this magnificent spot of Earth, we were delighted with the most pleasant days October could offer.  We were even entertained by some of the star wildlife.  I can’t wait to go back.

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The spring of 2009 rewarded my grandma with a spectacular backyard bounty!

McClure Meadow, Evolution Valley, at dawn.

Seven days, sixty miles, and over 18000 vertical feet gained and lost.

Last year Albert had a plan to visit Evolution Valley, through which the John Muir Trail passes in the upper reaches of Kings Canyon NP, via the west side – a three or four day trip at best – and invited some of us along.  But at Carol’s suggestion, the plan was altered to the famous North Lake-to-South Lake loop, which, for us, would take seven days.  To reserve a permit for five we had to apply six months in advance, meaning our plan had to be set well ahead of time.  During those six months we would lose a few of our group – Greg disappeared without word, Carol got pregnant, and Cris’ friend backed out at the last minute.  So we were down to just three:  Albert, Cris, and myself.  You can see our itinerary here.

The loop took us from North Lake, outside of Bishop, through the verdant Evolution Valley, to South Lake, coursing through some of the High Sierra’s great granite basins with their clear, bright, opalescent alpine lakes reflecting with total, natural perfection the snow-streaked peaks that cradle them;  richly wooded canyons wrought otherwise hushed by the vigor of their rolling streams, rippling cascades, and crashing falls;  the delicate splendor of the John Muir Wilderness’ vibrant, emerald meadows where black-tailed deer graze contentedly and in utter tranquility;  and the aspiring granite towers that make the impressive abyss of LeConte Canyon, whose scale and grandeur are impossible to convey through any other means than seeing for yourself.

Riders on the storm

The weather was a constant source of ire and discontent (at least for me), starting with a cold and rainy first day.  Cruel, teasing clouds robbed us of the warm, precious sun most afternoons and gave us blasts of chilled wind in its stead.  The foulness usually subsided as dusk wore on, which at least made for pleasant evening walks.  And nights usually didn’t drop too low, only a couple times frosting camp.  As the week went by, we enjoyed more midday sun, which was much welcome for drying wet gear.  In fact, most of the time we spent on-trail we had excellent hiking conditions.  The afternoon gloom became routine, invoking less grouchiness in me.  Only the last night was truly uncomfortably cold, as Cris would well attest!

Strong like bull!

Aside from the expected exhaustion due to lack of oxygen, high altitude doesn’t seem to otherwise affect me – no headaches, nausea, etc.  I’m usually good for about 2500′ of climbing, so I was confident that with sufficient calories and proper hydration I could make it over the passes (11400′, 11955′, and 11972′) without issue.  It would be tiring for sure, but doable.  My only real concern was all the downhill and how my knees would hold up.

Uphill may be exhausting, but downhill is painful.  And the second day was all downhill – ten miles of it, in fact!  And the trail was anything but smooth and friendly.  The last couple of miles were steep and constructed of awkwardly-tall granite steps with plenty of loose rubble sections, making for a completely uncomfortable descent.  However, with much aid from my trekking poles, I made it through the day without injury, though weary and exhausted.  I’ve since lost most of the sensation in my thumbs!

And let me add that while Cris has no problems going downhill, Albert loved it!  ?!?!  Crazy!

Days three and four were all uphill, a welcome change.  And I was already growing stronger.  Although I still couldn’t keep up with Cris, by day six I was able to climb from LeConte to Bishop Pass, a gain of 3200′ over nearly seven miles, still hauling 30+ lbs on my back, and descend another 1000′ and hike another mile and a half to last camp.  That’s my best day ever!  Had we more daylight, I could have gone even longer.

The locals

My hope the entire trip was to see a bear, perhaps tromping merrily through the verdure of some wild meadow on its way to a secret fishing grounds.  That’s all.  A bear doing bear things.  I inquired of one older gentleman I met along the trail whether he’d seen any bears.  “Not in nine days!”  Drag.  The likelihood of encountering at least one in all that time in all this wilderness would seem imminent, but my hopes were now growing dour like the afternoon sun.

Deer and squirrels we had in abundance.  Deer would stroll casually into camp as if to see what you’ve got to share, then move on without a care.  Ground and golden-mantled squirrels usually paid little mind as we passed by, often engaged in digging up their stores or surveying the area from some high perch.  Squirrels are always good for wild entertainment, with their feisty, fastidious nature and aggressive lip service.  They’ll tell anyone off, size be damned.

But my favorites were the yellow-bellied marmots!  Basically just giant ground squirrels, they look like beavers, and burrow among large rock piles, generally above timberline.  They don’t chatter like other squirrels, but bark like prairie dogs – short chirps that often catch you by surprise.  Once, as Albert and I were crossing a stream on rocks there came a loud, sharp chirp, upon which Albert immediately lifted his right foot as though he’d stepped on something, and looked down to see what it was.  Indeed, the timing was such that I thought he’d stepped on something also, but soon observed a marmot on a nearby rock, calling out to others.  Like other squirrels, the marmots aren’t easily frightened, and are at times almost friendly.  Near Muir Pass I’d stopped to clean my sunglasses and tie my boot, and while leaning over became suddenly aware of a curious fellow watching me intently from a rock about 12 feet away.

Alas, on the next to last night, camped near the LeConte ranger cabin, while Cris and I were enjoying the only camp fire of our entire bear-less trip, we were finally treated to an all-too-brief visit from that laid-back, rotund rock star of the woods, the black bear!  I’d heard a snap of twigs in the brush perhaps 20 yards away, and upon gaining our attention with our headlamps fixed upon him, he stopped, only his reflective eyes and round silhouette visible.  After a momentary pause, he moved on up the trail at a casual bear’s pace and out of sight.  It wasn’t much, but I did get to see a bear!

Take the long way home

We arrived back in Bishop early Saturday morning, rank and weary, and in dire need of comfort food.  We checked into the hotel (courtesy of Albert) early, cleaned up, and hit town.  After Mexican food we spent a while at the Galen Rowell photography museum, then strolled about town window shopping.  Albert knocked out early and Cris and I went out again, this time hitting up the Asian buffet.  There went the ten pounds I’d lost!

After another visit to Erick Schat’s Bakkery Sunday morning, we hit the road.  At Cris’ suggestion we detoured through the Alabama Hills, just outside of Lone Pine, to see the famous Mobius Arch.  Granite arches are fairly rare, especially those large enough to walk through.  But what makes Mobius so special is that it frames the highest point in the lower 48, 14497′ Mt. Whitney, perfectly.  The surrounding hills and granite formations are the site of many an old western film.  In fact, movies are still made out there, including Iron Man.

Farther down the road we took another detour, this time through the rough old mining district of Randsburg.  This rusty, run-down dump of a town isn’t really a tourist destination, though they do have a couple of places to eat, a hotel, and an “opera house”.  This is also the place where I would find the only souvenir of the whole trip, an embroidered patch for a junk shop known as The White Butterfly.

Acta est fabula – plaudite?

In the end, it was a trip that went by pretty fast and without incident.  We forgot nothing, didn’t get lost, suffered no injury, and, save for the weather, we had no misadventures whatsoever.  We took in plenty of scenery, hiked high and low, and delighted in the pleasantness of the land and the entertainment of rodentia.  Thank you, Cris and Albert, for a great trip.  Vivat sciuridae!

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Click to see a large version of the map.

The Plan

Looking north toward the mountains around Big Bear.

Whiplash!

I’d really like to write up a fanciful trip report with all the same old superlatives and standard, worn-out adjectives to convey what a great time I had outdoors – again.  I’d like to expound on the strange fortuity of losing and finding my knife – again.  I’d like to express my frustration with my punctured sleeping pad – again.  I’d like to perhaps weave into my tiny tale my midnight allergies and the almost entirely sleepless night.  And I’d definitely like to express how enjoyable a time I had with friends I haven’t hiked with all summer.  I really would.  But in the wake of this weekend’s jaunt through the woods, I’m swimming in the margins of goofiness while any semblance of cogency has flown out the window, courtesy of tramadol and Flexeril.

After dunking my head in the creek on Sunday, I nearly tore my head off in improbable style.  It may sound like a stupid idea, but there’s a reason dogs shake their heads to dry off:  it works.  Unfortunately, a dog’s physiology seems requisite to employ such a tactic properly.  Mimicry, I’ll tell you now, pays off in searing pain!  It seems bathing has become a danger in my life as of late, having just wound up in the ER after Zeus’ bath induced a severe asthma attack last week.  I guess we’re both just meant to stay funky.

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