The Carved Block

Sunday, April 7, 2024

North Coast

For the first time in a while, I am free of itchy poison oak rashes. With trail maintenance work and recent bushwhacking in the Ventana Wilderness, interacting with this ubiquitous shrub is all but inevitable. I am getting much better at identifying it, but at the same time, I try not to let it control my outdoor experience and put me in a constant state of fear and alertness. It’s pretty surprising, though, that I made it back unscathed from the Lost Coast, where poison oak was everywhere and forced us to brush past its oily leaves in several instances. I am pretty relieved, as the rash not only itches for weeks, but tends to interfere with my immune system in a way that paves the way for secondary reactions and infections.

Nasty little bugger. Wish I were immune.

Our trip north comprised two days of truck camping on the Mendocino Coast, followed by three days of backpacking on the Lost Coast. Raf has a week-long spring break, and I am determined to thoroughly enjoy this spring’s sunshine and lushness, so when we saw two permits open up for an April 2 start date, I snagged them and we started planning. I didn’t take many photos on the backpacking phase of the trip because the weather was generally verging on rain, my phone stayed tucked away in my pack, and I spent most of the time enjoying the moment.

Day 1: San Gregorio to Navarro Beach

We drive north out of San Francisco on the 101 to Cloverdale, where we veer northwest on the 128 through the Anderson Valley towns of Yorkville, Boonville, Philo, and Navarro, and then reach the coast and Highway 1 at the mouth of the Navarro river. We pull into the lot at Navarro Beach, explore the beach, sit down against some driftwood, and watch a pod of seals lounging on the shore of the Navarro. After a good sit, we grab our dinner from the truck (spiced lentil hand pies for me, sourdough rosemary croissants for Raf), set up our chairs on the beach, and watch the waves while we enjoy our dinner. The wind is strong and steady, so we relocate behind a large boulder and spend the rest of the evening reading. After sunset, we return to the truck, get comfy in the back, enjoy the last of the twilight glow, and then settle in for a restful, but windy night.

Navarro Beach

Which way is the wind blowing?

Day 2: Navarro Beach to Black Sands Beach

The next morning, the wind is still strong as I brew our espresso on the tailgate with mittened hands. The sun slowly climbs above the steep cliff horizon to the east, first illuminating the shoreline and then the rolling driftwood dunes of the beach toward the parking lot. By this time, we are packing up and making our way just a couple miles north along the 1 to Navarro Point, a grassy headland crisscrossed by a network of trails. We spend some time walking along the cliffs and sitting on a nice bench overlooking the rocky coastline. Continuing north, we stop at a convenience store in the little town of Albion, and then head toward the cool, but touristy town of Mendocino, a preserved settlement on a headland surrounded by ocean on three sides. Mendocino is a place where I wouldn’t be surprised to see a $10 croissant, with art galleries, expensive breakfast spots, interesting wooden towers, and lots of small, but elegant historic preserved homes. We eat lunch in Ft. Bragg (Taco Bell for Raf, lentil pies and avocados for me), stop at a beach near Westport, turn inland at Rockport, turn north onto the 101 at Legget, and then finally head west toward Shelter Cove. At Black Sands Beach trailhead, I make some instant potatoes on the tailgate, we play the Catan dice game and then explore Black Sands Beach a bit before watching the sunset and going to sleep in the back of the truck.

Tailgate barista

Morning at Navarro Beach

Morning at Navarro Beach

Navarro Point

Navarro Point

Navarro Point

Seals at Navarro Point

Navarro Point

Navarro Point

Mendocino

Mendocino

Mendocino

Mendocino

Mendocino

Mendocino

Mendocino

Mendocino

Mendocino

Mendocino

Cool sheds in Mendocino

Cool house in Mendocino

Beach near Westport

Beach near Westport

First glimpse of Black Sands Beach

Black Sands Beach

Black Sands Beach

Black Sands Beach

Day 3: Black Sands Beach to Big Flat

Our first day of backpacking starts with sun that quickly turns to fog. We walk north along the beach over challenging terrain: sloped sand that gives way with each step, sloped pebble beaches, and sloped boulder beaches. To our left is the thundering surf, to the right are sheer cliffs rising up to the King Range. We cross several creeks, some that require Crocs / Sandals, and others that have enough rocks or driftwood to make a dry crossing. We stop at many tide pools with abundant sea stars, anemones, and urchins. By mid-afternoon, we set up camp at Big Flat, which is exactly as described: a wide flat area at the mouth of Big Creek. Near our campsite are two wooden buildings – a large cabin next to a smaller cottage – complete with an airstrip. According to the internet, the house is owned by a wealthy San Francisco lawyer who flies in and out with his friends. Unclear how this is legal in a wilderness area. We cook up a dinner of small shells with garlic and onion flakes, butter, and parmesan cheese, and then have a fire-building contest. I win by just a few seconds, despite Raf’s 15-minute head start. We watch the flames for a little while before putting them out and going to sleep.

Sea stars and urchins

Sea stars, urchins, and anemones

Moody vibes on the Lost Coast

Day 4: Big Flat

Our trip is an out-and-back because we are too cheap for the $100 shuttle ride that brings most backpackers to the other end so they can hike the 27 miles of the Lost Coast trail back to their car. Accordingly, we decide to camp another night at Big Flat and continue north during the day with lighter day packs. The day starts out clear and sunny but quickly turns cloudy and windy. I am a big fan of foggy, rainy, and cool weather, but strong and steady winds tend to make me grumpy, and today is no exception. The day’s highlight is sea otters eating octopuses on the beach. They seem to want to stay wet, choosing spots like creeks, tidepools, and the shoreline. It’s pretty entertaining to watch them enjoy their meals. We continue north until we reach a small yellow cabin that appears to be accessed using a primitive road along the beach from the north. The Lost Coast has a long history of disputes between the Bureau of Land Management trying to preserve the area as wilderness and the ranchers who have been in the area since the 1800s, and there seem to be a handful of cabins and roads grandfathered into the wilderness designation. We turn around and head back to our campsite, where we read for a bit and then cook up a dinner of refried black beans (for me) and rice noodle soup (for Raf). Raf has cell service and learns that a large rainstorm is forecast to move into the area starting early the next morning, so we make plans to hike out right away in the morning.

One of many otters

Day 5: Big Flat to San Gregorio

As planned, we wake up early, break camp strategically in the light rain (packing our packs in the tent before emerging and packing the tent), cross Big Creek and start our journey south. After just a few minutes, we encounter an “impassable zone” ahead: certain stretches of the trail are impassable at tides higher than three feet. For the first two days of the trip, the passable window had been 9am to 6pm, and we had assumed this would continue. After consulting our tide charts, we learn that the stretch ahead of us will only be passable starting at 11am; it is currently 8:30am! So we wait for 2.5 hours on the edge of the beach waiting for the tide to recede. Thankfully the rain has paused and there is no wind, but our feet are soaked and getting cold, so we pace, walk in circles, and do other little movements to stay warm. This is obviously an uncomfortable situation, especially as we had been optimistically planning on arriving at the truck around noon, but we stay positive and enjoy each other’s company. Raf’s composure is impressive: being forced to wait, wet and cold, for 2.5 hours, might bring others to tears, but she is calm, relaxed, and pragmatic.

A group of older ladies join us, and I give a couple zip-ties to one lady whose boots are coming apart. At one point, a younger guy and his dad come walking along the beach and enter the impassable zone, before one of the older ladies runs after them and shouts “Don’t go any farther! The tide is still in!” She is well-intentioned, but a bit dramatic, “The tide will take ya and she won’t give ya back!” I imagine her shouts in a pirate voice.

At long last, the tide recedes just enough to let us through, and we resume our passage to the south. We walk the 8 miles back to the truck relatively quickly, along the way enjoying a nice chat with a friendly ranger and witnessing some of the biggest waves I’ve ever seen at Black Sands Beach. We also pass a lone seal sleeping on the beach. Back at the truck, we relish in the relief of removing our wet socks and setting our packs down, before hitting the road and blasting the heat. We drive a few hours south to the Ukiah Chipotle, where I eat two burrito bowls.

Overall, my favorite part of the trip was actually the time spent exploring Navarro Beach, Navarro Point, and the town of Mendocino with Raf. The backpacking phase was fun, but the cold and windy weather coupled with the challenging walking conditions (sloped sand, pebble, and boulder beaches) kept me from getting fully in the flow of backpacking freedom. I definitely love foggy, rainy, and cool weather, but for overnight backpacking trips, I prefer reliably clear and warm weather conditions. We are thinking of visiting the northern stretches of the Lost Coast trail (starting at the Mattole River trailhead), but will aim for May or June when weather conditions are likely to be more reliably clear and warm.

Tuesday, March 19, 2024

Ventana Double Cone

The Ventana Wilderness is no joke. I first got a glimpse of its rugged terrain when I ran up Mount Manuel one afternoon during a trip with Raf along the coast of Big Sur. We were camping at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, where I stumbled on the Mount Manuel trailhead – at the summit, I was awestruck by the steep slopes and drainages of the Santa Lucia range extending eastward to the horizon. I made a note to explore the Ventana Wilderness at some point, but mostly forgot about it until this past fall when I read Steinbeck’s short story “The Red Pony”, which ignited a renewed interest in the mysterious mountains that form the western edge of the Salinas Valley. I pored over trail maps and trip reports, trying to find a way to access and experience the interior of this vast and remote coastal wilderness, finally settling on the goal of climbing Ventana Double Cone, one of the most prominent peaks in the area at 4,856 feet. I planned the trip in December, with the intention of executing sometime in the spring – February or March – when the day is long, but the afternoon heat is still bearable. Last Friday, I glanced at the weather forecast and discovered a window of four days Saturday to Tuesday with pure sunshine, mild temperatures, low wind speeds, and no rain. I texted my friend Randy, who I met at Chrysalis Co-op in Boulder years ago and who recently moved to the Bay Area – he decided to join.

Saturday morning, we drive Highway 1 through Monterey and the Carmel Highlands along the coast before turning inland onto Palo Colorado Road and weaving through redwoods up to the chaparral. There, we park the car at “the Hoist” and begin walking in the blazing sun up a private 4WD road that climbs steeply along an exposed ridgeline, relieved when we reach the shade of the madrone and oak woodlands of the Turner Creek drainage where the trail begins. Within a mile or so, we reach a major deadfall where a downed tree completely blocks the trail, with thick shrubs on either side. We backtrack and try several ways around: wading up the creek, crossing the creek and walking along the other side etc. We eventually give up on detours and return to the blockage, when another hiker comes up behind us and easily works her way through the down branches and shows us it can be done. We follow and then introduce ourselves to Erin, a badass local and EMT / firefighter hiking to Pat Spring.

We leapfrog with Erin through the forests of Turner Creek drainage, before ascending Skinner Ridge to Devil’s Peak, where we take in stellar views of the ocean to the west and the deep basin to the south that rises up to the jagged wall formed by Ventana Double Cone and Kandlbinder Peaks. We descend the steep eastern flank of Devil’s Peak and skirt the edge of the basin, eventually arriving at Pat Spring, our basecamp for the next two nights. At Pat Spring, we meet a trail runner descending from Ventana Double Cone – he had run up that morning from the Hoist and is on his way back down (for a total of 35 miles in a single day!). I sincerely enjoy meeting people who, when prodded, will communicate their badassery in an unassuming and understated fashion.

Pat Spring features epic ridgetop campsites with views of the ocean to the west and Ventana Double Cone to the south, as well as a perennial spring that is built out with metal pipes that lead into a small rock-walled pool (in retrospect, a photo might have been nice). We fill up water, set up camp on one of the ridgetops, and soak in the incredible views from our perch. I eat some refried black beans seasoned with berbere and loaded with tallow as the sun dips behind a ridge. To watch the sun descend behind the ocean horizon, we climb to the slightly higher ridge to the west, where Erin is camping, and bid farewell to an excellent day.

We awake to a chilly and windy morning, leave our camping gear behind, and begin the day’s journey toward Ventana Double Cone. Almost immediately, we lose the trail through the thick chaparral and almost constant deadfalls, relying on the AllTrails app to get us back onto the route – at a certain point, every gap in the shrubs starts looking like a trail. In the cool sunshine of the morning, we undulate along steep ridgelines through oak woodlands and surreal green grasses, fill up water at some of the shady creeks draining off the west side of Uncle Sam Mountain, and then descend onto a saddle where Puerto Suello trail meets the Ventana Trail. Ascending once again south of Puerto Suello, we battle thick chaparral with our forearms and elbows defending our faces and duck under deadfalls for miles, before finally breaking out onto the ridge that leads to Ventana Double Cone. At the summit, we rest amid the remains of the forest fire lookout shelter that was constructed by the CCC in the 1930s and burned in the 1960s. I look west toward the ocean and Mount Manuel where I stood three years before, south and east toward the endless drainages of the Santa Lucia range, and north across the deep basin towards Pat Spring. I reflect on journeys past, present, and future, reminded by the dry afternoon sun, manzanita ridges, and oak woodlands of San Diego’s backcountry mountains. After many different views of these beautiful coastal mountains, Ventana Double Cone summit is really just the culmination of a grand tour, but a necessary culmination nonetheless.

After many salty avocados, we begin our slow and steady return, descending through thick shrubs, ducking under deadfalls, undulating along steep ridgelines. I tend to prefer making loops in the backcountry, but there is something special about an out-and-back: the perspectives on the return trip are never the same as the first round, and in some cases the trail appears completely new.

Back at Pat Spring, we wash up at the spring and return to our campsite, where Erin has spent the day resting: she had begun the journey back, but got turned around and decided to wait another day and hike out with us. She shares lots of great insights into the history and lore of the Ventana Wilderness, including a legendary hermit who subsisted in the drainages surrounding Pico Blanco, the Esselen people who foraged for acorns from the oaks living on the high slopes, and the sluggish recovery from the Soberanes Fire of 2016 and subsequent floods. After another, larger round of refried black beans, I retreat to my tent, Randy retreats to his, and Erin, who is camping cowboy style, gets settled in the still evening air. In silence, we watch the sun dip behind the westward ridge, and then drift to sleep amid the endless orange glow of sunset.

After a beautiful, windless, and leisurely morning, we pack up and begin the day’s journey back to the trailhead. On the Turner Creek trail, we discover an established detour around the first deadfall that caused us so much delay on day one – I take a couple minutes and try to stack some logs directing hikers away from the deadfall and towards the detour. Erin, who parked her truck at a neighbor’s house near the trailhead, gives us a ride down the four wheel drive road back to the Hoist, where we bid farewell and begin our journey back to the Bay.

Overall, the Ventana feels like an abandoned wilderness, with rotting trail signs, dilapidated picnic tables, overgrown trails, forgotten fire lookouts, and other vestiges of a heyday long past. The 2016 Soberanes fire cleared out much of the established woodlands and chaparral, paving the way for the dominance of opportunistic manzanita and other low-lying shrubs, and this past February’s wind storm (the one that knocked out our power for four days) blew down many oaks, pines, and firs, blocking the trail in innumerable places. It is a very challenging place to navigate, both physically and mentally: reliable trails offer a sense of peace and calm, whereas trails that are constantly disappearing and reappearing require constant vigilance. However, it is refreshing to visit a wilderness that is not as curated and manicured as some other popular mountain destinations, like the High Sierra. Aside from Erin and the trail-runner, we saw no other trail users. I would probably not return to the Ventana Trail in its current state, but I remain captivated by this mysterious and mystical place.