Mugu Peak aka "Where It All Began...Sort Of"

In contrast to last year's flurry of slightly obsessive pre-Whitney hiking and camping activity, the first three months of 2011 have been woefully inadequate, leaving me to flip nostalgically through old photos and stare wistfully at the REI catalogue. In essence, life has just gotten in the way of LIFE, so in an effort to reconnect with Ma Nature (and one another), Rebecca and I met up for a moderate spring trek through the grassy La Jolla Valley of Pt. Mugu State Park, including a traverse of Mugu Peak, an oceanside bump bearing some awesome views.

The day couldn't have been better for hiking - clear blue skies, bright grassy fields, mild temps, a gentle breeze - paradise in boots. Our hike took us through a verdant (and Boy Scout-filled) La Jolla Canyon, past some temptingly climbable rock walls, above a sleepy waterfall, and up to the overgrown grasslands above, where I tried to temper my intense fear of ticks (I do not want Lyme disease. I DO NOT want Lyme disease. I DO NOT WANT LYME DISEASE.) with an appreciation for the height of spring exploding all around. Leaving the valley behind, we ducked onto the Mugu Peak Trail, bounced over a clover-choked, low-flowing creek, and up we went.





From here, we wound around a hillside perched over an unnaturally aquamarine Pacific, darted across a side trail, zig-zagged over a sizable bump, and then up to Mugu Peak itself, the small-but-steep rollercoaster ridge recalling a bit of our special (read: leg-killing, emotional-trauma-inducing) Mt. Wilson traverse last summer with Casey. On top, we chimed in on a group discussing various means of descent, then plopped our butts down on a small rockpile for some chocolate and a sweeping view of the Pacific, all the way out to the southernmost Channel Islands.





We quickly realized we were short on time (a girl's gotta have a social life, you know), and decided that the best way to descend was via the use trail that shot straight up the opposite end of the peak, down towards the top of the Chumash Trail. Once again comparing this to "Casey's Special Birthday Hike" (aka the Mount Wilson Marathon), we started down a steep, but nicely compacted dirt trail, wherein Rebecca offered up, "This is the worst of it here."

It wasn't.

We reached the little sub-summit hump and stared down a much steeper, less compacted vein of dirt and rock, and lurched downward towards the grass below, skidding and engaging every single one of our abs (or our singular ab, in my case), until we reached the bottom...only to watch a bare-chested man emerge from the steep Chumash trail next to us and thrust up the use trail towards Mugu Peak at full speed. SHOW OFF.



All in all, it was a perfect day on the trail - the weather and scenery cooperated for a morning worth the mileage, and we both bounced back to the car on that sweet Santa Monica Mountain High.

I chuckled, thinking back to my first trip to Pt. Mugu State Park several years prior - a booze-filled car camping trip with a group of (mostly) new friends. One morning, we decided to hike to a waterfall listed in the guide book I'd brought along. I pulled on a pair of jeans (mistake), laced up my Sauconys (big mistake), and led by optimism and a vague map, we trudged along in the searing mid-day sun, veering off on what turned out to be a use trail. Members of our group flaked off one by one, done in by the heat, lack of water, and rapidly deteriorating trail.

A few of us stubbornly carried on, the promise of a gushing waterfall somewhat clouding our (my) judgment. My slick-bottomed tennies slid around on the dirt trail, which had turned into less of a single-track than a half-track, perched sort of diagonally on the side of an oceanside bluff. Unable to control my anxiety, with no waterfall in sight and convinced I'd soon slip off and drown in the ocean below, I said that I needed to rest for a minute. We turned a corner and I plopped down precariously on the side of the trail, shaking from nerves, when something just to the left of my hip caught my eye. I turned just in time to watch a baby rattlesnake slither away from my left thigh. I screamed, and headed back down towards camp as far as my crappy shoes would allow.

Strangely, this didn't mark the end of my hiking days (although I was convinced for a short while that I would never again set foot on a trail), but rather the start. I ditched the Sauconys and bought a pair of Keen hiking boots from a girl I met during the camping trip, and the confidence they brought was enough to completely blow open the world of hiking possibilities available to me in SoCal.

And you know - I still have those Sauconys...but they're strictly Disneyland-issue footwear these days.

What Would Ed Do?
Ed is a Spiderman among mortals. I am convinced he could hike upside down and sideways if he wanted to, and his feet probably have built-in crampons at this point.

Conan's Corridor aka "Heart Attack Rock"

I gots the desert fevah.

A little over a month ago, I drove out to Jumbo Rocks Campground in Joshua Tree National Park for a short weekend with The Hike Guy, Kolby Kirk, and a few of his friends (including photographer Matthew Laine Nall). I considered staying in town, to do esoteric things like "cleaning the house" and "catching up on stuff," but Kolby promised not only an ascent of Ryan Mountain, but also an exploration of Conan's Corridor, an off-trail slot canyon, so the lure of adventure strong, I knew "stuff" could wait.

We rallied the troops and wound our way slowly up a gently thigh-busting trail to the tippy top of Ryan Mountain. What the path lacked in foliage, it made up for in gargantuan views of the park far below, rendering the desert into never-ending waves of speckled beige.









Arriving back at our campsite, the wind was a-rippin', so we huddled around the picnic table, refueled, and hopped across the road to set off for Conan's Corridor. Scrambling up and around giant boulder blocks, we were at the entrance of the slot canyon within a few minutes, and once we squeezed out the other end, we stood in a small ampitheater, flanked by tall rock walls.

A pair of climbers were working their way up a crack to the left, as our group began to quickly disperse up the rock. Confused, I asked Kolby what the plan was.

"Oh - we're going up and over."

Hm. I didn't know how I felt about this up and over business. I thought we were coming to smoosh ourselves through a cute little slot canyon, admire our handiwork, then force ourselves back out the same way.

Hm.

I approached a chunky area next to the climbers as half of our group went over some slabby stuff. This appeared the better route, but not three steps up, I was questioning its doability. Or, rather, my own "do" ability.

With the patience of a patron saint of the trepidatious, Kolby reaffirmed my steps, offered suggestions on hand holds, and gently coached me to victory, as I stood victoriously on top of the scramble, surveying the desert below. My inner wuss had been shushed, stomped out not just by the plain necessity of getting over this thing, but also by the sheer awesomeness of it all. My heart was ready to take flight out of my chest, but damn - that was AWESOME.



So awesome, in fact, that within a week of this trip, I signed up for a rock climbing series at Rockreation, and started exploring the scrambly, wiry little world of bouldering (sent my first problem last week!!).

To my sheer surprise (and utter joy), I love it. Super love it. Super duper duper love it. Like love it so much that I'm going to go ahead and buy the excessively expensive shoes because it is that fantastically awesome.

Once again, score one for the desert for showing me not only what is, but also what's possible!




What Would Ed Do?
Ed would encourage my pursuit of the safe mechanisms by which to propel oneself up a mass of rock. Ed would then free solo El Capitan in 24 hours, barefoot.


[Shawnté]

Mt. Zion Loop aka "Escape From Kelp Mountain"

In preparation for our Mt. Whitney adventure last fall, Team Awesome spent the summer bagging peaks and logging miles, conditioning our quads and internal fortitude for the task ahead. One such training excursion was a 14-mile loop starting at Chantry Flats and highpointing at Mt. Wilson. Casey vaguely described that we'd go off trail for a bit, following a firebreak, and then rejoin the Manzanita trail, which would lead us to our rather civilized goal.

Having knocked off some 14- and 16-milers in the past, coupled with the relatively low-elevation profile of the trek (Chantry Flat rests at 2200'; Mt. Wilson at 5710', with lots o' miles between the two), we knew we'd come out with sore quads...but even then, we had NO IDEA WHAT LAY AHEAD.

If you're not one of the masochistic few who've put in the grunt work on this special route, let me describe the first half of the trek:

Walk on a fire road. Cut up a faint use trail. Cut up a faint use trail rife with poison ivy. Cut up a faint use trail rife with poison ivy at what feels like a 45-degree angle. Nah, make that 30-degree angle. Curse. Curse at poison ivy. Curse at incline. Curse silently at Casey.

Emerge far, far up original fire road. Apply anti-bacterial hand sanitizer to all exposed skin to ward off potential poison ivy outbreak. High-five Casey for cutting a bazillion boring fire road miles from our journey. Round a curve. Helipad! Epic view! High-five Casey again for great idea. Adventure!

Ascend firebreak. Grunt a little. Reach a lovely ridge. Notice rather large bump ahead. Propel self quickly up rather large bump. Grunt some more. Lose exactly the same amount of elevation on the way down other side of bump. Grimace.

Shower, rinse, repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Make mean faces at Casey when he's not looking. Commiserate with Rebecca. Break quads. Break calves. Break hammies. Break ass. Sweat. Slide down hill. Gently turn ankle. Whimper.

The second half of the journey was lovely, full of trail dogs and resting in the sun and various degrees of eating. But man, that first half. Casey sure knows how to pick 'em.

Despite our masochistic undertaking, I fell in love with the greater Santa Anita Canyon/Mt. Wilson area. The Pack Station and its inhabitants (both human and animal) are adorable, the trails are well-signed, wet, and green, and it's so damn close to home. A few months ago, I completed the Winter Creek loop with my friend Cristin, and this weekend, we took a turn on the longer Mt. Zion loop, which went a little something like this:

Sail down, down, down the pavement, carefree and full of vim, vigor. Pass slow pokes. Crack jokes. Sneak past Sturtevant Falls crowds on the Gabrielino trail. Cross stream. Boy, the water levels are high. Cross stream. Cross stream. Wet toes.

Snack amongst the spruces. Decidedly cold when not moving. Re-wool self. Left turn from Sturtevant Camp. Is this trail? Trail covered in water. Trail is one with creek. Consider options. Begin creation of log bridge for crossing purposes. Am chastised for poor bridge-building skills. Use stick to pole vault across instead.

Mt. Zion Trail. Mt. Zion! Join Boy Scouts on top, enjoy view with about 5% visibility, thanks to decidedly non-generous ma nature. Rejoin trail. Ooooh - trail builders done good! Enjoy dirt underfoot, greenery all around. Realize that through the misty veil, mountains appear to be moving, as if they're comprised of kelp. Trip for a moment.

Refocus. Oh, trail builders stopped here. Oh, trail decidedly thinner. Oh, trail decidedly slope-y. Oh, trail decidedly thin and slope-y. Walk at 45-degree angle for a minute or two. Resume breathing. Pick way down improperly-angled rocky section of trail. Resume breathing.

Hoegee's Camp! Consider bathroom break. Oh - hot guy with dog! WAIT...HOT GUY WITH DOG HEARD EMBARRASSING CONVERSATION ABOUT INCONTINENCE. Blush. Laugh nervously. Cross stream. Cross stream. Cross stream. Balance on stick. Wet toes. Wet feet. Cross stream. Cross stream. Nearly fall in. Cross stream.

Up pavement. Ugh. Up pavement. UGH. Up pavement. UGGGGGH. Up pavement. @#$%^^^&*).

Moral of the story - it's really pretty and super wet there right now. GO!

Ed Viesturs Fan Club aka "I'm A Winner!!!"

With my hammies still aching from this weekend's 9.5-mile up-down-up-down loop in Santa Anita Canyon, I logged on to the ole Facespace this morning to the most awesome email from the administrator of the Ed Viesturs Fan Club, explaining that I won a set of autographed books (No Shortcuts To The Top & K2: Life And Death On The World's Most Dangerous Mountain) by none other than Ed himself!

YEAH!!!!!

If you're any sort of mountain nerd, I highly encourage you to check out Ed's books for yourself. The guy's a great adventure writer, with a knack for balancing out equal measures of inspiration, adrenaline, and smarts.

And on a related note - send your good wishes down to Ed in Antarctica, as he and his team hopefully summit its highpoint, Mt. Vinson, today!

-Shawnté

Favorite Photos of 2010 aka "I Shot That!"

2010 was a banner year for waving my hiking nerd freak flag. Here are some of the visual highlights:

MOJAVE NATIONAL PRESERVE // WRITEUP




MT. BALDY // WRITEUP



MT. WHITNEY // WRITEUP





JOSHUA TREE NATIONAL PARK // WRITEUP



MALIBU CREEK STATE PARK




MORE PHOTOS, VIA FLICKER: flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert

-Shawnté

Inspiration Point aka "Happy New Year"

After a week of nonstop rain in Los Angeles, and another of wet winter weather in Milwaukee, I woke to a sunny, exceptionally clear New Year's Day and my first instinct (other than hunting down some sorely needed post-NYE caffeine) was to lace up and get high to enjoy the sprawl from above.

And so I found myself on a quick jaunt to Inspiration Point in Will Rogers State Historic Park late that afternoon, spurred on by resolution and Resolutions, clear weather and sunny skies. We trotted up the trail and glimpsed Catalina plopped down in a glittery Pacific, saw miles and miles of buildings and highways, and marveled at the San Gabriels, glowing pink in the fading sun. This never gets old. Ever.

It seems apt to kick off 2011 at a place called Inspiration Point. The last 365 days were marvelous, filled with adventures of all stripes, and I'm ready to keep moving. It's time to revisit rock climbing and snowshoeing. To learn how to procure and attach tire chains. To strap on some crampons. To aim for high peaks. To search out deep canyons. To slide on my butt down a very big hill. To fall asleep to crickets and owls. To burn out a headlamp or two. To walk in rhythms fast and slow. To spend that REI return as soon as it comes in. To help others find their place in the outdoors. To face my fears. To plant a LOT of trees. To sit for sunsets...and maybe some sunrises. To move further away from distractions and closer to inner peace.

Here's to the next 365 (well...364).

-Shawnté

Joshua Tree National Park aka "Epic Beauty, Foolish Girl"

If you're one of the three or four people who read this blog, you may recall that my brand new love affair with the desert sprouted last January during a magical camping trip to the Mojave.

Unfortunately, I've been a bad lover.

Blame it on summer heat and this year's vaguely obsessive (yet successful!) quest to summit Mt. Whitney, but I haven't been back out to the land of cacti and tumbleweed since the Mojave trip. So when summoned out to the patchouli-and-marijuana-scented environs of Pioneertown, just north of Joshua Tree, for a friend's dude ranch birthday bash, I decided to take a dip back in the sand.

After some yummy ma 'n pa cookin' at Crossroads Cafe and Tavern, I stopped at the ranger station, bought a somewhat mediocre map, loaded up my buddy Casey's informative write-up of the general area I wanted to hike, and set forth on my adventure.

I chose the relatively newly created North View / Maze / Windows loop for both the solitude (it's not in guidebooks) and the scenery (epic ridges, canyons, and rocks for days), and not a minute away from my car, I stared slack-jawed at giant stone temples and gnarly old Joshua Trees, babbling to myself about how fucking awesome nature is (true) and how fucking great it is to be alive (true).



Entranced by the desert and her siren ways, double-fisting my iPhone and Canon to catch every little windswept boulder and cottonball cloud, I didn't know that I was off trail until I nearly stepped off a ledge into a small slot canyon below. I studied it. I studied my map. I studied it. Hmm. Hmpf. This was not the trail.

I backtracked and then I saw it, a thin dirt path leading up through some rather chunky rock formations. Apparently, I was so mesmerized that I wandered right past it, over a rather obvious "waterbar," and nearly right into some trouble. Clearly, the desert requested a bit more focus, so I slugged some water, adjusted my sunglasses, and focused my way up, up, up until I reached the really incredible valley pictured at the top of this entry, and then I cackled out loud at the sheer magnificence of it all, and the sheer insignificance of myself in its midst.







I danced around here, completely alone, in giddy, wondrous euphoria for a long time. A long, long time. So long, in fact, that when I checked the time on my phone, I realized that I'd gone maybe just under two miles in an hour's time, due to my off-trail exploits and rock worshipping, and was due at the ranch in an hour for dinner.

Not wanting to backtrack, I stowed the camera gear and picked up the pace, running downhill into a wash, then back uphill along some switchbacks, passing one trail junction for a viewpoint, then another. Suddenly, I found myself at the top of a ridge, gazing down at the wide desert valley, once again cackling with glee, until I realized that the trail just ended. Stopped. Went. Nowhere.

Crap. Crapcrapcrap. I peered back into the valley and saw my car, checked my compass, and picked my way along the ridgeline, figuring the trail must ride along the top for a bit until dipping back down below.

It didn't.

Instead, in my haste to bust booty back to the barbecue, I mistakenly took the second viewpoint turnoff, leaving the main trail. From my erroneous perch, I saw the trail ribbon through a valley behind me, and was able to reason my way back to it, suddenly not enjoying my desert adventure as much anymore.

This is the part of hiking that I usually name the "Get Me Off This Mountain" phase of the adventure, except now it was "Get Me Off Of This Godforsaken Sunburned Swath Of Sandy Misery." I was walking so quickly that it almost qualified as running. I cursed my sense of adventure. I cursed the Stabby Little Asshole Plants along the trail. I found myself fixating on thoughts of rattlesnakes. And tarantulas*. And mountain lions**.

Then I wandered into the wrong wash twice, backtracked twice, followed some footprints to a dead end, backtracked, and almost cried. Then my phone rang, and it was my friend David, asking me to stop and pick up some assorted meat products for the barbecue, and then I laughed at what a freakin' idiot I was being in the most beautiful place I've ever been.



* Two weekends ago, I finally saw a tarantula. My friend screamed as though she was being skinned alive and pointed at this hulking furry beast crawling up a rock on the side of the single track leading up to Bear Flat. I'M SO GLAD I DIDN'T SEE ONE OF THESE ON THE TRAIL IN JOSHUA TREE. I would have cried then, for sure. Serious tears. WHY ARE THEY SO LARGE??? Come on, evolution - throw a girl a bone here.

** The following day, I took off on a 6-mile hike from the Black Rock Campground, in the Northwestern corner of the park (not realizing until afterwards that this was exactly where that dude got lost for a week), shitty National Geographic map in hand, and had to step over a fresh, steaming pile of mountain lion crap about four miles in. I threw my hands above my head, acted big, and sang Aretha Franklin very loudly and very off-tune for about a half mile, until my heart attack subsided and I was able to enter the "Get Me Off Of This Godforsaken Sunburned Swath Of Sandy Misery" portion of my three-hour tour.


What Would Ed Do?
Ed would probably study trail write-ups a bit more closely, and would certainly not use the shitty, poorly detailed National Geographic map of the area. He would probably also tell someone where he was going, lest he become part of said fresh, steaming pile of mountain lion crap***. He would also have no use for the trail, and thus would not become lost, because he would just shimmy up and over the rocks like a very tanned Spiderman.

*** I'm kind of glad I didn't see 127 Hours until after this series of hikes

[Shawnté]