Date: | 7.17.13 |
Location: | Eaton Canyon |
Hike: | Bench on shoulder to Yale Peak (elevation |
Today’s miles: | 10 miles |
Total Trip: | 10 miles |
The days are long. I start my hike after lunch. There will be plenty of time to get back. We're meeting friends for dinner.
It is hot. A grey haze wafts over the city. I'm carrying a full 2-liter Platypus, an extra nalgene pint (in case of bladder leaks) and 5 pounds of ankle weights. Too soon to carry the 10-pound bags of cat litter.
I once met a hiker who called this route Rattlesnake trail. It slithers up a 500-foot slope over eroded sandy deposits and old red sediment to the toll road. The older sediment is on top since the land got tilted up when the Pacific plate burrowed under the North American Plate. The climb is steep. It's not just the tilt; it's the erosion. On the next ridge, there's insanely precipitous slump where mud once slid into the wash. A death-wish social trail skirts the 250-foot slump scarp. Every now and then kids fool around up there. These mountains are dangerous. Four or five die every year just a mile or two from these neighborhoods.
The red sediment is brick hard and hot. I lean in to the slope as if in a stiff wind. The trail joins the toll road a half-mile up. An oak-shaded glen sits at the junction. Most weekenders stop here. Off in a corner, behind a stand Laurel Sumac and Mountain Mahogany, there's an unauthorized pee zone. The brush back there is papered like a homecoming party. The next chance at relief is 2 miles and 1,000 feet up.
I quicken my pace on the toll road. The ascent is a persistent, shadeless trudge. To the right, the city stretches out to the horizon. The sea glints in the distance. I meditate on the comfort of eons exposed in the road cuts. My mind wanders to enduring affronts from managers, neighbors and bureaucrats. I sweat profusely. My eyes sting. I reflect for a while on deep worries about home and lingering obligations. My heart beats arrhythmically. It's the heat. I'm light-headed. I push on. Could an arrhythmia impact a thru hike? I slow to manage rhythm and breath. Heart, legs, feet. Breathe. Conserve energy. I'm cruising.
 |
| Mt. Lowe, Mt Markham and San Gabriel Peak |
After ten minutes I am rejuvenated and resume the climb to the Heliopad junction. The air has cleared. The peaks in the 2nd range come into view: Mt. Lowe, Mt. Markham and San Gabriel Peak lay to the west across upper Eaton Canyon. I can make out vestiges of the old trail to upper Eaton Falls on the next ridge. Somewhere around here local climbers bushwhack across the canyon to a diorite wall above Eaton Creek. Search and rescue lift someone out every weekend of the summer.
The road curves round to the shadows on the north slope. The chaparral gives way to a middle montane forest of live oak and poison oak. I blast past the Idlehour trail head and start up the last 4 switchbacks to the Yale Peak saddle. As I climb, the woods thicken. It's cooler. Someone has chalked an ominous happy face with a jaw-bone smile. Ahead are blooming Showy Penstemon and ferns hanging from the silt road cuts. I attract a following of black flies. I wave my stick like a wiper keeping them at bay. A breeze stirs the forest. Bright red leaves drift decoratively onto the road from shedding poison oaks. A doe and two fawns scamper into the clear. They pause and then dart down the mountain. The flies are swarming and biting. I quicken my pace and break free on the saddle where it's gusting. I hold my hat. |
| A thing of beauty |
Time to hike out or be late. It's two hours back down. The down slope is easy going, but the leg starts to numb up. I lean on my sticks. No one is ever up here. In the blogs, true thrus look after each other. They share meals and campsites. They go by trail names. The San Gabriels is not like that. But, I have no worries. My leg will get stronger.
I round the corner of the fourth switchback, pass the ominous smiley face and see this hiker step across the Idlehour bridge onto the toll road. I wave. We meet on the landing.
He points down the road. "Does that get me to Henninger? Is there water there?"
"You'll need a filter. It's not potable." He drops his pack. I hand him my Nalgene pint. He drinks thirstily. "Take it all."
He looks tired.
"Where'd you come from?"
"I hiked down from Wilson and slept at Idlehour. The flies are bad." He's right on that score. I'd cover every inch of skin if I camped there. It's a misery.
He's shorter than me. Beardless and red headed. He has creepy cruel eyes with no eyelids. He's cammo'ed up. Boots, pants, shirt, hat. He carries a big pack. He probably has a Cabela's catalog in there. What's not so funny is that he has an 18-inch machete and skinning knife hanging from his webbing. A crossbow dangles from a shoulder sling.
I point to the crossbow "Looks like that thing could be dangerous."
He smirks. "No one tell you there's bear and mountain lion around here?" He empties the pint into his canteen and hands back the empty.
"I think it's illegal to hunt here."
"Gonna arrest me?"
I'm not arresting anybody, particularly somebody with a skinning knife and 18-inch-machete. Camo man gives me this 'I see what you're thinking' look. The most dangerous thing in the mountains is some guy with a missing screw. I'm a bit spooked. He is probably messing with me. I wasn't hanging around to find out for sure.
"Gotta go. " I take off with the most insouciant stride I can muster. "See ya. Take care."
"Later dude and thanks for the water!"
Until I am past Henniger, I half expected an arrow. I am probably over reacting. Maybe I shouldn't be so dismissive about the risks up here. Perhaps I shouldn't disparage suggestions from my wife that I stop hiking alone. Perhaps that ominous smiley face is an omen.