April 21st--Hanline Ranch to Rose Valley

I awoke in the morning to what sounded like a dog barking. This was a troubling thought, because i didn't see any ranches or houses on the way up the hill and was hoping there were none down the other side. It was faint, though, and not convincingly dog-like (though certainly not the who-who of a barn owl i had heard nearby throughout the night).

Then again, i was beginning to doubt my hearing in general since the second day of my trip, up in the Pinnacles when i realized i could no longer hear the way i used to when i lived in the forest. There was always some noise in my head that made it impossible to really listen to what was going on out there. It was that weird, unidentifiable background noise that one never notices living in the city because the city IS that weird, unidentifiable background noise. I just couldn't get it out of my head, nor could i bring it into the foreground enough to be able to filter it out. It was just there, making it impossible for me to tell if that was really a dog's barking i was hearing.

It had been five days since i'd left Monterey, during which i talked to:

1) the clerk at a store in Gonzales
2) the dude who came out to meet me on Slack Canyon [private] Rd.
3) the woman at the Parkfield Inn
4) two locals in California Valley

Only 2 and 3 would i consider actual conversations, and yet the social noise of the city still flooded the background of my hearing. Perhaps talking on the cell phone had something to do with it? Maybe it just takes longer than a week for that noise to fade away?

Anyway, i ignored the sound, whatever it was, and went about my business, drinking my matÈ brewed the previous night and packing up my bedding. I didn't get the sense that anyone was going to be happening by anytime soon, especially so early on a Saturday morning, so i relaxed and enjoyed my tea and watched the changing colors of the sky.

I set off soon enough and rolled through a steady descent into Cuyama Valley, bottoming out at 2450'. In the meantime, i had passed from San Luis Obispo County into Kern County, back into SLO County, then into Santa Barbara County and finally into Ventura County. Considering the immense size of counties in California, this is no small task, but a fluke of wiggling road routes and odd political boundaries, i'm sure.

I stopped just short of Ventucopia at Santa Barbara Pistachio, where there was a convenience store, gas station and cafe (although the cafe was closed). A yellow labrador puppy greeted me as i locked up my bike and followed me into the store. I spent a good deal of time here, procuring water and some brunch (a mediocre chicken burrito), as well as a map of Los Padres National Forest, where i hoped to camp that evening. There was also a roadside guide to Hwy 33, with some intresting tidbits of local history, but i decided not to fork over the $11 for that.

I sat down at the benches outside, plugged in my various electronic devices into outdoor outlets to charge and had my brunch. After eating, i set about changing my gears in preparation for the climb up to 5100' at the summit of Hwy 33. I made several trips back into the store to look for super glue (none here), and then to break a 20-spot in case i had to pay for the campground. Consulting the Los Padres NF map, i determined to stay at Rose Valley Campground, a small campground with no plumbed water on the other side of the summit at 3400'. I had hoped there would be something closer to the summit, but the only campsites were up a steep road a further 1400' from the summit. There was a larger site further down the mountain with water, but it looked like the big touristy stop in the National Forest, so i decided to forgo that one.

I left the store with what i presumed was just enough water to get me to the summit, figuring that i could pump some water through my filter at a stream on the downhill side. At the community of Ventucopia, the two recreational stops seemed to have gone out of business, or perhaps they were just closed until later in the season. It was mid-day on a weekend, though, so i had expected that they'd be open. One of them appeared to have been repurposed for wine tasting. The vineyard looked pretty young. I have to wonder what will happen when the economy of California viticulture collapses. It seems to have become the fall-back for crops that have become unprofitable in the face of agricultural imports from Mexico and elsewhere.

It turned out that my decision to change gears was a bit premature, as there were still many miles of gentle inclines and rolling hills as the road followed the course of the Cuyama River. The perfect place to have stopped to change gears would have been the Half-Way Station, which i think i had read (in that book i didn't buy) was located at the half-way point in the journey between Taft and Ojai. The cafe/bar was closed, as were the restrooms (alas), but there was a semi-public Rest Area with picnic tables and water. I decided to stop here to take off some clothes, as it was getting rather warm. I tested the water faucet to see if i could recommend it to others as a watering hole before heading up the hill, but was still confident that my supply was sufficient to get me to the summit.

After the Half-Way Station, the characteristic rock formations of Los Padres began to come more fully into view. The road crossed over the Cuyama River, where another road forked off to the left into Lockwood Valley. The Ozema fire station was just across the river and thereafter the ascent began in earnest at about 3700'. With my low gearing, a low food supply, as it was near the end of my trip, and relatively little water, the climb was not as challenging as i had expected. Had i been in a race, i would probably have pushed myself to do get up to the summit in one shot. I saw no particular need, though, and stopped at all of the scenic pullouts to take a picture. I stopped for a good half-hour at the highest one (4600') overlooking Lockwood Valley, taking a panoramic picture and making a few phone calls. I stopped one or two more times on the way to the summit. Just before the summit, i was surprised and elated to find a bit of snow on the ground. I don't think i had ever ridden my bike up to such an elevation before. I think the highest i had been was up at Paradise Meadows on Vancouver Island. They use the metric system up there, of course, making it difficult for me to retain in my memory the actual elevation up there.

I took one of those cliche pictures of my loaded bike beneath the "Mt. PiÒos Summit: 5160 feet" sign. There was water seeping through the raod cuts here, reminding me to keep an eye out for a stream at which to gather water. I was almost completely out at this point, and had consumed less than i probably should have on the way up. I put my feet up on my rack and coasted down the hill. Not long after, a stream appeared on the left side of the road, so i pulled over, scrambled down to the creek and pumped some water. It may not have needed to be filtered, but i didn't want to take any chances.

It was a lovely downhill for some time, but then the wind started picking up and the road leveled out. I was still running a low gear, so it was difficult to spin down some of the hills. But then my legs would be cold from the chilly headwind, so riding up even the short hills was challenging. Still, the sights along the Sespe Creek were gorgeous, so there were plenty of opportunities to take a break from the wind to snap a few pictures.

Further down the road, the headwinds were compounded by moist, cloudy air. Coming over the ridge from Sespe Creek to Matilija Creek, the road went fully into the onslaught of the cloud cover, with visibility at only a few dozen feet. The road then descended below the cloud level and i made a sharp left, passing a roadie in the on-coming lane, onto the road to Rose Valley. The surface was a little uneven, and the road traveled through some pasture, then up and over another ridge into Rose Valley. I passed a sign indicating that i was entering a fee-use area, but was unclear on how i was supposed to pay that fee. There was another sign indicating that all parked vehicles must display an Adventure Pass something-or-other. I guess i was supposed to have gotten one of those at one of the stores on the way up the hill. I didn't see any information, though, about whether cyclists were supposed to pay. The information on the National Forest map was singularly unhelpful. I continued on down the road a bit to the campground and found many of the sites occupied. The two on either side of the entrance were vacant, as was the furthest one in the very back of the campground, the one littered with cheap beer cans and bottles and covered with graffiti. The latter did not bother me so much as the lack of shelter from the wind, so when i noticed that another site next to the trailhead to Rose Valley Falls had only been occupied by people parking to hike on the trail, i relocated over there.

After making it obvious that my site was occupied by laying out my sleeping gear, i locked up my bike and the rest of my gear to the barbeque and headed out to check out the falls. My claustrophilic habit drives me to these sort of crotch-of-the-earth riparian areas, and the pleasure and comfort i gain from them was no less marked in this case. Walking through one part of the dark forest, i was struck by the incredibly sweet and familiar smell in the air. It was the Bay Laurels, which were either sweeter here than in the Santa Cruz mountains, or i was just more receptive to the smell. In any case, the scent was exquisite, and i picked a few Bay leaves to take back home for cooking.

Further on was a tunnel of folliage, the sort of fortpflanzerei that makes me feel at home. Below the trail was the babbling brook that flowed from the waterfall, and then the waterfall itself, in all its moss-covered magnificence. A couple grungy, hipster-looking types were also exploring around the waterfall. I took some pictures and then headed back to camp along the course of the stream.

Back at camp, i overheard the kids that had set up at the trashy campsite, one of them talking about his employment history: the Ojai Coffee Roasting Co., the Ojai Playhouse, the Ojai Video Store. I forget if i heard Ojai Natural Foods in there somewhere. In any case, "These are my kind of people," i thought to myself. After almost a week of practically no social interaction, i was craving some of it. I'm a pretty solitary guy, for the most part, so this is rather out of character for me. I suppose it's a bit like how i never had much appreciation for sunshine until i moved to Seattle for a year. Or perhaps i'd just grown out of being a goth. Anyway, i considered going over and just introducing myself out of the blue--TOTALLY out of character for me.

Luckily for me, i didn't have to spend too long agonizing over this dreadful plan, as one of them, Noah, came over to my campsite and said he recognized me. He mentioned meeting me in Santa Cruz and Sacramento in what seemed like totally plausable scenarios, but, for the life of me, i couldn't remember him, much as i wanted to. My memory has gotten so horrible. Despite my less-than-enthusiastic recognition, he invited me over to their campsite and asked if i wanted a beer. It could not have been more relieved.

It was a good group of people. Noah, who i just mentioned, had moved to Ojai and was considering moving to the Pacific Northwest. His friend Trevor was there, visiting from Sacramento, and was laying plans to go on tour. I assumed he was in a band, as just about everyone i know in Sacramento is in a band, and he looked like he might be, but he actually meant a bike tour, like the one i was on. Grace was also there, and i couldn't quite keep track of what her deal was, except that she was picking oranges early the following morning. Much of the rest of the group was to join her. I think she also made repared foods for one of the local natural foods markets. I've unfortunately forgotten the names of the other two, because i'm an asshole. One of them is a cook at Whole Foods whose mom apparently makes excellent salsa. Come to think of it, i never did try that salsa. What a shame. He was kind enough to give me a little folding camping utensil set, with fork, spoon, knife and corkscrew. This after hearing the stories of how i had eaten in the previous week, sans utensils. For his kindness, i repay him by forgetting his name. Sorry i'm such a dick, dude. The other dude whose name i didn't retain was i think the guy i had heard talking about his jobs, but i'm not sure. I never heard anything about how he made a living once i joined the group. I got to hear plenty about his new religion: the native american religion and his romantic trevails. He was trying to get people in the group to sing, largely without success, except for the song i contributed: "Keep on a Trampin'" by Joe Hill. That was a crowd-pleaser.

We had a campfire and made some attempts to cook potatoes and sweet potatoes in the fire. For the most part, this didn't work so well because of the paucity of aluminum foil. Noah became clearly frustrated with the process and with the repeated breaches of the foil's integrity, allowing the juices of the vegetables, and the Earth Balance and honey and herbs they'd been wrapped with, to escape into the environment.

In any case, it was great to have some friends to hang out with after such a long time being alone, and it was great to feel somewhat at home in this little clique, to get the particularly hipster humor and natural-foods inside jokes, to take pleasure in so-mushy-they're-nearly-rotten cherimoyas, etc.

I turned in somewhat early, happy as a clam (what an odd expression...).