Cream Puff Peak (SVS), with Hines Peak and Topatopa Bluff, 06/02/13

I've felt myself getting a little soft lately. Haven't felt like I've put down anything all that hard in a while. So why not make it 3 summit day? And while I'm at it, why don't I make it a time trial? I've kind of gotten away from timing myself but this route is always a great test of one's general level of toughness and stamina. The Suffer Machine and then some.

I'll get to the stats at the end. 

This is a route I know so well that it's easy for me to quickly settle in and bang out the miles, adjusting  my rhythm with each familiar grade. Not having to do much other than march up this thing. I left the trailhead at Sisar at 06:00, moved quickly up canyon and through the woods under White Ledge Camp where I stopped for a couple minutes. I sat in the morning half light under that little camp's green canopy of alder and sycamore. A couple minutes after my heart rate had normalized it was time to pace out the next two mile climb to the ridge. I knew I was firing on all cylinders when I glanced at my watch and did a bit of comparison arithmetic. The numbers were right where I wanted them to be. I blew by the tank trap at the end of Nordoff Ridge Road and followed the line eastward until I stood under Hines Peak.

Hines Peak (L) and Cream Puff Peak (R)

There are two different ways to approach linking these peaks, one of which was new territory for me. The way it was recommended to me was to top out on Topa Bluffs and descend over to Cream Puff, do that peak and finish with Hines before heading out. I prefer to knock off the biggest, baddest bruiser of the day at the outset so I used what I know works for me. Hines would come first and Topa would be the last. I shattered my record for Sisar to Hines by 20-something minutes. Next, a date with a pastry parlor.

Cream Puff Peak SVS is that steep sloped thumb off the starboard wing as you cruise east toward Hines. I've walked by it at least a dozen times and only a couple times did I consider heading up it, and then I found out that it was a claimed and named summit. Furthermore, that name was Cream Puff! Now I had to do it! Those of you who've climbed in more than a couple places understand our fixation with crafty and ridiculous names ("Hobbit in a Blender" or "Poodles are People Too" come to mind). There's often a story behind the good ones. In the summit register on Cream Puff is a plastic package lid from a big tub of yes, cream (not creme) puffs! While on the summit I meditated deeply on this mystery, cream puff wrapper clenched tightly in hand, eyes raised in prayer to the Great God Cream Puff of Arcadia California, prayed for an insight into nascent origins of this most lavishly christened crag. I had a vision.

Here's what I got: Two guys sitting on the summit. They have this tub of Costco cream puffs for some reason. They're also pretty stoned. I know this because nobody but stoners buy Costco cream puffs. One of them has a mouth full of cream puff. The half empty tub lies between them. The other guy exhales a cloud of blue smoke, coughs a bit, swats away a fly and asks the first guy "Hey man, what do you think we should name this peak? Like, nobody's been here, right? So it's, like...ours to name! Right?" The other guy's just crammed another cream puff in his face so he's trying hard not to suffocate on the powdered sugar coating while giving his friend a thumbs up. "Riiight! (nodding violently) That's what I'm sayin! Ours to name bro! So...umm, what do you want to name it?" Cream Puff face can't answer because he's just mastered the proper rate of nasal breathing required to stay alive while attempting to swallow another cannonball of dough. "So what do we name it? Hey, you okay?" Cotton mouth and cream puffs are a bitch. It doesn't go well, and the Heimlich maneuver is used to separate the man from the cream puff before order is restored to the name selection process. After all that they'd be obligated to call it Cream Puff. I wouldn't have named it Cream Puff. 

Zoltan's Throne maybe.

Hines Peak

Cream Puff Peak from Hines Peak

So getting back to Hines. A Class II slip and slide with some rocky nonsense at the top. Been here many a time. I didn't stay for more than a few minutes before turning back on my route and descending back to the Red Reef. Next up, Cream Puff.

Cream Puff Peak from under Hines

Bigelow's onkeyflower

Grinnell's pestemon

The climb up Cream Puff is even steeper and looser than the path up Hines. I would venture to say that trying to get up here without trekking poles would be frustrating. This is a 50 degree shale slide and there isn't really a route up it, more like a shadow of possible assistance left by those few who had come before. Basically you climb straight up the f**kin thing. Despite it's being only a 400 foot climb from the trail, this little peak makes you earn it, and by the time you top out you won't be thinking about is as a "afterthought" or "gimmick". This peak offers really neat perspective, a nice addition to my catalog of mental summit shots. I particularly liked the views of Hines and the north edge of the Topatopa Ridge. This peak is well worth adding to any linkup along this ridge. I liked it. 

This gives you an idea what passes for "trail" on this slope.

Cream Puff Peak (SVS) 6,486'

A view due north with the Red Reef in the foreground and Thorn Point in the distance.

After a few minutes with the register I skated down to the Red Reef and resumed westward travel. Back under the north side of Topa Bluffs I climbed the gawdawful steep track up to the summit of Topa. I didn't hang out.

Looking back from Topa at Cream Puff. Just the tippy top of Hines is visible behind cream Puff from this perspective. The massive Topatopa Ridge is jutting out in the distance. I didn't like that place.

Topatopa Bluff

I popped a caffeine tab and jogged off of Topa, kept jogging when I hit the road, and jogged all the way down to White Ledge where I dunked my head for a few minutes and let myself cool down a bit. So I was sitting on a log next to the main fire ring in the camp and I could swear I kept hearing little bird chirps! Not up in the trees with the other birds but right next to me! I was baffled, made a joke to myself about the seldom seen western pygmy voice-thrower finch. Couldn't figure it out until I finally stood up and looked straight down into the fire pit. There I saw a pair of scarcely fledged sparrows. They were in bad shape, had been hit by some kind of parasitic insect that incubates larvae in other organisms. The tops of these little bird's heads were just drilled with huge holes. These little guys were hosed and after trying and failing to get decent film or video I backed off and left them to their fate. There were what I assume was a father/son duo camped there. I spent a few minutes speaking with him before I was able to get moving again.

Barely a trickle from the spring at White Ledge Camp. Water is available in the adjacent creek but probably not for long.

I stropped a couple times for pictures but otherwise I jogged the whole way out to the truck.

Here's how the day went:

06:00 Left from Sisar TH

10:09 Summit Hines Peak (4:09)

11:19 Summit Cream Puff Peak (5:19)

12:37 Topatopa Bluff (6:37)

15:04 Sisar TH (9:05)

22-23 miles

>7,000 feet gained

Yellow Mariposa lily

Tick.

Topatopa Peak Fire Lookout from Hines Peak [SVS], 10/30/12

I have a new standard by which all of the Los Padres' evils may be measured. The seven miles from Hines Peak to Topatopa Peak are, and I've thought about the right words here, a cast iron bitch. I think I need an intervention. I keep doing things that people don't do, and getting away with it. Twenty miles round-trip, 14 of it cross-country. Fourteen hours. Solo. Deep into the blackest heart of the coastal backcountry.

Before we get any further with this I need to admit to you readers that I don't want you to do this hike. I don't ever really exaggerate or embellish when I describe the difficulties of any given hike, and I will not do so now. This ridge is bad news. It is really and truly Egypt. A bad day here could have very serious consequences. I just don't think that anybody else should do this route in a day. It's too long and way too far out there. It's a scary place, one not meant for human beings. Should somebody one day try to repeat this route, I would advise you bring an over-dose of masochism and more water than you've ever carried. And bring some Kleenex because you will want to cry. It's that hard.

Here's the route starting from the eastern end of Nordoff Ridge Rd.

I spent my on-call weekend (when I wasn't at the hospital) poring over Google Earth and NatGeo Maps, parsing a long and benignly pixelated ridge. I can already tell that the satellite imagery is several years out of date, probably five or so years. The imagery shows very recent burn area from the 2006 Day Fire. So I can anticipate far more brush than the intel would suggest. There are no springs, no water of any kind on Topatopa Ridge. I can rest assured that there will be many, many brutal climbs and reciprocal losses of elevation. There will be brush and blood. There will be sweat and dirt and miles of fire-charred manzanita. Every step will be a small victory. I actually get the jitters 2 nights before I take off for this one. I don't get the jitters anymore. My subconscious is telling me to take this one seriously. I listen: map, compass, GPS, SPOT, extra batteries, calories, a great big knife, .40 cal, 6 liters of water and perverse sense of "fun".

Ojai and Lake casitas from atop the Nordoff Fire Tower.

I started this trek by swinging by the USFS office in Ojai to pick up a permit and the gate combo to Nordoff Ridge Rd. Papers in order it was time to drop into 4-wheel and head up the mountain. The little campsite on the ridge with the bench and fire pit was occupied by a pair of trucks so I continued up a bit further to the take-off of the Last Chance trail up to Topatopa Bluffs. I parked it here for the night, made a little fire and enjoyed the evening before crawling into the bed of the truck for some shuteye. I woke refreshed at 03:30, pounded some coffee, strapped in and got going on a day that I already knew was going to be a true test of my capabilities. I was right about that last part.

Moonrise over Topatopa Bluff.

I routinely start high mileage days well before the sun is up. It is an interesting time of day, and the right time to put down miles. On my way over to Hines Peak I encountered three small owls (Bard owls?), one of which sat on a branch just out of reach (I got a pic but it wasn't good enough for a positive ID). I also walked up to a couple of deer at the saddle between Hines and the Bluffs. The deer really don't know what to do about an approaching headlamp. It's kind of funny. I continued east and before long I had passed the turnoff for Last Chance and Ladybug. I climbed the steep slope up Hines in the dark. No big.

Hines Peak summit, in the dark.

Atop Hines I decided on a little break, not so much because I needed one but because I needed the sunrise to help me continue east. Fifty feet off the east side of Hines all real trail disappears and I just didn't feel like wandering around in the brush in the dark. I relaxed a bit in the cool predawn, had some breakfast, signed the book and kept watching for some sign of the coming sun. A half hour of sitting on Hines brought me enough light that I got going again. I left a liter of water on Hines and within minutes I was busting brush.

Hines Peak and the moon, from the east.

With the rising sun I was able to truly comprehend what I was getting myself into. My eyes automatically tracked far to the east. That first glimpse of Topatopa inspired a moment of self-doubt. The numerous smaller peaks along the ridge reinforced those small but vocal doubts. I recall standing about 200 feet below Hines, staring east, playing out the mental math. It was not a good feeling. I reset the "doubt button" and refocused on the simple fact that getting there requires a step, followed by another one, and so on. I continued down the eastern slope of Hines, picking through the brush, not finding any animal trails that headed my way, making my own route.

A heartbreaking view east, from 500 feet below the east side of Hines Peak.

Hines Peak from the east.

After descending Hines I got in touch with my inner bear, by which I mean that I started having some success locating the more or less contiguous animal track that follows the ridge. This "trail" left a lot to be desired. None of the charred manzanita at chest and head height had been cleared. It seems that bears and deer only do what works for them. Like I say, this track never ever became a real trail.

On the way out I stuck almost exclusively to the ridge. It's difficult to get lost on a ridge, but when battling overhead manzanita it's a good idea to stay on route. After I'd lost 500 feet coming off Hines I was subjected to a series of smaller peaks, each brushy and rocky, each peak steep and rough. I just hammered through them in what became a predictable routine, climb through brush to the top of some small peak, descend through brush to the next little saddle, repeat process. It was frustrating and difficult work, time consuming, and rough. This treatment went on for hours without much variation. It was exhausting.

Looking back west at Hines Peak.

A view into the Sespe backcountry.

The morning ground on. I eventually got through the portion of the ridge that is dotted with minor upthrust peaks and things started getting a bit easier. Much of the ridge had burned in the day fire and the truly southern face of this rocky ridge hadn't really grown back the way other parts of the ridge had. This was great! The manzanita and sage were only about waist high through the drier portions of the route. Still, this was cross-country work, and tiring. I startled a few deer in the brush and watched them move down the slope toward the West Fork of the Sespe and Bear Haven.

Bear Haven and the West Fork Sespe. Impregnable.

After five hours of persistent effort I was closing in on Topa. I crunched across an open slope of yucca and grasses before tackling the last miserable brush pile leading to the large, rounded summit. I was pretty blasted by the time I made it to the fire tower, covered in dirt, soot, sweat and sticks. I had been unable to completely silence the voices of self-doubt. It had taken me seven hours of constant effort to reach the tower/summit. That was not good. I assessed my water situation and wasn't immediately concerned, but that nagging part of my mind had decided that I should be concerned. It was 11:30 when I reached the summit leaving another 7 hours of max effort to return during the heat of the day. I decided it was time to pay heed to the voices of self-preservation. I put myself on a water ration before I even dropped pack.

Still endless miles to the summit of Topa.

A first glimpse of the Topatopa Fire Lookout.

As you can see, there ain't much left of the old tower on Topa. Amid the debris under the tower I was able to find the old radio and some ancient fuses, but anything flammable has long since been burned. The ground under the tower is a mosaic of broken, melted glass and old nails, hinges, bolts and wires. I bent an old folding chair back into shape and sat my ass down for a bit. There is a summit register here, placed after the '06 fire. Only 5 people had summited since then, all of them using the old route up from the Sespe to get to there. Mine was the sixth signature, the first since 10/2008. I guess nobody gets to Topa the way I did.

I gave myself a half hour in the partial shade of the steel framed tower. I was really paying attention now, to how I felt and how much water I needed. I had no illusions about making my water last all the way back to Hines. I just had to make it last until I was within range of that liter I'd left up there. With all the calculating done it was time to act. I got off my ass and started trucking out of there. The funny thing about hiking ridges is that they are almost always equally hard whichever way you are traveling and this ridge is no different. Unlike while traveling on a trail or road, I could not afford to let my mind drift. Unstable footing, brush, randomly terminating animal trails, all of these had the potential to waste my time and energy, neither of which I could afford to lose. I paid attention to everything. I walked point.

One of the many small but exhausting peaks cresting this ridge.

As the hours passed I fell deeper and deeper into a miasma of pain and heat. I took control of my body, wresting the reins away from my more rational and pragmatic self. I drove my body to the edge. Pain, sweat, heat, and tachycardia were overridden by perseverance. I dug deep into myself, pulling stamina out of my body, offering up everything I had to that water bottle on Hines. As planned, I ran out of water under Hines. I shrugged, nothing else to do but keep going, right? So that's what I did. It was enough. I got my water, guzzled half, dumped an Emergen-C in the bottle and finished it even as I skied down Hines. I hit the trail around the time the water started kicking in. Back on a trail, happy. I floored it the remaining 2.5 miles to my truck.

Long lost plane, crashed on Topatopa Ridge. I didn't spot the crashed helicopter that lies somewhere on the ridge.

I need to say (again) that this is just a stupidly hard day. To put it in context, there have only been 2 times that I've started an IV on myself after a brutal day, and this was one of them. I gave myself 2 liters of IV fluid (LR) as soon as I got home. 

Some of you will undoubtedly question the wisdom of tackling such a big day solo, and I appreciate that, but let me start by saying that I didn't want a partner for this. I'm very good on my own, I move fast, and I just didn't want to be responsible for anybody else. I don't see how I could have succeeded with a partner on this one. It was a cast iron bitch.

I started in the dark, and nearly ended it that way.

Video: The Ojai triple Crown

To view a taste of the Triple Crown: vimeo.com

The Ojai Triple Crown, a 28 mile masochistic odyssey

Welcome to the 2nd (apparently) Annual Ojai Triple Crown. Take Hines Peak, Topa Topa Peak, and Chief Peak, and do 'em all in a day. Here's the stats, and I'll fill in more below:
Miles:  28.9
Elevation gain for the day:  >7,000 feet
Time from start to finish:  12:40

I start walking at 04:30, an hour made even more distasteful by the time change. It is cool and very dark. Patches of luminous moonlight filter through the trees overhead, but the trail remains a black tunnel extending before me. My headlamp is not necessary, but I employ it anyway. The last several times out I've seen cat tracks and this is on my mind in this darkest hour before dawn. Cat eyes reflect light, thus the headlamp. I feel I am moving at a glacial pace, easing through a black world of small rustles and faint breezes. My surgically enhanced night-vision is voided by the headlamp. Every few minutes I pull a "Crazy Ivan", check my six, sweep my backtrail and the surrounding forest with the light, sometimes stopping just to listen. This is not paranoia, this is prudence.

Last year, on the inaugural slog, I didn't quite know how I would feel or how long the day would take, and as a result, I was more concerned with time. I prosecuted it like a war. On that occasion, I felt like I did myself a disservice, like I rushed the day and consequently paid for it in post hike shin-splints and fatigue. Today I choose not to worry about it. I note only the main points, the start and end times and the summits. I strictly ignore my watch for the rest of the day. Time doesn't matter. I concentrate on efficiency, taking constant systems readings, fine tuning my gait, focused entirely on how I feel. I realize that, if I do this "wrong" I could be paying for days afterward. However it turns out, I have to be able to work tomorrow. There is a real world and today I walk it's trails, for tomorrow I pay it's bills in an alternate, less enjoyable reality.

Above and below, Chief Peak at sunrise.

I shiver for a moment in the dark hollow of White Ledge. So far I am feeling this. This crazy thing I've set out to do. I strap into my pack and tackle the stretch before me. Some time later I take off the headlamp and restore my knife to it's usual location on a back pocket ( I had had it clipped to a glove). I'm warmed up now and my pace feels normal for me and, though I don't care, I am sure that I'm already an hour behind last year's time. I pause for a moment under Topa to stash Gatoraid and a PB &J sandwich. No sense carrying these items up Hines if I'm just coming back this way in a few hours. I leave a similar cache at the saddle that separates the two peaks. I am in the weak morning sunlight now. Hines peak is obstructed from view by a lesser hill but that is where I aim myself and that is what I'll climb.

The moon sets on the flank of Topa Topa.

As the miles unfold before me, and Hines Peak gets larger in the windshield, my mind travels down various paths of it's own. I am in synch with myself and my environment. Things are clicking now. Samadhi. My life's true soundtrack sings to me, the crunch of soft footsteps and the whisper of a breeze in my ear. The trail is a lonely space, a laser line through my immediate universe. Where it leads, I go. Soon I stand before the steep slope of Hines. I imagine myself on that unremarkable summit of sticks and stones. I will myself there and I am.

An ancient bit of detritus, found on Hines.

I sign the log atop Hines for the nth time and remind myself that this place needs a new summit journal. The sun is higher now, but brings little warmth. The Stillman apparatus is running at all systems nominal. I note the time in my journal and exit the peak. On the trail again, my mind wanders it's myriad planes while the legs pump and the eyes rove. I retrieve my cache No.1 and move south toward the summit of Topa. Three crows pinwheel across the summit as I roll up to the stone bench. They call to one another as they swoop and dive. I am not alone here. I ingest the contents of my cache, converting carbohydrates and protein into glucose. Installing fresh reactor rods. I take in the view, which, given today's aims, is somewhat dispiriting. The conical summit of Chief Peak is so very far away. The chance to turn back, to call it a day and be self-satisfied, to retreat, lies just below. So easy to return the way I came and stop this madness before someone gets hurt. Clearly I have sat upon this bald summit long enough. My mind is trying to kill me.

A look back towards Topa taken from afar.

Regulation Time Out. Topa Topa.

Rehydrating the organism. Chief Peak.

As I descend Topa the breeze stiffens and my crows are kiting away. It is just me and the winding vagaries of the Nordoff Ridge. I retrieve my second cache of food and fluids. The miles unwind below me. I am well into this now, having long since passed any egress that would allow an easy out. I pass the radio towers, and a little later I turn a blind eye to the junction pointing down Sisar Rd and Horn Canyon. I will be there soon enough, yet there remains business to conduct. The way lies west now, across the great, looping turns of the road. Chief is before me now, seperated from me by a deep cleft. The road continues it's inane series of twists and turns, doubling the distance between me and my omega point, the zenith, the last of the up. I soon stand below the ragged scar which ascends Chief's southern ridge. Soon after I stand above it looking down, down to the Ojai Valley which is obscured in a gauzy haze of moisture. I enjoy my break on the summit. I realize that I feel remarkably good. I have benefited from a disciplined approach to water and calories, reaping the rewards of experience. Many more miles to go, though, before my distant terminus.

My friends, the crows, have returned to honor me with their croaking seranade. My mind again wanders where it will while I trudge down the long slope. The crows have now startled a large red tailed hawk and are harrying her across the sky. I am descending quickly now. I pop my ears. The trail wends its rocky route and I follow. Down low, less that a mile from the truck, I encounter the first humans of the day.  I catch their scent, smell their shampoo and deodorant long before I see them. They are loud and shuffling creatures, enjoying their brief foray into the woods. They are entirely oblivious to my presence until I am already upon them. I see them through cat's eyes. They behave like prey. They are those who do not see and cannot hear.

Here's what helped cut the mustard:

Water {3.75 Litres}

Gatoraid {1 Litre}

5 Hour Energy {2}

PB & J Sandwiches {2}

Tiger Milk Bars {2}

Cliff Bar {1}

GU or Accel Gels {6}

Advil {1600mg)

and as always, everything I would need to survive for 24 hours if I had to.

By the way, that whole "not looking at the clock" thing paid off. I knocked 20 minutes off the last time I did this, probably because I wasn't even trying to. And by the way, I feel capital.