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Published: September 28th 2012
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Charging eighty miles an hour through Los Angeles is on the norm a more than difficult task. At four AM the city transforms from bloated arteries doused by heat to empty byways and skyscraping illumination. Our group of eight met at the Ventura harbor just as the Sun was tattooing the western sky with blasts of orange and red. Stomachs full of Starbucks coffee and breakfast sandwiches we set off on an Island Packers boat towards the eastern horizon. The catamaran paused a slightly too long at a buoy barnacled by sea lions and then picked up the pace towards Santa Cruz Island.
The cragged cliff face speckled with caves transformed from the haze of early morning mist. More something of a lost-to-time monster island rather than a National Park, Santa Cruz rose from the channel floor before us. The boat put in at Scorpion Harbor and orderly disgorged its contents (day-trippers, campers, packs and propane bottles) unto the steel and cement of the protruding doc. After thirty minutes of waiting we set off, less than ten percent of the original riders, charting a course north and then east along the perimeter of the island.
Prisoners’ Harbor the same
as its sister anchorage appeared suddenly out of the dreary mist, a length of wooden dock abutting a rock beach shaded by massive eucalyptus trees. The half dozen day adventurers disappeared with a guide as the rest of us mounted up fifty pound packs, arranging water, cameras and a plethora of straps as a park ranger explained a few dos and don’ts about our upcoming trek and destination. With that, we set off into the unknown, passing a smattering of dated farm equipment and buildings.
Almost immediately the trail rose to an incline of twenty to thirty percent, someone muttered a curse about the men at Normandy storming the shore with less than we had. After three miles of what seemed to be straight up and down, the group of eight had dispersed into components of twos and threes. Each step became something planned and carried out with only the most severe courage and endurance. My lips trembled, praying for a breeze, rain, a helicopter, anything to remove the path set before us.
A finality of four miles saw us to Del Norte Campground, little more than a few picnic tables shaded by twice as many scrub oaks.
The hillside around the grounds were dry weeds chocked with scrub brush, but the view was the thing that proved the painful trek its worth. The channel water stood as a shinning bulwark between the island and the mainland. The hills and cliffs of Santa Cruz fell haphazardly into the dark blue of the Pacific. We sat, speechless, soaked in sweat and caught our collective breath as we watched the distant waters smash headlong and apathetic against the walls of rock.
The first night was comprised of consuming freeze dried meals a couple bottles of tequilla garnished with lime as we watched the sunset. The Wardlow father/son combo perched among the scrub oaks above our obnoxious conversation as if they had a healthy portion of simian genetic markers in their blood. Five pound island foxes bounded through the camp, searching for handouts, several of which made their way to the canines’ mouths by means which were less than honest and more than devious after a most stern warning by the park ranger not to the feed the wildlife. By nine PM we were asleep beneath the milky way.
The morning found us sore limbs and hungry bellies as
we consumed the second of our dehydrated meals and set off towards Chinese Harbor. The Marine Sergeant of our crew (or so he thought himself) stayed to watch the camp, read and play with the foxes as not to upset an already ornery and swollen ankle/calf.
Five miles along the Eastern edge of Santa Cruz provided gorgeous views and was for the most part easy going compared to prior days, counting the fact that we had only adorned ourselves with light daypacks. We dropped one thousand feet in less than a mile and found ourselves on a stretch of boulder-ed beaches completely devoid of any human presence. The water was warm as we swam in the waves, careful to avoid the rocky bottom. A trio of sea lions kept a distant curious eye on the strange flapping and pail skinned creatures creeping into their habitat.
Exploring the beach, we found the remains of a tractor or automobile engine half submerged beneath a bed of rocks. After lunch we ventured back into the water, a spot with five foot visibility as we struggled to avoid hundreds of sea urchins. The hike home proved something more of a challenge than
the trip there, but we made it back before nightfall (avoiding a few trip wires set up by the Marine Sergeant). Two of our crew who had lingered at the shore, showed up with the massive vertebrae from a whale and a few pieces from the remains of sunken ship.
More laughter, beverages, and old stories scattered across the campsite as the night fell. We were the only campers at Del Norte, one of our crew looked upwards, searching for a constellation he swore was called “the Spatchula.” I laid across the length of a table peering at the myriad of a thousand glinting suns as we enjoyed the camp to ourselves, more than just the camp the nearest ten mile radius had been abandoned to our party. It was a view worth a million on the mainland.
The third day found us sore and tired from lack of sleep, the night had been interrupted by the uncomfortable ground and the nocturnal playfulness of the foxes. We packed and headed in the opposite direction of the way we had initially ventured. A detailed map brought by my father outlined a second route along the old Navy Road that
seemed an easier trek than our other option.
“Easy” was thrown to the wind was we hiked for a mile upwards and onwards. I was suddenly struck knowing by the stories I had heard as a kid about my ancestors walking up hill both ways in their long forgotten youth. Why was every trail up hill, it seemed a gravitational illusion. Finally we set upon the spine of the island, the trail ran lengthwise along a mass of hills that looked down upon both sides of Santa Cruz. Again we were overcome by a feeling of isolation for no fragment of humanity presented itself to us beyond the dirt path cut from the surrounding weeds.
The trail wound down to the beach and eventually we found ourselves at the wooden dock that had christened the onset of our painful hike. With no one around we all changed into trunks and decided to make the dock our diving board. Each of us fell into the water loose limbed, welcoming the sweat cleansing coolness of the slow rolling waves.
A few hours more brought the return of Island Packers and our transition back to humanity and civilization. I sat
against the bulkhead at the bow talking, joking to the rest of our crew as the boat cut the waves pushing towards a coast that never seemed to materialize. A cold beer never tasted so good.
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Boston
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That was great
Seriously, I enjoyed the writing Loren. I like how you make everything sound so desolate. Maybe it was the mood you were feeling but even if it wasn't it was rad. Well done.