We’d been lazing in the sunshine with our feet in one of the sandstone pools a half mile up Cold Spring Canyon when the urge to move came upon us.
Surprised by our sudden burst of afternoon energy, my friend and I laced up our boots and hopped back on the trail. At first it was nothing more than the usual temptation to see what lay a little farther up canyon.
But one bend led to another, and before long we were far enough beyond our intended destination that we couldn’t make it back down before dark. I knew Montecito Peak was somewhere above us and, along it, the upper Cold Spring Trail. Should we try to reach it even if that might mean an hour of brush-busting? Or should we stay within the security of the canyon?
Presently the creek we’d been following forked in two directions, each suggesting something special just around the bend. The impulse to explore kicked in and common sense went out the window.
But which fork to follow? We measured the pros and cons of both options, and to the right we went, hoping to follow the creek to a point where we could head uphill and regain the trail. Though our enthusiasm pushed us on, we both realized we had gone too far to turn back now.
Just as I was beginning to regret the decision, we came to a beautiful waterfall, a thin ribbon of water streaming down through a bed of moss and greenery. My friend and I looked at each other and nodded in agreement. We couldn’t stop to admire if we wanted to make it up to the trail in time.
Above the falls was a second set of cascades, and then a third. Another rest stop here would have been welcome if not for the poison oak. The huge three-lobed leaves glistened, their oily sheen filled with itchy promises. It lined the canyon sides, and as anyone who has ventured off trail can testify, you rarely make it through the dreaded vines untouched.
We crashed through the poison thicket and scrambled up a dry stream bed, ducking under dead branches and around bushes that had been washed down. The going got slower until we hit a wall of what is known as hard chaparral, 12-foot-tall, stiff-twigged shrubs that dominate the steepest frontcountry hillsides. The area hadn’t burned in the past two decades, meaning most of the limbs were dead and had lost their flexibility, forcing us to break off branches to inch our way through.
Woven through this almost impenetrable tangle were the game trails of those animals small enough to navigate the vegetation with ease. Though I didn’t see them, I knew they were nearby. The small channel we had been scrambling up narrowed and steepened, now a rocky “V” no more than an arm’s width wide and waist deep. Our feet slipped constantly, unable to get much purchase in the loose soil.
By then the canyon had changed character entirely. What only a little while earlier had felt like exploration now felt like overcommitment.
I was beginning to wonder if we’d bitten off too much this time. We could no longer stand fully upright, and eventually we were reduced to a crawl as the dense brush — ceanothus, chaparral pea and other thorny plants — hemmed us in. As we moved farther away from the main canyon and deeper into the chaparral, doubt began to creep in.
Then came another realization: no one knew we were up here. Neither of us had told anyone where we would be going, and if we did not show up at home that night, I wondered, who would know where to look for us? The chaparral now seemed more prison than paradise.
I began to ask myself the “what if” questions. What if we came upon a rattlesnake right now? I recalled a friend once telling me, “In the thicker chaparral the rattlesnakes don’t always crawl on the ground. They crawl on the branches.” A new worry I could have done without.
We neared the ridgeline, where the going is usually easier. But when we finally crawled—scratched, bruised, with clothes torn—onto the high point, a bitter disappointment awaited us.
This was not a ridge that would take us up to the trail, but an isolated cliff. Though Montecito Peak lay in full view, we would need to descend the cliff, down-climb a steep, overgrown side canyon, and make our way up the opposite slope.
All of it now in fading light.
And for the first time that afternoon, the question was no longer whether we ought to turn back, but whether we could still get out at all.
To be continued Tuesday…
