In something of a segue for me, a few weeks ago I found myself along a contested stretch of San Luis Obispo County road in Huasna Valley. That’s right, the Santa Lucia RD, wherein I spend very little time. There are two abandoned USFS campgrounds along this route, one of which is still accessible before a gate installed by private landholding corporation prevents further vehicular access (you can read about all that drama here). Naturally I had to take advantage of the opportunity and do a little snooping.

The camp in question is Agua Escondido; Spanish for “hidden water.” It was closed decades ago when it was thought to actually be situated on private land (a la Cachuma camp last year), and the USFS was more than happy to shutter the site (as it was a hassle to patrol and a haven for unruly beer drinkers and hell-raisers … usually of the armed variety). More recent surveys of the area seem to confirm it actually was/is on Forest lands, but the damage had been done.

One of the real gems here was an old USFS post near a survey monument; the 4″ x 4″ post had at one time been engraved with “US” and the Forest Service shield in a vertical manner and the letters and logo painted white. After years of exposure, the paint on the east, south, and west faces are completely faded, but on the north the paint has remained resolute like the moss clinging to the north face of the nearby oaks.

As with numerous other abandoned and fairly diminutive car camps, this site is still in surprisingly good nick (if one doesn’t mind shotgun-blasted oak trees, litter, and guerrilla fire rings). The road and spring box are both in fine shape, and clearance along the old dirt track is still high enough that one needn’t catch their roof rack in the heavy-limbed oaks which shade the periphery. Like Blue Point or Ozena, this would make a great bikepacking site.

I’ve made no secret of my love for what is now the Chumash Wilderness, and many a post on this site has sung the praises of that stretch of the Los Padres. It was the stretch where I cut my own teeth, where the uber-hund and I perfected her trail manners, and my go-to on the rare occasion a free weekend allows me to go roam the earth for ~48 hours.

Each Spring, a small crew of us heads up the North Fork Lockwood trail to spend a weekend near Lily Meadows. Li’l G has been making the trek since the wee age of six. This year, Little Man got to join the fun — carrying all his own gear for the first time — and so only a day and a half following our sojourn in Kings Canyon, I awoke the morning of our scheduled departure to find him watching Scooby-Doo with his pack already packed and cinched around his little shoulders. That moment could have very well qualified as the best part of the trip, and I hadn’t even had my coffee yet!

Day the First

We three headed off for the Mt Pinos RD, the uber-hund and Mad-Eye bouncing around in the back of the new ride knowing exactly what was coming. And so with nary a wisp of cloud in the sky, we were soon moseying along the service road above Three Falls scout camp. It was warmer than anticipated, but still a breezy and comfortable 70. Prime conditions.

The old service road to the falls had recently been graded, so again we enjoyed that typical easy Pinos-area navigation, now only moreso. After trekking Upper Reyes and then Raspberry Spring as a two-and-a-half-year-old, I think Little Man was expecting a bit more of a challenge. His sister dutifully informed him there would be challenge enough for his little legs.

As fellow wanderers of this wood are well aware, it was a miserably dry winter, and this summer looks to be a pretty miserable one in terms of available water across the southern Los Padres. Even the North Fork trail hasn’t been exempt from the micro-drought — the falls near the wilderness boundary were barely a trickle, and the mutts were denied the opportunity for their usual swim here. There was barely enough to drink, let alone frolic.

After an extended break at the trickle formerly known as the falls, we doubled back to the trail split and headed up that steep stretch that in the snow and winter conditions can be downright treacherous. Aside from the requisite photo ops, the young posse motored right up, with nary a complaint (Sports Beans are a great motivator, I will concede).

Once into the high ravine and heading toward Lily Meadows, the mutts knew the drill and alternated between finding small stretches of surface water, and exploring the steep, sugar pine cone-clad slopes of the western side of the drainage.

At camp, the monkeys busied themselves with laying the fire, and I scouted for water. As the other crews began to trickle in, we found a dark pool some ways from camp and filtered enough of the earthy, mica-flecked soup to get us through the weekend. As the temps dipped into the high 20s, we kept the fire going ’til nearly midnight, until finally we set to slumber. I sleep better here under a certain trio of Jeffrey pines than pretty much anywhere else in the world (the Auckland Sheraton after five pints of Moa imperial doesn’t count).

Rogue’s Gallery; image courtesy and (c) RG2.

Day the Second

The next day broke not quite so friendly-like. Strong winds, downright cold, and it smelled like rain was coming. The NOAA forecast had predicted perhaps 20% chance, but after the previous day’s sun-drenched hike in I had rather forgotten all that. Some of the rag-tag crew headed out before sun-up, others shortly thereafter. I had originally considered a long good-bye; maybe leading the kids up a nearby drainage I know that tops out among some granite hoodoos and genuinely breathtaking views of the San Emigdio Mesa and Cuyama watershed. But that wind was only getting stronger, and the sun struggled to make its presence known. We slung our packs over our shoulders and the dogs were off like a shot, ready for more trail time whatever the direction.

Laters

A lesiurely snack above the falls — the winds buffeting our foodstuffs to and fro — was about all the leisure we took during our departure.

So now Little Man has joined the ranks. Yes, of course, we’ll be back next spring. Yes, I’ll probably hit this corner three or four times this year before then. And no, I’ll never tire of it.

This past Spring Break, whilst his big sister was touring Philadelphia, Colonial Williamsburg, and Washington DC, Trailmaster Cobra was eager for his own “big trip.” Having recently lost my job and with the missus synched to the school’s schedule, it was that rare week where we actually had. The. Time. So we decided for a little 3-strong family vakay.

I gave the little man a few options, but the list was queried with a simple “which one of these has the most camping?” Ah, my boy. The answer to that was Kings Canyon, and so on Easter Sunday we were on our way.

Laters

The forecast was oh-so-tempting … 27 degrees with ice storms and lightning! Awesome. The little man was going to absolut — oh, yes, sorry, dear … forgot you hate the cold. So reservations were made at the John Muir Lodge. My erstwhile mini-mountain man was a bit disappointed to be lodging rather than braving the elements, but late that night whilst the storm dumped hail and sleet on us and the winds kicked up, he decided Mom’s choice of digs was the preferred lodging after all.

Day the first, the boy was ready to fish. So we packed up the pole and tackle and made our way to Hume Lake, in the adjacent Sequoia National Forest.

We caught precisely nothing. But the boy is tenacious, and when he decides he’s going to catch something, he usually catches something, so it was a few hours of changing spots, lures, bait, rinse, and repeat. Later that afternoon, we headed out to Redwood Canyon, following the service road usually closed this time of year but this day only coated with a thin layer of ice and rime from the previous night’s storm.

We only tramped a few miles in off-and-on drizzle, the little man and we marveling at the lush forest and its fallen giants. More storm clouds began to brew, and so we headed back eager to beat out whatever those clouds might yield.

Back in the truck, we headed back to Grant Grove in thick fog and sideways sleet; a real treat for a 7-year-old explorer. Apres-hike, we spent the evening by the fireplace piecing together puzzles and working on his Junior Ranger workbook.

Day the second, the boy still hadn’t gotten his fill of fishing, and so more time was spent in the pursuit of dinner (this time along the banks of Stony Creek, where four years before I had the led the lady mountaineers of Troop 201 on a similar excursion).

Nope. Nothing. Let’s go see some trees!

That afternoon, the wee wanderer of the wood earned his Junior Ranger (Jay-level) badge. A proud moment, and one at which my missus always seems to cry tears of joy.

But that day, it was all Little Man could stand, he couldn’t stand no more! He wanted to camp so badly that ultimately our party parted ways: we off to Azalea camp, and my lovely bride (now accompanied my her mum) off to Lodgepole.

It was going to be a cold one, but as I’ve maintained several times over on this site, keep toes warm and bellies full and joy will abound. After he helped set up the tent and laid out the bedrolls by himself, I tasked him with laying the fire.

We drank tea and cocoa by the fire for hours, until Little Man stood and announced he was tired and ready for bed. The mercury had dropped to 29 by this time, so with woolly cap and fleece, I tucked him in to my legendary 1-pad/2-bag “kid cooker” system, and he was out like a light for a solid 9 hours.

The trick there is that 9 hours from 8:45pm is only 5:45am. The Steller’s jays and crows were making a god-awful racket long before the sun arose, and with their racket so rose the little man.

“Dad,” he whispered. “Can we get up?”
“It’s still dark, buddy. Let’s enjoy our warm beds for a while.”
“Okay.”
– 10 minutes later –
“Dad, can we get up now?”
“Oh, what the heck. Let’s cook up some corned beef hash.”
“Okay!”

Holy cannoli, it was cold outside. But we busied ourselves hauling water to camp and perfecting the no-match re-light from the previous night’s embers. I lit the stove and quite soon he was back on happy camper mode, sharing his repast with his new-found stuffed fox friend.

We hiked out to the nearby mortars, and then up the road to the Visitor Center while the day struggled to warm up. We finished the day with a socked-in circumnavigation of General Grant and company.

It was an entirely uneventful trip, with some fun weather. But considering how much those national park and forest trips meant to me when I was Little Man’s age, stuffed into a corner of the old Bronco, I’d wager this sojourn only served to further whet his appetite.

Get ‘em out there!

Over the years, the RSO and I have made a habit of taking a half-day hike somewhere on the LPNF on St. Patrick’s Day. (See “Now is the Spring of Our Discontent” for St. Paddy’s 2011.) The trick to these sojourns however is to be home in time for Mrs Carey’s fantastic dinner.

For the 2013 edition, the Expat was in town and both Derek over at 100 Peaks and Lego-lass were available. And after having read Stillman’s and Elliott’s most excellent accounts of ascending White Ledge this past January, Derek and I had pondered how practical an approach of White Ledge might be from the north. Peakbagging has never been my thing, but it was worth investigating, at the very least. And if everything fell into place, even getting as far as the old 24W08 tread — the vaunted Ocean View Trail — would be more than a victory here.

Ocean View Trail, 1923. Image courtesy LPNF Archives.

White Ledge Cross. Image courtesy and (c) Stillman.

It seemed impractical from the get-go, and I don’t mean from the trailhead. Just looking at the drainage we were targeting, the ridiculous contours, the tendency for north-facing slopes to be a thicket of vegetation that knocks one’s pace down into the glacial speed category … well, a few nights previous whilst Lego-lass, EP from Ventura County Canyoneering and I sat over a few pints, we pretty much agreed it wasn’t going to happen. But what the hell.

TO THE HILLS!

We rendez-voused a few hours before sun-up at Matilija, I made the quick intros and then we waited a while for the RSO. No mobile coverage at the “parking loch,” so if he’d overslept, been otherwise delayed, or other … well, no way to know. We headed off along the service road sans the RSO, but leaving a trailhead without either him or one of the pack felt like leaving the house without my car keys. Under the beams of our headlamps, the misty road and environs had a dampening effect on what noise we might otherwise make on this well-trod route.

Of course we made quick work of the mile-and-a-half to Murietta Camp, noting at the major crossing downstream that the reflective tape on the Carsonite signs are pretty darned handy in the wee dark hours. Some campers were sacked out under the stars, so very quickly and quietly I pointed out the base of the old latrine from the camp’s days as a car-accessible destination to the crew and then Derek and I began sorting our best point to drop off the trail and begin following our chosen drainage. A short ways after the 24W07′s second crossing, we agreed we’d gained a bit more elevation than our optimal put-in, and so we four turned around, intent on a gap in the ceanothus Derek and Lego-lass had spotted moments before.

Suddenly, the sharp report of what sounded like a moose in heat echoed from down-canyon. I can’t imagine the start such an unworldly bark must have given those souls slumbering at camp. But I responded in kind. The RSO was on an intercept course, coming in fast! Soon enough we spotted a headlamp piercing the dark down in the ravine; he’d jumped off-trail early and was headed our way. Moments later another round of intros were made, and we five rock-hopped along the massive boulders and wove our way along the alders of the Murietta drainage.

The occasional orange trail flagging gave me pause; it didn’t seem to me some HPS bagger or other intrepid individual would take the time or bother to flag the route we were planning. A prominent flag was apparent at precisely the confluence of the drainage we’d chosen to ascend. Our Fiskar’s cinched tight and gloves on, into the poison oak and ferns and cobbles we went.

It was beautiful. Far less bush-whacking than I think any of us expected, and the occasional spot of game trail facilitated our progress. We took a brief respite just as the sun lent its first light to the canyon.

D, stoked. Image courtesy and (c) Lego-lass.

Bagging White Ledge still didn’t seem practical this day, but this drainage had it all … including the requisite pot grow detritus. Tarps, hose, a good two-burner stove, unused fuel canisters still in their shrink wrap, canned chiles, and saw mix bottles and pesticide bottles (the latter two chewed on by the local ursine population … thanks dope-growers and smokers, you can claim responsibility for that poisoned bear).

And so of course it’s in such a nice environ I inadvertently feel compelled to make some bone-head move. Out of the drainage and navigating a short field of bowling ball-sized cobbles, I took a moment to admire the blue and white sheet of flowering ceanothus on the creek’s east bank … and nearly face-planted as my ankle rolled beneath me and gave out.

Yes, yes, “the name is ‘Dumas’.”

I tried to walk it off, etc., but as we continued up-canyon it became increasingly difficult to put much weight (especially mine) on the ankle, and I could feel it swelling inside my boot. Dammit all.

So near the upper stretch of some pot-growers’ debris, I reluctantly called it. All were good sports, and the promise of those beers Lego-lass had stored in the ride was motivation enough to enjoy the return trek with good cheer. The Expat set up his gear and took a group photo that upon review looks to either be a rock and roll album cover or something for Vanity Fair, meaning in either regard it’s the usual professional-grade work we’ve come to expect from his wilderness shutters, and one of my favorites of the new year. Along with Nico’s recent black-and-white work, my photo-documentation falls further and further behind the pace of current LPNF photodocumentarians.

The Expat, Mr. C., Derek, Lego-lass, the RSO. March 2013.

In time we returned to the confluence of our tributary and Murietta Creek, where the RSO and I took the time to exasperate our resident light hikers and pulled out tins of kipper herring, deviled ham, and other delectables. Here, we could see the orange flagging was being used to mark various pools along the watershed, presumably as part of a fish count or other scientific study.

Image courtesy and (c) Lego-lass.

Not posing, I swear. Pondering flag placement along the Murietta ponds. Sneaky capture courtesy and (c) Lego-lass.

Once back on the 24W07, I fared alright with my cranky ankle, and we snuck through the camp again whilst the campers continued to doze. The service road was abuzz with numerous hikers now, and the parking lot even more so. Scouts, families, and a crew of trail runners decked out as leprechauns all went about their business whilst I put my ankle in the cooler and we toasted our ever-so-brief St. Paddy’s sojourn.

Not Even Close.

I went home with time to spare for my lovely bride’s home-cooked meal and the accompanying beers, bonfire, and good times, but whilst elevating and icing my ankle as prescribed, I unfolded my old White Ledge quads.

Peakbagging still isn’t my thing. And the road won’t rise to meet us on this one. But Ocean View and White Ledge, you will be mine. O yes, you will be mine.

The Expat will surely post his work in time, but submitted herein are some of Li’l G’s photos from the excursion. Enjoy!

And the requisite flowers …

It’s been a long while since I’ve gone on walk-about specifically to root out a diamond in the rough. They’ve long been a staple of things here in the dungeons of maptitude, but there are so many bits of history, so many corners untouched in this Forest … well, sometimes it takes a while to get back to some of the basics.

On the menu: Three Pines. This trail camp, originally slated to be among those removed from the Ojai RD during the fiscal crunch in the early 1970s, was considered a good candidate for removal due to its tendency to get flooded out with some frequency. According to Gagnon’s earlier guides, the camp was “wiped out on schedule” in the rains of 1973/1974 (the same storms that took out Beartrap No. 2), basically doing the Forest Service’s job for them.

But you know how it goes: off the map seldom equals off the Forest. So on another wonderfully overcast Sunday morn, a rag-tag posse of LPNF wanderers assembled and headed up the Chorro Grande drainage. TO THE HILLS!

The crew enjoyed a great leisurely ascent of the drainage to Oak camp, and — as has become something of a LP Fellwalkers tradition of late — enjoyed an elevenses with single malt and bacon and eggs. This is easy living, this wandering of the wood.

It’s days such as these that remind us what a nice camp Oak is when there’s water and minimal bugs. In the summer — as with Murietta and Matilija and some spots along the Manzana — I tend to avoid this spot.

After enjoying our leisurely repast and watering the dogs, the RSO and LiPNAR headed back down-canyon, Marvin at their heels. Those silly real-world obligations cut into their time to roam, and so I was left to fly solo in terms of taxonomy, geologic IDs, and general natural sciences. Ugh.

But Perry in the Morning, Bardlero Primero (Patron Saint of the 20W15), Little Man (emboldened by his recent sojourn to The Pines and now insisting on his new nom de voie, “Trailmaster Cobra”) remained game and along with myself and the uber-hund, continued up-canyon.

The Chorro drainage has always been an interesting spot, with its sections more akin to the San Emigdio Mesa than the southern slopes of Pine Mountain, road cuts every which way, and mining history. We IDed various roadcuts high on the slopes that were clearly not part of the better-known Gypsum Mining Road, and wondered aloud where they might lead or for what purpose they were originally intended. We seem to wonder such things aloud with some frequency these days.

But then it was time to jump off the modern maps, figuratively speaking, and continue up the drainage where the current 23W05 begins its series of switchbacks toward the Expat‘s beloved Sentinel Trees, Chorro Spring, and ultimately Pine Mountain Road.

The Chorro Grande Sentinel Trees, Summer 2011. Image courtesy and (c) The Los Padres Expat.

We were (pleasantly) surprised to see the tread in to Three Pines — or at least where we figured Three Pines once stood — was an old road bed, albeit a rather over-grown one. The width of the path could have been written off as some exceptionally fine clearly and trail-building, until we came across a swathe of that well-known noxious roadside weed, the broom (S. junceum). That left no doubt this had not only been a roadbed, but one traveled at least enough to propagate these invasives.

Mr. C. does not approve. Photo courtesy and (c) Bardlero Primero.

The route was marginally rough, but relative to some of the brush-busting the southern Los Padres can throw at a hiker, this was smooth sailing.

As we continued up-canyon, we four noticed an exposed stretch of canyon wall high on our east that didn’t quite jive with the rest of the topography. As we worked our way northward and it became plain it was dropping on a course to intercept us, we began to wonder as to whether there was another road way up-canyon that might have intersected the bed upon which we now trod. Curious to sort this, we cut NE and scrambled in the wake of the uber-hund and her enviable paws-i-traction (forgive me at least that one pun; cheers).

Photo courtesy and (c) Bardlero Primero.

A road it was indeed.

We pondered a moment, took some bearings, and then decided this road cut was even nicer than that below upon which we had been traveling, and so followed this northward as it curved above the banks of the upper Chorro waters. And yes, it ultimately didn’t intersect with our road bed below, but proved instead to be the upper stretch. Our “intersect” was actually a hairpin of a switchback in this road. And what praytell did we find at the apex of said hairpin?

Three Pines, naturalement.

Photo courtesy and (c) Bardlero Primero.

The situs of this camp didn’t quite synch with the one photo I’d found in the Los Padres archives some time ago, one originally labelled “Three Pines,” then struck and re-named “Chorro.” When I originally came across the little Kodachrome slide of the image, I opined immediately that it was more likely Three Pines … as I felt it certainly wasn’t Chorro Grande (or Big Chorro, as it has sometimes been known). Perhaps Phelps, that other site supposedly in this canyon but lost in the tangle of cartographic misplacement and labelling errors? Who knows.

Three Pines, Maybe … circa late 1960s. Image courtesy LPNF Archives.

Phelps? WTF?

So we picked around for some time, heading considerably further upstream, and noting with a small degree of cynicism there wasn’t a damned pine to be found in this canyon, let along three of them. Everything here was either alder or Big cone Douglas-fir, the latter which might be subjected to a misnomer of genus Pinus … but even for all the grief I give the peeps who name the camps, I think (guess?) they’ve have known the difference (I know, that’s uncommonly giving of me).

Eventually I came to the concession the photo I’d uncovered with neither Three Pines nor Chorro, and so we headed down-stream with a few new mysteries yet to unravel (are you detecting the pattern here? Yes, I thought so.).

We took an extended segue from the trail once closer to Oak and explored the Posts guerrilla camp; those details however we’ll save for another day.

And so as is often the case, we found ourselves at the nearest watering hole for a few pints, toasting our exploratory success. This was Little Man’s first “diamond” recovery, and of course it was another proud moment for me when he ordered his libation just as I often do, with a twist.

“I’d like the darkest beer you have,” I always request of the server.

“I’d like the darkest milk you have,” quoth Trailmaster Cobra. And nothing says “success” like chocolate milk.

Slainte!

Much time has been spent poking around the Kennedy Ridge and East Camino Cielo routes of late, and I’m happy to report another recent Sunday during which we enjoyed yet more idle exploratory above the bustling metropolis of Ojai.

Joining the RSO and me for a rare West Coast exploratory this day was the enigmatic and elusive Maestro. Over the years he’d joined us for cross-country treks across the Chumash, cold nights along Beartrap Creek, and a handful of other excursions … but rather than some twisted wilderness excursion, this time ’round we opted for the shortest drive-time … and that (for us) is the Oso TH managed by the fine folks of the Ojai Valley Land Conservancy.

Sunday morning broke cool and clear; another perfect day was shaping up beautifully. Along the Kennedy Ridge trail and atop the ridge proper, the prickly phlox were plentiful and the peonies just starting to open; spring has sprung above the Ventura River. Numerous plants have started poking their heads out, probably wondering why winter never really showed.

Near where the connector trail begins its ascent toward the old El Camino Cielo (see here for the TR from last time the RSO and I endeavored this stretch of Forest), we hunkered down for old times’ sake and fired up the burners.

One of the advantages of waking up every morning to the racket of three Rhode Island Reds is that at least I get a hearty breakie for my troubles. So I’d raided the coop that morning and thrown in a pound of bacon (for the bipeds) and two pounds of liver (for the pack) and we spent a good hour lounging atop the ridge with great views of Lake Casitas and the Santa Barbara Channel. This was around 1000 in the cool morning, and we all agreed this was living.

Our early elevenses done and the dogs watered, we continued up the draw toward the old road cut, where the occasional hiker with loppers helps keep things clear. Conditions were nowhere near as greasy as any of my three visits in December.

December 1: Soggy

December 16: Soupy

February 24: None of the Above

Once onto the ECC, we agreed the first marker would be as fine a destination as any this day, and so after some additional lounging and chatting with some other hikers we met, we moseyed westward along the old road a ways.

At that first benchmark (where the ECC takes its noted hairpin upward), we explored an old spur road we figure was once either a staging area or spike camp (or both). The need for the entire length of the road — built in 1948 — still boggles the mind. Indeed, the RSO has posited it might have been a post-war training project for the Seabees (as were some of the Nordhoff and Rose Valley-area roads). I hope to shed some more light on this down the line. Views of the Topatopas, a unique perspective of Santa Paula Ridge, White Ledge Peak, and all points between and below are to be had here.

Image courtesy and (c) the Tro.

Of course, we let the uber-hund recover the monument.

After some additional recon in the general vicinity, we headed back down into OVLC property and off into town for a burger and a few pints.

We highly recommend this stretch of Forest, and thank the volunteers who’ve made clearing the old road their pet project over the past few months. We’ll be back (again!) soon enough.

Late last year my buddy Derek over at 100 Peaks guest-blogged a piece for Sport Chalet about getting kids interested in the outdoors. Obviously that’s not really an issue for Clan Carey, but it did make me ponder my own approach and decide it was time to up Little Man’s mileage.

The Sunday we’d chosen to rendez-vous with another crew of LPNFanatics and (finally) scout one of the Four Horsemen was a forecast of ice and misery. Perfect conditions of course, but Caltrans decided otherwise and shut down our access routes. Naturally I should have expected this; a disproportionate number of trips these past few months have gone to Plan B (and often C).

Plan B this day was a half-day mosey up Horn Canyon to The Pines — a classic lazy Sunday. And so a rag-tag crew consisting of Bardlero Primero (Patron Saint of the 20W15), Cubmaster, Little Man, the uber-hund, and myself made for the Thacher parking area that crisp morning.

The Little Man had been to Horn Canyon a handful of times already, but never beyond the fourth crossing. That was about to change.

Taking Point. Image courtesy and © Bardlero Primero.

We put Little Man (later given the trail name Trailmaster Jack by Bardlero) on point, and enjoyed a steady pace up that cold canyon. Frost and unseasonably dry crossings were the order of the day, and only upon hitting some patches of sun on the exposed upper stretches did we peel off any layers. It was a genuinely chilly ascent.

Bardlero and Little Man, Fourth Crossing.

Onward!

It was a busy day on the trail; dayhikers and backpackers and birders and we exchanged greetings at various points. With the uber-hund ever at his heels, the Little Man pressed on, stopping only for water breaks or to greet dogs along the trail (he’s a dog magnet, what can I say).

When we finally reached The Pines, that lovely copse of Coulter pines that was the brainchild of Jacinto Reyes and in recent years has become the ward of Thacher students, the sky quickly darkened and temps took a precipitous drop. I already had the kettle on for tea and we were enjoying a repast of sardines and cheese (and yes, some single malt) on the great benches fashioned in recent seasons by USFS fire crews, but Little Man felt a fire was in order.

Now, I have no shame in stating my Girl Scouts (aka the Lady Mountaineers of Troop 201) are primo fire-builders, so much so they trained other Girl Scout units at a recent skills day. They rule. But apparently one of the benefits of not only being a Cub Scout under my direction but also of getting dragged along on a few Girl Scout excursions here and there is that Little Man has more skills and better lungs than I gave him credit.

Watch and Learn. Image courtesy and © Bardlero Primero.

Tinder, kindling, and fuel wood were collected in mere minutes and soon we four were all appreciating the mini mountain man’s warming fire. A proud moment for me; I won’t pretend otherwise.

It was a lazy hour (or two) spent in that perfect little corner of the Los Padres. In the “down in the weeds” angle I’m sure you’ve come to expect from entries on this site, I am happy to report Bardlero found the chimney to an old ice can stove, and that we headed further up-trail to pick around at the junction of the old 22W40 route (more on that later).

How to Embarrass a 7-year Old in Three Easy Steps. Image courtesy and © Bardlero Primero.

In D’s guest blog, one of the points he makes is that a parent should “create a positive outdoor experience” for the wee hikers. Cubmaster and Bardlero were my partners in crime on this one, and I think this was a defining trip for Little Man-cum-Trailmaster Jack … so my thanks to them for helping my boy along that path, both figuratively and literally.

Get ‘em out there!