Eng 380
We set out on a trek up the North facing side of the Caliente Mountain Range, which lies behind the town of New Cuyama, off of Highway 166. The range rests next to the Carrizo Plains, which was recently named a National Park. The trip was meant to be both an adventure and a cardiovascular challenge. My trusty companion and friend of ten years, Justin Meier, led the expedition, for this was not the first time that he had conquered the peak.
In that month of August the thermometers peaked at roughly 105 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade, but we still anticipated the trip like a child would a vacation to Disneyland. JustinÕs grandfather, Roy, had told us that there would be much to see but we had to leave well before sunrise to make it through the most treacherous part before the heat could slow us down. The hike started at 4:45 a.m. when we crossed the tattered fence line that separated the private land, which JustinÕs family owned, from the National Forest.
As my shirt got hung up passing through the fence I wished that barbed wire had never been created. Were these western lands intended by their creator to be separated by fence lines and carved up by cattle ranchers? This was an issue that plagued America well over one hundred years ago. The West underwent a fierce battle between cattle ranchers and Òfree-grazers.Ó When the West was wild, there were Òfree-grazersÓ which were cowboys who roamed the lands with their cattle, feeding off sections, and then moving on like nomads never settling in one place. Around the time of the introduction of barbed wire some cattlemen decided that they would rather Òstake their claim.Ó No longer desiring to spend their lives wandering around the country, they built homesteads and ranches. The rancherÕs cattle remained in one place year round. Disputes started when Òfree-grazerÕsÓ cattle hit the rancherÕs feed. As I looked at the abandoned homesteads while making the drive to the property I knew that this area reeked of history.
The plan was to make it to an old lookout tower located at the highest peak of the Caliente Range. The structure was built during WWII and was used by the United States armed forces as a lookout tower to warn our troops of invading Japanese planes. We looked for a road carved in the WWII era that was used to access the lookout, but the road was nowhere to be found. The brush was dense and I wondered how even the wind could pass through some areas. We often found ourselves slithering on our bellies like snakes in order to progress. The lack of sunlight made navigation even more difficult. It was extremely hard to gauge the path of least resistance with a pocket flashlight that set forth a beam that was no brighter than a candle.
We had been told that only a fool would make this sort of trip alone. JustinÕs grandpa told legends of hunters who went out alone into these parts, only to be found months later with their bones scattered out by coyotes in the bottom of a ditch. The razorback ridges and loose shale posed many hazards to both life and limb. I quickly learned in the first ten minutes of our hike that we were not alone.
Every now and then the brush up ahead or to the side of us would come alive and we could hear the branches of the junipers snap. My heart beat fiercely against the tight front strap of my pack. My imagination constantly drew pictures of what could have been the cause of such a ruckus. I saw visions of black bears that had been genetically crossed with mountain lions and Russian boars that were the size of rhinos. Deep down I knew these images were ridiculous, but I could not erase my fears. We trekked on but I then began to get winded. My lungs could no longer work fast enough to replenish my body with oxygen. I loosened up the straps of my pack to allow my lungs to further expand, and looked at the hands on my Swiss and prayed for the golden God to peek out at me in the east.
My legs began to tremble with fatigue but the adrenaline that pumped thru my veins, from fear of the unknown, kept my Danners striding forward. Finally, the sun rose like my knight in shining armor. The daylight exposed many cuts and scrapes. My forearm dripped with blood from a small puncture wound. I did not care about the superficial wounds though. Now there was nothing to fear but one creature, the Western Rattlesnake. Ranging in size from 15 to 65 inches the lethal serpentÕs triangular head houses retractable fangs that fold back into its mouth when not in use. A single bite from this snake, being as far as we were from a hospital, would make for an agonizing death. The Carrizo Plains has as many snakes on it as a person has hairs on their head. Those who fear snakes and have crossed paths with one before in the wild know that the mind can make anything look like a snake for at least two days after the encounter. But before long, fatigue had smothered the fear and I found myself plopping under any sage to try to find a little shade.
Both of us kept powering forward, up the steep terrain, not wanting to admit to the other that we were both out of shape. In some spots the shale was so brittle and loose that after two steps forward we slid three steps back. I needed to stop and rest but I did not want to admit my fatigue. Suddenly the perfect opportunity arose. I shouted, ÒHey look over there!Ó Just off on the hillside to the left of us I spotted one coyote, then two, then three, finally five coyotes stood broadside peering at us. They trotted up the hillside, stopping every fifteen or so feet to glance back at us. It was amazing how well their coats blended in with the surroundings. John MuirÕs description of them as, Òwithered wisps of hayÓ (The Mountains of California) came to mind. When it stands still amongst a dense landscape a coyoteÕs scrawny, camouflaged body can be as hard to find as a needle in a haystack. Time slowly passed during which an exchange of admiration occurred. Then, when all was silently spoken, we ate a granola bar and commenced on with our journey. The granola left my mouth dry and pasty. I thirsted for water so I unzipped my pack and there it was instantly. What did the coyote have to do to quench his thirst in these dry, arid, and oven-like canyons that we constantly dipped into that day? Mary Austin described the coyote as, ÒÉyour true water-witch, one who snuffs and paws, snuffs and paws again at the smallest spot of moisture-scented earth until he has freed the blind water from the soil.Ó (The Land of Little Rain) To human knowledge there are only a few spots on the Caliente Range that bear any water, but I am sure that if the coyote could speak he could tell one different. The encounter gave us inspiration to move forward. Up until that point the only wildlife that we had seen was cunning cottontails and jittery jackrabbits.
Our hopes of ever reaching the top were constantly trampled like a bronc rider caught in his rigging. Thirst began to consume us and all we could think about was polishing off our rationed water. My quad muscle and calves began to knot up from dehydration. My steps got shorter and at times I caught myself wincing in pain. It seemed that every time we attained our minor goal of reaching the top of each puny one hundred foot hill, we would only discover three more ridgelines that needed to be conquered yet in the distance. The Caliente Peak watched and laughed at us off in the distance to the east.
When I thought my body could go no further I demanded just a few more steps to reach the crest of the Caliente Range. Upon reaching the top, we were startled by a chorus of flapping wings singing in unison. When we thought the show was over another would belt out a tune, by darting out of a tuft of grass and then disappear over the next knoll. We had made it to a manmade quail guzzler, a large metal trough buried flush into the ground and placed in a strategic location, this location being a natural bowl. During the winter months the trough catches the water where it is stored for wildlife use throughout the summer months. The tops of the troughs are covered with tin and there is usually only enough room between the tin and the trough for small birds and animals to get through and enjoy the water. This particular guzzler had a cutout section and a grated ramp so that larger wildlife could walk down and drink also. The tin roof actually creates condensation during the heated summer months, which is said to help replenish the water supply. Judging by the community of quail that we had just aroused like a scurrying crowd in Pamplona, it was not even necessary to check it for water. It is an unwritten rule that where there is quail, water is no more than a mile away.
We remained standing there in the cool evening breeze, which helped dry out our salty, wet, sun-charred skin. I then wiped my brow. When I rotated my hips and turned my head to continue on I finally caught my first glimpse of the lookout tower. It leaned away from the setting sun. Only three walls remained but it proudly stood its guard like any soldier should.
As we walked up to the tattered kindling we stared in appreciation. Carefully we crept in through the doorway and dismounted our packs. We laid our bedrolls out on the rat-tainted floors. Our bodies sighed in relief as we exchanged tales of adventures that had passed and those that were yet to come. As I drifted off to sleep I recalled all of the hardships the day had brought and the number of times I felt as though I wanted to give up. Despite these feelings of exhaustion and weariness I thought of how I would do it all over again if it brought the sense of pride and accomplishment that I was feeling at that very moment.