Backpacking in Monterey County ~ A Trail of Several Tales

Backpacking in Monterey County ~ A Trail of Several Tales

Memories that span three decades are tied to a hiking trail in the Los Padres National Forest.  My boyfriend, Sam, introduced me to backpacking and to this particular hike. We parked on the coast highway near Kirk Creek Campground. It was August 1972 and the steep walk up the mountain road was grueling for its lack of shade. Our relationship was new and it was love alone that pushed me up the endless hill. I carried our water in a big plastic jug. My pack held only a sleeping bag. My handsome hero carried everything else.

Hours later we reached the trail head leading down to Vicente Flat. We shortly lost the trail but unconcerned, headed toward the sound of water, reasoning that once we found the creek we would easily find the trail. A steep slope seemed to be the most direct path to the cool gurgling call of the creek. I followed behind, craving the next resting stop. The ground was loose and crumbly. Our boots were creating mini avalanches of small rocks, leaves, and dust. The slide down was almost like skiing and I was beginning to enjoy the sensation until I noticed a large hairy tarantula climbing up my chest toward my neck. I screamed and flailing madly,  dropped the water jug and made it to the bottom of the hill in a frantic surge of adrenaline. Sam thought it was funny until he noticed the missing jug. Luckily, he was also carrying water and didn't carry grudges.

We re-discovered the trail and followed it to the campground passing a perfect skinny-dipping spot in the creek. It looked like we would have the whole place to ourselves until a park ranger appeared with a horse and a mule. His name was Sal and he joined us at our campfire after dinner. We shared stories and whiskey. Sal played his harmonica and we sang "Santa Lucia" under the stars. The music attracted two great grey owls. They perched magnificently above us, yellow eyes reflecting the firelight in two opposing oak trees that arched over our campsite. They were enjoying the song. My hair was brushed by the kiss of air and wind as one flew directly over me to the side of the other. I had never been touched by an owl before. I still thrill to that memory so many years ago.

We returned the following spring with a group of friends and enough cars to avoid the preliminary uphill hike. The thunder, lightning, and rain that met us before we reached camp were a rude contradiction to the clear weather report.  I worried that our weekend adventure would be ruined.

Luckily,  the storm ceased the minute we reached our destination and we were able to complete the weekend without further problems. Everyone had a wonderful time and it was agreed that the Espinoza campsite overlooking the ocean was the best of all possible places to sleep in the area.  We swore to come back as soon as possible.

A wedding, and two kids later, we secured a babysitter and took off for our favorite weekend camping trip with new friends. Tom and Diane were curious and excited to share in our secret slice of hiking heaven. Everything went well on the first day. The second day was a disaster. Heavy winter rains had washed away parts of the lower trail leading down to the beach. It was scary and difficult to negotiate. We had to literally jump across the gaps on the already narrow mountainside walkways. We were lucky to make it out of there with bodies and friendship intact.

Our last trip was four years ago. This would be the first time with our children. They agreed to a family Easter vacation of backpacking. Eva was twenty-four and our son, Jesse, was twenty. We arrived in two cars so that we could avoid walking up the road.

The kids hiked up the trail from the highway, preferring a more strenuous hike while Sam and I took the car up the dirt road to the top so that we could hike down the whole way. We figured that we would reach the Espinoza camp much later than the kids but well before dark.

A forest fire had ripped its way across the ridge, felling trees across the trail leading down to Vicente Flat. Our going was much slower than anticipated that afternoon. We lumbered over and around the large trunks. We had to remove our packs to navigate narrow spots. My boots began to pinch after an hour. When we finally reached the valley floor I ripped them off my aching feet and put on my comfortable shoes. The relief was so fine that I began to sing and skip like a school girl along the soft path. The relief was brief. In less than a moment I was flat on the ground groaning with pain. Backpacks and skipping do not mix.

Sam pulled out ankle brace he had mercifully purchased before our trip. Gently removing my shoe, he deftly and firmly wrapped my foot and twisted ankle. We rested a bit while I calmed down and then he helped me coax the shoe back on over the bulky wrap. My pack came next.

I took slow tiptoe steps on the injured foot. The hike became a struggle of pain and perseverance. I was anxious to get to our campsite. We hoped that one of the kids would come looking for us so that we could set up at a nearer camp. That particular hope faded with the sunlight. We were still far from our goal when the darkness demanded a light. We discovered that the kids had the good flashlights and we had a very small one with a weak battery.

Our progress was now akin to a crawl. The air was cooling down and my body was drenched with cold sweat. We were hugging the inside edge of a narrow trail flanked by a deep ravine. The sound of a loosened rock bouncing down the six hundred foot slope filled me with terror. What if I tripped again? I froze. I prayed. Concentrating on slowing my breath, I continued ahead, while battling with my fear and panic.

Years before, our older friend, Tom, had panicked at the same spot in broad daylight. It was agonizing to witness his fright. Now I was his age and that memory dogged me in my struggle to remain calm. Sam gently asked how I was doing and without conviction, I said I whispered an"okay". We were each carefully feeling our way with our feet and straining for a glimpse of where we were going. It seemed like we had been walking forever.

The trail widened. The stars appeared. When the moon rose in the heavens, my composure returned. While singing a song in a mutual effort to raise our spirits I heard a distant voice. "Mom, is that you?"

It was Eva! Then we saw the tiny light of their fire. Within five minutes Jesse appeared with his flashlight and took my backpack. We finally made it! I gratefully hobbled into the cocoon of our camp and was helped out of my sweat-soaked clothes into dry ones. The kids had given up on us and were cleaning up after dinner. They thought that Sam and I had decided to camp in another place.

I spent the whole next day off my foot, convalescing, reading, and writing.  My peace was disturbed only by the soft scratching of a mole that popped up a few inches from my curious face after I noticed a blade of grass disappearing into the ground. Perfect weather, delicious food, and a gorgeous sunset rounded out this lovely Saturday. Eva had packed in a small Mexican guitar and we sang the songs of the sixties under the full moon.

A sunrise symphony of critters announced Easter morning. There were far too many blue jays in the brass section. In our oak cathedral high above the Pacific, we boiled water, broke our fast with tea and fruit, packed up, and parted with hugs; father and daughter headed up the trail, mother and son headed down. We were to meet at the lower car in four hours.

My shoes were soft and comfortable but not appropriate for the rough and rocky terrain. Each painful step was taken like a patient mother walking with her toddler. I mentally thanked Sam for packing the high-tech ankle brace. Without it I would have surely missed the rendezvous with our children on Good Friday.

The trail down to the beach winds in and out of undulating wet and dry folds of the coastal mountains. Glorious wild flowers begged us to stop and wonder at their beauty and we did. The blooming hillsides glowed in the warm morning sun and offered views of the ocean floating off the edge of the world. We approached a shady grotto where light filtered down through the redwood branches like fingers of God. A cool breeze blew and the creek whispered "secret sacred site" as it spilled over and around the rocks. This was the perfect Sunday sanctuary!

Jesse attempted to catch the magic light with our camera while I simultaneously wiped a tear of awe from my eyes and sweat from my brow. We reluctantly left our vernal oasis forging a slow steady pace.

Back out on the rocky cliffs, I stopped to rest. With loving patience, Jesse took the heavy pack off my back. We drank some water and moved on.  I fell while trying to ease into a short steep drop on the trail. I wish I had remembered to take the lovely walking stick that Sam fashioned back at our camp. Jesse levered me back up as I pushed my good foot against his boot and held on to his hand. The skin was broken on my palm but not bleeding.

Shortly we heard the sound of the surf and could feel and see the coolness of a million fine molecules of mist dancing in the light as we reached the fog line. I slid on the gravel and fell again while rounding a hairpin switchback. Again Jesse helped me up (practice makes perfect) and I laughed and told him I was grateful for the padding of my ample bottom.

We heard the cars passing on the highway below us but we couldn't see through the haze. Jesse needed to relieve himself and so I passed him with my baby steps knowing that he would soon catch up. At another curve a third fall jammed my toe hard on a rock as I went down. My foot throbbed with new pain.

I sat there and waited grimly for another hand up from my son. We continued, Jesse walking ahead of me. Following him, my pent up grief rose from my gut to my throat. Hot tears flooded my eyes. I gasped for breath and choked on the misery of my physical state.

Jesus, why have I forsaken myself? How have I come to this? Why didn't I keep myself in better shape?

Hearing my sobs Jesse stopped. He turned, opened his arms and his cheek to my wet pain and asked me what was wrong. I told him that I didn't want to be me, not in this body. I would rather be Mary, his friend's tall and lithe mother, who is so young looking for her age. She could easily do this hike. I suggested that he would've had a better time with her. Jesse countered that this much admired woman could never enjoy this hike because she has the same congenital lung defect for which her daughter had recently been hospitalized.
He told me that I was a savage (a superlative youthphemism of the time) hiker and mother. With those sweet words I wiped away my tears feeling humbled and grateful at once. My heart and soul lightened.

We walked on only a few steps until the end of the trail appeared. Sam and Eva had arrived at the other car up at the top of the mountain at about the same time after a much more difficult hike up the canyon to the upper trail head.

When they drove up beside our car I quickly scanned Eva's lovely face for her reaction to the same hike Sam and I had made coming down from the top. That hike had tested my endurance like no other before. Her eyes and admiring smile told me everything I needed to know.