Although encompassing more than 30,000 acres, the North Fork Matilija Trail forms the only official footpath into the tangled and beautiful Matilija Wilderness behind Ojai — and the devastating Thomas Fire incinerated the only trail sign indicating this key turnoff.
When I hiked the “North Fork” trail in 2015, the signage had been clear — and has yet to be replaced.
Given the extraordinary damage of the 280,000-acre Thomas Fire in 2017, evident in the lead photograph above, which also led to heavy loss of life in Montecito after subsequent flash flooding and debris flows, many of us paid scant heed to the severe fire damage along the lower reaches of the gnarly North Fork Matilija Trail.
After a January day hike into the adjacent (main) Matilija Canyon in the trail-less cross-country route toward Matilija Falls, my colleague and I chose to go into the less-used “North Fork” of Matilija Canyon along this unique trail — the only official path in the entire 30,000-acre Matilija Wilderness. (When I mention “Matilija” hiking to most Santa Barbara walkers, they usually think of the main Matilija Canyon with the magnificent Matilija Falls at the end — another column.)
We weren’t surprised that this mostly chaparral landscape had sprung back wonderfully in just three years since the Thomas Fire. The harsh desert landscape has its own remarkable allure, and Mary Hunter Austin writes eloquently about these unyielding conditions in her 1902 classic, The Land of Little Rain.
After walking around the barred gate and trudging through Matilija Canyon Ranch on the old road for 0.7 miles (respect the private property!), we took the obscure and now unsigned trail into the obscure North Fork Canyon.
The trail turnoff is easy to overlook, and if you miss it (it’s on the righthand side of the road), you’re on the old road another 0.7 miles and end up on the big Matilija Canyon hike (this one is all bushwhacking; no trail after a bit).
On the North Matilija Trail, we observed stands of dead and burned-out sycamores scattered over the many stony washes, and all of the grasses were low.
The Thomas Fire really did a job in this canyon, and the only large floral survivors were some of the indomitable canyon oaks. Essentially fire-resistant, most of them had heavily blackened trunks, but three years of abundant new growth made them jut up like green phoenixes in a charred rockscape.
Chaparral requires this fire ecology, and some of the hard chaparral plants were springing back with alacrity, using the existing root structure of otherwise immolated plant superstructures. We noted a few regrown toyon bushes with their brilliant red berries — some towering over our heads. The indestructible yuccas decorated otherwise barren hillsides.
During our entire five-hour, six-mile round-trip day hike, we encountered just one other party on the rugged North Fork Trail.
Yes, it was a Tuesday, but the sun shined brightly, beautiful clean air wafted about, and the temperature hovered at about 62 degrees at midday. When we arrived at the first barred gate (trailhead), there had been no other cars parked, so we knew we were the first explorers of the day!
For such an isolated area seeing little use, the trail itself was in fine condition and deserved the “good” yellow color on Bryan Conant’s map. The mostly dirt track was easy on the joints, and we savored the many crossings through dry channels and stony creekbeds. A long-sleeved shirt and long pants were needed against the thorny chaparral.
It had rained just a few days before but there was little mud, although the North Fork Matilija Creek had risen somewhat. Wielding my twin poles, I had few problems fording the innumerable small tributaries and meandering North Fork Creek itself, managing to keep the boots dry throughout.
Although we hiked almost five hours total, the pace was very slow with occasional clambering and numerous stops to admire the surreal and exciting desert scenery. The Matilija sandstone has a justly famous reputation for eerie and weird rock formations. There is an enchantment in these stony paths, and the presence of the flowing creek mellowed out the desert quality.
We almost reached Middle Matilija Camp (I overnighted there in 2015), and instead halted to inhale nutritious lunches at a free camp next to the stream, marked on Conant’s map with no name. Not far from this place — about 2½ miles in — we ran into a stream crossing and immediate very steep hill ascent that turned into quite a challenge.
I managed it but struggled just wearing a small fanny pack; I realized that with a backpack I would have had real trouble and would have mulled canceling such a backpacking venture. It was on the shady side of the hill and quite slippery.
My hiking partner went on and photographed the archaic trail sign indicating “Middle Matilija Camp” ½ mile. The writing on the white board was so faint that I scribbled the mileages in my trail book to repeat here:
» Middle Matilija [Camp] ½ mile
» Maple [Camp] 4 miles
» Highway 33 10 miles [sic]
The 10 is scribbled in on the metal sign, and my Conant map corrects this by indicating that it’s actually 8 miles to Highway 33 via Upper Matilija Camp (not shown on this old sign), then Maple Camp, then around tall Ortega Hill, and finally to Highway 33 (on Cherry Creek Road).
At another break area, while munching dried figs, I sauntered through some thick grasses to a stone ridge with a large overhang. This small formation contained a shallow cave, a rock shelter, and I naturally began to come very close to attempting to see if there might be any pictographic art designs within.
The moment we’re careless, the backcountry gods either warn or injure us. The grasses were thick indeed, and I was focused on the darkened rock shelter interior when suddenly I heard a harsh buzzing/rattling nearby. The sun blazed hot on one of the warmer days, and it is possible for rattlesnakes to be active in these conditions, even in winter. Leaping backward, I fell into some soft grasses, pushed up quickly using one of the hiking poles, and launched myself frantically back to the nearby trail.
Austin stresses the cruel choices that nature and the backcountry thrust upon us. I momentarily forgot about snakes and underestimated the conditions (there was bright sun near the cave’s mouth).
“To underestimate one’s thirst, to pass a given landmark to the right or to left, to find a dry spring where one looked for running water — there is no help for any of these things,” she wrote.
Wise words from 120 years ago, and I underestimated the risks of wandering off trail with rock art images in my head rather than cool attention to the dusty rocks at my feet.
At the same time, after a minor close call such as this, or scrambling up a very slippery incline, these moments add spice to the coronavirus-infected world one inhabits back home in sultry and sometimes stultifying Santa Barbara.
Bring your children along, and they, too, can confront nature in all her regal glory and equally real risks.
4-1-1
» Directions — Drive south on Highway 101. Take Highway 33 from Ventura to Ojai, and continue on Highway 33; well-signed Matilija Canyon Road is a few miles on to the end (barred gate). The North Fork Matilija Trail presents a wonderful backpacking choice, ideal if you leave a second car pre-parked way up on Highway 33. You would pack through several U.S. Forest Service campsites, past Ortega Hill (5,300 feet) another five miles and rejoin Highway 33.
» Map: Bryan Conant, “Matilija and Dick Smith Wilderness Backpacking Guide” (map), available at Chaucer’s Books, 3321 State St. in Santa Barbara.
» Book: Mary Hunter Austin, The Land of Little Rain (Penguin Nature Classics, 1997; originally published in 1903).
— Dan McCaslin is the author of Stone Anchors in Antiquity and has written extensively about the local backcountry. His latest book, Autobiography in the Anthropocene, is available at Lulu.com. He serves as an archaeological site steward for the U.S. Forest Service in Los Padres National Forest. He welcomes reader ideas for future Noozhawk columns, and can be reached at cazmania3@gmail.com. Click here to read previous columns. The opinions expressed are his own.
