On Dec. 14, Mr. C and I drove the 45 miles to Nira Camp along Manzana Creek, where we planned to set out for Ray’s Camp — five glorious miles up gushing Manzana Creek with the Hurricane Deck formation looming on our left all the way. (Nira is well-known as a key portal into the pristine San Rafael Wilderness.)

Starting on the well-marked trail at 7:30 a.m., the temperature hovered right at 32 degrees, yet it was also a clear, bright day without much wind and a light, azure sky. (See 4.1.1. for driving directions.)

Fall hiking along the rocky and remote watercourse as it wends its green way through the glowing wilderness utterly inspires two Santa Barbarans accustomed to insulated townie life, the beach, and living next to the beloved but feared Highway 101 ever-humming in the distance. As I walk in nature, the awareness of separation from the city makes me become even more alert to those constant interruptions from the screaming screens that haunt us in our depressing Anthropocene Era.

We absorbed the absolute cleanliness and stark temperatures as the escape from town changed everything. For example, when the heat rose sharply, I simply left my jacket hanging on a bush beside the trail, knowing I could pick it up in a few hours without any worries — no other people!

Heading steadily east (northeast) along the Upper Manzana Creek Trail, hikers meandered around the rocky stream bed, sometimes crossing back and forth, and then alternating with long, parallel stretches of path.

Suddenly I realized that the stream bed had widened hugely, and in several places had been gouged out along with thousands of cubic tons of boulders, rocks and trees. Most of the stream sycamores vanished in the massive erosion, as well as many of the durable willows that gleamed yellow as we stroll along the riverbank.

When people ask, “Don’t you tire of trudging up and down this same Manzana Creek?” I cordially reply that the entire gestalt of the place transforms regularly.

Last winter, the bounteous rainfall blasted away at the material environment, transfiguring much of our Mother planet’s rugged topography. In the photograph below, Mr. C is in the lower left of the stream bed far below a surviving sycamore stand; he is emerging from a recent huge gouge behind him in the stream that occurred here last winter (he’s returning to Nira).

Behind him, there are even more boulders in the white stream bed. This watercourse has become utterly different after last winter’s heavy downpours and harsh erosion.

The San Rafael Wilderness is usually very dry and experiences increasing drought periods. When a strong winter’s rainfall is double normal or more, the stream bed morphology alters dramatically as flash floods, mud flows, debris flows and other natural processes reconfigure it through erosion. I have observed this several times in my hiking around.

The fancy term for these transformations is “streambed geomorphology,” and geologists mark the heavy changes.

In early October, I hiked across the much larger Sespe River at Piedra Blanca (off Highway 33) and became disoriented for a bit while scrambling around on its vastly expanded wash area, a “plain of boulders.” Growing up in Los Angeles, we would always term these rocky wastelands a “wash.” Geologically, a wash is a rough boulder-strewn area, a “washland,” intended to be flooded when river levels are high, such as occurred last winter.

Hiking through and clambering around in these Southern California “washes” makes for grand fun, and children especially enjoy scampering about in them and discovering things. It can be hard on the boots, and sometimes confusing.

Along the Manzana wash, we saw critters in the water, although none of the sacred turtles I had hoped for, and occasional raptors soared and screamed overhead. We looked up at the looming foothills that framed the sky with brown and green hillsides, and then saw the distant stream bed punctuated by the sycamores’ orange leaves and dark green blots of majestic gray pines.

Driving in before dawn, we never saw a single car after leaving the Chumash Highway (154), nor was anyone present at Davy Brown Camp or at the very large Nira Camp, which was  also our trailhead where we parked the truck.

The golden hue of early morning silhouetted a dying oak tree.

I was stoked and highly elated with the idea that we were the only humans in this huge area. (Someone dryly poked at this statement: “Perhaps it’s the opposite and we’re idiots to be the only two humans back here?”)

Well, OK, yet I remain emotionally energetic just standing out in the 32-degree weather, uplifted by clean air, enchanting vistas, imagining I might spy a wild bear, mountain lion, horned toad (wot) or condor. I absolutely knew this unpolluted land without any humans on it offered healing, proffered a chance for some contemplation, and that She was sentient and aware.  

Mr. C and I have hiked together for almost 40 years, and a particular technique we’ve developed is to hike at least 200 yards apart and often up to a quarter-mile, thus allowing each individual time for relative solitude in the Mother’s rejuvenating land.

On the trail, we passed swiftly through scenic Lost Valley Camp, then two more miles into Fish Camp, and finally we entered sprawling Ray’s Camp at the five-mile mark.

Ray’s is a practical site for minimalists like me. It’s simple “dirt camping” with just three human amenities: a sturdy table, an iron fire pit and access to water (to filter). Ray’s is a cool overnight backpacking camp or the ideal goal for a 10-mile day hike.

After 2½ hours hiking, we sat down at the Ray’s table to enjoy a nourishing lunch with the musical water flowing nearby — for me, two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a banana, Fig Newtons and plenty of water.

I picked up the pace on our return day hike, a second five-miler, and this coincided with the swiftly rising temperature that hit 72 degrees. That’s honestly hot if you are pressing along in the direct sunlight, even in the late fall. The final three-mile stretch from Fish Camp to Nira via Lost Valley Camp wore me down and tested my spirit and fitness during the 10-mile day.      

Immersed in a peak experience, I gave seven hours of hard effort to cruise around along Manzana Creek — “forest bathing” beside a pure and flowing watercourse. In the Tao, this is the “watercourse way.” The dramatic stream bed alterations — morphological scourings — make the journey even more interesting, and incline one to accept major changes in the socio-political realms back home with a bit more ease. 

4.1.1.

Drive the 45 miles to Nira Trailhead: Take Highway 101 to the Chumash Highway (154); at Armour Ranch Road, turn right. Quickly turn right again on Happy Canyon Road. Drive to the very end past Davy Brown Camp and park at the Nira Trailhead (do not pay any fee demanded by Parks Management Co. here).