On Jan. 2, 1991, my 9-year-old son and I backpacked into the Sespe Wilderness planning to sleep overnight at 3,600-foot Twin Forks Camp on legendary Piedra Blanca Creek.
I described sylvan Twin Forks Camp and passing through las piedras blancas in my most recent column, and the cramped campsite is little changed from a much earlier backpacking trek 33 years ago.
However, I feel required to amend one issue with my 2023 account by sharing the following backcountry drama.
By 1991, the Santa Barbara County region had been mired in a seven-year drought of almost biblical proportions — or so it seemed back then.
I recall that Lake Cachuma was at 6% capacity, and most of us were on our metaphoric knees praying for rain. Thus, I was also remarkably unconcerned about potential weather risks incurred by backpacking into the remote and tricky Sespe Wilderness.
I knew that some rainfall had been forecast, but the “genius” weather folks had been wrong for seven years, and there was little faith in their hopeful prognostications of precipitation.
Most of us over-40 locals will recall the bounteous “March Miracle of 1991,” which came two months later, but the mountainous area behind Ojai also received a mini-deluge on Jan. 2.
New Year’s Day 1991 had passed, a Tuesday, and my mental exhaustion from dual roles at my middle school meant I either had to make an arduous backcountry trek or risk a nervous collapse over the next few months.
At least that’s what my self-drama and over-intensity told me; therefore, on Wednesday, Jan. 2, I set off in my aging Volkswagen van with plenty of gear and an excited 9-year-old boy.
After a 75-mile drive through Ojai and out Maricopa Highway (Highway 33), we desperately looked forward to clambering up the rugged backside of the Pine Mountain massif to hike along pristine Piedra Blanca Creek for about three miles.
We were walking by 9 a.m. in cold winter conditions, but mostly clear and dry. This backpacking trek begins by fording Sespe Creek, which at times can flood and become quite dangerous to cross, especially wearing backpacks.
After a seven-year drought, we barely noticed the Sespe watercourse at all and trudged slowly up the Gene Marshall/Piedra Blanca Trail (22W03), thus beginning an ascent up the south-facing side of lofty Pine Mountain (6,650 feet).
Like many hikers and would-be naturalists, I maintain journals about various jaunts, and here are some direct quotations from my 1991 journal recounting part of that backpacking trek with my son, which was supposed to be a lark (how tough is three miles, eh?)! (Scrawled in faded red ink.)
Jan. 2, 1991, Weds., Twin Forks
Gabe and I are camping at Twin Forks along copious Piedra Blanca Creek. 3,600 feet up the mountain, cool (49 F), overcast (predictions of rain) … and we are the only ones back here!
G is happy as a clam, our fire chirps merrily in the camp grate, the foil-pouch dehydrated meal has boiled up nicely, God’s in His Heav’n and His people inherit wondrously beautiful Nature — gorgeous here on the front flank of lofty Pine Mountain. This shimmering sunset seems fully western: arid sandstone and mixed chaparral; and we’re beneath riparian oaks and fragrant gray pine next to the trickling creek. A gritty overcast sky darkens as a heavy front looms above; we all pray for rain here in our ritual drought.
Meanwhile, Gabe and I are alert to rain — my best four-season tent is up and we’re not overly worried but curious.
Twin Forks is an official backcountry campsite and has been situated there at least since 1930. What’s notable about this very crude camp — not even a table — is how it unfortunately sits on the “other” side of Piedra Blanca Creek from the main trail.
The wrong side.
An aspect of Twin Forks’ great glamour and natural beauty comes with the tangle of boulders and bushes at this chaotic confluence of Piedra Blanca Creek’s North Fork and Middle Fork — hence the monicker, Twin Forks.
However, the U.S. Forest Service (or perhaps the Civilian Conservation Corps, which originally constructed this campsite), in its wisdom, placed the grill and campsite way over there across two river courses right where they conjoin.
In the second photograph, readers can see part of this rocky confluence at very low water in October. However, 33 years ago, the willows and sycamores were much thicker and more overgrown, various trees had half-fallen, and obviously it’s always been a challenging area to traverse.
Given the organic debris, chaparral, wicked willows and deep pools, we now understand why the Forest Service never placed a table at Twin Forks Camp.
Of course, in 1991, heavy winter rainfall struck our tent at 2:30 a.m. Thursday. I remained calm about it at first.
By 4 a.m., when the lower third of our sturdy Mountain Hut tent had filled with icy rainwater, neither Gabe nor I thought it was good, although we managed to keep our sleeping bags mostly dry.
A key survival awareness here is to avoid over-active thinking that I have to do something right now.
Pitch-dark outside, dry in most of the tent — there is no level ground at Twin Forks, so while the tent-roof was holding, a lower section of ground is where water leaked onto our floor — I knew we shouldn’t go out until there was some light. We knew that sunrise was at 7:05 a.m. on Jan. 3.
Yet, the rainfall kept pounding and I felt an inner elation — like a liquid manna from on high the dark heavens had parted and poured life-giving water everywhere.
A blessing certainly, but a mounting challenge for us, alone and confident on the mountainside.
The heavy yin mother-earth consciousness pulled on our questing male spirits, and Gabe asked, “When are we going out into it?”
Enough light filtered through the dense oak cover by 6:30 a.m., and we put on our heavy rain gear, boots, everything inside the tent, rolled up what we could in there, and emerged into the deluge and tried to take the heavy tent down.
Ouch! Rolling up wet tent material in the cold with bits of rocks and leaves made my hands ache, but we finally were standing and getting ready to traverse the pair of foaming creeks.
We experienced a tremendous adventure navigating the 75 yards from the Twin Forks campsite down into the ravine and through the surging torrent while wearing our backpacks.
Amid the steady rain, just at the spot where we were crossing, we beheld a tangled nightmare of more tough willow bushes, fallen trees, standing trees, and wide pools between large boulders.
We had scrambled over when we came in the previous day at low water. Tricky as this always is even under the best of conditions, with the foaming water I couldn’t see how deep these pools were.
I was honestly quite disturbed as we started to ford the stream, but then abruptly changed my mind and chose to leave Gabe at the creek-side next to a sturdy sycamore while I crossed over solo with my backpack to the main trail to verify the circuitous route, and then left my pack over there.
Returning across the creek to rejoin my son, I crossed a third time wearing his backpack and grasping him tightly; we forded the surging conjoined waters for the last time — but completely soaked.
The complex process involved some scrambling over the boulders, wading through pools, and remaining patient despite cold and rain.
We had no ropes, no hiking poles, no help and no cellphone (it was 1991!).
We were all on our own, and practicing Ralph Waldo Emerson’s sturdy self-reliance.
Once over to the safer side, we trundled down the muddy Piedra Blanca Trail, and while a bit risky it became extremely hilarious, too.
I distinctly recall Gabe and me howling with laughter as we slalomed on parts of the trail, and I slipped hard at least twice.
I will always believe it strengthened my boy’s resolve, and I know it deepened our relationship.
Three miles later, after sliding and gliding down the Piedra Blanca Trail, we next had to ford the swollen Sespe watercourse — it had transformed into a river, no longer a creek.
Again, this experience became absolutely challenging and fun in certain ways. The water was up to my waist but not yet moving especially fast.
Finally reaching the Piedra Blanca parking area, we observed no cars at all and, of course, no other humans.
Drenched, we gratefully crawled into the shabby VW van. The ancient van wouldn’t start but I had hope. Luckily, I had warm gear inside so we boiled some tea there with my Bluet stove, and we knew we could just sit tight and come out the next day.
Eventually, after some spiritual recovering, thanking Hutas and the stars AND all my good preparation and fitness, I tinkered with the VW engine in the rain and somehow got it going.
We drove to Ojai in steady rainfall and checked into a local motel on the east end of town, not part of the original plan.
There, at the Los Padres Inn (I think it was named), we were able to call my partner who had become a bit worried — though I’d been late many times before.
We cannot literally return 33 years into the pre-internet past, but I appreciate that we did not have cellphones then, or any of those over-the-top “emergency beacons” — certainly soul-weakening devices.
I ended my last column by recommending that backpackers bring their children on the Twin Forks trek. I amend this now by stating do bring your kids but hike with a friend and check out the weather forecasts better than I did in 1991!
4-1-1
Map and driving directions: Tom Harrison’s “Sespe Wilderness Trail Map” covers this hike. Drive Highway 101 south to Ventura. Take Highway 33 to Ojai; continue along Maricopa Highway (Highway 33) to the Rose Valley turnoff and drive to the end where it meets the large Piedra Blanca Trailhead parking lot.
Highway 33 still has three sets of traffic signals between Ojai and the Rose Valley turnoff, and there will be some waiting in either direction.