Archives for May 2003

Venturing to the Snow Mountain Wilderness is an adventure in itself. It’s one of those places in Northern California where you pause and say, “Wait, seriously, we’re still in California?”

It was a sunny spring day as we headed up I-5 north towards Williams. The fields were green, the sky was blue, and we had the windows down. Only a small section on the 360-degree horizon looked like a dark grey shadow Dr. Evil might call home – and that’s where we were looking to spend our weekend backpacking.

As we grew closer it became clear that Snow Mountain would indeed live up to its name. Swirling grey clouds and white slopes stood out in the distance. “So, uh… we’re planning to summit that today eh?”

“Hmmm…”

In the meantime we made the turnoff past Williams and were headed down some seriously fun backroads. Our little Subaru got to enjoy the glory of SUV commercials zipping around corners, over huge bumps, next to steep cliffs, and past meadows of purple wildflowers. The only traffic was the random cow that stood on our side of the fence and a few white farm pickups. Two hours of this and we’re beginning to think, “How do people get groceries around here? With an icechest?”

As we closed in on Snow Mountain we were introduced to one of the favorite pastimes in this area – dirt biking. The crowd seemed a close relative to the more familiar snowmobiling variety often seen in the habitats of Tahoe. On our way to the trailhead we passed hoards of pickups with trailers and kids that couldn’t be older than five racing in head to toe protective gear sans training wheels. When driving in this area just be aware that there are more bikes than cars and they don’t always stop at crossings. I myself had a close call with a full grown male around a hairpin turn.

You may be thinking right now, she sure is spending a lot of time on the ‘getting there’ portion of the adventure, but when the Falcon Hiking Guide spends over one full type written page on the “Finding the trailhead” section you’re bound to spend some quality time in the car trying to remember if you restarted your trip tic at the last turn in an attempt to match the written instructions.

Then we hit the snow. It started with a few inches and some slushy spots. Eventually it was eight inches deep and getting worse. The road hadn’t been plowed and the trusty Subaru was getting pissed. After a stop in a broad section of road, Matt and I considered our equipment: No snow camping gear, no snowshoes, and no shovel. We made the responsible decision to turn around and identify Plan B. There would be no summit today, and Matt’s next book had one more chapter.

Plan B introduced itself as a descriptive paragraph on the back of a map Dad ordered for us from the local Ranger Station: Deafy Glade and the Bath House Trail. It was only 20 minutes back and a good distance below the snowline. We packed up our things and headed down the two rugged miles of lush forest and flat trail to our campsite.

Maybe it was the tough work week, or maybe it was the rain, but we slept about 14 hours that night and woke up feeling like champs.

Then it started to rain. This was actually a welcome event because in our two years of backpacking together, including a full 2003 season of snow camping, we had never experienced poor weather. That’s if you don’t count the jet engine winds of our second night snow camping where we were sure our poor tent would end up down the valley with us high tailing it for the car. But just like we stuck that night out, we pulled out our rain gear and settled in for a long afternoon’s nap.

Maybe it was the tough work week, or maybe it was the rain, but we slept about 14 hours that night and woke up feeling like champs. The silence of the vacant forest, and sound of the rain gave us a chance to relax together and enjoy one of my favorite things about backpacking… doing nothing.

We did take a few walks around – down the South Fork and back – took some pictures, splashed through some puddles, and picked up trash. We picked up a lot of trash that weekend. Apparently the regular visitors to this place hadn’t heard the phrase “zero impact” and discarded all kinds of items including diapers, shot gun shells, beer cans, and toilet paper. I hate seeing other peoples’ toilet paper shoved into the nooks and crannies of the backcountry. Pack it out folks – that’s what ziplock bags are for! All told, Matt and I collected the better half of a dozen cans, 3 shot gun shells, a few plastic caps, and several pieces of knotted wire. The diaper is still there and will be in 50+ years if someone doesn’t climb down the hill to get it.

We may have been too early to summit Snow Mountain, but it was a great trip to relax and enjoy the weekend. On the way back we were treated to spectacular views of this rugged country as we drove down to spring in the Central Valley. And no trip through Williams around noon would be complete without sandwiches at Granzellas, a family tradition I was happy to introduce Matt to for about the 4th time. He grinned at me as I saved the second half of my sandwich for lunch the next day. I would have driven here for the sandwich alone.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in May, 2003 (or thereabouts).

As I wiped the tears of pain from under my sunglasses with a dusty and now muddy hand, I tried to retain some thread of the ‘tough mountain chick’ status Matt had jokingly given to me earlier. Too late. Sobs started to bubble from within and I was just too exhausted to care. No trail had ever brought me to tears before and my thoughts turned to the park ranger’s comment, “People don’t train in Coe Park for the Sierra, they train in the Sierra for Coe Park.” At that moment the High Sierra seemed a cakewalk compared to Coe.

This was our second trip to Coe and our first overnight trip without snow for the 2003 season. It had been two years since our first visit and that was barely enough time to forget the unbelievably steep trails and intense wilderness experience that lives just down the street from the Bay Area. I’m sure you’re thinking, “…And they went there on purpose?… Twice?!” But that’s the thing – these same steep canyons that brought me to the brink are a challenge full of rewards that make the temporary misery worth it and provide an excellent spring training ground and kickoff destination for a season of backpacking.

Early spring is by far the best time to visit. We spent Memorial Day weekend of 2001 trekking through the area and it was fairly dry and very warm. This time we went in late March and were treated to an amazing array of emerald green hillsides with blazing poppies and other wildflowers. Our destination was Los Cruzeros camp, a small campground with roughly three sites 5.8 miles and all downhill from the park headquarters.

On our way we spent a mile in “The Narrows”, the aptly named canyon where the East Fork of Coyote Creek meanders its way over giant boulders and loose rocks. Although the map doesn’t show a trail here, it is possible to pick your way up creek, just prepare for the trip. After being warned of multiple creek crossings, I chose to put my boots in my pack and wear my Tevas. Had I to do this again, I would have kept my Gortex boots on. By the time we reached camp, my ankles were weak and wobbly numbers from supporting the awkward positions it took to scramble over the rocks with a full pack on my back.

I think my very favorite part about Henry Coe is the abundance of life. Between our two trips we’ve seen wild turkeys, a dead boar crawling with an entomologist’s gold mine, snakes, fish, a turtle, and all the regular players, including every kind of bug one could imagine. This is definitely a location where you’ll master the art (if you haven’t already) of jumping into and zipping up the tent in Olympic record time. There are also a ton of different types of plants, grasses, and trees providing homes for all of these creatures. It’s fascinating to just pause and pay attention to all of the things moving around you.

People don’t train in Coe Park for the Sierra, they train in the Sierra for Coe Park.

Our campsite was next to the creek on a grassy flat and, up to this point, is my favorite place to stay in the park. There was shade to nap in, flat places to cook, rocks for sitting on, deep pools to wade in and our neighbors were reasonably removed allowing the sounds of the creek to fill the background noise. Although the days were warm, the nights were perfect and an especially welcome change from the snow camping we did all winter. Between the ‘walk’ in the narrows, the warmer temperature, and the crickets, we slept really well that night.

Since our destination was “all downhill from the park headquarters”, this meant the trip back was predominately, well, uphill. In an attempt to tame the climb, we chose a route back that would keep us mainly on dirt roads with the thought that these would be gentle enough to at least accommodate a vehicle… a Hummer perhaps. The fire roads literally went straight up a hillside and tested the joints in our feet and the fit in our boots. The angle between my shin and toes was reduced to pie sliver, and my wobbly ankles from the day before screamed in indignation. Once we conquered a hillside and celebrated by enjoying the view from the shade of an Oak or Ponderosa Pine, we pushed on only to find the road take a nose dive straight down a distance equal to what we had climbed and rise again even higher. Who knew land this rugged could be so close to home?!

Between the spring sun and a trail that paralleled the Dow Jones average over the course of a century, I unknowingly was sending my body on a crash course. I drank constantly from my Camelback, but it wasn’t enough. The water felt like it was souring my stomach and I took my time between sips. Between switchbacks I would pause, face downhill to rest my ankles, and charge ahead swinging my arms in exaggerated arcs in an effort to coax my feet to take another step. If only I were a puppet and they were all attached… My head started to pound and tears were welling up. I knew exactly what I had done to myself – dehydration started to take over and all I wanted was some Gatorade, juice, or anything else besides warm filtered creek water. I was sure if I kept drinking that I would be sick and lose any valuable fluid I still had left.

At the top of the last major hill, I motioned to Matt that I needed to sit and rest and we crashed under a giant oak. I tried to catch my breath and wipe the dirty tears from my hand onto my shorts without appearing too woozy to the passing day hikers. Seriously, Half Dome was easier. After we were able to rest a bit and I drank some more, we started paying attention to the tree we were sitting under. Hundreds of acorns filled the gaps between the tree bark and looked as if they had grown on the tree that way. A squirrel had made cubby holes of the trunk and branches to store its food as if the tree was a giant pantry. Check out the pictures of this tree below.

By the time we reached the Park Headquarters, I was done. I pounded some juice and slept the entire way home. The following days I was sick. Really sick. Without enough fluids, my digestive system started to shut down and I couldn’t process any of the water that I needed so desperately. Lesson learned. Keep drinking no matter what, and bring flavored mixers if the water isn’t too tasty.

Despite the roughness of this trip, I imagine we’ll keep returning to Coe. Its ruggedness is addicting and I can’t imagine a place so full of life with spring. It just makes you want to be and stay outside.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in May, 2003 (or thereabouts).

“This is right now. This is right NOW!” This thought kept repeating itself as I stared with tear filled eyes the size of tennis balls down at Matt. He was balanced on one knee in the middle of a rocky dirt road that clung to a cliff above the Santa Barbara Channel. The last 12 hours suddenly made sense.

The idea of backpacking in the Channel Islands was born while driving up to ski on the dawn of a February morning. Memorial Day weekend finally came and we drove all night to southern California to board a boat in Ventura accompanied by 60 teenage Boy Scouts. Amidst the mayhem, Matt and I found an unoccupied piece of standing space at the fore of the boat and faced the salty morning air ready for our big island backpacking adventure. I glanced back at the dock and had a fleeting thought as we pulled away from the security of the pilings. “Whatever happened to the stove fuel?” It would seem that the red MSR canister had been separated from our other belongings as requested by the crew, and placed on the dock instead of the appropriate metal bin. Matt’s facial expression will forever be imprinted in my memory.

On our way across the Channel we passed a humpback whale (my first sighting) and watched Santa Cruz Island appear in the distance just as the California coastline disappeared. Much to our relief and entertainment, the circus of Boy Scouts and their brave adult counterparts would be calling Scorpion Bay home for the next few days – we were going to Prisoner’s Harbor. For forty-five minutes, we watched the endless line of people unload a ridiculous quantity and variety of equipment from the hull of the boat including full sized cots, giant Rubbermaid bins, and loose Coleman sleeping bags. Perfectly equipped for the one-mile walk into the campground. Way to introduce the boys to real camping, scout leaders!

Happy to be leaving the action behind, (and to see that none of our equipment was mistakenly unloaded) we took the boat out of the bay and headed north along the island’s coastline. On the way we joined a school of dolphins near Coche Point in the midst of their morning swim. I had never seen dolphins in the wild and was thoroughly entertained with how they played in the water, riding the compression wave created by our vessel. I tried to take pictures, but nearly every shot features the remnants of a splash and the horizon of a gray sky against a gray bay. But there would be another opportunity to take pictures near this Point.

Just before we docked, the park ranger on board, who distinctly resembled Ned Flanders, told of the trail options leading to the Del Norte campsite. The first option was the dirt road that wound it’s way to our destination. The second option was the Del Norte trail that had not yet been cleared for the season and was overgrown, and very difficult to navigate. Ranger Ned clearly identified the road as the best way to get to camp… (“oakily doakily” I thought) and warned us of the wild pigs on the island that we might encounter in overgrown areas like the trail. However, during lunch, and a good mile into the road, Matt studied the map and persuaded me that the more adventurous route should be our choice. I resisted, but after my sandwich, saw the funny gleam in his eye. He REALLY wanted to take the trail and he was by definition our most experienced navigator.

Funny thing about the Channel Islands… everyone starts at the same place – on the beach. If you want to go anywhere, you go up – straight up. And if you choose the Del Norte trail as we did, you go straight up, then straight down, straight up, and then straight down, and then, yes – straight up once more. We climbed in and out of drainages, through fennel covered trails, and nearly lost our way at least once. Everywhere we looked we saw signs of these mysterious wild pigs. The fennel and brush were completely plowed down in areas and their dung was… everywhere. But there were no pigs. There was an eerie Lord of the Flies vibe about this place. You could feel them, just not see them. I half expected a surprised pig to jump out and start chasing us. After all, what the hell were we doing on his trail anyway?

By the time we crawled into camp, we were tired. Our 1 AM start that morning from San Francisco, and our trek on the ‘adventurous’ route had left us exhausted. I should also mention that on the Channel Islands, you’re responsible for packing all of your water. This added the ingredient of very heavy packs to the mix. The second couple on the boat had apparently abided by Ranger Ned’s suggestion and had taken the only nice campsite in the place under an oak tree. We wandered around until choosing a location to stomp down the grasses and fennel making room for our tent and a well-deserved nap. Our only wake-up call would be to take pictures when the light was just right.

Just before the light turned amber, Matt and I started to walk back towards the cliffs. He had bought a new camera and was always wanting to play when given the chance. I kept asking if he was satisfied with the view and he hesitated, said no, and we kept walking further from camp. We walked until we overlooked the area with the dolphins earlier from the day – Coche Point.

While Matt was taking pictures and trying different techniques with adjusting the tripod, I wandered, taking snapshots of my own, and sat down in the gravel road to enjoy the view. Matt periodically asks my opinion in photography matters, so when he asked me to check out his composition, I didn’t think twice and peered through the camera. A gorgeous sunset painted on the rocks framed with a sparkling bay below. I heard Matt ask me to give him a hand (yes he actually said that) and when I looked down to tell him I thought everything looked great, our lives changed.

On his knee, in the middle of a road scattered with sharp gravel, above the Santa Barbara Channel, with amber light all around, Matt held the most beautiful ring I had ever seen. This was right now. He was asking me to marry him.

The next few moments are a blur, but I know there was a wild, “YES!”, tears, and a giant hug. We were getting married! The stove fuel mishap, the funny look in his eye about the trail, the ‘picture taking episode’, it all connected.

We walked on a path of clouds back to camp where we told our neighbors about our engagement and had them take our picture. As the sun dipped away and the stars came out, we sat and ate our engagement dinner – a half eaten sandwich, Power Bars, and a bottle of champagne Matt had so thoughtfully added to his lightweight pack. (He had also packed 2 collapsible backcountry champagne flutes that will be making an appearance during our wedding.) That evening as we lay on our bed of flattened grasses, the pigs decided to show us just whose territory we had invaded. They snorted and ran by our tent – still invisible, but most certainly present. We snickered. Nothing says romance like pig snorts in the dark.

And nothing says commitment like an 11-mile hike up and over the crest of Santa Cruz Island. Our packs were heavy, but my steps felt light that morning. All of the times I had resisted thinking about what it would be like to plan a wedding with Matt came crashing down. I let the brain candy of thoughts weave through my mind and asked him questions on things I had always wanted to ask. Was it now ok to tell him how I wanted to marry him only 3 weeks after dating? Hmm… maybe I’ll give it a few days yet. First we’ve got to get to Scorpion Bay, and I don’t need him second-guessing his decision to ask.

The hike to the other end of the island was beautiful and tough. Along the top of the ridgeline, through wispy fog, we were sometimes treated to views of both the Pacific Ocean and the Santa Barbara Channel. It felt as if we were walking across the back of a giant sea creature suspended in time. The highlight film from the weekend would have included us making a wrong turn near lunch and correcting our path by crawling under a barbed wire fence. (Matt shimmying on his tummy in the grass was priceless.) And our long walk home through the Mars-like red dirt and rock on the backside of the Montanon ridge looked like a scene out of a bad science fiction movie. We were exhausted and out of water by the time we reached Scorpion Bay.

After an endless supply of power bars and an 11-mile hike, I was determined to eat a hot meal that night and decided to make friends with a neighboring church group. I made a 7pm appointment for stove time with Dave (our neighbor) and we scarfed down 5 servings of Mountain House lasagna without chewing. Part of winning Dave over was mentioning our engagement and he made the first official announcement about our future marriage out loud to his fellow campers. My tummy was full and I was a beaming bride-to-be; sticky cheese fingers and all.

That night we slept under a grove of Eucalyptus trees (minus the pig lullabies) and had a restful morning waiting for our boat back to the mainland. Alone together on an island for three days meant we had a big secret to share on our way home, and upon arriving back to the mainland we pulled out our cell phones and started sharing our story.

Read Matt’s version of this story.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in May, 2003 (or thereabouts).

As our boat pulled away from the dock in Ventura Harbor, I ran through a mental checklist of big-ticket items for this trip.

Backpack – check.

Camera bag – check.

Diamond engagement ring – check.

Stove fuel…wait, what ever happened to the stove fuel?

And so it came to pass, that on the weekend of our engagement, in the picturesque Channel Islands, I would absent-mindedly subject us to three days and two nights of cold meals. I could hardly be blamed. I had more important things on my mind. Like how I was going to pull off a romantic marriage proposal in the company of 60 spastic Boy Scouts and their various handlers. I crossed my fingers and called upon the powers of all that is good and fair in the universe, hoping they would be let off at the first stop – fifteen miles and one big ridgeline away from where we planned to start our trip.

Despite the overcast skies, Someone was smiling down on me. When we arrived at Scorpion Bay, 110 of the 120 passengers on board, including every last one of the Scouts, got off the boat, carrying with them enough gear to mount a three-month Himalayan expedition. Jody and I watched with amusement as the crew begrudgingly unloaded the stockpile of crap the Scouts had toted aboard. Before long, we pulled away from the dock and headed around the eastern flank of Santa Cruz Island, passing Chinese Harbor and Coche Point; landmarks that would, for several reasons, be burned into our collective memories for years to come. En route from Ventura we had already passed various seals and sea lions, a friendly humpback whale, and a group of dolphins so large they gave life to the rather placid morning waters of the Santa Barbara Channel. The trip had all the markings of an epic, by our standards at least.

Backpacking on the Channel Islands presents a unique challenge. In a cruel twist of irony, there is no water in the backcountry. Despite the lush hillsides, most of the creeks and seasonal springs are dry by late May. We knew this in advance and had planned accordingly. For the first two days of our trip, until we reached Scorpion Bay, we would need to haul every drop of water we might need. This translated into about 5 gallons, to be on the safe side. After loading two 6-liter water tanks into my pack, I effectively added about 25 pounds to the load I normally carry. Throw in a bottle of Champagne and a full camera bag plus tripod and I was looking at the heaviest pack I had ever hauled.

We arrived at Prisoner’s Harbor and were surprised to learn that only one other couple was heading to the same campsite we were. During our “orientation” by an NPS ranger, he encouraged us to hike the dirt road all the way to the campsite, avoiding the overgrown but more direct Del Norte trail. After a mile of slogging up a steep and none-too-interesting dirt road, we arrived at the intersection where the Del Norte trail veered off. We dropped our packs, caught our breath, and settled down for lunch.

While we munched away on our sandwiches, I pulled out the map and decided to review our route options myself. Ranger Dave had been pretty clear about his recommendation. I also noticed that, when discussing ticks on the island, he indicated a counterclockwise turn was the best method for removing the little buggers. Since any backpacker worth their salt knows that pulling a tick straight out is the approved method of the hour, I took this as a clear indication that he didn’t know shit and couldn’t be trusted. In hindsight, this might have been an ill-advised leap in logic. One thing lacking from my arsenal of map reading skills is an attention to the little things – the small details. For instance, when I saw that the Del Norte trail was shorter and more direct than taking the dirt road, what I should have noticed is that it crossed through two substantial drainages en route, forcing us down and back up very steep and rocky sections of trail. During the next 2.5 miles, I was very aware that getting us stuck deep in the brush of some overgrown canyon wouldn’t bode well for my impending proposal. Channeling Sacagawea, I led us through the overgrown muck and we arrived at the Del Norte campsite in one piece.

Channeling Sacagawea, I led us through the overgrown muck and we arrived at the Del Norte campsite in one piece.

The other couple had taken the recommended route and beat us to the campground, staking claim to the only decent site; a grassy little number under a shady oak. We trampled about in search of the other “sites” and settled on the only other level spot we could find, deep in a thicket of fennel and thistles. Neither of us had been blessed with any more than two hours of sleep in the past day and a half. After six hours of driving, two hours of boating, and three hours of hiking, we were a bit punchy and the only thing on our minds was taking a hard-earned nap. My master plan was to wake up before sunset and suggest a hike to a spot where we might take pictures while the light was good.

We rose from our long nap feeling refreshed. Before departing for our photo safari, I checked for the forty-seventh time that day to be sure the ring was, in fact, stashed safely in the bottom of my camera bag. Hiking down the trail I began to wonder just how many guys had lured their girlfriends to a scenic spot under the guise of “taking some cool pictures.” It might not have been the most original idea, but Jody seemed pretty clueless about what was really happening. Several times, we stopped and Jody asked if the spot was good. I knew that our destination had to be more than just photogenic. It had to be proposal-worthy. It had to stand the test of time. It had to endure what I hoped would be countless retellings of “our story.” We pressed on. A mile down the road we came to a bend where the hillside dropped off and we were treated to an unobstructed view of Coche Point, the spot where Montanon Ridge finally yields to gravity and tumbles down to the Pacific.

As the sun inched toward the horizon behind us, the light grew warmer and we both started taking pictures. Waiting for the perfect moment, I pretended to be interested in what I was doing, bouncing from one spot to another, burning through an entire roll of thoroughly uninspired pictures. Just before the sun dipped below the horizon, as it set ablaze the clouds spilling down Coche Point, I set up my tripod and asked Jody to come over and take a look at my composition. As she peered through my camera, I took a knee and pulled out the ring. When Jody turned around, it took her a second to figure out what was going on. I’m not exactly sure what I said, but I took my sister’s advice and kept it short. I’m pretty sure the words “Will you marry me?” came out at some point, because Jody said “Yes” and we enjoyed a long hug and kiss on the top our mountain on our little island in the Pacific.

We snapped a couple of quick self-portraits and headed back to the campsite, drunk on love and tripping over our smiles. I was finally able to tell Jody about the past few weeks of shopping and planning and the reason why I couldn’t be blamed for leaving the stove fuel on the dock. With no hot meal in our future, we settled down at the picnic table near our site and enjoyed an engagement dinner that couldn’t have defined the moment any better – two Powerbars, half a salami sandwich, and a bottle of Champagne that I had snuck along for the trip.

The next morning, we took our time getting ready. Our excitement about the engagement was tempered by the day that lay ahead of us – eleven miles of hiking, some of it off-trail, to reach the Scorpion Bay campground. Mercifully, the weather was cool and the overcast skies gave us some reprieve from the Southern California sun. Despite the heavy loads and our sore hips, we settled into a nice pace. Our route took us past the previous night’s spot and pushed us up and down steep dirt roads as we headed east toward Montanon Ridge. The scale of the landscape took shape as we approached the ridgeline. Although they weren’t necessarily very tall (1500′), the proximity to the ocean below gave the mountains in front of us an impressive stature. I felt very small as the trail faded away and we were left to pick our route up the craggy flank of High Mount. A wrong turn a mile back had worn us down a bit and by the time we finally reached the ridgeline, we were ready for a break.

Jody took some pictures and I assessed our water situation. After topping off our Camelbacks and smaller water bottles, I realized that in less than two days, we were going to finish all 5 gallons we had brought along. Unfortunately, I never really noticed the weight missing from my pack. As my load had become lighter, my legs had also grown more tired, resulting in a disappointing net-zero effect.

We snapped a couple of quick self-portraits and headed back to the campsite, drunk on love and tripping over our smiles.

With only four miles to go, we began the slow descent to Scorpion Bay. Day hikers began to pass us going the opposite direction. The route was littered with golf-ball-sized rocks that caused us to stumble downhill in an awkward display of footwork. What we lacked in grace, we made up for in determination. The last four miles of the hike dragged on and on. By the time we reached Scorpion Bay, we were ready to crash. We found a great campsite in a eucalyptus grove and were happy to hear that the Boy Scouts had been isolated in the upper campground, secluded and contained at a safe distance. During my nap, Jody took a stroll and charmed her way into the good graces of a church group that was camping nearby. She informed them of our stove predicament and they graciously offered us some time on one of their stoves later that evening. During a yummy dinner of freeze-dried lasagna, we resumed our talks about wedding plans and how we were going to tell our family and friends.

A peaceful night under the stars gave way to a mellow morning. We explored the boundaries of laziness in earnest as the day passed by. Our 4 P.M. departure from the island gave us a chance to cruise the beach of Scorpion Bay and talk about our marriage and our wedding and all sorts of other mushy stuff. The time alone was relaxing and stood in stark contrast to the whirlwind that was sure to await us when we got home and told everyone about our weekend

The passage back to Ventura took a long time as our boat was half as big and the seas were twice as rough as two days prior. After powering down a couple of foot long sandwiches in record time, we got back on the road and made good use of the six-hour drive to San Francisco. Roaming charges be damned, we called all of our family and friends and spilled the beans about our weekend. Our calls were met with smiles and laughter and resounding approval. The fun of telling everyone our news made the drive home speed by. We pulled the car onto Lake Street a few minutes past midnight, bringing to a close the most memorable backpacking trip of our lives. WOO HOO! WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!

Read Jody’s version of this story.

This post is part of the SierraSoul Archive. The trip took place in May, 2003 (or thereabouts).