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Anza-Borrego State Park, Part 2

Sunday, Mar 2, 2003
Hike: Sheep Canyon (15 miles roundtrip)

Travelogue © 2003 Branislav L. Slantchev

As if my exposure to Anza Borrego was not enough the first time around, this weekend's trip is to the same desert park. I wake up in rugged explorer mode, which means I am leaving the cell phone home and taking only water and two bananas with me. It don't get any braver than this! Unfortunately, I also forget the map.

Remembering the near-disaster last week, I drink no milk, which, given my lack of other provisions, translates in having no breakfast whatsoever. I figure one banana for lunch, and another for an afternoon snack should be plenty. I mean, these are huge, completely unorganically-grown, and chemical-laden mothers!

Also recalling my ignominious defeat last week, I dress more warmly, with jeans and even a paper-thin wind jacket. I feel I am ready for an arctic chill, but after all, I am going to the desert and won't be staying the night, so I really shouldn't need more than this.

I kick off very early by my standards, at about 8:30a, which should give me plenty of time to get to the park well before noon, especially now that I have my super-duper 180 hp Jetta and my traditional fearlessness from traffic cops (completely unjustified, by the way, I've got 7 speeding tickets). Anyway, I pop the Virgin Steele CD and get ready to rumble. Pretty soon, the music gets on my nerves, it just isn't aggressive enough, so I replace it with Dissection. Ah, much more like it!

After having driven for about 10 minutes on I-8 East, I get stuck in a freaking jam! At 9:00a! On Sunday! Going East (where nobody ever goes)! What, the hell? The hell turns out to be a cop who's zigzagging in front of the column, slowing down everyone to a 20 mph crawl. There must be some pretty gory accident ahead, I think to myself, barely able to hear the thought over the lyrical escapades of the Swedish black metalers. I reach for the camera ready to snap photos of at least 10 bodies.

We reach the scene of the accident, where I see at least five other squad cars plus... ONE DINKY LITTLE GEO with a really confused girl signing a ticket! All the anticipation goes out the window, which was quite difficult for it to do given how hermetically (the reference tells me I am applying the word "less properly") sealed the Germans make it. I speed up before I stop and beat up somebody with a stick.

After about 20 minutes I begin wondering where I am supposed to turn off, so I look at the map... Oh, wait! I forgot the map! Well, actually, I forgot to buy a map, but it's the same thing. I have no idea where I am going, so I page through the hiking guide, which offers a rather unhelpful map that has two roads on it. Still, better than nothing. It appears I will have to go through Cuyamaca Rancho to get to the park. Deja-vu. At least I know that road rather well by now, having spent ages behind those slow drives the first time around.

The drive, however, turns out rather well and I only have to break traffic rules twice by passing some excruciatingly sluggish drivers. There is actually snow here and there and I already feel good about myself for having dressed warmly. I even stop to take a scenic picture but, as usual, find the lack of wide-angle lens frustrating, so I give up.

After what seems ages, I reach Anza-Borrego and bravely drive at top speed until I get boxed in by two retarded drivers who insist on going 15 mph. The road is really narrow and the curves are too close to each other to permit any sort of short-cuts around the snails. I wish the lyrics of the third Dissection song to both drivers. After 20 minutes of agony, I see a stretch of straight road ahead. In seconds I am up to 110 mph, zipping by the startled peons in their oversized ugly trucks. Free at last! In the euphoria, I miss my exit.

I patiently wait for the peons to overtake me so I can make the U-turn, muttering quotes from a sailor's pocket dictionary all the time. I take the side road to whatever hikes I had decided to do but then stop just to make sure I really want to go there. I don't. The hikes look boring. Why, the hell, did I pick them? I leaf through the guide book and finally settle on Sheep Canyon, a hike which promises a decent round-trip mileage, an idyllic waterfall, an alcove, mysterious pools of water, and general bliss. Thus, innocently and at the spur of the moment, I begin the day of adventures in misleading advertising, near-death experiences, and generic unclean thoughts.

The first flop of the plan has to do with the location of the hike. It's at the exact opposite end of the park from where I am. That is, another 30 minutes of driving. I go to the Visitor's Center first because by this time, all yesterday's fluids want a way out, and I am obliged to comply. At least the nice lady who has been to Bulgaria tells me how to get to the canyon. I drive off, figuring that I will at least start hiking before noon. It's 11:10a. It has taken me almost 3 hours to get to the park.

I get on the road to the trailhead, fully aware of the local habit of leaving construction work on the roads in the middle of nothing with no warning signs. Sure enough, this one ends abruptly as well. An informative sign tells me after the fact that the road is maintained no further. No shit. I am again deep in a ball of dust, trying to figure out where the continuation is.

I shake my bones over the next several miles of unpaved maintenance-free road until I meet a ranger in her 4WD jeep. She is very nice and, after giving my Jetta a critical look, tells me I should probably only drive up to the Second Crossing, and even that might be pushing it. The book says the hike is 11 miles roundtrip from there, or something like that, so it sounds peachy. I wave a cheery farewell and drive off. In about 4 miles, I reach Desert Gardens, which I vaguely remember being mentioned both by the lady at the Center and by the ranger, both in reference to where people with sissy cars should stop.

I decide to leave my sissy ass Jetta at the gardens. What a difference owning the car makes! I figure I am close to the First Crossing (as it turns out, correctly), and so the trip should not be prolonged by too much (as it turns out, incorrectly). I grab my backpack, don the hat which has now acquired an indescribable patina-like color, and begin the hike, camera in hand, at precisely 11:30a. I am off to a good start. At least it's not noon yet.

I walk briskly, stopping here and there to not take pictures. People in SUVs pass me by at regular intervals. They are all nice and wave, and I practice touching the brim with a nonchalant gesture, like I've seen them do in Westerns. Most find it funny, the rest find it weird. After several miles, I finally reach the Second Crossing. I am not disturbed at all, there's still plenty of time in the day. But I do make a mental note to drive to it the next time around. I mean, you can get pretty sick of ocotillos pretty fast.

The first surprise is that the Crossing is called like that for a reason. There's water and a sign that points right into it and reads something like "Must drive through water". Nice. I search around for a place to wade across without testing the Gore-Tex liner of the boots. I finally find one and by the time I get to the other side, the ranger who gave me directions is there. "How are you holding up?" I am asked, to which I reply enthusiastically that the walk has been great so far. She is not convinced but then again, it's only the beginning. "Where are you going? Sheep Canyon? Do you know how far it is?" (I actually hear the italics in her voice.) After demonstrating my impressive acquaintance with geography, she lets me go but offers to give me a lift to the Third Crossing. I politely decline.

A rather uneventful several miles later I find myself at Third Crossing. Now, the guide says that even people in 4WD would probably have to continue on foot from there. I can see why: there's a steep slope with protruding rocks strewn all over it in what looks like a road that I might be able to negotiate on foot in my sturdy hiking boots. It will involve some balancing and perhaps some leaping. Impassable for vehicular traffic would be an apt characterization.

It would also be a wrong characterization. Never underestimate the laziness and stupidity of people in SUVs. As soon as I begin my ascent, a battered Toyota truck barrels down the "road". I would not have believed it possible, but I see it with my own eyes. Well, my own eyes aided by the pair of glasses that are now fogged from the exertion of me leaping out of the way of the surfer dudes in the truck.

The monster suddenly halts next to me and a blonde flock of hair asks me how long I've been hiking. This a rather non-standard question for in my experience these little meets begin with polite exchange of pleasantries. I suspiciously look over myself to see whether there's something on me that could prompt such a question but beside my puffing self and my somewhat abstractly-shaped figure (because of the odd way the backpack straps make me look), I see nothing of prominence. So I take the question in stride but when I tell them I've been hiking from before the First Crossing, I am treated with "You should get a Toyota, dude!" With a dismissive "Right on, man!" I leave the poodles, hoping that I've acquired enough of a Californian attitude so they don't take it as the personal insult that it was. Fortunately, sarcasm is beyond the poodles, just like it is beyond anyone in an SUV.

After climbing the now trivial because passable road, I end up in an enormous valley. It is stunning because it's green! Not exactly lush jungle vegetation, I mind you, but definitely much more than I expected. It's almost ocotillo-free, an added bonus. I continue along the road, and two more SUVs pass me. I curse the day people decided to allow morons into the park. Still, I manage not to get run over, no thanks to the efforts of the drivers.

The walk across the valley is most pleasurable, especially once I veer off the road onto the horse trail. Although here I have to watch out for equus dumplings ("horse shit" for those not versed in Latin or Chinese), at least they don't try to get you and are just peacefully sort of lying on the trail. I find, not to my surprise, that I am not fond of equestrians either. Still, the meandering path is the most enjoyable part of the hike so far (and, as it turns out, it will remain the most enjoyable part of the entire hike).

Finally, a trail post clearly says "Sheep Canyon." Since I missed the bighorn sheep last time I was at the park, I hope I will see some in the eponymous canyon. After another mile or so, I reach the official trail-head. It's now around 2:00p.

There is a bubbling stream in the crevice between the two slopes and up the canyon I can see several palm groves. I re-read the description of the hike (3 miles roundtrip from the trailhead). It is a bit vague, mentioning "on-again/off-again" trails and such. I also somehow gloss over the "this part of the hike should only be undertaken by experienced and well-conditioned hikers" because it involves bouldering. My eyes just glaze over at the thought of the idyllic waterfall, and I begin drooling with thoughts of deep pools and the alcove.

I start the last part of the hike up into Sheep Canyon. Within 20 meters I am lost. It's not a trail at all, it's a bunch of freaking rocks! No cairns, no other markings. I've met the "off-again" part, now where the hell is the "on-again"? I re-read the guide book, ever so carefully, but the author goes on and on about the South Fork and then the North Fork, which makes me hungry but does not improve my situation. I don't work with North/South, I only work with left/right. Because he mentions that the trail passes over the creek several times, I relax and try my best, aiming in the general direction of what appears to be a grotto under one of the palm groves.

I am soon jumping from rock to rock, climbing over fallen tree trunks, tangling with bushes, and trying to avoid getting too close to the cacti. I am now pretty sure I am way off the trail, but no matter, the palms keep getting closer. Jumping from rock to rock, with the camera strapped over my shoulder and a heavy 100mm lens hanging in a pouch strapped to the other shoulder is hard.

It also turns out to be dangerous. As I scale one of the numerous boulders, I find I have to hop across to another, rather pointy one. This is where I have my first brush with Unpredictable Disaster. By this time, I have been hopping like a bighorn sheep for about 30 minutes, so I plunge ahead without much deliberation. When I land on the pointy rock, the pouch with the 100mm lens swings furiously around and almost crashes into the neighboring boulder. I catch it in mid-flight but before I can go "Whew!" with relief, I lose my balance (I told you the rock was pointy!) and go hurtling down between the boulders!

As I gain speed, I desperately jump from rock to rock, my feet always lagging about half a meter behind my upper body. The momentum keeps me going and I maniacally struggle to keep my balance by performing increasingly reckless stunts. It's not like I have a choice.

The affair lasts about a second, during which I hear camera shutters clicking, notice several hikers in the distance snapping mementos of my doubtless rather picturesque descent, wonder whether I look like a bighorn sheep from where they're standing, remind myself I have no insurance for the photo gear, strike a bargain with several deities that involves them saving me and me not murdering the photo enthusiasts, marvel that I have not fallen yet, think how I am going to get out of this without a cell phone and with broken limbs, and finally get angry at the thought "I should have turned left at that last cactus!"

Then I come to an abrupt stop, plastered against a vertical slab of rock like a human fly. Except for the galloping pulse, everything seems in order. Nothing is hurt except my pride, and perhaps a little bit of my dignity. I throw a deliberately scornful look at the hikers, adjust the camera shoulder strap, and continue the quest for the ever-elusive idyllic waterfall. Never retreat, never surrender, to quote the fake starship captain from that show that parodied Star Trek parodies (Galaxy Quest).

At about 3:00p, I find a waterfall. It's not 30-feet (more like 25, and that includes counting the upper portion which is barely visible from below), and it's not idyllic. However, I convince myself that it is indeed the one the guide book talks about, making it a convenient point, and excuse, to turn back. I abandon all hope of seeing the alcove, and I have already seen several deep pools. I snap one picture but have no desire for creative photography. In fact, the only desire I feel at this point involves, rather unromantically, my stomach. I am hungry.

I recline against a rock to enjoy the sound of the idyllic waterfall and thoughtfully peel one of the bananas. Here's something you just cannot do with dignity no matter how hard you try. I then thoughtfully gobble it up rather unceremoniously, and stare enviously at the other. I decide to save it for later because I figure that if I fall and break my limbs on the way back, I will need food to survive in the desert.

I studiously avoid taking the same route on my hike down the canyon. After about 10 minutes of easy rock-sliding, I reach a point which I recognize. It's the spot where I have apparently taken the wrong turn. It's all flat from there all the way back to the trail-head, and it's not bad up to the waterfall either! Damnation! I nearly killed myself and it wasn't even necessary. I hope my impersonation of a bighorn sheep was satisfactory. By the way, there are no bighorn sheep in Sheep Canyon. At least, I did not see any.

The hike back to the car was long, as in over two hours long. The sun has begun to set, and it's getting cold pretty fast. I hope for a while to see an idiot in a SUV, whom I can ask for a lift (Oh, the degradation!) but they have all apparently gone to participate in the Darwin Awards contest, and I am completely alone. I begin counting minutes, hoping I can get to the car before I freeze my sweaty ass. I am tired, I am miserable, and I am also shaking with cold. It's not that it's that cold, but my clothes have all become damp with sweat, so I feel even the slightest whiff of wind as piercing gale.

In the end, I reach the Jetta at precisely 5:30p. The ordeal has only lasted six hours, almost all of which I spent on foot, and not, thank goodness, on ass or on head. I eat the last banana in blind defiance of the dangers of the desert. I then slowly and very carefully (it's my car, after all) drive back to the paved road, and then speed out of Anza-Borrego.

Actually, I almost speed out. Within minutes I get stuck behind another funeral procession going 20 mph. I am getting impatient because I have to get back, take a shower, eat, and then write an entire new lecture for class tomorrow. Several of the drivers use the turnovers to get out of the way (nice people!) but others simply continue, thinking apparently that they are going fast enough.

I try the old tail-gating trick, and it works! One by one, the drivers get upset at my breathing down their stiff necks, and give way. I am free! I speed up to somewhere between 50 and 80 mph, depending on road conditions (I am not crazy, after all), and soon reach Julian. Since I still have no idea about the way, I am forced to go back through Cuyamaca Rancho park. That's fine, except I am afraid I will get stuck behind slow drivers in its narrow road too.

All my fears prove well-founded. Within minutes, I am behind another column advancing at a snail pace. What's up with these Californian drivers? I mean, even my grandma can do 80 mph on the freeway, but let's see the goods cross-country (morons in SUVs don't count), or at least on a normal road with lots of curves. What's up with 15 mph? What's up with not using the turnovers? What's up with being fresh when someone tail-gates your slow ass? I fume for about half an hour, which is how long it takes these princesses to finish the 4 miles to I-8. With my pedal to the metal, I barrel down to San Diego in no time. I am back by 8:00p, at which point I have dinner, eat, and promptly fall asleep. To hell with the lecture, I will write it in the morning.

Things I Learned On This Trip

Running Gag (Return Trip)

March 3, 2003.