4th of July Run on Santiago Truck Trail

I had already postponed a run this week with my Sheila, a long-time trail running friend.  So, as I tossed and turned past midnight, with the alarm set for 4:45 AM, I decided I was just gonna have to buck it up if I wanted to get out for an early morning run on the 4th of July.  I needed a run with a friend.  And I needed a run in the mountains.  That only way that was going to happen was to go out with the dawn patrol.

And so, fireworks and firecrackers rang out through the night as I attempted to get even a few winks of sleep.  I recall waking at 2:00 AM, again at 3:00 and my God, once again at 4:00 when I told myself that I still had forty-five minutes to gain a wink.  (And I do believe that I slept most of that time.)

When 4:45 AM rolled on in on the great U.S. holiday, the 4th of July, I was out of bed, slowly but surely getting dressed.  I pushed the button on my two-cup coffee maker and packed my vest.  I brought along about 60 fluid ounces of water (mixed with Nuun), a hat, sunglasses, a red bandana, my garmin, an Ipod which I probably would not use (but I never leave home without), a knife, my phone, lip balm, toilet paper (which I probably would use), ibuprofen, a camera (which I would definitely use),  and believe it or not, a jacket on this 4th of July – oh, and I believe my driver’s license was still tucked deep in my pack from my last run (and I think it’s still there).     

The fog was thick as I drove through Rancho Santa Margarita and even thicker along Santiago Canyon Road.   I attempted to answer a call from Sheila several times, mostly with no response, a couple of times I could hear her voice, but she could not hear mine.  I worried that she had perhaps cancelled, so I decided that as sleepy as I was, I’d go ahead and run anyway if that was the case. 

Eventually, we met up at the corner of Modjeska Canyon Road and Santiago Canyon Road and she followed me as we drove the windy road up to Modjeska Grade were we found a spot to park.  We took that asphalt, uphill road for about a half a mile before reaching the trailhead to Santiago Truck Trail.   The weather was cool, almost cold, the clouds thick and air misty.  The moon was still high in the sky as we climbed up above the low clouds.  We didn’t see another soul as we set off ascending that popular, yet remote trail named Santiago Truck Trail.  Within a half mile (I’m guessing), we stopped to take off our jackets and tied them around our waists. 

There’s quite a bit of uphill climbing along Santiago Truck Trail – hiking kind of climbing for me during parts of it.  But there’s also some rolling hills, and with the cool weather and low-lying clouds, the climbs were very bearable.  I lost my red bandana along the way, but didn’t fret, as I was certain that I’d find it on the return trip.  (I of course did not find the bandana, but was satisfied that in my mind, someone else had found it, and that it would come to good use in their travels.  I was happy in the fact that I could pass on something that I had held for many years.)

As I mentioned earlier, the trails were empty when we first set foot on them.   I’m not certain when we saw our first travelers, but I am certain they were cycling.  All the travelers that we eventually came upon (and there were many) rode a bike.  Except for one:  there was a gentleman, wearing a vest pack like Sheila and I.  We met him on the return, on an uphill as he was traversing down.  He was fresh and smiling.  We smiled too, but fresh . . . not so much. 

But I digress, and have gotten ahead of myself.  We ran out to a flag, which flies across from the vulture crags. It’s also the location where the top of The Luge, a popular bike trail, meets. I had hoped that the flag measured the 5 mile mark, but recalled from earlier runs, that it would measure short.  Ends up, it was just shy of 4 miles.  So, after signing the registry there, we took off further to make the “out” portion measure precisely 4 miles before turning back on the trail toward our cars. 

I noticed more than one bunny cross our path.  And though I saw no snakes, I spotted their trails here and there.  With Sheila running out ahead, and about two miles remaining in our trip, I got to witness a tiny rockslide not too far from my feet as a spray of dirt spit forward from my left and a small boulder tumbled down and shot out onto the trail. 

Fossil Rock with about a mile to our cars:

With only 8 miles covered on Saturday’s lovely run, I wasted my feet.  Wasted.  Particularly the left foot which throbbed pain from its arch for the remainder of the day.  My family and others in the neighborhood walked to a nearby bluff where we watched fireworks shot off from the marina.  I suffered pain on the walk there and back.  My relief was immense when my husband taped my arches later that night. 

That’s just the way it is right now.  I’ll take it. 

The Trespasser

I often wondered about a particular trail that I’ve seen while running Santiago Truck Trail on my way to Old Camp.  After studying maps and looking at satellite images, I concluded that the trail in question is Joplin Truck trail, and it winds down the mountain dumping out somewhere in Rose Canyon.  From the maps and images I couldn’t precisely figure out where to catch Joplin Truck Trail in Rose Canyon.  I decided that my best bet in figuring out Joplin was to take it from above -- from Santiago Truck Trail.  However, the trip to the junction from Modjeska Canyon is around seven miles.  But from Trabuco Canyon, there’s a hellish trail (hellish because of the steep grade and exposure) that’s only about two miles to Joplin Truck Trail.  

Yesterday, Thursday July 2nd, in the middle of summer, during the afternoon, I thought it would be a good idea to finally check out Joplin Truck Trail.  I wanted something hard.  And I got it.

I parked my truck at the mouth of Trabuco Canyon, off of Plano Trabuco Road, just before Rose Canyon, and I trekked up the road into the canyon.  I covered a couple flat miles, past large sections of fenced properties riddled with “No Trespassing” signs.  At about two miles I hit Cadillac Trail which quickly ascends into the Santa Ana Mountains.  Cadillac Trail is named so, I believe because of the wrecked car a short distance up.  I have no idea if the car is a Cadillac.  It’s pretty smashed and all markings have been removed.  Maps name this trail Trabuco Creek Road.  

The trip up Cadillac was hot and steep.  Flies bit my legs, my arms.  And as I ascended the mountain, I noticed a couple trucks below make their way to Cadillac Trail. It was so lonely up there, I kind of hoped that one would attempt the drive up.  None did, they either turned around or headed further into the canyon.  I could tell 4WD’s had made the trip by the tire marks in the dirt.  There were also dirt bike marks, but no mountain bike tracks.  And occasionally, I’d see a footprint.  

In addition to the 70 fluid ounces in my hydration pack, I carried a bottle of water for the purpose of getting my bandana wet.  I frequently stopped to drench the bandana and wear it over my head or drape it around my neck.  The trek was extremely slow, and there was very little running involved.  I took mental notes of faraway trails I spotted in the distance.  And I explored all turn offs to discover which direction they travelled.  But I always went back to the main trail because my direction was up.  Up.  Up.  Up.

All the while, I could feel the tiny chunks of flesh being ripped from my legs by the flies.  A couple of times I found a bit of shade where I stopped to cool down and and the flies feasted on my flesh.  I noticed there were three types.  Some flies looked just like houseflies, except a little blacker and more than twice the size.  These flies took the biggest bites, but they also took a second before chomping so I often swatted them away before they bit.  There were also smaller flies with feathery wings.  They were black as well.  But these critters were much slower than the giant houseflies.  When I swatted them, I often killed or maimed the devils.  The third type of fly, that I didn’t identify until I sat in the shade, was an oblong insect, dark gray.  They wore what looked like a helmet, which made me think that they resembled little penises.  So, henceforth, I will call these flies penisflies.  Their bites hurt as well.  But as I got moving, the penisflies seemed to leave me.

With about 3/4’s of a mile remaining before my turnoff, I came upon another hiker.  His face was red, and he hunched over slightly, presumably fatigued like myself.  He commented how difficult it must have been for me going up this trail because it was so difficult going down.  Quickly afterward, I came upon his hiking partner, a female who was taking the slope slowly.  Poor kids (though they weren’t actually kids, but younger than myself) had come a long way -- all the way from Cook’s Corner (I’m approximating a good 10 miles, and they had more than that to get back).  These two were the only people that I’d see on this adventure.  I hoped that I’d see them again when I closed my loop and headed back toward Trabuco Canyon. 

Cadillac Trail:Looking back at The OC:

Two full hours into my trip, I finally made the junction down to Old Camp (a mere four miles of travelling).  Before moving on, I found a sliver of shade where I sat and drenched my bandana.  Heading onward, I soon found a trail that went off to the left.  Unable to get a signal for my phone GPS, I hiked up that trail for a high point.  I came upon the black remnants of a campfire and very little evidence of the trail reaching further.  Fortunately, I got a signal and found that there was a more promising trail about a quarter mile away.  I ran the short distance and found an unkempt, eroded single track.  I thought this could not possibly be the trail, though I did discover some mountain bike tracks.  No foot prints though.  Fortunately, I got a signal to check out the GPS and sure enough, I had arrived at Joplin Truck Trail.  Though no truck would ever be able to traverse this terrain.  It was single-track in the truest sense.  Single file, no side-by-side running for sure.  The trail was overgrown, rocky and covered with ruts and erosion. 

I ran along Joplin Truck Trail exposed to great heat, no shade, but glory, glory, no flies.  An occasional breeze also helped out.  And I still had plenty of water in my bottle to douse my bandana.  All the while, I travelled in the opposite direction of Trabuco Canyon where I had parked my truck.  Though I checked frequently, I no longer had a signal to access the GPS.  

Close to two miles down, the trail changed directions and I found myself running back toward Trabuco Canyon.  Orange County laid before me in all its glory.  I could see that clouds covered the Pacific Ocean.  And I could see Joplin Youth Center getting closer and closer. 

Joplin Youth Center is a lockdown correctional facility for very young (15 years and younger) felony criminals.  I know this because about 17 years ago, when I was pregnant with my first son I substitute taught for the county schools, which included “court schools” such as those located in juvenile hall, Los Pinos Boys Home, and Joplin Youth Center.  I accepted an assignment for Joplin back then, and recall driving a windy road through what I now know as Rose Canyon.  After passing through locked and guarded gates, I arrived to this facility full of wonder.  How could these young teen aged boys have gone so vastly astray at such a young age?  The center housed felons, rapists and murders among them.  I was some months pregnant at the time, expecting my own son.  I remember being weepy-eyed at the thought of mothers worrying about their criminally sentenced minors.  

I was terribly frightened to take on this assignment, more so than I was running down Joplin Truck Trail toward the facility on this hot summer day (where I probably had a greater chance of dying than I did taking on that substitute teaching job at Joplin Youth Center).  Turned out, the boys were terribly charming.  Visibly pregnant, they dotted over me, offering to do everything -- get the television and VCR, find me a chair in the lunchroom, even serve me lunch.  The way my assignment worked was this:  I was locked into the classroom.  Guards roamed the hallways with keys.  I kept a walkie-talkie with me.  If I needed help, or needed the classroom unlocked for any reason, I could radio the guards.  Here’s what happened:  within the first fifteen minutes locked in my classroom, my walkie-talkie disappeared.  Fortunately, after (nervously) chuckling out loud and demanding its return, one of the boys fessed up and handed it over.  There were no further incidents that day, except for my amazement over how these seemingly wonderful boys could be so ruthless in society.  I never had the opportunity to return to Joplin Youth Center before now, and here I was, a fifty year old woman, running straight toward it down the mountain on a scorching, hot summer day. 

With some of the outbuildings just in sight, I came upon a sycamore grove.  There was a particularly shady spot where a waterfall obviously made its home during our wetter years.  And then, bam -- my trail ended.  It was washed out.  But I was too committed in this loop to turn back.  So, I gingerly made my way down a ravine, butt sliding where needed, and half crawled my way back up to the trail on the other side, thrilled that I would soon be in Rose Canyon.  But I worried too.  What if the trail ended at the boys’ home?  What was I to do then?  Could I skirt along the lockdown facility?  If so, would I be accosted by authorities?  In preparation, I hid my camera.  And I also took the knife off my pack and buried it in my pocket (which of course made it now a concealed weapon -- doh!)

Washed out:

Back on the trail:

And then something happened that I did not expect.  The trail forked, but both ends of the fork were fenced off with barbed wire.  On the ground was a rusted sign that read Joplin Truck Trail, Cleveland National Forest.  Erected in its spot was a sign that read:  No Trespassing. Do Not Enter, Correctional Facility.  I did not have enough fluids to return the way I came. I cannot say that I thought my out my situation carefully.  Instead, I scampered along the barbed fences hoping that they ended in the brush.  But they did not.  The barbed wire scaled up and down the canyon walls.  I considered trying to telephone the assholes at Joplin Youth Center and demanding that they let me in so that I could pass through, else I die on this forsaken trail.  (I was pissed!)

“Okay, okay, THINK!”  There’s got to be a way through this (last choice phoning Joplin Youth Center).  I shook the gate, hoping that it would open enough for me to squeeze through.  I tried stepping down on the barbed wire.  And then I noticed that a portion of the wire across the left fork seemed to have a wider opening than the rest.  And so, I got down on my knees and attempted to crawl through.  My pack got caught, and the water bottle flew out, landing on the other side of the fence, way out of reach.  I shimmied my pack and hat off stooped down there between the barbed wires, hoping that would be enough to get me through.  No luck.  And so I scooted back out, grabbed my pack and hat from the other side and wistfully waved my bottle of water good-bye.

Next, I inspected the fence along the right side of the fork.  That’s when I noticed that some of the wire directly in front of the No Trespassing sign was not barbed.  Hallelujah!  Wait a minute . . . did I say in front of the sign?  That’s right.  I was standing on the side of the fence that the sign warned not entering!  I hoped the non-barbed section, free and happy to be making my way down Joplin Trail legally.  

The trail was steep, but it was shady.  It was lonely and spooky too.  With no GPS signal I felt confident that the trail lead in the right direction even though I found no tracks.  Much to my dismay however, I encountered my next sign.  This sign warned me also that I was trespassing, this time upon a wilderness preserve.  Hell.  I really had no choice but to keep on going, checking frequently for a phone signal.   More and more overgrown, I feared this portion of the trail had not been walked upon for a long while.  And then another No Trespassing sign.  And then another.  Eventually, I got a phone signal, but I could not see the image on my gps – it was too dark.  I was able though to phone home and talk to my husband.  I mentioned briefly where I was and that I hoped to be reaching Rose Canyon shortly.  But overall, I was pretty much going to be arriving home late.  I had already passed the 6 mile mark, which was what I had approximated this run to be.  

Looking back on Joplin Truck Trail after hopping the fence:

Continuing on through the “Preserve”:

Eventually, I made it to a paved road in Rose Canyon.  But I was locked in, and needed to hop this little fence to get back into legal territory. 

Just call me the trespasser. 

I guess it’s time to mark up my maps. 

Wandering

I may have always been a  wanderer.  It’s been told more than once that my father lost me in a park when I was about two years old.  The fire department found me and brought me back to Dad.  I do not remember the event, but I’m pretty sure that I probably wandered away from my unsuspecting father.  I do things like that. 

I think it’s probably my parents who taught me to wander.  As a family, we often took day trips out to the coast, exploring different locations from San Diego to LA county.  We drove so many places -- to Tiajuana, the Sequoias, Solvang, Oregon and Seattle.   I remember bike rides that took us miles away from home.  And drives up to Azusa Canyon to collect aluminum cans that we turned in for cash to pay for Disney trips.   Often when we headed back from adventures, my parents drove surface streets exploring exotic neighborhoods (in places like Bel Air) on the way home.  It was not uncommon to hear, “I wonder where this road leads?”

In grade school and later, junior high and high school, I explored all the downtown buildings, including the living quarters above the stores.  They were dark, dingy and full of mystery. I met lots of interesting people and found strange hidden places.  I knew every park within walking distance, and all the side trails to get there.  I wandered into the empty storage rooms of the local library where I hung out during summer days.  I wandered into churches (as they always left their doors opened) and roamed alone through long hallways and curtained back stages.    I often walked aimlessly for hours.  I did the same thing on my bike, first a ten-speed, later a beach cruiser.  I wandered along creeks, lakes and reservoirs, parks and even construction sites.  Later in life, as a young adult, I was again wandering aimlessly for hours but behind the wheel of my car.  I drove into Los Angeles and roamed the streets of the city.  During all these wanderings (in my hometown no less!) I met my wanderer in crime (my future husband) and we wandered along the trails of central California’s coast, through Indian ruins in Arizona, caverns in New Mexico, among red rocks and meadows in Utah, and various other places in Colorado, Texas and Missouri.

Central California / Early 1980sSan Gorgonio Mountains / Mid 1980s

Wandering about “Old West” mines in Utah / late 1980s

Even during college, married and working a 40 hour week, I was wandering.  I’d lace up my tennis shoes and roam the city during my lunch breaks where I explored all the skyscrapers, riding their elevators to the top.  When we could, my husband and I were off on a road trip to explore new areas, or return to old ones in places like Utah and Texas.  When I “grew up” and had children of my own I was still a wanderer, strapping my boys into the stroller and spending entire mornings and afternoons wandering about the beaches and harbor in our beach town.  I guess it should come as absolutely no surprise to me then, that I eventually became a trail runner.  I mean, it seems a natural progression really.

Utah / early 1990s

More mines in Utah / early 1990s

Trails in Missouri / 1990s

Back in Utah mid to late 1990s

Roaming The Headlands in my hometown on a rainy day in the late 1990s

And here all along, through my aching feet and suffering these past few years, I’ve been clutching onto the “running” part, as if I let it go, I would lose who I am.  But I am not a runner.  Not really.  Don’t get me wrong.  I have loved running.  But running is just something that happened along while I roamed.  I am a wanderer.  And I can loosen my grip, hell I can completely let go of the running part if I need to.  I think I had forgotten that and have been caught up with the “running” part of trail running, when all along I just needed to explore new trails.   I can hike to wander, I can ride, I can drive.  It does not matter, any form can satisfy wanderlust.  With this new revelation, I have found once again my freedom.  I am free.  I can run or I can not run.  It does not matter either way, as long as I roam, as long as I wander.

Yesterday, I got out to do a little roaming in some of my regular stomping grounds.  I ran mostly, but I hiked too, and I did not fret about that.  It was just great to get out there and wander about. With about 6.5 miles and 1,000’ of elevation gained, I got in a lovely, cool and sometimes muggy run overlooking the Pacific Ocean.  It was glorious, and more than enough to qualify for a wandering. 

Do you like to wander?

Summer is Here

One way to make the heat in my local hills seem like nothing, I mean absolutely nothing,  is to run in Corona (Riverside county).  This of course I did last weekend.  Then, on Thursday, I hit the trails again.  This time in my normal stomping grounds, Aliso/Wood Canyons.  I took off for the trails during the afternoon precisely to get myself more accustomed to the heat.  It felt like a cool spring day compared to the treacherous heat in Corona.  It truly was a lovely summer day with blue skies, a hot sun and a semi-cool breeze. 

I stepped over a gopher snake in Aliso Canyon.  With its tail end sticking out of the brush, I could tell immediately he was not a rattler.  Then I turned into an empty Wood Canyon, empty because few venture out into these canyons during the afternoon in the summertime.  About two and a half miles in, I hopped over Wood Creek onto Mathis and made a quick turn onto Coyote Run.  Coyote Run meanders in and out of deep shade, where I stopped to take in the beauty and fully cool down. 

Coyote Run Trail: 

From Coyote Run, I opted for the rigorous trail called Rock-It, duly named for its white rock floor.  Feeling stronger than I have in a long time, I took that trail to West Ridge.  On Rock-It I encountered my first people on these trails today – two different groups of hikers, 5 people total. 

Rock-It Trail:

Though it seemed relatively cool to me, I surmised that it was not so for others by the looks on their faces as I made my way up West Ridge to Top of the World.  And then as I progressed, a fire truck with lights swirling drove down the ridge, and after that two more emergency vehicles.  When I arrived to the Top of the World, I found a vantage point where I could see a rescue effort way down on Car Wreck Trail.  My best guess was that heat exhaustion had overcome a hiker along that steep, exposed trail.  I think this because there was no helicopter evacuation.  It seems like when someone is physically injured, say a broken leg or such, a helicopter transports the victim out of the canyons.  (I never heard what happened, but am hoping that no news means good news). 

Anyway, I closed up my loop by running down Meadows Trail, totaling 11.41 miles with 1,329’ of elevation gain.  I felt fine afterward.  However, my foot was wasted back at home.  I really am not sure what I am going to do about this.  I limped around all night, and woke this morning still in pain.  I skipped a run this morning, instead went for the gym membership.  I am stumped and a little dismayed.  Perhaps I will throw in the towel, get an MRI and take some months off.   I really am at odds about this.  Most of the time I am in denial and don’t think about what I should do.  But now, a calm has come over me, as I realize that the time is ideal to slow down and try to get healed. 

It Ain’t But One Hill

I “ran” Billy Goat’s 1/2 Marathon and Hill Climb on Saturday.  I typed “ran” in quotes because there was much hiking involved during the first 6.5 miles.  I don’t know why it was so dang tough –  just as the race director, Steve Harvey, promises, “it ain’t but one hill.”

That one hill is called Indian Truck Trail.  And it starts at the base of the mountains in Corona, California and climbs up, up, up to The Main Divide.  That “one hill” though quite strenuous, would have not been so bad if it weren’t for the heat.  It was hot out there in Riverside County on Saturday.  HOT.  And being as spoiled as I am living on the cool coast, my body just rebelled. 

The trip to the top was uneventful, meaning, I didn’t feel like I was going to die.  I took up the very back of the pack, noticing that nearly everyone suffered from the heat.  Boy was I ever happy to turn around and run downhill.  You see, there was little shade along Indian Truck Trail, so there was not much opportunity to cool off.

On the way down, I told myself to maintain between a 12 and 14 minute mile, which was asking a lot in the near 100 degree heat.  (I heard that it was 98 in the late morning).  This got so tough (keeping up the pace) that I resorted to song counting just to make the time pass quicker.  “You can’t look at the garmin until you listen to three songs,” I’d tell myself.  After a few miles, I felt that I would collapse if I did not slow down.  With absolutely no shade whatsoever for those last three miles, there was no relief.  I filled my cap with ice at the aid station, and aside from dripping salty water into my eyes, I’m not sure I noticed any difference.  Amazingly, I learned that the woman running alongside me for mile ten through eleven was 4 1/2 months pregnant!

Oh how immense my misery was!  Miles eleven though thirteen, I wanted nothing more than to drop to the mountain floor and pass out.  I felt nauseated and a little confused.  And the only thing that I could do to cool myself down was to stop running.  And this I did often.  Then out of frustration over time passing too slowly, I’d pick up my feet again and trot some more.   

I crossed the finish line with only a few runners remaining on the mountain.  Immediately I held onto the timing table, wanting to fall to the ground.  My blood was boiling, I felt so hot.  People were so kind and helpful getting me to a chair in the shade, where they waited on me hand and foot – I got cups of cold water, ice on my neck, you name it.  Within about a half hour, my blood had stopped boiling and I was feeling almost back to normal.  Billy Goat is an event that I’m glad I finally got out to do – but I can’t put up with that kind of hellish misery anymore.  My God, why do I do this to myself?