It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to vacation with Jason’s family so we were happy that our schedule allowed us to go camping with them up American Fork Canyon on his mom’s birthday. It was a weekend of a little exertion and a lot of ease.
Do I look cool? I was actually rather hot and soggy.
We started the outing with a trek to Timpanogos Cave accompanied by Jason’s parents and brother. We’ve done this hike several times in recent years but the cave, really three caverns connected, is a fascinating hole wholly worthy of multiple visits. Although intense, the overheating brought on by our trudge across the sun-blasted switchbacks leading to Timp Cave was over quickly. We were unpleasantly sweaty when we entered the monument but cooled promptly thanks to its 60s insides.
The formations inside Timpanogos Cave look like God’s doodles.
The trail to Timpanogos Cave winds across rockslide regions and cliff faces.
We spent the rest of the night hanging out with Jason’s family at the Little Mill Campground. Many of the camping spots at Little Mill are pretty compact, as in sardines in nylon, but the spot Jason’s parents reserved for their RV was shaded and roomy so everyone convened there. We devoured more tinfoil dinners and birthday cupcakes than we should have while conversing around the jigging flames of a hearty fire. It was great getting to visit with no time constraints and only the chatter of the American Fork River to distract from our chatter.
Jason’s family takes pictures on this rock every time they hike to Timp Cave.
We had planned on going on a hike the following morning but the appeal of lounging got the better of us so that’s all we did until Jason and I had to depart.
This gnarled root marks another standard picture spot for the Sabins.
The perfume of the pines, the allure of cave squiggles, the warm turbulence of the fire, the sizzle of crisping potatoes, the contrast of the spotted sky, and the relaxed company of family made for a mighty fine camping trip.
We have a tradition of camping once a year with a group of our friends. This summer there was some chaos concerning the planning of this outing but, honestly, that is pretty common. However, I finally found us a nice spot at the Ledgefork Campground near the Smith and Morehouse Reservoir, which is on the western edge of the Uinta Mountains, on a weekend that worked for everyone. It was a great getaway… mostly.
Our camp spot was a double that offered ample room but not ample shade. Luckily, it was too cold for shade to be in demand.
We all arrived on Friday evening just in time for mallow roasting and campfire stories. The kids participated in the spinning of our fiery tales so most of them turned surprisingly gruesome or unbelievably implausible fairly quickly.
Jason should be logged with the boys. He has all the energy and naughtiness of one.
The following morning, after a night of cold-induced nonsleep, we went on a hike along the Smith and Morehouse Trail in search of a beaver dam. We were supposed to reach this stickly structure after just half a mile but, although we wandered for over an hour, that damn dam was nowhere to be found. Still, it was a lovely hike so we considered it a success… mostly.
Half the kids hiked without complaint; the other half gave up after a few minutes.
Our hike, though longer than anticipated, was refreshing.
We left the “wilderness” to eat lunch in the nearby town of Oakley at the cute Road Island Diner. This Art Deco cafe is historic, built in 1939, and its shakes are amazing. Plus, it has flushing toilets. Yeah for a break from hole go! Also, it has a roof. It started pouring while we were eating, a premonition of wetter things to come.
We gave up on seeing that damn beaver or its beaver dam eventually.
Some of the boys and kids in our group got a hankering to do a little fishing so after lunch we headed over to the Willow Springs Trout Farm. Hooking a fish at Willow Springs was a tad too easy. I’m pretty sure worms were unnecessary but the kids seemed to enjoy it… mostly. Generally, they did not appreciate the post-catching parts. For the record, I do not like fishing, no mostly about it.
The kids liked the drama of fishing.
We cooked fish and hotdogs for dinner over a fire that was unwell due to the sogginess of sporadic showers. Those showers were partly to blame for the premature death of our trip. Although most of us had planned on staying another night, it didn’t happen. Dampness, chilliness, and grouchiness jointly resulted in our camp being deserted hastily with accompanying drama. But what camping trip would be complete without someone getting tossed into the fire or impaled by a tent stake? Ok, maybe there weren’t any tent-stake impalings this time… mostly.
This post covers our sea cave kayaking misadventures on Santa Cruz Island. If you can’t stomach barnacled flesh and wavy pounds, then read no further. For the words below are riddled with the beatings of the ocean and this human heart.
Channel Islands National Park gained its park status in 1980. The five islands that make up this park are about 20 miles off the coast of California and home to a number of species not found anywhere else on earth. Santa Cruz Island, the largest of these, is 96 square miles in size. The plunging cliffs on its shores are pocked with sea caves thanks to a fault line that has made them easy pickings for ocean erosion. One of these cavities, Painted Cave, is among the largest and deepest sea caves in the world. It extends almost a quarter of a mile and reaches widths of over 100 feet.
Shorts stuffed in a wetsuit make for a dynamite ensemble.
As intriguing as Santa Cruz Island may sound, it’s only accessible by boat… yes, literally one boat. There is a single ferry that drops passengers on Santa Cruz in the morning and returns to take them back to the mainland in the afternoon. The ride on this ferry was actually quite fun, although very slow. We saw a number of dolphins and Stellar sea lions right off our bow. Plus, we encountered a long line of offshore oil rigs.
There were five kayaks in our group.
The pier at Scorpion Anchorage, the only dock on Santa Cruz, has become rusty and unsafe over the years. The government, in its uniquely-incompetent way, has promised to fix this pier but is waiting for the funds to trickle through bureaucracy’s labyrinth. Apparently, that process will take a few more years. In the meantime, we had to take a small skiff, basically a motorized raft, from the ferry to the shore. I felt like James Bond landing on a treacherous coast… James Bond usually needs a few people to help him disembark from a skiff, right?
The Cavern was one of the scariest caves we went into. When waves would roll in, its opening would almost disappear in their crests.
The dozen or so kayakers assembled got split between two guides. I’m pretty sure we were separated based on the guides’ perception of our adventurousness. Evidently, the other group didn’t enter any caves while we, the wild ones, went into every nook.
Our group traveled along the coast, taking in its strange and holey splendor.
Jason and I opted to take a two-person kayak; it seemed appropriate for an anniversary trip. But we were warned that they are “vehicles of divorce.” Fortunately, our marriage survived our kayak’s double disorder but not without a few choice words… those come later.
Here’s the thing about sea caves. When even mild waves get shoved into a confined space they turn into much angrier surges. (I don’t blame them; I don’t like being tossed into tight spaces either.) So calm seas do not mean calm caves. Cramped quarters also create many opportunities for rocks to ram you at random, which brings me to my next point. The guides caution you not to touch any rocks if you capsize your kayak because sea-cave stones are seriously jagged and barnacled and ready to tear up flesh like an overripe banana thrown in a blender. (And I’m talking about a Blendtec or a Vitamix not some Walmart special.) This advice sounds wise, like not taking any wooden nickels. However, as my story will illustrate, not touching rocks when they are coming at you is like going to the Grand Canyon and not opening your eyes.
The coastline of Santa Cruz is rather bent and bizarre.
Although our guide didn’t compel anyone to enter grottos they weren’t comfortable with, we all paddled into every single one he suggested. Why? The peer pressure and curiosity were crippling I tell you! Harbor Seal Cave, The Elephant’s Belly, In-N-Out, and The Cavern were a few of the holes we packed ourselves into like floaters in a flushing toilet. These caves ranged from relatively mild to downright spin cycle.
This piercing beauty is Marge. Her innards are lengthier and sketchier than they appear.
Now it’s time for my Marge’s lament. Marge is not a cave but a rather long and narrow sea arch, so named because its pitted walls resemble the distinguishing feature of that Simpson character. Our guide recommended that everyone in our group try navigating through its tight and twisty corridor. Although, when probed, he admitted there was probably about a 50/50 chance of tipping before reaching the other side. Yet, pressure and pride got the better of us all and we unanimously committed to plunging through Marge’s spiny bowels.
This blowhole spewed salty drops at every wave.
Still, our conquest of that constricted arch might have proceeded without any inversions except our guide failed to give us one crucial piece of information. In the middle of Marge is a large boulder that is exposed when waves recede, at least when the tide is right. Yup, you can probably guess where this is going. Jason and I got halfway through the passage when, all of a sudden, we realized our kayak was sitting on stone and not water anymore. When the next wave came in it bashed our high-centered vessel right into the wall of the arch. Remember the guides’ advice about not touching the rocks?
I could have taken a whole series of photos at this picturesque spouter.
After some squabbling and miscommunicating, (Two-person kayaks really are harder to deal with in stressful and chaotic situations.) Jason and I managed to “self-rescue,” which means that we were able to get our butts back into our kayak on our own. Unfortunately, by this point I was bleeding from a number of gashes on my hand and foot. Still, we had over an hour left on our tour so I just toughed it out with a few soggy Band-Aids and some serious stubbornness. Jason managed to escape the incident with only a couple little cuts. He was farther from the wall than I was and had the sense to keep his hands to himself.
The Santa Cruz Island fox is only found on Santa Cruz Island. Thanks to their protected status, these cute critters are not intimidated by people.
In total, it took eight bandages of various sizes to cover my wounds. Despite the fact that Jason had to dig sand and barnacles out of my hand with a pin and tweezers, it healed up rather quickly. My foot, however, did not. It became swollen, splotchy, and alarmingly red in an extended area around one cut. Plus, that gash itched like crazy. I had to ice it on multiple occasions just to keep from scratching my skin off. I reopened the wound several times to clean it out and, about a week after our return, was ready to take it to the doctor when abruptly it started to improve.
Sadly, I hurt more than just flesh and ego in our tumble. The shoulder of the arm I caught myself with became irritatingly unhappy during our return flight. Its condition continued to worsen and, for a couple days, I was in a substantial amount of pain and couldn’t rotate or lift it. Jason had to be my lady’s maid. That shoulder is not quite itself yet.
The thought of Marge and her hidden perch still makes my heart pump a little but I have no regrets. Life’s great adventures require some rock bashings now and then. After all, who can say that they’ve been beaten up by Marge’s hair? Oh yeah, me.
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