How Camping Went - A California Miniseries

Windy nights, fox antics, and valuable life lessons. Our first camping experience provided much more than we expected! 

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Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/VhKwpeT2wCdNgXfA7

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April 5th, 2025 - Channel Islands Day 2

My feet were numb with cold. I curled up in our sleeping bag, unwilling to surrender its warmth. I shut my eyes, willing myself to fall back asleep. Last night had seemed very long. As soon as the sun had set, a brutal wind came rushing over the island hills. It poured into the valley and buffeted our poor tent for most of our slumber. Unaccustomed to sleeping outdoors, falling asleep had taken me a while. Every rustle, ripple, and rattle of our tent jerked me awake. What was that? Was it a bear? No, wait, there were no bears on the island. Was it Bigfoot? Could Bigfoot swim? Do Bigfoots like islands? It was the wind, Grace. Go to sleep. 

My paranoia was only heightened after a huge gust of wind blew the tent wall right down on top of my face. Our tent was bowing, shaking, collapsing under the weight of the gale. And, to my horror, I thought I heard, strangely enough, sniffing. In alarm, I threw up my arm and smacked the tent. Its enveloping fabric withdrew from my head. The sniffing sound retreated. I twisted in the sleeping bag to stare at the now-normal-looking tent. I think an island fox jumped on my head! 

The island foxes were devious little creatures. When we first arrived on the island, the park ranger had warned us about two deviants: the foxes and the ravens. The ravens were to be expected. All corvids are brilliantly smart, have an affection for shiny things, and aggressively pursue human food. The foxes, on the other hand, are easy to underestimate. The park ranger warned us to always zip our tents to the top of the doors instead of the bottom. Foxes have learned how to undo zippers, it seemed, and if given the opportunity to enter a tent, they will do so. Once inside, the ranger added, the foxes will swipe whatever they can and pee all over everything. Gross!

After our first evening on the island, I had little doubt that the ranger was telling the truth. I had followed the foxes all over our campground, hoping to get some good closeups with my new camera lens. I got more than I bargained for! One fox laid down just a few feet away from a picnic table, closely scrutinizing the two girls eating there. He was quite unbothered by the wildlife photographers who flocked around him. He just wanted the beef jerky! Another fox trotted into a neighboring campsite, pausing to take a dump near their table. After he relieved himself, he trotted up to a woman emptying her dishwater near a community water spigot. He inspected the wet ground after she left, searching for food remains. When he was unsuccessful, he trotted into another camp and swiped a chocolate bar right off a little girl’s chair. She wailed, standing only a few feet away, as she watched him run off with her candy. Poor girl, I would have cried too! The fox reemerged from the brush a few minutes later. He seemed to have an established circuit around our camp, because he quickly trotted to the next campsite in the row. Here, the campers had disregarded the park ranger’s warning. A cooler, thermos, and camp mug sat blithely on top of the metal “fox box” where we were supposed to keep our gear. Businesslike, the fox inspected the picnic table, then he casually strolled on top of the fox box. He licked the cooler and lifted a leg on the thermos. At this, I nearly gagged. Somebody’s drinking water was all covered in fox pee now. Super gross! 

We had triple-checked our campsite before we went to bed that night. I cringed, imagining a fox peeing all over our stuff. We had worked too hard to pack that darn stuff. I wasn’t about to let it get ruined by a malevolent canid! We left nothing on the picnic table, and our tent was securely zipped to the top of the flap. In the middle of the windy night, a shriek echoed through our campground. It was followed by an uproar of tent shaking and exclamations. We learned the whole story the next morning. A fox had gotten into somebody’s tent while they slept! They had forgotten to zip their tent to the top when they retired for the night. One of the wily foxes had discovered this and swiftly let himself in for a self-guided tour. The poor couple had awoken to the fox walking over their sleeping bag! After some screams and flailing, the fox had gotten the message he wasn’t welcome. He quickly retreated, but his impact had already been made. All of us in the campground were more careful after that! 

As the morning warmed, we prepared a breakfast of baked beans and bananas (so healthy!). The island was just beginning to stir. The first boat of day visitors wouldn’t arrive until 9AM, so the campers had the island to themselves. There is a different sort of community to be found amongst campers. I struggle to explain it, but it was a remarkable feeling. It seemed the campground had unanimously agreed to preserve the peace of the island. We chatted quietly, cooked breakfast, and went about our mornings. Some of us watched sunrise from the dock. Others hit the trail as soon as the sky turned light. All of us were respectful, thoughtful, and quiet. Maybe we were just lulled into that feeling of island time. I think we were at peace.

When we had thoroughly fox-proofed our camp, we, too, hit the hiking trails. Our chosen route was conceptual at best, a patchwork of several previously-downloaded Alltrails maps. We knew we wanted to climb El Montañon, the highest point on the east side of Santa Cruz Island. We didn’t just want to climb it, though. We wanted the scenic route. After scrolling through Alltrails, we decided we would ascend El Montañon, descend the other side, and take a wide loop around the island to eventually return to our campsite. Our rough math put us at a fifteen-mile day. It was ambitious, but without the need to drive to an airbnb or find a restaurant for supper, we were confident our timing would work out just fine. 

We would later learn that we bit off more than we could chew!

As soon as we hit the first incline, I regretted eating so much for breakfast. As with many of our hikes, we alternated between huffs, puffs, questioning our life decisions, and marveling at the scenery. The scenery was certainly marvelous. With every hill we climbed, we could see more of the brilliant blue Pacific hugging the island’s coast. Interestingly, the more we gained elevation, the more life there was to discover. Birds danced from branch to branch in the shrubs. Swallowtail butterflies flitted to abundant patches of lupine. Ceanothus, a mountain lilac endemic to the islands, richly perfumed the morning air. By the time we reached the peak of El Montañon, we had caught our second wind and spent every breath of it delighting in the scenery. The coastline of California was hazy on the horizon. A white dot in the ocean marked the location of a shuttle boat. I checked my watch. It was the 9AM boat carrying the first flood of day visitors to our shores. I sat down on a rock happily. It was unlikely any of those visitors would find their way up to us. For all intents and purposes, Tyler and I had the island to ourselves.

We rested for a good while on top of El Montañon, enjoying peanut butter sandwiches and each other’s company. Good thing we did, because, unbeknownst to us, the hardest part of our hike was still ahead! Because we had no phone signal on the island, I had no way to verify the trails we had chosen for our island hike. Their mere existence on Alltrails signified that they were viable routes, we assumed. We assumed wrong. As we began our descent down the other side of El Montañon, it quickly became difficult to stick to the trail. The small path dwindled to the size of a fox trail, then disappeared entirely across wide patches of exposed stone. The volcanic stones on El Montañon are difficult to traverse. The mountain has eroded into orange chunks the size of golf balls, equally unstable underfoot. When attempting to follow an invisible trail straight down a mountain, you find yourself sliding more than hiking. Our legs, still fatigued from our uphill climb, shook like Jello. It was an alarming combination, turned horrifying when we realized that we had lost our trail. We later learned that our El Montañon descent was considered an “off-trail route” by the park service. The route may have been listed on Alltrails, but it wasn’t marked, maintained, or travelled by anyone other than wayward hikers like us. As a result, it was little surprise that we lost the meager path halfway down the mountain. 

We had been targeting a secluded beach as our next stop on our planned loop. Now, as we stood lost on the mountain, we could see it far, far below us. The distance was disheartening. The sun was hot. Our legs were very tired. Still, we trekked on.

Tyler took charge, leading us through several gullies in an attempt to rediscover our elusive off-trail route. It was hard going, but, thank goodness, we made it! When we finally stumbled across the tire tracks of a park service road, we laughed in exhausted delight. The road was a steady decline to the beach of Smuggler’s Cove. When our legs got too tired to walk, we trotted down the trail instead. A wonderful grove of trees grew in the Cove, cooling us with the best shade we’ve ever enjoyed. We rested on the beach with a group of energetic trail runners who would have undoubtedly done our rough hike without shedding a drop of sweat. I admire people who challenge their bodies and embrace the struggle. They are inspirational in a way that I’ll never achieve. I must look like I’m half-dying on every hike we’ve ever done. And yet, maybe we have something in common with marathoners and trail runners, because, just like them, we keep doing it! 

The last leg of our hike carried us uphill from Smuggler’s Cove, around a wide loop, then back down to Scorpion Anchorage, where our campground was nestled. Thoroughly exhausted, it was mostly just hard work. An excellent meadow of California poppies provided a beautiful distraction from the uphill climbs. Looking back on our hike, I realize now that some of the hardest parts of our hike also had the prettiest scenery. Mountain lilacs, tiger-striped butterflies, and dancing poppies accompanied us in every place I considered giving up. I love the significance of that! We would later learn that this island hike accomplished the greatest elevation gain we have ever achieved on a single trail: 2,549 ft. In other words, we were in the hardest struggle of our outdoor experience. There were many places where we regretted our decisions, grew anxious about the path ahead, and worried about our ability to make it through. In the steepest climbs, we were blessed with amazing views, wonderful flora, and the friendly companionship of marriage. 

This applies to life too, doesn’t it? Even in our darkest valleys, we are still blessed. God is always present. He always grants us gifts to light up our lives. And, with His help, we will always make it back to where we need to be. 

Channel Islands taught us a valuable lesson that day. I am so grateful we were there to learn it!

Our El Montañon route (for anyone brave enough to attempt it):

Lower Scorpion Campground to the Montañon Trail via the Scorpion Canyon Loop Trail

Montañon Trail to High Mount

Montañon Ridge Trail to Montañon Peak

Descend on the other side of Montañon Peak using the Montañon Ridge Trail (the off trail route) all the way down to Smuggler’s Cove

Smuggler’s Road back to Scorpion Anchorage and Lower Scorpion Campground