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Editor’s note: Recent wildfires and coronavirus restrictions have resulted in new rules and closures at many Bay Area parks and attractions. Before you go, be sure to check whether your intended destination is still accessible and open to travelers.
Here in California, we’ve got stuff worth measuring.
Highest point in the contiguous 48 states (Whitney), the lowest point in North America (Badwater Basin). World’s tallest publicly known tree (the redwood Hyperion), oldest living tree (an unpublicized bristlecone pine). And yeah, we’ve got the largest tree, too (the General Sherman sequoia).
Perhaps these distinctive landmarks crammed into the state’s treasure vault diminish an appreciation for what’s in the backyard.
Many often pass underneath Mount Tamalpais and Mount Diablo without according them the gravitas they deserve. We get it. We do. Modern life is as tangled as our unkempt strands of hair during the novel coronavirus shutdown.
But tap the brake for a moment to ruminate on what it means to trespass on their sacred soil filled with redwood forests, oak woodlands and riparian delights. They are rocky monuments to our past and promontories for peering out into the future.
Some seven and a half million people reside in the greater Bay Area. The place crackles with connectivity at a breakneck pace as the hammering of humanity pounds the senses.
But for anyone willing to lace up hiking boots and step out the door, another world exists above the hubbub.
Hardcore commandos might need the elevated high of Yosemite or Tahoe’s Desolation Wilderness. But the local mountains with their muscular shoulders are just as tempting.
One week in late July, I decided to summit three peaks to reconnect with the region’s towering presences. Mount Tamalpais in Marin and Mount Diablo in the East Bay were obvious choices.
A third summit was not as easy to pick as I perused topographic maps and solicited expert opinion. The 4,265-foot Mount Hamilton is the tallest point in Santa Clara County. It is an astronomer’s haven sans summit trails. Out.
Mount Umunhum and Loma Prieta Peak in the Santa Cruz Mountains have too many structures on top to whet the appetite, while Mission Peak above Fremont is so heavily trafficked, I avoid it like rush hour. Out, out and definitely out.
Some suggested Mount Saint Helena in Napa, but my head turned south to Big Sur’s statuesque Pico Blanco, a pointy mountain that captures the imagination of regional climbers. Alas, much of it is privately owned, complicating trail access that already was a logistical issue with the road currently closed well before the trailhead.
Then Mount Manuel piqued my interest. The little-known mountain rises above Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park in the Los Padres National Forest like a backcountry invitation.
I had settled upon my mountain trinity, three peaks that would showcase the region’s natural diversity. Tam is part of the Northern California coastal ranges, Diablo is in the underrated Diablo Range and Manuel in the untamed Santa Lucia.
As someone in his late 60s coming off meniscus knee surgery earlier this year, I figured I had better attempt this weeklong walkabout while the legs are willing.
Here goes nothing.
MOUNT MANUEL
Either California State Parks or the U.S. Forest Service has a math problem.
I first discovered this issue when taking note of the trailhead sign at lot 3 in Pfeiffer. It said Mount Manuel was four miles away.
I hoofed it past the Homestead Cabin, where Manuel Innocente, an Indigenous man converted to Catholicism, had once lived. Up ahead a trail junction sign pointed to my destination.
Four miles, it said.
I followed the dirt path to the state park boundary and found a Los Padres National Forest signpost.
Mount Manuel, it announced, still remained four miles into my future.
Perhaps state and U.S. Forest Service rangers just do not know.
After completing the hike of about 10 miles round trip, I wouldn’t blame them.
At 3,379 feet, the ice cream scoop-shaped Manuel is not for the uninitiated. With an elevation gain of more than 3,000 feet, the ascent is challenging enough.
But it slips into the Sufferfest category because the chamise shrub and its scrubland co-conspirators have taken back the steep, wily footpath. Thickets of tanoak forests proved so maddening to navigate, I no longer bothered trying to avoid poison oak or ticks that frequent the route.
I started humming Dylan to keep my wits about me:
“I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail/ Poisoned in the bushes an’ blown out on the trail.”
The Forest Service, which originally carved the trail for pack horses, does not have the funds to maintain the trail that, for the most part, is cut into the ledge high above the Big Sur River watershed.
My legs and arms were bloodied by the continual poking and prodding of the scrubland and cacti spears. I did not see anyone for the first 5½ hours, as I slowly threaded my way to the top after experiencing demoralizing false summits.
The reward for climbing above Highway 1 usually is a sweeping view of the intoxicating Big Sur coastline. Mount Manuel does not deliver.
Rather, it is the gateway to the roadless Ventana Wilderness. The journey’s highlights included vistas of the Santa Lucias. The first sight of the 4,653-foot Kandlbinder and 4,856-foot Ventana Double Cone left me gobsmacked. The leg cramps, the stumbling about, all of it did not matter. Seeing remote, hard-rock pinnacles that rival the Sierra Nevada deep in wilderness underlined what can be found locally with some effort and gumption.
Speaking of breathtaking views, I knew exactly where I would take my next steps after Big Sur had left my arms and legs blistered with the effects of poison oak.
MOUNT TAMALPAIS
Four days later, I willed my beaten and battered body to Marin County with the promise of refrigerated air from the Pacific. The popular Mount Tamalpais is the highest point in Marin at 2,571 feet. But Marin being Marin, the actual milestone is the subject of an ongoing debate. Is the true summit West Peak or East Peak?
I really don’t give a Douglas fir which one is higher. The trails in Mount Tamalpais State Park and its environs are special at any elevation. I don’t often climb to the summit, because the network of renowned paths includes the Dipsea Trail, the Steep Ravine and Cardiac Hill above the overrated and overcrowded Muir Woods National Monument.
But Tamalpais was calling. For a change, I ascended in the late afternoon to finish at the East Peak fire lookout in time to watch the fiery sun slither into a pillowy fog bank.
Many routes lead to the summit. Locals mix and match, depending on energy level and ambitions. A wonderful all-day excursion starts at the Dipsea trailhead just outside of Mill Valley’s village. Another begins in a narrow ravine at the end of East Blithedale in Mill Valley. That’s the Old Railroad Grade fire road, about a 13-mile round trip.
An even longer trek starts at Stinson Beach and takes the Matt Davis Trail up. Most day hikers like to shorten the ascent by starting at Pantoll or Bootjack. I chose the Mountain Home Inn as a starting point. It’s about four miles to the East Summit in the most direct manner. But I had time to add some miles to explore a diverse community of plant life that includes redwoods, firs, bay trees and manzanitas thriving in the microclimates.
It was on the leg-burning Hogback section that I met Iain Maissen, a Mill Valley resident who said he climbs to the summit about three times a week. We both were headed to the strenuous but spectacular Fern Creek Trail that terminates at the East Peak visitor center.
“Mt. Tam is my church, my therapist and my best friend, and it never lets me down,” said Maissen, 33.
I had hopes to feel the same about my final peak.
MOUNT DIABLO
Mount Diablo State Park boasts the epic 15.4-mile Four Peaks Loop, perhaps the Bay Area’s best all-around hiking challenge. The journey hops from Mount Olympia to North Peak to Mount Diablo and finally to Eagle Peak in this remarkable 19,000-acre preserve that keeps encroaching suburbia at bay.
Two days after the ascent of Mt. Tamalpais, cousin Lucy DiBianca was regaling me about doing this Bighorn sheep of a climb as she and hiking buddy Margie Kaplan escorted me partway up Diablo. The septuagenarians knew better than to try to summit in the heat of summer. I did, too. But I also did not have a choice with a deadline looming, so I was determined to trudge uphill for eight miles.
All the Diablo summit trails are a big investment of mileage when starting at the bottom. But there’s no law against shortening the route.
Lucy, 77, and Margie, 73, live in Walnut Creek and Orinda, respectively, so this was familiar country. They led me through a shady canyon along Mitchell Creek, stopping to observe poison oak or recount a previous outdoor adventure.
We finally found the Deer Flat picnic tables under welcomed shade. I bid my cousin and new friend adieu as I began the long slog toward the summit, just as the morning sun cranked the thermometer gauge up a few notches.
From Deer Flat to Juniper Camp and finally to the summit was fairly steep. But the bone-dry terrain presented a stark beauty with wheat-colored grasslands, fields of yellow tarweed, coast live oak, Coulter pine and California buckeye.
I passed a hiker decked out for the Gobi Desert, but hardly another soul except in Juniper Campground and at the summit. On the observation deck, where on a clear day visitors supposedly can see Mount Lassen to the north and Yosemite to the east, a woman fretted about getting altitude sickness.
That’s better than poison oak, I thought, feeling the effects of the toxic urushiol sap that had caused no small amount of discomfort during the final two legs of my journey.
A gentle westerly breeze revived me. Everything was downhill from here, so I could afford a laugh. After summiting three glorious regional peaks, I had not vanished into thin air.
