Malibu Creek State Park

It usually begins in March, sometimes as early as February, but always by March - that need.

This year it was particularly bad. Having quit my job in August 2000 to work full-time on my master's thesis, I had ample time to stare out into my backyard, waiting for some stroke of genius to take root in my brain. Rain on nearly every weekend of January and February merely added fuel. By St. Patrick's Day, need was threatening to creep over into obsession.

Spring Fever, I believe it's called. The urge to break free of winter's confines and explore the world.

There are some that would say that Californians - particularly those in Southern California - don't know what a real winter is. That may be true. But the end of winter and the first blooms of spring flowers evoke the same condition regardless of locale. Spring Fever.

This year I gave into the need on Saint Patrick's Day, March 17, 2001. Perhaps it was the promise of 80 degree weather (the first in months). Perhaps it was the first California Poppy bloom to appear in my garden. Maybe it was because my husband had a VIP Kings hockey ticket, courtesy of his boss, and I'd have the day husbandless. Or, quite possibly, it was due to the fact that I was desperate to avoid doing our taxes. I had to get out of the house.

Option number one was to head up into the San Gabriels to Chantry Flats and hike up to Sturtevant Falls. I had maps, day pack, the works. Alas, I left too late in the day and the Chantry Flats parking lot was a zoo.

Option number two was to head off into the Santa Monicas. I had worked on a project in Calabasas just off Las Virgines Road north of the 101 freeway. South of the freeway lay the Santa Monicas. I had no maps of the area, but I did have my guidebook. So off I went to Malibu Creek State Park, 4 miles south of the 101 freeway on Las Virgines.

I knew that without maps I couldn't do a serious hike. So I settled on a nice "walkabout" the park, begining with a 0.7 mile hike (walk actually, along a nice big fireroad) to the visitor's center. Supposedly, so said the sign at the parking lot, one could head off in several directions from there.

Malibu Creek, looking NW

There are two road to take to reach the visitor's center - the high road, north of the creek, and the low road, south of the creek. I, and numerous other families, took the high road mainly because all of the winter rains had caused the creek to rise over the top of the western bridge. Still, it was a pleasant walk.

The visitor's center had the nerve to be closed, much to the annoyance of a middle-aged man wearing a short sleeved dress shirt, shorts, black socks and loafers. I crept away from the man and found a log to sit upon while I pondered what next to do. Directly ahead of me was the gorge - a narrowing of the basalt of the Middle Topanga Formation cut by the creek. I dug out my "Day Hiker's Guide to Southern California" and flipped to the appropriate section. According to the book, there were several trails that looked promissing. However,

no trail signs cleverly pointed me in the right direction. The visitor's center and the Rock Poll nearby are popular places. "Unofficial" trails leading to the river abound. Gamely I headed off on one that appeared to loop around a knob behind the visitor's center.

After a false start, which lead me down to the river, I was off. The trail rose fairly steeply into the mountains. Much of the trail was in good contition. There were a few spots, however, where the rains had turned the clayey siltstone of the Topanga Formation into snotty goo. Normally not too bad, unless it's on a steep portion. Within fifteen minutes I had reached a saddle. Behind me lay Malibu Creek, ahead of me lay a view of the campground and Las Virgines Road. Civilization. Ugh. Still, I had not chosen this hike to get away from civilization. From this viewpoint I could not tell where the trail went. It was getting late, I had

For varity I took the low road back. Just before I reached the flooded bridge I spied the strange man again. This time he was muttering about how they couldn't do this to him, and just who did they think they were? As if "they" caused the river to rise. He was looking at the water rushing over the bridge (all three inches of it), contemplating his next move and the people on the other side. I took one look at him,

another at the water level, and a third at the two men on the opposite side, before striding across the bridge. The men on the high road side had wisely taken off their boots before crossing. I, on the other hand, was stuck with wet boots. With a last look at the strange man on the other side (who seemed perplexed as to how I accomplished what I did), I took my wet boots and myself back to the parking lot.

When all was said an done, I had hiked about three, maybe three and a half miles. It wasn't the best of hikes, but it was pleasant and a great way to whet the appatite for a large hike. Maybe next weekend.

Bibliography

McAuley, Milt. 1990. Hiking Trails of the Santa Monica Mountains. Canoga Park, CA: Canyon Publishing.

McKinney, John. 1992. Day Hiker's Guide to Southern California. Santa Barbara, CA: Olympus Press