The plan was to go and find Jim Morrison’s cave that was somewhere in the Malibu hills above the ocean. Rumors were that Jim wrote most of his poetry there. Yet douche bag canoe vandals repeatedly tagging the rocks in the area forced the park service to close down all trails.
The stupidity of the few affect the many. I frantically search for a new trail. I find Cheeseboro that looks promising. The marine layer is thick in the early morning. Two young coyote pups stroll past me as I get my gear ready to start hiking.
“Things are starting to look up.”
Even with the California drought turning everything a dry brown color, the rolling hills of this area still hold me captivated.
I decide to take a weed covered fire road to the top of the hills, and from there hike across the backbones of many a mountain. Fire roads turn to single track trails and back again. It’s a curious wonder to just follow the path, hoping that it will lead you eventually back to your starting point.
People here are few and far between. A couple of gents talking religion and politics, a lone woman listening to her music, a couple of thrill seeking mountain bikers racing down the trail.
A photographer focusing on a lone tree.
Eight miles in and the trail has only continued to go further North. I get nervous and think about turning around, but I’m able to pull up a GPS topographical map and find a connecting trail a couple of miles ahead that appears to loop back to my starting point.
I find myself in the Sulphur Springs area around mile ten. The marine layer has broken apart, and clear blue skies are with me for the rest of the journey. I find a picnic table under a grove of large trees. It’s a place I imagine couples in love go to make out.
I sit in peace, hydrate and dream. The haunting sounds of an old guitar play, in my mind a woman sings from a tortured soul.