Rock formations at White Tank Campground in Joshua Tree National Park in the Mojave Desert.
(Calvin B. Alagot / Los Angeles Times)
These are our favorite ‘mental health escapes’ within driving distance of L.A.
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January has felt like the longest year ever.
Deadly wildfires. Poison air. Political unrest. And the worst air crash in decades.
And that’s not even taking into consideration significant global crises or the day-to-day heartaches and setbacks we face individually.
Planning your weekend?
Stay up to date on the best things to do, see and eat in L.A.
It is important in the face of so much pain and fear to take breaks. We have to refill our cups if we are to survive — and hopefully, thrive.
Below you’ll find The Times Features team’s favorite mental health escapes within driving distance of L.A., whether that be in a hot spring, cool desert, calming beach or beloved theme park. These places are precious to us and have held us amid uncertainty. We hope they provide you the same and more. — Jaclyn Cosgrove
Showing Places
(Al Seib / Los Angeles Times)
Cambria and Cayucos: Where all seems cool, calm and collected
Cambria Town
When word reached me on Jan. 8 that fires were exploding all over L.A. County, I was at Moonstone Beach in Cambria, surrounded by sea, sand, humidity and driftwood. It took a long moment to reconcile what I was hearing with what I was standing in the middle of. Which was a good thing.
My wife and I have gone to Cambria and its southerly little sibling, Cayucos, many times over the decades. It’s a 220-mile drive. The pines and fog on the hills are part of the appeal. The mile-long boardwalk above Moonstone Beach is another part (and it helps that more than a dozen little hotels and inns line Moonstone Beach Drive). But the underlying attraction may simply be that the fundamentals of the place stay the same. It’s cool, coastal, calm and slow.
Maybe we’ll get some pie at Linn’s. Maybe make something out of driftwood. I have L.A. friends who used to come here every winter to calm down and collect themselves. I have another friend who works a high-stress job in the San Joaquin Valley then makes a beeline for Cambria almost every weekend.
Cayucos, 15 miles south, is a variation on the same coastal destination theme, with a pier, a sleepy main street (Ocean Avenue), a great breakfast place (Hidden Kitchen and its blue corn waffles) and a widely admired cookie vendor, (Brown Butter Cookie Co.). Instead of pine-studded slopes, Cayucos has the distant outline of Morro Rock to the south and a short hike to overlook a weird little shipwreck at the southern end of Estero Bluffs State Park. Cayucos also has a lot of vacation rentals — maybe too many, considered how few people live there year round. But still, the beach is never crowded, the wine country is half an hour east on California 46 and it slows my pulse. You could do worse.
My wife and I have gone to Cambria and its southerly little sibling, Cayucos, many times over the decades. It’s a 220-mile drive. The pines and fog on the hills are part of the appeal. The mile-long boardwalk above Moonstone Beach is another part (and it helps that more than a dozen little hotels and inns line Moonstone Beach Drive). But the underlying attraction may simply be that the fundamentals of the place stay the same. It’s cool, coastal, calm and slow.
Maybe we’ll get some pie at Linn’s. Maybe make something out of driftwood. I have L.A. friends who used to come here every winter to calm down and collect themselves. I have another friend who works a high-stress job in the San Joaquin Valley then makes a beeline for Cambria almost every weekend.
Cayucos, 15 miles south, is a variation on the same coastal destination theme, with a pier, a sleepy main street (Ocean Avenue), a great breakfast place (Hidden Kitchen and its blue corn waffles) and a widely admired cookie vendor, (Brown Butter Cookie Co.). Instead of pine-studded slopes, Cayucos has the distant outline of Morro Rock to the south and a short hike to overlook a weird little shipwreck at the southern end of Estero Bluffs State Park. Cayucos also has a lot of vacation rentals — maybe too many, considered how few people live there year round. But still, the beach is never crowded, the wine country is half an hour east on California 46 and it slows my pulse. You could do worse.
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(Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)
The Mojave Desert: Where I go to feel small
National Park
Whenever I’m overwhelmed, burnt out or consumed with my own suffering, there is no place I’d rather be than the Mojave Desert, a roughly two hour drive from Los Angeles. In some ways, it’s a counterintuitive pull. The landscape is beautiful and otherworldly, but it hardly offers a warm embrace. The region that includes Yucca Valley, Joshua Tree, Pioneer Town and 29 Palms is a land of rocks, thorns and extreme temperatures. Rattlesnakes and giant spiders abound and painful prickers lurk everywhere. Over the years, I’ve learned to keep a pair of tweezers in my car just in case.
And yet, for me at least, there is nothing quite like the starkness of the high desert to remind me just how small and inconsequential I truly am. All those problems that have been eating me alive? Those ancient mountains don’t care about any of them. I recently read that the oldest exposed rocks in Joshua Tree National Park are more than 1.7 billion years old. Think of what they have witnessed in their time on this planet. In the context of that immense history, my personal tragedies are meaningless. Of course, that doesn’t mean they are meaningless to me, but when my brain is stuck in a loop of misery, a change of perspective can be helpful.
And there are other ways the desert helps me too. I remember a time when my heart was heavy because I had once again failed to speak up for myself with devastating consequences. I asked the desert what message it had for me, then closed my eyes and listened.
“Sometimes you need thorns to protect yourself,” it said.
Message received.
And yet, for me at least, there is nothing quite like the starkness of the high desert to remind me just how small and inconsequential I truly am. All those problems that have been eating me alive? Those ancient mountains don’t care about any of them. I recently read that the oldest exposed rocks in Joshua Tree National Park are more than 1.7 billion years old. Think of what they have witnessed in their time on this planet. In the context of that immense history, my personal tragedies are meaningless. Of course, that doesn’t mean they are meaningless to me, but when my brain is stuck in a loop of misery, a change of perspective can be helpful.
And there are other ways the desert helps me too. I remember a time when my heart was heavy because I had once again failed to speak up for myself with devastating consequences. I asked the desert what message it had for me, then closed my eyes and listened.
“Sometimes you need thorns to protect yourself,” it said.
Message received.
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(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
Las Vegas: Where I find my center
Weekend Escape
Whenever my mental state is out of wack or I’m feeling down, the place that I go to find my center again is almost always Las Vegas. I was born and raised in the city, and many of my family and childhood friends still live there, so that’s an obvious draw. But even if I didn’t know anyone there, I’d still find myself running back every few months.
I prefer to drive there because it allows me to be spontaneous and to take detours along the way. From the moment I get onto Interstate 15 headed north, I immediately feel a sense of calmness in my body — just as long as I’ve timed it correctly and I’m able to avoid unnecessary traffic. At times, I’ll listen to music or a podcast, but more often than not, I prefer to sit in silence during the four-hour drive. I allow my mind to wander as I gaze out the window at the desert landscape filled with cactuses and tumbleweeds, and I drive alongside gigantic mountains, which make me and whatever situation I’m grappling with feel so small. I can’t tell you how many ideas and revelations I’ve come to during these road trips — my voice note app is filled with my ramblings.
Once I reach Primm, Nev., the last town before Las Vegas, I usually refill my gas tank at one of the stations, then grab a doughnut at Pinkbox Doughnuts, a local staple. Afterward, I’ll power through the final 30-ish-minute drive into the city, and as I pass each of the extravagant hotels along the freeway, the stadium and seemingly infinite number of billboards, I’m reminded of the magic of Las Vegas. Sure, some people go there to escape reality and experience “Sin City” through drinking, partying and gambling. But I rarely engage in those activities while I’m there. Each time I make that drive, I know I will leave feeling more clear and grounded than when I arrived.
I prefer to drive there because it allows me to be spontaneous and to take detours along the way. From the moment I get onto Interstate 15 headed north, I immediately feel a sense of calmness in my body — just as long as I’ve timed it correctly and I’m able to avoid unnecessary traffic. At times, I’ll listen to music or a podcast, but more often than not, I prefer to sit in silence during the four-hour drive. I allow my mind to wander as I gaze out the window at the desert landscape filled with cactuses and tumbleweeds, and I drive alongside gigantic mountains, which make me and whatever situation I’m grappling with feel so small. I can’t tell you how many ideas and revelations I’ve come to during these road trips — my voice note app is filled with my ramblings.
Once I reach Primm, Nev., the last town before Las Vegas, I usually refill my gas tank at one of the stations, then grab a doughnut at Pinkbox Doughnuts, a local staple. Afterward, I’ll power through the final 30-ish-minute drive into the city, and as I pass each of the extravagant hotels along the freeway, the stadium and seemingly infinite number of billboards, I’m reminded of the magic of Las Vegas. Sure, some people go there to escape reality and experience “Sin City” through drinking, partying and gambling. But I rarely engage in those activities while I’m there. Each time I make that drive, I know I will leave feeling more clear and grounded than when I arrived.
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Disneyland: To revel in the power of imagination
Anaheim Theme Park
Sometimes when I need a reset, it’s not solitude, nature or calmness I crave. It’s the belief in imagination. And it’s the need to surround myself in optimism and magical thinking, that the realities and harshness of the world are no match for our ability to tell stories. Or maybe I just need to run away to a place where one can briefly believe all the world’s problems can be solved with a kiss.
For much of my adult life, the Disneyland Resort has been my spa day. Walt Disney’s original Magic Kingdom is where I’ve gone in good times and bad. When I was diagnosed with an early stage of cancer, I went to Disneyland to soothe my mind, and I returned to celebrate when I was pronounced cancer free. A family crisis, a breakup, the death of a pet or simply a stressful work week — Disneyland has helped me through all of them. For at Disneyland, I can play, pretending I am sailing with singing pirates, cavorting with excitable ghosts and careening on a not-so runaway train. Or I can just people watch, absorbing other’s happiness at the sight of a favorite character or the simply joy of a churro for breakfast. It’s why I go there to write, as Disneyland puts me at ease and in a creative mindset.
I know what you’re thinking. It’s crowded. It’s expensive. There are lines. Disneyland is all of those things, yes, but when I go to mentally regroup, I’m not focused on wait times or strollers. I’m there for the atmosphere and to surround myself in storytelling. For it is through narrative that we make sense of the world, and fairy tales have lasted centuries because they contain everlasting truths. Namely, there’s an underlying belief that all our trials and travails can be conquered.
To be sure, I’m now too old and too cynical to believe in a happily ever after. But I do trust in possibilities, and Disneyland — about 30 miles from downtown — is Southern California’s temple dedicated to hope. And it’s a reminder that many of our nation’s myths, whether they involve lightsabers or a singing princess, originate here on the West Coast.
For much of my adult life, the Disneyland Resort has been my spa day. Walt Disney’s original Magic Kingdom is where I’ve gone in good times and bad. When I was diagnosed with an early stage of cancer, I went to Disneyland to soothe my mind, and I returned to celebrate when I was pronounced cancer free. A family crisis, a breakup, the death of a pet or simply a stressful work week — Disneyland has helped me through all of them. For at Disneyland, I can play, pretending I am sailing with singing pirates, cavorting with excitable ghosts and careening on a not-so runaway train. Or I can just people watch, absorbing other’s happiness at the sight of a favorite character or the simply joy of a churro for breakfast. It’s why I go there to write, as Disneyland puts me at ease and in a creative mindset.
I know what you’re thinking. It’s crowded. It’s expensive. There are lines. Disneyland is all of those things, yes, but when I go to mentally regroup, I’m not focused on wait times or strollers. I’m there for the atmosphere and to surround myself in storytelling. For it is through narrative that we make sense of the world, and fairy tales have lasted centuries because they contain everlasting truths. Namely, there’s an underlying belief that all our trials and travails can be conquered.
To be sure, I’m now too old and too cynical to believe in a happily ever after. But I do trust in possibilities, and Disneyland — about 30 miles from downtown — is Southern California’s temple dedicated to hope. And it’s a reminder that many of our nation’s myths, whether they involve lightsabers or a singing princess, originate here on the West Coast.
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(Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)
La Jolla: A place to inhale and exhale with the waves
San Diego Weekend Escape
During the pandemic, at the height of my fatigue with parenting (Zoom school — never again), work and all the doomscrolling, I decided my family needed an escape. La Jolla seemed easy enough. I booked a room at the La Jolla Shores Hotel, an unfussy spot on the beach, and as the four of us stepped onto the premises and heard the waves rhythmically crashing against the shore, I took what felt like my first deep breath in months.
Those few days, we did a lot of nothing, and it was everything. In the mornings, I got up with my too-early-rising year-old son, stumbled onto the empty beach and watched him dig sand with a paper coffee cup and chase seagulls with glee. Later, joined by my husband and daughter, we ate California burritos, explored sea caves and played board games on our balcony. At night, the sound of the ocean lulled us to sleep.
Though we were shaking sand out of our suitcases for days, it was well worth the trip. And it’s a place my family has returned to for some beach adventures, and for me in particular, a specific sense of calm.
Those few days, we did a lot of nothing, and it was everything. In the mornings, I got up with my too-early-rising year-old son, stumbled onto the empty beach and watched him dig sand with a paper coffee cup and chase seagulls with glee. Later, joined by my husband and daughter, we ate California burritos, explored sea caves and played board games on our balcony. At night, the sound of the ocean lulled us to sleep.
Though we were shaking sand out of our suitcases for days, it was well worth the trip. And it’s a place my family has returned to for some beach adventures, and for me in particular, a specific sense of calm.
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(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
Ventura: SoCal's last truly chill beach town
Weekend Escape
When I was a kid in the Inland Empire, my favorite place was always the beach; Newport Beach and San Clemente when I was younger, and then Laguna, with its hidden coves and ultra-hip hippie vibe.
As the years passed, those O.C. beach towns seemed to lose their luster. They got bigger and shinier and impossibly expensive, but the things that made the beach special — intangibles I couldn’t name — kept slipping away. The older I got, the less attainable that beach umami became.
I got lucky in 2020, when at the urging of my son and daughter-in-law, I found a house I could afford in what appeared to be Southern California’s last affordable and truly chill beach town — Ventura.
This is truly a flip-flop, family-friendly town. People love being outdoors here, and they really care about good food and brews, but fancy cars and clothes? Not so much. Ventura is a haven for thrifters, hikers, bikers and beachgoers. You can fish off one of the state’s longest wooden piers, walk downtown for lunch, hike the Harmon Canyon Preserve or even take in the stunning vistas at the Ventura Botanical Gardens and still have plenty of time to catch a few waves (or just watch the surfers from the Ventura Promenade) before dark.
And that’s where I rediscovered my beach intangibles; skipping barefoot in the sand, flirting with the waves and picking up pretty rocks while the sun dissolves into the ocean. In those moments, as the sky turns the color of plums and salmon and bright pink bubblegum, everything else seems to fade away to the best intangible of all: the childish wonder of being alive.
As the years passed, those O.C. beach towns seemed to lose their luster. They got bigger and shinier and impossibly expensive, but the things that made the beach special — intangibles I couldn’t name — kept slipping away. The older I got, the less attainable that beach umami became.
I got lucky in 2020, when at the urging of my son and daughter-in-law, I found a house I could afford in what appeared to be Southern California’s last affordable and truly chill beach town — Ventura.
This is truly a flip-flop, family-friendly town. People love being outdoors here, and they really care about good food and brews, but fancy cars and clothes? Not so much. Ventura is a haven for thrifters, hikers, bikers and beachgoers. You can fish off one of the state’s longest wooden piers, walk downtown for lunch, hike the Harmon Canyon Preserve or even take in the stunning vistas at the Ventura Botanical Gardens and still have plenty of time to catch a few waves (or just watch the surfers from the Ventura Promenade) before dark.
And that’s where I rediscovered my beach intangibles; skipping barefoot in the sand, flirting with the waves and picking up pretty rocks while the sun dissolves into the ocean. In those moments, as the sky turns the color of plums and salmon and bright pink bubblegum, everything else seems to fade away to the best intangible of all: the childish wonder of being alive.
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People gather to meet Mayor Max, a golden retriever mascot for the town of Idyllwild, outside a local gift shop.
(Alyssa Bereznak / Los Angeles Times)
Idyllwild: A small town with a big personality
Riverside Town
When I was in my 20s, I’d often trudge home to my teeny Brooklyn apartment after a demanding work day and watch “Parks and Recreation” with my roommate. The small-town charm of Pawnee, Ind., was so calming compared to our big city environs that we began declaring that we would move there “when we grew up.” We were joking, obviously. Pawnee wasn’t real.
You can imagine my shock and delight when, nearly a decade later, I visited Idyllwild, a cherished mountain town a little more than 100 miles southeast of L.A. with an approximate population of 3,400. I was there for a challenging hike in the gorgeous San Bernardino National Forest, but I got so much more. My accommodations were at a beautiful communal Japanese-style lodge, my hosts were a sweet folk-singing couple who spoke lovingly of the worms in their compost. When I went into town, a man in the thrift store handed me a magnet that displayed an adorable golden retriever named Max, and informed me that he was the town’s mayor. Twenty minutes later, I was patting the fuzzy official on the head outside a souvenir shop whose sign was in the shape of a gigantic cowboy hat. There is a Pawnee, and its name is Idyllwild.
Each time I’ve returned since, I’ve been heartened by the unique community that residents have built, and their welcoming attitudes toward those who pass through for a weekend. Aside from a chance to soak in its beautiful natural environment and shop for records and crystals, Idyllwild is a balm for the stress of a big city, a place where you can slow down and remind yourself what matters most.
You can imagine my shock and delight when, nearly a decade later, I visited Idyllwild, a cherished mountain town a little more than 100 miles southeast of L.A. with an approximate population of 3,400. I was there for a challenging hike in the gorgeous San Bernardino National Forest, but I got so much more. My accommodations were at a beautiful communal Japanese-style lodge, my hosts were a sweet folk-singing couple who spoke lovingly of the worms in their compost. When I went into town, a man in the thrift store handed me a magnet that displayed an adorable golden retriever named Max, and informed me that he was the town’s mayor. Twenty minutes later, I was patting the fuzzy official on the head outside a souvenir shop whose sign was in the shape of a gigantic cowboy hat. There is a Pawnee, and its name is Idyllwild.
Each time I’ve returned since, I’ve been heartened by the unique community that residents have built, and their welcoming attitudes toward those who pass through for a weekend. Aside from a chance to soak in its beautiful natural environment and shop for records and crystals, Idyllwild is a balm for the stress of a big city, a place where you can slow down and remind yourself what matters most.
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(Lisa Boone / Los Angeles Times)
Berkeley: For cooking, shopping and communing with foodie friends
Berkeley City park
It wasn’t until close friends of mine left Berkeley that I realized how much I relied on my regular escapes there for a break.
Over the years, my family has taken many inspiring day trips from our home base in North Berkeley: Hiking in Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve, dining in Chinatown at the Great Eastern Restaurant (where President Obama famously stopped by for dim sum), touring Alcatraz and swooning over Joan Mitchell paintings at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. These experiences, shared with family and close friends, are etched in my memory.
But what I love the most about Berkeley is walking through the neighborhoods, looking at the charming Craftsman homes and admiring the lush gardens, which sharply contrast our drier Los Angeles landscapes. I feel myself instantly relaxing walking through Alice Water’s Edible Schoolyard Project at Martin Luther King Jr. Middle School, with its edibles, flowers, chickens and compost bins. For some reason, I always find it surprising — and heartwarming — to see the school open to the public on weekends when classes are not in session.
As someone who loves to cook — and eat — I appreciate how seriously Berkeley foodies take cooking and eating. Just shopping for food here is an experience, from the Berkeley Bowl independent grocery store to the Monterey Market, a humble neighborhood store jam-packed with locally grown organic produce, including things you’ve never heard of. Someone standing in the checkout line has shared recipes with me more than once. It’s the same at Acme Bread Co., which always has a line, and the Tokyo Fish Market, where we often buy fish to make sushi. This shared passion for food and friendship has always been invigorating and almost distracting enough to make me forget about the long drive back to L.A.
Over the years, my family has taken many inspiring day trips from our home base in North Berkeley: Hiking in Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve, dining in Chinatown at the Great Eastern Restaurant (where President Obama famously stopped by for dim sum), touring Alcatraz and swooning over Joan Mitchell paintings at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. These experiences, shared with family and close friends, are etched in my memory.
But what I love the most about Berkeley is walking through the neighborhoods, looking at the charming Craftsman homes and admiring the lush gardens, which sharply contrast our drier Los Angeles landscapes. I feel myself instantly relaxing walking through Alice Water’s Edible Schoolyard Project at Martin Luther King Jr. Middle School, with its edibles, flowers, chickens and compost bins. For some reason, I always find it surprising — and heartwarming — to see the school open to the public on weekends when classes are not in session.
As someone who loves to cook — and eat — I appreciate how seriously Berkeley foodies take cooking and eating. Just shopping for food here is an experience, from the Berkeley Bowl independent grocery store to the Monterey Market, a humble neighborhood store jam-packed with locally grown organic produce, including things you’ve never heard of. Someone standing in the checkout line has shared recipes with me more than once. It’s the same at Acme Bread Co., which always has a line, and the Tokyo Fish Market, where we often buy fish to make sushi. This shared passion for food and friendship has always been invigorating and almost distracting enough to make me forget about the long drive back to L.A.
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Rosarito Beach: The coastal town that feels worlds away
Weekend Escape
Whenever I think of getting away — really getting away — I think of crossing the border to Rosarito Beach. The coastal town is only a three-hour drive down from my home, but it feels the same as flying to a land far away. I grew up on the border of Vermont, near Montreal, and crossing into Tijuana gives me that same vibe. Like Venice Beach is to L.A., Rosarito is Tijuana’s punky beachside neighbor.
I’ve always loved the majesty of the Rosarito Beach Hotel, which celebrated its 100th anniversary last year. You can smell the salty air in each of the resort’s 500 rooms, many of which look out over the Pacific. The hotel can be a party spot or just a relaxing place to treat as a home base for your Baja adventure.
Last time I went down with my partner, we ate at the hotel’s two restaurants, watched a retirement party take over the karaoke room for boisterous renditions of rancheros, wandered the beach and went into town for shopping and food.
Rosarito is home to hundreds of restaurants (there are more than 200 places to eat within 5 miles), but the real treat comes if you drive a little farther down the coast. At oceanfront La Casa del Pescador in the village of Puerto Nueva, famed for its Pacific lobster — these crustaceans are smaller than the Atlantic version in Maine — you can devour buttery langostinos and feel the sea breeze at the same time.
And if Rosarito is known for anything (apart from being the filming location of “The Titanic”), it’s the bar and club scene. It’s always fun to stop at the famed Papas & Beer nightclub, the biggest beach club in Baja, for a margarita or a michelada and catch a DJ blending corridos tumblano music (Mexican trap) into reggaeton. And one of my favorite secrets is stopping by Curious Simon, a shop on the southern side of town that sells vibrantly colorful ceramic pots and wall hangings.
Rosarito is bursting with possibilities — horseback riding along the coast, scuba diving into crystal-clear waters; it’s a place that truly is an escape from L.A.
I’ve always loved the majesty of the Rosarito Beach Hotel, which celebrated its 100th anniversary last year. You can smell the salty air in each of the resort’s 500 rooms, many of which look out over the Pacific. The hotel can be a party spot or just a relaxing place to treat as a home base for your Baja adventure.
Last time I went down with my partner, we ate at the hotel’s two restaurants, watched a retirement party take over the karaoke room for boisterous renditions of rancheros, wandered the beach and went into town for shopping and food.
Rosarito is home to hundreds of restaurants (there are more than 200 places to eat within 5 miles), but the real treat comes if you drive a little farther down the coast. At oceanfront La Casa del Pescador in the village of Puerto Nueva, famed for its Pacific lobster — these crustaceans are smaller than the Atlantic version in Maine — you can devour buttery langostinos and feel the sea breeze at the same time.
And if Rosarito is known for anything (apart from being the filming location of “The Titanic”), it’s the bar and club scene. It’s always fun to stop at the famed Papas & Beer nightclub, the biggest beach club in Baja, for a margarita or a michelada and catch a DJ blending corridos tumblano music (Mexican trap) into reggaeton. And one of my favorite secrets is stopping by Curious Simon, a shop on the southern side of town that sells vibrantly colorful ceramic pots and wall hangings.
Rosarito is bursting with possibilities — horseback riding along the coast, scuba diving into crystal-clear waters; it’s a place that truly is an escape from L.A.
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(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
Icehouse Canyon to Icehouse Saddle: The hike that holds hundreds of memories
Mountain Trail
The Icehouse Canyon to Icehouse Saddle hike is a 7.2-mile route near Mt. Baldy Village through a tree-lined canyon along a trail parallel to Icehouse Creek. The trail ends at the saddle, where you have the opportunity to continue down about five other routes, including to the popular Cucamonga and Ontario peaks.
“It is a trip which one will want to take more than once when its lure has gotten into the blood,” a Times article from 1926 reads.
Almost 100 years later, this holds true. I have hiked this route numerous times and in every type of weather.
I’ve sat post-hike in the trailhead parking lot with my wife and dog, watching the sun set below the mountains as the humans among us sip hot tea.
I wore crampons for the first time in Icehouse Canyon, crunching through the snow as a friend and I huffed and puffed our way up to the saddle.
I’ve never been wetter than the time my friends and I hiked the canyon in a rainstorm that was supposed to end but didn’t. “Why are we doing this?” my friend Mish kept screaming. We still laugh about that. It was a fair question.
I’ve hiked out in the dark with other solo hikers. Someone invariably forgets their headlamp, but per trail culture, we share light and all make it home safely.
I’ve seen precious chipmunks and been freaked out by bugs that sound like rattlesnakes. And once, when my friend and I were being very quiet, we saw bighorn sheep clomping by, high on a steep hillside.
I have what feels like hundreds of memories of splashing through the creek’s crisp cool waters, whether it was the time I took a cold plunge beneath a short waterfall gushing off a boulder, or all the times I’ve swum with my dog, Maggie May, after a summer hike. The icy waters’ curative powers have soothed my tired feet many times.
After about seven magic miles to the saddle and back, I always feel restored.
Especially these days, I love the chance to visit on a weekday. Mostly alone on the trail, I am safe here. The mountains don’t care that I’m nonbinary and transgender. The chickadees and Steller’s jay will still sing as I walk by, regardless of who I love. The Jeffrey pines will smell great for anyone. Nature continues amid the human-caused chaos, unaware of all the ways we continue hurting each other. It inspires me to keep going too.
“It is a trip which one will want to take more than once when its lure has gotten into the blood,” a Times article from 1926 reads.
Almost 100 years later, this holds true. I have hiked this route numerous times and in every type of weather.
I’ve sat post-hike in the trailhead parking lot with my wife and dog, watching the sun set below the mountains as the humans among us sip hot tea.
I wore crampons for the first time in Icehouse Canyon, crunching through the snow as a friend and I huffed and puffed our way up to the saddle.
I’ve never been wetter than the time my friends and I hiked the canyon in a rainstorm that was supposed to end but didn’t. “Why are we doing this?” my friend Mish kept screaming. We still laugh about that. It was a fair question.
I’ve hiked out in the dark with other solo hikers. Someone invariably forgets their headlamp, but per trail culture, we share light and all make it home safely.
I’ve seen precious chipmunks and been freaked out by bugs that sound like rattlesnakes. And once, when my friend and I were being very quiet, we saw bighorn sheep clomping by, high on a steep hillside.
I have what feels like hundreds of memories of splashing through the creek’s crisp cool waters, whether it was the time I took a cold plunge beneath a short waterfall gushing off a boulder, or all the times I’ve swum with my dog, Maggie May, after a summer hike. The icy waters’ curative powers have soothed my tired feet many times.
After about seven magic miles to the saddle and back, I always feel restored.
Especially these days, I love the chance to visit on a weekday. Mostly alone on the trail, I am safe here. The mountains don’t care that I’m nonbinary and transgender. The chickadees and Steller’s jay will still sing as I walk by, regardless of who I love. The Jeffrey pines will smell great for anyone. Nature continues amid the human-caused chaos, unaware of all the ways we continue hurting each other. It inspires me to keep going too.
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