Saturday, June 19, 1999
I arrived at East Fork Road above the reservoir at my favorite pull out at 3:30 a.m. and enjoyed one hour of very satisfying star gazing, although I only saw a couple of shooting stars and one satellite. It was very quiet, even though I feared it being grad night for a lot of teenagers, that the canyon would be filled with loud celebrations, huge bon fires and very intoxicated individuals. There was a family in a mini van parked about 100 feet away from me who were spending the night also under the stars.
Day broke at 4:30 a.m. and I decided to move on to my planned trailhead for that day which was one not very well known or traveled, or maybe forgotten, called Shoemaker Canyon. It runs parallel with the East Fork Road, River, and Trail, but about 600 feet higher and to the west. There is a locked gate 1/4 mile in and after that a dirt road continues on about two miles and abruptly ends as the government decided not to finish building the road due to budget cuts and dangerous rockslides. I call it, "The Road to Nowhere." After I turned off onto the road, I drove slowly taking note of how many overnight campers there would be on the road. Only one. The weekend before, there were 4 or 5. About halfway in, it still being a little dark out, I noticed some movement on the right shoulder. I thought it was an owl, but much to my surprise, a very large doe swept her gaze, caught my headlights, sprung around and leaped and bounded in front of my car. I braked quickly, but knew I could stop in time and was awestruck as I watched this incredible animal run away in slow motion, powerful in her every move, into Williams Canyon scared for her life. My first thought was all the stories I've heard from people who accidentally hit a deer on the road and how mangled the front of their car became and how traumatic the incident was. I was glad that someone watched over her and me. I will never forget that experience. She was beautiful and as big as a horse. After she was gone and I gathered myself, I whispered out the window, "It's okay, Mama Doe."
I arrived at the locked gate. It still not quite light enough to begin my hike and got my backpack together. I also want to share the unique experience of watching the granite and gneiss patterns of the canyon walls and mountains that guard it slowly come alive as the dark of night changes to daylight. It is almost spiritual. You should try it sometime. There is also something special about hiking or just taking a walk here in the very early hours when you will see things you will never see any other time of day; the wildlife, the stillness, the excellent photography lighting, no bugs!, and my secret passion of solitude in nature.
I start my unfinished journey from the weekend before determined to finish this time. As I got out of the car, although it was in the cool of the morning, I could feel how hot the weather was the day before. I pass the unique features that make it hard to concentrate on walking because my love of geology made me stop every few feet as the rock walls changed classes and colors, obviously telling stories of great and significant changes in the canyon over thousands of years. It was like the rocks were on display. The Spanish Broom was in bloom in profusion on both sides of the road and the air was filled with its intoxicating and sweet aroma. This time I heard the humming of bees. On the left, high above the road was the largest rock slide I have ever seen. It looked like the top of the cliff wall was dynamited and left a huge open scar with little shelters left for animals to sleep in. The felled rock was piled high from the ground all the way up to the base of its scar. This rock was light colored in nature, maybe diorite or travertine.
I was a little disappointed that there were not very many lookouts where I could see the trail below that knows my footprints very well and possibly my favorite swimming hole. However, I could see the entire first half of the Heaton Flat Trail (Hikes 86 & 87 of the 7th edition of John Robinson's classic Trails of the Angeles). All the times I walked passed it, I obviously underestimated its difficulty. From my viewpoint, it was a skinny, straight uphill tredge and approximately a 6,000 foot elevation gain (Hike 87) that I have new respect for. I thought I might be able to see the Allison Mine on Iron Mountain, but could not. I also noticed that although it felt like I had walked a good distance, when compared to the trail below, I had only gone a few hundred feet. Everywhere I turned I saw evidence of extensive mining on the left walls, along with tall, well-etched waterfall basins. The walls looked cut out, or maybe hydraulically loosened, but the ground below was lower than the trail surface and delicately landscaped with wildflowers. On the side were concrete, man-made channels where runoff was captured. One canyon even looked like there was a ledge cut along the wall at one time so as someone could walk along it. There was also a flat area that contained several stacked white plastic boxes (bee boxes?). I didn't get closer to find out.
The trail took a bend to the left and the whole canyon was filled with green chamise. Unburned, untrodded (by man) and in perfect condition. This obviously is where a lot of the deer come from as they love to nest in chamise on high slopes. This was confirmed as I saw deer and bighorn sheep tracks all along the trail. At this point, I really felt like I was the only human in this part of the canyon. Another bend to the right revealed beautiful black and white metamorphic rock. There were several unique samples on the ground. As I bent down to pick one up, I noticed the ground was covered with fire ants (one of my phobias). I quickly dropped the rock and walked (or stomped) a little faster feeling good that I had worn shoes with full coverage. I continued with the only uphill tredge on the trip and as it turned to the left, I saw a tunnel ahead.
Mountain tunnels always fascinate me. How they are built right into the bedrock and at the most precise point of entry. This tunnel seemed so out of place, and it was. Someone went to an awful lot of trouble to build this road. I read that it was built by prison convicts, and I can only imagine the labor involved. I stood at the entrance. It was a very long tunnel, I would say at least 400 yards or so. I could see all the way through to the other side and where the trail continued. Swifts darted in and out of the top of the inside of the tunnel. It was clearly stamped on the front "1961." I felt an overwhelming sense of apprehension to enter this tunnel for some reason. Even though there was a lot of light and I could see both far and wide throughout, I felt a little scared. I thought, "this tunnel has been undisturbed for about 40 years." I started to walk inside carefully looking back and forth in front and on the side of me. I got about halfway and stopped. The only thing I could think about was rattlesnakes. Lots of rattlesnakes. This would be the perfect place for rattlesnakes to live. It's cool, sheltered, and undisturbed. At that point and much to my dismay, I turned around and headed back.
I was disappointed that my own fears kept me from finishing this hike with only about 1/4 mile left. I turned around and took one last look and noticed there was another tunnel behind it. Not as long, and I knew the end of the trail was just beyond that. I felt good though that my instincts (often on the money) put me in the right direction and because I was by myself, I just didn't think it was a good idea. However, this trail would be perfect for mountain biking. It's smooth and you could ride through the tunnel faster than you could walk and be above anything that could be lurking below you.
So, now I will finish this hike by quoting the book Afoot and Afield in Los Angeles County, by Jerry Schad, at the point in which I stopped:
At the end of the tunnel, lies the Abyss, Shoemaker Canyon. It was never bridged. The second tunnel lies ahead. Built in 1964, this one is only 200 yards long. Beyond it is the end of the road. The view down into "The Narrows" of San Gabriel Canyon and Iron Mountain is tremendous. This is true high mountain wilderness country. A treacherous 600 feet below the river appears to be meandering. Please don't attempt to scramble down. Return the way you came.I walked back to my car a little swifter now as the sun was now higher and the all-apparent bugs were really out in full force. I drove down the hill (now 7:30 a.m.), rested a little while then parked by the usually crowded Oaks Picnic Area and decided to take advantage of the solitude. I parked my car, walked down to the river and took a swim. I chose one of the deeper pools. The water was cold at first, but refreshing as I did get quite warm up the hill. (No bugs by the water. Amazing for this time of year).
I decided to drive home via Glendora Mountain Road which I have never done before. The view was outstanding. Probably the best in the whole range. I used my Pentax 20 x 80 binoculars to view everything from the mines dotting the hillsides to the watersheds coming from Iron Mountain and Mt. Baldy. Unfortunately, I did not bring my camera. So, the next day I decided to drive back up and take panoramic shots of this outstanding view from one side to the other. Around noon, I decided to try my luck at finding a parking spot down below to take another swim. I met someone from Virginia who was literally "raking" in the trout. He said they stock every Wednesday. He had picked a perfect spot. It was also the best swimming pool in that area, but he took a break to go back up to his car while I took a quick one (still no bugs by the water).
He informed me that the day before around 8:00 a.m. while he was fishing at Heaton Flat, he looked up and saw what he thought were a family of bighorn sheep (on the same road where I was, at almost the same time!). However, he described these sheep as having very long hair hanging down almost to the ground. My guess is that these were mountain goats, not bighorn sheep. I've never heard of mountain goats being in this canyon, but it doesn't surprise me. He also told me he saw a black snake in the water.
I also learned later that day that for some reason, there were two helicopters that landed on Shoemaker Canyon Road and were flying back and forth into the canyon and back all afternoon long. It was very noisy and loud. I never learned what this was all about. If it was a rescue effort, I'm sure I would have seen something on T.V. about it, but didn't. I thought maybe they were stocking trout, but not sure. Or it could have been those crazy folks from Bungee America transporting people into The Narrows and back before and after their experience of a lifetime. I tried calling the Angeles National Forest Headquarters, they told me to call the L.A. County Sheriff's Department whom I never could get ahold of as of this writing.
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Copyright © 1999 by Linda Ainsworth
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Last update: 30 June 1999.