Life and Backpacking Point Reyes, California With the Kids

Alamere Falls contributing its small part to the Pacific Ocean.

My fourth-grade daughter recently told me that she checks my blog from on her school computer. This was great to hear, as I don’t often get to meet my fans in person.

I did wonder if she had encountered any adult content here. Aside from the innuendo-ridden banana guard gear review, which I think we’ve all tried to forget, and now we’re regretting that I brought it up, this site should be pretty family friendly, so I think we’re good.

Now I’m just embarrassed that I haven’t written here in over three months. Twenty-seventeen probably saw more Avengers movies than updates from Dad vs Wild. And while we can never have enough Hulk vs Thor, what the world really needs in this time of political turmoil and changing climates is a mid-thirties father of five speaking for the trees and the kids.

This blog has become a point of conflict in my life. My love for family and the outdoors, and writing about them, wrestles like a god of thunder against my hulking aversions to technology and to having myself plastered on the internet. In the end, it comes down to talking about the things I love doing vs actually doing them, and I’ve yet to find a good balance.

Some deer at dawn.

Today, I will write, mostly to appease my avid readership, whose requests for updates have become unbearable. But also because writing encourages reflection. From my post on Time Travel and How I Got to Be Thirty:

Life is like a book. If we never stop to think, it is gradually compressed into a few brief pages, an executive summary, and, looking back, that’s all we have to represent it. But as we ponder on our days, weeks, and years, simple experiences gain substance and value, life grows, and pages are filled. Reflecting on life is one of the secrets to making life full of memories and meaning.

Wow, I had some deep thoughts when I turned thirty. Now, five years later, I feel more compressed than ever. I need to listen to my own advice. I need to slow down, decompress, stop seizing the day so much. Again, borrowing from my more thoughtful thirty-year-old self:

It’s not enough just to seize the day; any other life form can do that. When a dog escapes from the backyard, it holds nothing back, running, jumping, slobbering, wagging, living life to the fullest. Even dogs can seize the day. It’s not enough to squeeze our day for all it’s worth, if we don’t savor it, internalize it, understand it, remember it. Making time count involves using that thing which sets us apart from any other animal: reason, or critical thought.

In an effort to make time count, today I’m reflecting on a long forgotten backpacking trip with my oldest two kids, ages six and four at the time, to Point Reyes National Seashore. Our first backpacking trip together, in the summer of 2012.

Point Reyes protects 70,000 acres of Pacific shoreline, mountains, and forest north of San Francisco, California. Campsites are only accessible by foot or boat. We started by foot at the south end of this nature sanctuary, parking at the Palomarin trailhead and then embarking on the Coast Trail, which, for a mile or so, skirts the eroding edges of a 200 foot cliff with waves crashing quietly below.

I remember the ocean, spreading forever into the horizon, like another sky, infinite and inaccessible. We could only observe and wonder from the edges, with our tiny footsteps traversing its endless perimeter. The kids were too young to say much about it, besides that it’s really, really big. So I was left to imagine what they were feeling as they stare wide-eyed into the dark, wavy expanse.

Sunrise over Japan, from behind.

To a kid, I imagine that much of life feels like an ocean, infinite and inaccessible. Sharing with them such a vast and wild place helps me understand how the kids must feel, always relatively small, but also more easily impressed than us grown ups, who increasingly funnel the big world through a four-inch screen.

If I remember correctly, the hike in to Wildcat campground is around six miles. This distance pushed the limits of my four-year-old’s tiny legs. Two miles was enough, let alone six. It might as well be six hundred.

As the trail curved into the hills, gaining some altitude, the magic of the ocean wore off. Questions devolved quickly into complaining, and then crying. I opted to take her backpack, but that only bought us a few minutes. She wanted me to carry her too. She wanted to go back to the car. She wanted to see her mom.

Looking south over Wildcat Lake at Point Reyes.

The breaks were getting excessive, so pulled out my parenting playbook and tried some classic distraction strategies. First, the moving target strategy, effective for getting kids from point A to point B, when point B is inconceivably far away: let’s keep going a little longer, and take a break once we get to… the top of the hill, the next turn, the next shady spot, a babbling brook, a waterfall, a rainbow, a tree that looks like a dragon. That tree looks more like a lizard, I’m sure we can do better. I feel like we’re getting closer… can you feel that?

Second, the diversion strategy, effective for redirecting attention away from the idea that is causing kids immeasurable suffering toward something relatively pleasant or just neutral: remember that time we went camping in Minnesota, and everyone was covered in ticks? Did you know that ticks can survive on your clothes after going through the washing machine? Did you know that Wildcat campground is named after a mysterious bobcat that has been spotted prowling camp before sunrise? A bobcat is like a cat, but bigger. Remember when mom…?

Warning: when using the diversion strategy while hiking, avoid recalling memories involving mom, home, or ice cream. Stick to happy, innocuous, or initially annoying but actually OK memories of things that happened outside.

A cool slug, doing its thing, slugging around.

These strategies probably got us through mile three, at which point, on the brink of total meltdown, mother nature came through with the most effective coping strategy of all, connecting with the wonders of the earth.

First, we found a banana slug, which was neat, but not too out of the ordinary. Next was a fox, which was surprising at first sight, and then surreal and, I admit, a little concerning, as it accompanied us down the trail, sometimes leading the way.

Mr Sox Fox, doing her thing.
stray fox
Mr Fox keeping us company.

Our pet fox eventually got bored with us, I assume because we didn’t reward her behavior with trail mix or bits of granola bar. She slipped quietly into the tall grass bordering the trail, and we were left alone to wonder what that was all about.

Remember that time a fox joined us on our hike? That question, and the fantastic answers we invented helped us endure the middle section of the hike, until the trail curved back toward the ocean. Within a mile, we were at camp, and then playing shoeless in the cold sand, on the brink of the Pacific.

Wildcat is a favorite campground at Point Reyes because it is perched on a small bluff just above the beach. Some sites have ocean views. Ours did not, but it did put me in close proximity to the campsite’s elusive namesake early the next morning.

bobcat at wildcat
The legendary wildcat of wildcat campground.
Lynx rufus giving a backward glance.

I followed him from a distance, taking shaky pictures on my point-and-shoot and creeping along as stealthily as I could. Like a cat, he made no appearance of caring whatsoever. He knew I was there, of course, which he acknowledged with a quick backward glance, but I hardly registered in his utterly aloof feline mind.

beached whale
A beached whale near the Palomarin Trailhead.

After all these magical encounters with wildlife, Point Reyes left us with a sad image on our hike out, of a whale beached not far from the trailhead. How did this happen? Could someone save it? Probably not, I told the kids. We speculated that it got sick and died, and then the ocean washed it to shore. More likely, I think, it just came to close too the perimeter of its other sky, the infinite and inaccessible dry land.

Hiking Mount Shasta, California: Scramblefest Up The Clear Creek Route

At 14,179 feet elevation and 9,822 feet of prominence, Mount Shasta dominates the landscape of northern California, solitary and proud at the southern foot of the Cascade Range. Without neighbors or friends, it protrudes confidently into the horizon, as if it has consumed all its peers and is slowly digesting them in its volcanic belly.

Mount Shasta maintains a far more impressive and commanding individuality than any other mountain within the limits of
John Muir

This summer, my little bro and I crawled up the talus backside of that slumbering beast, like ants through the gigantic crumbling leftovers of its tectonic meals. Here’s a summary of the epic scramblefest.

Base Camp at Clear Creek

Four of us drove up from the Sacramento area on a sunny but mild Sunday afternoon in late July: my dad, brother, oldest son, and I. After Redding, the drive gets more interesting as interstate 5 leaves behind the parched foothills spotted with dusty oak trees and climbs into the coniferous mountains and reservoirs of the Shasta-Trinity National Forest. We took highway 89 east at the town of Mt. Shasta, through McCloud, and then followed the signs north and west to the Clear Creek trailhead, which is at about 6,500 feet elevation.

As of 2015, wilderness permits and wag bags are free. Summit passes are $25 per person.

Clear Creek aptly gets its name from an icy spring trickling out of the mountain at around 8,400 feet. After the steep three-mile hike in to base camp, we filled our bottles with the snow melt and pitched our tents in a stand of aged and twisted whitebark pines, whose roots have also tapped into the moisture of that tiny creek.

Sunday evening we watched the sun set into Shasta’s western trapezius, and then stretched out on our frustratingly thin sleeping pads in preparation for an early departure.

The Scramble

My bro and I emerged from our tents just before sunrise, around 6 AM, into cool, silent twilight. Shasta was just beginning to catch the refracted pink sun rays seeping in from the east. Layers on and shoes double knotted, we said a prayer and set off without a trail, trusting that upward would take us in the right direction.

My son and dad would stay back to explore the geography and fauna around camp, and to eventually wonder why it was taking us so long to return.

Our gear was pretty unassuming. I had fashioned a fanny pack from the lid of my hiking backpack, and stuffed it with granola bars, a plastic baggie of first aid, and about 60 oz of water. Plus a knife and headlamp.

I wore old tennis shoes and a scrappy assortment of layers: some cargo shorts under thrift-store warmup pants, a long sleeve t-shirt under a thin rain jacket, and a couple home-sewn fleece ski masks and beanies. Wearing old blue jeans, my bro was even more lacking in hi-techness.

Overall, we were the complete antithesis of an REI add. I’m sure we stood out as the party least likely to actually summit.



There are probably a dozen routes up Shasta, some more established than others. After some research, we had decided on Clear Creek because, ultimately, the internet convinced us to. Apparently, because of rockfall danger on the shorter and more popular routes like Avalanche Gulch, a more gradual grade is safer when the stabilizing snow is thin to none.

Thin to no snow exposes the raw surface of the mountain, an endless scramble up loose sand and gravel, interspersed with large cobbles and every other size of stone in between. These first few thousand feet up have earned the enticing name of Misery Hill. Who doesn’t want to hike that, right?

After an eternity of stair-mastering through field after field of scree, les miserables, we began to see clearly the erratic wall of rust colored boulders that had loomed above us for most of the morning. Finally, rock that would push back on, rather than absorb, our plodding footsteps.

These massive boulders demand some pretty technical scrambling, mantling, boosting, and looking before you leap. Their sharp edges and occasional wobble give the impression that they’re still adjusting to a sedimentary life.

A fall in this section could be catastrophic, especially just to the east, where it’s open sky below.

From another perspective, the boulders are less stable than the bits of Misery Hill we just shook out of our shoes; we’re just so much smaller in comparison to a boulder.

After no more than a couple hundred feet, the boulders gave way to the familiar sand and scree, and we were chugging along once again. At least 2,000 feet of climb remained, but I was starting to notice the effects of having carried myself so far above sea level. My body had never experienced 11,000 feet. The pressure of a mild but growing headache increased with each step.

By 13,000 feet or so, I was stopping every twenty steps to catch my breath and my bearings. My brother would scamper ahead, and then wait patiently as I dragged myself along. This soon reduced to ten steps between breaks. I was able to maintain that pace until the summit came into sight, at which point I rallied and made a final push.

The wind chill was in the 20s, so we only stayed on the craggy summit long enough to scrawl our signatures in the registry and then pose for a few pictures.

Without neighboring peaks, the view is spacious and unobstructed, and, as a result, pretty unremarkable. We tried in vain to make out Mount Lassen, a smaller volcano to the south. But there was nothing to make out. The foothills and more distant mountains reflected the clear sky, making the horizon a wash of blue in any direction.

The Descent

The ascent from Clear Creek to summit, 8,400 to 14,180 feet, took us 6.5 hours. On average, that’s 890 feet per hour or 14.8 up per minute. The descent would take 2 hours, or 48.2 feet per minute.

Descending the mountain really accentuates how far up you’ve gone. Going up, gravity was relentless. Coming down, it was on our side. And we were grateful for the deep, sandy gravel of Misery Hill, which absorbed our feet in small pluming avalanches as we slalomed and carved through it.

Overall, Shasta via Clear Creek was a nice introduction to mountaineering. Next time, we’re thinking of going south to Whitney, or east to the Grand Teton. And I’m thinking I’ll budget a full 24 hours for my body to adjust to the elevation.

Backpacking at Indian Cave State Park

Yes, we finally made it happen: a campout, with all the dirt, unconditioned air, and unmanicured trees and shrubbery of an organically grown forest. It was glorious.

I should start by announcing that we recently got a dog. Echo is about five months old, and mostly resembles his black lab mother, with subtle features from his German shorthaired father, like a narrower face and build and patches of white fur on his chest and paws.

It turns out, raising a puppy is an absurd amount of work. Although I was familiar with the basics of dogs, having grown up with a few, my main responsibility as a kid was scooping up the poop with a shovel and catapulting it into the field behind our house. Spooping is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ll save the details, like the number of socks he has ingested, for later. For now I’ll just say that, without a fence on our yard, we have to keep him on a short tie out. He endures it well, but it’s sad to restrict such a free-spirited animal to a small circle of grass.

Old longings nomadic leap, chafing at custom’s chain;
Again from its brumal sleep wakens the ferine strain.
John Myers O’Hara, in Atavism

I know how Echo feels. Since moving to Nebraska our time outdoors has been limited to a small radius from our house. We play in the yard or at the park, but we rarely leave the confines of the city, the concrete and the habitation, the business and daily routines. I feel like a dog on a tie out, in a “brumal sleep.”

Last weekend we unclipped ourselves from custom’s chafing chain. We broke through the circumference of Lincoln and the gravitational pull of the daily grind, to spend a brief but welcome night out at the remote Indian Cave State Park in southeast Nebraska.

After parking at the trailhead, we set Echo free and watched and laughed as he rocketed down the trail, only to hurry back moments later, and then sprint away again. He never stopped running, up and down, back and forth, to and fro, as if trying not to miss a single leaf drop or bird chirp. He had to see and smell it all, be everywhere and part of everything all at once.

Echo’s adjustment to the “wilderness” of Nebraska reminded me of Call of the Wild, where Buck reverts completely from domesticated to wild, from farm dog to alpha male in a wolf pack. Jack London highlights the beauty of this backward evolution to our simple primitive origins.

He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time. He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move.

The pure joy of a puppy unleashed outdoors is inspiring.

The main attraction of Indian Cave State Park, besides graffiti in a cave that we didn’t get to see because of road work, is the backpack camping. The park boasts both remote backpacking sites and Adirondack shelters. From what I could tell, both options are free. And both include the simple amenities of primitive man, space for shelter and fire, and then, lots of space.

From the trailhead, we hiked in through a forest of swamp white oaks just waking up to spring, with their leaf buds slowly opening like millions of tiny green eyelids. The trees were undisturbed by Echo as he crashed by, scouting a quarter mile ahead and behind, and in all directions, continuously on the lookout for something interesting. After walking an easy mile, with Echo probably covering ten times that, we claimed the first shelter we found, about an hour before sunset.

Remnants of a fire, still warm from the previous campers, quickly ignited the leaves and sticks we piled into the fire pit. We boiled water for some freeze-dried backpacking meals that have lurked in our basement for years, lasagna, chicken teriyaki, and apple crisp, all a little soupy but still tasty. After dinner we hiked around camp, shot the BB gun, and got ready for bed by the light of my phone because I forgot a flashlight.

The kids fell asleep to a bedtime story about dragons and unicorns, and then I lay awake for most the night listening to coyotes singing in the distance. The howls would start as individual yips, and then a chorus would crescendo together from different parts of the river valley below us. After a few minutes of this, the howling would slowly subside and we’d enjoy thirty minutes or so of quiet.

Through the night, Echo paced back and forth in the moonlight, tripping over us and stepping on our heads, as he watchfully protected us from those primordial beasts, his Canis Lupus kin. He would often pause to listen, his silhouette still and attentive. Did he want to join them? Was he scared or curious? I wondered what it was like for him to encounter, by sound at least, his undomesticated counterparts. Could he sense the difference?

Exhausted, I think I finally fell asleep a couple hours before dawn, only to wake up around sunrise to feed Echo his cup of kibble. For breakfast we humans had granola and dried fruit, and we broke camp soon after. And less than 24 hours after leaving the city’s gravitational pull, we were back.

Half Dome by Night, With a Full Moon, Alone

This summer, unable to find a compadre, I decided to try half dome at dawn solo. Despite being nearly attacked by an imaginary mob of bears, it was the best nocturnal day hike ever.

I left the trail head at 1 AM and didn’t see another headlamp until the base of Nevada falls, an hour or so later. In that time I had convinced myself that all the black bears of the Yosemite valley, tired of twinkies and lunchables from the dumpster, were closing in around me. I gripped my pocket knife and planned all kinds of irrational, elaborate defense strategies and escape moves. Depending on my surroundings, these consisted of sprinting in the opposite direction, throwing large stones, and jumping off waterfalls.

Fortunately, I caught up to Jessica and Luise, two younger and slower hikers who were gracious enough to let me join them till I regained my composure and glimpsed the backside of half dome silhouetted against the moonlight. At that point I pressed on alone, inspired and determined to put at least two other people between me and the horde of bears. If they attacked from above, I would fight like a warlock dragon with tiger blood, and die honorably.

Half dome silhouette

Headlamps on half dome

Sunrise from half dome

Moonset from half dome

Sunrise from half dome

Half dome top cables

View from Nevada falls

Half dome

Planning for the Superior Hiking Trail

Superior lake from the SHTOne of the outdoor highlights of Minnesota is the Superior Hiking Trail (SHT), a 300 mile footpath connecting Duluth and Canada along the shore of Lake Superior in northern Minnesota.

The trail has superior accessibility – just off the highway (MN-61), with parking every 5 to 10 miles. In some sections it gets a little too accessible – you may hear a chainsaw or someone riding their quad to the fruit stand, and the vistas may be obstructed by a water tower or a guy in a straw hat chasing squirrels with his pitchfork. But these distractions are part of the rural northern Minnesota experience and they’re well worth the convenience of free parking and free camping.

The SHT doesn’t excel in distributing good information about itself on the web. The Superior Hiking Trail Association website has some basic maps, with descriptions of each section and campsite. Otherwise, you might talk to the guy with the pitchfork. If it’s your first time, I recommend the Silver Bay section, which passes through Tettegouche State Park.

Here are three things to do before you go:

  1. Get a map. For about $6 you can get a pocket-sized spiral-bound version, printed on waterproof paper. The SHT handbook costs around $16.
  2. Check conditions. Given that it’s maintained by volunteers who also have other things to do, like make granola and weave things out of hemp, some sections need a little TLC. Call (218-834-2700) or email ( to check on trail conditions, especially in the winter and spring.
  3. Research your campsite. Given that it’s free, campsite quality depends a lot on location – elevation, vegetation, hydration, etc. Higher, dryer, and sunnier typically mean more firewood, fewer mosquitoes, and better views.