Island Packer

Point Maguà Channel Islandsà Morrow Bay

Wednesday, June 6^th, 2012

I found a State Park called Point Magu to camp at on Monday night. I slept beneath a gigantic live oak and though I could hear the sound of waves crashing along the shore, I couldn’t see the ocean behind the cover of trees. The next morning I woke up and made my way to Ventura in order to catch a boat to Channel Islands National Park, specifically Santa Cruz Island.

I had everything I would need for 24 hours loaded on my back. It was heavy. The ferry ride took about an hour and I watched dolphins surfacing on the open water. As the island came into view, I was taken aback by the lack of human-made structures upon the land. Since the island chain is a National Park, the only buildings on it are what were left there from a sheep ranch from the later 1800’s, and an old rusting oil rig.

I hiked to the top of the islands’ peak, which was actually a former volcano rising above the plane-like plateau of yellow grass and old service roads. A dense fog blew across the rising land before me and I truged through it until I was much higher up along the ridge. I thought of turning back when I began to see the outline of the sun attempting to burn through the marine layer. So I proceeded on until, fairly suddenly, the fog dispersed and what my eyes beheld was something to humble the bitterest of cynics. To my right, sloping down the ridge where I stood were rolling hills which stretched down to the cliffs and coves of the ocean beyond. To my left, a similar sight. I was in an elated state, completely separated from the anxieties and needless worries I’d had on the mainland.

The wind picked up that night back at the campground, which was nestled in a canyon. It bent my tent poles and woke me sporadically. Once the sun had risen, a ranger “knock knocked” on outside and told me that the only boat leaving the island was do so at 12 noon due to increasing wind. I took another walk along the cliffs edge overlooking the beautiful yet daunting pacific, until I had to pack up my things and return to my semi-reality.

On the return voyage, the waves were beginning to act up. I would estimate that they were 5-10 foot swells. Apart from being a little scary, the ride was exhilarating. The boat would ride upon the swells, then surf down the longside of the waves. As I was looking out a window, in a flash a pod of 8 or so dolphns dove through a swell, exposing the entirety of their figures for a split second before being submerged into the water and disappearing once more. I yelped, but I don’t think that anyone else noticed of were otherwise unimpressed by this chance and wonderous moment.

Once back to the parking lot and my car in Ventura’s harbor, the elation I’d felt on the island didn’t cease. I was at ease as I drove North through rolling hills of yellow grass and coastline of route 1. I came to rest at a State campground in Morrow Bay. There I found a bar in town on the hazy and blustery harbor, where I sipped beer and chatted with Drew the bartender about my island adventure and the road ahead.