Editor’s Note: After a year's hiatus, the chronicle of Bryan Snyder's misadventures in the Western high country, "Off The Map", returns to the pages of The Evening Sun. Besides the usual tales of Rocky Mountain mischief, Bryan will report from the drought-afflicted backcountry of Southern California and the snow-capped, slumbering volcanoes of the Pacific Northwest.

That settled it. This trail had now broken into the ranks of the Top Five Worst Trails Ever. Congratulations, stupid trail. Anyone you would like to thank while accepting your trophy? Up until this point, I had been able to contort my body like a ninja, ducking and dodging the poison oak branches that arched menacingly over the path. But finally, two bushes on opposite sides of the trail had pooled their poisonous resources and closed the distance between them, making it impossible to pass without contamination. I could already predict that in about three days, when the itchiness began, I would find myself deeply regretting these next few footsteps.
This was supposed to have been a slightly-romantic vacation to the rugged stretch of California coastline known as Big Sur, where fog-enshrouded mountains drop straight down to the ocean shore, and where the coastal highway that clings to the cliffs is frequently shattered by landslides. The trip had begun so pleasantly, too. Kitty and I had witnessed a stunning sunset the night before, when the blanket of fog over the ocean glowed amber from the rays of subdued sunlight. But the next morning, bad advice led us to the unmarked trailhead for the Little Sur Trail, and bit by bit, our good fortune began to erode away.
We descended into a redwood forest - a landscape that warps one’s perspective so severely that I could see why George Lucas used it to represent the forest moon of Endor in “Star Wars: Return of the Jedi.” All we needed were a few diminutive, furry Ewoks glaring out of their hoods and jabbing spears at us to complete the otherworldly impression. The trees were so tall that they strained the neck as well as credulity. Even what passed for clover in these parts seemed oversized; the three-leafed redwood sorrel grew from the fallen needles of the forest floor, forming a dense, vibrant layer of shamrocks that mirrored the emerald ceiling of treetop branches high overhead.
Apart from the sporadic tendrils of poison oak, which hid like highway bandits amid the serviceberry and ferns, the first two miles of trail were pleasant and uneventful. The Pico Blanco campsite was another four miles away, but we had plenty of daylight left. When the trail left the fairylike forest and climbed into the dry country of the hillsides, however, we began to notice elements of deterioration. The route intersected a private road and continued on into the brush, where the overgrowth became more extreme. No one had likely cleared this path in a decade, and it showed. But we maneuvered around the patches of poison oak and pressed on, encouraged by thoughts of a waterfall at our destination, where we could wash off the sweat and rash-inducing oils at our leisure.
Then the incline steepened. That wouldn’t be a problem, except that these switchbacks had undergone years of what I call trail creep, where hikers adjust their steps to avoid the expanding reach of poison oak and brambles, and the trail creeps steadily closer to the edge of the cliff. Inevitably, someone shifts their course too far, and the edge caves away beneath them. This began to happen to us.
The trail corridor was often occupied by thick growth, forcing us onto the open edge where the soil was dry and unstable. We slid sometimes and caught ourselves. But the grade increased, and we entered ravines where a fall could mean serious injury or death. The poison oak began to acquire sinister undertones; while shifting my weight to avoid it, I felt like I was trying to avoid getting nudged off a crowded station platform into the path of an oncoming train.
Our spirits would have diminished much faster if it were not for the inspiring and heroic efforts of the third member of our tribe, Phenix the intrepid chihuahua. Kitty’s pet was small and slightly rotund, but still an amazingly fearless rock-climber, and she scurried up slopes that even the big humans found challenging. Whenever I stepped over poison oak, moving carefully like a thief avoiding tripwire, Phenix simply plowed through the oily leaves, and I prayed that we had enough soap to give her a bath once this ordeal was over.
After nearly two hours of fighting our way through this difficult terrain, we were at the breaking point. Turning back would have been a nightmare. But the faint traces of trail continued to crumble beneath us, and the poison oak became unavoidable. At least drought conditions had caused the green chlorophyll in the leaves to break down, revealing red pigments that stood out gaudily among the dry brush. It was a color I had grown to hate.
Doubly frustrating was that the private dirt road we had crossed earlier now paralleled the trail a hundred feet above us, making the afternoon’s tribulations feel pointless and unnecessary. From what I could see of the hillsides ahead, there was no point where the two routes would intersect again. We had miles more of this torment before we reached our camp, and the road would never draw closer than it was now. It was time to cut our losses.
I chose a slope where the shrubs were less dense and began to bushwhack up the mountain. The soil was loose and slippery, so I grabbed Kitty’s pack to allow her to focus on her own footing and help Phenix when necessary. Having my hands free to aid in the climb would have made the ascent easier, but we were all struggling, none so much as Phenix, who was at the end of her strength but was determined not to be a liability or to be left behind. The tiny dog kept trying to leap over the crushed branches in my wake, only she was too short and was repeatedly thrown back. I was afraid to pick her up and expose myself to the poison oak oils on her fur, but something had to be done.
Fortunately, this dog came with a handle. Phenix wore a rock-climbing vest that supported her frame comfortably. I returned Kitty’s pack to her, then gripped the handle on top of the vest and lifted the pup up and over the troublesome bushes. With a fistful of four hiking poles in one hand, and wielding Phenix like a suitcase in the other, I waded stoically through the shrubs and emerged, scratched and sweaty, on Granite Rock Road. Kitty followed close behind and collapsed to the ground with me.
This trip was not going to be salvaged. To keep the poison oak contamination of our gear, clothes and skin from affecting our entire bodies, we needed more just than a wash-up in a creek. We needed showers and laundry machines. Since we couldn’t afford a hotel in Big Sur, the hard choice was made to hike back to my Jeep and drive the four hours home.
The pads of poor Phenix’s feet were scraped and raw, and she was unable to keep pace with us. So Kitty made a mother’s sacrifice and selflessly carried the chihuahua in her bare arms, ignoring the poison oak oils in her fur. We followed the dirt road back to the first trail intersection, shaking our heads that it took only thirty minutes to shortcut what had been two brutal hours of overgrown trail. And before returning to the Jeep, we washed off the sweat and grime in the South Fork of the Little Sur River.
Phenix had her bath and promptly rolled in the dirt, transforming her white fur to a coat of brown. But at least she wasn’t contaminated any longer. Kitty swaddled Phenix in a towel and carried her the final two miles. The dog peeked out with black beads for eyes from a hood of fabric, gazing at the redwood scenery, and I was struck by the similarities to a certain alien species. Hmmmm ... I guess we have our Ewok now. The Ewoks of “Return of the Jedi” had a happy ending, but the best Kitty and I were going to get tonight was fast food and a long shower. Some days, the “Force” just isn’t with you.