Sisar Creek Rising

Sisar Creek Rising

Many years ago, 1974 to be exact, I lived in a pocket canyon called Sisar, up Sisar Road.  Of all things, Sisar Creek threaded its way down the canyon, cold and clear.  I lived with a commune called Students of Life.  We had a couple of tent houses, a rock goat barn, three travel trailers and a small single wide trailer.  Oh, and a tent trailer.  There was a garden in the upper flat above the main house, a sturdy thing of cut rock, with a wood burning stove.   Boyd Dron, the owner, was traveling somewhere and somehow friends had found out, leased the property, collected some housing, and there we were. 

I lived in the travel trailer near the spring fed pool and the creek was a stone’s throw away. 

The drive home was always interesting.  From wherever I had been, it was up Dennison Grade to Ojai’s upper valley, and then east up Sisar Canyon Road.  A short stretch of the road was paved but by the time you got near the first gate, it was dirt and rock.  The gate was maintained by the USFS and we had our own key and they had theirs.  So I had to stop, unlock and open the gate, drive in, stop and lock up. 

One evening, likely February when the rains come to southern California, I drove home, anticipating that the three creek crossings could be up.  The first crossing was broad and flat and shallow.  I stopped my VW Bug and stepped on the high beam button, then engaged the parking brake.  I got out and looked and the water, pouring over upstream boulders.  I stood there a minute, calculating.  The creek looked slightly wider than usual, which meant it was deeper.  So I got back into Bug, disengaged the brake and eased into first.  Clutch out, we rolled down the shallow incline and into the water.  There were a few larger rocks that I felt through the tires as we bounced over them and the headlights dipped underwater momentarily.  I was across in about 10 seconds and rolling up the dirt road to the next crossing.  There was standing water in a couple places but since the road was either up or down for most of its length, water tended not to puddle. 

I was dressed as I usually did in those days…ankle high leather work boots, jeans, flannel shirt, jacket. 

The next crossing was narrower.  Was then, still is. With very large boulders funneling the water into a deeper pool.  Again I stopped and got out.  Looked at the water, listened to it rush and tumble.  Felt the rain against my face.  I probably thought something like, what the heck.  Let’s go.  And go I did.

The crossing was no more than 15 feet across, with a sharp descent going in and sharp ascent coming out.  I rolled in in first gear, easy on the gas, lurched upward as the right front tire found a larger rock and came to a dead stop.  Tried reversing, then forward again.  And again.  I. Was.  Stuck. 

Thinking of the water above the tailpipes, I pulled the manual choke out half an inch to raise the rpms and avoid water getting into the exhaust system.  Grabbed a chrome flashlight from the glove box and stepped out into the creek. 

The water was cold, shockingly cold.  I waded around the back of the car and felt around under the passenger side.  Yep, a rock the size of a bread box had flipped up and was firmly wedged against the under pan.  It’s funny to think back on this.  I was never alarmed or scared.  I didn’t curse or fume.  I just worked. 

I popped the trunk open and grabbed the jack and handle and waded back around to the side.  I had to hold the light with one hand, while the other slipped the jack into the jack slot behind the front wheel.  I worked the handle up and down until the jack was fully extended.  No lift.  I felt underneath and realized that the jack wouldn’t reach the creek bed, short by several inches.  Fumbling around upstream, I found another rock, about the size of an unabridged dictionary and relatively flat.  I wrestled the rock into place and extended the jack again.  Success.  The car started lifting and I reached under and pulled out the offending boulder that had trapped me and Bug.  I guess I needed more hands, for as I fumbled with jack and rock and flashlight in the chilly water, I dropped the light and watched it tumble under the car, roll down stream and slip into a deep pool where the light kept glowing.  There was no retrieving it.  Pulled the jack out, put the tools away, dropped the hood and felt the latch engage.  I got back into Bug, slammed the door, first gear, clutch out and rolled up and out of the crossing.

I was wet-soaked and saturated from my boots to my shoulders.  And cold.  Thoroughly chilled.  Water sluiced off me and onto the vinyl seat and down to the rubber floor mats.  We ground up the short grade, rounded a bend and came to a dead stop.  The community stake bed truck was parked up against a small landslide that blocked the road.  There was nothing to be done.  I got my old Boy Scout canvas pack from the back seat, locked the car and trudged up the road. My trailer was about another mile or so, up the dirt road, no flashlight, sloshing water, chilled to the bone and two more crossings. 

The third crossing was like the second, narrow, closed in by boulders.  I waded across water above my knees, and followed the road as it switch-backed one turn up the canyon. I trudged up past Larry’s tent house, then Michael's.  No lights.  They may have opted to stay somewhere in town that night.   There was a fourth crossing was wider and shallower and once across it the trailer was only 50 yards away.

I let my cat, Gandalf, in, he was mostly dry, sheltered under the trailer. Slammed the door shut, shivered.  Inside, I lit the burners on my two ring gas cooker and began to struggle out of the wet clothes.  Gandalf jumped up on my desk that spanned the width of the trailer and watched.  Boots, socks, jeans, underwear, jacket, flannel shirt, t shirt.  All soaked.  I walked the 10 feet to the “bedroom” and pulled out clean dry clothes, took a blanket off the cot and wrapped myself in it.  Back in the kitchen/desk area, I put water on for tea.  By now the trailer was warmed.  Gandalf had curled up on the desk, still watching. 

At the time, I thought my self lucky.  I tend now to think I had divine assistance.  If the car had stalled at any time, the engine would have flooded and that would have been the end of that.  If I’d not put my hand on the right rock the first time, the extrication could have taken much longer.  If I’d dropped the jack or the handle.  If we’d not had a partial moon that night.  If.  If. 

In 2010, for my 60th birthday, my wife Merry and I took a two week vacation to California.  One day, we hiked Sisar Canyon.  Crossed the first crossing with dry feet, using a fallen tree as a bridge.  at the second crossing, I saw not much had changed in the configuration of rocks.  We pulled off boots and peeled off socks, rolled up pants and made our way across.  The water was cold but it was June, nowhere near as cold as that February night.  We hiked further up the canyon, past the gate to Boyd's place, his gate closed with a prominent NO TRESPASSING sign.  The day was warm, lovely in the shade from the oaks, hot in the sun. 

It was a small piece of home, Sisar was.