The Edge

Staring into the clear blue California sky, my brother and I were ready to take on our second adventure as terrain experts. The day before, we had scaled 35 foot rock ledges in Los Padres State Park, waded across rapids, and jumped from ledge to ledge in order to gain a better vantage on the surrounding landscape.

Today, we would be facing a new challenge, a trail with rattlesnakes, cliffs and a roaring river to cross. With a hint of cockiness, we set off onto the dusty trail into the valley. As we descended towards the alleged river, the trail became dustier and dustier. The sun baked down on the two teenage boys from the suburbs, thousands of miles away from home, who were ready to take on an adventure.

"Where's the river?" we asked each other. We had become bored with the trail, figuring that we had been dooped by the Park Ranger hours before. Then a slight rumble could be heard, and as we walked towards it it became louder. The river.

With the exception of two burly Mexican men, straight out of Saints Row, we were the only ones at the river. After scaling some large sandstone rock faces for about an hour, my brother and I needed to head back.

Our Asics securely tied, we hopped right on the path dust path to where we started. Or so we thought . . .

We continued to approach the opposite side of the valley where we had started, following a crude path that was covered in various vegetation. Neither of us had remembered passing the rusty barbed wire fence. Oh well, lets just climb over it.

Up and over, we continued through the tall grass until we came upon a dry river bed. In the middle of it was a Kris Kraft speedboat from the early 1960's, bathing in the California sun. That's weird.



From there we could see a rusty door from a 1961 Chevy Apache, along with various other car parts.

Upon further inspection, we found out that we were in a hobo camp.

An upside-down hot tub covering a ditch with a hatch cut in the top was one of the few structures in this shanty town. The various pieces of junk spewed about made up some other shelters. Good thing the hobos weren't home.



We then passed a ramshackle tree house, ducked under two barbed wire fences, and ventured through some farmer's livestock to a drain tunnel on the side of the valley. We decided we would scale the 60 foot side of the valley up to the street. Hopping some more fences and dodging poison ivy, we made our way up the crumbling slope.



Finally at street level, we were as good as safe. My brother calmly walked towards the gate, as I followed behind. A sigh read "NO TRESPASSING:Violators Will Be Prosecuted"Not aware of my junkyard surroundings, I heard a dog growl. I stopped dead in my tracks. A giant German Shepard, without a leash came charging at me, foaming at the mouth. Struck by fear, I ran back to where I entered the yard. I grove of cactus' lay behind me, with the 60 foot embankment behind that.

Then I had to make the choice: Jump
into the cactus' and down
the steep, steep,
embankment, or take my chances with the junkyard dog.

I knew I wouldn't escape without some sort of injury. Then, my brother got the dog's attention. In a split second, the two of us sprinted out of the yard and onto the street. Safe. So I guess the boring path turned into a bigger adventure than the suburban boys could imagine.



We both lay there on the the corner of fairview street, covered in dust, dirt, sweat and poison ivy, peering at the 'BEWARE OF DOG' sign posted on the front gate, 3 miles west of where we started.

The two teenage boys from the suburbs had taken it to the edge, litteraly, and came out virtually unscathed. Talk about an adventure.