Pico Blanco: Bushwhacking Big Sur’s Sacred Peak

Above the forbidden pastures of El Sur Ranch, Pico Blanco rises from the backcountry of Big Sur like the nosecone of an ancient spaceship. Does this sacred peak of the Esselen people contain a hermetically sealed nocturnal world of albino organisms?

by Ryan Masters, March 30, 2015

Above the forbidden pastures of El Sur Ranch, Pico Blanco rises from the backcountry of Big Sur like the nosecone of an ancient spaceship. Early morning fog shifts around the limestone peak like pre-launch exhaust. It appears poised to lift into the calm, blue atmosphere.

Perhaps, when the world finally ends, a spume of volcanic fire will propel Pico Blanco into the silent void of space—where it will drift like a spore for millennia—only to crash into some lifeless mass and fertilize a new earth.

An apocalyptic launch into space would be a fitting final mission for the mountain that the first people of Big Sur considered the source of all life. In the beginning, the Esselen say, there was a Great Flood.

“Eagle and Hummingbird were up in Pico Blanco, and Coyote came up,” says Esselen Tribal Chairwoman Miranda Ramirez. “And Eagle tells Coyote, ‘Go to the river and see if there are people after the Great Flood.’ So Coyote went to the river and he found Woman. And they started the population of our people.”

There is almost always a Great Flood: Babylonians, Hindus, Christians, Mayans, Aborigines…nearly everyone’s got one. It occurs in too many yards of the world’s cultural fabric to simply be coincidence. There must a common thread of truth.

We know that sea levels rose precipitously around the world after the Ice Age. There is also evidence that enormous meteors have crashed into the ocean and generated monumental tsunamis across the globe. I suppose it’s also possible that a disgusted, wrathful God simply washed away the wickedness on Earth and started fresh. Who knows?

Regardless of how, Pico Blanco was most certainly an island amidst a vast, nearly unblemished sea at some point in geologic time. And when the waters receded, they left behind secrets—impressions of ancient marine life impressed forever in stone thousands of feet above the sea. There is also a legend that the sea left behind more than fossils on Pico Blanco—a lost, subterranean world as astounding and fantastic as anything Jules Verne or Edgar Allan Poe ever dreamt. But more about that later.

Back to the Esselen creation story. How did Woman survive the great flood? Clearly she is some type of supernatural being. Perhaps this accounts for the legend of Pico Blanco’s protective Goddess—a deity known to drive mad those who would seek to profit from the riches found within her slopes. In the old days, more than one gold prospector was found wandering through the Big Sur backcountry, his mind as twisted and toxic as a thicket of poison oak.

Ascend the slopes of Pico Blanco with respect and humility, the locals say, for she is Big Sur’s sacred peak.

A Straight Line is Never the Right Route in Big Sur

I have spent many hours considering Pico Blanco’s great pyramid of limestone while bobbing idly on a surfboard at Andrew Molera State Park. From the water, it looms like a magnificent white temple over the heavenly scenery. The surf frequently disappoints here, but the view never does.

Today I will climb Pico Blanco. Before dawn, I leave my car on the shoulder of Highway 1 and trudge up the Coast Road from Andrew Molera State Park. My plan is to take the most direct route possible to the summit, which tops out at 3,709 feet of elevation. It is not a good plan.

To climb Pico Blanco, rational people take the traditional, multi-day route from the Bottchers Gap Trailhead off Palo Colorado Road. Others are content to simply enjoy views of the mountain by hiking a few miles up the East Molera Trail. But I have decided to approach Pico Blanco “as the crow flies” from Andrew Molera State Park. A straight line is never the right route in Big Sur, but I can’t shake the idea of a demented pilgrimage directly to the mountain. Of course, stubbornness begets obstacles.

The El Sur Ranch was originally formed during California’s Spanish-Mexican period. Today it is more than 7,000 acres of ranchland, including 267 acres of irrigated pasture. These are the divine, rolling grasslands you drive through between Point Sur and Big Sur proper. They are owned by a very wealthy, very humorless man named Jim Hill.

To reach the base of Pico Blanco from Andrew Molera State Park, I will have to sneak up through the steep pastures of the El Sur Ranch; bushwhack my way down a deep, narrow canyon; cross the South Fork of the Little Sur River; and ascend the sacred peak’s western flank.

Here is the first reason why this is a bad idea. If you are caught on El Sur Ranch—and there are various agents of Jim Hill who are seeking to catch you—prepare for a $380 ticket courtesy of a Monterey County Sheriff. If you’re caught twice, the fine is $5,000 and will include a short stint in the Monterey County Jail—which, I can attest, is not a place you wish to find yourself.

Consequently, as I cross on to El Sur Ranch property, I am moving quickly and dressed entirely in pasture-colored green—which is cool because today is St. Patrick’s Day. I skirt the edges of a couple of redwood groves to avoid detection. Lush clover carpets the shady ground. Clusters of lupine burst like otherworldly purple fireworks from the earth. Out in the pasture, fields of flame-orange California poppies bloom, their petals furled tight against a stiff morning breeze. Deer graze like delicate cattle, unperturbed by my passing. Springtime in Big Sur! If Saint Patrick did succeed in chasing the serpents of paganism out of Ireland, they brought their magic here.

Breathing heavily, I top out on the upper ridge of El Sur Ranch and look back at the irrigated pastures cascading down to Highway 1. Morning sun shines on the eucalyptus groves and chaparral of the state park. Beyond, tiny waves peel across the mouth of the Big Sur River inside Andrew Molera Point. The ocean sparkles like an electrical field. Far to my north, Point Sur hunches, a monumental fortress of stone. Just to the south, Big Sur proper is nestled and hidden in its redwood valley. It’s an extraordinary view but there’s no time to savor it. I am too exposed up here.

When I turn around, Pico Blanco looms. It is no longer some dreamy metaphor. It is a very literal, very imposing mountain. I feel a bit nauseous. The gorge which yawns between me and Pico Blanco is far deeper and much less narrow than I had imagined. Although I can’t see it, the South Fork of the Little Sur River is down there somewhere at the bottom of a very steep, very densely thicketed canyon wall.

Which brings me to the second reason why this is a bad idea.

An Ancient Submarine Language

The Little Sur River originates on the slopes of Ventana Double Cone before forking into two independent strands of pristine water which flow around the east and west buttresses of Pico Blanco. Two miles before they reach the ocean north of Point Sur, the two rivers converge again. This is a special river. So special, in fact, that the California State Legislature added it to the California Protected Waterways System in 1973 to protect its “free-flowing and wild status.”

Far below where I stand, the South Fork flows, cloaked by a canopy of old growth redwood. Across the canyon, golden chaparral carpets Pico Blanco. Two-thirds of the way up the mountain, an old dirt road is carved across its face. If I can reach the road, the going will be fairly easy to the summit.

On my side of the canyon, stands of old growth redwood and Douglas fir tower, which is awesome. Less awesome is the head-high tangle of alder, thorny bramble, and poison oak occupying every other square inch. I hike along the back edge of the pasture hoping to find some kind of trail descending into the canyon, but there is nothing but a dense wall of this undergrowth. With no other options, I pick a spot at random and plunge into the bush. It is immediately tough going.

All of my life I have told anyone who will listen that I am impervious to poison oak. “I grew up running through the stuff in the Santa Cruz Mountains,” I casually say. Usually I follow this bit of braggadocio up with a little “wisdom” about how the local Native Americans ate the leaves of poison oak to build immunity, obviously suggesting some type of logical comparison between them and me.

I’m going to put that little claim to the test today. Within minutes, I am swimming through poison oak. The toxic oils quickly soak into every exposed pore on my body. Better to get through it quick, I figure, than waste time in a futile effort to avoid it. What’s more irritating is the thorny bramble, which is lacerating my legs like a cat o’ nine tails with every step. (Yes, I’m wearing shorts. Bad idea number three, for those of you keeping score.)

The long descent to the river is major league bushwhacking, but God is it beautiful back here. I take some consolation in knowing that very few humans, if any, have ever taken this particular route down to the river. At one point I traverse over to a narrow chute and begin picking my way down it, hoping it widens into a dry creek. There is less undergrowth, but it is very steep. At one point, I find myself negotiating an 80-degree wall. Break an ankle back here, I think, and you are wholly and truly fucked. Gradually the chute opens into a ravine and I realize that I am approaching the bottom of the canyon. 

Down here it is cool and moist. The sun rarely filters down this deep, even in mid-summer. Ferns, Redwood Sorrel and tropical-looking flowers, including the spectacular purple Douglas iris, carpet the moist earth.

As I approach the canyon floor, the geology changes. Blinding white boulders of calcium-rich limestone emerge from the earth beside various forms of quartz. The rock formations are unusual and cryptic, embedded with odd holes and fluid curves—they suggest an ancient submarine language. I stumble down through this elfin wonderland to the banks of the Little Sur’s South Fork and drink in the cool, sylvan beauty of the river. It’s easy to see why the Little Sur River is considered the most important spawning stream for threatened steelhead on the Central Coast. The water flows clear and cold over the limestone and quartz. This place is pure.

Unfortunately, I do not have much time to linger. Even through the nearly impenetrable canopy overhead, I can see that the sun is much higher than the sky than I expected. Daylight is burning fast and I haven’t even begun the hard part yet.

I cross the river and clamber up the toe of this sacred peak.

A Goddess Who Protects the Mountain

When gold and silver were discovered in Big Sur in the late 19th century, miners flocked to Pico Blanco to search out the precious metals. One of these prospectors was a mystic Big Sur character named Al Clark. For many decades, Clark homesteaded upon the mountain, poking into its nooks, scaling its crannies and exploring its every facet. Although he searched for silver, he reportedly cared nothing for money. It was Clark who spun tales of a Goddess who protects the mountain from the corruption of man.

Born in England in 1852, Clark was one of the first white settlers in the area. Among other things, he was a vegetarian, a master carpenter and something of a local lunatic. The poet Robinson Jeffers knew him personally. Clark was a man of many secrets and understood Pico Blanco better than any white man alive.

In 1936, while on his deathbed, he revealed his greatest secret. He claimed to have broken through the skin of Pico Blanco with his pick axe and stumbled into a vast complex of subterranean caverns. He explored chamber after chamber and discovered an underground river. He found nocturnal species and albino wonders, never-before-seen mushrooms that glowed like gaslights and fantastic troglodytes who skittered and scrambled about this hidden world like things from the deepest reaches of the ocean. In the furthest recess of this world, he found a magnificent cave filled with fantastic pictographs of saber-toothed tigers and mastodons.

To preserve these wonders from the destructive nature of his fellow man, Clark said he used dynamite to destroy its entrance. After he died, it was reported the “haggard, toothless old hermit” was really a Columbia University graduate who had merely faked his ignorance for decades.

The location of Clark’s homestead is well known and some even claim to know where the sealed entrance of the mine lies, but neither are anywhere near the thick chaparral I am currently wading through. Still, I feel as if the earth beneath me is hollow and full of mysterious wonders.

The lower western flank of Pico Blanco is steep and choked with flowering coyote bush, ceanothus, chamise, lupine, pungent sagebrush—and plenty of poison oak. It is a long, dry, scratchy ascent out of the river basin. The ticks leap joyfully on to my body and cling like horrible infants to my skin. Huge, dead yucca stalks teeter in the hot sun. Lizards perch upon limestone and watch my slow progress up the mountain.

After two long hours of bushwhacking, my route mercifully intersects with a trail. I follow it south along the girdle of the mountain, past magnificent limestone boulders and a riot of wildflowers. Eventually it ascends to the service road that I saw from the other side of the canyon.

Pico Blanco contains the largest single mass of calcium-rich limestone in California. In the early 1960s, Granite Rock Company of Watsonville purchased the top portion of Pico Blanco with the intention of removing it. Thankfully, this has not happened yet. I am certain that the Goddess will never allow this to happen. Regardless, Granite Rock still owns this road so technically I am trespassing again.

Like most short cuts in life, bushwhacking was no short cut. It is now early afternoon. I am running very low on water and already feel a bit spacey. This is going to be a grind to the top. I put it into autopilot and follow the road’s long cuts back and forth across the mountain to the summit. My mind trails behind my body like a balloon on an ever-lengthening string.

Somewhere near the top, among the fabulous spires of limestone, I meet the Goddess. Dressed in black and gold, she lounges in the center of the road, completely relaxed, motionless, and soaking in the afternoon sun. Although just three feet long, she embodies the mountain’s grace and majesty. “The universe is always trying to tell you something,” she says in telepathic snake language. “The question is: Are you lisssssstening?” I humbly thank her for her wisdom and cautiously pass.

Eventually the road winds to a halt at the south side of the mountain, roughly 300 feet below the summit. From here, I pick my way up through the field of bone-white limestone, past skeletal trees. Each step is a labor and I am concerned about my physical and mental condition. My arms and legs are tingling in an unpleasant way. When I reach the summit, I am there, but not all there.

I take in the 360-degree view from the summit of Pico Blanco. To the north lie Bottchers Gap and Devil’s Peak. Skinner Ridge and the Little Sur drainage are off to the east. To the south, I see Launtz Ridge, Mt. Manuel, and the south fork and Launtz Creek drainages. And looking west, back the way I came, the impossibly distant ocean glitters

I finish my water, but it is not nearly enough to lubricate my desiccated brain. I am terribly thirsty. I feel untethered to reality—like a spacewalking astronaut. I need to get back down to the river.

I will go to the lovely Sur Rivers
And dip my arms in them up to the shoulders.
I will find my accounting where the alder leaf quivers
In the ocean wind over the river boulders.
I will touch things and things and no more thoughts,
That breed like mouthless May-flies darkening the sky,
The insect clouds that blind our passionate hawks
So that they cannot strike, hardly can fly.
Things are the hawk’s food and noble is the mountain, Oh noble
Pico Blanco, steep sea-wave of marble.

Idiots Hardly Need a Goddess to Punish Them

My return to the South Fork of the Little Sur River most certainly occurred, but I have little recollection of it happening. I do, however, remember gorging myself on a spring I found flowing into the river. I also remember taking off all of my clothes and soaking in a deep, cold pool of water until my skin was deliciously numb. I bade farewell to all the ticks as they floated on their merry way downriver and spent a long, relaxing hour scrubbing off the poison oak oil and cleaning out the lacerations on my legs.

By the time I bushwhacked my way back up the west canyon wall, the sun was setting on the forbidden pastures of El Sur Ranch. This was not a terrible development. The dark was good cover. I quietly slipped back down to the Coast Road under the camouflage of evening and found my car by starlight.

As I walked, I considered the Goddess once more. Had she driven me mad with thirst because my heart was not pure in some way? Was I seeking to profit from my pilgrimage up Pico Blanco? Certainly not in any financial way. I’m a writer, after all. Haggard, toothless hermits make more money than we do.

Maybe I was punished for a lack of respect and humility—for stubbornly forging a trail directly to the mountain. If that is the case then I simply punished myself. Idiots, after all, hardly need a Goddess to punish them.

In the end, I’ve decided that the Goddess blessed me. Despite not bringing enough water, I safely summitted Pico Blanco and I did it precisely as I’d dreamt—as the crow flies. What’s more, I didn’t get busted for trespassing, no ticks came home with me, and the poison oak rash was confined to a few minor spots on my legs. The universe is always trying to tell me something. And, yes, I am listening.