Roger Epperson Ridge

A storm was blowing in from the west and the wind was howling.  Clouds swirled around the summit of Diablo last Saturday, and cars dodged cyclists on the one lane snake of a road that is Morgan Territory.  Converging on the Trailhead in the center of Morgan Territory Regional Preserve, we had all come for the naming of a ridge on the slopes of Mt. Diablo in honor of a long time friend, and many year East Bay Regional Parks Ranger, Roger Epperson.  

It was a Roger day.  He would have loved it, as no amount of weather kept him from his hills, and it didn’t stop the 75 or so folks who showed up for the dedication either.  Roger had been tragically killed in a kayaking accident in Hawaii two years ago.  Can you be sad and joyful at the same time?  We managed it for this occasion. 

Roger had been a dear friend and colleague to many in the crowd.  There for the ceremony were his high school buddies, Jim Reese, Bob Doyle, Steve Schaefer, and me, but most importantly, his loving wife and partner, Carol Alderdice, and so many other friends from a life filled with people who loved him.  As the Supervising Ranger at Black Diamond Mines Regional Park and the person who cleaned up and created Morgan Territory Regional Preserve, Roger had been a mentor to many rangers, and they were there also.  

Roger’s death had rung through the Parks Department like a personal shot to everyone.  Bill Nichols, our Supervising Ranger at the Carquinez Regional Shoreline, had been kind enough to tell me to sit down before he told me the news.  We just couldn’t believe it.  He was too young, too vibrant, and too darn bull headed to leave us when he did.  

His Joie de vivre had passed into many interests during his life.  As kids, we had all ridden our bikes from Concord to Clayton and over Black Diamond Road to explore the mines with candles, long before any of it was Regional Park.  A visit to his home always meant time with his pythons and other critters.  Later it meant a full blown explanation and demonstration of fine jewelry making.  Over time he became an expert and collector of early California painting and woodcut art. But as an adult, Roger’s passions were shared primarily between the people in his life -- his rich marriage to Carol and deep friendships -- and those hills we had played in so long before.  

Years ago, he had taken a few friends up on the ridge we were dedicating in his honor and showed them a rock outcropping on the crest.  Standing on the rock, Diablo was spread out before him, and all around was Morgan Territory Regional Preserve -- his park -- and nothing but beauty.  He told his friends that this was to be the spot for his ashes someday, and two years ago, that’s where he was interred.  The idea for dedicating the ridge in his name was born at that time.  

Beverly Lane, President of the EBRPD, Board of Directors spoke and had her own personal memories to share, as did one of his best friends, East Bay Regional Parks General Manager, Robert Doyle.  Knowing him since we were all teenagers, Bob was able to paint the picture of a person of joy and laughter. The goofy Roger.  The Roger who would have demanded that Mt. Diablo itself be renamed after him, and not just a ridge.  He described the dedicated Roger, who when the Park District was considering purchasing a very damaged piece of property that had been used primarily as a wood lot for many years, had said, “Just give me a crew and I’ll make it beautiful.”  That’s Morgan Territory Preserve, now a gem of pristine wilderness in our sea of cities.  

Roger’s wife Carol spoke, thanking everyone, and recalling a life time friend, partner and husband.  She’s a ranger too, and knew why he loved these hills so deeply.  Doug Fowler, who had come of age as a ranger under Roger’s tutelage also spoke.  He knew first hand the depth of Roger’s commitment to restoring our open spaces.  He trained rangers to do it right, and to do it again if it wasn’t right.  What an employee.  What a friend.  We miss you Roger, but I couldn’t think of a more fitting memorial than the dedication of Roger Epperson Ridge.  

It’s worth an easy two and a half mile hike to visit Roger’s Ridge, as the views of Diablo’s south side are simply stunning.  If you want a short backpack trip, Roger created a backpacker’s camp just below the ridge.  He obviously loved this place.  You’ll find directions in the online brochure for the site at: http://www.ebparks.org/files/EBRPD_files/brochure/morgan_terr_text.pdf  A trail map of the area is at: http://www.ebparks.org/files/EBRPD_files/brochure/morgan_terr_map.pdf   Call the park for an overnight camping permit if you plan to spend the night. 

From the staging area, where you’ll find water and restrooms, cross the road and hike down to a green park gate which puts you on the Clyma Trail.  Follow this through dense forest and grassy open spaces.  The day we hiked, raptors circled overhead and the approaching storm alternately wreathed Mt. Diablo in cloud, or opened it up in an expansive view of mountain, crag and rolling hills.  Just before the backpacker camp, the trail crosses a low swale in the ridge.  On your right is the promontory where the dedication was held, and on which you’ll find a large engraved stone to Roger, and on the left and up the ridge is Roger’s Rock.  The views from here are worth a bit of time, a moment to find yourself in the midst of your surroundings.  Have a picnic lunch on the bluff, or continue a hundred yards or so and use the picnic tables at the camp site.

It’s a beautiful spot, and last Saturday, wild and wooly, was a beautiful day to remember a great guy.  

Pacific Crest Trail Stories: We were camped in the most beautiful place any of us had ever pitched a tent.  Frost was on the grass the morning we awoke in McClure Meadow, June 21, 2010, and after our usual quick pack up, we hit the trail and headed for one of the most dangerous stream crossings on the Pacific Crest Trail, Evolution Creek.  

This is where I had met my first thru hiker in the late 1970s, and had watched in awe as he swam the ford pushing his backpack in front of him in a plastic bag.  The ford is deep and swift.  Just down stream, and I mean close, is a set of rapids and waterfalls to make your head spin.  Did I mention the water was freezing?  Back then it was enough to get my brother-in-law and I to turn back and forget about entering Evolution Valley.

This time I was prepared.  We had listened to Ken Murray and Mountain Ned’s snow and stream crossing lecture at Kick Off, and knew there was a better way.  A quarter of a mile upstream was an area where the water spread out, partly becoming a swampy meadow, widening into a calmer, deeper channel.  

Here we all hit the water at about 7:30 in the morning.  Talk about a rude awakening.  It was waist deep, and felt like it was about 35 degrees Fahrenheit.   When we got to the other side, it didn’t matter that we weren’t dead, ‘cause our legs felt like they’d been amputated.  Water that cold just plain hurts.  It feels like someone has slugged you hard all over whatever part of you has been submerged.  We screamed and hollered, and then in a flash, it was over.  Almost as quickly as we got out of the stream, the relief hit, and our feet and legs felt warm, simply due to the absence of the extreme cold.  That’s the time to hit the trail, as you almost don’t notice that you’re dripping wet.  

It was the first day of summer, fondly known on trail as Naked Hiking Day, and that’s just what lots of thru hikers do, but it was too darn cold, and we did have a modicum of modesty in the bunch.  So we stayed clothed except for Smiles and Little Engine who wanted to hike in dry pants after each stream crossing, so they stripped down to their skivvies when they had to wade a stream.  Us guys, we just slopped on through, drip drying on trail.  

Following closely to the cataracts of Evolution Creek as it plummets toward the South Fork of the San Joaquin River, the trail here is spectacular and the “creek” ferocious.  If you made a mistake at the ford, this is where you’d end up, and you might last a second or two, but you’d be pulverized after the first good drop.  But is it beautiful.  There is so much spray in some of the punch bowls that perpetual rainbows hang in mid air set off against the blackness of the wet rocks.

After the steep decline we began a gradual rise through mostly snow free forest and meadows along the San Joaquin River, stopping for lunch in a glade, so peaceful after the intensity of our morning.  Plain Slice leaned against Little Engine as she very tenderly wove long ponderosa pine needles into his unruly hair.  The ‘do got wilder the longer he sat against her knees, smiling like a puppy getting its belly rubbed.  By the time she was done, he was fit for the trail on this first day of summer, decorated like a wood elf, elaborately coiffed with forest love tokens.

In the afternoon we climbed steeply to Sallie Keyes Lakes where we camped for the night.  Clouds gathered and we got a few sprinkles, the first break in absolutely perfect weather since entering the High Sierra at Onion Valley, five days before.  Pink clouds arranged themselves against the dark of the evening peaks, and golden trout swam just below the surface along shore, as if in echo of the brilliance above.  

The next morning we hiked past Sally Keyes Lakes, the water filled trail frozen into a sinuous ribbon of ice crystals.  The surface of the lakes was like glass and the rocks and snow on the opposite bank became a reflected, horizontal, Rorschach ink blot, a psychologist’s dream landscape.  Was that a Christmas Tree or the Eiffel Tour, and that next one, the skull of an ox, a deer, or the wings of an angel?  Such beauty.

We made our way over rock and snow to Seldon Pass without much difficulty, after all, it was only 10,900 feet high.  Just a beginners pass.  By this time we didn’t expect trail, and got none.  We went cross country up to the pass and then down the Bear Creek drainage to another reputedly bad crossing. We reached it early in the day, which meant it was lower by several feet than it would be later on when the sun had warmed the snow, melt-off filling the streams beyond capacity.  

We scouted upstream for a crossing and Smiles and I started across this one together.  Only when we reached midstream did we realize it was not a good place to cross.  Water rushed against our stomachs with such force that it began to lift us out of our purchase against the rocks in the stream bed.  We hollered at the rest of the bunch to go back and find a better place, and struggled to keep our balance, leaning forward into the current, planting our hiking poles against the onrush of water.  

Eventually we were able to grab hold of willow branches and drag ourselves out.  The better fording place was also not very good, but we all made it, and did a little, “Nobody died!” dance on the bank.  Stream crossings were by far the most dangerous aspect of traversing the High Sierra in early spring, and several times, we had made human chains, anchored to a tree or stiff branch on the far side.  Of these, I have no pictures, as I was part of the chain.

Mango had been having some trouble crossing the swollen streams over the past few days, and had fallen several times, never in a really dangerous one thank God.  He’s only six years older than me, so that can’t be the problem, but he is taller, and maybe that’s the issue, the inherent propensity of taller people to fall over more often than those of us built closer to the ground.  

In the late afternoon, he and I were hiking together, having been left by the younger and faster members of our group, when we came to a simple little stream by Sierra standards.  It was swift, but was just a quick wet wade, or a dry but precarious crossing on several large, criss crossed logs.  We went for the logs, opting to keep our feet dry, and I got to the far shore first.  I turned around just in time to see Mango sit down on the upper log, swing his legs onto the lower of the two, when a branch he had been holding for balance snapped off.  He paused a moment, and then began a slow motion tilt backwards.  His pack weight was just off balance enough to inexorably pull him over, and the last thing I saw were his legs straight up in the air before he slid down behind the log jam, and his boots disappeared.   

It was like a slow motion prat fall, something out of a situation comedy routine or an old Charlie Chaplin movie.  Buster Keaton couldn’t have done it better and with no sound but the rushing of the water in the creek.  I dropped my pack as quickly as I could and ran through the water around the logs to find him hanging onto a branch, pinned by the force of the water against the log jam, his pack wedged between rock and tree.  I grabbed and pulled and he came up sputtering and mad as hell.  He was tired of this getting wet stuff.  And to make it worse, I could hardly stop laughing.  It had been so funny, at least from my vantage.  There’s nothing like hiking with friends.   I told him I had almost gotten my camera out to snap a picture before he flipped upside down and disappeared.  Mango stopped sputtering, composed himself and thanked me for having been there to help him, and then said in his most dignified Tennessee twang, “Yah, but if you had taken that picture, after I got out of the water, I would have had to kill you.”  So much for saving lives on the PCT.  I couldn’t stop laughing, but I did watch my back for a while as we hiked down the trail together.

Surely all God's people, however serious or savage, great or small, like to play. Whales and elephants, dancing, humming gnats, and invisibly small mischievous microbes - all are warm with divine radium and must have lots of fun in them. 

- The Story of My Boyhood and Youth, John Muir