======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Mysto Soup From: tbmaddux@alumni.caltech.edu (Timothy B. Maddux) Date: 29 Aug 1997 19:36:03 GMT This is my 2nd attempt at posting; the first attempt (from UCSB) doesn't seem to have propagated. A surf trip story, starring myself, Robert, and an unexpected guest. Also online at: http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/src/mystos.html http://www.cs.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/src/mystos.html ... with the few pictures we got scanned in after we finish off Robert's disposable waterproof cam in Baja in about two weeks. -- .-``'. Tim Maddux, Ocean Engineering Lab, UCSB .` .`~ http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/ _.-' '._ "From the essence of pure stoke springs all creation." ======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Mysto Soup From: tbmaddux@alumni.caltech.edu (Timothy B. Maddux) Date: 29 Aug 1997 19:38:31 GMT Prologue The email was running fast and heavy. A new set of Southern Hemi swells was forecast to land, and we were taking advantage of the long-range forecasts now freely available on the web to finalize plans for a four-day trip. After everyone amped up for the trip and then backed out at the last minute, it was just Surfer Bob and I who were still good-to-go. Surfer Bob was the reason this trip was even happening, having Nanawani head high and fun once two years ago, and was the major motivating force on getting together all the travel and camping connections. We would have four days, arriving potentially in time to catch the last and largest swell pulse on our first day through its peak to its eventual declination on the last day. By the weekend as our departure approached things were looking good as the early swells began to fill in with occasional shoulder-to-head-high sets at Secos. This was not to be the typical yuppie Southern California surf experience, with a 2-hour journey followed by a 1/4-mile hike to get to the base camp. Pack in all water, supplies, and food; pack out trash. From there, access to the surf was a definite issue. From our base camp we were anticipating an overland hike of over an hour to get to Nanawani, and with that in mind Surfer Bob swiped the straps off his roof racks to put on external-frame backpacks. Board protection was key; we engineered a few different variations on a foam-and-cardboard theme for fin protection, then wrapped everything in insulite foam pads, wetsuits, towels, sleeping bags, quilts, air mattresses, anything goes. Robert stuffed his into some large canvas board bags, while I splurged and got one of those new reflective ones for $100 at the local shop. Single-board but long enough (7'6") to hold both my 7'2" and my 6'6" at once; for this trip only the 6'6" was going. Worked up a real sweat stuffing everything in and then getting it zipped up. Good food would be a must with all this exertion piled atop hopes for multiple long uncrowded sessions. Pasta, tortillas and a tupperware container of burrito "mix" (beans, rice, chilis, all kinds of sauteed vegies and the occasional addition from unfinished Tio Alberto's burritos), joined alongside standard backpacking fare of nuts, dried fruit, berries, and a few packets of freeze-dried "mysto soup" that Surfer Bob was curious about. And of course a good helping of bottles of Rolling Rock. We were stoked, packed, and amping. We were about to get in a bit over our heads while searching for mysto south swell souplines pouring into mysto spots. -- .-``'. Tim Maddux, Ocean Engineering Lab, UCSB .` .`~ http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/ _.-' '._ "From the essence of pure stoke springs all creation." ======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Mysto Soup From: tbmaddux@alumni.caltech.edu (Timothy B. Maddux) Date: 29 Aug 1997 19:44:40 GMT http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/src/mystos.html Day One - Nanawani Naught 5 am. The alarm is ringing. About an hour later I get up. On impulse I flip on the Weather Channel's tropical update and see a decent-sized hurricane just in the shadow of Baja, tracking due west. Shower, no damn milk in the fridge, everything is already packed and ready from the night before. A couple blocks of ice and a bag of crushed, some donuts, and on the road to meet w/ Surfer Bob. 9 am. We're off. Robert hugs and kisses his wife good-bye; I left Bettye to sleep in back at home. We're both amping; Robert is even a little excited about Guillermo (the hurricane I saw this morning), but I remain skeptical since it's not in our window and heading in the wrong direction anyways. Some discussion of surf trips as portrayed by the mags ensues along with thoughts on how we could best talk about this trip without revealing too much. The magazines have an interesting history in this respect. A classic shot of Rennie Yater in the 2nd issue of Severson's "The Surfer" labelled as Hammond's Reef was actually the Ranch, before anyone was willing to talk about the Ranch. More recently, trips to "secret" but relatively accessible spots teem with references to how the surf was all time. A good example of this would be the Tom Carroll and co. trip to somewhere near Santa Cruz in the summer of '96. Never has it been this good and never will it be again, so don't even bother trying to find it, they imply. The hoped-for result being that even if the spot is named, the hordes of kooks remain potentially unattracted to the location, if the ruse -- as we suspect it to be -- works. Within a few miles of our final destination, I get sick, despite having downed at least two non-drowsy Dramamine pills. 11 am. Arrival at the base camp. Our surfboards are the subject of amused / puzzled looks from our neighboring campers. One of the local workers notes accurately, "You guys know that it's a real walk, a HIKE, to get to where you're going?" We're cocky though, and explain how we have this great backpacking setup all planned. I characterize the hike as being about 3 miles, and the fellow comes back with a shake of his head and the number 5. 2 pm. All the gear has been lugged to the camp and our tent is pitched in short order. A healthy lunch of a few PBJ's -- I am understandably starving by now, effectively not having eaten since the night before. I decide to leave the camera and tripod behind for this first trip; there'll be plenty of time to take it along on the next few ones as the swell fills in. The backpacks are rigged, sunscreen applied, and we head out, already having forgotten the warning we received upon arrival. 3 pm. The hike to Nanawani is about 3 miles with 600 feet of elevation gain, most of which is up a steep incline right out of the base camp, followed by a mostly flat walk across a windy ridge then back down 600 feet to the destination. On the ridge it is hot, heat reflecting off the trail, the grass, and off my brand new reflective board bag down onto the back of my neck. Soaking with sweat in no time, every gust of wind feeling quite refreshing, easily worth weathering getting blown up or down the trail by these boards-turned-sails that we have on or backs. 4 pm. Arrival at Nanawani to find a pulsing shorepound, a few people playing in the water, and nothing but 1' waves hissing along a mix of sedimentary and basaltic rocks the size of watermelons where two years ago there was surf. We're bummed! Surfer Bob says "Tim, I swear there was a surf spot here!" A brief rest and reassessment and we decide to attempt the next point around the bend. We speculate after looking through binoculars that the tide just might be low enough for us to walk it. It turns out to be pretty do-able, with a 10-yard clamber along the base of a cliff in the low tide line, holding on mossy lava rocks for handholds. I am still only part way through when Surfer Bob comes running back, hooting, having seen a set crack across the top of the next point a mile further up the beach. From a vantage point 50 feet up and quite far away, the setup looks promising. Now, how to get down? We're atop a 50-foot cliff and the road that leads here from Nanawani is at least 500 feet higher up the ridgeline. We track across a set of sheep-trails, Surfer Bob staying low to the cliff edge while I push high, coming up on a creekbed that is really a set of dry 6-foot waterfalls replete with branches, thickets, brambles, briars, and a hoary host of spiderwebs and 8-legged crawlies about which I'm quite phobic. Yug. I push through it rapidly, putting the rip-stop on my board bag to a real test and emerging none the worse for wear. Finish off the descent by throwing my board the last 10 feet or so down and climbing down after it. The beach beyond Nanawani is a heaving and gnarly shorebreak the likes of which I have never seen. Waves shoal up and heave a thick lip forward onto dry sand -- only it this beach isn't sand, it is a series of cusps and mounds of cobble that our Mother Ocean is mercilessly pounding into dust, dust that colors the local waters a light milky-blue color. A half-mile or so of that gives way at last to a small stretch of sandy beach inhabited only by a flock of seagulls. Obviously local to the area, the gulls hunt fish in the lee of the point and camp on the sands which are littered with their feces and feathers. I find some shade above the high tide line and throw down my pack, declaring it time to finish the PBJ that I brought with me, followed by a surf. 5 pm. We hit the water. I jump out through the beach shorebreak while Surfer Bob throws on his booties and heads out at the inside point of the two-point setup. The water is very opaque -- it's difficult to even see my board as I sit on it -- and extremely warm in the upper 6 inches. Tolerably warm down below. The swell comes in steep and fast, cracking hard on the outside and closing out across a set of rocks and then wrapping sharply through a set of bowls and then expiring just outside the inner point atop a big slab of rock that I promptly dub the "coffin rock" due to its shape and size and foreboding appearance. We spend a lot of time sitting and discussing the hike, alone in the lineup, and surfing the occasional shoulder to head high right. Between us we get about four or five waves. I get one good head high wave to the coffin rock just as Robert is paddling back out past it. I try to point it out to him with both hands but he interprets my gesture as a "voodoo wave claim." I generally have a hard time surfing as my legs are already pretty dead from the hike, cliff walk, and slide down the arroyo. Try my best to carve some turns, kicking out over the coffin rock after each wave -- the thing looks to be at least 8' long above the surface and is nigh impossible to avoid. 7 pm. The sun is getting low in the sky and we need to get home. Local fauna are starting to get close to our gear on shore, so we scramble back, chase them away, and dry off as best we can. The plan now is to find a good way up onto the ridge to connect with the road that should take us back to Nanawani, the tide being too high to make it back around the cliff edge. We pick a likely candidate for a trail and begin climbing around a few knolls and ravines, still stoked about the brief session we had and hopeful for tomorrow's potential (the southern hemi is forecast to build through the night and peak then). The trail leads us around the point that we clambered over a few hours before, only about 200 feet higher up, and right to a massive section of collapsed hillside that looks really sketchy. I balk, and we decide to double back and climb up to the top of the ridge to get over and around this thing. Where the hell is that road? We continue to gain elevation, walking on small animal trails that are sloped at a steep angle and thrashing my ankles. The sun has set and the sky is beginning to dim when we finally reach the road and begin to work our way back towards Nanawani. Having gone up and away from the beach, we have moved a mile or so directly away from where we want to be. To make things worse, this road leads 500 feet back down to sea level at Nanawani, followed by an immediate climb of 600 feet back up again to cross the ridge back to our campsite, followed by that last 600 foot descent. Our hopes of avoiding the extra 1100 feet of climb-and-descent by cutting straight across to the road on the other side of Nanawani are dashed to pieces when we see the intervening canyon that cuts deep and wide and runs all the way up into the nearby mountains. 8 pm. We arrive at Nanawani and it is getting darker. A brief rest ensues and we begin the slow and torturous climb towards our camp, busting out Robert's flashlight as the last light fades from the sky. We maintain a slow pace up the long hill, and trails that were easy to follow in daylight suddenly confuse us with turns and forks that we didn't make note of on our way over earlier. As we clear the first ridge, the wind hits us full-on in the face, at first refreshing and cooling as it was on the way over but soon becoming annoying then obnoxious then downright hellish. My brand-new 7'6" board bag, purchased because it was large enough to carry both my 7'2" and 6'6" at once, becomes a big silvery sail pulling at my shoulders and lower back. And we still have a lot more elevation to gain before it flattens out. We slow to a crawl and our formerly ample water supply begins to run down pretty quickly. A vast field of stars shines overhead and we trudge on beneath it, not noticing its majesty out here where there is no smog and the wind keeps the fog at bay. The stoke of our five waves rapidly dwindles from a burning passion to a flickering matchlight and then to nothing. There is only the wind and Surfer Bob's flashlight on the trail and the occasional mouse to scamper in front of us. Conversations have long ago ceased and now I only think of putting one foot in front of the other, wishing I could be somewhere, anywhere but on this trail. I imagine being at home and asleep with my wife and the pleasant thought keeps me moving. 10 pm. We arrive on our final descent and our spirits lift. Our death march is coming to an end. Coming down the last descent, we see flashlights on the beach, searching us out, no doubt puzzled by our sudden appearance on the ridgeline. Fellow campers greet us with a mixture of surprise, respect, incredulity, and awe as we appear out of the night looking tired and feral and feeling wasted and skunked. Dinner is simple, some cheese, bread, some canned fish and the best damn beer I've ever tasted. The dehydrated mysto soup remains untasted, as did Nanawani today. Bummed, I speculate about returning home tomorrow and vow never to set foot on that accursed trail again. Never. Surfer Bob, ever the optimist, thinks we should just sleep on it, see how we feel in the morning, maybe hang out and do some swimming, and I agree, about the hanging-out part. -- .-``'. Tim Maddux, Ocean Engineering Lab, UCSB .` .`~ http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/ _.-' '._ "From the essence of pure stoke springs all creation." ======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Mysto Soup From: tbmaddux@alumni.caltech.edu (Timothy B. Maddux) Date: 30 Aug 1997 05:45:20 GMT This article is on the WWW (along with the first 2 parts) at: http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/src/mystos2.html On to the story: Day Two - Recovery and Reassessment Sometime around noon I arouse from my slumber and declare myself to be in a lot of pain. Being better suited to physical exertion in the water than on land -- in my undergraduate days people like me were referred to as "squids" by better cross-trained fellow students -- I quickly avail myself of some ibuprofen, water, vitamins, menthol muscle rub and aloe vera for my sunburn before getting some breakfast. Surfer Bob is already up and about, having left behind an enthused note about how he feels "pretty good." He's no squid. Even brought some nice Italian hiking boots along, a gift from his wife, while I'm hurting from wearing just a pair of old sneakers. I polish off a few bowls of cereal and several pieces of fruit and head down to the beach near the campsite, which again is relentlessly flat. Some folks local to the campground are there along with Robert, and they raise a few eyebrows when we give some details about our hike. One even goes so far as to write our names down in a small notebook; I presume this is to keep track of the idiots in the area or perhaps to aid in the identification of our bodies if we try something else half as stupid as what we did yesterday and get ourselves killed in the process. A local worker relatively new to the location but already familiar with its surroundings suggests that we may have been better off in following a livestock 'chute' that runs from Nanawani to our current campsite, a closely-spaced pair of fences through which animals can be easily herded from one location to the other. We learn that the "road" which maps indicated as leading directly to Canada de Aguaje from Nanawani in reality disappears after only a short portion of the descent; all our efforts to find it were doomed to failure from the start. We spend a few hours hanging on the local beach, swimming, and doing some short recuperative hikes. Surfer Bob has a promising conversation with a recently arrived surfer from who has access to Canada de Aguaje more wired than we do. Robert wisely offers "all of our beer" in exchange for transportation that morning and the fellow looks enthused at the prospect. I note with amusement when he relates this to me that we've only got five beers left -- hardly a worthy bribe! We polish off the pasta for dinner that evening along with some bread and a few more beers. Our bribe has dwindled to three bottles and doesn't seem likely to succeed. Tomorrow is supposed to be the best day of the southern hemi and now we know that the road over is pure hell followed by a descent of 500 feet back down the trailless slopes that we climbed two nights ago. Then it dawns on me. We could do the hike to Nanawani easily, then drop our gear there, suit up, and paddle around the point rather than endure 1000 feet of climb-and-drop over a two mile stretch of trailless terrain. Definitely do-able, and we decide to wake up early enough to miss the midday sun on our hike if our bribe should fail. Things are looking up. The mysto soup remains for the most part untasted but still holds potential. -- .-``'. Tim Maddux, Ocean Engineering Lab, UCSB .` .`~ Santa Barbara Surfing - http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/ _.-' '._ Ahooooooooooooooooooooooooooo-Oooooooooooooooooooooooo! ======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Re: Mysto Soup From: johnw Date: Wed, 3 Sep 1997 21:40:27 GMT the Sandman wrote: > > Timothy B. Maddux wrote: > > > > We spend a few hours hanging on the local beach, swimming, > > and doing some short recuperative hikes. Surfer Bob has > > a promising conversation with a recently arrived surfer > > from who has access to Canada de Aguaje more wired than we > > do. Robert wisely offers "all of our beer" in exchange > > for transportation that morning and the fellow looks enthused > > at the prospect. I note with amusement when he relates > > this to me that we've only got five beers left -- hardly > > a worthy bribe! > > Now I know you did. Your pack mustof weighed 80pds. With > beers and fruit and hydrated food. Great workout! I really enjoyed reading parts of your story, Tim, and will read more when I have a chance. Like Taurus, I have only limited time right now and can't read the whole thing. (Just kidding, really, Taurus.) I like this comment about an 80-pound pack. Before I moved to San Francisco in 1989, and soon thereafter started picking up snowboarding, I used to ski Tuckerman Ravine on Mount Washington NH. You west coasters are like "big deal" but I'm very familiar with Squaw Valley and many Colo. resorts, in addition to northern New England, and this bowl is, if you will, very "rad." It's a cirque and the leavings of a glacier, and it is a 3-hour hike from the lot, and then you climb a roughly 800-foot bowl face, steep as a ladder in the middle, and about 1/2 mile across, to the lip, and have one hell of a ride down chutes and almost vertical sections and rock. People snowboard it now too. Well anyway, I went up with my girlfriend at the time one year, and you can weigh your pack at the beginning. It's good from about Apr - to June, and you can camp in the large wooden 3-walls-and-roof-and-floor structures near the base of the bowl, provided by the Nat'l Park Svc. I weighed my pack: 75lbs! Hers was like 35lbs. We hike, I sweat, I struggle, I make it, and I do Tuckerman's from the lip. Then I drank the six of 16-oz Buds I have in the pack! (I was on a budget at the time, or it would have been Guinness.) Well, I guess if I had the herbals (bummer, could not locate), then I would have saved at least 6 pounds! -johnw -- johnw@cpg.com clear * perfect * gravity Board Room -- http://www.aminews.com snowboard news * snowboard info * surf reports ======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Re: Mysto Soup From: tbmaddux@alumni.caltech.edu (Timothy B. Maddux) Date: 4 Sep 1997 16:54:21 GMT In article <5ujsqj$s4c@q.seanet.com>, the Sandman wrote: >lovin your story. Thinkin that you brought too much stuff though Glad you like it. Did Day Three make it out there? I haven't seen it at DejaNews yet. I'll just include it at the bottom of this message. W.R.T. the pack weight, our packs were actually quite light for the surf-hike, carrying only lunch (dried fruit, nuts, sandwiches), water (not enough) and our surf gear. The surface area, not the weight, was the killer. All the beer etc. stayed at the base camp. Here's Day Three again: Day Three - Mysto Guillermo We awaken a bit later than planned; as we crawl out of our tents our potential free ride leaves us behind to contemplate our three beers still untapped in the cooler and a long hike. Spirits are up, though, since we know what's ahead and have a more definite plan to handle it. Exit camp before noon, after heavy carboloading on two packets of instant oatmeal, two bowls of cereal, and a bannana. An extra couple quarts of water and plenty of PBJs, trail mix, and fruit to fuel our journey. Since we'll be doing some paddling, the good camera and tripod (still unused) stay behind. Robert packs a small disposable waterproof camera in hopes of bagging a couple of blurry shots. The new board bag also gets ditched as I opt for less surface area while sacrificing some padding and sun protection for my board. We've got the hike pretty wired this time, even taking a couple of shortcuts that lop off a quarter mile here and there from our trip and save us from dealing with the worst of the winds on the ridgeline. By the time we reach Nanawani it's about noon. I drop the bulk of my gear under some trees and change into my trunks, while Robert decides to hike as far around the point as he can. The tide is low and it's the heat of the day by the time we negotiate the cobble beach and lava cliff edge to a small slope near the cliff that we clambered across the day before. I note that there has been a lot of undercutting of the cliff by waves, and we stash Robert's gear high so as not to lose it if a set rolls through. Liberal applications of sunscreen and a jury-rigging of a canteen to Robert's leash and we're in the water. Again the water is warm, probably trunkable. It feels good to wash all the sweat away and the paddle around the point is easy. From this perspective we can see an easy way down the slope that I had such trouble negotiating two days ago. From about a mile away the setup looks similar to what we saw the day before; occasional sets closing out across the outside rocks and reef before bowling tight and turning sharply in to shore. There are a few people already in the water. We wonder as we negotiate the heavy rocks on the beach and dodge the shorepound -- it seems to have picked up from yesterday as both of our ankles are heavily battered by baseball sized rocks being thrown about in the swash -- if they'll be surprised to see us. Robert actually handles it pretty well in his booties, while I straggle behind, moving from the dry and hot sandy areas that burn the soles of my feet to the wet and cool rocky areas, hopping from large rock to large rock and bracing for each onrush of whitewater. Eventually we reach the gulls' beach. I paddle out through a lull in the shorepound while Surfer Bob stashes the water and camera away from the local animal trails and paddles out atop the inside point. There is a small right going just along the rocks there, and he stays to ride it while I head up to the outer lineup, looking for a few more waves to the coffin rock. A fellow from Oceanside is out there with his son and daughter. We have some fun trading off on the small waist high waves that form up horseshoe bowls and wrap hard into the rocks while waiting for the expected sporadic sets. They only come through once or twice in the course of about an hour, and eventually everyone else goes in, leaving me on the outside lineup and Surfer Bob on the inside. The wave has a lot of bowls and little hollow warbles in it, which are fun to play with and sometimes unpredictable. I pearl more than a few times but generally manage to have fun in between the long lulls. Eventually, Robert comes out and lets me know that an occasional wave is coming in around head high and grinding across the outside of that inner point on some sort of submerged lineup. As he describes it, we see something feather across the inside. I pick off a wave to the coffin rock and another set rolls through as I'm paddling back. They roll up twenty or so yards wide of where I've kicked out, it's a sprint paddle to get over there and then a blind-faith takeoff on what looks to be a closeout. Turns out it was, and all I really get out of the wave is a bottom turn and a kick-out. As I'm paddling back up the point, I see Robert take off on a pretty gnarly closeout set atop the shallow rocks that frame the top of the point. Some people will take off on anything. After that, he heads back inside, with me following about 15 minutes later. Still haven't gotten many waves and have been out for about an hour and a half. A pretty mellow session, no crowd, warm glassy water, and the occasional wave. Then something happens. As the fellow to whom Robert offerred the bribe yesterday paddles out (he's come along with the fellow from Oceanside, there's a total of about 12 in their group but fortunately he's the only one left of four who surfs and isn't surfed out), some sets start to crack across the submerged lineup. Unlike the outside lineup which is bowly and peaky, this wave is a fast wall that comes in looking like a closeout but sometimes holds up just enough to drop in, crank some turns for speed, and then even start throwing some harder turns and gouges as it slows before impacting in the shorebreak. The size builds and soon we're getting overhead-and-a-half waves coming consistent, clean, and steady over the submerged setup. The lineup fills a bit... the first new arrival is John, who passes on the latest swell tracking data to us since we've been out of touch with civilization for a few days now. Turns out that Guillermo -- whom as you may recall I was dubious of as we set out on our first day -- pumped a big batch of hurricane waves and we were just getting the first sets of it out of the SE right now. We continue to trade waves, jazzed on the warmth of the water, the perfect conditions, and the nonexistent crowd. And the waves get better, keeping that unmakeable look but rewarding the latest, sketchiest, most out-of-control hairy drops with a screaming right wall. Keep the hammer down and your arms windmilling and your faith up and you'll make it... feel it in your heart even though your mind is saying "No way!" There's nothing nearly so rewarding as making a wave you're totally certain you'll miss. Eventually some lulls set in as the crowd fills out to six. Turns out John spent nearly 20 years on the Kona coast of the Big Island of Hawaii, where Bettye and I spent our honeymoon this past December. We swap stories about the few places that I surfed during my time there. Then, true to the aloha spirit, John offers us both a lift back to our base camp after we mention how we got to Canada de Aguaje. And that's it... our whole trip has just turned itself back around. We both take brief paddles in to get some water and then resume the session. Eventually we are again the only ones left in the lineup as the tide seems to shift and the waves continue to build, now coming in with strong pulses of 3-4 ft. overhead sets that heave and pitch and close out all the way to the shorebreak. The leaps of faith that earlier in the sesh were so rewarding now have become trips over the falls and to the bottom. But that's okay, because Aloha John's offer has turned the feral hike mission into a luxury surf vacation. Beer in the cooler and just a 15-minute trip back to camp as opposed to a 2 1/2 hour stomp. We're like the sponsored pros that move through remote locations without ever getting a blister or a hangnail, one hand always on the Nintendo and the other grasping a ping-pong paddle or the T.V. remote w/ satellite feed. After a couple of stops, first so Robert can get his gear and then so I can get mine, we're back home. This evening we even have time to put together a camp fire. We kick back the last of our beers and bask in the dull ache of a long and rewarding session. Burritos for dinner, big flour tortillas heaping with the beans-chicken-rice-chilis-and-other-unamed-stuff invention of my bachelor years affectionately called "the mix." Winds push to gale-force in the late evening hours, and the glow of distant wildfires becomes prominent. -- .-``'. Tim Maddux, Ocean Engineering Lab, UCSB .` .`~ Santa Barbara Surfing - http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/ _.-' '._ Ahooooooooooooooooooooooooooo-Oooooooooooooooooooooooo! ======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Mysto Soup From: tbmaddux@alumni.caltech.edu (Timothy B. Maddux) Date: 30 Aug 1997 17:45:01 GMT Day Three - Mysto Guillermo We awaken a bit later than planned; as we crawl out of our tents our potential free ride leaves us behind to contemplate our three beers still untapped in the cooler and a long hike. Spirits are up, though, since we know what's ahead and have a more definite plan to handle it. Exit camp before noon, after heavy carboloading on two packets of instant oatmeal, two bowls of cereal, and a bannana. An extra couple quarts of water and plenty of PBJs, trail mix, and fruit to fuel our journey. Since we'll be doing some paddling, the good camera and tripod (still unused) stay behind. Robert packs a small disposable waterproof camera in hopes of bagging a couple of blurry shots. The new board bag also gets ditched as I opt for less surface area while sacrificing some padding and sun protection for my board. We've got the hike pretty wired this time, even taking a couple of shortcuts that lop off a quarter mile here and there from our trip and save us from dealing with the worst of the winds on the ridgeline. By the time we reach Nanawani it's about noon. I drop the bulk of my gear under some trees and change into my trunks, while Robert decides to hike as far around the point as he can. The tide is low and it's the heat of the day by the time we negotiate the cobble beach and lava cliff edge to a small slope near the cliff that we clambered across the day before. I note that there has been a lot of undercutting of the cliff by waves, and we stash Robert's gear high so as not to lose it if a set rolls through. Liberal applications of sunscreen and a jury-rigging of a canteen to Robert's leash and we're in the water. Again the water is warm, probably trunkable. It feels good to wash all the sweat away and the paddle around the point is easy. From this perspective we can see an easy way down the slope that I had such trouble negotiating two days ago. From about a mile away the setup looks similar to what we saw the day before; occasional sets closing out across the outside rocks and reef before bowling tight and turning sharply in to shore. There are a few people already in the water. We wonder as we negotiate the heavy rocks on the beach and dodge the shorepound -- it seems to have picked up from yesterday as both of our ankles are heavily battered by baseball sized rocks being thrown about in the swash -- if they'll be surprised to see us. Robert actually handles it pretty well in his booties, while I straggle behind, moving from the dry and hot sandy areas that burn the soles of my feet to the wet and cool rocky areas, hopping from large rock to large rock and bracing for each onrush of whitewater. Eventually we reach the gulls' beach. I paddle out through a lull in the shorepound while Surfer Bob stashes the water and camera away from the local animal trails and paddles out atop the inside point. There is a small right going just along the rocks there, and he stays to ride it while I head up to the outer lineup, looking for a few more waves to the coffin rock. The fellow we were hoping to bribe for transportation is is out there with his son and daughter; turns out he's here from Oceanside with his family and that of a friend, 12 people in all. We have some fun trading off on the small waist high waves that form up horseshoe bowls and wrap hard into the rocks while waiting for the expected sporadic sets. They only come through once or twice in the course of about an hour, and eventually everyone else goes in, leaving me on the outside lineup and Surfer Bob on the inside. The wave has a lot of bowls and little hollow warbles in it, which are fun to play with and sometimes unpredictable. I pearl more than a few times but generally manage to have fun in between the long lulls. Eventually, Robert comes out and lets me know that an occasional wave is coming in around head high and grinding across the outside of that inner point on some sort of submerged lineup. As he describes it, we see something feather across the inside. I pick off a wave to the coffin rock and another set rolls through as I'm paddling back. They roll up twenty or so yards wide of where I've kicked out, it's a sprint paddle to get over there and then a blind-faith takeoff on what looks to be a closeout. Turns out it was, and all I really get out of the wave is a bottom turn and a kick-out. As I'm paddling back up the point, I see Robert take off on a pretty gnarly closeout set atop the shallow rocks that frame the top of the point. Some people will take off on anything. After that, he heads back inside, with me following about 15 minutes later. Still haven't gotten many waves and have been out for about an hour and a half. A pretty mellow session, no crowd, warm glassy water, and the occasional wave. Then something happens. As the fellow to whom Robert offerred the bribe yesterday paddles out (he's come along with the fellow from Oceanside, there's a total of about 12 in their group but fortunately he's the only one left of four who surfs and isn't surfed out), some sets start to crack across the submerged lineup. Unlike the outside lineup which is bowly and peaky, this wave is a fast wall that comes in looking like a closeout but sometimes holds up just enough to drop in, crank some turns for speed, and then even start throwing some harder turns and gouges as it slows before impacting in the shorebreak. The size builds and soon we're getting overhead-and-a-half waves coming consistent, clean, and steady over the submerged setup. The lineup fills a bit... the first new arrival is John, who passes on the latest swell tracking data to us since we've been out of touch with civilization for a few days now. Turns out that Guillermo -- whom as you may recall I was dubious of as we set out on our first day -- pumped a big batch of hurricane waves and we were just getting the first sets of it out of the SE right now. We continue to trade waves, jazzed on the warmth of the water, the perfect conditions, and the nonexistent crowd. And the waves get better, keeping that unmakeable look but rewarding the latest, sketchiest, most out-of-control hairy drops with a screaming right wall. Keep the hammer down and your arms windmilling and your faith up and you'll make it... feel it in your heart even though your mind is saying "No way!" There's nothing nearly so rewarding as making a wave you're totally certain you'll miss. Eventually some lulls set in as the crowd fills out to six. Turns out John spent nearly 20 years on the Kona coast of the Big Island of Hawaii, where Bettye and I spent our honeymoon this past December. We swap stories about the few places that I surfed during my time there. Then, true to the aloha spirit, John offers us both a lift back to our base camp after we mention how we got to Canada de Aguaje. And that's it... our whole trip has just turned itself back around. We both take brief paddles in to get some water and then resume the session. Eventually we are again the only ones left in the lineup as the tide seems to shift and the waves continue to build, now coming in with strong pulses of 3-4 ft. overhead sets that heave and pitch and close out all the way to the shorebreak. The leaps of faith that earlier in the sesh were so rewarding now have become trips over the falls and to the bottom. But that's okay, because Aloha John's offer has turned the feral hike mission into a luxury surf vacation. Beer in the cooler and just a 15-minute trip back to camp as opposed to a 2 1/2 hour stomp. We're like the sponsored pros that move through remote locations without ever getting a blister or a hangnail, one hand always on the Nintendo and the other grasping a ping-pong paddle or the T.V. remote w/ satellite feed. After a couple of stops, first so Robert can get his gear and then so I can get mine, we're back at our camp. This evening we even have time to put together a fire. We kick back the last of our beers and bask in the dull ache of a long and rewarding session. Burritos for dinner, big flour tortillas heaping with the beans-chicken-rice-chilis-and-other-unamed-stuff invention of my bachelor years affectionately called "the mix." Winds push to gale-force in the late evening hours, and the glow of distant wildfires becomes prominent. Tomorrow we head for home. -- .-``'. Tim Maddux, Ocean Engineering Lab, UCSB .` .`~ tbmaddux@ocean.ucsb.edu _.-' '._ Santa Barbara Surfing - http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/ ======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Mysto Soup From: tbmaddux@alumni.caltech.edu (Timothy B. Maddux) Date: 30 Aug 1997 17:48:57 GMT Day Four - Departure No surf today, which is unfortunate given that Guillermo was forecast to really start pumping the swell on this day, according to John. We pack up the food -- bags of mysto soup still untouched -- and gear and head out. The trip back goes smoothly -- I don't get sick this time -- and we have a chance to ruminate on the way the trip went. I have never had a surf trip go like this. As it turns out, all the extensive pre-planning and savvy use of forecasting tools was for nothing. Nanawani wasn't even a surf spot any more. Canada de Aguaje didn't really break at all on the southern hemi that got us going on the trip in the first place, and proved to be a hell of a lot less accessible than we had anticipated. Then, just as we had our plans dashed and broken before our eyes, Huey relented and we got what we came for -- perfect uncrowded waves -- even though it wasn't exactly what we had planned for. Will we go again? Perhaps. The consensus among us and the other surfers we talked to is that we essentially blundered into a classic day at a spot that never breaks. That sure sounds a lot like the ruse pulled in recent years by surf magazines, save that we saw it just two days before Guillermo landed on a good combination of southern hemi swells and it wasn't working (5 waves between us over the course of two hours and the only ones out). The hike is arduous and leaves little energy to attack the surf effectively, especially considering the hike back. So, until I get the access more wired, this trip will remain my only surf experience for that location. But the door is open for all kinds of "secret spots" throughout Southern and Central California, where there are no real secrets, just access problems. After our death march, the hike in to Trestles or Point Dume is a cake walk, and it won't take much at all for us to get to Drake's on the Ranch this winter. So keep your eye out for us; we'll be the feral ones lugging boards on our backpacks and carrying our lucky dehydrated packets of mysto soup. (this entire story is online at http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/src/mystos.html with pictures to come in a few weeks) -- .-``'. Tim Maddux, Ocean Engineering Lab, UCSB .` .`~ tbmaddux@ocean.ucsb.edu _.-' '._ Santa Barbara Surfing - http://www.me.ucsb.edu/~tbmaddux/