It felt like it took forever. I started this trip in San Clemente in April of 2024 with the goal to accomplish what I assumed to be a 600-mile loop on foot around the historic range of the Southern California steelhead trout.
At the end of it all, however, I assumed very wrong. I had walked up the coast to Santa Maria via the Pacific Coast Highway, and by the time I got there, I had misjudged not only the time it would take to complete the trip but also the distance.
After 300 miles and three weeks of hiking, I was only a quarter of the way done, and I hadn’t even started the mountainous section yet. But I tried not to think about it and took off into the mountains, all to be halted by some of the most heinous terrain I’d ever seen. Trails were gone, overgrowth swallowed the landscape, and dirt roads were reclaimed by the forest. Feeling crunched by time, I hitchhiked around it and hit the Pacific Crest Trail and crushed miles to get to Big Bear. But I had to go to work, and I wasn’t even halfway done with the trip.
With the goal of coming back in the fall to hit the section of the trip I hitchhiked around, as well as to pick up where I left off in Big Bear and keep going south, man-made fires ravaged the areas I needed to hike through, and closures took over. My hands were tied by the safety bureaucracies, and I had no choice but to wait until the closures opened.
The spring of 2025 came, and I was able to return to the area I had skipped around. But the closures remained south of Big Bear, and I had no option but to wait until the fall of 2025 to restart the trip and finish the remaining southern section down to the U.S.-Mexican border, completing the trip and looping around the historic range of the southern steelhead.
It was October 10th, and up to that point, I had covered 700 miles in 54 days of hiking. I had walked from sea level to over 9,000 feet with terrain ranging from crashing waves to pine trees and snow. I followed in the footsteps of bears and heard mountain lion caterwauling. I also witnessed coastal sea birds dive bombing bait fish and listened to dolphins and even whales spout as they came up for breath. I thought I had seen it all until I restarted this final leg of the trip.
After hiking through a tropical storm that drenched the Southern California region in much needed moisture, I was greeted by a 300-pound black bear that stumbled into camp on my first night. A few days later, I shivered in my tent at 11,502 feet atop the highest point in Southern California, Mount San Gorgonio, and looked below at the megalopolis that the inland cities of San Bernardino, Riverside, and Corona have become. Coming down from that and back into the throes of concrete, I greeted and followed the Santa Ana River, and shared the walking path with pollution, smog, traffic, and homelessness, which made me question why I even wanted to do this trip.
But just when the overwhelming sense of concern came for the future of the trip, let alone the steelhead, the top of a shoulder-less highway walk brought me to a view of nothing but pristine landscapes and wild terrain once again.
One constant thing I had learned throughout this trip was the incredible dramaticism of both the sheer geography of the landscapes walked through, as well as the demographic differences. In one day, I went from the highest point at 11,000 feet and shivered at the arctic-like winds that beat at my tent throughout the night, all to wake up that morning, hike down in elevation, and share that same day with thousands of people, traffic, and delicious Mexican food.
I would go from hiking in the most remote areas I have ever been in anywhere on the planet, the longest going eight days without even seeing a human, to walking through millions of people and going over and under major highways. The contrast of Southern California was a takeaway that astounded me. And the resiliency of the steelhead kept me, at least metaphorically, swimming with them through it all.
Through wild and scenic river trails and mountain vistas to unfortunate highway walking and near-death encounters with semi-trucks around blind curves, I would walk through literal creeks cascading over boulders as well as grunting in the sun along a bumpy trail or dirt road carrying seven liters of water for an intense dry section. The contrasts continued throughout, and my thoughts for the steelhead were always in limbo, wondering how they survive. After nearly a month of restarting the trip, I had made it to the Mexican border, turned west, and followed it to the coast, where I met the southernmost river in the historic range, the Tijuana River.
What I prepared myself for was a toxic waste dump with brown water and literally trash and dead bodies of animals floating by. But instead, I was greeted with crystal clear water flowing into the sea with waves from the ocean washing into it. It was the most beautiful last chapter of the trip, leading up to the conclusion.
The conclusion was one of intense confusion. I felt no real sense of accomplishment, no real sense of pride. Because of the extended nature of the trip and the closures I had to navigate, it didn’t feel like a three-month journey. But on my last day coming into my hometown of San Clemente, I walked along the bike path at Camp Pendleton en route to my hometown water of San Mateo Creek, with visions of clear skies, fresh swell at my local surf break, and a group of people all waiting to cheer me to the finish. Instead, I was greeted by something else.
Fog encapsulated the coast and wrapped its cold, grey blanket around all its sights. But the moment I took to the day, each step, the fog cleared. It was as if I had a shield that pierced the grey and lifted its curtain, allowing the gorgeous, warm sunshine to come down to earth. But when I got to San Mateo Creek, however, the grey stayed. I thought it was the perfect metaphor. I was allowed to complete the trip and circumnavigate its historic range, finishing exactly where I left off in my hometown of San Clemente, but just because the trip was complete did not mean the creeks or the fish were in the clear. Work still needed to be done.
One thing I reflected on as I lay in bed that night at home, while cuddling the stuffed animal steelhead I used as a pillow on the trip, was that with each of the river systems I encountered, their headwaters were pristine, untouched. Only a small handful of them flowed freely to the sea. The rest were dammed, diverted, polluted, blocked, or dried up.
So, in my unscientific eye, the solution was simple: create pathways for these fish to get to the headwaters. If they can do that, the pristine nature of the headwaters will let them flourish and repopulate areas they once did. Dams are coming down, and conversations have begun about fish ladder systems and water recycling programs. But even with that, the remarkable nature of these fish astounded and inspired me to never lose hope. If we give them a drop of water, they’ll use that and swim as far as they can. We just have to let them. And with the recent protections given by the state of California, hope is on the horizon.
Ninety percent of California’s population lives in the lower third of the state, yet only 10% of them might know these fish exist. That has always been the goal of this project, and with a book I am hoping to write about it all, I will spread that knowledge as far and wide as I can. Because the more people who learn about them, the more they’ll care about the places they swim and the better understanding we will all have about the degradation we are doing to the fish and the wild and untouched ecosystems we have in Southern California. A place that, at the onset, I thought was an overpopulated and polluted location. Far from an intact and wild ecosystem where anything could live, let alone thrive. A place I thought would be an easy and relaxing project to backpack, I have never been so wrong, and I have never been so happy and humbled to accept that.
Stats from the trip:
Walked 1,196.39 miles, took 86 days to complete, took 2,610,706 steps, burned 165,745 calories, crossed 478 crosswalks, crossed 26 railroad crossings, took 29 showers, encountered 4 days of rain, 2 days of snow, passed by 13 Ferraris, walked 12 piers, hitchhiked 10 times, rattled by 10 rattlesnakes, witnessed a potential steelhead, and had one helluva trip!
