This must be how a beginning skier feels when he makes a wrong turn on the bunny slopes and ends up at the top of a black diamond run. Looking down from the top of the sandstone outcropping called Lizard’s Mouth, I couldn’t see much of my intended route, as the land dropped away too steeply towards the city of Goleta and the Pacific Ocean. Still, I knew that between civilization and I stretched many miles of the thickest chaparral that Southern California had to offer. Every year, one group of idiots makes the mistake of attempting this off-trail descent, according to my online research. This summer, it was my turn to be the idiot.

Unlike last week’s bit of misfortune with the disappearing moonlight, I had no excuses for my present folly. A few months ago, I’d heard first-hand reports from the foolhardy trio who tried bushwhacking down the mountain last year and vowed never to do it again. They’d been forced to spend a cold, chilly night sleeping on rocks in a ravine, surrounded by poison oak. I hoped to fare better on my adventure, but I had read and heard enough to know that most of it was not going to be pleasant.