The Dirtbag Database

XII. Ghosts of the Past

December 13th, 2024 — Southern California

The next morning, I woke well-rested. The desert nightmare was behind me now, buried under sand and starlight. I turned west onto the highway and drove toward the coast, up and over one last jagged range. Then, for the first time in six months, laid eyes on the Pacific, shimmering and endless, swallowing the horizon in a silver blaze.

I dropped down out of the hills into San Diego, then merged onto the northbound 405. The air thickened with ocean salt and exhaust, the silhouettes of palm trees swayed in the freeway wind, and that feeling rose inside me. I was back in California.

It wasn’t just the landscape, the gold-tinged surf towns, the sunburnt cars and weathered neon. It was something quieter. A pull. A pulse in my chest. Getting close to home.

Six months on the road had been a dream, a whirlwind of peaks, desert skies, and strangers-turned-friends. It taught more than any classroom or job ever could. But the miles piled up, and the thrill of the unknown slowly blurred into a quiet kind of fatigue. I was ready for a pause. To reset. To be with family, see old friends, and gather myself for whatever came next.

Before leaving Zion, I’d arranged a transfer to Death Valley, a place I’d never been. I was set to start there on January 7th. The first adventure of the year — or so I thought.

By the time I reached Los Angeles, the sun was beginning to set. The city’s smog lit up like fire, casting a copper glow through the skyscrapers. I pulled off the freeway into a crumbling neighborhood — graffiti-tagged storefronts, shattered glass at the curbs, car horns shouting from every direction. I weaved through it all, past tire shops and taco stands, until the road began to climb.

Up in the hills, the world changed. Palms gave way to pines, and mansions peeked out from behind gated driveways. I parked on a quiet side street and jogged the last stretch to the top of the hill.

There it was — Griffith Observatory. I’d seen it in movies, on postcards, on bucket lists. Now I stood beneath its massive domes, watching the sun sink behind the Santa Monica Mountains. I climbed the steps to the rooftop and leaned against a wall that thousands had before me, watching as the city below flickered alive with headlights. A rare stillness settled over me. After the chaos of last night, after the long hours behind the wheel, this was a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Still didn’t know where I’d sleep that night. But for now, that didn’t matter. I had made it back.

An idea struck: Malibu. I could camp in the hills, the same ones I once wandered with Sofia on that sun-drunk day that now felt like another life. I typed in the directions, road closed. Fires had shut down parts of PCH.

I sighed. Maybe it was for the best. Some places are too fragile to revisit. Some memories are meant to stay untouched, preserved like fossils in stone.

In the fading light I walked back to my truck, headed north and drove. That night, I drove and drove, like I was caught in a trance. The hum of the tires, the rhythm of the road, it all blurred into something dreamlike. Then, a sign flashed by in my periphery:

Santa Barbara – Next 12 Exits.

My stomach flipped.

The same town I once ran from. A place thick with memories, both golden and heavy. I questioned whether I was ready to face it again — but of course I was. I’d earned this return.

I pulled off near downtown and parked. Sat there for a moment, breathing it all in. I had changed, deeply. But this place still had its ghosts. I could feel them clinging to the corners of my mind. Old habits, old expectations, still alive in the cracks of these streets. A version of me had been left here, and he hadn’t moved an inch. Still pacing inside the walls of memory, locked in time.

I started the truck again and wound my way up into the Santa Ynez Mountains. Higher and higher, until the lights of the city sparkled below like a distant galaxy. I popped up the tent, climbed inside, and laid back to watch the oil rigs blink on the horizon. Tomorrow was sure to be interesting.

December 14th, 2024 — Santa Barbara, CA

I woke late. The sleep had been deep, the kind that cleans you out. Two things needed to be checked off the list that morning.

First stop was the ocean.

I parked, pulled on swim trunks, and ran toward the waves like a kid on the first day of summer. The water was cold, electric. Dove under and let it rinse me clean. Salt hit my lips. The sky stretched wide above, blue melting into the mountains behind the town. The whole thing felt surreal. Floating there, I remembered what it felt like to belong nowhere and everywhere at once.

When done, I hit the next craving.

A burrito.

I drove to my favorite taqueria, the one that never changed. Ordered carnitas, rice, beans, guac, folded into that perfect golden tortilla, and cracked open a glass bottle of Coca-Cola. Sat outside with the sun on my back and let the flavors hit like a time machine. Hadn’t realized how much I missed this.

I was ready.

Ready to see the people I left behind.

Kenneth had sent his new address a few months back. I hadn’t told anyone I was coming — figured I’d just show up, classic move.

The place was a modest bungalow tucked away on the east end of town. I slipped around back and found a few lawn chairs in the sun. Still full from the burrito, peeled off my shirt, stretched out, and fell asleep to the warm hum of the neighborhood.

Woke with a jolt, shadows long now across the yard. Kenneth stood smiling on the patio.

“Hey you there!” he called.

I jumped up and walked over. “Howdy, brother.” Pulled him into a firm hug.

“It’s been a while,” he said, that same grin as always.

“Sure has.”

Flashed back to our time on Mount Whitney, the mountain that chewed us up and spat us out. We’d both caught the climbing bug, and I was glad to have him by my side.

Then, just like old times, Mayo burst out of the house like a shot of espresso.

“Matt!”

He wrapped me in a bear hug that lifted my feet off the ground.

“Yo, it’s so good to see you,” I laughed.

These were the kind of friends you could walk through hell with and come out the other side laughing.

As the sun sank low and golden, we stayed out back swapping stories, six months of life condensed into a few hours. The roads we’d taken, the people we’d loved, the ones we’d lost. The lessons that burned deep.

Then Mayo turned to me, a grin stretching across his face. “There’s a party at Kara’s tonight. You coming?”

I hesitated for half a second.

A party in Santa Barbara? With this crew?

Of course I was coming.

We piled into Mayo’s truck and rolled across town, windows down, music up, cases of beer wedged between our knees. I let the wind whip through my hair and thought, just like old times — but it wasn’t nostalgia.

It felt more like a bullet already fired. A course already set. I was slipping into the same old mess, and there was no stopping it now.

The party was already in full swing. Familiar faces greeted me like no time had passed, people I’d ghosted six months earlier. But there was no bitterness. They welcomed me back with open arms.

I told stories from the road — campfires, summits, strange encounters — and they listened, nodding, laughing, passing the bottle. I drank. Smoked. Laughed, too. But somewhere beneath it all, I was spinning.

A slow unraveling.

Looked around at the crowd, faces I’d known too well. The same floors, the same sounds. It was as if the six months on the road had been nothing but a fever dream. A mirage. Some story I made up to convince myself I was healing. Growing. Becoming someone new.

But none of that mattered now.

Because here I was, wasted in Santa Barbara. Again. With the same people. In the same place. And it made me sick. I ran to the backyard and threw up my guts, hoping it would sober me up, hoping it would fix the mess in my mind. It didn’t.

December 15th, 2024 — Santa Barbara, CA

Crashed on the couch, and when I woke, the taste of regret was thick in my mouth. Hated the skin I was in. What was it all for? I asked the ceiling. Why leave, just to crawl back into the same hollow rhythm the moment I could?

The self-loathing was sharp. Real. Head heavy. Heart, heavier.

I knew I couldn’t stay long after that.

The town pressed in on me like a shrinking room. And the ghosts I thought I’d buried… they came right back, without asking. I could feel them in the cracks of every sidewalk. But there was one more thing left to do.

And after last night, I wasn’t sure I could.

I needed to see Sofia.

Word moves fast in Santa Barbara. By 11 a.m., my phone lit up.

Sofia: Heyy, heard you’re back in town.

Stared at the screen. My stomach flipped.

Had to know. Had I really moved on?

Me: Yea. Wanna go for a drive?

She answered fast.

Sofia: You bet. Send me your location, I’ll be there in 20 or less.

Dropped the pin and stepped outside, heart thudding. What felt like a minute later, I heard it: tires chirping, bass rattling, engine revving. Here we go.

She screeched to a halt in front of me, the same gleam in her eye.

“Get in, loser,” she laughed, throwing her jacket from the passenger seat to the back.

I jogged around, strapped in, flashed a grin. “Hit it.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

The engine roared, and we launched up into the hills.

We climbed her favorite, Gibraltar Road, twisting along cliffs with no guardrails, switchbacks sharp enough to make your gut drop. She didn’t like to talk when she drove. She liked the feel of the machine, the music turned up loud, the silence between gears.

I rolled down the window, leaned out, let the wind slap me awake.

At the top of the mountain, she pulled off at a rusted old water tower, sun-bleached and covered in graffiti. We climbed to the top, sat side by side, looking out at Santa Barbara spread below, the Pacific beyond it, gleaming and endless.

We talked.

Told her about the road, the Cascades, Zion, the strangers, the quiet moments I’d held close. She told me how she’d fallen in love with the man she left me for. They were still together.

Looked at her, those amber eyes. No one else’s had ever come close to that color. Warm. Dangerous. The kind of eyes that pull you into her fire and make you thank them for the burn.

And still, something had shifted.

The chemistry was there, still burning on low, but the spell had broken. She’d grown. So had I. Could see now why I had fallen so hard. And could see right through it, too.

I looked at her and offered a handshake.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss you. Let’s be friends.”

She smiled. A real, genuine smile.

“Deal.”

We climbed down. Drove back into town. Grabbed a bite, joked about old times. She dropped me off on the side of the street.

I nodded. “Till next time.”

She nodded back, revved the engine, and disappeared around the corner.

I climbed into my truck, looked out at the city I once called home, and just like I had months before —

I ran from Santa Barbara.

Later that day, parked the truck in the same spot I always had, right in front of my childhood home. Stepped out and shut the door, the silence afterward ringing louder than any road noise. Stepped inside and was met with hugs from my parents, their faces soft with surprise and relief. My little sister, Marley, had grown sharper in the time I’d been gone, eyes wiser, smile the same.

Dropped my pack in the old room and collapsed onto the bed. The miles I’d carried caught up all at once, and for the first time in what felt like years, I slept — deep, heavy, undisturbed — for nearly fourteen hours. I was home, at last.

—————————————

In the weeks that followed, I sank into the slow rhythm of a place that once felt like everything. Cleaned out the truck, sorted gear, walked the old streets, visited favorite beaches and coffee shops. Met up with friends I hadn’t seen in ages and retraced old footsteps through town — familiar storefronts, potholed backroads, the same smells in the air. Everything looked the same, but something in me had shifted.

Started hearing ghosts, not the haunting kind, but echoes of who I used to be. Their voices were tucked in old corners, caught in conversations with people who hadn’t changed. People who still saw me as the person I was before the heartbreak, before the road, before the clarity. It wasn’t their fault, but it cut deep. Couldn’t explain what had changed. Could only feel it. And it made me restless. Made me ache to be gone again.

Christmas came and went like a blur. I knew I had to do something to shake the weight I felt at home, to breathe again. So I hatched a plan — not just for myself, but for Marley too. If I could show her the place that had kept me sane, maybe I could remind myself of who I was becoming.

XIII. Sea to Sky 

December 27th, 2024 — Big Sur

In the soft gray light of the morning on December 27th, we loaded her bag into the truck and hit the road. I didn’t tell her where we were going, only that it was an adventure. We drove north, the highway unraveling before us as the sky caught fire with sunrise. To our left, the Pacific shimmered. To our right, the land rose steep and wild.

Big Sur.

My sanctuary. The place where the mountains crash into the sea, and time folds in on itself.

Our first stop was Salmon Creek Falls, swollen and roaring from recent rains. I watched Marley peer over the edge and smiled, thinking of sunburnt days beneath that waterfall with a girl I once loved. Even further back, I saw the ghosts of my youth, me and my friends, biking down the coast with nothing but patched-up panniers on old bikes with steel frames, my first tastes of freedom.

We continued north along Highway 1. I’d driven countless roads by now, but none compared to this one. The cliffs here don’t just drop, they dive into the ocean, reckless and alive. The road clings to them, winding and narrow, with waves exploding below and wild towering mountains stretching endlessly to the east.

By afternoon, we pulled into Kirk Creek Campground, a grassy perch above the water dotted with wind-worn shrubs. Cone Peak stood tall behind us, silent and commanding, the highest coastal mountain in the lower 48, and our mission for tomorrow.

I pointed to it and said, “Today we rest. Tomorrow, we climb that.”

Marley nodded, her eyes wide with a quiet thrill. “Okay. Sounds good to me.”

That evening, we lingered by the picnic table. Journaling while she doodled, clouds drifting overhead like smoke. I built up a fire and told my sister the story of the cheif, It had been too long since I’d felt this kind of stillness, this kind of presence. When the last log burned to embers, I looked across the fire at her.

“Long day tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

Later, in the tent, we lay side by side listening to the waves crash against the cliffs far below. No cell signal. No pressure. No one expecting anything of me. Just the night, the sea, and my sister. Out here, I could finally breathe. Out here, I could just be. 

December 28th, 2024 — Big Sur 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

4:30 a.m.

The world was still black outside the tent. I unzipped my sleeping bag, climbed into the cold, and shook Marley gently. She groaned, then blinked at me with wide, eager eyes, half asleep, fully game.

I lit the camp stove, the hiss of gas breaking the silence, and boiled water for instant coffee. I handed her a cinnamon roll I’d picked up the day before. Our breakfast was quick, quiet. The air was damp and smelled faintly of salt and earth.

Within minutes, we were in the truck, driving toward the trailhead.

The route to Cone Peak’s summit is not for the faint of heart. The “Sea to Sky” trail, a name that’s as much warning as description, climbs over 5,000 vertical feet in less than five miles. An unofficial path, barely marked, starting from a gravel pullout just off Highway 1.

We parked in the dark and began searching for the rumored trail. First, a bushwhack, oat grass snagging at our pants, branches tugging at our packs, until, just when I started to wonder if it even existed, we found it. The narrow track dropped into the shadowy embrace of Limekiln State Park’s redwood forest.

We crossed a creek, the water icy around our boots, then climbed out of the gulley to face our first challenge, Stone Ridge. It rose before us like a wall, a grassy slope pitched so steep it seemed to fold into the sky. Oat grass swayed in the first winds of morning, whispering in the crisp light.

“Poles out,” I said. We extended our trekking poles, planted them deep, and began the grind, one deliberate step after another. My calves burned. Sweat stung my eyes. When I looked back, the tops of the redwoods were bathed in a faint orange glow. Behind them, the horizon was waking.

Marley was breathing hard, her face set with quiet determination.

“Good job, sis,” I called down to her. “We’ll be on the ridge soon.”

Whether or not that was true, I wasn’t sure. But I knew we couldn’t stop.

When we finally crested the ridge, the morning had fully bloomed. We sank into the long grass, chests heaving, and stared out at a view that could stop time, the Pacific stretched endlessly west, and along the coast, mountains spilled down toward it like the fingers of some great sleeping god.

I turned to her. “You know, Marley, mountain climbing isn’t about how fast you can hike. It’s about how still you can make your mind. And once you decide to climb… once you commit… there’s no turning back.”

She nodded. Not the quick nod of politeness, but the slow kind, an acknowledgment. She didn’t just hear it. She felt it.

From there, we climbed higher still, across meadows of wind-swept tall golden grass, through patches of dense, tangled brush, up rocky outcrops warm with the sun’s first touch. Hours passed. The ocean fell farther away, the sky drew closer.

At last, we reached the base of the final approach, a narrow saddle between Stone Ridge and the summit. Ahead was a short but sharp scramble over jagged, knife-edge rock. To either side, a drop that would turn a slip into a long, irreversible fall.

“I’ll go first,” I told her. “Hand me your poles when you’re ready.”

The rock was rough and solid beneath my hands. I climbed to the first shelf and reached down for her poles. Marley followed, moving with a confidence I hadn’t expected but should have known was there all along.

One more section, simple moves, but serious exposure. I held my breath as she crossed. She made it look easy.

From there, the trail widened. We joined the official Cone Peak Trail for the final quarter mile, a gentle wrap around the mountain’s shoulder. The hard parts of the day began to dissolve into that strange, electric calm that only comes at the end of a climb.

And then we were there.

The summit of Cone Peak, tallest coastal mountain in the lower 48. The Pacific was a silver-blue sheet below us. The Santa Lucia Range rolled away in every direction. Marley stood beside me, her hair whipping in the wind, her eyes bright with that mountain climbing high.

We didn’t say much. We didn’t need to.

We had climbed from the sea to the sky.

Somewhere in that climb I had found myself again.

I glanced over at Marley. It seemed she’d found something up here too, whatever it was, I was glad she had. We hadn’t always gotten along growing up, but it was on us now to change that. She was just starting her journey through high school, and if I could do anything as her big brother, it was to keep reminding her there’s a big, beautiful world waiting beyond the edge of familiar, from the tops of mountains to the pages of the tattered journal I left in her hands.

By the time we reached the summit of Cone Peak, my watch read 13:00. The long climb was behind us, and the long trek down lay ahead. For hours, we moved through golden meadows of oat grass, the stalks brushing our knees, the Pacific shimmering below us like a silver mirage.

We were still high on the ridge when the sun began to sink, staining the horizon in molten orange. 

By the time we dropped back into the forest, we were retracing the same shadowed trails we’d stepped onto thirteen hours earlier. Headlamps clicked on. Our chatter thinned to silence, the kind earned after a shared triumph. My legs throbbed with each step, my shirt was heavy with sweat, In the cone of light cast from her head lamp, I could see Marley’s face content, steady, and pushing on without complaint.

One tough critter, I thought. She’s going to leave one hell of a story behind.

By the time we reached the trailhead, the night was deep and still, the kind where the stars look close enough to touch. We dropped our packs, leaned against the truck, and let the silence settle. The mountain loomed behind us, its dark outline sharp against the sky, and I thought about how far we’d come, not just today, but from where we’d started.

Marley leaned next me, kicking her boots against the gravel, hair tangled, cheeks flushed from the cold. She caught my eye and gave a small grin, one of those wordless exchanges that says more than talking ever could.

I didn’t tell her, but I hoped she’d remember this day, the ache in her legs, the steepness of the climb, the way the ocean shimmered like quicksilver, the meadows lit in gold, the way the summit opened the whole world beneath our feet. All of it.

We climbed in, headlights cutting through the dark, the road winding us away from the mountain. Out the rearview, I caught one last glimpse of its shadowed peak, standing quiet and sure, like it was keeping a secret we’d both just been let in on.

Back at the campground, we collapsed into the tent, bodies heavy and minds still buzzing with the mountain’s quiet.

December 29th, 2024 — Big Sur

By morning, a light drizzle tapped on the nylon. We’d done what we came to do, and that was enough. We packed quick, loading our damp gear into the truck, and rolled onto Highway 1, southbound toward home. The itch had been scratched, the claustrophobic being inside let loose for a few days.

The rain thinned to mist, then broke entirely, and we rolled the windows down. Salt air rushed in. Music up. The ocean kept flashing in and out of view as we wound down from Big Sur’s dark shoulders into the golden sweep of ranchland that lined the coast.

DING.

Signal again.

My phone lit up in the cup holder. I glanced down. A flutter in my stomach.

A message from Dani.

Dani: Hey, coming back to California in a couple days, are you in town?