Fresh off the couch from a recent mountain bike injury, Jason Fitzgibbon satiates his appetite for bike-related escape with a local touring trip to camp and flyfish on the much-heralded Catalina Island. Leaving from his front door, he finds passage to a surprisingly wild and scenic slice of Southern California.
For the better portion of my life, I had gazed at its silhouette from mainland vantage points, its elongated and shadowed outline a nostalgic component of so many memorable sunset surf sessions and bike rides in my homeland of coastal Southern California. It wouldn’t be until my adult years, however, that I finally visited Catalina Island for work; for a few consecutive years, I traveled there several days each spring and summer to conduct surveys for the island’s suite of rare and endemic plants and animals.
It was just prior to COVID that I had my last work-related trip to the island, and since then the idea of planning a non-work-related island getaway had been brewing, but until recently, life, health, and work had somehow kept it from ever coming to fruition. Fresh off of a rather nasty crash back in December that landed me in the hospital for a few days, my orthopedic surgeon finally cleared me to get back on the bike in late February. Armed with his permission, I went straight home and logged on to the Catalina Island Conservancy’s website to book a late March bike touring trip, hoping to time my visit with the initiation of the spring wildflower bloom and hopefully some decent fishing.
The night prior to departure was spent loading up my Pivot Vault with everything I needed for the long weekend’s short but hilly route: 80-ish miles, 9,000-ish feet of climbing, and an untold number of miles of coastal scrambling in search of my favorite coastal sportfish, the calico bass. All of your run-of-the-mill bike touring gear was packed, along with an 8-piece 8 weight rod equipped with 600-grain sinking line, a stripping basket, and an assortment of my own self-tied sculpin, tuna crab, and baitfish fly patterns. In line with my propensity for low gears and tall knobs, I geared my GRX drivetrain down to a 36-tooth front chainring and 51-tooth cassette, and threw on some 45 mm tires for the island’s rough and hilly fire roads.
After an hour and a half on the ferry, we arrived at Avalon and funneled onto the dock. The sun’s rays were unseasonably toasty for March, with an ardor much more akin to summer. The forecasted warmth was well received by the mainland populace, because the small coastal town was bustling; the sounds of luggage rolling on concrete and excited conversation filled still and humid air. It was far too busy for my liking, and not what I came here for, so I pedaled hurriedly through town to get away from the vacationing hordes. Within minutes I was alone and climbing, ascending up to the high point of the route, the Catalina Island Airport. As I often do when riding solo, I stopped occasionally to marinate in the scenery. I scanned the nearly 270-degree views of the shimmering Pacific Ocean below, with the snow-capped peaks of the San Gabriel and San Bernardino Mountains jutting up from the mainland’s hazy skies.
After a mandatory visit to the airport, I began the six-mile descent down Rancho Escondido Road to Little Harbor, where I would be camping for the night. The scale of the island’s interior was baffling, the road noodling its way in and out of the undulating topography for as far as I could see. Seat down and stoke levels up, I careened down the long descent, popping off rocks and water bars and laughing my way through some of the most violent stretches of dusty washboard I’ve ever experienced, and stopping only once to give a very wide berth to a bull bison that was grazing roadside. While the bison are an interesting novelty on the island, they do not belong there; they were brought in and left around 100 years ago by a filmmaking crew that was shooting on the island. By the late ’60s, the herd had burgeoned to over 400 animals but is now managed (through birth control and fencing) at a population size of around 100-150 animals to prevent over-grazing of the island’s numerous sensitive plant resources.
Having successfully avoided a first-day goring, I began the rest of the remaining descent toward the Little Harbor campground, my eyes constantly drawn away from the road and toward the turquoise blue water that churned and lapped against the rocky shoreline. As I coasted into the campground, a moisture-laden haze lofted up from the beach and breaking waves, offering some much-needed thermal respite from the unexpected spring warmth. My campsite was tucked away at the edge of the campground, up against the sand and the outlet of a flowing creek, with an idyllic and panoramic view of the bay. A large Canary Island palm tree provided ample shade for lounging, and a cushy pad of saltgrass was perfectly suited for pitching my tent. It was Thursday afternoon. Only a few people were around. I was beyond stoked.
Once camp was established, I immediately rigged up my rod and tied on a heavily weighted baitfish pattern. Hopes were high (expectations reasonably low) as I set out on foot to explore the (not-so-little) Little Harbor. The rocky and rapidly eroding shoreline of the bay was an exciting medium to traverse with a rod in hand and a stripping basket strapped to my waist. Three – and sometimes four – points of contact were required to traverse around and over rocks and along cliffsides, the rod often ending up being held between my teeth to free up my hands when things got puckery. I covered a couple of miles in such a manner, finding deeper pockets of water and sandy barrens to cast into, alternating fly retrieve and presentation as I went, hoping to unlock some elusive method that would start enticing fish to bite. None did, and that was fine; that evening’s sunset more than made up for it.
I slept great that night, waking only a couple of times to be quickly serenaded back to sleep by the constant chorus of Baja California tree frogs emanating from the creek. The next morning was cold but not too cold – the kind of morning where the urge for a hot cup of coffee pulls a bit harder than the gravity of a warm sleeping bag. Coffee in hand, I watched the sun slowly rise from behind Mount Orizaba, soaking up its warm rays from where they first made landfall on the beach, then following them back to camp as my coffee drew down. It was a proper exercise in patience, sipping only as quickly as the sunlight moved. The morning warmed quickly, and before I knew it was warm enough to fathom getting my feet wet, so back to fishing I went.
The water was slightly murkier compared to the day prior, the swell was up, and the kelp was laid down; all signs that water was moving, and moving water tends to get the predatory fish I’m searching for into feeding mode. This was good. I scrambled down a sketchy slope to a particularly intriguing hole of dark water, surrounded by dense stands of swaying kelp. I cast my fly just beyond a small alley in the kelp so that I could retrieve it upstream between them. As the fly sank, something took it and immediately made a dash for rocky cover; standard calico bass behavior. After a few chaotic moments of dancing my line around rocks and kelp, I brought the first fish of the trip to hand: a large, checkered phase calico bass. I continued to fish well into the afternoon, and while I had no more luck, I took equal enjoyment in observing the abundant wildlife around me – pelicans diving, sea lions basking, and a gray whale with a calf spouting just outside the harbor.
With the slow fishing and some dangerous levels of optimism, I made the decision to pack things up and head to Two Harbors to start exploring that portion of the island. The pedal from Little Harbor to Two Harbors was a pleasant roll, with a gently inclined climb up Big Springs Canyon along Isthmus Road. As I moved westward, the topography became more relaxed. Dense stands of endemic island oak and lemonade berry gave way to scrubby sagebrush and prickly pear, and bright red splashes of blooming paintbrush offered some of the only indications of a spring that should have already been well under way. As the road crested the ridge above Blue Cavern Point, the white dome of Bird Rock could be seen protruding from the ocean like the tip of some giant egg. I dropped my saddle and began the high-speed descent to Two Harbors campground.
The campground was built into a hillside above the mainland-facing side of Two Harbors, with the sites packed in, side to side and back to back, and an immediately noticeable paucity of level ground to pitch a tent on. The views were great, however, and offered sufficient distraction from the unwanted proximity of neighbors. My friend John rolled in just before sunset, so we made some quick dinners and cracked a bottle of wine (the Two Harbors General Store is very well stocked) as the sun set.
We rose early the next morning to the silence and stillness of a heavy fog. The gloominess definitely slowed our roll, as we lazily went about making coffee and breakfast, departing from camp toward Parson’s Landing an hour or so later than we had hoped. As we began the eight-mile trip to the western tip of the island, the fog slowly began to lift, revealing views of chaparral-studded peaks above and glassy, turquoise waters below. The final mile and a half stretch to get to Parson’s Landing turned out to be the best riding of the trip. Things got fun when the fire road narrowed down to singletrack, ebbing and flowing its way toward the water. The good times persisted to the literal edge of the sand, where we dismounted, shed our shoes and helmets, and rigged up our fishing rods. Despite being fully booked for that night, the beach and campsites were entirely empty. It was just us.
The beach was beautiful, with jagged cliffs rising sharply from either side of the cobbly strand, and a network of large rocks standing sentinel in the center of the empty beach. For several hours we fished with no luck, not even a bite, and that was completely fine with us. We ate some snacks, broke down the rods, and began the hike out and pedal back to Two Harbors where we were set to camp again for that night.
It was Friday evening, and the scene in Two Harbors was entirely different than when we had left that morning. People were everywhere, large groups were walking from the General Store toward the campground, arms full with crates of food and cases of beer. The vibe continued to devolve as we got closer to camp. Large parties were coalescing at campsites all around ours, and in the short half hour we were there, the volume was already detectably ramping up. Loud nights were not at all what we were there for, so we made the decision to pack up and flee the seven miles back to Little Harbor as the sun was setting.
We got to Little Harbor in record time, with half an hour left to set up camp ahead of the sunset. It was refreshingly quiet, with our campsite set out at the back edge of the campground, isolated and private; a much more preferable way to bookend a trip than laying sleepless and frustrated in a tent, surrounded by beer-fueled chaos. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand those that head out of doors to make noise. To each their own, I guess, but it does seem unfair that their manner of enjoyment entirely precludes that of others. I mean, has anyone ever had a silent neighbor ruin their night?
We woke up refreshed on our final morning, after a very peaceful night of utter silence, broken only rarely by the swooning of tree frogs and the bellowed hoots of a great-horned owl. I awoke at one point to the sound/feeling of a very large animal walking through the grass beside my tent, but fell almost immediately back asleep. A massive pile of shit outside my tent in the morning confirmed that the remembered sensation was not just a dream. A second pile of shit – laid neatly upon my riding socks that I had placed on the table to air dry – also confirmed that we had had a second visitor that night: an island fox. Much like its mainland ancestor, island foxes will defecate on specific locations to mark their scent. My socks apparently smelled enough to necessitate a shit pile. Lesson learned – hang raunchy riding clothes up and away from the ground!
After a quick breakfast, we rigged the rods for our final fishing session of the trip and headed to the same spot I had gotten my first and only fish of the trip. The conditions seemed a tad better than the days prior, with slightly less swell and current, and a subtle, milky tinge to the water. After a short while, John left me at my spot and climbed atop a large cliff to cast to some boiler rocks below, and within a matter of minutes he was into his first fish, a very large calico bass. He yelled over at me as he held the fish up proudly from atop the ledge. Before I could scramble up there to congratulate him, he had caught another. Then he missed another one, and one more. For a quick 15 or 20 minutes, the fish were biting, and then it shut off almost as quickly as it started. While I wasn’t able to capitalize on the action, it was quite exciting to see just how productive this place could feasibly be later in the season when the water is warmer and fish are more active.
By late morning we were packed up and headed our separate ways; John was headed the seven miles back to Two Harbors to catch his ferry to San Pedro, and I was pedaling the 18 miles back to Avalon to catch my late afternoon ferry to Dana Point. I had some time to kill, so I was taking the long way back, with potential stops planned along the way for a few quick casts if conditions looked appealing. It wasn’t more than a mile or two before I was off the bike and setting my rod back up. I scrambled down a chaussy game trail to a rocky ledge and cast into a pool of deep water between two rocks. No sooner had my fly hit the water on that first cast than a fish was on it. It was a scrappy little calico bass, but it pulled hard as it made multiple runs for the rocks on either side. I got it to hand, snagged a photo, and got it back in the water, all within a couple of minutes of getting off my bike. And within a couple more I was back on the road, pedaling eastward toward Avalon.
As I eventually left the coast and headed toward the interior of the island, the route paralleled a flowing perennial stream lined by cottonwood, sycamore, willows, and groves of Catalina Island cherry trees. For a few miles, the pleasant sounds of flowing water were all that accompanied the crunch of dirt and gravel beneath my tires. At one point I looked up to see an island fox eating fallen toyon berries in the grass and ferns, mere feet from the edge of the road. It could not have cared less about me as I stopped to watch it go about its business – a testament to the historic lack of predators on the island. For millennia, the fox’s only natural predator was the golden eagle, and they posed no risk to the foxes while they were under the canopy of the island’s thick chaparral, like this one was here.
The final miles of the trip back to Avalon were riddled with ocean views, with the vantage points getting higher and the topography increasingly more aggressive as I circled above and around the small town on Divide Road. Many stops were made to marinate in the scenery and enjoy the last few moments of my hometown island getaway trip.
The 1,500-foot descent down to Avalon was a blast, rut hopping, skidding, and hoping my way through exposed, loose corners with the occasional mid-line baby head thrown in for good measure. Somehow unscathed, I rolled into Avalon and headed straight for the Sand Trap, an old favorite taco spot of mine on the island. I inhaled three tacos and a beer and waddled over to the ferry, somehow timing my arrival perfectly to board. The hour-and-a-half ride to the mainland flew by and before I knew it, we were walking off the boat in Dana Point Harbor. I pedaled the two miles home as the sun set over the headlands ahead of me; tired, somehow hungry again, fulfilled, and unable to think of a better way to spend a long, car-free weekend.