How redefining masculinity can help heal Santa Paula Canyon and our natural world

6-minute read

When Tyler Whitcomb arrived at the water’s edge, he set down his overstuffed bags of trash and backpack on a rock and undressed. Each of the 30 mostly male youths congregated along the canyon wall locked their eyes on this young man, only slightly their elder, who had emerged from downstream carrying large sacks of garbage slung over his shoulders. They watched the musculature of his torso ripple as he lowered himself into the water and maintained respectful silence as he made his way toward the opposite side. The crowd remained attentive as he carefully scaled the cliff face, perched himself on the ledge 25-feet above the water, and turned his back to them.

A collective gasp of disbelief and primal reverence was still echoing off the canyon walls when Tyler resurfaced after launching a standing backflip. With all eyes still affixed, he exited the water looking like Achilles, joined me in an area of strewn bottles and wrappers on the edge of the waterhole, and began picking them up and putting them in my bag.

Without yet fully knowing what he had done, he sensed he had achieved it— Tyler had earned their attention⁠, and now he was going to deliver his message: real men care for their mother.

Santa Paula Canyon is a natural wonder in distress. The canyon’s proximity to larger population centers and relative ease of access⁠—a seven-mile round trip hike⁠—has led to environmental degradation orders of magnitude greater than other trails in the area. According to Los Padres Forest Watch, an estimated 100,000 people visit the canyon each year⁠—a figure on par with some US national parks. The main draw is a series of waterfalls, which cascade through the narrow canyon, each spilling into its own turquoise swimming hole, collectively known as The Punchbowls. They are popular beyond capacity.

Though I live just down the road, I don’t regularly hike to The Punchbowls anymore⁠—they make me sad. The magnificent rock cathedrals are adorned with the misplaced toughness of young men. Spray-painted graffiti tags violate the canyon walls in the most impossible-to-reach locations. At Jackson Hole, the most remote of the pools, one tag that reads “women aren’t property.” Someone inserted the ‘n apostrophe t’ to invert the tag’s original mysogynistic meaning.

The trails and swimming holes are strewn with the waste wrought by ignorance⁠—heaps of empty cans of cheap beer, water bottles, discarded wet and soiled clothing, and feces-covered wet wipes. Today you can find single-use surgical masks, artifacts of the coronavirus era, littered on the trail. Underprepared hordes enter the canyon each day, with little knowledge of the distance or location of the Punchbowls, and perhaps unaware of the ‘pack it in pack it out’ ethos of backcountry adventurers. Music from portable speakers drowns out the birdsongs and the splendor of the landscape is dulled by inebriated voices. After this article was published, volunteers with Upper Ojai Search and Rescue reported more than 1,000 hikers on the trail in one afternoon, including some in need of medical attention.

Visitors to the canyon aren’t entirely to blame. A confluence of factors has enabled the desecration of The Punchbowls. Oil pumpjacks at the mouth of the canyon, once the permanent home of a Chumash village, are the first signal to hikers that the canyon is a resource for plunder. Signage found at most other trailheads in the county is absent, announcing an abdication of stewardship. Though the canyon is within Ojai Ranger District jurisdiction, in all my years, I have never seen law enforcement on patrol there. From the moment visitors park, the trail is an unmitigated free-for-all, resulting in frequent dispatches of rescue teams into the canyon. Volunteer aircrews are frequently sent on the risky helicopter search and rescue missions, often at night. The Santa Paula Times reported 13 hikers rescued in a 15-day period last December. As of writing, a rescue has occurred in the canyon each of the past three consecutive days.

Governance aside, the principal cause of Santa Paula Canyon’s sad state is a collective unconsciousness, led and reinforced by young men chasing a distorted ideal of what it means to be a man. It wasn’t hard for me to reach this conclusion⁠—it is written on the walls in spray paint and shattered on the rocks in broken glass.  

Generally, young adult males care little to engage in environmentally-conscious behavior. At that age there are simply too many other competing interests and too few role models. Studies have actually shown that males find pro-environmental behavior to be emasculating. Common sense practices like carrying a reusable bag, for example, are perceived as effeminate—a dangerous smirch, as the downtrodden Santa Paula Canyon can attest.

In order to buck the stigma associated with pro-environmental behavior that makes men fearful of being perceived as weak, masculinity must be redefined. It is incumbent upon male leaders to demonstrate and promote a reimagined version of what it means to be a masculine man. Men with the ability to see past their ego, who understand that caring for their mother⁠—the planet which gives us all life⁠—is the very essence of what it means to be a man, a provider, and a protector, must decide these ideals are worth living up to and model them.

Tyler Whitcomb had awoken that Monday morning looking for a mission. Recalling my Instagram post from a day earlier, where I noted the more than 400 vehicles lining miles of highway near the Santa Paula Canyon trailhead, he messaged me just before ten o’clock in the morning. “Hey dude, wanna go pick up trash at The Punchbowls at 11 with us?”  As a longtime complainer of the state of the trail who had never done much about it, this was my chance.

When Tyler said ‘us’ I figured he had a crew, so I invited Natasha, who I had planned to hike with that day, and she agreed to the change of itinerary. I was glad she came, because when Tyler arrived with it was just him and Libbey, his ten-year-old chocolate lab.  

I was already upset by the time we left the parking area. My despair rose as we filled two bags full of trash within the first two miles. Troupes of humans marched up-canyon carrying plastic bags full of soon-to-be trail waste⁠—hard seltzers, popsicles and meat sticks in plastic sleeves, sugary drinks, and fast food. As we picked up the trash, even more was arriving. The mission felt futile.

A group of about ten students on coronavirus-forced vacation from St. Bonaventure high school, who were wandering the various trails that vein the creekbed, latched onto us and we guided them on the quickest route to the pools. Along the way we indicated natural points of interest and plant species. I told them about the nanoplastics swimming in their bottled water and how our single-use plastic addiction is becoming an environmental catastrophe. After some time listening and observing, some of the football players in the group had decided we were up to something that could potentially boost their own esteem among their peers. “Hey, there’s some trash right there,” he pointed out to me. “A Gatorade bottle!” I smiled to myself and retrieved it. Their awareness was growing. 

The gratitude and admiration of trail-goers began to undermine my stubborn anger about the garbage. “You guys are legends,” one group of young adults said to us as they trooped past. “Thank you guys for doing this!” My judgment began to dissipate. People aren’t intentionally neglectful or entitled, I thought, they just haven’t been made aware. How are young folk to know how to behave if the behavior we are looking for hasn’t been modeled for them?

After watching Tyler’s backflip and subsequent humble gathering of trash, the young men surrounding the water hole began milling about collecting cans and caps and depositing them in our bags. They suddenly seemed to notice the refuse that surrounded them in the canyon. My spirits rose with their recognizance. Tyler’s message was resonating and he hadn’t even said a word.

Emboldened to interact with us, one of the young guys borrowed a lighter from Tyler to spark up a blunt. Another young man, Kevon, who said he regularly makes the trip from Compton, delivered some garbage he collected and his respect for what we were doing. He said the world needs more people like us. Kevon, who is 22, said he often comes up solo to find his peace. Back in Los Angeles, he said he is going to do the same thing we were doing here.

On the way back down the canyon each of us was saddled with several burgeoning bags of garbage. Not a group passed us without adulation and an unsolicited promise to pack out all of their trash and said they would bring bags next time and pick up trash too. 

All people want, especially young people, is acceptance. Whether it is a person defacing a cliff with graffiti or a good samaritan packing out trash, we all seek validation from our peers. We get to decide which kinds of behaviors earn our bona fides and it is up to us to signal what those behaviors are. 

The more than 100 pounds of trash we hauled out of Santa Paula Canyon was impactful. It made us each feel good about ourselves and helped to lessen the human footprint in one small, beautiful place. But the real impact will be borne out in the years ahead as each of the young adults, especially the boys, come of age. The decisions they make will be done with awareness⁠—and that can make a difference beyond measure.

Buoyed with fulfillment and hope, I thought of the football player from St. Bonaventure. That young man will never see trash on a trail again and not at least be conscious of it. Next time he does, that awareness, encouraged by Tyler’s example, will allow him to at least decide whether to do something about it. His peers will see him do it, those who are attracted to him will decide that is a desirable trait, and the youths who look up to him will emulate him. And that’s something.

#