Mormon Canyon Trail: A Journey Through Time

Sunup, ground tied, 1996

It’s been over twenty-five years since the first time Sunup and I headed up the Mormon Canyon trail. Back then, I boarded my palomino on a ranch situated right where Browns Canyon and Mormon Canyon meet. Both canyons are blessed with year-round creeks meandering through them—rich riparian habitats along the banks that serve as home to a wide range of plants, mammals, insects, amphibians, and birds.

Mormon Canyon itself is a shaded woodland populated with sycamore, live oak, black walnut, and willow. My usual ride started on Mormon Creek, just above its confluence with Browns Wash. The trail wound alongside and crossed the creek several times in the bottom of the canyon as it headed north. Then, as it began its ascent to higher elevations, it hugged the east side of the creek until reaching a plateau at the top of a ridge, some two and a half miles distant.

As the trail climbed through the canyon, you were treated to glimpses of open pastures, two waterfalls (one nearly 30 feet tall), and a massive array of sandstone rock outcroppings. The plateau at the top was home to a 100-year-old olive grove fed by a year-round spring that drew in wildlife and once supported the free-ranging cattle that roamed these hills.

After reaching the grove, I’d generally turn south across a razorback ridge, then pick any one of three ridges traversing chaparral and grassland habitat back to the starting point.

Backtrail Vignettes

Each round-trip ride of five or six miles was a brand-new adventure. There are a thousand little stories I could tell about what I witnessed over the years riding those trails.

Things like…

• Hearing a commotion overhead, looking up at treetop level, and seeing a red-tailed hawk with a snake dangling from his beak while an angry crow attacked him from behind.
• Galloping up the trail and almost broadsiding an unsuspecting coyote as it suddenly emerged from the chaparral.
• Cresting the apex of a ridgeline and startling a gray fox in the middle of dining on a field mouse.
• Riding up a ridge at 5:30 a.m. to watch a great horned owl hunting from a dead tree branch—then two hours later coming down that same ridge and watching the "day shift," a red-tailed hawk, hunting from that exact same branch.
• Rounding a bend in the trail and running head-on into a bobcat that bolted back down the trail to disappear. Then, a few minutes later, having Sunup stop dead in his tracks, swing his head around, and stare squarely at that bobcat hiding in plain sight against a downed tree.
• Picking up a faint motion in the leaf shadows—a very lazy rattlesnake. With no way around, I’d dismount and gently roll rocks toward the snake until it slithered off the trail, giving us a safe route home.
• Watching a roadrunner scurry along a dusty ridge-top trail 100 yards ahead, dart into the brush, and emerge ten yards later as a coyote. No wonder our Native American brothers believed in shapeshifters.
• Looking down from a ridge top at the canyon trail and spotting three deer in a secluded little meadow I had just ridden past without ever noticing.
• Heading up the canyon just before dusk on a warm summer evening, stopping to rest Sunup, and gazing through the trees at an open pasture. I spotted a fence post I’d never noticed before, and something about it caught my eye. Suddenly, the "post" stood up and turned—exposing its profile and a long, dark tail that flicked. That’s when I realized I was way too close to a mountain lion.
• Riding up the trail in the dark on a summer night with a group of friends when a female voice suddenly shrieked: "Stop, turn around, go back… it's a SKUNK!"

The Changing Range

Our Chatsworth canyons and ridges are plumb full of wildlife. You name it—if it lives in Southern California, we’ve got it. I’ve seen black bear tracks (though never the critter itself) and spotted a golden eagle three different times. I sure do miss riding up that trail listening to the "chiquita-chiquita" call of valley quail, the squawk of Steller's jays, and the bubbling sound of the creek. Nine out of ten times, I’d make that ride and never see another human soul.

There used to be a hunt club located in Browns Canyon. Most of their riders were huntsmen and women who rode behind a pack of hounds much as they did in old England. I really missed seeing those folks after they moved on. I remember watching them from a ridge top one morning—about fifteen of them galloping hell-bent for leather down a mountainside behind the hounds. Meanwhile, about a half-mile ahead, six coyotes crossed the creek and headed straight toward the ridge where Sunup and I were sitting.

The coyotes startled old Sunup as they passed practically underfoot to evade the pack. We continued along the ridge and, a few minutes later, yielded the trail to the hunters, who were clearly losing ground. I pointed down my back-trail and called out, "They went thataway!"

A Preserved Legacy

Back around 2000, a developer wanted to bulldoze the area to build 188 homes. I was sure the planning commission would let him because politicians always want the tax money—and I’d guaran-damn-tee you nobody on that board ever saw a bobcat or a great horned owl at 5:30 in the morning. I worried for my grandsons, thinking they’d never have the choice to ride or hike these local canyons.

Now, I’m nearly eighty-four and Sunup has long since crossed the Great Divide. We had our day.

But there is good news on the trail: In 2024, Los Angeles County prioritized open space, and the developer sold 257 acres directly to the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy. The bulldozers were turned back, and these canyons have been preserved for future generations to enjoy the same wild beauty Sunup and I shared all those years ago.

Happy Trails from a Drifting Cowboy.