On Their Own in Matilija Canyon

When they knew the rain was returning a week ago, Dossy Mauthe and about 20 other longtime denizens of isolated Matilija Canyon north of Ojai simply drove down the winding mountain road and parked their cars.

The hardy bunch each left a vehicle on the far side of a 30-foot “pothole” that had been patched three weeks earlier after being washed out by the ravenous Matilija Creek.

They then drove a second vehicle home and went to bed to await the deluge.

Any new washout could be forded on foot, they figured. Then they would drive the six miles into town.

Most had stockpiled canned food, bottled water and other necessities months ago.

“We’ve been preparing for this for 15 years,” Mauthe said. “You do expect to be inconvenienced up here--you have to pay the price.”

Some were awakened overnight by the cacophony of the creek, as boulders the size of limousines rattled across rocks with a sound some compared to a giant bowling alley.

“It’s the scariest sound,” said Tim Howell, an Ojai resort tennis pro who lost more than 25 feet of backyard and scores of trees to the waters. “It sounds like big loud thunder, grinding. . . . It’s chilling.”

On a good day, Howell and his fellow residents are just 20 minutes from Ojai’s art galleries and gourmet restaurants.

On a bad day they are cut off completely, the winding mountain road impassable, telephone service interrupted, electricity and water supplies temporarily disrupted.

Last week was a bad week.

About 13 inches of rain in 12 hours produced churning white water spewing down the creek at 13,000 cubic feet per second, gouging a 200-foot chunk from the community’s 4 1/2-mile asphalt link to the rest of the world.

The residents, who name every landmark along the road, dubbed it simply, “The Hole.”

When the rushing water receded, the hole had gobbled one car parked too close to the edge, toppled two utility poles and left telephone and electrical wires dangling in the creek.

The residents installed their sole, tenuous link in and out of the narrow canyon: a wobbly wooden plank inches from a 15-foot drop to the creek.

Electricity--and in many cases water, since pumps won’t work without power--was not restored to the homes until late Wednesday. Even then, with heavy machinery unable to breach the chasm, it took a crew of 10 residents--and their backhoe--to assist a Southern California Edison crew erecting a new power pole.

With overtaxed road crews grappling with 20 street closures, the Matilija Canyon route was not expected to reopen to local traffic until late Saturday at the earliest.

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Since Monday morning, the canyon residents who decided to weather the storm have toted everything--from cans of gasoline for generators and vehicles, to wood for makeshift repairs--across the precarious pedestrian access.

Still, those rigors barely fazed many of the canyon dwellers.

“I camp out six months of the year anyway,” shrugged naturalist and 20-year-resident Burton Lang, as he strolled along the deserted road last week with June Popovich and their dog. “The road goes out maybe every five to six years. . . . I like the lack of traffic.”

To hike down the 2 3/4 miles of road beyond the washout is to walk back into time.

The clamor of the rushing creek is inescapable, with waterfalls cascading down verdant green hills. The road itself is eerily still, with only the barking of dogs alerting a passerby that inhabitants are still there. A dozen rockslides and washouts of varying magnitude litter the road; the worst, at what locals call Lizard Flats, is a mud and gravel obstacle course 150 yards long that looks more like a creek bed than a highway.

“This year we’ve got water coming out of canyons where we’ve never had it before,” said Karen Palmer, a 28-year resident. “We’ve got rockslides where we’ve never had rockslides before.”

Rainfall at Matilija Dam since Oct. 1 is more than 47 1/2 inches. Normal rainfall for the year through the end of February is just over 19 1/2 inches.

Longtime residents rated the most recent storm a notch below those of 1978, when about 16,000 cubic feet per second of water cascaded, and far below the near-legendary year of 1969, when 20,000 cubic feet per second washed away nearly all cabins in the canyon.

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Those grizzled hands view disasters--from floods in winter to wildfires in the scorching summer heat--almost as a way of life.

But for relatively recent arrivals, the sheer force of nature is overwhelming.

“You’re hypnotized by the power of the river,” said Popovich, who has lived in the canyon for about six months. “It’s like watching the mother reclaim what belongs to her. . . . It’s a great experience to work with your fear.”

For those who let their fear get the better of them, a helicopter from the Ventura County Sheriff’s Department flies over regularly, giving people the opportunity to leave. Most decline, preferring to be stuck at home than stranded in a motel or with friends on the other side. “Almost 95 to 98% of them say, ‘We’re fine, we’re set until they get the road open again,’ ” said pilot Mike Mason, who transported four people out of the canyon Feb. 3 when the road washed out for two days. “They’re terribly independent. If it was me, I’d go out. They’re a very rugged bunch of people up there, but they know the dangers.”

Regina Quinones did not see much difference in her lifestyle after the road closure anyway.

The National Forest Service firefighter and her boyfriend customarily boil creek water and rely on 12-volt batteries for power, she said. Her last home was a mud hut at an altitude of 7,000 feet in Arizona, where she herded sheep.

For her, such a lifestyle is almost a political statement.

“It’s like a way of life, it’s not a big deal,” Quinones said, adding she could never live with televisions, appliances and other conveniences. “That kind of life scares me. . . . It has a lot to do with oppression.”

Still, the potential dangers persuaded Leo Gauvin, caretaker for a 600-plus-acre wildlife sanctuary owned by film director Richard Colla, to accept the offer of the Feb. 3 airlift. He has been unable to return home since, leaving two cats to fend for themselves.

Almost alone among canyon residents, Gauvin and a friend lived on the far side of the creek, beyond the end of the road that is swallowed by Los Padres National Forest.

He found himself unprepared for the stormy weather, running low on propane and other essentials. Gauvin has spent more than three weeks in an Ojai motel and last Thursday trudged down the road to see if the creek had receded enough for him to return home to his undoubtedly hungry cats and two vehicles.

It hadn’t.

“I’m still enjoying life,” Gauvin said from behind his bushy white beard. “I’m not going to get in nature’s way. I’ll let nature take its course.”

That is also the prevailing view of those that remained behind.

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Residents band together when the road is cut off, picking up everything from groceries to doctor’s prescriptions for each other. And if three people belatedly discover they are the proud owners of nonfunctioning generators--as they did last week--Mauthe and her electrical-contractor husband help with repairs. But it’s difficult when their tools are in their truck--parked on the far side of the washout.

“I feel safe here,” Lang said, adding that his worst fear is getting stranded on a Los Angeles freeway in the middle of an earthquake. “It’s a neighborhood here. People look out for each other.”

Indeed, residents are more than neighbors. They are partners.

About 50 of the homes are on a single 211-acre parcel that has never been legally subdivided, Lang said. Residents own a percentage of the holding company and lease their piece of property, giving them tax breaks and other financial advantages.

Lang looks forward to new swimming holes this summer produced by the creek’s changing course. Howell does not see that he has lost part of his backyard--rather, he has gained firewood left scattered across his property.

He is just glad he moved his creek-side hot tub before the storms hit.

Still, Howell acknowledges, “It’s not for everybody. You’ve got to adapt a little bit. It makes it fun. . . . We’ll never leave.”