Santa Cruz Island is one great escape

Fishermen sometimes travel a long way to get skunked.

In my case last Saturday, it was 75 miles by car to Ventura, 20 miles by boat to Scorpion Anchorage, and 3.7 miles by foot to Smuggler’s Cove.

I invited my brother for good luck and he caught all the fish -- a few scrappy perch, not much bigger than his palm.

But a trip here isn’t about the fishing. Casting lures at one end of a tiring hike is merely a carefree way to pass time and rest for the return journey.

This is about escaping civilization, if only for a day, and I know of no other place as close as Santa Cruz Island that seems so far away.

“It’s like going back in time,” says Alex Brodie, an island aficionado and captain for Island Packers, which provides transportation to and from the five islands within Channel Islands National Park.

Indeed, as the infestation of Southland freeways worsens, and as developers pave the way for a ceaseless flood of humanity, it’s refreshing to discover such an idyllic refuge so readily within reach.

If there is a drawback, it’s that the hourlong boat ride can seem an eternity for those prone to seasickness.

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Santa Cruz Island has 96 square miles of wilderness, and visitors number fewer than

200 on a given day. The only traffic after leaving the dock is caused by dolphins or whales traversing the Santa Barbara Channel.

“We call it whale-induced gridlock,” Brodie says of the humpback whales that occasionally “mug” the catamarans and delay their progress.

Rarely, the captain assures, does this result in the blasting of horns or raising of middle fingers.

Imagine that!

On our trip, 50 passengers boarded the Island Adventure at 8 a.m. Ten were down for the count by the time it cleared the breakwater.

A family of three became so ill that the mother placed a sanitary bag over the face of her young child, then went to sleep.

But soon enough, the island emerged, looking as it must have to European explorers in the 1500s -- pristine, with towering cliffs and lush rolling hills.

You wouldn’t know that man had left some harsh footprints. Europeans brought measles that devastated the Chumash Indian population.

James B. Shaw introduced sheep and cattle in the mid-1800s and ranching became widespread under Justinian Caire and Edwin Stanton.

Grazing animals ravaged the hillsides, but Stanton’s conservation-minded son, Carey, eventually negotiated an agreement with the Nature Conservancy, which after his death in 1987 took control of 90% of the island.

Today the Nature Conservancy owns 76%, and the remaining 24% is part of the national park. If that seems a modest parcel, try hiking from Scorpion to Smuggler’s and back.

It’ll seem as though you’re passing over a small continent, and you must travel swiftly to allow time for exploring -- or fishing -- as the last boat leaves for the mainland at 4 p.m.

“For that reason, we only recommend that hike for campers who have more time,” says Cherryl Connally, Island Packers’ marketing director. “We don’t want people to miss the boat.”

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We landed at 9:15 and hit the trail immediately, unaware that it would take nearly two hours to reach Smuggler’s.

We passed a former ranch house and rusty farm machinery reminiscent of the island’s past.

High above the anchorage, we bemoaned the haze spoiling what could have been a spectacular ocean view, but we were on top of the world.

Wind rustled the tall grass and ravens soared in pairs over meandering canyons. Patches of wild mustard interrupted an otherwise verdant landscape.

With the cattle gone and the feral sheep and pigs eradicated, the hillsides, though lush, seemed eerily deserted.

“It seems they ought to at least have deer over here,” my brother said.

They do have the endangered island fox, I answered, but we saw only their sign as we plodded curiously along the gravelly path.

To the south, Anacapa Island rose through the mist. It was the color of charcoal.

Finally, we spotted Smuggler’s Cove and it was like discovering land after a long period at sea. We descended through an olive orchard and marveled at towering eucalyptus trees providing shade for another old ranch house.

We tied lures to our lines and began to cast.

A strong swell hampered our efforts, but we were entertained by two men aboard a small inflatable outboard, which flipped in the waves as they were coming ashore.

They righted the craft and made it to the beach, but were either flipped, spun or merely washed in each time they tried to make it back out.

An hour passed before they made it, whereupon they gazed our way and raised their arms in triumph. We returned the salute and decided to head back.

“That first uphill stretch is going to be brutal,” my brother said.

He was right, but the sun had prevailed and the scenery improved. Near the end of our hike we encountered two foxes with love on their minds.

They wrestled briefly and scampered away, and we boarded the boat weary but content, soon to be mugged by humpbacks.

pete.thomas@latimes.com