This weekend, I took one of my favorite hikes in Topanga—the Backbone Trail. It’s a long and winding route that weaves through groves of old trees, over rocky ridges, and past wide canyon views. Though I rarely make it all the way to the top (the descent becomes a bit much), the halfway point has become my usual destination—and one that always rewards the effort.
The trail starts just off the roadside, where you immediately cross a small, babbling brook—a gentle invitation to slow down and step out of everyday life.
As the trail ascends, the land opens up into grassy meadows—quiet now, but soon to bloom with wildflowers. California poppies will soon scatter the hillsides with their bright orange glow. Spring is almost here, and it shows in the subtle shifts: a touch more green, a hint of fragrance in the air, and a sense of expectancy hanging over the land.
From there, the path winds through alternating stretches of shaded woodland and open scrub, each turn revealing more of the surrounding canyon and its scattered homes, some so remote they seem to hover between this world and another. I often wonder how roads manage to reach them at all.
The Hidden Pools Beneath the Overlook
About halfway up the trail, I stop at a wide rock outcropping that offers a dramatic view of the gorge below. Just beneath the overlook is a small stream trickling down the canyon, forming little pools in the rocks—natural watering holes sculpted by time.
One pool in particular, no bigger than a bathtub but surprisingly deep, has become a quiet sanctuary for me. On warmer days, I’ll slip into the water, rinse away the heat of the climb, and then lay out on the sun-warmed rocks to dry. There’s something elemental about it—part myth, part memory.
Sometimes I imagine the pools are enchanted, like portals to hidden caves or realms just beyond our reach. Maybe they’re inhabited by mermaids on the astral plane or guarded by mountain spirits watching from the trees.
But even without fantasy, the pools are alive. They’re breeding grounds for dragonflies—tiny ones still developing, floating delicately on the water’s surface. Frogs live here too. One joined me recently, hopping close while I meditated by the stream. We sat quietly together for a while, sharing space.
A Place of Solitude and Stillness
This part of the canyon has become my meditation spot—a hidden nook that feels removed from time. Nestled between stone and water, shaded by brush and open sky, it offers something rare: silence that doesn’t feel empty.
Away from the demands of daily life, it’s easier to settle into meditation. There’s less noise in the mind when the external world quiets down. The gentle gurgle of the stream, the occasional chirp of a bird or croak of a frog, even the wind slipping through the gorge—all of it creates a rhythm the mind can soften into.
When I sit here, I get a small taste of what it might be like to live as a cave yogi—tucked away in the hills, beyond the pull of the world, watching thoughts like clouds float by. It’s a reminder that peace is often just a short hike away.
Descent at Dusk
I usually stay until just before sunset. As the sun dips low, the canyon cools quickly, and I reach for my sweater. The light softens, the shadows stretch, and the world takes on a kind of quiet magic.
Then, I begin the journey back down the trail—refreshed, grounded, and grateful.