Open Door to Colby Loop, 9/27/2025

And so, finally, we return to the mountains! But where to go?

Long ago, I hiked the Bridge to Nowhere with Kyle and Ian. A southern California classic but, true to its name, very isolated: it painted a lonely line on my Map. So I started investigating how to connect it, which led to a cartographic exploration of the mountains north of Glendora, which led to this loop! A first foray into these mountains, with a far flung dream of reaching the Bridge to Nowhere, starting with a wander of the Open Door Trail, Glendora Ridge Motorway, and Colby Trail. About 12-miles on the map, but with a steep climb at the beginning (at a slope of 850 ft/mi) and a possible peak (Glendora) to look forward to: seems a natural next step in my hiking rebuild!

After some sidewalk trekking through the neighborhood, I started the hiking by stepping onto the dirt of the Open Door Trail, so named because it’s on the private property of the Church of the Open Door. But the Church of the Open Door is very nice and, true to their name, keep their gates and trail open to the public. And their trail!: three steps past the signpost and I was on the balls of my feet, no heel-fall to avoid an uncomfortably acute angle on my ankles! It straight climbs and lets you know immediately. It’ll gain 1000 feet in only 1.2 miles, built like a southern California firebreak riding the ridgeline directly up the mountain. So short but intense. To be fair, it does try to play nice: lots of switchbacks, although the narrowness of the ridge makes them short--many less than 10 steps. And benches along the way to take a breather, usually with great views. And, finally, if all the physical relief isn’t enough, there are encouraging verses scattered along the way--some Biblical manna to keep you going!

About two-thirds of the way up, I got my first glimpse of the cross at the top of Open Door Trail. It looked small and far, atop the ridge, and would come and go as the trail twisted and turned, sometimes suddenly nearer (man alive, how rapidly that last bit of trail climbed!), sometimes strangely farther (in seeming defiance of physics). A switchback near the end would hide it behind me, and I wouldn’t see it again until after I topped the ridge, turned up a little hillock, and found myself standing beside it. It’s much bigger in person! It’s a tall cross, just a bit down from the bare top of the hill, plain, in a simple white. A plaque at the bottom commemorates the eight firefighters of Fire Crew 4-4 who died fighting the Canyon Inn Fire in 1968. Just uphill a bench faces south, taking in the cross as it gazes over the expansive LA Basin stretching below. I sat and, for a moment, understood why it’s set where it is: it asks you to see as the cross sees. To look over the LA Basin and see all those people, teeming in all those houses, bustling on all those roads, crowding in all those shops, to look upon them all and be moved to naught but love and mercy, and to want nothing but the best for them. That’s the invitation.

Standing up from the bench, I took a look around. I was supposed to go east from here, but the more intriguing view was to the west, out where the city met the mountains. But not in the suburban way of houses inching up slopes, but the industrial way: the straight-edge patterns of a quarry, its giant terraces cut like a beehive into the otherwise organic curves of the hills. A use trail that kept promising a Good Shot of that view headed that way, and on a whim I took it. Only it never delivered: always something blocked the view, or the angle was wrong, or the spot wasn’t high enough. And the entire diversion would have been a fool’s errand, except that toward the end I came across a tall yucca plant, its spiked base already sun-bleached white, but its stalk stubbornly green, as were the remaining clusters of fruits clinging to the shorn branches, all set against a blue sky watercolored in cloud. This was a Good Shot, although whether I was able to properly take it remains to be seen! But the opportunity alone, made the third-of-a-mile meandering west, and the third-of-a-mile hiking back east afterward, worth it--at least to me!

Back to the Plan: hiking east on Glendora Ridge Motorway. Glendora Ridge Motorway is a broad truck trail that runs essentially along the top of the ridge. It reminded me of Main Divide:  both broad dirt roads, both largely exposed but with sudden groves of leafy trees that spring up on both sides, creating arboreal tunnels. And both in pretty good shape: I suspect trucks still drive Glendora Ridge Motorway, maintaining the many water tanks scattered along the ridge. The hiking wasn’t difficult, especially after the steep climb of Open Door Trail! It just rolled along the placid swells of the ridge, generally heading upward, but not insistently. More chance to take in the views! To my right, the LA Basin, its sprawling space patterned in houses, their roofs like shards of bright stone through the moss of treetops. Divided by roads, which when lined up, formed unerringly human lines running to the horizon like a student practicing perspective with a straightedge. Behind this human sea rose the hills, the near ones gentle curves rising out of the clutter, the far ones suggestions of blue shapes still hazed by clearing clouds. To my left, Highway 39 ran through San Gabriel Canyon, a thin asphalt line under the monolithic shoulders of the mountains, often obscured by the sheer steepness of the canyonside. But even if I couldn’t see it, I could hear it. Highway 39 was the louder, as every car rang like a lone voice in the quiet. Whereas LA was quiet, not in decibels, but because that same voice, repeated in multitude, is simply not noticed.

The Plan called for 4.2 miles on Glendora Ridge Motorway, but after 3 miles, there was an intriguing divert: a brief quarter mile spur that walked a jut-out ridge north to what looked like an overlook of Morris Reservoir. When I got there, I didn’t debate long, but plunged in. This Overlook Spur didn’t start auspiciously, though: a white wire fence penned off almost the entire ridgetop. Likely a restoration effort. Luckily, a use trail along one edge led past the pen, then started down the ridge. The dirt of the trail was clear, but the flora was overgrowing, so you could follow it, but only if you were on it. After pushing through a meadow of yerba santa, and lots of buckwheat, I came to a little open spot: the Overlook! There was indeed a nice view of the reservoir, and the mountains behind. Even a good view up the river to San Gabriel Dam and the upper reservoir beyond! But there was also the use trail, continuing, down the ridge, through crowds of buckwheat, until it got lost somewhere towards the far edge.

I debated longer on this one. On my map, the spur ended here; the smarter and wiser course would have been to head back. But the trail; it continues that-a-way! And when am I going to be back out here again? Sure it looks like it just walks off a cliff, but that probably means the view’s pretty good over there, right? So I went. And immediately discovered this was indeed the less smarter, less wiser course: the trail became treacherous. It dropped steeply down the ridge, enough so that I needed to attend to each step. Only that was complicated by the trail being even more overgrown. I was doing a lot of shin-push hiking, where I don’t fully lift my feet, but instead shuffle them forward, pushing through the obscuring brush with my shins. Steep descents and bad visibility: not a good combination! And of course, the “end” that I saw from the overlook wasn’t the end: when I got there, it was just the edge of another descent. Down and down the trail went, along a narrower and narrower ridge, its sides dropping off more and more, its top increasingly overgrown and wild. Feeling more and more off-trail, more and more exploratory, more and more like I was getting myself into trouble.

And then, just like that, it ended. Next to a tree, where the ridge cliffed-out on three sides. There was a suggestion of something scrambling down the steep slope, but haphazardly and searchingly and, if I was to try it, likely fallingly. And the view? Nothing special. Poor, even. Trees blocked from the sides and above, and the grasses and brush grew interferingly tall. Honestly, the best view had been back at the original overlook! Since then, lots of promises, but no deliveries. Since the overlook, it had been more and more careful hiking, through more and more wild terrain, with no visual payback whatsoever. And now I had to turn around and hike back! Familiarity and the uphill made the way back easier, and it certainly proceeded more steadily, but in the end what had been a half mile out-and-back Overlook Spur had morphed into a mile-and-a-half off-trail trek filled with some sharp descents and ascents that definitely consumed my Adventure Quota! Was it worth it?

Yes, even if only to know that it’s not!

Divert concluded and back on the Plan, it was an easy mile of smooth hiking to finish Glendora Ridge Motorway and reach Glendora Mountain Road. From here, I was supposed to head up Glendora Mountain Road to another offshoot trail that ascended Glendora Peak. But maybe that wasn’t a good idea. When I had headed down the Overlook Spur, it had been in bright southern California sun, but by the time I returned, the skies were overcast and gray. And thunder was rumbling to the north. Hmm, the top of a bald peak in a thunderstorm?--no, I’d have to leave off Glendora Peak. Time to start heading back, out of the mountains, down to the LA Basin. There were two ways down. The first was Glendora Mountain Road, the two-land highway crossing these mountains. Pros: easy footing, not too steep (graded for cars). Cons: longer, and traffic. The second was Colby Trail, a single track about a mile back that walked down the ridge into Glendora. Pros: much shorter, no traffic. Cons: backtracking, and it looked very steep, even on the map. Like mountain-biker happy-time bombing steep. In the end, I picked Colby Trail. There wasn’t much traffic on Glendora Mountain Road--only a couple cars passed as I pondered--but cars, on a winding mountain road, in the rain, and then an unexpected pedestrian, just didn’t seem a good mix!

The thunder was getting closer now, and as I approached the turn onto Colby, the skies opened up. The side trail I was climbing forked as the drops started, and I chose the route toward a sheltering tree to pull on my rain cover and jacket. It was a surprisingly steady rain--not hard, but constant. From there, a bit more climbing and I was at the ruins at the top of Colby. A bit past that and I was on the trail proper and confirming that, yep, this was a bombing trail! The first descent was a sharp drop, steep, with a messy mix of unearthed rock and rut-worn dirt. I pulled out the gloves and butt-slid a lot of it, all while wondering, how *do* the mountain bikers go down these things? Further on, more mountain biker fun: jump ramps! And not just a single ramp, no, ramps on *both* sides, for the going up *and* the coming down. And some of them spaced really far apart. How do the mountain bikers get enough speed to make these jumps? And sometimes the jump is on a blind downhill section: you’re basically jumping into nothingness and have to somehow adjust to the receiving ramp below mid-air? It looked crazy-nuts to me, but undoubtedly crazy-fun to a mountain biker!

For my part, I was doing my best mountain biker impersonation and flying down the mountain as fast as I could. The rain had brought night early, but it was objectively getting late now, with the sun setting somewhere behind the clouds. But without daylight (for photos), with rain, and with a sharp trail--steep enough that I (sometimes unwittingly) jogged down bits for safety’s sake--there were no distractions. I was surprised how fast I was going, even outpacing the rain! (Ok, realistically, I just dropped enough elevation to get out from under the cell, but “outpacing” sounds cooler!) The jumps eventually petered out, but the trail kept the occasional steep portions. At one point, it abutted Glendora Mountain Road, walking the shoulder before plunging down the berm, and I stood at the top of that, fully committed to a butt slide, and again marveling, how do you ride a bike down *that*?

Colby Trail finally mellows at the bottom, after the junction with Colby-Dalton Trail (which I imagine is what the mountain bikers take--I stuck with just plain Colby), terminating a scant half-mile later in a cul-de-sac of a rather well appointed neighborhood. Big houses, each individual and of its own style. And so the hiking part of the day ended, and the walking part began. Just walking through residential neighborhoods, in the dark, trying not to stare lest I beam my headlamp into their living rooms. Pretty uninteresting, except one bit, when it just suddenly started pouring. It had been dry for a while, but with no warning, a pocket of torrential rain exploded above me. I got my umbrella up in time to, five minutes later, it was over. But that was a bit of excitement. But other than that, it was just walking, for 2 miles to the corner of Sierra Madre and Grant, and to the unassuming spot I’d parked, perfectly ordinary and partially hidden from the houses by tall cypress trees.

And that was the hike!

Physically, I felt pretty good! In the beginning, going up the Open Door Trail, I was sweating profusely. Granted, I had chosen to hike in the heat of the afternoon (to better build endurance), and the sun was coming out, but it was really the humidity. It had rained that morning--there were large water droplets like clear stones suspended in the spiderwebs, and later on Glendora Ridge Motorway I would keep seeing shards of broken glass, only to realize they were fallen leaves, crinkled into little bowls now filled to the brim with unbroken, dark water. But I think that morning moisture was still clinging to the mountain. So though it wasn’t that hot and I wasn’t straining--didn’t even resort to a rest step--the humidity translated into sweat dripping off my chin! After that, though, the rest of the hiking was much easier. Even on the steep descent down Colby Trail, I didn’t feel impact pain, nor twisting pain, in my knees, and nothing in my hips. In fact, the only place I felt consistent pain was walking the neighborhood at the end, where the pavement pounded the bottoms of my feet! That common ailment notwithstanding, all signs pointed to the hiking rebuild proceeding smoothly.

I did get an unexpected feeling on trail: at the top of the Open Door Trail, walking up the last hill to the cross, I found myself suddenly missing the inside of a cathedral. Perhaps a throwback to my time on the Camino, I missed being in even one of the little village churches out there. There’s something about being in a space that’s set aside--the very definition of “holy”--and taking a moment, or two, or three, to simply sit, to stop and remember, to remind of spiritual things. Time is different inside those walls, ornate or simple as they may be. I often speak of “mountain time” on trail. It’s time measured in sunrise and sunset and sun-straight-above, time measured in the colors of daylight, in the gathering or dissipating of clouds. And even though we might speak of time in similar terms--only got an hour left before sunset; those big puffy clouds developed by 11am spells rain this afternoon; just a couple hours and the sun will rise and it’ll warm up--still, mountain time has a different sense of urgency, a different sense of what is fast and what is slow. So maybe the silent space of cathedrals, too, carries a different sense of time. Their own sense of what is fast and what is slow, their own relationship with urgency. A whole other time-scape, between the flying buttresses, or just in the set-aside halls where pews face center and gaze upon a cross. Why I suddenly felt a longing for “cathedral time”, I don’t know. But it isn’t the same as mountain time and I didn’t find it up there.

Some notes:

-- Sierra Madre Ave > Open Door Trail > Cross > Glendora Ridge Motorway > Overlook Spur > Glendora Ridge Motorway > Glendora Mountain Road > Glendora Ridge Motorway > Colby Trail > Palm Drive > Sierra Madre Avenue

-- Here are the Bible verses I saw along the Open Door Trail:

* “For I know the plans I have for you, plans to give you hope and a future”, Jeremiah 29:11.

* “With God, all things are possible”, Matthew 19:26.

* “Every good and perfect gift is from above”, attribution faded, but it’s James 1:7.

* “The battle is not yours, but God’s”, 2 Chronicles 20:15.

* “Trust in the Lord with all your heart”, unattributed, but it’s Proverbs 3:5.
* “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me”, Philippians 4:13. Mentioned twice, once with the term “strengtheneth”, which is just a cool word!

* “GOD BLESS”, not along Open Door Trail, but graffitied in big bright yellow letters on a water tank along Glendora Ridge Motorway. And just as inspirational, actually.

-- Incidentally, at the top of Open Door Trail, there’s a *second* bench. A bit obscured, it’s on the *other* side of the hill from the cross, almost lost under some large trees, and faces north, staring into cascades of rising mountains. It looks like it predates the cross bench.

-- On Glendora Ridge Motorway, I came upon an incongruous copse of pine trees: a mere handful of trunks, arrayed in a line, but sticking out like a sore thumb above the chaparral. “Shouldn’t you be, I dunno, on Mount Lowe?” I thought to myself, “y’know, 15 miles that-a-way?” I diverted off trail to check them out, only to find their undergrowth so covered in needles that I didn’t trust my footing. Oh, and the scraggly branches poking out from the needlework, covered in distinct three-leafs turning red: that kept me away too! But I wondered: are these pines newcomers, expanding outposts from Mount Lowe? Or old timers, remnants of bygone woods long since usurped by the ubiquitous chaparral?

-- While pondering my options at the end of Glendora Ridge Motorway, a guy suddenly appeared from the trail, walking quickly with a bow in hand. No other notable gear. “Hi,” he said curtly. “Shooting?” I asked, adopting a friendly tone. “Looking for deer,” he said, before adding, “but nothing.” Through the gruff, he seemed disappointed. He crossed Glendora Mountain Road, got in his parked truck, and drove off, oddly, heading further *up* the mountain.

-- There was technically another divert: Garcia Canyon Road, which offshoots north from Glendora Ridge Motorway. On the map, it’s 1.6 miles (one way) versus the 0.25 miles of the Overlook Spur--but it looked much more mild, gently contouring its way down to another reservoir overlook. Only, again the map and reality differed.

   To be fair, Garcia Canyon Road is mostly there: the terrace of the road is largely intact, although in some places it’s started to collapse. But the road isn’t just overgrown, it’s fully reclaimed! Entirely green, with low tree branches crowding above, and grasses and bushes messying below, obscuring enough that the terrace shape sometimes disappears. I went less than 50 yards before turning back when the poison oak got too dense. Maybe it clears out later on?--unlikely, according to the satellite imaging. But if I want to explore it, it’s easy to reach: near the junction of Glendora Ridge Motorway and Glendora Mountain Road, with a parking shoulder just off the latter. Whether it’s *wise* to, that’s another question!

-- Getting to Colby Trail from Glendora Ridge Motorway requires climbing a small hill. I’d seen the side trail leading there, but on the *west* side of the hill. So when I started backtracking Glendora Ridge Motorway, I aimed for that west-face side trail. However, on wandering hikes, one of my habits is to check out as many side trails as possible. Glendora Ridge Motorway had a bunch, usually less than 50 yards, leading to concrete water tanks. In fact, I now remembered checking out one on the *east* side of the hill. And seeing a mountain bike trail going past it. Ah!, I hypothesized, it stands to reason that mountain bike trail heads up to Colby Trail. So I tried it, and was rewarded with a shortcut trimming off maybe half a mile. Which shows the benefits of wandering. It can convey a better feel for the landscape, and ultimately provide options when, say, you need to get down the mountain sooner before the thunder gets any closer!

-- I only brought down one piece of trash: a silver-and-white semi-inflated balloon on Colby Trail that I popped and carried. I did see another balloon, on Overlook Spur under a tree, and took two steps toward it before realizing it was surrounded by straggly poison oak branches. Promptly let it be. Too bad: that one, I predict, is going to last there a while…