Climbing Mount Rubidoux seemed like a rite of passage for someone new to the Riverside beat. I’m also new to hiking, but I was game. Also, it had been a few weeks since my last visit to the city, for which I was feeling guilty, and a sunny Saturday was a good excuse to go.
My thinking was, before impatient P-E readers could tell me to take a hike, I’d better beat them to the punch and do Rubidoux.
I didn’t know much about the mountain, an arresting sight along Mission Inn Avenue on the western edge of the city, but the hike is popular enough that it couldn’t be too tough.
That said, a trails website had identified the trailhead as Ninth Street, or at least that’s how this newbie had read it. Naturally after I parked on the street and hoofed it a few blocks, the gates were locked.
As a newspaperman, I’m used to getting bad information, so I was undeterred. Confused, but undeterred.
I walked north past a grand old mansion and took the charming stone bridge across Mission Inn Avenue to the small park atop a rise. That’s Loring Park, and from there I got a view of the mountain across the street, various dirt trails etched into the hillside. That gave me an idea of where to go.
Traipsing back across the bridge, I took a dirt path off to the right. The path switchbacked up the side of the mountain. I scrambled up, occasionally touching a rock or grabbing some vegetation to keep my balance. This couldn’t really be what the average hiker did, could it?
Exactly where this trail was leading wasn’t clear, but feeling like a billy goat, I kept going, gaining elevation, which your acrophobic columnist tried to ignore.
A couple more steps up a dirt slope and, to my surprise, I materialized on a level, asphalt trail. A half-dozen walkers were as surprised to see me heave into view as I was to be there. I tried to be nonchalant, like Sean Connery as James Bond landing in his jetpack on a city street, and joined the flow of walkers.
I was wearing jeans and a brand-new T-shirt with the slogan “America Needs Journalists.” Three days after Jan. 6 seemed like a good time to break the shirt in.
The trail wound around the mountain, gently rising. It was a warm morning and people were enjoying the trail in pairs and small groups.
Entire families, two or three generations, were out. At least two people in wheelchairs were among them. There was a wide range of skin colors, body types and ages, from seniors to small children. It was so nice to see. This must be where Riverside meets.
That said, while the majority were masked, many were not. All the reason for me to walk faster.
My assumption was that the trail was leading inexorably to the summit, but there was no way to tell. I just enjoyed the stroll and the views of the Santa Ana River — yes, there is a riverside in Riverside — and the communities of Rubidoux, Jurupa Valley and beyond.
A stone bridge with steps provided a shortcut to the next tier of the path. I took it. It was simpler than scrambling up the hillside again.
As the summit came into view, a woman heading toward me looked at my shirt, smiled and said, “Yeah!”, putting a smile on my face. (Before the day was out, two other women had complimented me. I may start wearing this shirt daily.)
The top is a plateau of sorts, with the U.S. flag on a pole past a rocky outcropping. I made my way up. The wind was whipping and I put a hand on my mask to ensure it wasn’t ripped from my face. Then I took a selfie. It seems like the thing to do anymore.
Mount Rubidoux, incidentally, is 1,339 feet above sea level — and I don’t meant the Santa Ana River. From base to summit it’s 780 feet. By some definitions that’s a little shy of the usual height for a mountain, and Rubidoux isn’t even the highest peak in Riverside.
Mount Jurupa nearby is 2,224 feet. Box Springs Mountain across town is 3,081 feet. But Mount Rubidoux, once owned by Mission Inn developer Frank Miller and rail magnate Henry Huntington, has always had the marketing.
Peak seen, I started down the mountain by way of the stone turret, bridge and steps and was a few yards down the asphalt path when I looked up and saw the cross. Oh, that’s right, the cross. I couldn’t leave without seeing that too.
What’s said to be the first nondenominational Easter sunrise service in America took place there in 1909. That event was the brainchild of an unlikely figure: Jacob Riis, the urban reformer, photographer and muckraking newspaperman from New York City. Even on Easter, America needed journalists.
My ascent to the cross meant navigating some very high, rocky steps that were more like tiers. I almost didn’t do it. Then I remembered my visit to the Pyramid of the Sun in Teotihuacan, Mexico, where my tour guide urged me to make the 213-foot climb, saying I’d regret it if I didn’t.
I’m not sure I would have, actually, but I went up anyway. Same on Rubidoux.
A church group was posing for photos. The white cross was in the news in June for vandalism that was then cleaned up. I saw some fresh spray paint, but nothing like before. I didn’t interrupt the group to take my own selfie but just admired the sight and began my descent.
The path down the mountain was gentle. The walk was uneventful, as they say, except for the shirtless man. He had paused on the path, boombox at his feet, then as Aerosmith’s “Dude Looks Like a Lady” blasted, he dropped and began doing pushups. So that was fun.
I figured the path would eventually put me back at the base of the mountain, and it did. Unfortunately, this was at the official starting point near 14th Street, or about 10 blocks from where I’d parked.
My hike, alas, wasn’t quite done.
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My walk to my car took me past Evergreen Cemetery. As I passed the northeast edge of the cemetery, one monument caught my eye. Carved at its base was an all-caps name: “SHRIMP.” This was for Lawrance C. Shrimp, who died in 1903 and was said to be “At Rest.” The grand old monument was about my height. I can’t speak for the height of Mr. Shrimp.
David Allen stands tall Friday, Sunday and Wednesday. Email [email protected], phone 909-483-9339, visit insidesocal.com/davidallen, like davidallencolumnist on Facebook and follow @davidallen909 on Twitter.
