Trail Magic

Creative interpretations of Eaton Canyon, its history, its species diversity, its landscape and its future as expressed in poetry, prose, photography, art and video. Submit your own Trail Magic HERE.

A body of water with a mountain in the background

Slow-Motion Floods

To us, flash floods are a frightening product of powerful North Pacific rainstorms. To Eaton Canyon, flash floods are a way of life. For over six million years, these floods have been carving Eaton Canyon out of the San Gabriel Mountains. They push boulders around, take tree logs for a one-way journey downstream, and remind plants not to grow at the canyon’s lowest point. Most floods are just a spectacle, others can be momentous. But every now and again, these floods can be sovereign.

Within the last 100 years, at least five sovereign floods have decimated Eaton Canyon:

  • March 1938
  • January 1943
  • January 1969
  • February 1980
  • January 2005

All of them reshaped the wash and removed 95 percent of trees growing beside the creek.

During the biggest floods of the century, as much as 20 inches of precipitation fell on lower Eaton Canyon and up to 40 inches of precipitation fell on the mountains above in just 10 days. On January 22, 1943, Hogee’s Camp on the other side of Mount Wilson reported 25.83 inches of rainfall in a single 24-hour period, a western U.S. record.

Another catastrophic flood will hit someday soon. It is only a matter of time.

Ever notice very large pine tree logs scattered around Eaton Canyon’s wash? Those are big-cone Douglas Fir trees that grew miles upstream at the top of Mount Wilson. Only the largest floods of the century are able to deposit these logs within Eaton Wash. They serve as great proxy data about how large the floods can be in this canyon. There are over 100 logs in the wash, the largest of which has a circumference of 179 inches.

This video shows flash flooding in slow motion following the January 9-10, 2023 storm that dropped 5½-12 inches of rain in Eaton Canyon.

Videography and Editing: © Edgar McGregor
Music: “Soaring” by Kevin MacLeod
License (CC BY 4.0): https://filmmusic.io/standard-license


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painting of a cactus

Prickly Pear Cactus, Eaton Canyon (Northwest Side)

painting of a cactus
“I packed my gear and hiked in to the NW side where all the prickly pear cactus is. It is a unique area and really interesting to paint.”

Art: © Robert Sherrill 2020


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Mule deer

Deer in the Canyon

To the last glaciation’s beat, ungulate populations diverged, converged, and into the recent whole (now a difficult memory) birthed mule deer, who vied there for acorns with a mortal yet respectful relation. Salmon and trout swam the rivers and streams.


The Caltech rocketeers, the shuttling vehicles, the thunderous static firings with promethean flames, the 3,000 personnel, the 24/7 industrialism (a million-plus rocket motors!), the concrete bunkers storing 250 tons of rocket fuel: before these the deer retreated.

Light appears, wishes simplify: to persist in the burgeoning light allows. But what of light’s ambivalent implication in coming and going? Dawn and dusk both draw deer to activity, yet light’s breaking and waning remain distinct in their moods.

At dawn, warm light fills the canyon. Antlers appear among the sage scrub, then ears. A buck’s head lifts, dips from sight, lifts again, dips. A sound: bleating, as of a fawn. A buck’s head lifts, wary. With as much speed as silence, a dart finds its target.

At dusk, amidst oaks’ deep shade, deer browse for acorns, grasses, forbs. A hiker approaches quietly then turns around, raising a hand holding a phone. With a brilliant flash, a gadget delivers the hiker, the deer, and the oaks from time.

Poetry: © Robert Savino Oventile 2022
Photography: © Tom Mills


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