Vulcan Mountain; running, film, and figuring it out
Some days start with a plan.
This wasn’t really one of them.
The idea came together the day before; wake up, load the camera, point the car toward Julian, and run a trail I’d never heard of until that morning. Vulcan Mountain. Five miles. About 1,200 feet of climbing. Enough uncertainty to make it interesting.
I packed light. Film only. Kodak Gold—reliable, forgiving, and quietly beautiful. A 24mm, a couple extra lenses, and a small backpack that’s useless for modern mirrorless cameras but somehow perfect for film. That felt appropriate.
The goal wasn’t performance or perfection; it was movement. Run somewhere new. Carry a camera. See what happens.
Finding the trail
Vulcan Mountain sits just outside of Julian, tucked into a quiet preserve that immediately feels intentional. The trailhead is one of those rare entrances that tells you everything you need to know the moment you arrive—simple, open, and inviting.
Technically it was fall, though at seventy degrees it didn’t feel like it. The climb started gently and then kept asking for more. About two miles in, my legs reminded me that I rode the day before and probably should’ve taken a rest day.
At the top
The summit loop is small, but the view is anything but.
From the lookout, you can trace Southern California in every direction—Granite Peak, Julian below, Ranchita off in the distance, the Salton Sea shimmering far beyond. It’s the kind of view that makes effort feel justified, even if your hip flexors are fully lit up.
The lookout itself is perfectly placed. Someone made a thoughtful decision here. It’s not flashy; it’s just right.
I stopped shooting for a moment and just stood there. Film has a way of slowing things down. Every frame costs something, so you pay attention.
The way back down
The descent was quieter. Only a couple people on the trail all day. Well-maintained, peaceful, and calm—especially for a Monday afternoon. A perfect loop to run with a dog, or alone, or just to exist for a few hours.
By the time we reached the trailhead, the numbers were in:
5.1 miles. 1,250 feet of elevation. Just over 5,300 feet at the top.
Plans changing
The post-run plan was simple: pizza and beer in Julian.
Reality had other ideas.
The brewery was closed for a Christmas party, so dinner became grocery store tamales, chips, and peanut butter crackers. Not the vision—but it worked. We found a nearby campsite instead, had coffee the next morning, and watched the light hit Vulcan Mountain from the opposite side.
Same place. Completely different perspective.
Why this matters
This is how a lot of my creative work starts—movement first, structure later. Running loosens things up. Film slows them back down. Somewhere between the two, ideas start to form.
Not every day needs a detailed plan. Sometimes you just show up, carry what you can, and let the day become what it wants to be.
Run somewhere you’ve never heard of.
Bring a camera.
Figure the rest out along the way.