The self-guiding upper trail led us through an ice plant meadow to Pinniped Point, an outlook more than 200 feet above an epochal expanse of rugged bluffs, cavernous alcoves, and a tide pool fringed with lounging sea lions. I remembered the admonishments the guide from Island Packers Cruises had made to about 20 of us who came off the boat earlier that morning. She had told us to stay a body's length away from cliff edges; many of them were undercut and the soil rested on decomposing volcanic rock. "Otherwise you could end up in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon situation," she'd said, "where you look down and find yourself standing on air."

After the guide's 10-minute orientation on the landing cove dock, my friend Ben and I had gathered our gear, climbed 154 steps, hiked a half-mile, and pitched a two-tent camp for an overnighter atop East Anacapa, part of the Channel Islands National Marine Sanctuary and National Park, which celebrated its 25th anniversary last year. The barren seven-site campground on this island plateau was devoid of water, food, and electricity, offering nothing but his-and-hers pit toilets and a token picnic table where we'd dine. We'd carried all the necessities on our backs—30 pounds of supplies per frame pack, including two days worth of dried foods.

But roughing it was a no-brainer trade-off for incomparable kayaking and snorkeling in a Galàpagosian biosphere. Anacapa is the smallest of the Channel Islands, an archipelago of five islands born of volcanic exertion millions of years ago at the edge of the continental shelf. The island's five-mile stretch of rock is broken into three islets: East, Middle, and West. Anacapa is nearest the mainland, 12 miles southwest of Oxnard, where we had started our journey via an Island Packers's charter boat.

"With the frame of an NFL tackle, Ben filled the narrow trail as he led the way a quarter-mile back to the landing cove platform..."

Trails and Tours
Our campsite secured, we devoured the upper trail that intersected the campground. The gum plant, Indian paintbrush, and giant coreopsis—native plants that lie dormant brown April through December—were blooming a riot of color when we visited in January. Merging onto the lower terrace, we passed a smattering of tile-roofed Mission Revival-style buildings erected in the 1920s to support the Coast Guard-built lighthouse that stands like an august picket on the east bluff. The central building houses the visitors' center. A churchlike structure protects two 55,000-gallon redwood water tanks. A stucco bungalow on lower ground is the home of National Park Service ranger Bill Struble.

The island's many elevations have a way of hiding other bipeds, so we were surprised to run into a huddle of day-trippers on the upper trail. They listened as volunteer naturalist Morgan Coffey explained how bootleggers reportedly had stashed liquor here during Prohibition. We bypassed the tour, eager to explore the island at water level. Ben had brought his ocean kayak. He'd been putting in long hours as a chemist for an environmental company, so his kayak hadn't been wet in a while. A second kayak wouldn't fit on my Jeep's roof for the drive from Orange County, so we'd decided to rotate excursions.

With the frame of an NFL tackle, Ben filled the narrow trail as he led the way a quarter-mile back to the landing cove platform. A brown pelican rose above the north face, caught updrafts and, with its seven-foot wingspan, settled into a pterodactyl-like glide. Cormorants, pigeon guillemots, and the elusive Xantus's murrelets are also among the seven species of seabirds that breed here.