If you've ever dreamed of checking "Descend into the Fiery Depths of Hell, but really it’s Pasadena" off your bucket list, SoCal has a devilishly delightful surprise in store for you. Get ready for the notorious Devil's Gate, affectionately known as one of life's bona fide "Portals to Hell."
Nestled amidst the fittingly named Devil's Gate Dam—a sprawling concrete colossus beneath the 210 Freeway in Los Angeles—the only barriers that stand between you and a raucous rendezvous with Satan and his entourage are some dubious trails, slippery rocks, muddy slopes, and a smattering of broken bottles. Also, forget about relying on GPS to navigate your way into this infernal adventure; satellite directions are about as trustworthy as a used car salesman telling you that the "check engine" light just means the car is extra excited to come home with you. Get ready to freestyle your way through this journey to purgatory, where even the underworld itself isn't quite sure of its own GPS coordinates.
The pilgrimage kicks off at Hahamongna Park, a charming piece of land straddling the border of the LA mountain town La Cañada Flintridge (no affiliation with our friends to the North). This park stands out for its unique blend of the base of the mountain nature and urban decay, with the expansive concrete dam looming large beside the perpetually bustling highway. It's like Mother Nature decided to experiment with concrete and then got bored halfway through, leaving us with this quirky masterpiece.
Now, it’s time to pick on the empty dam itself, a bona fide "centerpiece" of the hike. Why are we ragging on the dam? Because, let's face it, dams don't really have feelings. They're more like concrete divas silently judging our hiking gear and snack choices. Is there anything more epic in scope, yet strangely awkward and intimidating, than gazing at the immense, vacant vessel of an abandoned dam?
Staring into this architectural madness of twisted staircases and sterile cream-colored cement, one can only conjure images of the better days when water flowed through the dam like gravy at a Thanksgiving dinner. Alas, those days are but a distant memory, and the dam now lies dormant—a dry and desolate relic of its former self. However, fear not, as it serves as an important compass of sorts, guiding you toward the portals of hell, because every good journey to the underworld needs a sturdy landmark, and what better than a dam that has seen better (and wetter) days?
But damn the dam! Let's cut through the concrete and get down to business here: park the car and embark on the freeway frolic. That's the easy part. Soon, you'll stumble upon a snazzy bridge, providing surprisingly splendid views of the valleys around.
Now, onward past the bridge, and voila, there's a tunnel on the right (don't be fooled by the pre-bridge tunnel, it's a trap). Glide beneath the highway like a secret agent on a mission.
Continue the descent until you encounter those creepy wooden whatnots (you'll recognize them by their inherent creepiness). Take a right turn, leading you to a creek nestled in the woods. Brace yourself for the untamed path—using "path" very liberally here—with the noble goal of finding any space beneath the bridge. Just forge ahead, embracing the chaos, even if it means playing a botanical game of bumper cars with the bushes.
And here you are, standing at the precipice of the so-called portal to Hell! Pasadena, the unsuspecting gateway— who would've thunk it?
As you inch closer toward eternal damnation, graffiti, not the devil himself, extends a hearty welcome. But where's the horned chap, the fiery ambiance, and the pitchfork theatrics? Is he off somewhere, poaching unsuspecting teenagers indulging in morally ambiguous cinematic endeavors? Or perhaps he's sipping tea and munching on a burger with his cenobite pals at one of SoCal’s hotspots? Maybe he's even Airbnb-ing the place for the weekend? We demand answers!
Ah, but look up. Finally, something thematically tying this devilish escapade together—the large rock above the tunnel is said to resemble Satan's profile. You be the judge. I dunno.
Now, Hell or not Devil’s Gate isn’t your go-to spot for a picturesque Sunday picnic or a romantic date night. It's more like a nightmarish underpass straight out of every '80s action movie set in NYC, and I half expected a gang of punkers to roll in, demanding my Walkman and bus fare. The tunnel itself stretches back a solid 100 feet or so; if you're feeling adventurous, hold your nose and plunge right in.
Satan or Mac tonight? I dunna. But it's time to enter.
What's the true essence of "hell" upon arrival? Pure darkness awaits, and the graffiti-covered walls, which would make the Cabrini Green projects from ‘Candyman’ proud, serve as the welcoming committee. It's like walking into a modern art exhibit, but instead of abstract paintings, you get messages that range from poetic to "Who let their six-year-old loose with a spray can?"
Just let the flashlight guide your every step and pray the entrance doesn't close on you.
And once you reach the end of the line, slightly disappointed that hell feels more like a DIY punk venue than an infernal palace, you can scurry back to the world of mere mortals with a new lease on life. Who knew hell could be so... meh?
