By Laura Brown
Special to The Union
April 20, 2006

The jeep bumped along the dirt road through a sea of green, rolling hills, volcanic boulders and massive valley oaks. Young cows and sheep bounded playfully in the road.

"When we go into the Buttes, we're going back into time," said Mike Hubbartt, spokesman for the Middle Mountain Foundation, as he slowed the jeep to a crawl behind the animals. We passed through six locked gates, each one marking another leap 20 to 30 years into the past.

Today, only landowners and certain members of the Middle Mountain Foundation have a key. Locals scratch their heads at the outsiders willing to fork over $35 for a hike on the Sutter Buttes, a place they once picnicked at for free before someone set fires and defaced the summit peaks with graffiti. Every spring and fall, the Middle Mountain Foundation, a nonprofit group that facilitates land easements at the Buttes, unlocks the gates for a few lucky individuals.

"There's an aura of mystery around them because they have been closed off," said Hubbartt.

The Middle Mountain Foundation is about partnerships - with local landowners, State Parks and Fish & Game and most recently a merger with the Yuba Sutter Land Trust.

Only about a dozen families own the rights to 90 percent of the Sutter Buttes. About 100 smaller ranchettes dot the periphery of the mountain. Pressure from developers willing to pay top dollar for the nearly untouched land is coming in from all sides.

The Middle Mountain Foundation owns two small chunks; the 200-acre piece on the North Butte Summit was where Hubbartt would lead our group of 11.

In 1977, Hubbartt bought a small cottage on the north side of the Buttes and began privately coordinating summit treks in 1981. He says the Buttes have changed his life and he is devoted to their preservation. He stockpiles any historical information on them he can find. He eagerly pulls a yellowing fauna study stored in a plastic Ziploc baggie from his backseat, excited as a kid at Christmas.

Gentle rain fell when we left our cars behind at the Dean Ranch. The 1,200-acre ranch dates back to 1898 and has been passed down through the generations. Today, 150 head of cattle graze this land during the green season. While no longer permanent residents, some Dean descents remain an active part of the MMF as board members.

Our first stop is a large flat rock with three water-filled depressions in the surface - an Indian grinding stone, evidence of Southern Maidu who passed through here, pounded acorns into meal. There are several similar Native American sites throughout the Buttes. There were no permanent dwellings. They came to Esto Yamani, as they called the mountain range, to quench their soul.

The same magic brings Rich Wilburn from Sonoma County back again and again. He volunteers as a "bug" or backup guide eight hikes a season. He even met his girlfriend here, a mammal biologist studying the 11 species of bats found at the buttes.

Dreary weather forecasts caused eight people to drop out of the North Butte hike the day before. Celia Melton was about to give blood when she received an e-mail saying there were vacancies. She and her friend Emily Fisher, both of Chico, jumped at the chance to make a premier visit. "It's just intriguing, every time I drive by," said Melton who passes by on visits to family in Sacramento. "There is some kind of mystique about it."

The Buttes, sometimes referred to as the smallest mountain range in the world, stand out in jagged craggy points - a castle in the sky.

This year's exaggerated winter rains have stifled the usual profusion of wildflowers. They are just coming on - common names like fillery, fiddleneck, wild geranium, popcorn flower, lupine, blue dick and the luminescent baby blue eyes. After a short climb we looked behind us and noticed the Dean farmhouse looked like a doll's.

Soon we were shedding our layers like unneeded skin: raincoats, fleece sweaters, taking swigs from our water bottles. Hubbartt encouraged us, telling us we were only a quarter of the way there. We stood overlooking the flooded land of Graylodge Wildlife Area below where Snow Geese paint the surface white from November to February.

Our boots tread across the mucky ground where wild pigs had been rooting. We found their scat and hoof prints. No man-made trails exist here because MMF wants to maintain a "wilderness experience" Hubbartt explains. Three different routes are used to minimize impacts on the fertile soils. He assured us that cows have more of an impact on the land then our steps do.

We finally reached the base of our steepest ascent - the straight-up push up the mountain. We started in, our faces in the next guy's shoes, snaking our way up, until our thighs burned, our hearts pounded and our breath came fast and raspy. Those of us without a walking stick put our hands down on the cold earth for stability now and then, jerking back when pricked by a thistle.

Every stop to catch our breaths was rewarded with awesome views. An aerial overlook of the valley stretched out below in a pastel patchwork. Far below were fast food chains, convenience stores, so far away. In this spot others had swayed from vertigo and couldn't go on. Turkey vultures soared overhead and Hubbartt reminded us to "look alive." Valley and Blue Oaks were replaced by the stouter Interior Live Oaks, spicy bay trees and poison oak the further we climbed.

In summer this is rattlesnake country. For years, a few rattlesnakes kept in hutches at an old homestead were rumored to be a rattlesnake farm. "A good rattlesnake story is better than fences at keeping people out," said Hubbartt.

Soon the hillside broke out into rocky outcrops covered with gold, rust and snow colored lichens. We were at the "Castellated Core" caused by a volcano that erupted between 1.6 and 1.35 million years ago. South Peak, the highest point topped with radio and television towers, and "Old Man," his facial profile chiseled out of rock were in plain view. The rain had stopped, the clouds lifted and a gentle breeze blew across the ravine.

A short hike away, we made it to the summit, peeled off our unnecessary rain gear and plopped down for lunch. Some leaned their back against Andesite pinnacles and ate sandwiches in the sun while looking out at the vistas. We made it