The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow In Santee

SANTEE, CA — It might sound like an East County suburban myth, but there really is a secret place called Sleepy Hollow, tucked away in Sycamore Canyon, north of the Santee Lakes.

The “Hollow” isn’t on any map and there are no directional signs telling “visitors” how to get there — but it's legendary.

Santee, Circa Mid-1970s

I was a kid growing up in Santee during the 1970s. It was the era of latchkey kids and amazing freedom to explore wide open spaces — without any parental supervision.

We lived on the northwest side of town (Santee wasn’t yet a city), at the end of Strathmore Drive, before the “new houses” extended toward Poway. It was me, two younger brothers, and our recently divorced mom, who was making a career change from housewife to breadwinner.

For us kids, Sleepy Hollow was a thrilling bike ride, about two miles from our home. To get there, we followed the east side of the Santee Lakes, past the “sewage plant." (Today, the trek is known as the Stowe Trail.)

On our journey, we would pass "the motorcycle racetrack" that no one really owned, despite regular events with fans. Near the track was the “car fence” — an ominous line of crushed vehicles, a fortress to protect what we called “the hermit’s house.” I was told this person who lived in solitude was related to the wealthy Scripps family (yes, that Scripps). They once owned gobs of land out there, as did the military. The area used to be part of Camp Elliott, where troops tested all manner of weapons. My brothers and other neighborhood kids explored abandoned missile silos and hidden caves, with only occasional harassment from military police.

Near the hermit’s house was Sleepy Hollow, a thick oak grove that was a gathering spot for “hippies” tripping on whatever substances were popular. I never ventured into those woods back in the day, but I spied. I watched as lines of cars and motorcycles caravanned to the sacred spot. And I watched when sheriff’s deputies flushed them out. Occasionally an ambulance was called — overdose, knife fight, car wreck, motorcycle crash? I don’t know. Something.

I was always a bit spooked by the place. It didn’t help that a few years later one of my brothers and I discovered a body near a dirt road, by our house, that led to Sleepy Hollow. She had long black hair, her flesh gnawed by animals — probably coyotes. The sheriff’s department was called, but I never learned who she was. She was killed by members of the Mongols motorcycle gang and dumped there, or so the neighbors said. She still haunts me.

Four Decades Later

In recent years, I’ve hiked out to Sleepy Hollow. Things are different. Remnants of the hermit’s house exist, but the wall of cars is gone. The old race track is recognizable as a flat open field grown over with chaparral. The Hollow itself has shrunk in size, some of the oak trees were likely killed in the Cedar Fire that ripped through San Diego County in 2003.

There’s still an excitement though. Sometimes I go running in the area, and I’ve hiked it with my brothers. One year, we discovered ornaments hanging from a tree and rocks arranged just so on the ground. Homeless encampment, burial ground? I don’t know. Something.

I've discovered that the Ku Klux Klan may have once used Sycamore Canyon as a meeting spot, before Santee became a city. The revelation tarnished Sleepy Hollow for me. I reached out to the Santee Historical Society and the sheriff’s department for more information but I hit dead-ends.

I took another hike out to Sleepy Hollow recently. My youngest brother went with me. It was a warm October afternoon. The hills were bone dry, so was the creek that runs through the canyon. Other than a few blackened trees that didn’t survive the Cedar Fire and some forbidding government signs, all was peaceful and quiet at Sleepy Hollow. Not a soul in sight.

But like any adventure we kids ever took out there, we found something. It was scary looking from a distance: a mangled pile of rusted metal formed into a sculpture of sorts. As we approached, I could see a drawing of a skull.

“Wow, this is creepy,” I thought. “What is it?”

As I got closer, I smiled. I know the area has become mountain biker territory. The sculpture was a shrine — a busted derailleur, a broken chain, a found glove, and other cycling gear adorned the twisted metal that was probably created by cyclists. There was even a message handwritten on scrap cardboard, about a trophy that had been pilfered from the spot.

“Put it back,” the sign read. “Go win your own.” A smiley face followed.

It was perfect. I wondered what title was given to the sculpture by its creators. Like us, someday those adventurers will recall this crazy, wonderful spot and the journeys they had in the open space. The legend of Sleepy Hollow lives on.