Sun kissed sandstone.

“A house was simply a place to sleep. The time that mattered would be spent outdoors.”

-Elmer Kelton, Stand Proud (1984)

We arrive at Selby Campground in the waning darkness before first light. It’s frosty and clear skied, the glow of dawn growing brighter above the skyline of the distant Temblor Range as we sip hot coffee. The campground sits on an abandoned oil pad leveled out of the foothills of the Caliente Range, tucked back in a draw above the Carrizo Plain. It’s bare, minimal but sufficient, and nearly as stark as the plain itself.

“We left a little early,” Stillman says. I’ve been awake since 2:30 a.m. and the black coffee feels as good as it tastes. “It’s nice to be up here at dawn,” I say.

In all the times I’ve been to the Carrizo Plain and watched the sunset I’ve never seen the sunrise. It’s not long before the orangy light of early morning illuminates the nearby hillsides and brings some welcome warmth. A few ravens pass overhead breaking the silence between our idle chitchat with their throaty cackles.

“Well. Shall we get going?”

“Yeah, might as well.”

We roam the vast grass land. There are few sounds. Dry grass crushing under foot and brushing against our legs, the occasional melodious songs that bursts forth from unseen birds. Wind rushing past ears. In certain places, between sloping undulations, where the surrounding mountain ranges disappear from sight, I feel like I’m lost in the vast rolling hills of the American Midwest.

Views of the gleaming white saltpan of Soda Lake across the plain, and the barren Temblor Range in the background, inspire thoughts of ancient hominids hunting big game with bow and arrow. It’s a thought that comes to mind every time I visit the Carrizo Plain. The landscape has a primordial feel.

We come upon low-lying shelves of exposed bedrock in a crease of the land that leads out of the foothills. In spots here and there along the dry drainage depressions in the sandstone hold small pools of water. Such natural tanks always catch my eye, like in the forest up on top of Whiteacre Peak, but especially in a dry realm like the Carrizo Plain. Yet, these natural reservoirs are a bit different here on the plain. I quickly notice something else about them. The soft stone is heavily scarred with long scratch marks all around each pool of water. The tell-tale traces of hoofed animals. Deer, elk or pronghorn antelope.

There are cows nearby, but they appear to be fenced out of this particular area and I haven’t seen the usual ubiquitous cow patties littering the area. Looking down the fence line a little bit later, it’s clear by the way the grass is growing on either side of the barbed wire barrier that the cows graze the grassland on the opposite side of the fence from where the natural tanks of water are located.

On a landscape of very little fresh water such seasonally available collections of rainwater would naturally attract thirsty wildlife. I wonder how many ungulates were taken in this particular area in ancient times. This place has an unrecorded history told only by its landscape features to those with keen eyes and a pondering mind.

Tule elk on Carrizo Plain.

Prairie falcon

Overlooking the Caliente Range foothills at night from Selby Camp lookout, the white saltpan of Soda Lake seen in the distance.

Selby Rocks in the light of a full moon.

On our second day we hiked to the top of Caliente Peak (5106′) in temperatures in the 40s beneath clear skies with light gusts of wind. It was an excellent day of winter hiking. It’s 17 miles round trip on a smooth gated road that runs atop the ridgeline along the spine of the Caliente Range.

The trail meanders through scrub oak and juniper and through some patches of open grassland in places. On clear days it offers superb views of the Cuyama Valley to the south and the Carrizo Plain to the north. It’s the best place to gain a bird’s eye view of the plain and the San Andreas Fault which runs the length of its far side. The old wooden World War II lookout hut, built to house watchman surveying the air for Japanese planes that presumably might have sought to attack the nearby oil fields, is nothing but a pile of lumber these days.

The line of crinkled hills seen here about center frame, this side of the Temblor Range which are the larger mountains, is Dragon’s Back Ridge. Caliente Peak

The old lookout hut is but a pile of lumber. A photo of the structure when standing can be seen here.

Soda Lake in the distance.Soda Lake

Looking west from Caliente Peak.

In September 2012 I had the privilege of naming a Chumash pictograph site theretofore undocumented by the U.S. Forest Service. In August 2012 I mentioned on this blog that I stumbled across some Chumash rock art  I didn’t know existed. Following that post a friend, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say an acquaintance, contacted me and said there was a chance that the site in question was unknown to the U.S. Forest Service. Not that it was a new, never before seen discovery, but that it was not officially documented and recorded by the U.S.F.S. in their annals of archaeology.

And indeed, he was correct. He later organized an outing with a friend of his that serves as a volunteer for the U.S.F.S. and who documents archaeological sites in the Los Padres National Forest. His friend has, let’s say, a family association with recording the history and prehistory of the L.P.N.F. And so one sunny morning we met in the mountains and I led them to the site for a day of oh-fficial documentation.

It was mentioned while hiking that as the person that reported the pictograph site I was entitled to bestow a name upon it. At first I thought it was said in jest, but through out the day I was asked several times what I wanted to name the site. For whatever reason I was preoccupied with other thoughts and never thought much about a name.

The archaeological site was recorded in detail with photographs, sketches, and descriptions of the pictographs and notes taken on “culturally relevant variables such as vegetation, fauna, soils, geology, landform, slope, aspect and exposure.” It was concluded to be, “A Chumash rock art site without artifacts or other cultural features, which suggests a spiritual significance.”

Later that afternoon, after having returned from the pictographs, the subject of naming it came up again. I mentioned that I wasn’t sure what to call it, but that I would like to choose an appellation that reflected the unique nature of the location. I wanted a name based on the specific character of the pictographs or the geography of the area where they are located.

One of the guys in our four man group, I’ll call him WC, suggested “Fallen Rock.” That was exactly the type of name I wanted. One of the defining features of the site are the rocks that have fallen off of the sandstone cliff where the main panel of paintings are located. These fallen rocks are adorned with numerous pictographs including, “An anthropomorphic figure composed of an aquatic with a dorsal fin and a bulbous head with two short, knobbed antennae.”

And so it is that this particular site came to be officially named Fallen Rock.

Pool Rock holding relatively little water for early March.

This pool sits atop an outcrop some 80 feet above the ground. In being similar to other pools that attract(ed) California condors, I suspect that in times past condors made use of it if’n people weren’t around. Not a bad bird bath, eh?

Stagecoaches in front of the Grand Central Hotel on Main Street in 1880.

Tucked away in the hills of Mono County is Bodie, with scarce 800 inhabitants. It is a peaceful, respectable town now, but time was when it contained 12,000 erring and excitable souls. Then “a bad man from Bodie” was a synonym for wickedness and daredeviltry, throughout the state, and Bodie, knowing this, was proud and tried to live up to its reputation.

It succeeded. Nowhere this side of the Rocky Mountains were there more wanton killings. Nowhere were more reckless displays of daring. It was a happy hearted time. If men died with great suddenness they also lived to the full every hour of their lives.  Money was plentiful, for the mines were panning out and paying well. The numerous dance halls and gambling halls could be relied on to furnish ample excitement, and when this palled there were always shooting scrapes, lynchings, funerals, and then more shooting scrapes.

—Introduction to an article written by Maude Grange and published in the San Francisco Call newspaper on July 7, 1907

Bodie is an historic gold mining ghost town located at over 8000 feet elevation on the eastern edge of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in Mono County, California. During its heyday in the 1880s it was a stereotypical bustling, rough-and-tumble boom town of the American west.

Drinking, gambling, violence and prostitution seemed to be favorite pastimes along with opium parlors, though other upright citizens carried on more tempered and respectable family lives.

According to the book “Saga of Wells Fargo,” there were 30 mines operating in Bodie during its height of activity and establishments that served alcohol numbered “something better than one to a mineshaft.” This for a town of 5,416 people, according to the U.S. census count taken in mid-1880, though estimates vary.

“The workingman off duty was confronted with a bewildering choice of oases on which to lavish his patronage,” reads the book. “At all of these, the products of the town’s three breweries—the Bodie, the Pioneer, Pat Fahey’s—were the favored chasers. … The river of life flowed at its fullest in Bodie, both around and through its citizens.”

Today about five percent of the town’s historic buildings remain and the site is a designated State Historic Park.

Bodie has been the subject of much myth making and exaggeration, and inaccuracies either intentionally or unwittingly promoted and repeated. Some of which have, apparently, been included in the official State Park literature. Michael H. Piatt, author of “Bodie: ‘The Mines Are Looking Well …’,” has written about and debunked some of the most prominent myths (bodiehistory.com).

The following text is taken from the visitors brochure:

Bodie was named after Waterman S. Body (also known as William S. Bodey), who discovered gold here in 1859. The change in spelling of the town’s name has often been attributed to an illiterate sign painter, but it was a deliberate change by the citizenry to ensure proper pronunciation.

The town of Bodie rose to prominence with the decline of mining along the western slope of the Sierra Nevada. Prospectors crossing the eastern slope in 1859 to “see the elephant”—that is, to search for gold—made a rich discovery at Virginia City. This huge gold strike, later to be known as the Comstock Lode, started a wild rush to the surrounding high desert country.

By 1879 Bodie boasted a population of about 10,000 and was second to none for wickedness, badmen, and the “worst climate out of doors.” One little girl, whose family was taking her to the remote and infamous town, wrote in her diary: “Goodbye God, I’m going to Bodie.” The phrase came to be known throughout the West.

Killings occurred with monotonous regularity, sometimes becoming almost daily events. The fire bell, which tolled the ages of the deceased when they were buried, rang often and loud. Robberies, stage holdups and street fights provided variety, and the town’s 65 saloons offered many opportunities for relaxation after hard days of work in the mines. The Reverend F. M. Warrington saw it in 1881 as “a sea of sin, lashed by the tempests of lust and passion.”

Nearly everyone has heard about the infamous “Badman of Bodie.” Some historians say that he was a real person by the name of Tom Adams. Others say his name was Washoe Pete. It seems more likely, however, that he was a composite. Bad men, like bad whiskey and bad climate, were endemic to the area. Whatever the case, the streets are quiet now. Bodie still has its wicked climate, but with the possible exception of an occasional ghostly visitor, its badmen are all in their graves.

Between 1860 and 1941, the Bodie Mining District produced close to $100 million in gold and silver. During those years, gold prices ranged from $20 to $35 an ounce; the price of silver ranged from 70 cents to $1 an ounce.

Methodist church

The J.S. Cain residence. He purportedly mined $90,000 in gold in 90 days on a plot of ground leased from Standard Mine and Mill, which refused to renew his lease. That amounts to over $2 million in 2012 dollars.

James S. Cain and Martha Cain, married in Carson City, Nevada, September 17, 1879

“The small sawmill was used for cutting firewood. With snow as much as 20 feet deep, winds up to 100 miles and hour, and temperatures down to 30 or 40 degrees below zero, plenty of firewood was needed to keep Bodie’s poorly constructed houses warm during winter.”

The interior of a Bodie house.

Ore cart

Small wrench

Sharpening stone

Schoolhouse

Shingled roof made from recycled tin containers. Many of the houses in Bodie are cleverly faced or roofed in this manner.

“Wide West Mining Company 1862″

Dechambeau Hotel and Post Office on the left. The Bodie Independent Order of Odd Fellows (I.O.O.F.) used the upper floor of the building on the right, which also housed the Bodie Athletic Club and at one time an undertaker’s business.

We took the kids up to Figueroa Mountain yesterday for a picnic. While the coastline was buried under a heavy marine layer as we left town, the mountains were warm and sunny. It’s a relatively sparse poppy and lupine bloom this year, the hills already looking withered despite the green grass. Zaca Ridge wasn’t looking like it had too many flowers so we didn’t even venture over there. Grass Mountain had no visible poppies, but looked like it might have had a thin patch of lupine.

Compare this photo to one I shot from the same general area in March of 2010 in the thumbnail link below.

Related Posts:

Figueroa Mountain Wildflowers II

Figueroa Mountain Wildflowers

We took the kids to America’s Teaching Zoo at Moorpark College in Ventura County on Monday. I’ve seen bald eagles in the wild around here at Cachuma Lake in Santa Barbara County and Lake Casitas in Ventura County, but this is the closest I’ve ever been to one. Even in a zoo as it was it’s still an experience I appreciate.

Bald eagles are more prevalent in other parts of the country so some readers may think it odd or find it amusing in some way that I seem to make a big deal about them here. Seeing bald eagles in the wild around these parts is, I think it’s fair to say, an uncommon experience. Unless you’re one of the few people that regularly frequent the few areas the few eagles around here inhabit. That’s a lot of “fews.”

These photos were taken with my cell phone camera. In other words, I wasn’t poking a zoom or telephoto lens through the fence from a distant viewing area. The bald eagle exhibit at Santa Barbara Zoo doesn’t typically offer visitors as close a viewing experience. This eagle was perched on a log no more than two feet from my face. The bird’s piercing eyes and penetrating gaze was intense.

Bald Eagle History

Bald eagles once soared in numbers over vast expanses of pristine marine and freshwater wilderness in Santa Barbara County. Referred to as a fish eagle, the white-headed raptors prey primarily on aquatic vertebrates, although they are also known to scavenge and feed on carrion. The native steelhead of yore, which once swam up the Santa Ynez River in runs of 20,000 to 30,000 or more must have fed not only the now regionally extinct grizzly bears but bald eagles, too.

Bald eagles historically nested on all of the Santa Barbara Channel Islands feasting on the abundant marine life. By the 1960s, perched at the confluence of human actions that left their habitat severely polluted and degraded, their population had been decimated and they vanished from the island chain.

Restoration efforts by the Institute for Wildlife Studies (IWS) to reintroduce eagles to the islands began in 1980, but were unsuccessful due to lingering traces of DDT. Between 2002 and 2006, IWS released 61 eagles on Santa Cruz Island, and in 2006 the eagles were once more nesting.

In 2007, the U.S. government removed the bald eagle from the Endangered Species List, but it remains listed as a state-endangered species in California.

In 2010, a record number of bald eagle nests and hatched chicks were observed on Catalina, Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa Islands: 13 nests and 15 chicks. The two chicks on Santa Rosa marked the first time in 60 years bald eaglets were known to have hatched on the island.

Historically, the Channel Islands alone were home to around 35 nesting pairs of bald eagles. At the time they were listed as an endangered species, there were fewer than 30 nesting pairs known to exist in all of California, most of which lived in the northern part of the state.

As part of the ongoing restoration effort, there are currently several live webcams set up overlooking bald eagle nests on the Santa Barbara Channel Islands:

I walked the Santa Cruz Trail up to the top of Little Pine Mountain. It’s about 15 miles round trip with some 3000′ elevation gain. The mountaintop offers views of the Santa Ynez Valley to the south and the deep Santa Barbara backcountry to the north.

Little Pine hollow is one those nooks of the forest I used to frequent. As a kid I often rode motorcycles up there from Upper Oso Campground. I camped there a few times, grilled steaks over wood fires. Sat at night in the grass out on the mountain’s south face and stargazed. It was a pleasant wooded bowl. But for whatever various reasons, one day came to be my last visit for an extended period of time. I hadn’t been there for at least two decades. It was a sad sight to behold since I was last there, walking into the fire stricken depression of death that was once a shady green dell.

As I wandered into Happy Hollow Camp, deer bounding through the grass, I felt a profound loss. The same feeling I’ve had many times over the last few years seeing so much of the forestland around the Santa Barbara and Ventura region torched in various fires. Charcoal-colored widow makers bristled from the earth. I was angered. Sitting on a picnic bench surveying the landscape I was plagued with the thought of the way things were and what I will never see again. Ever. All of those towering trees standing like giant blackened matchsticks. The little green sprouts of several feet will never in my time grow to the height or girth of the trees they stand to replace. I will never see the landscape as it was when I knew it last. It’s an impossibility. I do not have enough years left in life.

To some degree I suppose I was marinating in the bitter acidity of my own selfishness. Although the area burned from a human-caused fire rather than natural phenomenon, wildfire is an inextricable element of the wild world. It could have been a lightning strike that burned the mountain top to a crisp and I would have felt the same sense of loss and anger, as if I had a natural right to experience the forest as I want it to be rather than how it is.

I sat for ten minutes lost in thought. It was after four in the afternoon, the sun dropping toward the horizon. I wandered off eastward, busted my way through the thickening regrowth and out onto the grassy south face of the mountain. The Santa Ynez Valley was veiled beneath the hazy blue hues of late afternoon shadows, but Big Pine Mountain in the distant backcountry was spottily lit up.

The walk down Little Pine back to Upper Oso Campground measured in the realm of exceptional, with cool temperatures accented by light puffs of warm wind, the sweet fragrance of blooming white ceanothus, quietude and the golden apricot hue of late afternoon winter light. I walked into the campground in the fading twilight, a group of campers circled round their blazing fire. I wished to be doing the same, but my six hours of escape were over, it was back to the city for me.

The rounded grassy top of Little Pine Mountain.

Oso Creek alongside the lower trail.

Looking up at Little Pine Mountain.

Santa Cruz Trail through the grass.

Winding up the steep south slope of the mountain, approaching Alexander Saddle, the trail cutting across the hill in the background.

Happy Hollow

Happy Hollow Camp

Looking southeast from Little Pine

The view westward from Little Pine and over Alexander Peak, Cachuma Lake in the distance.West Big Pine

Figueroa Mountain wildflowers on Wednesday.

Wild cucumber (Marah macrocarpus, previously called Echinocystis macrocarpa), also known as Manroot or Bigroot, was called molo’wot’ in Barbareño Chumash and chilicote in Spanish. Got it?

“And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah; for they were bitter: therefore the name of it was called Marah.”

—Exodus 15:23

Wild cucumber is a California native perennial found in Los Padres National Forest and its environs. Despite its common name it tastes bitter and is not edible. Its scientific genus name, Marah, is taken from the bitter waters so named in the Bible, Marah meaning “bitter” in Hebrew. Also called “Bigroot” or “Manroot,” the herbaceous vine sprouts from a tuber that can grow to massive proportions and weigh several hundred pounds.

“The Sinkyone used soaproot and manroot, either separately or together, pounded up and placed in deep holes of creeks when the water was low, good for trout and suckers, sometimes steelhead.”

Paul D. Campbell, “Survival Skills of Native California” (1999)

California Indians used wild cucumber for a variety of purposes. A number of tribes used it to poison or stupefy fish in freshwater streams or coastal tide pools. With enough of the mashed fruit or root added to the water, the fish eventually float to the surface dead or dazed from the narcotic effect and can be speared or snatched by hand.

Paint for rock art pictographs was made from wild cucumber seeds, which render an oil when toasted or fire blackened that was used as a vehicle for pigment.

“It is not known exactly what type of binder the Chumash added to their pigment, but it is reasonably certain that it was the same or similar to that of the Yokuts. These Indians made their binder of the juice of milkweed (Asclepias fascicularis) mixed with oil extracted from the crushed seeds of the chilicothe (Echinocystis macrocarpa).”

—Campbell Grant, “The Rock Paintings of the Chumash” (1965)

“An excellent red paint was made. Many rock paintings made with it are still to be seen, although it has not been used for many years. Three different ingredients were used in its manufacture, one being the oxide of iron already spoken of as being used to make a black dye. Another was turpentine obtained from pine trees, and the third the ground up kernels of the seeds of chilicothe, Echinocystis macrocarpa. These were probably valued for the oil they contain.”

—Philip Stedman Sparkman, “The Culture of the Luiseño Indians” (1908)

Chumash pictographs

Several pools along a tributary of Sespe Creek.

“Earth and sky, woods and fields, lakes and rivers, the mountain and the sea, are excellent schoolmasters, and teach some of us more than we can ever learn from books.”

―John Lubbock

Senator Gaylord Nelson (D-WI) is widely credited as the father of Earth Day. As the story goes, after visiting Santa Barbara and viewing firsthand the catastrophic consequences of the oil spill of 1969 in the Santa Barbara Channel, he was inspired to found a special day of environmental education and awareness. This would later become known as “Earth Day.”

Today, Earth Day 2013, we have all sorts of people around the nation and the world celebrating by holding huge gatherings that in their planning, carrying out and attendance require the consumption of massive amounts of resources and result in the emission of immeasurable amounts of pollution.

And in so doing the activities of Earth Day promote the type of disconnect from the natural world and heedless consumption that is the very sort of thing the concept of the environmental day of education was designed to lessen. If one really wants to celebrate and learn of Earth, then why not go for a long hike into the wilderness alone? Leave the metropolitan bubble of artificial reality behind. Part company with its hurried masses and material culture. Escape the urban cage and enter the natural realm.

I have found that there are few better ways to reconnect with the natural world than time alone spent immersed in it, with but the bare basic necessities to sustain you. It is a healthy activity for mind and body that requires few material items and leaves a relatively miniscule environmental footprint. It affords time for reflection and the pondering of nature and one’s place within it to an extent that is impossible to achieve within the man-made bounds of a city. It simplifies life and in that simplification reveals its essence in a way that reaffirms one’s bond to the mother of all mothers. Take a hike!

Crude oil actively bubbling out of the ground at the beach in Carpinteria, California in Santa Barbara County. Three offshore oil derricks are visible as dots in the distance.

“The surface of the sea, which was perfectly smooth and tranquil, was covered with a thick, slimy substance . . . the light breeze, which came principally from the shore, brought with it a strong smell of tar, or some such resinous substance. The next morning the sea had the appearance of dissolved tar floating on its surface, which covered the sea in all directions within the limits of our view.”

—George Vancouver, Captain Cook’s navigator, describing naturally occurring oil seeps in the Santa Barbara Channel (1792)

“Literature reviews of marine hydrocarbon seepage usually conclude that the area along the northern Santa Barbara Channel is one of the most prolific hydrocarbon seepage areas in the world.”

—Journal of Geophysical Research, “The world’s most spectacular marine hydrocarbon seeps (Coal Oil Point, Santa Barbara Channel, California)” (1999)

“The waters of the Santa Barbara Channel form one of the most biologically productive ecosystems found on earth.”

—Santa Barbara Channelkeeper

“The Santa Barbara Channel contains some of the most biologically diverse waters on the planet. Within these waters is the Channel Islands National Marine Sanctuary, which is host to the densest seasonal population of blue whales in the world.”

—United States Coast Guard

The Pacific waters of the Santa Barbara Channel hold several remarkable distinctions among all the world’s oceans. They are home to an abundance and variety of marine life rivaled by few other stretches of ocean on the planet, while also containing some of the largest natural oil and gas seeps in the world.

Fractured seafloor off Coal Oil Point in Santa Barbara County oozes about 4200 gallons of oil into the ocean every day or what amounts to the spill equivalent of one Exxon Valdez every five to seven years. The surface of the sea resembles a roiling boil of fizzing bubbles above some of the submarine vents and the iridescent sheen of crude oil covers vast swaths of the sea’s surface at times.

Scientists at University of California, Santa Barbara estimate that the natural seeps emit twice the amount of air pollution as “all the on-road vehicle traffic in the the county.” Due to this natural phenomenon, Santa Barbara County has thus far found it impossible to meet Environmental Protection Agency clean air standards. Over half of the tar that washes up on Los Angeles County beaches some eighty miles to the south originates from Santa Barbara County seeps. Studies suggest that at least 80 million to 800 million gallons of oil has been spread across the seafloor and buried in the sediment surrounding the seeps and outlying areas.

The seepage historically, however, has been far greater. In 2010, UCSB scientists announced the discovery of extinct 40,000 year old asphalt volcanoes 10 miles off the Santa Barbara coast. “They’re larger than a football-field-long and as tall as a six-story building,” geoscientist David Valentine said. “They’re massive features, and are made completely out of asphalt,” he said.

Gas bubbling through natural seep oil on the beach in Santa Barbara County.

Oil is a biological product and is therefore biodegradable. Millions of years ago, the Channel was shrouded in a verdant tangle of plant life rather than immersed beneath a briny expanse of water. While earthly forces slowly turned once living plant matter into oil certain microorganisms evolved to make use of it. These single-celled organisms grew into voracious oil eaters. Today they thrive on the seepage greatly reducing the amount of it in local waters.

In 2008, Valentine and fellow researchers discovered that these microbes devour far more of the compounds in oil than previously known. “They ate around 1,000 of the 1,500 compounds we could trace, and presumably are eating many more,” he said. Much of what is left of the oil afterward eventually falls to the seafloor. A subsequent study analyzing seafloor sediment provided a glimpse at just how significant an impact the microbes have. “It’s dramatic how much the oil loses in this life cycle,” Christopher Reddy said, a marine chemist and colleague of Valentine. “It’s almost like someone who has lost 400 pounds,” he said.

Another study published in the Journal of Geophysical Research notes that not only is there active life around the seep sites, but there are actually more organisms than areas where no seepage occurs:

“There is a well-developed community of bottom-dwelling marine organisms in the sediments associated with the seeps at Coal Oil Point. Comparison of the benthic fauna at an 0il seep with the fauna in an area free of seepage showed that there are higher densities of individual organisms near the seep.”

Humpback whales pass through the Santa Barbara Channel between May and August. (c) NOAA

Forest of giant kelp in the Channel Islands National Marine Sanctuary. (c)Claire Fackler, NOAA

Meanwhile, as voluminous amounts of oil drain into the ocean marine life thrives. A combination of natural features and phenomena like ocean currents, wind patterns and submarine canyons create a region of exceptional habitat. A wealth of marine life flourishes from plankton to blue whales, which return to the Santa Barbara Channel seasonally in greater numbers than anywhere else on earth.

No less than 27 species of whales, dolphins or porpoises have been spotted and a handful of different types of seals and sea lions breed on the Channel Islands and mainland shore. The islands are home to over 150 endemic species and have been called the “North American Galapagos.” Thereon eleven species of seabirds occupy important nesting sites including bald eagles. A cornucopia of other smaller wildlife inhabits the region, too, many of which despite their relatively puny size are no less spectacular.

“If in any country a forest was destroyed I do not believe nearly so many species of animals would perish as would here from the destruction of the kelp.” –Charles Darwin 1834

Darwin, writing of the Galapagos, captures in one sentence the essential role kelp plays in the marine environment. An extraordinary sight in and of themselves, kelp forests provide critical habitat and food for well over 800 creatures in the Pacific waters of California from tiny organisms to large game fish and mammals. Kelp forests hold one of the greatest concentrations of biodiversity in all the world’s oceans and support one quarter of native marine life in local waters.

These forests of giant brown algae grow around the islands, along the mainland coast and, despite the abundance of oil, near Coal Oil Point. “In the shallow seep areas,” a UCSB study notes, “the bottom consists mostly of shale outcrops with rubble and sand and supports extensive beds of kelp.” Giant kelp is one of the fastest growing organisms in the world and can grow three feet in a single day. One of the more noted animals found among the kelp are southern sea otters.

Historically Coal Oil Point, one of the oiliest areas of sea in existence, was prime otter territory prior to their removal and relocation under the “no-otter zone” implemented in 1987 (a government policy officially abandoned in 2012). In 2008, a raft of about 30 otters appeared at the point in a seasonal push to expand their range, says Michael Harris, an environmental scientist with the California Department of Fish and Wildlife. They did not, however, return in following years, although one continued to be observed.

“If otters are allowed to,” Harris says, “they will eventually reoccupy and live in that area where there is natural seep.” Otters rely entirely on their thick fur for insulation because they have no blubber and a small tar blob caught in it can be lethal. Yet, Harris deals with just a handful of southern sea otters washing ashore annually which may be the result of natural seep oil. Presumably there would be more oiled otters if they returned to Coal Oil Point, yet return they will, Harris says.

The same environment that sustains such wondrous amounts of marine life also works wonders to reduce and dissipate massive amounts of crude oil therein. Various functions work to degrade and break it down thus lessening its impact on wildlife. Some of the oil evaporates when it surfaces or photo-degrades in sunlight, while the expansive Pacific itself disperses what remains and microscopic organisms feed upon it. Despite the abundant natural hydrocarbon seeps, the Santa Barbara Channel supports prolific marine ecosystems of immeasurable value that are home to iconic wildlife like few other places on earth. The region is a national natural treasure. Sometimes, oil and animals do mix.

Southern sea otter and nursing pup.

The California state fish, garibaldi, surrounded by sea urchins in the Channel Islands National Marine Sanctuary. (c)Claire Fackler, NOAA

A spiny lobster and sea urchins in the Channel Islands National Marine Sanctuary. (c)Claire Fackler, NOAA

Reference:

University of California, Santa Barbara Hydrocarbon Seep Project Website

Journal of Geophysical Research, “The world’s most spectacular marine hydrocarbon seeps (Coal Oil Point, Santa Barbara Channel, California)” (1999) (PDF)

University of California, Santa Barbara Geology Department Website

National Park Service, Channel Islands Website

Exclusive interview of Mike Harris, Environmental Scientist, California Department of Fish and Wildlife

Related Posts:

Oil Seeps at Carpinteria, California

Sulfur Mountain Oil Seeps, Ventura County

Great White Shark at Rincon

Spearfishing, 48 Pound White Seabass

Freediving For Spiny Lobster

19 Inch Halibut

27 Inch Halibut

“You know to be silent in the wilderness. It is that which matters, to learn to live with silence.”

—Louis L’Amour, The Californios (1974)

Lying in the dirt beside the campfire, a long hard day’s hike from the nearest road, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, watching the warm glow of sunset fade to the cool colors of night and reflecting on the day’s happenings. The falling temperature drawing a floral and earthen mélange of fragrance from the surrounding wilderness, chaparral at dusk, herbal and sweet smelt briefly between swirling plumes of wood smoke biting at the nostrils. The staccato pop and crackle of the building blaze exploding sporadically like miniature gunfire from the sandstone encircled pit, embers shoot winding into the endarkened void overhead, the aqueous din of the nearby Wild and Scenic Sisquoc River constant. It is the smallest elements, frequently overlooked, often ignored and mostly taken for granted as ordinary and boring, when attention is focused on the minutes of the moment, which can weigh heavy on the balance of life. If allowed.

Santa Barbara backcountry

“My companion and I, for I sometimes have a companion, take pleasure in fancying ourselves knights of a new, or rather an old, order, —not Equestrians or Chevaliers, not Ritters or Riders, but Walkers, a still more ancient and honorable class, I trust. … No wealth can buy the requisite leisure, freedom, and independence which are the capital in this profession.”

—Henry David Thoreau, Walking

Stillman and I spent two days hiking the better part of Indian Creek. We enjoyed two days of the classic Santa Barbara frontcountry/backcountry seasonal atmospheric dichotomy, whereby the coastal Santa Ynez Mountains serve as a dam baring the inflow of maritime fog into the hinterlands. While the immediate coast was smothered in the confines of a cool, heavy marine layer, we escaped to the backcountry wilderness which was basking in the sunny warmth of spring under an expansive blue dome.

As per usual we set off afoot around dawn, eagerly looking forward to the next 36 hours of woodland walking, each of us “self-contained,” as Steinbeck once wrote, “a kind of casual turtle carrying his house on his back.”

After a strenuous push up the narrowing canyon, boulder hopping, sloshing through waist deep pools, scrambling up and down stony slopes, scooting across ledges, and trudging along at a humble but steady pace, we finally arrived in the latter half of the afternoon.

Stillman single-handedly turned the long abandoned site, buried in a deep layer of leaf mulch, into a functional camp, stoked up a fire and then prepared the classic western meal: beans, bread and steak. Filet Mignon grilled over an oak wood fire, sourdough slathered in butter and baked beans. Good stuff, Maynard, I’m tellin’ ya.

Topping it off with a hot cup of coffee or two, we sat into the night some time watchin’ the flutter of the fire, listenin’ to the chirp and croak of crickets and frogs, the trickling stream, and havin’ a damn fine night. By around eight next morn, we were packed up and stepping back into the cool water of Indian Creek on our way back.

Prickly phlox (Leptodactylon californicum) was abloom.

The view up Indian Canyon as seen from Meadow Camp.

Indian Canyon Camp lies under the oaks in a grassy field above the creek. From there the trail ends and it’s into the creek upstream any which way you want.

While lower Mono Creek was dry, Indian Creek was flowing all its way down canyon. It was interesting to note the sedimentary change in lower Indian Creek falls and the creek itself in general. When I was last there in June of 2010, three years after the Zaca Fire, the second largest wildfire on record in California and which incinerated the area, the upper pool was filled with gravel and sand.

The following rainy season brought an abundance of precipitation, well above normal, which must have finally flushed the pool clean of sediment, sending it downstream to eventually further fill in the increasingly shallow Gibraltar Reservoir. In the bright afternoon sun the pool is colored with that ever inviting characteristic emerald hue, though its intensity is not fully reflected in these most recent photos.

The creek itself has also largely been flushed clear. Whereas in 2010 many stretches resembled something like a gravel garden path that made for easy walking through the water, nowadays the creek is noticeably rockier, the thick layer of gravel gone.

Stillman

The upper pool of the lower falls, as seen in June 2010.

Same pool as seen in April 2013. Note the absence of sediment, the difference in water volume over the falls in this drier year, as well as the tall green tree behind Stillman, which in the photo from 2010 is no more than a small sprout barely visible in the shadows.

Stillman taking a gander at a narrow spot in the canyon.

The Perfect 10

Looking downstream through the narrows of Indian Creek.

Looking upstream at the narrows.

The ubiquitous fire scorched skeletons of chaparral.

Related Post:

Indian Creek Waterfalls

Mono Jungle under early morning fog.

I walked so much I wore down my feet—
Do you know how weird that feels?

—Shel Silverstein, “Foot Repair”

A dense marine layer clings to the Santa Ynez Mountains as I putter up the road straining to see in the gloomy predawn darkness. I’m Freddy piloting the Mystery Machine through some fog-filled Scooby Doo mountain scene. I’m surprised to emerge into clear skies midway up the mountain, but when driving along the crest of the range a bit later, I see a thick river of fog flowing up the Santa Ynez Valley thousands of feet below. A finger of it is poking up into Mono Creek, where I’m heading. Some 45 minutes later, while standing at the unmarked trailhead, I watch a chilly blast of condensation flowing farther up the canyon. So much for escaping the coastal fog bank and getting some backcountry sun.

Mono Creek

At six-thirty a.m. I’m stomping down the trail rhythmically pounding poles into the earth like some bipedal insect with spindly elongated arms. With over eighteen miles to cover for the day I’m eager to put distance behind me. Storming up the weedy trail, a machine on autopilot, I’m daydreaming about what the day may bring rather than focusing on the trail or its surroundings.

Yet, what begins as a fair trail through chaparral and riparian and oak woodland soon peters out and fades from sight. My rapid pace slams to an abrupt halt. Mere minutes from the trailhead and I’m standing around wondering where the footpath went I was so easily following just seconds before.

Trail through the trees along the creek.

Cutting a bench along the creek.

The lowermost section of the Mono-Alamar Trail is a fair sampling of classic southern Los Padres less traveled tread. Even when the trail is there, it’s still sorta not. I’m on it, but am I really? Yes, I am, definitely. Wait, am I? Well I was. I’m searching for it then realize I’m on it. I think I’m on it just before having to search for it. Walking it one second and wandering after it the next.

It’s early morning and I’m a bit dazed and spacey. I’ve been ripped from the carefree abstract realm of a daydream by a sudden concerning present reality: where’s the trail? I’m somewhat startled. It’s more thinking than I care to muster at the moment. I didn’t expect to start this game so soon.

I was hoping to quickly cover some distance rather than slowly fight my way through the brush. I don’t feel like dealing with the chore of route finding—do I go right? left? straight? back? into the creek? along the bank? A few incorrect choices strung together and I’ll be way off course wasting time and energy.

A bad feeling ripples through me.

A mostly dry section of Mono Creek.

The Ogilvy Ranch property,which was once the site of the Chumash Indian village “Sigvaya.”

Looking down the winding green belt of Mono Creek. The marine layer being sucked over the backside of the Santa Ynez Mountains in the distance.

I wander through sparse undergrowth beneath a canopy of oak, crunching through deep leaf mulch, scanning the landscape for signs of the trail, but resolved to push farther up canyon without it if necessary. Coming to Mono Creek I spend a minute searching for a way across without getting wet. It’s no more than several inches deep but I’m hesitant to get my feet wet so soon. I finally relent for sake of time and walk through. It’s a bad decision. Hiking with wet feet has never troubled me, but today will be different.

Despite weaving on and off the inconspicuous trail for miles on end I’m able to maintain a decent pace. Several times, when seemingly having lost the trail, I have the good fortune of looking up to see a faded length of ribbon flagging the route (Hat tip BC). My luck spotting these markers in key places is uncanny. I’m amazed. I’ll be marching along and suddenly feel a need to stop to reassess my route, and when I glance around, there’s a flag or the tell tale signs of the trail leading through the brush.

Marisposa lily (Calochortus)

A streamside cave several feet off the ground made into a prime survival shelter. Somebody put in a small stacked stone fire pit at one end and partially closed off the cave using long planks of cottonwood bark.

Somewhere around the seventh mile, about two miles before reaching Mono Narrows Camp, a building discomfort in my feet intensifies into a deep tissued tenderness. Stomping up the canyon across shifting sections of uneven soils and over cobblestones and gravel and through brush and down and up crumbling streamside slopes—hiking without a trail, that is—has left my wet feet battered and sore.

I sit for a brief rest and consider turning around and heading back, how easy it would be, but I continue on determined to make it up into the narrows.

The discomfort had been ignorable, but it’s grown into an increasingly irritating pain. It’s now frequently determining my foot placement and slowing me down as I try to lessen the impact of each footfall. Every step sends a weird sensation pulsing through my feet that feels as though the bottoms are peeling off like the delaminated sole of a cheap well-worn shoe. I stubbornly press on. I have to at least reach the campsite.

Mono Narrows Camp center frame under the oak tree.

I sit at Mono Narrows Camp debating whether or not to continue up to the narrows itself. I hate the thought of not proceeding, but the nine mile hike has exacted a surprisingly severe toll on my feet. Boulder hopping farther up the rugged creek would inflict more harm and make my return trip slower and more painful.

I don’t have enough time to have a good look around the narrows and make it back to the trailhead before sunset. I’d only get a passing glance. It’s not worth it. I don’t want to be limping around with shredded feet, possibly fumbling my way down canyon through the dark by headlamp, fighting my way through the bushes and searching for a substandard trail, which took effort enough to find in broad daylight.

I capitulate, though, and leave my pack at camp and take off up the creek. I feel compelled to at least make an effort. I scamper up the drainage for a short distance before slowing my pace and eventually stopping. I can’t trust my aching feet to carry me through the narrows and back to the trailhead by sunset. I’m done. I stand looking longingly up the canyon. Then, begrudgingly, turn back.

Mono Narrows Camp

Another view of the camp.

Despite my weakened condition I manage a fairly normal pace back down the canyon and reach the trailhead well before sunset, some twelve hours after having left. With ample light remaining in the day I regret having turned around before the narrows.

Later, back at home, after finally pulling off a wet boot, the sock peels from the bottom of my foot like the rind of an orange. I’m shocked to see how white and puffy my wrinkled foot looks, as if it’s been dipped in bleach.

Several large irregularly shaped blisters look more like patches of flesh that have separated from the underlying tissue than liquid filled bubbles. The blisters look and feel totally bizarre to the touch. Not only did it feel like delamination when hiking it looks like it too.

Wrinkles in the sole of my foot have turned to deep aching creases and I wonder if the skin has in fact split to expose thin slits of raw flesh. The next day I’m awkwardly hobbling around the house on fat swollen feet that barely fit into my flip-flops. Good thing I turned back early.

Looking downstream past Mono Narrows Camp on the right.

Looking up stream from camp.

Looking into Mono Narrows.

A waterfall located on the outskirts of the Guadalupe Valley in Mexico, a noted wine making region just outside of Ensenada. The falls pour into Agua Caliente Canyon, so named, officially or unofficially I’m not sure, for the natural hot springs just upstream. There is an old rancher by the name of Federico that owns the property through which you pass to reach the waterfall and hot springs and he charges a toll to open his gate. He handcrafts his own fresh cheese that he offers tasters of and sells to passersby.

“There’s a fine line between fishing and standing on the shore like an idiot.”

—Steven Wright

With our long ago planned outing thoroughly drowned in a week’s worth of forecasted Oregonian rain, we decided on an alternative eleventh hour fallback option and hit the super slab toward California’s Sierra Nevada for two weeks of RV camping.

We arrived at our creek side campsite in late afternoon. Situated beneath tall timber with granite outcrops, well separated from other sites and on the bank beside the creek, it was the best spot in the entire campground. There was even a small pool in the creek right below the campsite perfect for the kids to play in.

Though the pool immediately caught my eye as being a prime trout hole, its proximity to a popular campground, right off a paved highway leading to world renown tourist traps, put any hope of hooking fish out of mind. The spot had been heavily fished for decades. Trout that happened to find themselves therein on any particular season had no doubt been routinely bombarded by every lure and bait known to mankind. I was sure that if on the off chance there were fish in the pool they’d ignore anything I threw at ‘em.

Shortly before sundown we ventured down to the creek to take a looksee around and I was astonished to see several trout holding in the pool. Not minnows, but fair sized fish. They measured some eight to ten inches or so and sent me scrambling to retrieve my rod and reel. It was a perfect opportunity for my daughter to catch her first fish.

But one clumsy cast confirmed my previous pessimism, as the trout darted away as soon as my line hit the water. My wife giggled at my inept attempt. The world’s most powerful brain, human, defeated by a fish brain the size of the tiniest pebble. I was left standing on the bank feeling like an idiot.

The next day, late afternoon, I’m considering giving the trout pool another try when I see two rather portly guys down there hobbling around on the cobblestones gracelessly tossing their lines in. I’m instantly irritated.

I mosey down toward the water with my daughter, acting indifferent and pretending not to be interested in their fishing, when I’m thrown into a mental tail spin and my afternoon is thoroughly spoiled. I see one of the guys hoist a stringer from the stream loaded with dangling trout.

Having been pessimistic about my chances of catching a fish, I had put in a halfhearted attempt the previous day and prematurely written off the spot. Just a few sloppy casts with one lure and then a pathetically tied bait rig for my daughter to play with.

Seeing two dudes apparently pulling out trout at will sent me stomping back to camp in a foul mood, angry with myself for not having given the pool a serious try. My daughter asking why two guys were catching all our fish, and further innocent comments about how we’re not good fisherman, didn’t help.

Keeping an eye on the two guys from our camp, I watch them leave and then walk down to the water to see if they did indeed catch all the trout we had seen. It was bad enough that I blew my chance, that these two guys showed up and raided the hole right in front of me. But when I walk up to the edge of the stream I see cigarette butts gleaming white against the darkened wet sand.

The pool had been plundered not by some skilled angler or woodsmen I might be able to respect, but two slobs with no consideration for anybody or anything else. Our pristine little pool below camp was now strewn with cigarette butts and wads of guts from recently cleaned fish.

Sulking around camp, I decided to take a walk up the creek to check out the small bridge where the road crosses, thinking there might be a pool below it. On the way up the stream with my daughter, walking sloppily and being preoccupied, I slipped on the rocks and stepped into the chilly water twice, which further aggravated my already irascible mood. With less than an hour of light left I had two cold wet feet, cigarette butts and trout entrails but no fish.

There was no pool beneath the bridge. The water flowed under the two lane overpass and tumbled down over a section of small jagged rocks and into a large puddle, which, while some twenty feet across, measured only about six or eight inches deep at most. The downstream side of the puddle was walled off by another berm of small jagged rocks, which the water flowed through like a sieve.

As we stood at the edge of the shallow, gravelly puddle we had hoped was a deep pool, my eagle-eyed daughter, who over the course of our trip would spot nearly every notable wild animal we saw, shouted excitedly as she spotted a trout swimming by in just several inches of water. I couldn’t believe it. Then, with even greater excitement, I realized the fish was trapped.

The creek under the bridge is cemented over. When trout swim or get washed downstream over the cement chute under the bridge they can’t swim back upstream. The fish can’t escape the shallow puddle by swimming downstream either because of the berm of small jagged rocks. The creek works remarkably well as a natural fish trap.

An eleven inch ugly snatched by hand.

In the middle of the puddle there was a small boulder just big enough to stand on. When I chased the trout into the shallows trying to catch it the fish darted under the boulder and hid. I made my way out onto the boulder, and as I knelt down and peered over its edge, I saw several trout tails fluttering back and forth in the gentle current.

With only inches of open, slow-flowing water in the puddle, the single boulder was the only shelter the trout had and it had attracted a hand full of them. Crouching on the boulder, I slowly dipped each hand into the water and slid them into a surprisingly deep cavity under the rock. I could feel several fish slithering around.

Blindly grasping, slowly, gently, I carefully felt out the largest fish, clenched tightly onto it and ripped it from the water triumphantly holding it aloft. What better way to fortify my flagging masculinity? If only I’d had a loin cloth on and been bare chested with a big Grizzly Adams beard!

My daughter erupted into a fit of squeals and screams and cheered me on to catch more. I snapped a thin green branch from a nearby tree, bent it in half into a v-shape and slide one end through the trout’s gill plate and out its mouth for a makeshift stringer, before going back to the boulder for another try. Too young to understand the trout was dead, and not having seen me knock it out on a rock, my daughter promised to dutifully watch our one glorious fish so it didn’t swim away.

It turned out there were six trout under the rock. I managed to grab five, three of which I kept, the other two I let free in the creek below the trap. I had never caught a fish by hand. “Just like a bear,” my daughter noted. What had begun as an extremely disappointing afternoon ended triumphly. It was a surprisingly unexpected chance experience, which far exceeded any excitement we may have had in catching the fish below camp with a plain rod and reel. One never knows when luck is going to swing dramatically in their favor.

Camp beside the creek, fresh caught trout roasting on the grill over oak, and on the stove sauteed vegetables sizzling their way toward caramelization and fried potatoes gettin’ crispy.

Related Posts:

Native Trout of Los Padres National Forest

Waterfalls, Trout and Indian Mortars in the Sierra

Native Steelhead of Yore, Santa Ynez River

The El Saucito Ranch house, built of redwood by Chester Rude Brumley in 1878, was occupied until the late 1960s and is the oldest still standing farm house on the Carrizo Plain.

“Mr. Brumley has grown grapes, figs, pears, apples and other varieties of fruits and berries, his grapes are very large and very sweet and make large and luscious raisins. The other fruits were of the very best quality and some of the figs brought to San Luis were thought the best ever eaten by those whose fortune it was to get them. Apples and pears bore so heavily as to break down the trees.”

—Myron Angel (circa 1880s)

El Saucito ranch lies as a speck on the vast, bleak Carrizo Plain. Standing on a slope far above the old pioneer homestead, the world silent but for the gentle rush of wind over my ears and nary a sign of other people, the ranch sits like a far-flung outpost of civilization amid the emptiness of hundreds of thousands of square acres of sweeping grassland.

I can see the faint line of Soda Lake Road from afar, and the tiny clump of bushes and trees with a tinge of white that is the building housing the Carrizo Plain National Monument Visitors Center. But aside from those tell-tale signs of humanity, it appears as if very little change has come to the surrounding landscape over the last 140 years. It appears as lonely today as it was when the old house was first built.

Peering across the plain down upon the puny dots that are the ranch and its few outbuildings, in what is now the nation’s most populace state with an economy larger than that of most countries, utter desolation is its defining feature, even today. What must it have felt like in the 1870s when Brumley lived there with his wife, Margaret, and their children?

A trap door in the porch just outside the French doors provides access to a root cellar.

The Brumleys first lived in a house made from the dirt of the plain itself, a one room adobe, before building their elegant two-story wooden home. They were reportedly the only permanent residents for nearly 600 square miles. This at a time when miles were far longer than they are today, as the common conveyances were all pulled by horse over rough substandard roads. That’s a long way to travel for provisions and a hellish journey if in need of a doctor.

El Saucito Ranch was a self-contained oasis. Self-reliance was not optional, of course, it was a necessity of pioneer life, so far removed was the Brumley residence from the rest of the world. A powerhouse on the property generated electricity. Any machines that broke down were repaired onsite in the large detached garage presumably using whatever spare parts or material were on hand.

The sort of ingenuity required to run such a remote ranch is hinted at in a storage and sorting tree at the workshop, where spare nuts, bolts, small parts and other odds and ends were kept for future use or reuse. The homemade upright storage receptacle was crafted from old concave metal plow disks attached at intervals horizontally to a metal pole, the disks serving as makeshift holding bins.

The Brumleys raised sheep, cattle and horses and grew a wide variety of produce. There is a well on the property and a windmill that once drew cool water from the underlying aquifer. There is a small open reservoir that lies deep in the ground below the level of the surrounding plain and is surrounded and shaded by willow trees. This is the same willow thicket that purportedly originally attracted Brumely’s attention as a tell-tale sign of water, and which is the natural feature for which the ranch is named. Saucito means little willow in Spanish.

During the time the Brumley’s lived at El Saucito there were still Native Americans roaming the countryside. A display at the ranch relates one such experience recalled by one of the Brumley daughters:

“Life on the lonely plain was a big change from life of San Francisco. Nellie Brumley remembered a morning alone in the house with her mother when a band of 20 Indians arrived, chanting and asking for water. A nervous Margaret ordered Nellie to hide in the house, while she presented the Indians with water and a pail of freshly-baked cookies. The Indians ate all the cookies. . .down to the last crumb—and departed as abruptly as they had arrived.”

El Saucito ranch is seen here as a few trees and a speck of white about center frame. The white saltpan of Soda Lake is seen to the left and the Temblor Range, created by the San Andreas Fault, is in the distance beneath the clouds.

Related Post:

Ruminations on a Hart-Parr 18-36H Tractor (1930)

You have to be committed to push a stroller along a rocky mountain trail for two miles up and down a small canyon, while wearing flip-flops. Or maybe you just need to be committed.

The trail began as a three-foot-wide pathway made of packed decomposed granite and turned to asphalt for a short distance. As we ventured further into Sequoia National Park’s Giant Forest, however, the trail turned to dirt and quickly narrowed to the width of a footpath. It led through some dense underbrush, which appeared impassable with the stroller. We had apparently reached the terminus of our great adventure just a few yards beyond the paved walkway.

I considered our limited options for a moment before deciding to ditch the stroller. We’d march ahead, and when the time came, I’d carry Little Ms. E on my shoulders for a bit. But immediately after walking through the narrow brushy section the trail opened up. I had her wait while I went to get the stroller and I tossed our water bottle on the ground near her as I turned back.

Brook trout

With Little Ms. E back in the saddle we were rolling again. I forced the stroller across off camber sections leaning over steep slopes, pressing it against the hillside and fighting the pull of gravity, and I pushed it up and over and over and down bouldery step-like sections, and rammed it through several narrow brushy spots barely wide enough to pass through. We made good use of the stroller’s five point harness and its rear suspension.

In one part, where the trail passed between two trees, we had to push our way up the bank a few feet through the twigs and needles and around one tree and back down onto the trail. In another part, squeezing between a tree and a granite outcrop, I had to fold the stroller up and carry it through. But that was as rough as it got.

When we stopped for a break, and I eagerly went for the water, I realized that I’d forgotten to pick up the bottle after getting the stroller. And so we went without a drink for the couple of hours we were out. We passed by several clear flowing streams and I regretted not having my pocket-sized water filter.

As we crested a slope coming out of the canyon we came upon the collection of bedrock mortars we set out to see. The mortars overlooked a brook trickling clear cold water through a crease in the granite-capped mountainside.

As we explored the land surrounding the mortar site two people came walking down the trail. They sauntered by and we exchanged a few friendly words. The lady had seen me taking photos and when she saw a pine cone a moment later she insisted I take a picture of it. The cone was sitting nearly upright with its tip pointing into the air. The lady went on to explain with great enthusiasm that she could tell the pine cone had rooted into the soil because of the way it was sitting. She thought pine cones were actually seeds themselves like a coconut or something.

On our way back down the trail my daughter spotted a marmot. On our way up the trail she had pointed out a bear walking through the woods behind me. I’m typically an observant person and I put a premium on situational awareness, but I’ve apparently got work to do on this front. Nevertheless, I was happy to see Little Ms. E keeping her surroundings in focus.

Going downhill on our way back was considerably easier and quicker, of course. We seemed somewhat far away on the hike up the quiet canyon to the mortars, having left the throngs of tourists behind, but following the quick walk down the mountain it seemed we had hardly gone anywhere. How ever far it may have been, though, it may as well have been another planet for Little Ms. E, who was seeing things for the first time.

There’s a bear over there.

Marmot

The General Sherman giant Sequoia tree is estimated to be 2300 to 2700 years old and is considered to be the largest tree in the world by volume or the largest living thing on Earth.

General Sherman by the tape:
Height above base: 274.9′
Circumference at ground: 102.6′
Maximum diameter at base: 36.5′
Diameter 60 feet above base: 17.5′
Diameter 180 feet above base: 14
Diameter of largest branch: 6.8′

“Kings River Canyon calls forth the most enthusiastic encomiums of all who have visited it. The rocks tower in majestic altitude above the bed of the tumultuous stream, their profiles carved by the elements in shapes that suggest the work of a grand sculptor, while waterfalls dash down every intersecting rivulet and over every rocky canyon. For miles through this narrow cavity in the mountains sublime scenes in infinite variety greet the eye of the enraptured observer. Mount King, at an altitude of 13, 316 feet, Mount Woodworth and Mount Brown, of almost equal height, are the sentinels of this mighty fissure.”

—San Francisco Call, “The Glories of Kings River Canyon,” March 21, 1897