This post has nothing to do with Ludwig, VWs, or any cars at all for that matter. I'm breaking out of the mold temporarily to showcase our trip to Santa Cruz Island last summer before we pulled stakes and headed for Missoula. We had a ton of fun and since this blog is the easiest way for people to see what we've been up to, why not put it here?
On most days during a walk along the beach near our apartment you could see one or two of the Channel Islands, and on really clear days you could see three. We decided that while California has an abundance of National Parks we'd like to visit, Channel Islands National Park was the one we'd be least likely to visit after we moved due to the expense and logistics. The park was close--less than 20miles from our house as the crow flies. Of course, 19.5 of those miles are across the Santa Barbara Channel, a tract of the Pacific Ocean which impedes any easy access to the park. To be blunt, planning a camping trip to the park is something of a pain (for instance, an interesting Catch-22 is involved: before you reserve your campsite, you are strongly advised to book your passage on the boat to the island. But in order to book your passage to the island, the boat company suggests that you first reserve your campsite) and not something you'd want to do from afar. We secured an excursion through Island Packers and took off early in the morning.
Our camp at Scorpion Ranch Campground, on the Eastern tip of the island, was nestled among (non-native) Eucalyptus trees. We tried to keep an orderly camp, as the island's birds have become quite adept thieves.
Santa Cruz Island is pretty big--at 96 square miles it's the biggest island off of the West coast of the lower 48. Even the land in the distance in this picture is the island.
There are lots of sea caves along the coast of the island, including one of the largest in the world, Painted Cave. The cave in the above-right picture isn't that cave, though.
Here we are along the trail between Cavern Point and Potato Harbor, on the Northeast side of the island. A stretch of mainland California (between Ventura and Los Angeles) can be seen on the horizon under the brim of my hat, left of my ear.
I thought I knew what this plant was, but now I can't find it's name or anything. I think it's some kind of endemic succulent, but now I think I might be totally wrong. Whatever it was, the flowers were coated in a sticky gel.
In the distance is Anacapa Island (actually a tight chain of three islands), the most visited in the park because it's where the visitor's center is, and it's closest to the mainland. It's also the smallest of all of them. The hike along the coast was blessed by mild weather.
This grove of non-native cedars was planted a hundred years ago by Delphine, the young daughter of one of the island's owners. They teased her for planting trees in such a harsh environment (precipitation on the island is neither plentiful nor consistent), but here they are, a century later.
The mild temperatures along the perimeter of the island give way to an almost furnace-like environment in the interior. On our second day we hiked 6 miles over to the other side of the island to a place called Smuggler's Cove. It was hot and there was no shade at all. Along the path we saw dozens of mounds of rocks. We learned later that this part of the island had been cleared of them--by hand--so that the owners could try some potato farming. It's funny that they chided Delphine for planting cedars while they were trying to grow potatoes and corn under the same conditions. Most farming on the island was marginal at best.
This mountain range separates the Eastern (public) and Western (private; Nature Conservacy) parts of the island.
The path eventually led down to the cove, which had also been the site of another ranch house and a big orchard of olive trees (which were fairly successful). The trees on the horizon are olive trees.
I knew this shot was coming, and specifically prepared for it. The view faces directly South, which may not seem like a big deal. But this picture looks directly into the most empty expanse on the planet; from this vantage point the next landfall is on the coast of Antarctica, some 7400 miles distant.
[12.01.2019 edit: "Specifically prepared" for it--ha! I'm embarrassed to have to report on my younger self's cartological sloppiness here. The next landfall from this vantage point is in fact San Nicolas Island, of Island of the Blue Dolphins fame, 55 or so miles South. Beyond that, the next stop is Antarctica, I swear.]
The trail back up through the olive trees was pretty steep, as Melissa's expression attests.
They tried to drill for oil near this spot in the 1950s (it's only been a National Park since the 80s) but struck only water. It's terrifying to think what this place would look like if they'd actually found oil.
After a day of tough hiking (tough for us anyway), we strolled around the harbor near the campground. This is where our boat landed. Those rocks in the middle distance to the left are large seabird rookeries, and all that bright white stuff you see on them is just what you'd think it is--eons worth of bird guano.
The last day of our stay we went off to another part of the interior to try to see the Island Scrub Jay, a close relative of the Western Scrub Jay. Spotting one of these birds was one of the things that compelled us to visit the island, in fact. The Island Jay is half again as big as its more populous mainland cousin, and sports a shorter, bulkier beak. A ranger gave us the impression that the birds were really elusive, and that this was neither the best season or best part of the island to see them. We were a little dejected; we'd never get the chance to see these birds living in the wild again, but we'd planned on trying so we hiked off into Scorpion Gulch (above).
The birds like the native island oak trees that grow in gulches like these, so we found a patch, sat down and quietly waited. We really didn't know what to expect, and were soon rewarded with this bright fellow who noisily perched himself in a tree just a few yards from us:
Soon others were nearby. They weren't really scared of us, just warily curious. As a reward for our patience, they let us get some fairly close shots.
They didn't seem to us to be all that much bigger than the mainland birds, but their beaks were significantly stouter, and their colors sharper. We were happy that they let us visit them, and sat among them for as long as our schedule would allow (the boat was taking us back that day).
Another famous endemic species we'd hoped to see, the housecat-sized Island Fox, made an appearance in camp the evening previous. We caught only a fleeting glimpse of one as s/he scampered right through the middle of camp but the light was fading and the fox was too quick, so we couldn't get a picture. The foxes were nearly driven to extinction in the last decades, here's the story: the ranchers who used to own the islands brought lots of pigs with them. When the ranchers left, lots of feral pigs were left behind. At some point in the 20th century, eagles from the mainland figured out that these wild pigs were an easy source of food, and came to the islands. Then they (the eagles) discovered the foxes and started preying on them too. The foxes had evolved in the absence of predators and the population was nearly lost to the eagles. Naturally, people with some sense thought that a good start to restoring the fox population would be to eliminate the pigs (who've also dug up and wrecked a lot of native vegetation). So while we lived in California, they started shooting all these pigs, and relocating the eagles. This being California, there was much protest by those who thought the pigs were being victimized, that their rights were being trod upon, etc. I don't know; it seems to me that the continued existence of the Island Fox is worth a lot more than the lives of some pigs. Species: important; individuals in and of themselves: not so important. That's the end of my rant.
Here's Melissa hiking back out of the canyon.
After visiting the birds, we packed up and waited for the boat back to Ventura. Luckily these pirates didn't pillage the campground.
Goodbye, Santa Cruz Island.
