Pescadero Memories

In August, 1995 I mailed a letter to Ken Kesey–the famous novelist, counterculture hero and former controversial La Honda resident–asking him to contribute a story, even “a fragment,” to an issue of “La Peninsula,” the San Mateo County History Museum’s journal. I was a member of the museum’s board of directors and I knew an article by Mr. Kesey would shake things up in the sometimes staid publication.

Hey, I didn’t really expect a response from the author of the highly acclaimed “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest (1962)–yet, what’s the harm in keeping my fingers crossed?

Turned out fingers crossed helped because a few months later my original, letter typed on a white sheet of paper was returned to me, forever altered.

Ken Kesey, the real life central character in Tom Wolfe’s, “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test” (1968), responded with a double blast of psychedelic energy. Kesey, who led his band of Merry Pranksters on a continuing adventure “tripping out” in the redwoods of La Honda, couldn’t resist the opportunity to play a prank. What he did was magically turn an ordinary sheet of white typing paper into an extraordinary work of art. At least I think so. You be the judge.

With Kesey’s creative contribution (in lieu of a story) I still needed one, a story, I mean.

I searched the Internet in quest of “Keseyana,” downloading articles by then San Jose Mercury News columnist Lee Quarnstrom. I tracked him down and we talked: Lee had been a “Merry Prankster.” [I think once you've been a "MP," you're one forever.]

In 1964, Lee, then a San Mateo Times reporter, interviewed Ken Kesey, whose latest book, “Sometimes A Great Notion” had been published. Kesey was already nationally renown for “Cuckoo’s Nest,” a smash Broadway play destined to become an Academy Award-winning film starring the irrepressible Jack Nicholson in 1975.

“Cukoo’s Nest” was based on Kesey’s personal experiences while working in a Menlo Park psychiatric ward–where experimental drugs were administered to the patients.

Reporter Lee Quarnstrom was a great admirer of Kesey whom he interviewed in the author’s neck of the La Honda redwoods. Some years later, Tom Wolfe, the great observer of contemporary culture, made the same trek, resulting in “Kool-Aid Acid Test.” Wolfe described Kesey’s home as a log cabin surrounded on three sides by Sam McDonald Park, with a creek flowing nearby, all as photogenic as a Merry Christmas card. Highway 84 slinked by in front of the cabin, reached by crossing a wooden bridge. Kesey had the perfect location with no neighbors.

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email John: benloudman@sbcglobal.net

Please read Parts I and II below

Hi June,

The next day, full of anticipation, but tinged with doubt, we headed for the beach. Parking along Highway 1, above Long Gulch, I decided a little cliff-top exploration would be wise, as the tide wouldn’t ebb to its lowest point for several hours.

Besides, if there was a tunnel in the cliff-side that the military had used as an observation post, they certainly hadn’t required the observers to rappel up and down the cliff for entrance and egress to their post.

Stumbling through the pathless, waist-deep scrub that covered the cliff-top, I was able to approach the edge of the cliff, above where I judged the hole I had seen on the CCRP photo should be. I saw no evidence of an overgrown entrance or anything else for that matter. There certainly was no sign any Intrepid Traveler had ever come this way. A ten- foot drop to a sloping, very unstable-looking ledge below prevented me from peering over to see if the tunnel opening was in the sheer cliff face just beneath me.

Actually, it was the fact I didn’t want to make my only sight of the tunnel opening a brief one– as I hurtled by it on the way to the beach, nearly 100 feet below –that made me decide to try another path for my first view of it.

Returning to the highway, we found the little used path through Long Gulch, to the beach below. It was a gentle descent for most of the way and only got steep the last 40 feet. Even there the support pipes for the giant plastic drainage pipe that transported rainwater from the eastern side of Highway 1 to the beach provided excellent handholds.

The flat-bottomed, sand-filled canyon below it was quite nice. Protected by the canyon’s walls from all but westerly winds, and hidden from the highway above, it would be a nice clothes-free sunbathing-hideaway for those so inclined.

Coming out of the canyon mouth, we turned north and hiked along the narrow strip of sand the waves weren’t playing on, the towering cliffs with their loose rock looming above.

Oh No! A 100 yards ahead a small rockfall, visible on the 2005 picture, had grown immensely and was projecting far into the surf and blocking our way. Approaching the huge pile, it was obvious that it was quite recent by the amount of soil still mixed with its giant rocks, many of which looked ready to start rolling the rest of the way into the surf. Hopefully not with us embedded in them.

Meg offered to be the Official 911 Notifier/Eulogizer, and I clambered over this last obstacle, eager for my first sight of…a sheer cliff. No tunnel, no hole, no story. There wasn’t even a deep indentation. I had been fooled by a shadow. I was feeling fool was the operative word about then.

I took a panoramic sequence of photos of the cliff face for later analysis; clambered to the top of the rockfall and took a few more shots; then climbed down with the bad news. I delivered that with a joking reference to Geraldo Rivera’s infamous hour long special on the “Mystery of Al Capone’s Vault.” But, at least he opened an empty vault; I had found nothing, except disappointment.

I then suggested we pick up our consolation prize and try to get some photos of the cave with the possible Zane Kesey’s initials. That’s better then nothing or even an empty vault, if it’s not another will o’wisp. So off we went. We weren’t sure exactly where it was, but knew its photos were near the end of a long sequence that had started at San Gregorio Beach and continued as we had headed south.

Being close to Pomponio Beach, which is about two miles south of San Gregorio Beach, we figured we ought to start there and save some walking and maybe some face too. End Part 3. Enjoy. John Vonderlin

From: Cultural Resources of San Mateo County, 1980

Pigeon Point Lighthouse: Coast Highway, Pigeon Point

“First illuminated on November 15, 1872, this lighthouse was named for the clipper ship, Carrier Pigeon, that hit the rocks here on May 6, 1853. The tower, 115 feet in height and 28 feet in diameter, is constructed of bricks shipped around Cape Horn from Norfolk, Virginia. The light’s 9-foot diameter fresnel lens was built by Henri Le Paute of Paris in the 1850s.

“Illumination for the light first came from whale oil. Kerosene was later substituted, and then electricity to run the light, which is magnified to 800,000 candlepower in a beam seen 18 miles at sea. In 1974, an automatic beacon was set up on a platform outside the lighthouse, replacing the historic lens. The lighthouse is a State Historical Landmark, and is listed in the National Register of Historic Places and the Historic American Building Survey.”

Images: Dorothy Regnery

From “Coastside Cultural Resources of San Mateo County,” 1980

Steele Brothers Dairies

Gazos Creek to Ano Nuevo

“In 1862, Rensselaer Steele and his three cousins established a chain of dairies between Gazos Creek and Ano Nuevo known as the Steele Brothers Dairies which became famous throughout the Bay Area for their products. A number of houses and barns still stand which were constructed by the family. The dairies are listed as a California State Landmark.”

email John: benloudman@sbcglobal.net

Please Read Part I, see below

Hi June,

With my new Quest inspiring me, I began my search to find the site of Ken Kesey’s band of Intrepid Travelers encounter with the Great American Tsunami that was spawned by the Good Friday Alaska Earthquake and their subsequent transmutation to the Merry Pranksters, a ragtag band of apostles who inspired their own culturequake and tsunami. A culturequake that launched a media tsunami of psychedelicism that swept over the public’s imagination and altered the mental landscape of a generation.

I started by using the California Coastal Records Project website to virtually fly down the part of the coast where George Walker’s, vague memories indicated the sacred site might be found, examining the cliffs for any tunnel openings.

Just south of Pomponio Beach, in Picture #6242, I was sure I’d found it. In this picture of a stretch of beach I’d only walked on once in my countless expeditions to gather Marine Debris, I could see there was an opening, halfway up the cliff, its interior in deep shadow, its top a perfect arch. It had to be what I sought.

I was excited.

With a good low tide of minus .6 feet coming up in the late afternoon in just a few days, I was almost there. Sure, I’d have to carry my 20- foot extension ladder on my back a half- mile down the beach from the Pomponio Beach parking lot under the bemused stares of a gauntlet of tourists, or the hostile gaze of khaki-uniformed authorities, but who cares?

My journey of seeking was laid bare before me.

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Hot Day In France” by internationally renowned painter Michael Bowen, who, in the late 1950s lived at Tunitas Creek and the Abalone Factory at Princeton-by-the-Sea. Michael’s in my new book, “Princeton-by-the-Sea,” published by Arcadia.

Hi June,
I’ve got a new Quest. No, I haven’t given up on reaching “Acid Beach,” the reputed Merry Prankster’s Ultimate Beach Party place. But, now after two attempts to reach it, I realize it is inaccessible by dry land even during the lowest of tides and that the alleged spot to rappel down a crumbly cliff of sharp rocks looks more like the access to the Emergency Room then to a picturesque beach and the stunning, nearby Warm Water Lagoon with its giant arch.

So while I wait for my lateral epicondylitis (sounds more excusey then Tennis Elbow, doesn’t it?) to heal, so I can kayak along the isolated, rocky, wave battered coast a couple of miles to reach it, I’ve switched goals.

This happened while I was trying to verify the truth about “Acid Beach.”

After all, the only place I’d ever seen it mentioned is as a caption below pictures on the California Coastal Records Project website. And even that’s squirrelly, as Picture #6419 in 2002 has it in a different spot then Picture #200506751 in 2005.

Was I just being led on a snipe hunt by somebody’s pipe dream of the non-metaphorical type? It didn’t help my confidence that Picture #6418, captioned “The Notch,” Picture #6420, captioned Warm Water Lagoon, Picture #6421, captioned Amb’s Beach and Picture # 6429, captioned Trefiret Beach all were previously unknown to me and apparently everyone else, as I found when I tried websearching them. No such places. No such names.

Finally, while breezing through a number of the websites created by Merry Prankster’s or their fans I came on this website: click here

It recounted a wild story about the origin of the Merry Prankster’s name as related by George Walker, one of their members. I’ll let you check out the site, but basically he relates that on the day the Alaskan Good Friday Quake hit (March 27, 1964) they heard a tsunami was generated and coming towards California.

Like any good leader of a thrill-seeking group, Ken Kesey, led the band out to San Gregorio Beach to a cave that had been used as an observation post during World War II to watch for the thought to be imminent attack on our coast by the Japanese. While in the cave, probably “tripping”, the sea began to recede for hundreds of feet only to soon return with a vengeance, trapping them, flashlightless and bewildered. At some point, Ken Babbs, or Cap’n Skypilot, as he is known, yelled, “Have no fear, The Intrepid Traveler and his Band of Merry Pranksters will find a way to get us out of here.” The rest is psychedelic history.

Being familiar with the caves of San Gregorio, I decided I’d go out there, get some photographs of them and write a story about the origin of the Prankster’s name, apparently a little known bit of trivia. I’ve attached some photos of the two caves.

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For many Coastsiders— Princeton-by-the-Sea— lives on in a special cove in the mind—a space carefully protected from invasions of the ordinary.

In today’s world where new American cities and towns are designed in advance, all identical, with no surprises, no serendipity, Princeton-by-the-Sea has been the antithesis of suburbia and that’s why we love it.

Ordinary has never applied to Princeton-by-the-Sea.

There were times when Princeton reminded me of my disorganized closet or messy garage–I’m referring to the streets named for famous Ivy League universities, lined with endearing homemade architecture– interspersed with hundreds of crab traps and decaying fishing boats.

When I crossed Highway 1 (from suburbia on the east side), I happily walked westward into another dimension—it was a great place for a kid to grow up, the oldtimers told me. Example: In the 1940s if you needed a stick of furniture, Mr. Patroni, the owner of a local hotel, said, “You can borrow a chest of drawers from my roadhouse.”

“Princeton-by-the-Sea” is a place, unlike most places, that has been known by many other colorful names: Whalers Cove, Patroni’s, Small Cannery Row, Ida’s, Hazel’s, the Drag Strip, the Abalone Factory, the Point Beyond, and more recently, Mavericks and the Golf Ball.

Oh, yes and a name that didn’t stick was “the Polynesian Village.”

Some of the Half Moon Bay kids raced their cars up the hill to Pillar Point before the radar station appeared, laughing as their tires kicked up clods of dirt, feeling a rush of adrenaline up there, high above the Pacific.

Every so often, the owner of Pillar Point would drive down from San Francisco to check on his property [yes, there was an owner, reportedly a descendant of a ranchero]– and upon spotting the juvenile trespassers, wagged his finger and chased them away.

A couple of generations later, the Coastside’s teenagers ventured out to what they called “Beyond the Point,” where, during the winter months, they stood, mesmerized by the crazy surf and the wall of 60 foot waves…..

Treasured snapshots and the “Princeton-by-the-Sea” in my mind.

I have derived immeasurable pleasure from funky Princeton-by-the-Sea, and now it’s payback time–and the only way I know how….my book: “Princeton-by-the-Sea, published by Arcadia, will be available in the bookstores for Christmas (also a booksigning at Bay Book on Friday, December 14 at 7 p.m.) I hope you will enjoy the new book.

A few times Bryant Wollman invited me for dinner when he lived with his companion, Gene Fleet, in one of the funky cabins that used to overlook the Pacific at Tunitas Creek– one of the most breathtaking places on the Coastside.

This is near the enigmatic place where Supervisor Alexander Gordon built his amazing shipping chute in the 1870s. This is where the Ocean Shore Railroad’s iron road stopped. This is where Sybil Easterday, the eccentric sculptress lived until she moved to El Granada where she died in the 1960s.

I remember Bryant telling me about a woman, an artist who lived near his cabin. She’d been the famous but controversial poet Ezra Pound’s mistress, he told me. I heard the story more than once, each time a little more embellished. At one point I even thought Pound might have visited Tunitas but that was impossible since he was sitting in a mental ward.

I can’t tell you why I didn’t follow it up. Maybe I was too shy to pound on this woman’s door and ask her to reveal her private stories to me….maybe I was skeptical….maybe I was plain old afraid.

When I mentioned the mystery artist to John Vonderlin, he did some research and said: “Hi June,
I suspect Ezra Pound’s connection to Tunitas is through Sheri Martinelli. She lived in one of the cabins at Tunitas Beach for twenty years and had many famous visitors. There is an outstanding article by Steven Moore in Gargoyle Magazine that covers her amazingly creative career. I wonder if Sybil Easterday was the draw to this place for her? You can reach the article by websearching “Sheri Martinelli: A Modernistic Muse”

I read the thoroughly impressive article by Steven Moore (and I hope you will, too) about this remarkable woman and artist who lived on the Coastside and realized how much I had missed by not having the courage to pound on her door.

I call this chapter “The Fifth Township”

In 1851–the year Loren Coburn arrived in San Francisco aboard the steamer Panama–the village of Pescadero was difficult to get to. The wall of mountains to the east and the often foggy stretch of coastline did not help to stimulate growth in Pescadero.

Rumors that a railroad was going to lay an iron road from San Francisco to Pescadero’s front door did attract energetic newcomers to the pretty valley and the village in the middle of nowhere. But the railroad did not materialize.

And although as early as 1853 what passed for a road linked San Francisco with Santa Cruz–that road was not reliable, especially during the wet and muddy winter months. For months at a time the coastal road was impassable, keeping folks at home. (Pescadero was then part of Santa Cruz county) and the best route to take was via San Mateo and Santa Cruz–no picnic, either, and also adding 90 more dusty, bumpy miles to an already difficult trip.

Winter storms often washed out roads and bridges all over the county and money had to be raised to make repairs. In 1862 heavy rains wrecked almost all of the bridges in San Mateo County–the flood damage repair sent the county into debt.

To reach the sandhill that San Francisco was then meant riding horseback all night long, climbing up and over and down treacherous mountainous barriers. One such barrier was later called “Devil’s Slide.”

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