Pescadero Memories

Sarah Swanton, Pescadero innkeeper, was praised as a woman of remarkable business ability, blessed with the friendliest personality.

“As an entertainer she has few equals and no superiors in hotel management, ” the San Mateo Times & Gazette raved in 1896.

Sarah and husband Charles Swanton ran the Swanton House Hotel for three decades, between the 1860s and 1890s, earning many return guests who appreciated the “courteous and accommodating way” they were always treated.

The Pescadero community loved the Swantons because their well-run business brought cash into the village’s economy, the general store, the restaurant, the stables, and so on.

In fact, she kept a stable business next door to the Swanton Hotel and she hired R.K. Farley to run it, ferrying hotel guests to Pebble Beach,where entire days were spent sifting through the pebbles for a colorful one that might make a perfect pendant.

Owning the stable next door also put Sarah into direct competition with Loren Coburn, Pescadero’s least favorite citizen. Coburn also owned a stable and both Sarah and Loren depended on the tourist trade for profits. As I’ve posted many times, most visitors came to Pescadero to visit Pebble Beach, the well known hunting ground for beautiful “gems.” Horse-and-wagons had to be rented to get to the popular beach a couple miles from town–

Loren also owned the delicious strawberry fields that bordered Pebble Beach-and when Coburn planted a fence around the fields and built a gate with a sturdy lock, he, in effect, declared war on both the locals and the tourists.

Sarah’s horse-and-wagons couldn’t go to Pebble Beach, and she couldn’t stop talking about it; she’d have to shut down the stable–and her loud and bitter complaints reached Loren Coburn.

Now that Coburn had a monopoly on the stable business in Pescadero, he said Sarah was unhappy because “She couldn’t go all over the country and do as she pleases.”

Sarah Swanton may have had little control over the livery stable market, but no one questioned her right to do as she pleased in her own hotel. Read the rest of this entry »

Tubes of Mystery

Story & Photos by John Vonderlin
Email John (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

Hi June,

Lately there’s been a great increase in the number of small black plastic tubes washing up on our local beaches. I call them “The Tubes of Mystery,” because most people, even veteran beachcombers, fisherfolk, and marine scientists have no idea where they come from or what they were used for.

I started calling them “The Tubes of Mystery” after reading a (2001) online story from the Honolulu Advertiser. The author of the article sought answers: What was their use, where did they come from and how did they end up in the ocean?

The newspaper’s readers responded with posts; one person suggested that aliens must be involved. While that could prove to be true, in a limited way, here in California, I believe that the ways of nature had more to do with the tubes ending up in the water than the possibility U.F.O.s might be sprinkling them all over the Pacific Ocean.

Fortunately, many of the Advertiser’s readers and posters were more knowledgeable than the one UFO proponent, and informed the Hawaii newspaper that the “mysterious tubes” were oyster rack spacers.

Oyster rack spacers are strung on a wire, alternating with drilled shells to keep them apart, then hung from a frame in shallow water. Clumps of oysters are grown on the shells, properly spaced for the best health and production of the bed.

In Hawaii, it was the longer, thinner, sometimes colored tubes used in Japanese oyster farms that were found. The typhoons set the tubes free. The North Pacific Sub-Tropical Gyre then delivered them to the islands. While I also find a number of those tubes, the majority of the ones I find are from good ole’ American and Bay Area oyster farms. They’re usually of shorter length, cut from half inch black poly-pipe.

Here’s my theory: I suspect that the powerful storm that blasted us on Jan. 4th did lots of damage to the oyster farms in Tomales Bay, Drake’s Estero and other nearby waters, setting free the bonanza of “The Tubes of Mystery.”

This picture of the debris

I collected on Monday from Tunitas Creek Beach demonstrates that the tubes weren’t the only things caught up in our recent storms. I set a one- day record of a dozen sand toys; shovels, a rake, a sifter, and a nice assortment of sand molds, including one for forming parapets on my next sand castle.

There was also a record number of plastic bottle caps and balloon remnants, many still tethered by colorful ribbons, only wrapped up in strands of kelp rather then the hands of excited children.

Oddly, I found five more fish tags from “The Contender,” a boat that sank years ago and whose fish tags figured in the solution to the mystery of Neptune’s Vomitorium

Lastly, I found a very rare “Shrunken Head Buoy.” I believe boat fires are the cause of these shriveled floats. Unfortunately, I can’t read the whole name on this one or I might be able to check its provenance. I think it starts with L.I.G., but can’t be sure. Anybody, have any ideas? Enjoy. John Vonderlin

By June Morrall

If Pescadero was the recipe for a popular resort, here’s a list of its good ingredients:

Healthfulness: The ocean breezes were well advertised.

Location: Close enough to ride the stage, far enough away to feel secluded.

Sightseeing: Ride horseback into the mountains or down to the seashore. Within a two mile radius, enjoy magnificent pine and redwood forests, rocky canyons, brilliant green hills, babbling brooks and spectacular vistas.

Recreation: Excellent trout and ocean fishing; hunting. For the artist with an interest in the botanical–a great variety of sea moss, shells, ferns, and flowers.

Special Places To Visit: Breathtaking Butano Falls, and a secret cave on upper Butano Creek; Angel’s Roost, an enchanting grove of redwoods; Singing Beach, so-called for the friction of sand and water, resulting in a pleasant humming sound, and highly recommended, an educational tour of Pigeon Point Lighthouse.

Famous “Magical” Attraction: Pebble Beach, south of Pescadero.

Story by June Morrall

In the 1860s Colonel Albert S. Evans, author of A La California: Sketches of Life in the Golden State, reported on a very, very interesting dispute between an Indian and a Spaniard in Pescadero.

At the root of the never-ending argument: Who arrived first in Pescadero? Don Felipe Armas…..or……Don Salvador Mosquito. Which one?

As with any disagreement, there are two sides, two versions–two people who may not like each other–and each one is highly convinced that the other one is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Don Felipe Armas’ Story:

I am a native Californian of Spanish parentage. I remember when King Kamehameha I put a call out for vaqueros to come to the Hawaiian Islands and kill off the wild cattle that were wreaking havoc. I was 35 years old when the King himself selected me.

Don Salvador Mosquitos’ Story:

I am a surviving Mission Indian and I remember when the padres tried to convert the natives to Christianity. I rebelled and became a member of the great renegrade Indian Pomponio’s tribe. There were only 50 of us left when Pomponio set up headquarters in the redwoods east of Pescadero. From our secret mountain perch, Pomponio led us on raids of well stocked ranches nearby, and as far away as Santa Clara and San Jose.

The fathers at Mission Santa Clara were furious because we stole food as well as their fine horses. They made a plan to destroy Pomponio. They captured all the female Indians, forcing Pomponio to risk his life by riding with his men into the mission to free the women. We all got away but were followed by the mission’s army into the mountains where there was a bloody fight that escalated into a slaughter leaving only me alive because I was too young to be killed.

Further complicating the matter between Armas and Mosquito’s claim, said Colonel Albert Evans, was the testimony of pioneer Alexander Moore. In the 1890s, he boasted: “I was the first settler in Pescadero and the only one left.”

Alexander Moore built the first frame house in Pescadero in 1853. Six years earlier, Moore, who was then 27, and his pregnant bride, crossed the plains from Missouri to California in a wagon pulled by oxen.

When the six month journey ended in 1847, the Moores first settled in Santa Cruz and became the parents of sons Eli and Bill.

Not yet convinced that he had found the perfect spot to settle, Alexander Moore often scouted the unfenced coastline north of Santa Cruz on a mule. He was looking for possible shipping points and news of shipwrecks; salvaging both the ship and its cargo was an excellent source of income in those days.

Two years later, about 1849, the Moores had found Pescadero to their liking, building the house with lumber hauled by oxen from Santa Cruz. He also helped build Pescadero’s first schoolhouse, hiring a teacher with his own money. By the 1890s Moore knew he had made the right decisions: he had been a county supervisor and was the owner of 700 acres.
When in San Francisco, Alexander Moore boarded his horse at future Pescadero landowner Loren Coburn’s stable.

Considered an oldtimer in Pescadero he was often asked: “How many people lived in Pescadero when you got here?”

Alexander Moore: Well, I will approximate it. Maybe there was a dozen.”

Story by June Morrall

In the mid-to-late 19th century, San Francisco’s great need for wood for building new structures– as well as replacing old ones that fed the frequent fires– led to the construction of profitable sawmills south of Half Moon Bay.

(At least in one case, ownership of the Rufus Hatch Mill, led to local political power in the 20th century when son Alvin Hatch went on to become a San Mateo County supervisor.)

But the Hatch Mill was located close to Half Moon Bay, with the pier and warehouse at Amesport (Miramar Beach), probably shipping Hatch’s timber to the City.

Pigeon Point Landing, south of Pescadero, was the shipping headquarters for the sawmills located on the South Coast. Redwoods and pine trees stood tall near the Pescadero, Butano and Gazo creeks.

[In the 1870s the Gazos flume did an outstanding business. During less than 5 hours, 25,000-feet of lumber floated through the flume.]

Lumber operators set up deep inside the forests, felled the trees, and processed them into shingles and railroad ties. Logging was an extremely dangerous profession, naturally attracting fearless men who loved danger. For the investor, it was an expensive proposition, due to the added cost of physical labor and mules moving the heavy logs and finished wood through the roadless redwoods to isolated Pigeon Point.

[In other cases, "flumes," were used to float the wood from one place to another.]

The dream was to build a small railroad that would ferry the wood and shingles between the wharf and the sawmills. Better yet move the sawmills next door to Pigeon Point.

On the other hand, the difficulty that the logistics presented left many of the trees untouched–including a large stand of redwoods along Pescadero Creek (said to be the largest such stand south of Mendocino.)

Millions of board feet of lumber were also left along the Butano and Gazo creeks, untouched well in the 1900s.

Clarence Hayward was a big name in the lumber business. Hayward’s lumber, shingle and grist mills were located three miles east of the flag pole on San Gregorio Street in Pescadero. Clarence, who lived in an old house with beautiful gardens near the mill, sold pine and redwood and sometimes bartered for grain.

William Waddell was a pioneer sawmill owner who came to the South Coast from Kentucky in 1851. A good storyteller, Waddell said the abundant timber lining the banks of Pescadero creek was “unknown to the woodman’s axe” when he arrived.

William Waddell became the stuff of legend when a grizzly bear killed him in 1875. As a tribute to the sawmill owner [whose operations stood on both sides of the San Mateo-Santa Cruz County boundary line Waddell creek was named in William Waddell’s honor.

Between Storms: Visit to San Gregorio Beach

Story & Photos by John Vonderlin

Email John (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

Hi June,

Arriving at San Gregorio Beach Park, I could see getting across the creek was going to present a challenge. A large lagoon had formed and it was draining vigorously. The water, running into the ocean, a turbid, brown color from its sediment load, was forming standing waves a foot tall just above the area where it made its racing entrance into the ocean.

Using the slightly shallower water, where the creek had fanned out to its widest, readying itself to joust with the incoming waves, I was able to cross by facing the current and crab-walking sideways with short but rapid steps.

The speed with which the powerful current washed sand from beneath my feet messed with my balance, causing me to move quickly to avoid being knocked over. Still, the current pushed water up against my leg, topping and instantly filling my knee- high boots.

A shaky but successful trip was accomplished in moments, and I was in virgin territory, but with my Seven League Boots reduced to anchors.

Having struggled to semi-successfully cross, I found the rewards were not as I had hoped for, let alone risked for. I did get pictures of the peculiar and unprepossessing arch that is in the cliff at the far south end of the beach.. A yawner, but a necessary addition to my Sea Arches of San Mateo County Coast list, as it is a young arch with rapid growth potential because of its orientation to the waves.

Better yet was the fact that I got some nice pictures of the San Gregorio bridge, its image crisply mirrored in the lagoon. I was mildly irritated that my shots and this site were marred by a bold, but obnoxious graffiti moniker that emblazoned one support column, screaming for attention.

Wading back to the north side of the creek I collected three tires, all still mounted on their wheels, just lazying about on the beach. That added #60, #61, and #62 to my “101 Tires” project. The picture of Number 61, was shot from where I found the tire in front of one of the driftwood beach sculptures dotting the beach, It’s an interesting contrast of two extremely different manmade objects, the tire and the teepee.

With that it was time to head home and batten down the hatches before the predicted monster storm arrived on Saturday. Enjoy. John

P.S. Apparently, the graffiti received some attention this weekend, though not what the artist-vandal hoped for. When I stopped by on Monday to check if the disappointing so-called Monster Storm (that didn’t live up to its name) had brought anything new to the beach. I discovered the “Guerilla Graffiti” folks have started covering up this artistic lesion on the public’s viewscape. I like the way they try to blend the paint-over into the background. Kudos to them. Enjoy. John

Between Storms: Visit to Pomponio Beach

Story & photos by John Vonderlin

Email John (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

Hi June,

Pomponio Creek was running high and had formed a lagoon at its beach. While where the creek entered the ocean was easily fordable, I didn’t feel like clomping around in my rubber boots, so I used the “People’s Bridge” to cross it. This natural bridge, formed by a large tree trunk that spans the creek right below Highway 1, allows access to the southern portion of the beach without bushwhacking or wading.

If you’re allergic to poison oak or hate to get your feet wet it’s a handy, if slightly derring-do, method to reach the best flotsam-collecting area.

This particular day a crab pot buoy with its attached 150- foot rope heavily entangled in kelp was the only prize I found. The rope was the most tar-fouled one I’ve ever seen. The tar was substantially different from the tar balls that came ashore a few weeks ago. It was stickier and smelled different. I suspect it was the remnants of the heavy fuel oil from the Cosco Busan. That’s fine with me though, as that gives it more cachet when I use it in my still-growing “Battering Ram” artplay project. That’s the one composed of battered, oozing creosote, telephone or power poles, that I wrap in coils of the rope I recover and untangle. Enjoy. John

Between Storms: Visit to Pescadero Beach

Story & photos by John Vonderlin

email John (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

Hi June

After last Thursday’s moderate storm, and with a much bigger one predicted for Saturday, I used the narrow window between the wind and the rain to do a “sweep” of the usually heavily visited beaches from Pescadero north to San Gregorio.

The iffy weather minimized the usual number of beachgoers, and the high waters in the creeks splitting these beaches, left some areas isolated from the average flotsam-and-jetsam enthusiast. Which is why, this time, I chose to visit three, too-popular-for-one-like-me spots.

At Pescadero Beach I visited the minor, but highly specialized “Vomitorium” that occurs at the foot of the stairs leading to the beach from the parking lot directly across Highway 1 where Pescadero Rd. dead-ends. This Vomitorium is noted for its production of tires and tire parts, Aerobie rings, shoe soles, snorkeling gear and fishing line balls. It didn’t disappoint as you can see from this picture.

Note that the tire chunk on the right is the major missing part of the handmade Ford Model T tire by Star Rubber Company, which I’ve written about recently.

After three months “Neptune” has finally spit out the last major piece. Hopefully, the nice spoked wheel it was on will materialize next. Not too likely though, because while rubber submerged in the ocean is almost eternal, all metals are rapidly corroded.

A wooden steering wheel, riddled with wormholes, from an old Rumrunner’s jalopy, that the tire might have been part of, would be too much to ask for, I suppose. But, one can hope. Enjoy. John

“Third Time’s The Charm: Back to Acid Beach”

Story & photos by John Vonderlin

email John (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

(Photo: John’s spectacular goal, Warm Water Lagoon.)

Hi June,
I’m not sure if “Failure is a Necessity” or “Failure is not an Option,” better describes the philosophical underpinnings of my third attempt to reach Acid Beach, and its surrounding wonders.

But, I do know “The Third Time is the Charm” aptly describes the effort. It was exciting, trying, scary at times, frequently beautiful, peppered with odd moments, and great discoveries.

Interestingly, after reaching my goal, the return trip was the most physically demanding. That was because I ended up caught in the dilemma featured in many stories and films, where the protagonist, having found the weighty treasure they had so fervently sought, often gold or heavy jewelry, must abandon it, in order to survive the ordeal of returning to civilization.

Only I wasn’t about to give up my hard earned treasure.

Here’s the story:

Last week I noticed that on the upcoming Presidents Day, there was going to be a nice 1.1 minus tide at about 3 in the afternoon. Perfect for my third serious effort to reach Acid Beach and Warm Water Lagoon.

Parking at Scott Creek Beach, with the horde of other folks enjoying both the day off and the unusually mild February beach weather, we waded across the creek and headed north. Right away, thanks to the winter rains, we were treated to a series of picturesque ribbon-like waterfalls descending

the towering cliffs. For the first mile it was just a holiday stroll, until we got to the inlet that reaches into the foot of the cliff.

On our last outing, Meg decided not to get wet, and waited on the south side of the inlet as the potential 911 caller. When she saw that the winter waves had sucked two feet of sand out of the inlet, making it even deeper then before, she once again chose the sensible option.

I, on the other hand, tried to repeat my risky climb along the cliff-side, above the inlet.

But I’m afraid I was too sensitive about crunching the barnacles and mussel colonies underfoot, as I slowly retraced my previous path. Placing one foot in an open, but very slimy spot, I slipped and rather than be keelhauled by the mollusks as I slid down the cliff’s face, I launched myself into the mid-thigh-deep water, holding my camera high.

Moving fast before another wave surged into the channel, I pulled myself atop a rock that was only partially submerged, waited until the wave’s surge retreated, and quickly waded to where I could pull myself out of the water. Great!, my swimming trunks and the wetsuit booties I’d brought to use while wading around “Chicken’s Roost”*** were still safe and dry in my pack, but my clothes and boots were soaked.

Looking back, I saw Meg, wide-eyed from watching my lemminglike leap and flashed her a chagrin-laced grin, acknowledging my drowned rat appearance. Yelling, “I’ll be back in an hour,” I set off on my adventure

Ten minutes later, I watched as a sizeable group of sunning Harbor Seals, seeing me approach, began galumphing into the water from their sandy resting spot below a waterfall.

All except one that remained motionless on his back. I remember thinking, well, this is one dead marine mammal not even Ray Bandar, “the bone collector,” is going to be able to collect a skull from.

Walking up to the seal that wasn’t moving, I shot a picture, then noticed his little flippers waggling slightly. Believing the seal to be unwell, and not wanting to add any more misery in its final moments, I took one more photo and trudged on. Fifty yards further, I happened to glance back to see it steaming towards the water. The little feller must have been in a deep sleep, probably dreaming of somersaulting through the sun-streaked kelp beds, chasing some yummy fish, as I had approached and his buddies had fled without waking him. I guess they don’t get many visitors at this end of the beach.

Another five minutes, and I was at Chicken’s Roost, my own previous turnaround spot. Already soaked, I left my trunks and booties in my pack, stuffed my camera in, too, and began to wade around the face of the Roost.

Trouble greeted me immediately. The footing was uneven and large seaweed fronds obscured my vision of the bottom and made every move a slick and risky proposition. Two steps, and I almost went down, forcing me to grab the pockmarked cliff face. Unfortunately, the pockmarks were created by sea urchins, and more then a few were still home and apparently resented my visit.

Excusing myself with a curse, I edged along the cliff, looking for uninhabited pits to stick my fingers into. With my back to the surf, I didn’t see a big wave that smacked me into the cliff, its rebounding spray needling me in the face. Before my courage sank and drowned, I made it as far as a rock jutting slightly above the water, at the mouth of the slotted inlet just past Chicken’s Roost. This was the same slot I became familiar with on my first trip, I had been afraid I was going to fall in from the Roost’s top, ruining my camera, and maybe drowning after hitting my head. But not this time.

Having reached a secure spot, I took a moment to survey my situation and didn’t like what I saw. There, bobbing in the water in the slot, five feet in front of me, was a dead Harbor Seal. To my left, ‘round the next rock where I had planned on going, I could see the water was much deeper, the bottom invisible even in the relatively quiet times between waves. It looked like I was going to have to traverse the slot, push the corpse out of my way, and climb up a narrow, mussel-choked crack in the cliff. Oh joy. But. I’d come too far to turn back now.

I waited for a calm moment between waves and lowered myself back into the water. When my tiptoes still hadn’t touched bottom with my belt well under water, I knew I was beaten. I was at the edge of the wader’s equivalent of a sucker hole, guarded by a dead, floating portend. I pulled myself back up on the rock, and retreated the way I came. Defeated again!?

Reaching terra firma, I stood looking up at Chicken’s Roost, feeling checked if not checkmated. I took a deep breath and started to climb it.

Reaching the top, I crossed it and looked down at the steep scree slope that had sapped my courage on my first trip. It didn’t look inviting, but after what I’d already been through on this trip, the slope didn’t seem that fearsome. I was sure I could get down it, getting back up would have to be dealt with later. In desperation, I supposed I could always throw my pack with the camera up from the beach below, then, swim around. At this point even this shaky plan was enough when faced with the “Failure is not an Option” thoughts that were jabbing my ego in some of its most vulnerable areas.

I started lowering myself carefully down the treacherous slope. Seconds later I was standing triumphantly on solid ground, even though it felt like I was floating on air. There was nothing that could stop me now. And nothing did.

Except for the clusters of buoys I started encountering. The first cluster was below the rappelling spot where the Pranksters are reputed to have lowered themselves down to enjoy the inviolate privacy of this isolated beach (Acid Beach?) for their Bacchanalian psychedelic happenings. A nice mix of about a dozen floats, all within twenty feet of each other, were mine for the taking. I gathered them in a pile, promised I’d be back to collect them, and headed north.

Soon I saw Warm Water Lagoon, its waters almost completely drained by the low tide, except for a large pool at the arches’ double-barreled opening into the lagoon and the narrow surge channel from the south.

Beneath the cliffs, on a ledge at the opening to the lagoon

was another cluster of floats and buoys. I stuffed my pack full, left it there and walked into this amazing feature: Warm Water Lagoon. On the right, and curving around in front of me, were sheer hundred foot cliffs. Seaward, on the left, a spine of sandy rock descended from the northern cliffs, reaching sea level where the surge channel at the south enters the lagoon’s mouth. The spine is only broken by two sea level tunnels through it that form an impressive double arch with a huge pillar of rock separating the two tunnels.

Waves were surging through the tunnels, spreading out in a beautifully symmetrical fan across the waters of the lagoon. To the best of my knowledge, there’s no more awe-inspiring scenery and no more beautiful arch, on the entire San Mateo Coastside—and it’s virtually unknown and less visited then the North Pole.

Yet on the beach, to the right of the arches, just exposed by the fully-ebbed tide was a seemingly new, ten- foot pole with a line-loaded reel, looking as if it just fallen from the rack in a sporting goods store. I picked it up and started my return.

Having left my pack at the opening, I soon stuffed my pullover’s pouch full with the smallest floats I found along the lagoon’s beach.

When my arms could no longer manage both the rod and reel and the larger floats I was also collecting, I started to thread them over the end of the pole. I marched southward carrying it like a banner pole for my expedition of one.

Reaching my backpack, I pulled out a huge bag I had brought and stuffed everything I was carrying into it and headed south.

As I marched along, I noticed a roomy ledge above me at the foot of one of the waterfalls. Curious, I stopped and climbed up to find another dozen floats, several varieties I hadn’t seen in many years. My pouch and hands full, I carefully climbed down and stuffed them into my bag, and resumed walking.

By the time I reached the rappel spot, I picked up another half-dozen floats that I missed earlier because I was intently focusing on my goal. Both my backpack and big bag were now bursting and I still had a dozen more in a pile on the ground before me that I had promised to rescue. A delightful dilemma for a float collector.

Searching around I found a length of seaweed, stripped it of its branches, and threaded five of the largest buoys in the bag on it. Stuffing the rest in the room created in the bag by removing the five, I was ready to move on.

In one hand I carried the rod and reel and my buoy/seaweed necklace. My backpack was stuffed full of smaller floats, some shells and a handful of startlingly beautiful pieces of shimmering abalone

that I just couldn’t pass up, even though I don’t normally collect them. Over my shoulder, held in place by my other hand, was a gigantic bag stuffed with dozens of buoys and floats.

The only thing ruining my ecstatic state was worrying about whether I would make it through the upcoming obstacle course, especially up the Chicken’s Roost slope with my hands otherwise occupied, I wasn’t sure I could manage it all. I was carrying more floats and buoys that I’d ever collected from one place before. I didn’t want to leave anything behind, but what if I was forced to abandon my treasures, as so many others had in those books and films I’d mentioned? Nooooo!

By the time I’d reached the Chicken’s Roost slope, I was once again brimming with confidence. I’d simply strip some line off the reel, tie it to the buoys, climb to the top and drag them up one at a time, if necessary. But, nothing so time-consuming was necessary.

The first climb up I took the fishing pole in one hand, and used the other free hand to feel around for solid projections jutting from the scree. The rod and reel actually helped, as I wasn’t worried about damaging it. By jamming the rod and reel into the slope, it assisted me from slipping and sliding. Triumphantly reaching the top, I deposited my load, celebrated for a few seconds, and headed back down for the next two trips. The big bag was the most difficult because of its bulk and weight, but nothing was going to stop me now.

The remaining part of the return trip was a struggle that left me sore for a couple of days. But, even soaked, scratched, scraped and aching, I was not miserable. I was on a natural high. When I reached the inlet where I received my first dunking, now surging with the returning tide, I just jumped in and waded across with my camera held high, the fishing pole in my other hand. One more trip and I had the bag and seaweed necklace securely on the victorious side.

The last mile was a rest-punctuated trip, made easier by Meg’s assistance and the glow of accomplishment that buoyed my spirits. It doesn’t get better then this. That is until I return again for a much better photo shoot. And figure out a way to reach the other more isolated beach also captioned Acid Beach on California Coastal Records Project and the nearby sea arches-bookended oddity known as “The Notch.” (pictures #6418 and #6419 CCRP)

Until then I’ll just savor my treasures, shown laid out on my front lawn in this picture.

Or some of the jewelry quality pieces of abalone I collected. Enjoy. John Vonderlin

————

***I asked John, “What’s Chicken Roost?”

John:

Hi June,
Chicken’s Roost (my name for a nameless rock) is the spot I turned around at on my first attempt to reach Acid Beach in December. I think you published a picture of it in the story of that trip.

1960s: From the Half Moon Bay Review

“Mrs. Nita Spangler, president of the S.M. County Historical Association, said that ’she personally favored the preservation’ of the old Tunis School.

“‘It is my personal feeling that the Old Tunis School should be preserved because of the historical interest. The association has visited the place, and articles and pictures of it have been published. It is the only one-room schoolhouse in operation in San Mateo County,’ said Mrs. Spangler.

“It was pointed out that the ‘economics of preserving it are a matter of concern to the coastside’.

“An organization has been formed for the preservation of the old Tunis School. It consists of a group of people who”….[rest of the article is missing, doesn't it bug you?]

To see a photo of the Tunis School, scan down to the post below.