Archive for November, 2008

Burt Blumert Comments on John Vonderlin's "Holes in Pescadero" (3)

November 30, 2008 at 2:19 pm · Filed under Burt Blumert, John Vonderlin

Comment by Burt Blumert

Email Burt: (burtblumert@comcast.net)

Hi June,

How fascinating a fellow John Vonderlin is. I have followed his trekking up and down the South Coast, snooping into caves and scaling dangerous cliffs, but I was stunned by his latest post.

He tricked me. I was 3/4 through his piece when I realized this is fiction. At that point I scurried to Google. I wanted to know more about these “Morlocks.” It’s clear that the futurist HG Wells had some impact on Mr. Vonderlin at an earlier time.

He explains that, in reality, the “cage” is part of a “well,”

an emergency overflow pipe that goes under Highway 1 into Long Gulch.

Not only has John Vonderlin inspired this reader to follow his footsteps along the mysterious South Coast, and its caves, but now he has me involved with H.G. Wells and his science fiction.

I’ve also learned more about you, John.

Burt Blumert

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John Vonderlin: Holes in Pescadero (3)

November 30, 2008 at 12:40 pm · Filed under John Vonderlin

Story/Photos by John Vonderlin
Email John (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)
Holes in Pescadero, Part 3
Hi June,
I would like to think my telling this next story will not pose a danger to me. That is perhaps, a silly consideration, given the usual subject of my postings about the adventures on the Coastside I experience. Yet, I have this feeling of foreboding, not based on knowledge or fact, but something deeper, more hardwired, perhaps instinctual, about speaking of what I think I may have experienced. Ohh. I’m sorry. I’m speaking in clouds darkened by fear. Let me tell you the story as it happened and you can decide.

It was late in the afternoon, and I was nearing the turnback point of a long, tiring hike along an isolated, rarely frequented part of our coast. Thinking about the cold one waiting in a cooler in my car, I decided to take an unfamiliar shortcut through a beach-side canyon I was unfamiliar with. But one that would obviate the need to return all the way down the beach on the route I had come.

Unfortunately, the faint path I chose quickly faded away, leaving me picking my way uphill through thin spots in the more than head-high thicket of coastal shrub, which was heavily-laced with poison oak. I considered turning back, but the thought of that soon-to-be-had “icy cold” slipping from my imagination’s hands, pulled me forward.

Then I heard it, or more accurately, sensed “it.”

It pierced my awareness like a high-pitched keening wail, yet I could feel it washing over my whole body as if I was standing in front of a “Wall of Sound,” a bank of invisible speakers for a bass guitar.  It was  omnidirectional, with  the sound being here, there, then everywhere, yet nowhere. Looking down, I could see my armhairs were standing at attention, in goosebump alert, as if they needed to aid my inner ear’s tiny hairs in divining the source of this unprecedented, very disturbing sound. A sound that seemed to grow in strength and demand as I concentrated on its source.

While doing so, I felt myself turning, and my feet began shuffling forward. While my brain was unsure of the sound’s directionality, my feet seemed not to be.  Slowly at first, then more confidentaly, as if my ten toes had gained purpose, having set their course, they moved me forward. Setting me on a course, I was instantly aware that there would be no detour, no turning back, when, suddenly a huge patch of poison oak rose up defiantly in front of me. By grasping and clawing anything that wasn’t going to give me the dreaded itchy red rash, I pulled myself through the toxic leaves into the next clearing. The sound now seemed so loud, so omnipresent; I could hardly think, yet I could easily hear the poison oak’s fragile branches and twigs cracking and breaking as I elbowed my way through them. Once again a big poison oak bush blocked my way, but I quickly conquered it with a well practiced kamikaze move.

I was on a mission: I had to know where the sound was coming from. I had to find out what it wanted.

Things get a little hazy after that. I vaguely remember that, at some point, my battle to move forward was thwarted. I struggled mightily, if mindlessly, but it seemed like I was stuck in a powerful hold. Meanwhile the sound swelled to a demanding shriek, as did my need to heed it. I thrashed about in this painful state of imprisonment and frustration for several long minutes, then a grayness descended over me.

I blacked out and lost total awareness.

When I woke up, I was lying face down in the bushes. I was  dazed, confused and my head hurt. I was suffering from a splitting, two-sided headache. When I tried to stand up, I realized my leg was painfully trapped in some way. Looking down, I was surprised to see my leg securely entangled in loops of a strand of treacherous barb wire, still fastened to an old post nearby. I gingerly, oh so carefully, tugged one of its sharp barbs from the seam of the pantleg of my jeans, slipped its meancing loops over my shoe, groaning as it tore across the lacerated flesh of my ankle.Then I sat up. It was then, through the bushes just before me, that I noticed a metal structure in a small clearing.  I carefully got to my feet, feeling wobbly and favoring my tenderized leg, whose muscles felt as offended as its serrated skin and gouged flesh did.

Pushing my way into the clearing, I approached the structure, a large, round metal cage, its bars sturdy pipes set in concrete, surrounding a dark, circular, corrugated-sided hole, descending into the ground. On one side of the circle of metal pipes there was a sturdy, swinging metal gate, suitably-sized for a man to pass through. But it had a large, unfamiliar type of lock holding it closed, from the inside. How odd I thought.

I moved my head into the tight space between the bars as far as it would go, peering into the darkness below as best I could. I could see a metal ladder, attached to the hole’s side, dropping into the darkness. But I couldn’t tell how deep the hole was. It was inky black down there, and my view was further obscured by a small tree growing from a crack in the side of the tunnel, about ten feet down. As I continued to try to see what was down there, I was distracted– or, perhaps, it was my imagination– because I heard the rhythmic sound of a large, slow-moving machine working somewhere far below. A growing breeze, puffing across the opening, rustled the tree’s leaves and my sense of the disconcerting sound was gone.

How very odd, I thought again.

That’s when recent memories of that same machine-like sound, the one that had drawn me, here, to this odd structure flooded into my present awareness. I was scared. What happened to me? I turned from the hole and quickly looked around, expecting danger. Seeing none, I began surveying my surroundings more methodically. That’s when I noticed them, lines of  three-toed, cloven-hoofed tracks, leading across the soft, sandy soil of the clearing to the locked gate in the cage. My panic swelled. Wide-eyed, I pivoted jerkily, trying to see everywhere around me at once. Then I fled. I won’t say mindlessly. But I will admit, that with more forethought, I could have run around some of the poison oak patches I bulldozed through.

A few minutes of intense heart-pounding retreat, with seat-of-the-pants route-choosing, complicated by continual over-the-shoulder gazing as I plowed my way through the thicket and I reached the road, where, at one point I could finally see my car. I soon got my cold one, but the strain of my escape left my hand shaking so hard that I caused it to foam over the top vigorously,  before I  downed it in a few short, nerve-settling glugs.

Since then I’d thought a lot about what happened to me that day without coming to a rational explanation. I tried to explain them away as a synergism amongst the fatigue, dehydration, and highly unusual headache I suffered that day. But that explanation left me unsettled.

Some weeks later I tried to find the structure again. Perhaps, my confusion during the event (as I now call it) hindered my search efforts or possibly the fact I had just recovered from the worst case of dermatitis I’d ever had in my life, and wasn’t that eager to try to top it, was an obstacle, but for whatever reason, I was unsuccessful.

It remained a troublesome mystery and visited my thoughts irritatingly often, until one night while channel-surfing, the answer slapped me in the face. I was watching a chunk of the original movie based on H.G. Wells book, “The Time Machine,” and I heard the exact same noise that had summoned me to the structure. It was the Morlocks’ siren, used to summon the Eloi to willingly, or at least passively, enter the “wells” into their underground world for slaughter, whenever their larders were depleted. The realization punched me in the stomach, as it shriveled my untested fortitude. Only the luck of entanglement in barb wire had kept me from being Bar-BQ.

I can imagine the groans coming from those of you who have kept an open mind thus far as they slowly formed their opinion about my veracity in relating my tale of this bizarre episode. I understand, being a lifelong skeptic. In fact, I’d join you in your sad surmisal, despite its reflection on my character, perhaps even my sanity, if it wasn’t for the fact, that I, in the best tradition of war correspondents taking fire, somehow in my dazed, then frightened state, had kept on clicking away with my camera. Here are just a few photos of this experience I’d like to share. I’d share the rest, but I’m thinking “The BigFoot Museum” might want to open a “Morlock” wing and I’m hoping to sign an exclusive agreement. I just hope Morlocks don’t have Internet and read this, because I’d have to change my name to  Entree. Enjoy. John

Wikipedia Morlocks entry:
Morlocks are a fictional species created by H. G. Wells for his 1895 novel, The Time Machine. They dwell underground in the English countryside of A.D. 802,701 in a troglodyte civilization, maintaining ancient machines that they may or may not remember how to build. Their only access to the surface world is through a series of well structures that dot the countryside of future England.

Morlocks are humanoid creatures, said to have descended from humans, but by the 8,028th century have evolved into a completely different species, said to be better suited to their subterranean habitat. They are described as “almost antlike“, because they slink about silently during the night to catch their prey.
Morlocks wear no clothing but are covered with fur. As a result of living underground, they have little or no melanin to protect their skin, and so have become extremely sensitive to light.
The Morlocks’ main source of food is the Eloi, another race descended from humans that lives above ground. The Morlocks treat the Eloi as cattle, and the Eloi do not resist being captured.

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The Coburn Mystery: Chapter 59

November 29, 2008 at 9:47 pm · Filed under Uncategorized

The Coburn Mystery, Chapter 59

By June Morrall

September 1893

Pebble Beach was “set free” by a vote of the California legislature, recognizing the beach as “Pescadero’s inheritance,” a welcome addition to the county park system.

Certainly the villagers hoped this would snuff out the landowner Loren Coburn’s plans for a big hotel overlooking famous little Pebble Beach. He was going to charge an entrance fee, wasn’t he?

And without doubt, this was a frustrating time for the unpopular Coburn, who had believed he owned Pebble Beach, but nothing stopped him from choosing the furniture for the new hotel he was building.

Construction of the Pebble Beach Hotel drew on local resources. The William Hughes Mill produced 173,000 feet of lumber for the  hotel that measured 140 x 50 feet. A covered veranda, ten feet in width, surrounded the building.

Soon after the villagers celebrated the official recognition of Pebble Beach Park  with a “Mammoth Picnic” on the pebbles, teams of horses were seen hauling heavy timbers to the hotel site at the north end of the beach. Loren had hired his favorite nephew, Carl, to put on a carpenter’s apron, but when it came to working with a hammer and nails, Carl was not the most reliable.

Like many construction projects, Loren Coburn’s fell behind schedule. First completed was the 100- foot long stable, with accommodations for guests who arrived in their own horse-drawn carriages.

Lovers of Pebble Beach could still ride the stage there. A round-trip cost $.25….I think from San Mateo to Pescadero but I’m not sure.

In Pescadero the gossip was about a possible race track at Pebble Beach. It looked as if a crude track had been laid out for exercising horses. Thousands of sheltering cypress trees were arriving soon, to help hold back the area’s heavy winds and fog. Most everyone was captivated by a story about Bean Hollow Lagoon. Loren Coburn was talking about transforming Bean Hollow Lagoon into a fresh water lake.

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The Coburn Mystery: Chapter 58

November 27, 2008 at 1:55 pm · Filed under Uncategorized

By June Morrall

When the Pebble Beach bill passed the California legislature in 1893, the overjoyed citizens of Pescadero celebrated with a “Mammoth Picnic,” at the beach piled high with shiny, colorful stones. Pebble Beach was “Pescadero’s inheritance,” they said.

Guests of honor were State Senator Bart Burke and Assemblyman James O’Keefe.

After Pescadero’s Dr. McCracken, a future county supervisor, called the “seashore banquet” to order, he said to the gathered crowd:

Ladies and Gentlemen, today in Chicago the greatest fair and exhibit in the history of the world has been dedicated to the people…we are here to celebrate an important event to the people of this country, the dedication to the people of beautiful Pebble Beach. For over a year the people have been battling for their rights, and it has come to the time when they were to be protected in them. We have with us two gentlemen to whom, for this, we owe much, and will now take pleasure in presenting each with a charm made from a pebble from the beach as a slight token of the regard the people of Pescadero hold of their friends. As we love Pebble Beach so we hold in remembrance those who so valiantly assisted in the passage of Asembly Bill 103.

Both politicians graciously received the “charms” fashioned from very special white agates found at Pebble Beach. In size, the agates measured 1/8 x 5/8 inches. They were mounted in a gold setting with this inscription:

Presented to Senator Bart Burke/Jas. O’Keefe by the People of Pescadero, 1893.

I have no record of Assemblyman O’Keefe’s comments but Senator Burke had an upbeat message for the folks:

“…looking into the faces of the good people present,” said Senator Burke,  “and feeling as I now do the motives which have actuated you to battle for the freedom of these grounds, and, above all, beingeye witness to the happiness and pleasure it gives the entire community to feel secure in its possession, more than compensate me for any effort I put to that end.”

The official ceremony and “Mammoth Picnic” closed with a poem read by local pioneer John Goulson. As soon as it grew dark the Pescaderans squeezed into the standing room only social hall where they danced to the music of a San Francisco orchestra.

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John Vonderlin: This Brick's No Ordinary Brick

November 26, 2008 at 1:19 am · Filed under Dan Mosier, John Vonderlin, South Coast Brick

[Image: The partial brick John found. How did it get to the South Coast?]

Story/Photo by John Vonderlin
Email John (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

Hi June,

Do you remember my posting that included a photo of a partial brick I had photographed in the gravel of Gazos Creek the day of Mike Merritt’s guided history walk in late August? Only little more then half a brick, with an imprint including a partial letter followed by the letters B A L L. Hoping to find out something about it, I emailed a brick collector’s website that encouraged questions. Unfortunately, the email I sent was from a master account on my computer, and I forgot to check that account for replies. So I missed the reply from Dan Mosier, an avid brick collector, and the helpful author of the excellent brick-oriented website. http://calbricks.netfirms.com/index.html Wander around this site for a few minutes and I’ll guarantee you’ll know more about bricks then anyone in your neighborhood. What Marine Debris is to me, bricks are to Dan.

Fortunately, Dan re-sent his missive recently. And I now know the partial brick is an antique archway firebrick, made in Derwenthaugh, Durham County, England, and probably shipped to California in the mid- to- late 1800s, as ballast in a ship that sailed the perilous 16,000 mile route around Cape Horn. Price upon delivery? Possibly free! Probably 10 cents. Certainly so cheap, that the Mid-Western brickmakers could not compete, when saddled with the prohibitive cost of overland transportation for just one-tenth that distance.

Even with all the facts I’ve learned about the remnant since Dan identified its manufacturer, it is still quite possible that it could have been used in the McKinley Mill in the 1870s, and then reused at the Gazos Mill in the early 1900s, as I had theorized in the “Strange Coincidence” posting.

Mr. Mosier was quite sure it was a SNOWBALL brick, made by the Snowball brother’s Derwenthaugh Fire Brick Works. When I looked at this photo on his website, so was I. http://calbricks.netfirms.com/brick.snowball.html An exact match.

Mr. Robert Piwarzyk, also an avid brick collector, whom Dan quotes on his website, has written a manuscript entitled, “The Laguna Limekilns: Bonny Doon.” An excerpt of that at http://www.santacruzpl.org/history/work/limefire.shtml explains the history of firebricks in California, particularly on our coast. And this helps to explain the possible usage dynamics that might have led to the SNOWBALL firebrick remnant being in the Gazos Creek. While his timeline and facts seem to support my multiple firebox use theory for the brick, he warns of the difficulty of interpretation of sites that have bricks. Then reiterates that with this quote , “…..Or, as more aptly stated in “Brick Bats for Archaeologists: Values of Pressed Brick Brands,” by Roger and Marsha Kelly: “…. Reuse of bricks is an important capability which may lead to ambiguous interpretations of chronology.” ”

Still, I’ve made up my story and I’m sticking with it. Enjoy. John
P.S. Mr. Mosier, also wrote an interesting email to me about the bricks used in the Pigeon Point Lighthouse, a subject that has had mystery and some controversy associated with it. He also suggested likely brickmakers for both the distorted bricks I posted a picture of a while ago and the bricks used in “Limey Kay’s” house. More on this soon.

Real soon. This is an excerpt about SNOWBALL firebricks by Mr. Piwarzyk in his manuscript.

“Comments: Several letter sizes and styles are known. Also comes in arch and wedge shapes. Noted in Kelly’s Directories Ltd. 1935. Have been found at five limekiln sites in Santa Cruz. Two fragments of this brick having a backward “b” (i.e. rotated) were found at the Laguna limekilns.” Hmmm. Dyslexic or drunk brickmakers? Or bored, rebellious workers? Good thing I didn’t work there. Though I’m sure future brick collectors would prize my clandestine efforts.

By the way I was able to find some of the Vital Statistics about the Snowball brothers. They were both listed as coalminers when they got married. I wonder if their wives had anything to do with their career change. Women and coal dust are not immiscible, but form a very unstable compound. Bricks? They are forever.

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John Vonderlin: The Black Bar Shows The Possible Site of the Worley Dam Site

November 25, 2008 at 1:48 pm · Filed under Uncategorized

To play catch up on John Vonderlin’s earlier Worley Dam posts, please click here

Email John Vonderlin (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

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The Coburn Mystery: Chapter 57

November 24, 2008 at 12:18 am · Filed under Uncategorized

By June Morrall


1893, the year of a “financial panic,” centered in the big cities.

In January, respected Pescadero pioneer Alexander Moore traveled to the state capitol in Sacramento to lend his last minute support for passage of the controversial Pebble Beach legislation, Assembly Bill 103. His presence was worth the trip; the so-called “Pebble Beach bill” passed the legislature unanimously, adding it to the county park system.

Loren Coburn had claimed the beach, and all of its shiny pebbles, but he was not in Sacramento to fight for it.

Why was that?

Apparently, an incomplete piece of legislation had been passed. Yes, the beach was now officially a public park—but the road, Coburn’s road, leading to the beach WAS NOT. There was no provision for a road or path or trail for people to use to get to the beach.

That problem would be dealt with later. In Pescadero there was much rejoicing. A “Grand Picnic” was planned for April, including San Mateo and Santa Cruz Assemblymen James O’Keefe and Bart Burke. The festivities closed with a “Grand Hop” at the Union Hall.

Everyone had so much fun, there was another big picnic scheduled for May, a “seashore banquet,” if you will,. Assemblymen O’Keefe and Burke were guests of honor.

When the time came,  Pescadero’s Dr. McCracken rose to speak:

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “today in Chicago the greatest fair and exhibit in the history of the world has been dedicated to the people….we are here to celebrate an important event to the people of this county, the dedication to the people of beautiful Pebble Beach. For over a year the people have been battling for their rights, and it had come to the time when they were to be protected in them. We have with us two gentlemen to whom, for this, we owe much., and will now take pleasure in presenting each with a charm made from a pebble from the beach as a slight token of the regard the people of Pescadero hold of their friends. As we love Pebble Beach so we hold in remembrance those who so valiantly assisted in the passage of Assembly Bill 103.”

———

(Image at the top of the story: 1893 minted in San Francisco Morgan Silver Dollar. Only 100,000 were struck, making this coin the rarest Morgan Silver Dollar.)

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John Vonderlin: The Chutist (Two)

November 23, 2008 at 9:08 pm · Filed under Gordon's Chute, John Vonderlin

The Chutist, Part Two

Story & Photos by South Coast Explorer-Adventurer John Vonderlin

Email John (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

Hi June,

In Part 1, I was in such a hurrry to push my account to the point of reaching the location of Gordon’s Chute, that I left out a couple of “points of interest” that you will see along the way. As I previously wrote , after you’ve wound your way to where the beach comes into view, after having passed the ominous “Skull Graffitti,” scurried over the “Slime Pit” on the wobbly log,  inched along the slippery, precipitous ”Inca Trail,” and finally struggled through the dense underbrush of the riparian corrider, into the open, you’ll see something I forgot to mention: A series of huge, parallel concrete blocks. They are the last remnants of the Tunitas Gulch Trestle, the figurative, and perhaps someday, the metaphorical ”end-of-the-line” of the famous, but ill-fated, Ocean Shore Railroad. The blocks used to be heavily covered by bright blue and fluorescent,Tagger-type painted graffitti, but somebody, mercifully, covered those with a camouflage-style coating that seems to be getting less obtrusive as time passes. Might be me, though.

If you want to head towards the southern end of the beach, close to the trestle remnants, there’s a log that spans the creek, and with a little  balancing act, you can do it, no problem. If you can’t do that, perhaps the green coating of shoe- slime you picked up earlier on the “Log Walk,” will look tasty with an ample topping of white sea foam (a thick layer of the fluffy stuff huddles on the waters surrounding the good-sized tree you’ll be traversing)

But this time we’re going to head north. After reaching the sand where the creek, which had been hugging the base of the hill, veers westward toward the ocean, Meg and I discovered this wonderful bit of Ephemeral Beach Art.

Knowing that this area was a camping site for Portola during the famous 1769 Expedition, probably because of the Ohlone village that was once here, I couldn’t help but wonder if there is an Ohlone, or other  Native-American connection to this structure. It has wonderful lines,  seems to be easy to build, and when  thatched, would provide sufficient shelter under all kinds of skies. It’s fun to visualize how it might have been 500 years ago, on an overnight shellfish-gathering expedition from a nearby village to this special site, under the magical cliffs of Tunitas.

Now, 240 years after the Portola Expedition, I found myself walking and standing and thinking where the explorers may have done the same. I am not surprised by this feeling of “continuity,” if you will.  I am sure they enjoyed the same incredible views of the Pacific, the spacious sands, looming cliffs, and the ever-changing rhythm of the surf that is found here.

As we headed further north across the sand, a distance away from the sheer cliffs for safety’s sake, we encountered a tire, one of Tunitas Beach’s most common non-buoyant Marine Debris “aggravations.” I’ve observed tires being coughed up more frequently by “Neptune’s Vomitorium” at the north end of the beach, more than anywhere else on the Coastside. Then they slowly migrate south down the beach. Sometimes it takes months for a nubile tire to make the voyage; then it will vanish into the offshore Longshore Current (once again.)

The particular stretch of sand this tire was marring, was, and is, the province of Jim Denevan’s, aka, The Sand Man. I might have stepped onto his favorite practice area where he creates his world famous sand etchings. Alas, he seems to have stopped coming. Perhaps, this winter, when most sane folks are barred from access by the difficult terrain, I’ll spot his bare footprints leading away from his latest wonderful piece of art.
One hundred yards further, and we are standing at the gateway to Alexander Gordon’s Chute site. Only passable in a good minus tide, this “gauntlet-style” passage is coated with a healthy layer of many types of slimy algae, turning walking into a “pay-attention business.”

But we thought by hugging the cliff base, in the narrow band above the slime, and doing a timed-dash across the one, always wave-washed area, then clambering up a slick wall onto the terrace of the base rock for Gordon’s Chute, that we would be ready to launch our expedition into new, unexplored territory, the Tunitas sea cliffs, stretching north to Martin’s Beach. What I now call “The Forbidding Zone.” Home to many large sea caves, where some have tall-taled, suggested or perhaps revealed, sea monsters or other strange creatures might live. Certainly, it is one of the least explored, least written about and apparently never photographed stretches of our coast. I wanted to change that.

Up to this point, I had been feeling pretty confident about our plan and the planned route.  But, if you look carefully in the far distance of the gateway picture, above the base rock of Gordon’s Chute, you can see a huge spray of  whitewater. This is right at the low spot I was hoping to lower myself from the top of the base rock to the sand below next cove, and then use my little ladder to climb back up after probing north. Seeing this made me worried, and that was from a distance.  Next Part 3 The Base Rock, Chicken’s Roost Redux? Enjoy. John
Below is a page from the California Historical Landmark about the #375 Marker at Tunitas Creek;Tunitas Beach, Indian Village Site on Portola Route

Site Information

Approximate Location of the Indian Village Site
site photo
Landmark Number: 375
Location: Mouth of Tunitas Creek at Tunitas Beach, 1,000 ft west of Hwy 1, 6.8 miles south of Half Moon Bay, San Mateo County
Marker Plaque: none
Coordinates: 37.35664 N
122.3961 W

Coordinates based on NAD27 datum

Description

The Portola Expedition of 1769 discovered this Indian Village on Tunitas Creek in the southwest corner of Rancho Canada de Verde y Arroyo de las Purisima; the Rancho was granted to Jose Maria Alviso in 1838

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John Vonderlin: The Chutist (1)

November 21, 2008 at 6:22 pm · Filed under Uncategorized

[ Note to our readers: If you have a pc, you may have to imagine John's photos at this time. You may see red x's. If you have a mac, you should be okay. We are working on resolving the problem. They are really beautiful photos.]

The Chutist, Part One

Story/Photos by John Vonderlin

Email John (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

Hi June,

Our attempt during the extreme low tide (minus 1.4) a few days ago to probe northward from the former site of Gordon’s Chute into “The Forbidding Zone,” was a failure. We had hoped the combo of the low tide, nicely placed in the late afternoon, along with the presence of all the sand, not yet drawn into deeper waters by the winter’s waves, might provide us a virtual Camino Real northward below the cliffs, perhaps, right up to Martin’s Beach.

Realistically, I was just planning to use my little wooden ladder, a throwaway from some child’s bunk bed, to climb back onto Gordon’s Chute’s base rock after sliding down from it for a quick foray into the next cove, with its giant sea cave. Unfortunately,.the moderately large surf, spawned by a Pacific storm, that though driven far north by the developing High Pressure Center presently warming us, was still able to send its killjoy missionaries to squash my hopes, as I saw at first glance. Still, failure can breed success and having to halt, and go no further, on the base rock of Gordon’s Chute, made me give my newest Chicken’s Roost, a thrice over. A “Chute shoot” developed.

But before I can photographically bolster my rationale for allowing reticence to decide whether I should take a chance in the name of exploration, let’s get there first.

These first five photos are of the creek trail to Tunitas Beach. With the onset of substantial rain, it will washout, leaving only the slippery, steep trail straight down from the Highway 1 pulloff available.

After parking on Tunitas Creek Road just east of Highway 1, you head south along a dark, shady trail, beside and in a small concrete drainage ditch. The path gets steeper downhill, then cuts westward under the bridge. There you will be confronted by the angry guardian of Tunitas,

If you are brave enough to continue, you’ll soon have to pass the first test:: “The Log Walk.” Though only slightly longer then ten feet, the log walk is particularly treacherous because of the thinness of the log, the sliminess of the nearby mud that will be coating the bottom of your shoes, and the green scum that failure will coat you with.

The added trap of the seemingly substantial log parallel, alongside the main trunk, apparently available in case you should start to lose your balance, actually offers a long-to-be-recounted-with much-laughter, even if not photographically-captured, humiliation event.

From there it’s the Inca Trail, a narrow, muddy, slippery  hand-dug trail, that offers its own opportunities to put a damper on your beach visit memories, if you’re not paying attention.

Passing through that, you wind your way through almost a tropical forest.

During the winter some ambitious souls will hack a path leading up the hill above the flooded “Log Walk” and the washout of the “Inca Trail, allowing beach access.  Abandoned in late Spring, it is almost invisible, completely overgrown by Fall.

Continuing to hike through the riparian corridor as it emerges into the ever-widening canyon mouth, you finally see the goal ahead, Gordon’s Chute

the wave-washed end of the looming, sheer Tunitas cliffs. Next, Part 2 of “The Chutist,” or “Oh. Shoot! and the Chute Shoot.” Enjoy. John

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Photographer Joel Bratman: Acid Beach & The Notch

November 21, 2008 at 11:20 am · Filed under Uncategorized

Bratman has gone deep into Vonderlin territory.

To see Joel Bratman’s photos, please click here

Email Joel: jbratman@earthlinnk.net

June to Joel: Where did you shoot these pix from?

Joel to June:

Hi June,

I stopped at a couple of turnouts about half a mile south of Greyhound rock and pushed my way through thick shrub to get to the edge of the protruding bluff to take these photos.

Look for the portion of green shrub that extends out the furthest.  http://www.californiacoastline.org/cgi-bin/image.cgi?image=6419&mode=sequential&flags=0&year=2002 That’s where I took most of these from.

- Joel

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