Pescadero Memories

Email John Vonderlin (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

Email Russell Towle (russelltowle@gmail.com)

John Vonderlin (JV)

Yes, the jeep road Hank Bradley would access his beach kingdom from still exists. It suffered some damage from the spectacularly high tide/big wave event we had this Spring, but it looks easily repairable. I suspect the old jeep one of his family member uses to this day to patrol the beach is the same one you were talking about. I also believe that jeep road you mentioned he would drive down to access the beach is the same one used by the “Cape Horn/Alligator Rock” travelers to get off the beach, back on top of the bluff, over a century ago.

Russell Towle (RT)

Yes, that makes sense. That little road has the look of an old road. But for a loaded wagon to traverse that beach … I don’t know …maybe if a horse-drawn scraper went over a route at the base of the cliffs and got rid of some of the sand … they wouldn’t have had the benefit of the constant shedding of rock debris from the cliffs above, as they had farther south … those rocks make a viable surface …

It actually begs the question, when the ranchers of Año Nuevo needed tonnage of supplies or farm equipment, how did they get it? Via the ocean? Or via a road or roads?

I don’t recall the LSD story. Maybe it was after my time. I still have a kayak Hank pulled off his beach back then, in 1971 I think. It just washed up empty, with a couple of its wooden ribs broken. We used to idly speculate on who abandoned it, where, under what circumstances. I used to take that kayak into the ocean, but it was scary.

who recently “went out” to Acid Beach & Beyond with co-adventurer Larry Fitterer.

“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.

Story by John Vonderlin (email John benloudman@sbcglobal.net)

Hi June,

I had a chance yesterday to explore the tunnel in the cliffside near Pescadero Beach. I’m convinced the tunnel was part of the coastal defenses, hurriedly constructed after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I’m hoping to get confirmation of this soon from local authorities.

Parking off Highway 1, in the tunnel’s vicinity, I decided to retrace the path I had used before, on my first visit, as it had been a much easier trek then the horrendous cross-country, bushwhacking trip to it.

Unfortunately, while heading in this direction, I saw the front of the sign I hadn’t read when I exhaustedly passed it while escaping out of the canyon that first time. It forcefully urged me to STAY BACK. UNSTABLE CLIFFS.

The well-trodden path to the cliff’s edge let me know that a number of scofflaws had not taken this sign seriously. I assume there is no law violation involved, but I’d urge other adventurers not to follow this path, as the cliffs are very unstable here, especially with the winter’s rain.

Having been startled more then once while walking local beaches as large chunks of cliffside crashed onto the sand beside me for no apparent reason, I did take the warning seriously.

Moving parallel to the sign, I found a small animal trail that eventually joined the faint trail descending into the canyon further on, but a safe distance from the cliff’s edge.

The faint trail peters out at the edge of the steepest slope near the bottom of the canyon, but if you’re determined and confident, it is not too hard to find a fairly safe path to the gully’s floor. Following the gully seaward, I arrived at the sheer 40- foot cliff that drops to the rocks on the beach below.

From there I could see the tunnel opening, above me, on the north side of the cliff as it turns eastward into the gully.

I had to be extremely careful; it’s very muddy and slick there. As I tried to climb towards the opening, I recalled slipping and sliding on my first trip, ending up soaked thigh high, sunken up to my knees in slimy mud.

I had to find another way to enter the tunnel and a ladder was not going to help. There was only an eight- foot drop from the tunnel opening’s floor, but it led to a narrow, water-filled pool with unclimbable walls, left and right.

There was no place to rest a ladder at the face of the cliff. Even the mud at my side of the pool’s depression was so squishy that my shoe almost vanished into the ooze without my putting any weight on my foot. I was stumped.

It was then I remembered something I had seen while channel surfing the night before. I stayed online long enough to watch a show called “Ninja Warrior,” where contestants competed in a series of timed Challenges involving the navigation of obstacle courses.

One difficult “challenge” involved inching along between a pair of four-foot-apart parallel Plexiglas walls for about 40 feet, keeping themselves from falling into the cold water below. The contestants accomplished this by exerting outward pressure on the Plexiglas with their hands and toes. But the slippery walls, coupled with physical exhaustion, tossed several challengers into the drink.

I thought I might apply a similar technique, and come up with a better result.

Climbing to a spot on a sloped ledge to the left of the tunnel opening, I slowly inched towards it until the slope was too steep to risk any further movement. Then, gathering all my courage, with arms extended, I toppled over, heading for the cliff on the other side of the pool. The extreme physical moves sent a shock through my shoulders, but it worked. At least it worked for the moment.

But there was no going back now; I could only press onward or fall downward into the pool. Nearly horizontal, with hands and feet pressing firmly against the opposite sides of the narrow slot canyon, I was suspended seven feet above the pool. Moving my hands and feet alternately, I began a clumsy sideways shuffle towards the opening.

Fortunately, my friend Meg didn’t want to approach the slick muddy parapet below the opening, just above the 40- foot drop to the beach, so she couldn’t photograph the fear rippling across my face. I didn’t think I’d be seriously hurt, but my camera and pride might not have survived a fall into the quagmire below and I’m certain it showed.

Reaching the tunnel’s opening, I was able to rest on the sloped remnants of the rock floor that hadn’t been eroded by the water flowing through it. Holding my small LED flashlight in my mouth, I continued to move deeper into the cave’s darkness until I could finally drop to a solid-looking part of the muddy stream bottom, worn six feet down from the tunnel’s original floor. Walking further in, I came to a sheer, seven- foot cliff that someone had cut shallow handholds into. Using my flashlight I could see there was a short side tunnel above me that may or may not have had another branch off it. But, around the corner to the right, I didn’t need my flashlight to see the light at the end of the tunnel. There was a second opening, partially covered with brush, about a 100-feet ahead.

I tried to scale the cliff using the handholds, but was unsuccessful. Likewise, the branch leading to the opening was unclimbable. Satisfied, I shot a few pictures and headed back towards sunlight. I was able to retrace my steps successfully, and soon was blinking in the bright sunlight with a big grin on my face.

Having related to Meg what I found, we decided to check out the other end of the tunnel to see what we could find. Heading upstream, we quickly realized as we stood in the wet, spongy, heavily overgrown bottom of the gully, that it was going to be very difficult. Instead, we climbed back up to the road and headed north on Highway 1.

Unable to see the tunnel’s opening in the tangle of growth below us, we each took our guess at the best route and started battling downward. I made a bad choice and was soon in over my head, caught in a thick tangle of spiny vines and heavy underbrush that looked suspiciously like poison oak without its leaves.

Turning tail, I struggled back to the road, from where I could just see the top of Meg’s head in the brush below. I decided that since I knew about how long the tunnel was, it might be easier to go across the northern rim of the canyon to the approximate spot above where I thought the opening was and then head straight down.

That worked fairly well, except that when I reached the gully’s bottom, the opening was nowhere in sight. Heading upstream, bulldozing the thickets of small rotted trees that blocked my way, I headed towards the direction of Meg’s voice. Shortly, I stumbled on the topsy- turvy sign shouting KEEP OUT! STRUCTURES AND GROUNDS UNSAFE.

I felt sure I was close, and that my surmisal that this tunnel had been an observation post was correct.

Thirty feet away, down a steep bank I was able to shout: “I see it!,” just as Meg burst free from the thicket of bushes above me. I entered the cave and gingerly straddled the eroded gap in the floor to just above where I had turned back when I entered it from the other end. Mission accomplished.

Returning to the upper opening, I noticed there was part of a concrete footing that probably had supported a door to seal it way back when it had been used. After all, they wouldn’t have wanted “frogmen teams” to sneak up on them and slit their throats before they could sound the alarm.

My belief is that some time after WWII, just as with the “tsunami Prankster cave,” I’ve written about, this cave was considered a public nuisance. Officials posted a sign warning people to stay out, and forgot about it. Because of its virtual invisibility, they probably felt plugging it wasn’t necessary. I saw absolutely no sign that anyone had visited this spot in many years. In fact, I can’t imagine there are many people that would bother.

Nevertheless, I’m very happy I did. The entire expedition helped me to visualize what those frightening times after Pearl Harbor must have been like. America, reeling from the blow, was frightened it would happen again and reacted with both vigor and panic. The string of coastal defenses and the brave people who manned them, were an important feature of that critical time.

Peering endlessly at the mighty Pacific from a small tunnel’s opening in a difficult-to-get-to Cliffside, US soldiers hoped to see, yet prayed they wouldn’t, waves of Japanese bombers headed for the Bay Area, enduring this lonely, isolated spot, miles from civilization, believing they were making the public feel safer. They are probably all dead now, but I thank those sturdy men of the “Greatest Generation,” who gave up so much. Enjoy. John Vonderlin

(Photo: gooseneck barnacles, courtesy John Vonderlin.)

Hi June,
There was one unusual “I See Dead Things” cluster at Invisible Beach that only appeared once, but has left me hoping for its return. Though, instead of being a cluster of a number of the same things, it was a cluster of different things I had never or rarely seen before. Some of the things I have never been able to discover what they were, others I now know what they are and have seen minor clusters of them at Invisible Beach since then. Why they all showed up that day is still a mystery I’d like to solve.
The photo above shows a group of Gooseneck Barnacles. Thank you Wikipedia for the following:
“In the days before it was realised that birds migrate, it was thought that Barnacle Geese, Branta leucopsis, developed from this crustacean, since they were never seen to nest in temperate Europe, hence the scientific and English names. The confusion was prompted by the similarities in colour and shape. Because they were often found on driftwood, it was assumed that the barnacles were attached to branches before they fell in the water. The Welsh monk Giraldus Cambrensis claimed to have seen goose barnacles in the process of turning into barnacle geese in the twelfth century.”
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Hi June,

As I began regularly collecting the marine debris that was spit out by Neptune’s Vomitorium, onto Invisible Beach, I couldn’t help but note that often there would be clusters of certain types of debris. Knowing that moving water frequently does that because of the interactions of the water flow and the object’s density, surface area, and shape, I wasn’t too amazed at first.

After all, the clustering of objects on beaches is perfectly normal.

The typical clustering effect that’s visible on the average beach is characterized by the size of the sediment composing different parts of the beach; fine sand here, a gravel bank of similar-sized pebbles there, or a bed of larger cobbles over there; making you aware of its noisy presence every time a sizeable wave recedes.

Another less common, and slightly more mysterious clustering effect of beach sediment, that you can see occasionally where the waves reach a cliff, a bluff or a dune, manifests itself as black chevrons pointing seaward. These chevrons are usually composed of fine, but heavy particles of magnetite, moved into their characteristic shape by the myriad of forces working in the swash zone. They are called heavy mineral laminae and have been researched quite extensively.

Invisible Beach displays all of those rock related clusters as well as the gravel bed at Neptune’s Vomitorium that contains all the varieties of quartz I have mentioned previously.. But, it also frequently displays clusters of expired critters whose pictures I put into a folder I call, “I See Dead Things.”

The most common dead-things-cluster at Invisible Beach is one most beach walkers are probably familiar with, a great number of mollusk shells of the same type dog-piling together as pictured in the photo at the top of this story.

It also occasionally displays the more tragically poignant clusters of freshly dead sea stars, seemingly saying good-bye to each other as pictured below.

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