I was in the middle of selecting photos for the posting I am writing about our trip to the proposed Worley Flats dam site, when I came across something I’d forgotten. That day we also visited Invisible Beach, and thanks partly to a good low tide, but mainly because of the unusually high level of sand that was present, we were able to walk further out then ever before, around the large rocky promontory that bounds it to the north.
I was photographing a usually submerged rock that had an unusually diverse group of mussels, limpets, and several types of barnacles all growing together on it, labelling it mentally, the “We Can Just Get Along,” photos when Meg called for me to look at a giant limpet. She was right, it was a giant, the biggest I’d ever seen. It was nestled in an alcove in the lee side of a mat of mussels, apparently enjoying their company or at least the partial.shield from the surf they provided. It was so big that it had other limpets attached to its ancient, battered shell.
Moving on I was amazed to see an even bigger brute, half again the first one’s size.
)
This one appeared a little more standoffish from his Mussel rockmates and was in a clear spot on the rock, unprotected from the waves, just barely touching his mussel neighbors. It too had friends along for the ride on its weathered shell.
Well I did some research on limpets and discovered I was interpreting the scene I was looking at very wrongly. Limpets, at least of this species, are bullies. The are also territorial farmers who watch their fields of algae carefully where they grow in a clearing on the rock, defending them from others of their own species, as well as other interlopers. They graze the algae growing on their own farm/clearing in a sustainable fashion, that ensures long term productivity. But if they should stray into a neighbor’s field, they reveal their darker side and will eat everything in sight (or smell) until driven off. They accomplish this with trespassers, ramming the target with the edge of their shell followed by non-stop “shoving.”
As the tide recedes they return from their field, probably guided by pheromones contained in the slime trail they left, to their “home scar.” The combination of the contour of this “home scar,” eroded into the rock, and the limpet’s shell growing to fit its contour, helps the limpet make a better seal. When the waves return, or predators attack, this probably helps the limpet suvive until it can return to tend its field again.
Part of the field’s tending involves pushing the various molluscs that are growing at the clearing’s edge back, so they won’t shrink its size. In fact, my guess is, as the limpets grow larger, they need more food and hence spend a lot of time expanding their “empire,” pushing “trespassers and squatters” off the new farmland needed.
You might say there is a perpetual “Range War” going on right beneath our noses, but its skirmishes are fought not at High Noon, but at High Tide. Enjoy. John
Some species of limpets return to the same spot on the rock known as a “home scar” just before the tide recedes (BBC). In such species, the shape of their shell often grows to precisely match the contours of the rock surrounding the scar. This behavior presumably allows them to form a better seal to the rock and may help protect from either predation or desiccation.
It is still unclear how limpets find their way back to the same spot each time, but it is thought that they follow pheromones in the mucus left as they move. Other species, notably Lottia gigantea, seem to “garden” a patch of algae around their home scar (Shanks 2002).
Lottia gigantea also are one of the few invertebrates to exhibit territoriality and will aggressively push other organisms out of this patch by ramming with their shell, thereby allowing their patch of algae to grow for their own grazing. Also, where the limpets eat the algae off bare rocks, it creates places where other organisms can grow and thrive.
Before going to see the Big Waves, Meg and I went on a “photo mushroom hunt” in nearby Memorial Park. There is an old apple orchard bordering Wurr Rd. that the rangers mow, but do nothing else for the incredibly old trees that remain. When it was planted, and by whom, I don’t know. As we were poking around at its edges, I decided to shoot a picture of this ancient apple tree.
If you look carefully you can see the original trunk is leaning over heavily and has decayed to a half-pipe-looking trough.
As I was shooting photos of it, we talked about the amazing struggle this tree had put up to stay alive. Apparently, after the main trunk had rotted, the tree had fallen over. A lower branch apparently then rooted, and with the help of the still living cambium layer and roots of the half pipe of trunk remaining, was able to nourish a few upper branches. One of which became the main trunk, standing straight and tall. It was fortitude incarnate..
As we walked away, Meg said she saw an apple in the tree. I was surprised, having seen none, but looked where she was pointing and sure enough, a beautiful golden apple hung there just above my head. The last
of its kind surely, hanging on as resolutely as its parent had hung on to life; it beckoned me. I walked over, reached up and plucked it. Rotating it in my hand I saw it was perfect. Golden, firm, no sign of an insect’s assault scarred its protective skin. I wiped it clean, then holding it up and twirling it to reveal its perfection, I joked, “Eve, would you care for the first bite?”
When it was my turn, I was amazed by both its texture and taste. It was the best apple I’ve had this year. It’s ripening on the tree had produced a richness of taste impossible to find in store bought apples because of the need to breed them and pick them with long term storage and transportation in mind. Impossible even to find at U-Pick orchards, because this late in the season all the picking ladders have been put away and the roadside stand is closed.
Having had a family apple orchard in Sebastopol for years I know it is only these late season, tree-ripened until ready to drop by themselves apples, that can taste like this. And then only from the old varieties whose DNA hasn’t been buffeted and transformed by market forces.
The incredibly tenacious lifeforce of the tree, the exquisite taste of the very last fruit that remained, a fruit that somehow had avoided falling to the ground, or being attacked by insects for so long, seemingly waiting for us to come, suggested a course of action. It had recruited me. More on this in the Spring when my long dormant Johnny Appleseed credentials are renewed or when I’ve found out something about this orchard’s history. Enjoy. John
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Loren Coburn was overseeing construction of his hotel overlooking Pebble Beach. As with any big construction project, there were many after thoughts, and despite Loren’s reputation for frugality, he opened his wallet wide for the Pebble Beach Hotel.
The pace was demanding, and locals wondered out loud how the 67-year-old millionaire could keep it up.
“A younger man,” the critics said, “would be more successful.” Others admitted that the hotel would translate into a new “drawing card” for tiny Pescadero.
[Note: I have misplaced the next 3 pages of the original ms. so I’m suddenly jumping forward.]
You may recall that while Pebble Beach was added to the San Mateo County Park system, there was no public road leading to it. Coburn had built his own private road which he wasn’t willing to share.
Without a resolution to the road problem, the struggle to get to Pebble Beach dragged on, with more tearing down and repairing of the fence and gate.
Relations were especially tense between Loren Coburn and County Supervisor Henry Adair.
“…Adair said he should keep that fence open just as long as he lived, whether he was in office or not” said Sarah Upton, the sister-in-law, and soon to be the wife of Loren Coburn. “Mr. Adair said that we should keep that fence down and open…”
Supervisor Adair corrected: “I told Mr. Coburn that I would keep that gate open as long as I was supervisor, and then I would go as a citizen.” He knew that the board of supervisors had ordered that a road survey be made by Davenport Bromfield, the county’s well known surveyor.
Maybe the future “road survey” was what had emboldened another skirmish at the gate to Pebble Beach, this one nasty and ego bruising.
It began when Sarah Upton and Loren Coburn, both on horseback, headed for Pebble Beach. Sarah saw a gnarled ball of barbed wire inside the gate and warned: “Your horse will get into that.”
At that moment Joe Levy rode up.
According to Sarah, Levy said: “Coburn, get out of the road. I am going to the beach.”
“I am not in the road,” Coburn said sharply.
“If you don’t get out of the road, I will drive over you.”
“You are not going through my ‘enclosure’ here to go to the beach.”
And so it went, a heated tussle of words, until the roadmaster Charles Pinkham, with Supervisor Adair seated at his side, drove up in a large wagon pulled by four horses. There were 20 men with them.
Sarah continued to describe the scene as she recalled events: “…Adair got down from the wagon, and he took a saw, a hand saw, and went to sawing the fence. Loren Coburn was standing between the buggy and the fence.”
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Meg and I went out to the coast on Sunday, partly to check out the big waves that were hitting our local shores. With Saturday’s news of two more drownings off Pillar Point after their small boat overturned, I was feeling a little more cautious then usual. So, we first went to one of the best, but safest places I know of to experience the noisy and foam-spitting arrival of these giants. That spot being Pescadero Point at Pescadero Beach. This is not the traditional and map-named Pescadero Point that I recently posted the “Bathhouse Rock” story about, which is about a mile south. But, rather the small rocky promontory jutting out from the coast, just west of the “T” intersection of Pescadero Road and Highway 1.
The reason I like this spot for wave watching is that the promontory of the point is narrow, which gives a feeling of being surrounded on three sides by raging whitewater when you climb out towards its end. Yet, you are high enough almost all of the way out to be reasonably safe, even in the heaviest surf.
Most people tend to stop when they come to the first bluff after descending the stairs. It takes just a fairly easy climb down to water level and then back up the next rock further out to bring you to a spot that puts you much more up-close and personal with Neptune’s wrath. At the same time, whatever geologic aspect that has kept this promontory from being eroded, has left large, usually submerged blocks of rock at its end that protect you by fending off the fury of his assault. I should caution that this works best when the swell is coming in parallel to the shore or slightly from the south. Still, under many different conditions, I’ve only seen the rock topped a few times, and that was at high tide with huge waves. Even in that case, if you were out there, there are cracks and protuberances you could jam yourself into and hold onto for dear life with a high probability of not being swept into the turbulent and icy waters. Please contact me if this theory is correct. I’d love to see the video.
This first picture is what the promontory looked like on another day at lowtide. As
you can see this promontory is an interesting intrusion into the ocean with a series of potential photographic perches that have an escalating scale of danger as you head seaward. And here’s what it looked like that day looking landward from the spot I was shooting.
And finally here are a few pictures of what it was like that day looking
around from that spot. Next time I expect I’ll have to get soaked to get better pictures. Actually, I did get better pictures this time, but with the Flip video, and I have to edit the footage I took of a big set that rolled through so it is a small enough file to email. Soon. Enjoy. John
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[Image below. Levy Brothers brick building in Half Moon Bay was destroyed by the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire.]
From the pages of the 1891 Coast Advocate, both Levy Bros & Williamson advertise their general stores, side-by-side.
At the time Levy Bros. was breaking new ground, opening “chain” stores in San Gregorio and Half Moon Bay. Mr. J.C. Williamson, who had worked for Levy Bros. in Pescadero, opened his own store on Stage Road (originally called San Gregorio Street.)
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June, I just came across another newspaper archive. It’s been a couple of years in the works and now finally yielding some interesting stories. Please click here
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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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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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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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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