Tree-visiting at Mission La Purísima

Fountains and olive trees. Olive oil was one source of mission income back in the day.

Rather than trying to visit my Rocky Mountain Junipers between rainstorms, I'm reporting on some trees I saw at Mission La Purísima in California several weeks ago. It was a lovely spring day and the plants were lush, having been drenched in torrential rains earlier this year.

By far the most common tree was the Coastal (or California) Live Oak, Quercus agrifolia. The old ones were magnificent with their spreading sinuous branches.

Young oak already beginning to curve, with barrel—for olive oil or maybe wine?

On one oak, I found a thriving colony of California's state lichen—Ramalina menziesii or Lace Lichen. It was designated in 2016 by then-Governor Jerry Brown, making California the first state to have a state lichen. How cool is that?!

Some call it "California Spanish Moss".

Beneath the great oaks were healthy thickets of Poison Oak (no relation). If you don't know this plant, it causes a terribly-itchy skin rash. But along the trail, someone had kindly trimmed it back, making a wall of sorts.

In all my time in California, I don't remember seeing this much poison oak!

Now one more tree ... this one for Pat, of Squirrelbasket fame and host of our monthly gathering of tree-followers. It is what we (on the west side of the pond) call sycamore, Platanus racemosa.

"Our" sycamore's leaves and bark, courtesy J. Maughn via Flickr.

After parking my field assistant and van in the shade, I visited the mission itself, as I have many times. Its historical role is complicated. It was one factor in eradication of traditional Chumash (indigenous) culture. Yet at the same time, Catholicism was strongly embraced and became well-established. “I don’t harbor bitterness because I consider God my spoils of war ... I have my Catholicism.” said Ernestine Ygnacio-De Soto, whose great-grandmother survived the Chumash rebellion. (For a lengthy and thought-provoking account, see "The Chumash rebellion of 1824 illustrates the changing conversation surrounding life at California's missions". Santa Maria Sun, March 2018.)

For me, heathen that I am, there was no conflict when I entered the cool quiet space of the mission. The thick adobe walls and simple decor seemed to insulate and protect me from the crazy world outside, and offered a chance for secular contemplation.

Mission La Purísima was established in 1787, rebuilt in its present location after a large earthquake in 1812, secularized in 1834, and was in ruins by the 1930s. It was reconstructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps, an amazing project and fascinating story.

The park is in La Cañada de los Berros (watercress canyon) very close to the town of Lompoc, yet it feels remote. It's a beautiful and peaceful place to visit—except perhaps in April when group after group of local fourth-graders tours the grounds (as I did, MANY years ago). As a bonus there are about 25 miles of trails, and dogs are allowed on leash.

California's Central Coast, through a lens

"I gazing at the boundaries of granite and spray, the established sea-marks, felt behind me

Mountain and plain, the immense breadth of the continent,

before me the mass and doubled stretch of water."

Those are not my words. Robinson Jeffers wrote them a century ago. But that's very much how I felt after driving across the Rocky Mountains, Colorado Plateau, Great Basin, Mojave Desert, Central Valley, and Coast Range to reach the "Continent's End" as Jeffers called it. He loved this rugged coast with off and on fog—a place where we can "unhumanize our views a little, and become confident, as the rock and ocean ... "

Estero Beach State Park north of Cayucos, in intermittent fog.

Herring Gulls probably (note pink leg).

Cormorants were cooperative, hardly moving while I played with my new camera and lens.

Seabirds as sculpture.

My friend showed me a curious erosion-resistant white deposit near the base of the bluffs. Geotripper Garry Hayes says it's calcite, perhaps from a spring. What do you think?

This one is harder to explain ;)

The next day, I hiked up the Point Sal road south of Guadalupe. It climbs steeply, and then winds down down down to Point Sal State Beach. The road is closed to motorized vehicles, is dirt much of the way, and is quite rough in places. Hard to imagine going to Point Sal in the family station wagon! But that's what we did.

Looking down from the Point Sal road; trailhead is white spot in lower left quarter.

The hills were still green (normally brown by now) and plants were flourishing, thanks to torrential rains earlier in the year.

The beloved and the despised: orange California Poppy and yellow Black Mustard (actually, some people like the yellow patches the mustard adds to our grasslands).

I spotted several giant thistles along the road—about six feet tall! This is the non-native Blessed Milkthistle. It's listed Noxious in some parts of the country, but the California Invasive Plants Council considers it of limited concern, with low rates of invasion and minor ecological impact. I was taken by its dramatic features, especially the boldly mottled leaves.

Silybum marianum.

I turned around at the crest, far above Point Sal beach. Views down can be spectacular, but that day they were mostly hidden by fog—the ocean's breath (channeling Jeffers again).

Looking south with a bit of ocean and strand visible below the fog bank.

The rugged north end of Point Sal beach ... a view I will never tire of!