Cate Mesa

By Willie Kellogg '23

Of course, I could not attend the prom. Nonetheless, Mesa Clinic allowed me to come in formal atire and see my class off. I’m sure that I cut a rather pitiful figure, standing alone by the gym in a tuxedo and face mask, waving at the Santa Barbara-bound buses whisking my friends away to a culminating moment in their teenagerhoods. Later when I collapsed in my backyard with a bowl of ice cream, I intended to pity myself too.

But self pity, I found, was impossible. Over the past few weeks a meadow of pink primrose had flooded my backyard, and this mini-superbloom was nearing its peak. Bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds fluttered among the iridescent petals, and the muted trickle of sycamore-lined Gobernador Creek emanated from its namesake canyon. In recent days, the avocado orchards on the flanks of Shepards Mesa have become sunburned, that is, their leaves have acquired an odd tinge of red, and in the golden evening light the contrast against their verdant understory of nasturtium enhanced that rare hue. Along the flanks of the canyon, oak trees clung to rockslides by masses of squirming roots, and beyond the orchards of the coastal plain, the gilded ridges of Santa Cruz Island floated on the channel. By the time the gibbous moon appeared above Casitas Pass, I couldn’t even force myself to wallow in self pity. In a setting so breathtaking, I could only be happy.

Joy at the nature of this place is a far from uncommon emotion here. I am often struck with happiness just by viewing the white patch of coldwater sandstone on Divide Peak, a carpet of liverworts in the bioswale, or even by the shape of a hilly pile of dirt eroded by the rain. And appreciating the land seems to make it easier to do so elsewhere; It is a gift that keeps on giving. Thus, the beauty of this place has instilled in me an undying excitement, for which I feel exceedingly lucky and grateful.

It was not until this month that I had my first bout with COVID-19. It came at an unfortunate time – the day before I had expected to go to prom. I had been feeling unwell in the preceding days, but, half expecting I had contracted the disease, I’d resolved to not visit the health center lest I be banned from prom, or god forbid, American Wilderness. Devious, I know. But that Friday, I was badly losing my daily race from my new house to class, so I decided to report my sore throat and fatigue to avoid some punitive chore. Bad move. Mesa Clinic indeed tested me, and that test was indeed positive.

But fundamental happiness is not the only virtue this land has gifted me. More than half my life ago, I and two other fac brats built brick structures outside Cook House West (CHW) for the invertebrates we dug up. We called it the “habitat.” Once, I unearthed a slug, and, setting it free on the top of “the habitat”, watched it descend on a thread of slime. I was unaware that a slug could do this, and I had a sense that I had discovered something new. I learned a couple elemental lessons from this moment, the first being the value of the underloved aspects of nature, and the other the abundance of undiscovered phenomena in the world. These epiphanies still guide my curiosity, and I owe them, in large part, to this place.

The bricks that once constituted the “habitat” now form a walkway outside CHW. I was rather inconsolable when they destroyed “the habitat” for this walkway, as I was inconsolable when the last of the Italian stone pines were cut down.

When I was a child, most open areas at Cate had one or two stone pines, which were these massive, reddish-barked trees topped by canopies that could probably shade an acre. One by one the trees succumbed to drought or pestilence and had to be cut down. But one such pine endured outside Pars near the walkway to Sunset Bench. The tree was a granary for acorn woodpeckers; its bark riddled with thousands of acorns the woodpeckers stored for later eating. But drought, or perhaps the stress of decades of sunsetwatchers walking on its roots, condemned it to the axe during the spring of our freshman year. I want to say that I cried when the canopy was lopped off and the trunk chainsawed into giant wooden cyllinders, but a more silent grief is closer to the truth. It was a grief very much for the end of the life of the tree, but also for the livelihoods of the acorn woodpeckers, the sap-sucking and acorn-boring insects, and that indescribable crimson of sunsetlight on its bark. A piece of that acornriddled bark still hangs on my wall, so every day I am nostalgic for what that place once had.

I don’t know when I developed such a sympathy for nonhuman life, but it probably began here, and experiences like the death of a stone pine certainly reinforced it. Cate Mesa taught me it isn’t possible to feel indifferent to the loss of so much beauty. And while my days as a militant six-year-old sneaking into dorm rooms to confiscate bottles of insecticide are over, I still refrain from killing even the most irritating insects because of the ethics this place imparted on me.

The landscape between Gobernador and Lillingston Canyons has changed me in other ways that are hard to define. It changed me when I was first stung by a bee in the grass where Booth Commons now stands. It changed me in a moment of profound awe while walking home from Bee Camp one evening in third grade. It changed me when I discovered the prickly pear trees of succulent heaven, a bizarre stinkhorn fungus on the goat trail, a rattlesnake outside Long House, a spider with an abdomen the size and appearance of a gourmet chocolate. It changed me when I found bears and a mountain lion on my infrared camera. It changed me when the Thomas Fire incinerated the chaparral, and when the rare tiger lily sprouted in its wake. It changed me with the help of Tim Smith when I climbed Divide Peak, and with the help of Troy Shapiro when Alex Espinoza “got out of the pool” for the first time on the climbing tower.

It did not change me, however, when I convinced myself I was immune to poison oak and then suffered a head-totoe systemic reaction; this exact chain of events actually happened several times. I’m currently in the “I’m immune to poison oak” phase of the cycle. But it did change when I convinced myself I’d been poisoned by hemlock. It changed me when I ignored Frank Griffin’s lesson on Maclaurin Series to witness a snowstorm enveloping Noon Peak. It changed me when I watched an ostracod (a type of microscopic crustacean) devour a hapless annelid worm. And of course it changed me when I missed Prom due to Covid and watched the moonrise over a meadow of primrose.

That is the role Cate Mesa has had in shaping who I am. My personality is a product of this land in the same way that it is a product of its people. But the formative effect of this place is certainly not unique to me. After 13,000 years of human habitation, I can guarantee that what we now call “Cate Mesa” has had a similarly profound impact on others. In fact, I would go so far as to say this land has impacted everyone in the audience, but to a varying degree and with varying effects.

Anyone who has spent time here has been influenced by the ubiquitous beauty: the smell of eucalyptus and sagebrush and the cries of feral peacocks in Lillingston

Canyon at sunset. It is how much you let such qualities of this place influence your thoughts that determines how much it is a part of you.

I believe we should strive to be a product of the places we know. Letting this place affect who I am has brought me immeasurable gratification, and I imagine it can do so for everyone. For those of us who get to experience Cate Mesa in years to come, let it affect how you find joy. Cate is a beautiful and easy place to learn how to source happiness from the world. For those of us who are moving to new places, each location may have a different effect on who you are. Do your best to become a product of that place, but remain a product of this one. Knowing how to think in different parts of the world will better-equip you for more of it.

Some often-quoted motivational speaker said something along the lines of “we are the product of our five closest friends.” In order to let a place become part of us, we should let the place be counted among those friends. Love it and learn from it as you would for another person. You’ll be happier for it. I know from experience, because this place has been my friend.

So thanks, Cate Mesa, it’s been real.