Ojai’s View, Beyond the Coastal Range

Ojai’s View

beyond the coastal range

story and photos by

CHUCK GRAHAM

The scenic drive up and over Highway 33 brims with stunning coastal mountainscapes as the two-lane road serpentines above the turnoff to Rose Valley Road. The winding route reaches a brief plateau affording a lofty gaze southwest toward Santa Cruz Island, part of the Channel Islands National Park.

View of the islands from the Ojai Valley

From atop the highway the volcanic island appears as an appendage of the rugged coastal range, and there is no denying its tallest summit – Diablo Peak at 2,450 feet. As the raven flies it is seemingly a stone’s throw away. However, from that view there is no hint of the Santa Barbara Channel or the littoral mainland separating the coastal, chaparral-choked eminence and the largest, most biodiverse isle off the California Coast. All that is visible from Highway 33 are the steep, rugged canyons draining toward the mountainous islet. Yet, they are thwarted by a teeming, unpredictable Santa Barbara Channel, the idyllic archipelago staggering westward, its flora and fauna rich in biodiversity found nowhere else on Mother Earth.

The allure has always been there for me where I have spent almost two decades guiding kayak trips, but also vanishing during my own island excursions, always with a deep appreciation for pelagic wilds meshed with mainland backcountry bliss.

The windswept archipelago is also known as “the Galapagos Islands of the North” and “the Farallon Islands of the South.” There has always been an abundance of natural wonders swarming the remote archipelago. It mostly feels far in terms of natural history stirred into a brew of island lore, but faraway it is not, only 60 miles east lies the Los Angeles megalopolis.

Nevertheless, that fleeting stretch of Highway 33 in Ojai allows for a brief moment to reflect on my most recent island sojourn before continuing my drive northeast, swallowed up by a maze of fragrant, impenetrable chaparral.

Island Fox Chronicles

I gave it a chance, but I knew my camera pack wasn’t budging. A diminutive island fox pup of the Channel Islands National Park, North America’s smallest fox species was feeling courageous, attempting to drag my pack to who knows where. The 2-pound isle fox, the largest land predator of the Channel Islands and one of the rarest canids in the world, was acquainting itself with 30 pounds of glass and camera gear, but I was happy to see it. After all, at least it wasn’t peeing on my pack, which they are known to do.

First image: Purple, fragrant lupine frames Anacapa Island and the Anacapa Passage on the southeast fringe of the Northern Channel Islands.

Below: A lone hiker gazes across the Santa Barbara Channel with the Topa Topa Mountains looming to the east.

Twenty years ago, the island fox was in the throes of captive breeding on three of the five islets on the craggy chain, and at the time it was unknown if their populations would rebound to carrying capacity on each island. One hundred fifty years of ranching on the islands and non-native wildlife had wielded a heavy blow to the fragile island biome and island fox numbers had plummeted to critical lows. By 2002, only 50 foxes remained on Santa Cruz Island. On neighboring Santa Rosa and San Miguel Islands, only 15 foxes each remained. There, biologists did a masterful job of mixing and matching pairs to avoid inbreeding. Fortunately, biologists staved off extinction, saving the pint-sized canids from going the way of the dodo.

Removing stressors such as 5,000 feral pigs went a long way to returning the archipelago back to a natural balance. Trapping non-native golden eagles on the islands and returning them to northeastern California and restoring bald eagles after a 50-year absence due to DDT pesticides also played a massive part in restoring the unique island ecosystem. In many ways the islands healed on their own, especially with island flora that has continued to rebound across the chain.

A curious Island Fox (Urocyon littoralis) is the largest land predator across the Channel Islands National Park.

In 2016, the island fox was removed from the endangered species list. It was the swiftest recovery of a species in the history of the Endangered Species Act. What wildlife biologists are astounded by is the actual carrying capacity on each island. For example, for decades it was thought that 1,200 to 1,500 foxes existed on Santa Cruz Island, but that was during the ranching era, which took place from 1820 to 1997. Following that era and the removal of all stressors o the islands, the mountainous islet now houses in the neighborhood of 2,000 animals – island foxes running amok, bounding freely, and swiping my trail running shoes and socks, and attempting to unzip my weather-beaten tent in the process. I allowed that island fox pup a few more tugs on my camera pack before it gave up, leaving tiny teeth marks visible on a strap. There was a time when I didn’t see island foxes at all, and the islands as a whole didn’t feel alive. Today I expect to see them on the beaches, scaling trees and craggy rock outcroppings, but they’re not taken for granted – the isolation of the islands allowing them to thrive unencumbered with threats diverted.

Point Bennett

It did not hit me until a couple days after fi nishing my day trip kayaking

around Point Bennett, arguably the most exposed region of the Channel Islands National Park, located on the west end of San Miguel Island. After skimming through my photos from that trip, I determined that most, if not all, of the seal and sea lion pups from that memorable day had never witnessed a kayaker before. I cannot say I have spent a lot of time paddling around Point Bennett. It was only my third time doing so since I started kayaking the islands back in the mid-1990s. It’s a region of the chain that does not allow many chances to paddle its craggy, wave-battered coast. However, when opportunities arise, it is best to pounce. It’s all about the wind, swell and fog out there, so everything has to line up accordingly, which is fl eeting. During the fall of 2020 I had the opportunity to do a little volunteer ranger work on San Miguel Island. The second stint – a nine-day run in October – had super calm conditions with little or no wind for the entire stretch. There were also several friends camping on the windswept isle and one of them was there for the entire run. He expressed interest in paddling around the 27 miles of rugged coastline. That was all I needed to hear; so on October 15, Danny Trudeau, a long-time adventure racing friend from Ojai’s outback high country, and I launched at dawn from Cuyler Harbor, fi rst heading north around Hare Rock, Nifty Rock and then Harris Point. Beyond Harris Point, the long stretch of beach known as Simonton Cove extends westward out toward Castle Rock.

The waters surrounding the prominent rock outcropping are known as “shark park,” a place that has a spooky feel with a reputation that can leave some uncomfortable for lots of reasons. Needless to say, there are some big fi sh that enjoy being the apex predator of the Channel Islands.

As calm as it was at dawn launching o the beach at Cuyler Harbor, a 5-foot north swell slammed into Harris Point and waves roared all the way out to Point Bennett. Trudeau and I paddled closer to Castle Rock than we did the rocky shoreline, and by the time we reached that jutting spire, waves were capping o Richardson Rock and out about a half mile beyond Point Bennett to the west. Once at Point Bennett, the seas became very unorganized. Waves from the southwest collided with uneven swell from the north. Winds were out of the southwest and a dark wall of fog loomed in that direction as well. Waves capped all around us as we negotiated and weaved a path in between slabs of rocky, teeming reefs. An ever-present, uneven chorus of barks, bellows, yelps, snorts, and sheep-like yawps wafted above swirling currents and frothy whitewater, a pinniped serenade choreographed throughout the largest seal and sea lion rookery in North America, and the world. It’s where a long-fingered beach surrounded in giant bladder kelp, thriving reefs, and weather-beaten blues offered a safe haven for thousands upon thousands of seals and sea lions, one of the world’s greatest wildlife spectacles. It off sets the “Graveyard of the Pacific,” where throngs of ships between 1869 and 1967 met their demise, ran aground, and sank in those same turbulent, unpredictable seas. And yet, this windblown, wave-battered sanctuary houses four species of seals and sea lions that breed and pup there, those being California sea lions, harbor seals, northern fur seals and northern elephant seals. Occasionally, Point Bennett is visited by raucous Guadalupe fur seals and beefy stellar sea lions.

The beach at Adams Cove on San Miguel Island is full of sights, sounds and smells, where thousands of seals and sea lions congregate.

There’s year-round drama on that long, crooked finger of gritty sand. Males fight over females and turf. Pups from all the species call out to their moms across the entire rookery, begging to nurse while their parents feed sometimes for hours o shore. Young sea lions haul out on the broad backs of northern elephant seals as if they have a deal in place with the second largest seal on the planet.

It’s All About the Ears

Their ears stand out like no other pinniped. It’s those Yoda-like ears, stubby muzzles, sheep-like yelps and cantankerous personalities that make the northern fur seal my favorite, and the pups in particular. Their crowded nurseries consisting of months-old pups frolicked in shallow tide pools and secluded pocket beaches, and their nips and tugs at each other was constant comic relief. Some bodysurfed with utter aplomb. Others opted for all out body whomping as they were swept up and over a steep, sturdy berm.

Playful euphoria was evident as they waddled out for more, fore-flippering their way back into the pounding shore break.

From our kayaks it was once again the fur seal pups that offered the most entertainment. We anchored atop a canopy of dense giant bladder kelp and their curiosity was just too much for them to resist. With precision, they porpoised over to us, the brown algae holding us in place as several dozen fur seal pups congregated nearby. Bobbing with exuberance, many popped up, and inched closer only an arm’s length away, while playfully splashing around our kayaks. While in the water their dense fur was matted down allowing their bugged out, almond-shaped eyes to stand out amongst their pugged profiles. Their ever-present, external earflaps poked straight out from their heads, revealing that Yoda-like pose. While they strained their necks mightily for decent looks at two salt-encrusted kayakers, we reveled in our rare, opportunistic circumnavigation of one of the most rugged regions of the West Coast. It certainly didn’t match the unbridled, kid-like exuberance exhibited by the northern fur seal pups. After all, they were arguably laying eyes on weary paddlers for the first time in their short lived, zoetic existence – those exposed reefs and isolated weather-beaten blues and beaches of Point Bennett allowing them to thrive unencumbered with their fore-flippered counterparts.

Wandering the Pilgrim

My early morning trail run up to Montanon Ridge on the southeast end of Santa Cruz Island was at a pace I wasn’t proud of. Cold, wet fog swirled over the volcanic isle.

My joints ached but loosened with each stride above Potato Harbor, then Coche Point, and finally ascending above Chinese Harbor. Stunning seascapes diverted any discomfort as my pace quickened on the lonely single track leading to one of the best views across the entire Channel Islands National Park.

It’s rare to see anyone on this 10-mile loop. The route was recently added as the Montanon Ridge Loop Trail to the park service map. For decades, the trail was considered only as a social trail, or an old sheep trail during the island ranching era, but finally turned game trail for endemic island foxes and island spotted skunks alike. I certainly wasn’t expecting to see a soul at first light on the most biodiverse isle in the national park. However, once I topped out on the narrow, nameless ridge that leads to Montanon Ridge, I was greeted by a binocular toting, pack-laden biologist. “Have you seen any peregrine falcons while on your run this morning?” asked the smiling, yet keen, blonde-haired scientist.

“I have not,” I replied. “Not so far.”

We traded peregrine stories, the raptors that frequent nearby Scorpion Rock that feast on western gulls and their fuzzy chicks; and the peregrines that hover above the sheer, wave-battered cli s of Potato Harbor. And then there’s the pair on East Anacapa Island that have become one of the webcam stars found on the website of the Channel Islands National Park.

“I left the Navy site at dawn,” she continued. “I’m doing a survey to determine their territories and recovery.” I was easily intrigued. Peregrines had always been a favorite raptor of mine. They are found on all continents except Antarctica, and they are without question the fastest flying bird in the world, diving at speeds that exceed 200 mph. Their recovery on the Channel Islands from DDT pesticides was yet another successful example of natural balance returning to the northern chain.

Blooming giant coreopsis overlooking Scorpion Anchorage on the southeast end of Santa Cruz Island.

“I’ll certainly keep an eye out,” I said. “But I usually hear them before I see one.”

She smiled and then continued her way toward breathtaking Potato Harbor, where I have seen peregrines in the past on foot but also from my kayak. As for me, I continued su ering my way toward Montanon Ridge.

They Rule the Skies

Kayaking toward Cavern Point between Scorpion Anchorage and Potato Harbor, the drama came without warning. A belted kingfisher was in serious distress. Not 25 feet o my bow, the lone kingfisher species in North America had just been clipped midair by a peregrine falcon and landed awkwardly in the ocean. However, this was the kingfisher’s lucky day. A bird that size hit by a peregrine wouldn’t usually survive. At the very least the bird would be too injured to fl y on, yet this resilient kingfisher not only shook o the saltwater, but also the assault. It launched out of the water and fl ew into a massive sea grotto with the peregrine in hot pursuit. Once safely inside the sea cave, the peregrine gave up. On another kayaking trip in early June out and around Scorpion Rock, two peregrines tag-teamed a western gull colony. The gull chicks were just days old and ripe for the taking. The first peregrine dove in and snatched one of the chicks, but was instantly harassed by at least 10 western gull parents. It forced the peregrine to drop its prize as the chick tumbled down a cli facing the island and the gull parents chased the peregrine away. Unbeknownst to the rest of the gulls, another peregrine lurked nearby on a lichen-cloaked cli adjacent to Scorpion Rock. It pounced on the opportunity and swooped in to gather the bedraggled chick, carrying it off to one of the many weather-beaten caves honeycombed throughout the sheer cliffs on the northside of the isle.

Turnabout is Fair Play

The Channel Islands National Park has several webcams for visitors to watch active wildlife from the comfort of their homes. There is the underwater cam in the landing cove on East Anacapa Island, and the bald eagle cams out on the remote west end of Santa Cruz Island. Also frequented is the peregrine cam above Cathedral Cove on East Anacapa Island. During May 2018, that peregrine nest produced three fuzzy white peregrine chicks. Their parents have had this nest for awhile now, strategically tucked away from the weather: wind, rain, and fog. On one occasion, during that late spring, I was fortunate enough to accompany Institute for Wildlife Studies biologists Peter Sharpe and Nathan Melling to East Anacapa.

Northern Elephant Seal pups, also known as weaners, are on their own just two months after birth. These two weaners were sunning just outside my tent.

Above: A solitary sea kayaker paddles beneath the iconic 40-foot-tall volcanic archway on East Anacapa Island. Above right: A pair of fuzzy, cotton ball peregrine falcon chicks hunker inside their ledge nest on Anacapa Island.

They were on a routine inspection of the nest (eyrie) to give check-ups to the peregrine chicks and wipe down moisture that had built up on the lens of the webcam. When we arrived at the eyrie, we discovered only two chicks. Their dutiful parents watched us with keen eyes, and then like good parents should, they protected their fuzzy chicks. The peregrines repeatedly dive-bombed us, several times coming within a wisp of clipping my head, shoulder, and neck. It surely felt like 200 mph. There wasn’t a whole lot of room to hunker down – the nest rises a couple hundred feet above Cathedral Cove, and with Sharpe and Melling sitting around the chicks, all I could do was stand hunched over, photograph the checkup and dodge the pissed o parents. Sharpe and Melling attached tracking devices and drew a little blood from each chick. Within 20 minutes all was calm again around the eyrie. The parents watched us leave as we continued searching for more peregrines while hiking through throngs of nesting western gulls. The rest of the afternoon was spent looking for other peregrines. We spotted another breeding pair on the southside of the island, as they swooped back and forth just west of the lighthouse. From the top of the marine terrace, none of us could spot an active nest, but there had to be one concealed in the sheer, pockmarked cli s. Sure enough, back on the Vanguard, we motored around the iconic 40-foot-tall archway to the southside of East Anacapa. Melling was standing on the bow, scanning with his binoculars. “There it is,” he pointed three quarters of the way up the cli . “There’s a peregrine chick sitting on the edge of its nest.” Standing out like nothing else could, an older, bigger, fuzzier, white peregrine chick stood alone, teetering on the edge of its eyrie; its parents could still be seen riding the thermal updrafts that continually swirled around the narrowest islet in the chain.

Epilogue

But whatever became of that third chick from the nest above Cathedral Cove?

Sharpe and Melling returned to their office, put on their detective hats, and rewound the webcam tape. A brazen, adult western gull was the culprit. It had seized an opportunity like no other.

At the time of the perpetration, it was obvious the peregrine parents were not around doting over their young. The tape showed the gull landing in the eyrie and quickly snatching one of the three chicks. A very bold move by a gull, and turnabout being fair play.

Anacapa Island webcam

www.nps.gov/chis/learn/photosmultimedia/anacapa-landingcove-webcam.htm

Live Ocean webcam

wwwww.nps.gov/chis/learn/ photosmultimedia/ocean-webcam.htm

Live Perigrine Falcon webcam

www.nps.gov/chis/learn/photosmultimedia/peregrine-webcam.htm

Summer Ojai Magazine writer/photographer, Chuck Graham