Hildreth Peak

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Vol. XII, No. 1

WINTER, 1966

The Back Country.

N€TICIA5 QUARTERLY BULLETIN OF THE SANTA BARBARA HISTORICAL SOCIETY

Hildreth Peak

By Dwight Murphy A few years prior to 1890 there came to Santa Barbara a man by the name of Joe Hildreth. He was of slight build, weighing approximately one hundred thirty pounds, and was about five feet six inches in height. He acquired a few horses and often went hunting in the mountains north of Santa Barbara. In 1894 he filed on 160 acres in Mono Canyon for a home stead. At this time there were no roads into this area. Everything had to be taken in by pack animals.

Hildreth built a one-room cabin made of Sycamore poles by first dig ging a trench and setting the poles on end in the trench and then filling it with stones and earth. Inside the cabin he built a bunk along one side and on the opposite side built a small fireplace. The floor was not covered. The roof was made of Sycamore poles and covered with shakes. A separate shed was built for saddles and feed. There was a spring along the bank of Mono Creek not far from the cabin. The water was strong in alkali.

The shortest route Hildreth could take from his homestead to Santa Barbara was down Mono Canyon to the Santa Ynez River, up the river to Blue Canyon and the Romero trail which brought him to Montecito and Arthur Alexander’s ranch where Tom Dinsmore was the manager. The pack horses were put into pasture on this ranch and Hildreth would ride into Santa Barbara where he obtained work for a month or longer in order to earn funds for the purchase of supplies needed at his homestead. He would then have his purchases delivered to the Alexander Ranch and retrace the same route he had taken to Santa Barbara for the return trip. Some years later the Cold Spring Canyon trail was built which shortened the trip to Hildreth’s homestead by several miles.

One day, when Hildreth was setting a corner post of the fence around his pasture, his shovel struck a rock. Digging it up, he was surprised to discover that the supposed rock was a large olla, one that seemed to have been made by Indians very many years earlier. Hildreth put it on the porch of this cabin and more or less forgot about it until some visitor, seeing it, told him that it was a soapstone olla from Santa Catalina Island. Later, Hildreth repeated this story to me; and I, in turn, repeated it to the people of this Historical Society. The result of all this conversation is that the olla now is to be seen in the Museum*. *A further and more detailed account of this olla will appear in another issue of Noticias in the near future.

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Hildreth seemed to be of an adventurous nature. He told of having walked from the Madulce mountain along the top of the ridge to Bear Camp on Big Pine mountain. It was a difficult trip and he stated that in places it was so steep and the danger of slipping so great that at times he actually had to crawl and that there were large deep holes in the rock formation which he had to cross. He had been told that some other persons attempted to make this trip but turned back because of the dangerous terrain.

An unfortunate experience related by Hildreth took place when he in vited a friend over to his ranch for a hunting trip. They rode up Mono Canyon for a few miles and Hildreth told his companion they would tie their horses and he would climb part way up the mountain and see if he could rouse a deer from the wild cherry bushes. Hildreth stated that he was climbing along the side of the mountain when his companion mistook him for a deer and shot him in hip. Upon hearing Hildreth’s outcry his com panion realized his mistake and went to Hildreth’s assistance. He was helped to his horse and taken back to the cabin where his pack animal was saddled and well covered with blankets. Hildreth was placed on top of the blankets lying on his back and was securely tied so that he would not fall off. His injured leg was elevated on a roll of blankets which raised it above the level of his body to help lessen the pain. They then started the long journey to Santa Barbara, riding dowm Mono Canyon to the Santa Ynez River and down the river to the north portal of the Mission Canyon Tunnel. There they were able to telephone to Santa Barbara for a conveyance to meet them at China Camp on the San Marcos Pass Road. Although a narrow road had been built from the San Marcos Pass to the north portal of the tunnel it was quite rough and an ordinary vehicle could not make the trip. When China Camp on the Santa Ynez River was reached Hildreth was transferred from his pack horse to a vehicle and brought to the Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara where he was confined for almost six months before he was able to walk.

In spite of this experience he went back into the mountains and con tinued to ride horseback and take care of his homestead. It was not long after his return to Mono Canyon that he received an appointment to serve as a Forest Ranger. He served in this capacity for a number of years, and when the Forest Service mapped the mountain area under its jurisdiction Hildreth received the honor of having a mountain named for him—“Hil dreth Peak.”

Among Hildreth’s acquaintances was Wes Thompson, who conducted parties on hunting and camping trips into the mountains. Thompson was engaged during the late 1890’s by a family from Chicago, who were here on a visit, to take their fifteen-year-old son on a camping trip, and, as Thompson had been given permission to use the Hildreth cabin, he decided to make that location his headquarters.

The trip over the Cold Spring trail was a long ride for the boy. The day was hot, and when they reached their destination the boy was completely tired out. Wes Thompson covered the bunk in the cabin with their blankets and told the boy to lie down and rest while he took care of the packs and the horses. Upon returning to the cabin Thompson found the boy was sound asleep but lying beside him at full length was a rattle snake. Thompson realized the danger the boy was in and first thought of attempting to shoot ●2

the snake but decided that would be loo dangerous as he might not kill it at first shot and the boy would be aroused by the noise and might be bitten.

He, therefore, decided to approach the bunk as quietly as possible, grab the boy by the shoulders and quickly throw him toward the door. This he suc ceeded in doing and then pushed the boy out of the cabin. Not knowing the cause for such rude treatment the boy thought that Thompson was play ing a joke on him and he became very angry and would not listen to Thompson but proceeded to throw anything within his reach at him. Thomp son ran from the cabin followed by the boy throwing stones at him and it was some time before the young man would listen to Thompson’s explanation.

Upon returning to the cabin they saw the snake heading toward the creek and it was soon dispatched with a bullet from a 30-30. Thompson told the boy that two years earlier he had been bitten by a rattler while hunting and attributed the fact that he had not suffered greatly to a bottle of whiskey he had with him as he drank about half of it. He told the young man that he realized he could not have forced him to drink whiskey even though he had a bottle along with him.

About ten years following this incident George Owen Knapp, upon re tiring from his affiliation with a large corporation in Chicago, established his residence in Montecito. He took a keen interest in the development of Santa Barbara and was particularly interested in the Cottage Hospital. He saw the need for well trained nurses, and with his own funds built the Knapp College of Nursing. Mr. Knapp liked to ride horseback and it so happened that Wes Thompson was engaged by him for a camping trip into the Santa Ynez Valley. While on this trip Thompson related the experience he had had with a young man from Chicago and rattle snake. When Thompson finished his story Mr. Knapp said, “That boy was my nepliew.”

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About 1905 Joe Hildreth decided to sell his homestead and the purchaser, Carl Stoddard of Montecito, spent considerable funds improving the property by building a cabin with two bedrooms and a kitchen. After several years Arthur Ogilvy purchased this property from the Stoddard Estate.

The accompanying photograph shows some of Arthur’s many friends who were guests at his ranch. From left to right—Arthur Ogilvy, Edgar Park, Francis Price and Dwight Murphy.

A Railroad With a Heart

By Harold H. Davis When the Pacific Coast Railway established its terminal at Los Olivos in 1888 it completed the last link in the line started at Port Harford near San Luis Obispo some fifteen years previously. The narrow gauge tracks had reached Los Alamos in 1882, so there was ample time before the final construction period for the Santa Ynez Valley to get ready for the great day when the trains should come.

Two hotels had been built. First, the small Central Hotel established

by Felix Mattel in 1886 directly across the road from the railroad station, and still operating under the name of Mattel’s Tavern. Second, the larger resort type Los Olivos Hotel, a few hundred yards to the East of the terminal, w'hich was built by a development company with the idea of attracting tour ists and prospective land buyers. This latter hotel burned to the ground in 1890, and as the expected land boom had not materialized, it was never

rebuilt.

Anticipating that grain, beans, and livestock shipments from the Valley would be more or less limited and seasonal, the railroad from the first paid careful attention to its passenger relations, and tried in every way to show warm interest in the community. As Gerald M. Best in his excellent book 4

“Ships and Narrow Gauge Rails, the Story of the Pacific Coast Company” points out, excursions were organized whenever possible. Although the num ber of passenger cars was limited, it was easy enough to install low sides on flat cars, arrange planks on boxes to serve as benches, and so accommodate a considerable number of passengers. Even livestock cars and gondolas were pressed into service when needed, and all types of rolling stock were used in the original excursions designed to bring in prospective land pur chasers.

There were many other excursions. The Los Olivos band, accompanied by most of the to^vnfolk, often went north to play in parades at Pismo Beach.

While the musicians got a ride in a hay-filled wagon from the nearest depot which was at Arroyo Grande, the other “tourists” were expected to walk the four miles to the beach. Mrs. Annie Lang of Los Olivos, whose husband Fred was with the railroad company many years, recalls that the eight mile round trip on foot in hot summer weather was a harrowing experience.

Some years in the late fall, great masses of Band Tailed Pigeons, on their annual migration doum from the Northwest, would stop in the Valley to feast on the live oak acorns. The railroad would organize an excursion and as many as two or three hundred hunters would be picked up at various points along the line coming down from San Luis Obispo. Then the train would stop to scatter the men at their favorite hillside or oak tree sites along the eight mile stretch from Wigmore to Los Olivos. Late in the afternoon the hunters would be picked up at their respective blinds and taken North to wards home. The stories are legendary about the thousands of birds that were carried away by the gunny-sackful after one of these trips.

Of course there were other angles to the shoots. About the time of World War I two well known cattlemen, the Fuller Bros., A.B. and Doc, were renting most of the land involved and had stocked the ranches with Arizona and Mexican steers. When the cannonade of shots began, those big steers “left the country” and started a migration of their own. Henry Cox, one of the well known old-time vaqueros of the district, tells of the long days spent rounding up the cattle which were spread from Los Alamos to Los Olivos, and of the long hours spent in putting the broken fences back together.

One year when the Bamum and Bailey Circus was playing in San Luis Obispo an excursion was organized to leave Los Olivos early enough to be on hand for the morning street parade. Living in the Zaca area were a number of families with children and a half dozen or more of these were judged of an age suitable to go on the trip. Up at two-thirty in the morning, washed, scrubbed, and in their best clothes, they left the Ezra Fields ranch and were driven four miles down the road to Zaca Station. This was an unmanned grain and bean warehouse some 80 feet long and raised a few feet off the ground. As the children waited on the station platform in the darkness of half past four, the train came around the curve from Los Olivos, bell ringing, whistle blowing, steam roaring, and the bright headlight shining like the single eye of a Cyclops. It was all too much for the little kids from the ranches and they scattered like a covey of quail underneath the big warehouse. Jim Fields, of Los Olivos, who was one of them, says it was a long slow job for the train crew and passengers to coax the youngsters out in order to con tinue the trip.

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Then there was one fine morning in the early 1920’s when the train left as scheduled at 10:30 for the daily run north. A few minutes later it came backing into town at full speed with bell, whistle, and train crew all calling for attention. A young mountain lion had been sighted near Zaca and frightened by the engine into some trees.

Naturally, business in Los Olivos came to a standstill and men with dogs and rifles got into automobiles or on the train and started for the hunt ing grounds. Bernard Davis, local garage man and mechanic, was not only an excellent shot but was fast of foot and had a good dog. They picked up the trail first and in a short time the lion was treed and killed, while Bernard was the proud claimant to the $100 bounty.

Raymond Watson, now County Agricultural Inspector in the Valley, was at the scene and offered to drag the lion out to Highway 101 a few hundred yards west of Zaca Creek while Davis went to get his truck. As Raymond pulled the animal by the tail under the fence that bordered the road, a passin party of tourists stopped their car to watch the excitement. “What is that? inquired one. A mountain lion,” answered young Watson proudly. The tourist asked, “Is it alive?”

The railroad was of service in many little ways. The train crews filled cartons with empty bottles collected along the route, and then saw that they reached the proper hands of the local boot-leggers. Youngsters stretched their muscles helping reverse the engine on the turntable at the end of the run from the North. When requested, the crew would bring down a block of ice from Santa Maria, well wrapped in newspapers and a gunnysack, and would see that it was speedily delivered on arrival.

Bill Luton, now a prominent rancher of the area and head of Television Station KEYT, tells of the thrill when on some holiday or birthday the ice 6

would arrive and be rushed the three miles from the station to his house.

Then came the packing of the ice cream freezer, the excited turning of the crank, and the anticipation of the first lick of the dasher.

But the railroad truly showed its heart in the case of Miss Jeanette Lyons, w'ho for many years was the sole teacher in the little red schoolhouse at Ballard.

One Christmas vacation Miss Lyons went to visit friends in Morro Bay. While there, she came down with an attack of the measles. About the time of her recovery a long rainy spell set in and the roads became all but im passable. She managed to reach San Luis Obispo, and there stayed with an uncle who was a prominent druggist in the city.

On checking with the railroad about her return trip to Los Olivos, Miss Lyons found that the trains were not running on account of damage caused by the storm. Rather desperate because she not only wanted to get back to her duties but also wanted to avoid the expense of hiring a substitute teacher, she appealed to her uncle who was a close friend of the superintendent of the road. The latter suggested a ride on the first work train to go out, and as soon as the weather cleared Miss Lyons was notified to get ready for the

trip.

On arrival at the terminal she found a rocking chair tied to the middle of a flat car, and there she was seated to ride in style. One of the workmen was detailed to stay at her side and steady the rocker as the train started, stopped, or s\vung around curves. With slow going and many stops for track repairs, it took over twelve hours to cover the 65 mile run, but thanks to the concern of the railroad Miss Lyons finished the trip safely.

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In later years the motion picture industry got interested in the photogenic qualities of the narrow gauge line. There were many occasions when Mattei’s Tavern was filled to overflowing with companies on location. The railroad engines were disguised with a variety of false fronts and smokestacks, and the little depot was likewise camouflaged and bore a number of names. Even the telephone and electric company poles had branches tied to them so that they could appear as trees. Actors and actresses dressed appropriately and scenes were shot covering many decades from pre Civil War days to the 20th Century while the background simulated different sections of the country.

Some of the pictures were for current movies; others merely put away in the companies’ vaults for future use.

Eventually changing times and the development of trucks and automo biles made the little railroad unprofitable, and regular service on the Eastern portion of the line was suspended in 1933. A last work train left Los Olivos January 12, 1934. Coming down from San Luis Obispo, the train was made up of engine 106, a baggage car, and a caboose, but on arrival at the Valley terminal only the engine was reversed and the train pulled out with the caboose in the middle. It had a certain rakish appearance.

A number of local people gathered to take pictures of the event and bid the train crew goodbye. Sending an automobile on ahead to pick them up at Zaca Station, a few of the onlookers jumped on the caboose to get a farewell ride. Among them were Ted Chamberlin, widely known local rancher, and Mrs. Robert Gleason, who has been so active in furthering the Santa Ynez Valley Historical Society.

But that was the day the Pacific Coast Railway was to show its heartless side, for as soon as Engineer F. Hampton had the train rolling along, Con ductor Andrew Ward formally collected 10 cents from each passenger for their last 3.3 mile excursion.

A Day in a Surgeon's Life Some time ago, Nat Wills related to the editor of Notkias one of the more unusual experiences in his career as a surgeon. Because it is typical of many similar episodes in our back country it is of much historical signifi cance. It occurred in the early part of World War II, when many Santa Bar bara doctors and all of the orthopedic surgeons were away in the Service.

A message was relayed to Nat in the operating room one morning to the effect that a Forest Service man, who had been building trail in the “Back Country”, had been pushed off the trail and into a deep barranca the evening before and, among other injuries, had sustained a bad fracture of the leg.

(A bit of explanation may be needed here: This man had been leading a horse and a mule to water. To many of us who know, or who think we know, mules—perhaps no one really knows aU about them—it seems charac teristic of at least some of them that they apparently resent being led behind a horse. They show this resentment at the most inopportune times—usually when the trail is too narrow to accommodate more than one animal or person.

It appears that this mule was one of those, and the result was not exactly amusing!)

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The victim could not be moved without a litter and a lot of man power, and it was felt that he should receive surgical care before even this was at tempted. Would Nat be wdlling to ride in on horseback and take care of the situation?

This question posed no problems because Nat had spent much of his boyhood on cow ranches and, since coming to Santa Barbara, had gone on many horsepacking trips to the hunting country, both in Santa Barbara Coun ty and into the high Sierra. He was fortunate, also, in having a surgical as sociate with a similar background.

The location given was La Carpa Springs, some ten or twelve miles from the end of the fire road at Potrero Seco Guard Station, which is near the summit of Pine Mountain and close to the Ventura County line in North eastern Santa Barbara County. The able and genial Forest Supervisor, S. A. (Gus) Nash-Boulden, had arranged for horses to be hauled to Potrero Seco, together with a litter and twelve litter bearers, recruited from the “Conscien tious Objecter” camp at Los Prietos.

Nat finished his morning surgery and, taking along his associate. Dr. J. Lowell Dixon, and such surgical supplies as he thought he would need, drove to his Hope Ranch home, where the two of them changed into Levis, chaps, and boots, loaded saddles and other riding gear into a station wagon, and took off. They arrived at Potrero Seco about mid-afternoon, passing the truck with horses and men en route. The ride to the Springs took several hours, so that, when Nat and Dixon had reached the scene and had climbed down some fifty feet to the bottom of the barranca, where lay the victim. Jack Dillingham, the sun had gone down.

Poor Jack had been lying there, unable to move, for twenty-four hours— in the broiling heat during the day and alone a considerable part of the time.

It seems that, just after the accident the evening before, one of his fellow trail-makers had taken off to get help; but in the darkness, he had become lost in those rugged mountains. The other one, Brett Moore, sensing what had happened, had left Jack at dawn for Pendola Flat Guard Station (about fifteen miles distant) and the nearest telephone. It was Moore who had called in the message.

Despite his protestations to the contrary, Jack obviously was in great pain. He had suffered severe body bruises in addition to a compound frac ture of the leg. The tibia (the larger bone of the lower leg) had rip ped through the flesh and skin and was protruding two or three inches. After a short conference betw-een Nat and Dixon, it was decided that it was unthink able to put this courageous patient through the additional suffering of a four or five hour “carry” on a stretcher, and another two hour drive in the back of a station wagon, without proper immobilization of this badly injured leg.

Moreover, unless the overriding bones could be pulled into some semblance of their normal position, there would be relatively little relief from the pain which this sturdy chap already had endured for a night and a day. And, because of impending shock, pain relieving drugs would have to be admin istered very judiciously.

Proper anesthesia was out of the question, at the bottom of that narrow' barranca, even if it had been available; and, to quote Nat exactly, “the rapid ly approaching darkness wouldn’t allow time enough for an ordinary hypo 9

to take effect. A traction apparatus—the time honored Thomas Splint—hastily was made ready and the leg prepared to receive it, including the throwing of a handful of sulfanilimide (then a new and powerful antiseptic) into the gaping wound.”

When all was ready—a matter of minutes—Dr. Dixon gave the patient a stiff dose of morphine in the vein—the so-called “mainline” of the drug addict. Jack was “out cold” in a few seconds. The splint was slid up the leg, traction was applied by twisting a loop of rope, and Presto, a satisfying click was felt as the two ends of the bone came into almost perfect aliginment!

The litter, which had been lowered from above, was slid under the now semi-conscious patient and he was securely lashed to it. Then, with ropes dropped down from the top of the bluff, he was hoisted up to the trail, it was pitch dark when the litter bearers took over and began their long trek up the mountain to Potrero Seco. They worked in groups of four, each group spelling off the other as they got “winded” on the steep climb.

During times of stress, when the immediate pressure is off, men often look for and find something which allows them to “unwind.” They may not realize they are doing so, but there have been so many instances of this mechanism, particularly in the stories of our great wards, that further elucidation would be superfluous. What interests us is the often humorous side of these activities, when viewed in retrospect. When Nat was relating the details of the night in the mountains, when, with the surgeon’s singleminded concern, he and Dixon waited rather impatientlv at Potrero Seco for the litter bearers to bring their patient safely up the rugged mountain trail, he remarked that they realized that, since they had returned on horse back, at least a couple of hours must elapse before they could load their charge into the station wagon and be on their way; and so they looked about for some means of passing the time.

There was only a small ranger’s cabin, where two occupants, a man and his wife, were stationed as airplane watchers (this being war time).

These two worked around the clock—each on a twelve hour shift. Being mountain people, they long ago had learned the many little tricks which can overcome the boredom that would destroy the city dweller in a job of this kind. The man spent his leisure hours hunting and early learned that the mountain country abounded in bobcats. Having heard that each of the many squadrons if fighter pilots in training at our various bases longed for a truly vicious animal as mascot, he decided that here was a way to supple ment his meager income, as well as to occupy his many lonely hours. He set up a trapline and built a number of cages to hold his captives until dis posed of.

Came a problem—the flyers were willing to pay him twenty-five dollars apiece for the wildcats, but with the proviso that they be males. Now any one familiar with a caged bobcat knows that he always faces anyone who approaches him. Moreover, because of his somewhat unique surface anato my, the gender is rather easily concealed.

This airplane watcher now had about a dozen caged bobcats, but he had been unable to answer the all-important question and thereby to collect his bounty. Would Nat and Dixon give him a hand? The picture, as your editor imagines it, should have been recorded on film—one of the surgeons 10

holding the attention of the vicious, snarling animal at one end of the cage, while the other, armed with a flashlight, giving a careful, scientific inspection at the other end. The boys finally were separated from the girls, the girls were released, and the boys were retained to be sent to the various training bases, there to inspire our fledgling fighter pilots in the job they were learn ing to do!

About the time this bit of important research was completed, the measured tread and heavy breathing of the litter bearers was heard as they toted their heavy cargo up the last stretch of steep trail to the mesa, where sat the guard station establishment. A quick inspection of the patient—as cheerful as anyone in the crowd—a transfer of the station wagon, delayed a bit while the handles of the stretcher were sawn off to allow the tail gate of the wagon to close, and they were off for Santa Barbara.

A previously alerted operating room crew was ready and waiting at the Cottage Hospital when they arrived about four A.M., and, his surgery com pleted, the patient was resting comfortably in his bed before seven.

Some two months later. Jack, now on crutches, returned to light duty at the fire suppression station atop San Marcos Pass. Today, still a valued member of our honorable, though seldom properly honored, Forest Service, he is a dispatcher at headquarters.

Editors note: For a variety of reasons, stories of this sort are all but impossible for the editor to secure for publication in his magazine. Yet they offer authentic gbmpses of relatively small events in the past that can be preserved in no other way than by publication. Usually, in casual conversations with their friends, men will tell such stories as this one freely and with great effect; but, when an editor points out their unusual interest and their historical importance, and he then asks the narrators to set them down on paper for publication, there is instantaneous refusal. The average man, regardless of how good is his story, has no wish to seem to boast in print of his exploits. All of these factors were present when this terse account of accident, of great fortitude, and of matter-of-fact devotion to duty first was told to me. It is only after months of urging on my part that my good friend, Dr. Irving Wills, with considerable reluctance, at last has agreed to allow this story to appear in the pages of this issue of Noticias. I tell it as nearly as possible as it was told to me. Where necessary, I quote exactly Nat’s words.

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Our Treats of Long Ago

By Frances Cooper Kroll When I was a child in Santa Barbara, we didn’t have bubble gum, Coca Cola or popsicles, but we did have dried abalones pried from rocks in the ocean and, in season, jerkey that we imagined still tasted of moun tain sage.

Often we girls went about with a small knife tucked into the pocket of our pinafores, ready, in the intervals between Kick the Can, Statues, Run Sheep Run or other games, to laboriously hack slices off an abalone and pop them into our mouths; the jerkey was easier to cope with, for one had to tear at a piece with strong young teeth to enjoy a savory shred.

We always seemed to be browsing. In the Spring it was the stems of Miner’s lettuce that grew wild in the shade of oaks, blackberries at the edge of a dusty road or sour grass that flourished all too plentifully in our U

gardens. Slippery elm was another great favorite; we liked its exotic flavor and it seemed as if one could go on chewing it forever.

And there was the Sassafras tree! It grew tall and slender near the lawn on my Grandfather’s ranch at Goleta. He must have brought it with him when he made the long trip West in 1871, a cherished carefully tended cutting, from his far off Missouri home.

We loved to play in its swaying branches, to feel on our faces the drifts of sunshine that filtered down through its incredible greenness, and to chew its fresh leaves with their strange aromatic flavor. It was to beautiful and

friendly!

I am glad that I have never seen another Sassafras tree, for none could ever again hold for me the magic of the one that grew in the garden on Grandfather’s ranch.

We also had our indoor pleasures—the pulling of golden taffy, and the fun of making panocha, that delightful concoction of brown sugar and wal nuts that was truly Spanish.

Often on stormy nights in winter we gathered about the large fireplace in our living room, under the picture of Rosa Bonheur’s Horse Fair, where, warm and secure, we popped corn in long handled poppers. It was such fun to watch it swell and jump in the wire basket above the hot flames!

At times we would bring from the kitchen the wooden coffee grinder (our coffee was always ground fresh every morning) and cram into it hand fuls of the fluffy white com. Then when it fell, finely powdered, into the little drawer of the grinder, we would mix it in tall glasses with milk, and drink it. It was called pinole and we loved it.

All this must seem crude and pioneerish to the children of today, but to us it was completely satisfying.

But we had our more sophisticated treats—for them we ventured into another field—downtown. We traded at Jones’ store*. The word ‘traded’ was often heard in my childhood, a hold-over from the days when farmers brought to Town in their Spring Wagons such commodities as eggs, poultry, fruit, vegetables and even sacks of grain to be exchanged at the stores for articles not produced on the farm.

It was always an adventure to drive down State Street with Father and stop in front of Jones’ store. If the object was to leave the daily order, Mr. Jones or his clerk would come out to the edge of the sidewalk and, after the business was completed and the pencil replaced behind his ear, would linger for a chat. Nobody ever seemed to be in a hurry, then.

But if it was to pay the monthly bill, after ‘drawing up’ to the curb.

Father would lift, then heave over the side of buggy the heavy iron weight attached to a long leather strap that served as a tether for the horse. Then I would be lifted down.

How I loved going through the tall glass-paned door into the dark inworld of wonderful terior of that store! To me it was another world, sights and strange smells. Even the buzzing of the flies imprisoned on the sticky strips of yellow paper that hung from the ceiling and swayed in the sudden draught from the door, added to its mystery. ●I cannot recall the name of this store.

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Breathing in the heavy odor—a mixture of spices, dried fish, hams, bacon and other things—I stood gazing about me. My eyes quickly passed over the strings of crimson chili peppers and knobby white garlic nailed against the wall—for me they held no interest—they were just an ordinary part of our lives in the little Spanish American town.

Here and there on the floor, looking enormous to me, stood kegs of salt mackeral and dried codfish, casks of fat dill pickles and barrels of home-cured ripe olives; on the wooden lid of each lay a tin dipper with which to ladle out the contents. I hardly noticed them.

But on ahead, suspended from a rafter, golden and bright, was some thing beautiful and rare—bunches of yellow bananas with row upon row of tight packed, downward curving fruit. Bananas were a real treat to us children, not only delicious but fascinating, for we knew they were brought to Santa Barbara on great ships from some strange far-way place. For a moment they held me spell-bound, then I turned away.

Opposite on the long counter, that 1 could barely peer over, great round cheeses and crates of eggs crowded against a pile of neatly folded men’s blue overalls. A few of such things were kept to accommodate certain customers. Once there had even been a set of red flannel underwear; I thought it very pretty and begged Father to buy it for me. That wish had been emphatically refused!

Farther on, a row of bins gave tantalizing glimpses of fig newtons, gingersnaps, doughnuts and other frosted cookies. They were pretty to look at— and tempting, but to me they were not the real attraction. Oh no, for back of the counter, safely out of the eager reach of grimy little fingers, a won drous row of large shining glass jars held what was more precious than jewels—glittering clumps of colored rock-candy, sugared gum-drops, choco lates, licorice sticks and a hundred other delights. No need to go farther.

I just stood there, limp with longing, and stared.

After hours, it seemed, I heard Father snap the elastic band on his check-book, then the sound of his and the owner’s footsteps on the wooden planks of the floor.

“Well, young lady,” Mr. Jones said, “I guess I know what you’re wait ing for.” His face seemed very far away as I looked up at him. Smiling down at me, he went on, “Mighty lucky for you this isn’t twenty-five years ago. When your Papa paid his bill in those days, a pilon (peelon) was just a little piece of sugar.”

Turning his back to us he faced the row of glass jars and said over his shoulder, “Well, which will it be?”

I held my breath, I couldn’t speak!

“Well?”, he repeated again.

I felt the gentle insistent pressure of Father’s hand on my sunbonnet.

“The—rock-candy,” I managed to stammer. “The pink one.”

When we had gone through the tall doorway and stepped out into the bright sunshine, I had already licked the precious clump in my sticky hand.

No ‘boughten’ candy could ever be so good! I fairly danced as I swung back and forth on Father’s hand. I was so happy—glad that it wasn’t twenty-five years ago, and oh, so glad th&t my pilon wasn’t just a little old piece of sugar!

13

Island Rancho

By Pier Gherini Seldon Spaulding has asked that I record some of the experiences in operating a ranch in the sea.

My personal experiences go back to the late twenties. It was then that my father and mother had acquired the eastern end of Santa Cruz Island from other members of the family.

Prior to his final decision, my father, a San Francisco lawyer, made it rather plain that the operation of this ranch would become the increasing responsibility of my brother Francis and myself. We were then in grade school, and the prospect seemed rather exciting, even though we knew little or nothing about ranching.

During the period that the entire island had been run as a single unit, the Eastern end had often been referred to as the “granary of the island.”

Its broad plateaus and rich black soil made it suitable for the raising of grains and other crops for the use of the islands as a whole. As a rule, fields bore names of Spanish origin. “Potrero Llano”, “Campo Grande”, “Campo de Los Toros”, “Aguaje”, are examples. Other fields or locations bore histori cal reference. “Smugglers’ Ranch” and “Smugglers’ Field” and “Smugglers’ Cove” referred to an era in early California history when custom duties were evaded, and apparently Smugglers’ Cove was used as an interim stopping place prior to the entry at mainland points.

While the ranch was operated as a unit, both sheep and cattle were raised on the Eastern end. The large mesa composing what is now Smugglers’ and Scorpion Fields was cattle land, and the hillier open countries were devoted to the raising of sheep.

Upon acquiring the ranch, my father consulted Clifford McElrath, now a prominent cattleman in Northern California, but then a recent graduate of UC, Davis. On the advice of McElrath and others, it was decided to forego the dual operation, and to confine our activities to the raising of sheep and wool.

The island sheep then, and to some extent even today, possessed charac teristics that set them apart from their mainland counterparts. The breed is predominately Rambouillet-Merino. The wool is in the fine wool category, as distinguished from the coarse wool and intermediate categories. The sheep are smaller, quicker and more of a range type animal. The ewes lamb on the range and are excellent and very protective mothers. Any effort to have shed lambing as is done in many mainland operations would be chaotic.

During the early days the sheep were rounded up in day long “corridos” or roundups. Twelve, fifteen or more riders would round up animals, usually steering them toward the Main or Middle Ranch where they would be docked, sorted, sheared and readied for shipping.

Upon acquiring the Eastern part of the Island, it was apparent that many changes would have to be made. First of all, an elaborate system of fencing and cross-fencing had to be instituted. There were two reasons for this. One, for greater control of the animals, and two, to permit conserva14

tion of range lands by closing off certain pastures each year to permit re seeding and regrowth.

Another problem encountered was the matter of transportation. While there were several harbors on the East end, it was obvious that Scorpion Harbor located at the base of operations was the natural harbor to use and develop. Scorpion faces to the Northeast and is in the lee of some rather steep bluffs. It is a deep water harbor, with a rocky beach. As a result of its location, it is sheltered from the prevailing Northwest winds and is exposed only to the Easterly winds. The strong Northeasters which come infrequently, but with great violence and velocity, were the principal concern.

Without any boat of our own, we soon learned that transportation was the most important problem—and headache. During the first few years of our operation, we depended on several sources of transportation—all rather unsatisfactory. For routine supplies we depended upon the Larco fish boats which came to pick up lobsters and supply the lobster camps. In considera tion of receiving transportation, we granted the company the right to maintain fish camps at Potato Bay, Scorpion, San Pedro Point, and at Yellow Banks.

These camps were occupied by as varied an assortment of characters as one would ever find. The “Big Swede” whose name was Axel Swanson, was a man of some 240 or 250 pounds. I recall him telling me as a child how he drank “fusil oil” because he got a kick out of it. Then there was Ben Journeay, a tall, lean French-Canadian. Ben was born in 1850. I will never forget an incident in the summer of 1936. Ben rowed his skiff out to a cruiser that had dropped anchor. I suspect that Ben might have brought a few lobsters with him. At any rate, Ben was enjoying liquid refreshments and the company aboard the yacht when it lifted anchor. When they were over halfway up the Island going West, Ben suddenly discovered that the yacht was heading back for Santa Barbara. He took off and rowed 11 or more miles in a stiff breeze —at the age of 86. Ben loved the Island and seldom left it. Finally, his daugh ter persuaded him to come live with her in San Diego, and he died shortly thereafter.

Sam Hageras was another rugged individual. Sam made his camp at San Pedro Point on the Eastern tip of the Island. In those days, there was an unwritten law that each camp had its own lobster grounds. For example, Charley Gunderson would fish from Chinese Harbor to Cavern Point. Ben Journeay would fish from Cavern Point to approximately halfway between Scorpion and San Pedro, and so on around the Island. These men used wooden lath traps built by them in the off season. These traps were weighted with rocks. They covered their fishing grounds in 14- to 16-foot skiffs, and in almost all cases used oars as power.

Charley Gunderson was one of the first to use an outboard motor. He had a little Johnson, which moved his skiff at 4 or 5 miles an hour. Gunder son, like all these men, was a hardy and experienced seaman. I recall Gun derson coming into Santa Barbara from Potato Harbor with his little out board, a twenty-plus mile journey. Of course the weather was smooth, and Gunderson knew his weather.

All of these men lived in an informal type of servitude to the fish com pany. They always managed to spend their season’s earnings and go in debt.

As a result, they needed advances for the next season’s gear and equipment.

15

Santa Yncz Valley from 1

.e top of the San Rafaels.

Payment of these advances would be made out of their catches.

Usually a large boat owned by the company would make the round of the camps once every week or ten days, and pick up the catch of each camp.

The week or ten days figure was always qualified by the term, “weather permitting”.

We came to know that the term “weather permitting” came to have many meanings. Perhaps the wind was blowing too hard, perhaps it was too foggy, or maybe there was engine trouble, or the skipper had a bad night. In any event, transportation was the principal headache we encountered in our first years of ownership. Nor were alternative means ever completely satisfactory.

The fact that we didn’t have a boat made the boat a very important item.

Nor was the problem confined to shipment of ordinary supplies. Ship ping of livestock posed an even greater problem. During the early years we relied upon Alvin Hyder, a little man with remarkable skill. Hyder owned a 65-foot workboat called the “Nora”. He transported animals for us for several years. He also hauled livestock from San Clemente, San Nicholas and San Miguel Islands. While no doubt he was a skilled operator, Hyder’s time schedules left something to be desired. Either through other commitments or a general disdain for time and schedules, the Nora would often arrive days late. Upon arrival, he always expected everything to be ready, and loading to commence without delay.

All of this pointed to the very obvious fact that sooner or later we had to have our own boat. My brother always had an interest in boats and boat ing. In 1932 we found a 42-foot vessel that had been used in Alaska as a salmon troller. With some modifications, it seemed to be what we needed.

After some refurbishing, we made plans to bring it to Santa Barbara.

It was the year of the general strike. All of San Francisco was tied up.

It was only with a great deal of difficulty that we were able to get fuel and supplies and head through the Golden Gate.

We ran into strong headwinds and soon discovered that the small diesel was no match for the heavy seas we encountered. We reached shelter at Princeton Beach, near Half Moon Bay. With a bigger or better heavy duty diesel installed, my brother brought her to Santa Barbara soon after.

The “Natco” served as long and well for many years until we replaced her with the “Hodge”, which is larger, and more adaptable.

Many of the men who worked on the Island left vivid memories. Felix Mauri, an able iron worker was one. During his time we still used .draft horses and wagons, and the skill of an iron worker was always in demand.

In addition to repair of plows, wagons, sleds, there was of course horseshoeing and other related jobs. With Felix, breakfast was an important meal. Each morning he would have a “rosetta”, consisting of four raw eggs and a glass of wine mixed together.

Jim Perla, who died last year here in Santa Barbara, worked on the Is land for over 50 years. An excellent rider, Jim also possessed all around attributes that are needed in Island living.

Shearing time was and is a busy time. Island shearing should take place while the grass is still green and before it turns to seed. Clover, while an excellent feed, contains a spiral burr that intertwines itself in the wool. Fox tail, once dry, also offers problems. The best time to shear is usually in the 18

latter part of April and May. In the early days most of the shearers came from Santa Barbara. They would remain on the Island till all the flocks were sheared. The number of hand shearers were very scarce. Mechanical shears were replacing the hand shears. Today, three men can do the work of twice their number using hand clippers.

By the time we acquired the Eastern end, sheep raising activities on the mainland in this country had been steadily decreasing for many years.

Shearing was done with hand clippers. Payment was on a per head basis and the average shearer would shear approximately 75 head per day.

The crews would be housed and boarded at the ranch during their stay.

Shearers today usually travel a fairly well defined circuit. We still do our principal shearing in the late spring.

The wool is sacked at the ranch. The average sack weighs about 350 pounds. It is inspected by buyers and the price is usually fixed after the usual haggling before shipment. Like most wool grown in the United States, the Island wool invariably finds its way to New England mills.

Communication on the Island and between the Island and the mainland has always been a concern. Years ago when the Island was operated as a single unit, hand crank telephones powered by four volt batteries pro vided contact between the various ranches on the Island. However, reliance on contact with the mainland was primarily by boat.

In 1927 the late Earle Ovington of Santa Barbara and one of the pioneers in American aviation flew to our ranch. He landed in the small field by the ranch house at Scorpion. It took several days before an easterly wind per mitted him to take off. In the meantime, he located two sites which were much more satisfactory. These fields still serve us today for this purpose.

Shortly after his first trip, I flew over to the Island and then back to Santa Barbara. His “field” was a strip a few hundred feet in length, bordered by a grove of eucalyptus trees on the Samarkand Hills area. Earle would circle the trees until he was low enough to come in around them for a landing.

About 1935 we were able to improve communications by getting an FCC permit to operate a 5 watter. By maintaining schedules with Anacapa Light Station, messages could be relayed to the mainland in case of emergency.

As time went on, communications improved as more powerful stations were permitted. These have been supplemented with mobile phone equip ment. The Islands are no longer isolated as in the past.

The matter of keeping equipment in repair has always been a problem.

While minor repairs can always be accomplished locally, often the shortage of a key part or tool can present delays. There is no parts store, or repair shop around the corner.

There is, of course, much more that could be said. The intelligent and always polite Japanese seiners whose crews would come ashore from time to time before World War II. The thought that some of these men were in the Japanese Navy was not dismissed. World War II itself presented real problems. My brother, a naval reserve officer, was called to duty in earlv 1941, and shortly thereafter was overseas for the duration. I was called to duty with the Air Corps in August of 1941, and didn’t get back to civilian life until 1946. War time travel across the channel was rigidly controlled by defense authorities. To the late Hal Proctor, who operated our boat and kept 19

communications, we owe an everlasting debt of gratitude. The usual prob lems were compounded, but somehow or other, we muddled through.

The recent death of Sam, at the age of sixteen years, reminds us of the value and close relationship of a ranch and a dog. Sam was a red-boned hound. He came to the Island as a two-week-old pup. Gentle as a kitten with livestock, poultry and persons, Sam was death on wild hogs. He would sit on the front seat of the jeep and be constantly on the lookout. Once he caught the scent of a wild pig he was off. There was no real sport in hunting hogs with Sam along. He took personal charge, ran down and then cornered his prey. Before Sam there was Jack, a bull-collie, Chico, a “heinz-hound”, and others. All were good, but we miss Sam the most.

The story of an Island ranch is largely the story of people, as this tale indicates. Joe Griggs, whose formal education ended in the 3rd grade, but who had a touch of genius, is another example. Joe could do most anything, except write. An expert rider, huntsman, and general ranch worker, Joe also was a mechanical whiz. He once took a 1915 Waterloo Boy tractor that had been “mothballed” because the early workmen wouldn’t touch it, and used the parts to mdke a sawmill. The fact that we didn’t need a mill in no way detracted from the ingenuity and skill that went into its making. All of these people had one common characteristic. They knew and loved the Island.

Each in his own way was rugged and self-reliant. They took its beauties and hardships in stride.

Plaza del Mar

By Selden Spaulding Plaza del Mar, though almost completely forgotten now by the good people of Santa Barbara, in the years about the turn of the twentieth century was much used by the townspeople of that day as a pleasant park only a stone’s throw back from the wet sand of the Beach. One reason for its popularity, undoubtedly, was that, in those days, life moved for us at a much slower pace than it does now; and we were content with much simpler forms of amusement than is the case now. Many men enjoyed sitting in the warm sun for an hour or two and, as they sat on the benches here, they watched with interest the many forms of life that moved on the wet sand of the shore, that swam in the relatively quiet water immediately beyond the surf, and that flew in the air over the wide surface of the Channel.

Another reason for seeking these interludes of almost complete relax ation was the obvious fact that there were far fewer mechanical entertain ments to be enjoyed—there were no radio and television sets to watch, no automobiles to carry us easily and rapidly from one place to another in the community, and, certainly, no airplanes to make it easy for us to visit the far places of the earth. And so it was that my father and many of his friends (my father had come to Santa Barbara only recently from Buffalo, N.Y.) spent many hours on one or another of the Plaza benches as they conversed together and with other Santa Barbarans who also had the companionable custom of going to the Beach when the weather encourage such excursions.

The Plaza was situated at the end of palm-lined West Boulevard. It was here, also, not only that Castillo Street came to an end but that the 20

street railway system had its beach terminus. (The small, square, threecompartmented streetcars arrived here every ten minutes.) Actually, and in spite of the high-sounding designation, the so-called terminus was nothing more than the end of the line. There was no shed here and not even a plat form. When any given trolleycar came to a final stop, the trolley pole was reversed on the trolley wire, the motorman and the conductor changed stations in the car, one cowcatcher was raised and the other one was lowered, and then the antique vehicle was ready to start on its return trip, to the Old Mission or to Oak Park, as the case might be. My father did not travel by streetcar, however, but drove in his buggy to the Plaza, going down dirt surfaced Chapala Street to the Boulevard and then westward along this paved artery to its end, where there was a long, pipe hitching-rail for the accom modation of just such rigs as was his. Often, riders also tied their mounts to this hitching-rail, for the wet sand of West Beach was a favorite place upon which to ride.

Plaza del Mar was somewhat less in extent than was the usual city block. Immediately to the west of it rose Dibblee Hill, with a narrow and seldom used road slanting upward across its face from the low, flat land at its base to the Mesa, where was the conspicuously placed Dibblee Residence, “The Castle,” from which Castillo Street had derived its name. On the south side of the Plaza, of course, was the beach, with its unobstructed view of the Channel and, usually, of distant Santa Cruz Island as well. The Plaza boundaries were marked by a green, iron pipe fence just inside of which was a line of wooden benches, set there for the convenience and comfort of those people who came to the Plaza for a pleasant, perhaps an idle, hour or two. In the center was a fountain of considerable size, the gift of Mr. Joseph Cooper to the City, which dripped a little water from its small, up|)er basin into the geometrically designed, shallow pool at its bottom. (In the Spring, a small flock of blackbirds usually could be seen on and about this fountain.) Much of the surface of the Plaza was taken up by rectangles of Bermuda grass dotted with young and, therefore, not very tall fan palm trees. The walks between the grass rectangles and around the fountain were paved with asphaltum from the considerable deposits to the east and the west of the City. And along these walks, too, were wooden benches.

Close under Dibblee Hill was the bathhouse of sonorous name—“Los Banos del Mar”—in which was a pool of heated water (80 degrees, as I remember it) for the pleasure of those not toj robust bodies that did not care to endure the colder temperatures of the ocean. (During the Winter months, and well into the Spring, the temperatures of the sea water usually ranged from a very cold 54 to a not at all warm 60 degrees Farhenheit.)

Very few of the Winter tourists, or the permanent residents either, cared to bathe in the cold ocean; and so there was very little swimming in the surf until the relatively warm currents arrived from the south. Against the middle of the east side of Los Banos del Mar was the bandstand, a prominent feature of almost every park in Southern California at this time. La Monica and his band gave many concerts from this bandstand.

Even at the late date of 1900, ships of different kinds often were seen on the waters of the Channel. Probably the most numerous of these were the slow, clumsy-appearing lumber schooners, which moved up and down 21

West Beach about 1880.

the coast on irregular schedules, and which stopped at Santa Barbara when ever the piles of lumber on the end of the Wharf were diminished noticeably.

Other and somewhat faster ships arrived here on regular schedules to take on and to discharge both passengers and freight. These faster craft were not floating palaces, of course; yet, in that uncritical day, they were held to be comfortable, almost luxurious, in their appointments; and so they were well patronized. I remember clearly that winter of heavy rains during which we arrived in Los Angeles by train (Santa Fe). We were told, when we registered at the Van Nuys Hotel, that the railroad tracks between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara were washed out in several places (a rather common occurence in those days) and so no trains were running. Obvious ly, our only means of farther travel was the steamer. We sailed from Wil mington, as I remember it, at eleven o’clock that night; and we arrived off Santa Barbara, after a comfortable trip, just as rosy dawn was coming. A more beautiful arrival I cannot remember, whether by horse, train, auto mobile, or airplane. To each one of our party it was an inspiring episode.

It is greatly to be regretted that every first arrival to our fair City cannot be made by sea, as we made this one on that clear, fresh, quiet morning.

Besides the lumber schooners and the passenger steamers, there was an occasional warship of one class or another to be seen anchored in the road way off Santa Barbara for, in those days, our Channel was designated as a proving and trial ground for ships of the Navy. Sometimes, as many as three or even four torpedo boat destroyers came for visits of two or three 22

days. Sometimes, a gunboat came unescorted. One of these gunboats was the Bennington, a boat that was to become especially memorable to us be cause she blew up off the Presidio in Monterey soon after her last visit to Santa Barbara. Rarely, we saw one of the larger ships, a cruiser. Along the shore, on either side of the Town, the miles of the Channel Course were designated by sets of three conspicuous, white markers placed in lines, the first of these markers standing as near the sand of the beach as was prac ticable, the second somewhat farther inland, and the third well up on the foothills.

Besides the ships and the parties of horseback riders, there were crea tures of the sea that went back and forth, usually at not two great distances beyond the line of the breakers. Of these, the schools of porpoises were of the most interest to the watchers on the Plaza benches. Because they were air-breathing mammals, these porpoises came to the surface often in great, rolling arcs that showed not only the dorsal fins but at least one-half of the dark bodies as well; and so their courses in the water easily were followed by the human eye. Though, at the time, I had not the slightest notion of why they chose to swim in this extraordinary way, these schools of travelling porpoises were of great interest to me, personally; and they were the subject of many conversations and much speculation to the men on the benches.

Occasionally, a seal or two (we called them seals but, actually, they were female sea lions) cruised by with their heads held high above the surface of the water immediately behind the cresting rollers. From this vantage point, they looked at us searchingly and curiously, just as we looked at them; and this circumstance seemed unusual to us. When they submerged, as they did often, they performed this feat not by diving, as a loon or a grebe would have done, but merely by settling in the water. How they were able to do this I could not fathom at the time, nor do I now know the exact mechanics of the operation. That they were expert swimmers was obvious.

Rarely, a baby seal appeared, a little and a very inexperienced swimmer; and these babies sometimes got into trouble in the surf and were washed ashore. It was a favorite pastime of human swimmers to try to surround these baby seals while they were in the shallow water and to capture them by herding them onto the dry sand. It was known to us, however, that they possessed needle-sharp teeth; and so none of us was willing to attempt to take hold of them with our bare hands. Invariably, these games ended when the young seals submerged and passed out to deep water between two of their would-be captors.

Very rarely, a blowing whale was sighted far out to sea. Somewhat more often, the body of a dead whale was washed ashore. When this accident occurred, the news of it was carried in large headlines in the local news papers; and then the townspeople went to the beach in large numbers to see the leviathan. Usually, in a day or two, the smell of the decaying body became so objectionable (the breeze almost constantly was off the sea and on to the land) that the city fathers were forced into the necessity of em ploying men and horses with strong stomaches to cut up the carcass and to bury it deep in the sand, piece by malodorous piece.

As a very small boy, I was taken to the beach one day to see one of these whale carcasses. When we arrived on the scene, the huge body had 23

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Of seabirds there were very many, of course; and of these the pelicans were of first interest. (The cormorants, or “shags”, made a poor second.)

These birds were expert fishermen, even though they were awkward flyers; and the spectacular dives, the birds seeming almost to become falling har poons, that they made from heights in the air of thirty or forty or even fifty feet, held the attention of everyone on the beach day after day. Their manner of straightaway flight, when not engaged in fishing operations, was of considerable interest, too. Sometimes a string of from eight to twenty birds, at an altitude of from fifty to one hundred feet, would fly by as though with some definite destination in mind. The leader, or first bird, of such a line would flap its great wings, and at once the gliding bird immediately behind it would follow suit, and then the next and the next and the next and the next. And so the flapping operation would pass down the line to the last bird. About the time that the fifth bird in the line began to flap, the leader would set its wings and sail, or glide. Then the glide would pass backward along the line, just as the flapping was doing. Then the leader would flap once more. In a very long line of pelicans, I have seen as many as five alternate flapping and gliding sections at a given moment of the flight.

Occasionally, one of these lines of alternating flapping and gliding pelicans would choose to fly so close to the surface of the water that the wing tips, at the end of each down beat, seemed almost to touch it. Usually, these low-flying lines passed along just back of the breaker line, where the incoming rollers were beginning to crest; and, when this happened, it was a common practice for them to fly in the deep trough between two cresting waves until the moment of breaking arrived; and then, easily and seemingly casually, they would glide, one after the other and still in the follow-^^eleader formation, over the outer crest and into the deep trough beyond. This extraordinary maneuver they repeated over and over again as they con tinued on along the shoreline. Never once did I see the leader wait an instant too long in making the passage from one trough to another; nor did I ever see a single bird break the line.

West of Plaza del Mar, at a distance of about two city blocks, was Castle Rock. This was a pile thirty or forty feet high against which the waves, even at half tide, broke with considerable force. At high tide, they 25

broke with great violence, or so it seemed to me as a boy. At one place in the outer surface, a relatively large cave ran back into the pile a considerable distance. This was a famous place for crabs and shellfish of many kinds, and so it was a favorite playground, at low tide, for children. I can not remember that I ever found an abalone shell there, however, not even a very small one. The earthquake of 1925 did so much damage to this so-called rock that the city fathers decreed its destruction by dynamite. A year later, this point was used for the anchor, or beginning place, of the present Break water. All that is left now of the face of the Mesa, where we held many a picnic, and of Castle Rock is the remnant that goes by the name of “Fossil Hill”. In the period between 1880 and 1910, however, Castle Rock was the most often painted natural feature of all the Channel Area.

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Activity Report - Women's Projects Board Members of the Women’s Projects Board met in the music room of the Fernald House on Thursday, February 10, 1966, to present annual reports and install newly-elected officers, with Mrs. George H. Finley, retiring chair man, presiding. Honored guests were welcomed, including new members of the Regular Board, new Associate members, and other friends of the Santa refreshments Barbara Historical Society. Following the business meetin were served in the dining room.

During the past year, Mrs. Lloyd Wheeler, Ways and Means chairman, has offered a stimulating, varied program, each event being well supported by our members and by the community-at-Iarge. The local news media, ini.. eluding the Santa Barbara News-Press, KEY-TV, radio stations KTMS, KDB, KIST, also the Gazette-Citizen of Goleta, and This Week in Santa Barbara, have all been very generous with publicity for special events, and for weekly listing of the Sunday “Open House”; our sincere thanks to all of them for their generosity. Also to Sunset Magazine, Westways Magazine, and to the Los Angeles Times for giving us coverage, especially on our Casa Tour last August 1. This was a “walking tour” of El Pueblo Viejo area, chairmanned by Mrs. John H. Locklin, and is the major fund raising event of the year.

Mrs. James T. Lindsey, refreshment chairman, planned an old fashioned ice cream social” for the evening of August 26, to which the public was invited. Homemade cakes and hand-churned ice cream, served in the garden, on a warm August evening, were featured at this delightful party.

A literary tea, with Mrs. Lawrence E. Wood, chairman and hostess, was given on September 23 at the Fernald House, at which event it was the pleas ure of the board to present several of Santa Barbara’s eminent authors and their latest books to the public. These were: Miss Eleanor Hoffman, “Realm of the Evening Star—A History of Morocco and the Lands of the Moors”; The Reverend Maynard Geiger, O.F.M., “Mission Santa Barbara, 17821965”; Walker A. Tompkins, with several recent books—“Royal Rancho”, Little Giant of Signal Hill”, “Santa Barbara Yesterdays” and others; Ed ward Selden Spaulding, “Adobe Days Along the Santa Barbara Channel”, History of Santa Barbara”, and “Common Birds of Santa Barbara”.

Assisting the authors were the Mmes. Wilson Forbes, Jay Chilton, Vincent Grocott, Edward Toporeck and Leo McMahon; also Miss Rosario Curletti.

Refreshments were served in the candlelit dining room, by Mmes. James I. Smith, John J. Hollister, Sr., James T. Lindsey, and their tea committee.

Responsible for the flower arrangements were Mrs. Hamilton Greenough an d Mrs. Eldon Haskell. Miss Mary M. Chrisman, treasurer, was in charge of ticket sales at the door.

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Mrs. Arnott J. Nall arranged a “table setting” display, using both houses, for October 28, at which time a collection of period and contemporary table settings of china, glass and silver were presented for public viewing. Co hostesses with Mrs. Nall were Mrs. Alwilda M. Owings and Mrs. Edward Bouton.

Among the displays were 19th century heirloom tea and coffee services; a handpainted chocolate set, made by Mrs. Lloyd Wheeler; a breakfast tray 27

arranged on a Victorian wicker lap-tray, for “breakfast in bed”. In the Adobe dining room, a dinner table, set for the “dessert course”, by Mrs. James Boyce and Mrs. McMahon was of unusual interest to visitors. In the children’s room, in the Fernald House, a child’s table was set with silver porringers and mugs, with dolls from our collection seated around as at a “tea party”.

Hostesses for the place setting program included the Mmes. James P. Smith, Eldon Haskell, John J. Hollister, Sr., Cedric Boeseke, Lawrence E. Wood, John C. Vesey, Edward Bouton, Sydney Robinson, Richard Nelson, Richard Praul, Wilson Forbes, Guy Chase, Albert de L’Arbre, Whitehead Crosby, John H. Locklin, Milo Maier, Lloyd Wheeler, Joseph Bradley, James Dazey, Leo McMahon, James Boyce, Howard G. Smith, Gene M. Harris, Stephan White, Alwilda Owings, E. H. Katenkamp, Hamilton Greenough, Clark Fletcher and George H. Finley. Also the Misses Mary M. Chrisman and Isabel Parry.

The annual Christmas Tea, honoring Associate and new members was held on December 9, from 3 to 5 p.m. Mrs. William S. Barton, chairman, was assisted by Mmes. McMahon, Greenough, Boyce and Vesey, decorations: James P. Smith, Lindsey and Haskell, refreshments. Guests were greeted by Mmes. George H. Finley, Vincent H. Grocott, Wilson Forbes, Edward Bouton, L. E. Wood. At the tea table, were Mmes. McMahon, Greenough, Charles Harper and Miss Chrisman.

The Fernald House was resplendent in its holiday decorations. An oldfashioned fir tree, trimmed with popcorn and cranberry chains, many-colored glass baubles and tiny twinkling lights, stood in the bay window of the parlour. Dolls and toys from the childrens’ room were placed around the base of the tree, a rag doll in an 1880 walnut cradle, and a small canvas doll-carriage, ca. 1910, held another doll. The buggy is a recent gift from Mrs. A. Bruce Steele, who played with it as a small child.

Mrs. Andrew Frank Lane, Jr., a new Associate member, and great-grand daughter of Judge Charles and Hannah Fernald, was reminiscing about the many Christmases she had spent in this house as a child, when her “aunt Florence” Fernald was living in it; she stated, “Aunt Florence always had her tree in this same place; and the swags of greenery tied with red ribbons to the curving walnut bannister, is just as she always trimmed it. She had color everywhere, as you have. This was her favorite holiday!”

New Associate members are Mmes. Robert J. Chrisman, Francis Egan, Robert Earl Eyre, Charles Chesney, Charles R. Poor, Andrew Frank Lane, Jr., Robert J. OUoboni, William Azbell, Bert Kelley, John Babcock, Gordon Fletcher, Robert Gerald Wheeler; and Miss Pauline M. Finley.

Mrs. Leo McMahon, House and Acquisitions chairman, has received many lovely gifts, each of which adds to the story to be told about a longpast era. and will be greatly treasured. Space permits mention of only one.

Shortly before retiring as chairman of this board, last February’, Mrs. Alex Funke gave the House enough gold-colored satin for draperies in the Music Room but in the interests of economy this project had to wait awhile. Mrs. Funke’s illness in the late Spring and Summer, culminating in her death early in the Fall, decided the committee to proceed with her plans, and have the drapes made, as our memorial to her. Mrs. Funke, and her husband, were 28

founder-benefactors to the Fernald House, and these beautiful draperies serve as a constant reminder of her years of devoted interest in our project.

On November 30, the board co-hosted a luncheon at the Fernald House with W. Edwin Gledhill, Museum Director. We were honored to have as our guests, Mayor Don McGillivray, the members of his able City Council, and representatives from the news-media who cover the City Council meetings.

Assisting with the catered luncheon, were the Mmes. Wilson Forbes, John J. Hollister, Sr., Milo Maier, Hamilton Greenough, George Finley, and Leo McMahon. Later that evening, KEY-TV showed films taken of the Council at lunch, interiors of the house, and the Memorial Garden, also the TrussellWinchester Adobe and Hunt-Stambach House adjacent to us, on their 6 and 11 o’clock news.

The houses were closed for the holidays from December 18 to January 9, but publicity given our beautiful Christmas parly by Mrs. Pat Dayton in the News-Press brought a deluge of local residents on the 12th, to see the Victorian tree before it was dismantled. Our guest register shows that many visitors from all corners of the world have taken the time to visit these two examples of Santa Barbara’s historic past . . . the farthest being, perhaps, from Australia, Ireland, or the Philippine Islands. France and Germany are also represented, with many visitors from Canada (East and West) w’ho in cluded the two houses on their itineraries.

Mrs. Edward Bouton, chairman of staffing, has supplemented her list of docents drawn from our own members, with interested women from the Volunteers Service Bureau, as well as from the Ticktockers, the junior mem bers of the National Charity League. The services of each one is sincerely appreciated, for this is the most valuable pari of our program, and, in the main, the reason for our existence .. . i. e., to preserve for “oldsters”, the nos talgic memories of the past; and for the “jet set”, to show them how their grandparents may have lived. School and organization tours can be arranged by calling the Fernald House, 966-6639, and are welcomed. Admission is free, although any contribution is w’elcome, as the maintenance of the tw'o buildings is, in part, dependent upon the public’s generosity.

WiiLBERTA M. Finley

Director's Report One of the great joys in being a Museum Director is receiving a gift which unexpectedly becomes of historic or artistic significance. Early this year while looking over Mrs. Edward Borein’s gift of many of her husband’s preliminary drawings, made as studies for his etchings and as such not con sidered of value, I suddenly realized that here in my hands was an outstand ing work of art and possibly the finest achievement of this artist. This master piece, a large brush and ink drawing of a war party of Cheyenne Indians on horseback, was the result of one of those moments of inspiration and guidance that only come occasionally even to the finest of artists.

Following the same pattern, several months ago Mrs. Charles Mattel brought into the Museum a painting made in 1915 by Clarence Mattel, Santa Barbara’s well-known portrait painter, of stagecoach driver John Waugh who made his trips over San Marcos Pass to Mattel’s Inn at Los Olivos. The 29

Rain-Waterfall in Cold Spring Canyon.

canvas was

stained, streaked, and a hopeless looking mess. As the story was told to me, Clarence and Charles had been in a happy mood, and for fun started to wash the painting with water or anything else that they could throw at the portrait. I discovered from Mrs. Mattei that this was the first portrait Clarence Mattei painted on his return to California from Paris, where, through the assistance of Mrs. Duryea who had discovered his talent as a youngster, he had been able to study and perfect his technique as a painter.

The painting was taken to Helmer Erickson, and it was restored. Without a doubt, it is one of Clarence Mattel’s finest canvases.

Bringing back memories of the old Arlington Hotel, of which Mr. Thompson was^ at one time manager, is the permanent loan from the M. H. de Young Museum of San Francisco of Dixie Thompson’s silver-mounted saddle. The saddle was made by Loomis with silver-work by John Field, Santa Barbara’s noted silversmith. Dixie Thompson, his horse, and saddle, were part of the history of every parade in early celebrations of the city before the turn of the me century, century. jjixie Dixie Thompson 1 hompson also gained a place in i Santa Barbara’s history by installing the first primitive telephone between the Arlington Hotel and his stable.

William LouTs Otte, one of the interesting group of landscape painters of the early 1900 s w’hich included John M. Gamble, Fernand Lungren, and Carl Oscar Borg, is well represented in the Santa Barbara Historical So ciety s collection, Mrs. Otte recently presented the Society with four of his earliest paintings, made in 1900 at the start of his career. ^^^ June 17th, 18th, and 19th, 1965 in Sacramento at the Conference of California Historical Societies, the Santa Barbara Society was honored by the election of the Museum Director, W. Edwin Gledhill, as Vice-President of the Conference.

The Conference of California Historical Societies is the parent organization of the important historical societies of California, including the Society of California Pioneers, the California Historical Society, the Los Angeles County Museum History Department, the San Diego Historical Society, and historical societies, large and small, in every county of California. In Santa Barbara County its members include the Lompoc Historical Society, the Santa Maria, the Santa Ynez, the Carpinteria, and the Santa Barbara His torical Societies. .

16th, 17th, and 18th, 1966, the Conference of California Hismrical Societies will hold its annual meeting in Santa Barbara at the Miramar Hotel m Montecito. The program will include interesting talks and discussions on historical subjects. Members of the Society will be able to attend the meetings. At this conference, your Museum Director will take office as Presi dent of the Conference of California Historical Societies.

W. Edwin Gledhill GIFTS Mr. Elmer Awl Mrs. Margaret Bailey Dr. Nils Bolduan Mrs. I. A. Bonilla Mr. Christian F. Brun

California Historical Society Miss Pearl Chase Mr. Orin G. Clem Mrs. Clayton Cook Mr. Elbert S. Conner

31

Mrs. Anne Dalponte Mrs. Leroy Dart Mr. Harold G. Davidson Mrs. Bertie De L’Arbre Mr. Robert Easton.

GIFT'S (Continued) Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Edwards Mrs. Wilson Forbes Mr. John Galvin Dr. David Gebhard Mrs. Kennedy Hamill Mr. Timothy Hillebrand Miss Virginia Holbrook Mr. Wallace M. Holland Mr. Ward Holt Mrs. W. F. Kelley Mrs. William H. Kirkbride Dr. Hilmar 0. Koefod Mrs. John J. Lawrence Mrs. Fred Lewis Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe C. Lyans Mrs. Margaret Mackey Mrs. Charles Mattel

Miss Naomi B. Morton Mr. George F. McMurray Dr. V. Aubrey Neasham Mrs. Helen Nidever Mrs. Minnis Noon Mr. George J. O’Brien Mr. Ralph B. Ortel Mrs. William Otte Mr. and Mrs. Howard Park Mr. and Mrs.Godwin Pelissero Mr. Charles Pierce Mrs. Mercedes Dibblee Poett Mr. Francis Price, Jr. Mr. Max Richter Mr. Steven Riffero Mr. Russell Ruiz Santa Barbara County Court House—Office of the Clerk Museum of Natural History

Miss Mary Shaw Mr. Cliff Smith Mr. Dick Smith Miss Virginia Rose Smith Miss Edna Snow The Society of California Pioneers Mr. E. Selden Spaulding Mr. Frederick Steams II Mr. Paul Sweetser Title Insurance & Trust Co. Miss Susan Trenwith Mrs. Rita Van Buskirk Mrs. Margaret Von Soosten Mr. Milton Weinstein Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Whittaker Mrs. Lester Williams

In Closing . . .

As this is the last issue of Noticias (number 39) that I shall edit, I take the opportunity that it offers to express to the officers, members, and friends of our Society

my sincere

and

deep

appreciation of the many courtesies and generosities that have been extended to me in the course of the eight years just passed.

These have been so many that their sum is large indeed. As a small yet tangible token of my gratitude, I propose now to attempt to put together during the next six months a descrip tion of Santa Barbara as I viewed it during the first quarter century of my residence here—roughly, from 1897 to the earth quake of 1925. To those of you who may wish to receive this small book and who will be kind enough reasonably soon to send your names and addresses to me at my residence, 720 Mission Canyon Road, or at the Historical Museum (it will be for private distribution only) I shall be happy to send copies without cost, if and when it finally is printed. Though it is cer tain that this “work” will not be a notable addition to our his torical record or knowledge, it may chance that it will contain one or two, or even three, items of nostalgic interest to those old residents who read it. To the newcomers, it may reveal glimpses of a way of life in a small California community that, to us who were a part of it is very pleasant to remember.

Edward Selden Spaulding

32

SANTA BARBARA HISTORICAL SOCIETY

OFFICERS President

Dr. Hilmar 0. Koefod

First Vice President Second Vice President.

Hugh J. Weldon Mrs. Wilson Forbes Paul G. Sweetser

Secretary Treasurer

Mrs. Henry Griffiths ..Thomas J. McDermott

Past President

DIRECTORS Mrs. Charles H. Cannon Rev. Virgil Cordano John D. Gill Mrs. W. Edwin Gledhill Yale B. Griffith

John Jordano, Jr. Mrs. Godwin Pelissero Edward S. Spaulding Lockwood Tower Garrett Van Horne

Elmer H. Whittaker Dr. Irving N. Wills John Calvin* Thomas M. Storke* ● Honorary Directors

W. Edwin Gledhill Mrs. W. Edwin Gledhill....

Mrs. Henry Griffiths Edward Selden Spaulding.

NEW MEMBERS

SUSTAINING

ACTIVE

Mrs. Jeanne Auge’

Museum Director Curator ●Executive Secretary Editor-in-Chief

IN MEMORIAM

Mr. John S. Ferguson, Jr.

Dr. and Mrs. H. E. Henderson

Graham James & Rolph

Mr. and Mrs. Richard Mohr

Mr. and Mrs. Norman Macleod

Mr. George McMurray

Mr. and Mrs. Robert Phelan

Mr. and Mrs. Edward Peirce

CONTRIBUTING

Mrs. Richard Redfield

Major and Mrs. Jerry Bennett

Mrs. Lawrence Reily

Miss Maria Ealand

Mr. and Mrs. Preston Webster

Mr. Jefferson Jones Mrs. Francis Price, Sr. Mr. Glen Walters Mr. Frederick D. Anderson Mrs. Alex Funke Mrs. Edward Selden Spaulding Mrs. Thomas Wilson Dibblee

HISTORICAL SOCIETY MEMBERSHIP Classes of membership: Benefactor, $100; Patron, $25; Contributing, $15; Sustaining, $10; Active, $7.50; Student, $5. Dues are tax deductible.

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