China Camp by Santa Barbara Historical Museum

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China Camp By Edward Selden Spaulding On the left bank, about a half mile above the place where the little creek empties into the Santa Ynez River, there is a permanent spring of sweet water. Back of this spring, there is the beautiful “flat” where the live oaks and sycamores, and even a cottonwood or two, grow to imposing size in the light, well-watered soil of the little canyon bottom. In the Spring of each year, when the grass is lush and green and when the leaves even of the nondeciduous live oaks are fresh and shiny, there are many wildflowers here; and of these the loveliest are the masses of the tiny fairy lanterns, which grow in the deep leaf mold that has been building deeper and deeper for centuries under the high-roofed ramadas formed by the open domes of the great trees. From the beginning of recorded history, this Flat has been, perhaps, the favorite stopping place in the whole length of the Santa Ynez River for travellers as they have come down the north face of the Range by means of the ancient Indian trail and, in more recent times, by the sinuous San Marcos Pass Road. A century ago, when the road was being built by the Chinese from the valley bottom to the crest of the mountain wall, these pa tient, hard-working, intelligent laborers made their camp here; and so, from that time to the present, the flat and spring have been known as “China Camp”. Three-quarters of a century ago, this area lay in the south-eastern corner of the huge San Marcos Ranch. Some two decades ago, Dr. Irving Wills bought the Flat and the acres around it; and, on another flat that lay but a little more than stone’s throw north of China Camp, he built his

CHINA CAMP 1

wirle-eaved, rambling, comfortable home. Through the large window of his living room, he now looks out across the Santa Ynez River and on to the wide panorama of the south face of the San Rafael Mountains. On a spring'day in 1964, at the annual business meeting of the Los Alamos Society, Dr. Wills was elected to the presidency of this widelyknown group of 49 men who enjoy immensely their lives out-of-doors; and so it happened that, following immutable custom, he was the host at the barbecue that followed this annual meeting. Happily, Nat chose China Camp as the site for the traditional repast; and there, beside the little creek and in the pleasant shade of the great trees, he entertained his fellow ranch ers of the Valley and a few of his close friends of other ways of life. It was, of course, a memorable occasion. As I sat at one of the two long, board tables and looked about me, it seemed that the Flat had changed very little in appearance since that day, more than a half century earlier, when, with three companions, I had made my bed on the ground almost exactly where I happened now to be sitting. As I thought further about the matter, look ing from the huge hole of this magnificient live oak to that clump of high sycamores and then up to the leafy canopy that stretched overhead as an almost unbroken expanse of greenery that shaded us from the rays of the warm sun, it came to me that this authentic bit of Old Santa Barbara should be recorded pictorially while it still was possible to do this, and should be made a part of the permanent record of the Community. Soon after that nostalgically delightful day, Mr. Karl Obert spent many hours on the Flat with his camera and tripod as he waited for the shadows to shift and change on this bit of the Old San Marcos Road and for the light to fall to the best advantage on that bit of creekhed and on the huge trunk and mighty limbs of the oak under which the barbecue tables had been placed. The pictures he has taken, reproduced on the following pages, need no word of praise from me for they speak eloquently for themselves. And now I am attempting to set down from an uncertain memory the events of that ride we four boys took so very long ago when our first night out was spent beside the spring at China Camp. It is my hope that the tale, after it is written, will in some small measure re-enforce the story that the pictures tell so vividly and so beautifully.

OLD SAN MARCOS PASS ROAD | 2

One mornin as we came into the bathhouse (Los Banos del Mar) from an hour’s play in the surf at the end of West Boulevard, Ed Gilbert casually suggested that we “go camping”. “We can get Cecil Thomas and his mule for a pack animal,” said Ed, “and we can have a swell time”. Perry Austin and I readily agreed to this proposal, of course; and so it came about that, early the next morning, the four of us, with the packed mule between us, rode out through the still sleeping town and, in a short time reached the foot of the San Marcos Pass Road. We had told our respective families that we were going deer hunting somewhere in the Second Range, but in our hearts each one of us knew that it was wholly unlikely that we should come home with venison chunks rolled up in our sleeping bags. About half way up the mountainside, as we rode slowly along the road with our eyes out for anything that might move in the chaparral around us, we saw a little chipmunk scamper across the road well ahead of us and climb to the top of a large boulder that lay close against the roadbank. We reined in our horses and began to speculate on the possibility of one of us hunters hitting so small a target. “It’s a long shot,” said I, dubiously. “Too long!” “I’ll bet you can’t make it, Ed,” said Cecil. Ed drew the 22 rifle from its scabbard under his left leg, swung down from his saddle, took careful aim, and fired. Wonderful to relate, he made a dead center shot. In some amazement we hurried to the boulder. Ed, of course, was in high good-spirits; but when he picked up the little, limp form, fell the warm, soft fur, and saw at close range the handsome stripes on the little back, his face fell. Gladly, had he been able to do so, would he have given back to the chipmunk his merry life. We mounted our horses and continued on along the road in chastened mood. As we crossed the summit and started down the other side, we met a man coming up the north face of the range. As was customary in these chance meetings, we reined in our willing mounts for conversation with the stranger. “Where are you boys headed for?” he asked casually as he looked US over with an experienced eye. We’re going deer hunting. Where are you going to camp tonight? n Oh, somewhere along the River. We’ll pick out the place when we get there. a

There’s a lot of alkali in the River at this time of year. Why don’t you slop at China Camp? There’s a fine spring there and the trees are bia:. You’ll like it there.” yy

That might be a good idea. We ll look it over when we get there. So it happened that we made our first night’s camp under the trees that grew beside and over the famous spring. Though the place was even

CREEK BED—CHINA CAMP 4.

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more beautiful than this chance acquaintance had told us it would be, none of us slept too well that first night. The ground proved on trial to be hard, and so we were glad to crawl out of our blankets at the first signs of dawn the next morning. I had the vague impression that I had spent the night bridging a canyon of some sort, and my hips ached. After a breakfast that consisted almost wholly of maple syrup and pan cakes made from Albers Flap Jack Flour (you may be certain that tliese fiap jacks were flapped in a frying pan, for each one of us would have scorned, when cooking breakfast over an open fire, to turn the pancakes with a lifter) we saddled our horses and packed the mule and set out up the River for Juncal. We had been told in Santa Barbara that Juncal was a very paradise for deer hunters, and so we rode forward with high expecta tions. When we arrived at the place, however, the noonday sun was very hot, the warm water from the River was so laden with minerals that, no matter how much of it we drank, our thirst was unquenched, and the trees were less than half the size of those we had found at China Camp. And in addition to these three important factors, the tiny black flies buzzed inces santly in our ears regardless of how many of them we killed, and, as is al ways the case on the second day out, we were tired. “This is a Hell of a place to camp!” complained one of us. “Let’s get out of here!” “Which way shall we go?” “Let’s go to the Peach Tree,” said Cecil. “My dad owns an interest in a place there.” Turning about, we rode down stream to the mouth of Mono Canyon and, entering here, we rode the short distance to the Flats. Here we made camp under the famous live oak that burgeoned in those halcyon days close to the Creek and within a stone’s throw of the high, chalky cut-bank. Present ly, Ranger Tom Dinsmore rode up from his cabin a quarter of a mile down stream and, sitting relaxed and easy in his saddle, asked us about the business that had brought us to the Flats. Then he told us in general terms how to get to Peach Tree Creek by way of Little Pine Mountain. “There’s a fine, deep pool in the Creek about a hundred yards upstream,” he added. On this high note the Ranger returned to his cabin in the gathering darkness and we went to bed. That night, 1 slept soundly and, as 1 remember it, dreamlessly. The next morning, we bestirred ourselves at a comfortable hour. When Perry went to the spring for a canteen of water, he came on four or five or six newly hatched horned toads in the deep dust of the trail. This was a find indeed! Perry caught three of them and brought these in triumph to our camp under the tree. They were little fellows, by far the littlest that I ever had seen, being about the size of a small fingernail. “What are you going to do with them?” demanded Cecil.

SYCAMORE CLUMP | (Probably formed from root sprouts after a fire of three-quarters of a century ago) 6

“I’m going to take them back to Santa Barbara with me.” “How?” “I’ll {jut them'in an empty can with a little dirt in the bottom of it.” “They’ll die just as sure as you put them in one of the alforcas” stated Cecil positively. “You’ll never get them home alive.” “I’m not going to pul them in that hot pack on the mule’s back,” cried Perry. “I’m going to carry them in my hand.” As for the big pool that Tom Dinsmore had been so careful to bring to our attention, as soon as we saw it we hailed it as the prince of all swim ming pools. It was indeed large and deep, and it was surrounded on three sides by immense boulders. On the fourth side there stretched a gravel bar that, while coarse in texture, was a perfect place in which to lie in the sun after a half hour in the pool. It was the feel of the cool water on hot, dusty, bare skin as I dove from one or another of the boulders into the deepest part of the pool, however, that I remember with the greatest pleasure. This was satisfying beyond description. And so we dove into the water, sat on the warm boulders, and lay on the gravel bar all the long morning through. (At a later date. I was to learn that Tom used this pool often and with as much enjoyment as did we boys.) That we became badly sunburned from head to foot goes without saying, and that this sunburn made sleeping on the ground a misery for the next night or two also is easy to remember. Friend ly, understanding Tom Dinsmore! He was the huskiest man I have known. He was of medium height and thick set—1 came to think of him as bear like, yet he was unfailing in his sympathy and helpfulness to all those boys who camped for a while on Mono Flats. Ed must have felt about Tom Dinsmore much as I did, for he remarked: “Some day Tom is going to walk down the trail and a bear is going to jump him. Boy, am I going to feel sorry for that bear!” We rode up Indian Canyon, as Tom had advised us to do, and turned into the mouth of the much smaller Buckhorn Canyon when we came to it. Soon the train left the creek bottom and led up the north side of a ridge. Up to this point, the ride had been uneventful. It had been pleasant to go forward, our bodies swinging loosely to the rhythms of our horses’ gaits, in the feeling of complete freedom and with the possibility of something new, even exciting, turning up as we rounded each curve in the trail and passed over each little ridge; but there had been nothing about the trip that had seemed to us to be noteworthy. Now conditions changed enough to make them memorable. From the creekbed to the top of this long and high ridge the trail had not been brushed out for years, possibly not since it had been built; and so it w'as heavily overgrown. For Ed and Cecil and me, passage along it was difficult enough; but for Perry it was much worse because, as he clung to his saddle as he forced his way through the tops of the high chaparral that overhung the trail on the upper side, he had to keep his can of baby horned toads upright at all times. This was not an easy job!

A LIVE OAK TRUNK (Dr. Irving Wills) 8

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Howard Hastings

Mountain quail.

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When we came to the top, or crest, of the long ridge, the going became easier because the brush here was lighter; and, in due time, we found our selves on the open, grass-covered loma on the southern face of Little Pine Mountain. As we approached the stand of pines that covers the top of the Mountain, a condor swept up out of a side canyon in the effortless, swift way that condors have on the wing, and crossed our path at not more than a hundred yards. Seeing us, it veered off to the right and by this maneuver it displayed to us the under side of its left wing and of its body as well. This was the first condor that I had seen. The picture of it, made as it turned away from us, with the green tops of the pines just below it, was unforgetable. It remains as one of the clearest memories of this ride that I now have. Following the trail around the top of the Mountain, we came to the little spring that seeps out of the shale under the pines and smallish oaks of the west face. This was a famous camp site among deer hunters, and it had been described to us with some care by Ranger Dinsmore as we had lain in our camp under the oak tree on Mono Flats. We were glad to stop here, if for no other reason, because it offered the opportunity of picketing our stock in the waist-high wild oats of the extensive loma located but a short distance to the north of the spring. For me, because of my sunburned hack and hips, that night proved to be a restless one. The next morning, we rode through the wild oats of the loma and on down the westering ridge to Santa Cruz Creek. Here the going at times was difficult, especially when we were forced into the creekbed itself. That night we spent comfortably and pleasantly under the Sycamores on a Santa Cruz Flat. Though there was not much water flowing over the rocks and around the boulders, some of the holes were deep. In one such pool that we rode through, the water came up within two or three inches of our saddle seals. In this particular hole. Perry’s horse most in-opportunely came to a stop and refused to go on. We thought this very comical because Perry sat bal anced precariously, with his legs and feet held high in front of him and his arms outstretched. In his left hand he held his reins and in his right were his fishing rod and the horned toad can slung in a sort of little hammock made from his bandana kerchief. As far as control of his horse was concerned, he was completely helpless. Presently, the mood of the horse changed and it moved leisurely forward through the water; and so Perry at last arrived safely and dry on the far rim of the deep pool. At this point, we well could have said that we were lost, for we knew not where we were; but, as we had our food and our bed rolls with us on the faithful packmule, it made no particular difference where we were at any given moment—all that was necessary was to keep going in some particular direction and, by so doing, eventually to arrive somewhere. And so we went forward in high good humor.

LARGE COTTONWOOD (Killed by fire of 1955) 12

Howard HastlnRS

Coons playing in the moonlight with the brass lock on a Forest Service tool box.

ANOTHER LARGE LIVE OAK TREE 14

At last, we came to a place from which Cecil, looking about with an appraising eye, though that, by turning to the west and going over the hills, we eventually would strike Peach Tree Creek. Once this happened, he was confident that he would recognize the Creek for what it was. So we rode west over the “trackless” ridges and around the hills and, in due time, we did come to a creek that Cecil proclaimed at once to be the creek we sought. Not only this! We arrived almost exactly at the place on the Creek where Mr. Thomas had established his camp! Daniel Boone himself could not have done better. Perry, however, was in depressed mood for he found that the trip had been too much for the horned toads. They had died in their can. The next morning, when we got out of our blankets to go deer-hunting, we discovered that the formerly clear stream now was running brown with mud. “There must be pigs in the water upstream,” the knowledgeable Cecil told us. “There are a lot of wild pigs in the brush of these hills.” (By “wild pigs” he meant pigs and their progeny that had escaped from the pens of the ranchers and had taken to a feral life.) Guns in hand, we went up the canyon to see what was causing the mud in the water; and, in the flat above ours, we came on a herd of a half dozen pigs of all sizes wallowing in a shallow pool of the stream. We rushed them, yelling our hardest, and they stampeded down the canyon in the wildest fright. (Had this happened today, we should have shot one of the beasts and so should have provided ourselves with fresh pork steaks for dinner, for now “wild pig” has become an accepted part of the hunter’s bag.) Having done this much, we continued on up the canyon in quest of the elusive buck. Find ing no buck, after a long hunt, during which, as I remember it, we did come on a doe, we returned to camp and set about the preparation of a dinner of canned corned beef and fried potatoes. And a delicious dinner we thought

it to be! Having nothing better to do, Cecil suggested that we ride up to “La Grande’s Place”. He was not sure of its exact location, but he thought that it lay well up on the mountainside to the west of us. “La Grande”, it might be noted, was a man of unknown origins who had homesteaded hereabouts many years before our advent on the Peach Tree. We rode off to the west, being careful to climb steadily as we progressed forward; and, presently, much to my surprise, we came to the now famous cabin and clearing. La Grande proved to be a short, heavy man who, obviously, was glad to see us and to talk to us. Perhaps because he had lived alone for so many years, he had acquired the curious habit, when he spoke, of making one long word of each sentence that he uttered. Because of this peculiarity of speech, I found it difficult to understand all that he said to us. At one time, I remem ber, he said: “Ikilledacoyoteoverthereonthathilllastweek.” This was accom panied by appropriate jestures and, after some fast mental gymnastics, 1 understood him to say that he had killed a coyote across the swail from the place where we were standing.

A BIT OF THE OLD SAN MARCOS ROAD 16

How did you kill it?” I asked, much interested. Ishothimwithmyrevolver. Hewasaftermypig!” That sure is a big pig,” observed Cecil as he studied the brute referred to as it lay on its side in the big pen. Ain’the!” exclaimed La Grande with obvious pride. He picked up a long-tined pitchfork and threw it points first at the recumbent hog. The sharp points struck the beast in the ribs. With a startled squeal of pain, it struggled to its feet and stood staring at us, the largest pig I ever had seen—larger even than I had thought it possible for a pig to be. “Ain’the?” cried La Grande delightedly. As we rode back to our camp by the side of Peach Tree Creek, Ed re marked, more to himself than to us: “That old bugger must be some shot with a revolver! I’ll be careful to keep on the right side of him if I ever see him again.” “What about the hog?” cried Perry. “How would you like to have a pitchfork thrown into your ribs like that?” The next morning, when we awoke, the creek again was brown with mud. 44 “Those pigs must be up in their pool again,” said I. I thought we had scared them off permanently.” “Damn!” said Ed. Then his face cleared. “I’m going to catch me one of those babies. Yes sir, I’m going to lass one of them and scare the day lights out of it.” 44 You can’t catch a wild pig,” exclaimed Cecil. “You haven’t a chance.” Watch me!” cried Ed. 57

All right, call your shot,” said I. “Where are you going to catch him? cried Ed. “Watch me!” I’ll catch him by the off hind le Taking a picket rope, Ed made a running loop in one end of it; and then we four set off for the upper flat. Arriving there, we stalked tlie pool very cautiously and so silently that at length we were able to see the herd of pigs wallowing in the pool without in turn being seen by them. 44 Leave me here behind this bush and you go around and drive them by me,” directed Ed in a whisper. We made the wide circuit as directed, came at the pool from above, and again stampeded the herd down the canyon. There was a terrible hulla baloo! Ed saw them coming straight at him. He stood up, swinging the big loop around his head, and threw at a big sow as she ran past him. As the sow ran through the loop, Ed jerked back on the end of the rope with all his might; and lo, there he was being dragged down the hillside by the terri fied, squealing pig! We ran to help him, and then we discovered that it took two of us to hold the heavy sow. The noose was tight around the off hind leg! “What do we do now?” cried Ed. “How to we get the loop off that leg?” To this pertinent question none of us could think of an answer. We dug our heels into the dirt and hung on while the crazed sow squealed and strug44

ENTRANCE TO CHINA CAMP 18

glecl and seemed to do everything but turn a back flip. In a very little time, all five of us were tired out. As a last resort, Perry and Cecil held the rope while Ed went up it hand over hand and I followed closely behind him. Ar riving at the rear end of the sow, Ed seized the hind leg in his hands and, with a great effort, lifted that end of the animal off the ground. At this. Perry and Cecil let go of their end of the rope and I managed to slip tlie loosened noose over the hoof. The sow went off down the canyon as fast as she could run and we sat down on the ground and panted. “I’m glad it wasn’t La Grande’s elephant that we were tied to,” mut tered someone at last. “We never would have made it then.” The next day, we saddled up and set out for home. It would he a long ride, we knew; hut, by this time, clean sheets on a soft bed, to say nothing of a well-cooked square meal, loomed very large in our minds. We were eager to make it that day. The lower Santa Cruz Canyon we found to he hot and dry. The water was low in the creekbed, and the protruding rocks all showed a thick cover ing, or mat, of dried moss and alkali. Arriving at the San Marcos Ranchhouse, at Cecil’s suggestion, we went in and invited ourselves to a truly delicious meal with the ranch riders. When we reached China Camp, we looked over to our first night’s camp under the great trees; hut we did not stop. That first night now seemed to lie far back in the past. As we rode around the shoulder and into Las Laureles Canyon, about where the western anchor of the great steel bridge now rises to the sky, we had our last adven ture: Perry discovered a large rattlesnake under a hush at the roadside. (Actually, this was the largest rattlesnake that I was to see in our moun tains. The middle portion of its body was as large around as was my fore arm, and its headless skin, after it had been stretched and pinned to a board, measured five and one-half feet. Most of the snakes that I have seen since that first one have not measured much more than a scant three feet, head

and all.) There was some excitement over this unexpected find and considerable rivalry, for each one of us wanted to have the distinction of killing so big a snake. Cecil settled the matter by drawing his revolver, a .38 caliber, Officer’s Model. Smith and Wesson, as I remember it, and beginning to shoot from the back of his horse at the coiled snake. (Luckily, his horse, having come a long way that day, was in no mood to offer strong objections to the firing.) Eventually, he managed to put a heavy bullet through the neck of the snake just below the evil looking head. This we held to be first rate marksmanship —not up to that done by La Grande, perhaps, but still first rate. The snake having been despatched, a second difference of opinion de veloped between us: Perry wanted to stop long enough to skin the reptile there in the road. We three, tired by the long ride and eager to get the re mainder of it over with wanted to push on at once and to get home as soon as might be. When we three reached a place on the other side of the canyon above and directly across from the scene of the adventure, we looked down

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and saw Perry still squatting at the side of the road and still working on the skinning job. We were too tired even to yell down to him. It was late that night when I arrived at my home. The house was dark and the family had gone to bed. After caring for my horse, 1 spread my blankets on a sofa on the porch and went to sleep—the deep, comfortable, dreamless sleep of a thoroughly tired boy. There my mother found me, still asleep, the next morning long after sun up. Today, in the year of our Lord 1964, it is sad to realize that teen-age boys now living in Santa Barbara have not the opportunity of making such a thoroughly satisfying ride as we four boys made some fifty years ago. Knowing this to be true, it seems to me to be all the more desirable that a permanent record be made of Juncal, Mono Flats, Little Pine Mountain, Peach Tree Creek, and China Camp, especially China Camp, as they were so very many years ago. And so this number of Noticias is issued at my request and at my expense.

TREES NEAR CHINA CAMP 22

Campbell Grant

Is IT POSSIBLE, I ask myself, for the reader of the present day, who has come to the end of this story of China Camp, to see in her or his imagination the spectral figures of four boys, relaxed and loose in their saddles, riding along this shady, dirt road, to smell the light, floating dust raised by the horses’ hooves, to feel the complete freedom that was so all-pervading a part of the whole scene, and to hear, perhaps, the soft cooing of a dove on a high limb of one of the sycamores? Is this still possible? I hope that it is so, for those were magic days, days filled with adventure and an all-embracing wonder at the greatness of the Creation.

E.S.S.

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