Santa Rosa, Day 2

The frighteningly cacophonous sound of a phone alarm brought us out of the peaceful realm of dreams and into the harsh reality of the brand new day. I ain't ever heard no phone alarm like this one. Literally jolted the both of us out of the bunks. It was like the equivalent of some fool dumpin' water on somebody to wake them up. Who needs coffee when you got a loud-ahh phone alarm?

It was 6:30am, a time that I haven't been too familiar with in a good long while. I usually start my day at the crack of noon, so it was interesting to see how the world looked during these early hours. There was no wind. Not even a breeze. It was perfectly still, a condition that was as surprising as it was welcomed. A day with no wind on Santa Rosa means it's gonna be a really good day. Or a really hot day. One of the two...

We walked out of the station, down the road, off to the beach. On the beach we split up and did our own thang. I sat down cross-legged and watched the sun slowly starting to peek its way over the canyon and cliff bespeckled landscape of Santa Cruz. And the water was like glass, and the waves were small and gentle, and the sand was white and soft and full of microscopic shards of shell and stone and biological detritus. And the sea possessed a sheen of some kind, increasing in intensity as the sun become louder and louder. The colors were placid and calm and cool, and a pathway of shimmering gold shone from the glowing orb of the rising sun and down across the sea, an early morning golden highway of sorts, hovering over the tranquil water. And the only sound that met my ears was the sound of the waves hitting the rocks and the cliffs and the sand and the pier. And it was good sittin' there, and everything was nice. Definitely somethin' worth seein'.

After this early morning meditation we went on back to the station to prep for the day. Made breakfast, made lunch, filled up the ol' water bottles. Today's assignment was a walk out to the Torrey Pines. I ain't ever seen no Torrey Pines before. Seemed like it was gonna be a good walk.

As a group, we left the station, walked down the road, and started our walk on the Coastal Trail. By now it was obvious that today was gonna be hot, but not too hot. Nothin' that a bunch of SoCal locals couldn't handle. High 80's. That ain't nothin'.

Coastal Trail

It was interestin' walking on that trail. Flat and maintained, it offered tremendous views of the coastline. Unlike Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa has some pretty darn nice beaches. Sand dunes and everything. And the bushes on the side of the trail were all bent at a 45° angle and there were huge cracks near the side of the cliff that would eventually break off and fall into the sea. We were told to stay away from these cracks. We obeyed.

Eventually we approached Water Canyon, the steepest part of the day so far. And down in the bottom of said canyon was, you guessed it: water! And it looked like split-pea soup and was full of reeds and had a briny smell to it but it was water nonetheless. I always like it when the name of a place actually makes sense. If somethin's named "water canyon" it better jolly well good have some dang water in it!

We took a quick break after conquering the steep down and up of Split-Pea Soup Canyon and after that—there they were—the pines. And we walked down the road and we all looked at these strange trees, trees that looked like they didn't belong there at all. In one moment we were walkin' out on a windswept and dry and exposed cliff face, and then suddenly—BAM—pine trees and pine needles and pine cones galore. And they had a pleasant, clean aroma to them and the ground was covered in dead and dry needles and cones and twigs and the like. And I could imagine that if it had been breezy there would be that signature, relaxing, "swooshing" sound of the wind weaving its way through the pines. A very nice area indeed.

Learnin' about the pines

After learnin' a bit about these trees and about a few endemic succulents that dotted the ground here and there we split up into two groups: those that wanted to climb up a hill and those that didn't. Those that didn't found a nice spot in the shade and had lunch while the rest put one foot in front of the other and ascended the hill into the pines. It was steep goin' up that hill but it was shady; the pines offering great shelter from the sun and nonexistent wind. 

Going up

At the top we were gifted stupendous views of the surrounding country. Santa Cruz, Skunk Point, East Point, Southeast Anchorage, Becher's Bay, Carrington Point and beyond. We could even see the mainland from up there; the stupidly clear conditions making it all the more impressive. We could actually make out textures and canyons and such—the visibility was absolutely remarkable. And it was quiet and still and peaceful and warm. A little too warm though; we quickly made our way back down to where the temperatures were more agreeable near the coast. 

Santa Cruz

Skunk Point to the left, East Point to the right

Niebla Homalea

Becher's bay

We met up with the other half of the group and enjoyed a nice lunch in the shade. After a little while of eatin' and digestin' and hydratin' and whatnot, the opportunity arose for a quick walk out to Skunk Point for anybody interested. Seven were interested, and at around 12:30pm we said our goodbyes to the group and headed off to our destination. The walking was quick and flat, and after we left the pines we were graced with a clear view of our destination. We'd be there in no time!

I ain't never seen the ocean so blue and so vivid. It was loud, both in color and sound. Nearer the coastline it possessed this crystalline turquoise appearance and we could see clear on down to the bottom. Several fish and a few manta rays were spotted swimmin' around down there. And out in the distance this turquoise would abruptly shift into a deep and vibrant and radiant blue. And out there was were all the spooky stuff was, where all of the crazy stuff was...basically where all the sharks was. And the coastline was dotted with both endemic and invasive species: ice plant and verbena and a whole bunch of pink and yellow and purple flowers that I don't know the names of. And as we approached the sand I noticed just how much stuff was imbedded in the cliffs and soil. It seemed like the soil was infused with hundreds of thousands of broken shells and sun-bleached fossils and and a whole other myriad assortment of natural debris and refuse. And on the beach itself lay a whole assortment of wind-blasted dunes and driftwood and dried up animal carcasses. Near the point, we made sure to step around a complete mummified dolphin carcass that had been layin' there, bleachin' in the sun, for who knows how long. I figured that this is what SoCal beaches used to look like. I wished they still did, cause seein' the coastline like that was truly something spectacular.

Skunk Point

Skunk Point didn't have no skunks, but I guess a lot of surfer types get skunked out on the waves out there. It looked, in the words of one of our trip supervisors, "like a land lost in time, like, you know...kind of like Tatooine." There was the skeleton of a shipwreck washed up on the beach. And the sand seemed to stretch on forever, and we could see the canyons and cliffs and mountaintops and caves and coves of Santa Cruz with incredibly clarity. And the water here was turquoise and clear and cool, and people had brought their boats and anchored off shore and there was one guy out there surfin' his butt off. And there was no wind. No wind at all. No sand flyin' everywhere, stingin' your legs and burnin' your eyes. It was surreal: the evidence of wind lay scattered all around us, yet it did not exist. So we stayed there for a while and swam a little and enjoyed this special moment, a moment that none of us will likely ever experience again.

Remarkable Coastline

On the way back we ran into one of the folks who helped instruct us on how to build a cloud fence. She was drivin' a truck and had flippers and a boogey board; headin' out to Skunk Point no doubt. We chatted a little bit and she informed us that it was 94° in the interior of the island. No wonder it was so hot up on top of that hill!

The walk back went by very quick. Don't know why—it just did. Sometimes it works like that. At Split-Pea Soup Canyon we decided to take another dip because it was a warm day and we had gone on a long walk and our legs wanted to feel the cool ocean just one more time. So we went to the beach and the dunes were huge and there were several campers there and the water was almost perfectly still; the waves having never increased in intensity since the morning. And there was a kid who climbed up one of the dunes and he rolled down the dune like a crazy person and one of our group members did the same thing, totally inspired. And then the kid said he wanted to do it again but on a bigger one and off he went, a man on a mission. And we got in the water and floated like otters and the water was like a dull emerald and if you closed your eyes it felt like you were in a floatation tank and nothing else mattered except you just floatin' there. 

Dunes

We made it back to the station, a little sore but feelin' good. And for dinner there were tacos and rice and beans and chips and salsa and habanero peppers. One of our group ate one of those peppers and his face turned hot read and his eyes glazed over and tears started runnin' down his cheeks and he said, "Yep, that's pretty hot." And after dinner and dishes we set up the Celestron and looked at the moon and tried to look at Saturn but it was too far away. And we walked down to the pier again and enjoyed the night air and looked for bioluminescence and starfish and crabs and stuff and the breeze finally decided to make an appearance and it had something to say. And you know what it said? It said that tomorrow was gonna be a hot, hot day. No matter. We were ready for it. But we were more ready for sleep—it had been a long, extraordinary day.