Jack Elliott's Santa Barbara Adventure

Mussel Harvest At Low Tide: Modern Man, Ancient Practice

Posted on January 20, 2014 by Jack Elliott

It’s been 80 degrees the last few days; winter in Santa Barbara.

The negative low tides of winter offer a great chance to get the kids out on the beach exploring tide pools and instill in them a curiosity and appreciation for the natural world that might last a lifetime, as was the case for me. The marine environment, after all, is yet another wilderness. When they grow old enough I’ll have the three of them out in the water free diving the submarine forests of giant kelp, which I think are far more spectacular than those forests on land.

As a boy I spent many, many hours and long days at the beach, which typically occurred at Summerland, a tiny town just south of Santa Barbara, because my mom was somewhat of a hippie and back in those days it was a nude beach. Sometimes we went to More Mesa beach. We would arrive in the a.m. hours like nomads hauling our supplies and leave in the late afternoon. Later, as an older boy without supervision, I would get dropped off at “The Pit” or Arroyo Burro beach as well as Campus Point.

My cousin and I would ramble up and down the Summerland seashore playing about when we weren’t out in the water boogieboarding. There was a natural freshwater seep below the railroad tracks down there which filled a small mucky but clear and deep puddle, which was always a favorite attraction. A few goldfish lived in it for a time which somebody had tossed in the tiny pool.

Hungry, hungry hippo found while beachcombing.

Exploring the base of the prominent landmark cliff around Loon Point in Summerland, we discovered a large deposit of old abalone shells scattered about. I have for years wanted to check back to see if I could relocate it, but haven’t gotten around to it. I’m not sure who dumped them or why. They looked aged at the time, but I don’t think ancient, though who knows, I was young.

I’ve wondered recently if the shells were an Indian midden. Whatever period they came from it was a time, obviously, when abalone in California were still plentiful and harvested as a delicacy of the sea. Those times have long since passed, for the most part. The only experience I have with red abalones are seeing the numerous shells decorating the wall of an older friend’s house in Carpinteria, the mustachioed waterman, Mr. S.C.

So I’m left to scrounge California mussels, which, though being abundant and easily taken, have never been as coveted as abalones but are still pretty darn tasty.

A mussel encrusted boulder, the Santa Ynez Mountains and Los Padres National Forest in the distant background.

The archaeological record as pieced together from middens found on San Miguel, the westernmost of the Santa Barbara Channel Islands, suggests mussels have been a valuable item in the human diet for at least 10,000 years. (Journal of Archaeological Science PDF)

The same midden evidence shows an apparently significant decrease in the size of mussels harvested as the shellfish are thought to have faced increased pressure from a burgeoning Native American population. Mussels were a highly valued food source. These days, by contrast, mussels commonly reach their full-sized potential because almost nobody eats them.

As I squat barefoot in a t-shirt and shorts in mid-winter among large boulders three to four feet high, plucking mussels from the seashore at low tide, I think of the Chumash village that was once located a few yards behind me. No doubt humanity has been harvesting the bivalve mollusks from this beach for a long time and I take pleasure in practicing an ancient, simple and slow activity amid the timelessness of the sea during a hurried era of otherwise supreme sophistication.

The rhythmic crash and roar of breaking surf serves as soundtrack along with the occasional cry from nearby gulls. The thick organic scent of exposed beach at low tide fills the air, as a glassy-eyed seal pokes its sleek head above the waterline peering at me in wonderment.

I have found numerous sandstone bowls, both remnant pieces and fully intact, at this location through the years, though never actually purposely looking for them. One cold winter dawn while donning my wetsuit to paddle out to surf here, on a high tide with exceptionally large swell pounding the shoreline, I noticed a significant amount of soil and rock had been stripped from the back-shore.

The tumbling of cobblestones was not just audible with each powerful sweep of foaming whitewater across the shoreline. I could also feel the rumble, the physical expression of energy carried through thousands of miles of open ocean from a far distant storm, which had transferred its power from the atmosphere to the sea, and that now exploded against the edge of the continent.

Understanding the possibility, I had cast my gaze around the immediate area in front of me and instantly spotted two different bowl halves lying wet and tumbled among the rocks, the edge of one still crusted with natural seep oil once used to attach a basket. After surfing for three hours or so I returned to shore and spotted yet another artifact as I unsuited, a fully intact bowl lying upright on the cobblestones.

Gathering mussels is fast and easy, but cleaning them is laborious. As I pull them from the rocks I toss them in a tide pool hoping to encourage them to crack their shells and disgorge any sand they hold inside. Gulls have begun perching atop nearby rocks jockeying for position and hoping for an easy meal.

Once I’ve collected enough for a meal I scrape each shell vigorously against a rock to remove the small barnacles, sea anemones and limpets (also edible) that cling to their shells, after which I toss them back into the tide pool.

Finishing the task in the fading glow of twilight I walk back up the canyon with my sack of fresh seafood, walking under the gnarled and leafless sycamore trees and the canopy of coast live oak, the silence of a waterless dry creek bed a notable testament to the current severe drought conditions in California. From the beach to the kitchen within an hour, it’s fresh dinner for the night.

(Author’s note: Mussels are quarantined each season due to the potential for poisoning from the consumption of marine biotoxins. Check with the California Department of Public Health for further information: Shellfish Information Line (800) 553-4133.)

Fresh mussels and linguine in a white wine broth. It’s good stuff, Maynard, I’m tellin’ ya.

Posted in Santa Barbara County | Tagged Beach, Chumash, Foraging, History, Indians, iPhoneography, Mussels, Nature, Ocean, Seafood, Wildcrafting, Writing | 4 Comments

Montecito Peak, Santa Ynez Mountains

Posted on January 17, 2014 by Jack Elliott

Montecito Peak, Santa Ynez Mountains

Numerous parked cars line the road at the trailhead when I arrive one September morning. Several people in different small groups linger about getting ready for a walk or returning therefrom. A few voices resonate in the canyon. I don’t like it. It’s not even a busy day, but I don’t like it.

I haven’t spent much time on Santa Barbara’s frontcountry trails in many years. Too many people, and the sight and sound of the city, which can be hard to escape on the frontside of the Santa Ynez Mountains though there are indeed quieter nooks to be found, tend to ruin the ambiance and mindset I’m typically after when I go out for a hike.

I’ve flown down the trails at white-knuckled dangerous speed on my mountain bike far more than I’ve ever hiked them and likely ever will hike them. My arrival at Cold Springs Trailhead this warm and sunny fall day reaffirms my existing aversion to the frontcountry trails.

East Fork Cold Springs Trail through the oaks and sandstone.

The East Fork Cold Springs Trail eucalyptus. Maybe this tree was a volunteer, I don’t know, but it sure would have been nice if an oak tree was planted instead!

I step from the pavement to the dirt eagerly looking forward to getting up the mountain. Having seldom walked the trail, having spent more time hopping cobblestones up the creek if’n I do visit Cold Springs Canyon on foot, I’m shocked at the numerous highly worn and wide use trails crisscrossing the mountainside. It seems every corner on a trail is routinely cut leading to new unstable paths and subsequent erosion. My antipathy grows, my irascible nature being stoked. It’s all too trampled and crowded for my likes.

A few minutes up the superhighway of a footpath and I come to a little bag sitting beside the trail. It’s somewhat common. I see it at the beach, too, and I’ve actually done it before myself, picked up after the dog and set the bag aside to grab on the return walk. Because who wants to tote a warm sack of it around?

Yet I have carried it before, too, which is no small item to note when you have a 170 pound Great Dane. Sometimes I’ve tied the bag to the end of a piece of driftwood to gain some distance and avoid the stream of stench wafting from it. Thirty or forty minutes or however long of kicking around a long beach at low tide walking the dog with my bindle of excrement. I can’t imagine it’s any more enjoyable carrying it up a mountain trail on a warm day.

A view of the Santa Ynez Mountains from the trail showing slopes carpeted in chaparral and the canyon bottom shaded by much lusher riparian canopy.

Holly-leaved cherries are edible and have a thin layer of yellowish pulp that can be sweet and juicy. (Related Post: Holly-leaved cherries, called ‘akhtayukhash in Barbareno Chumash).

I understand why people bag it and set it aside. Though it may be temporary, to every person who then passes by it’s no different than any other piece of litter that spoils a scene. Reminds me of a time I came across dirty diapers at Red Rock on the Santa Ynez River. Not much different, both bags of crap lying around, just from different animals.

And so the majority of people are expected to tolerate the unsightly dropping of trash on trail so that one person can avoid the inconvenience of being a responsible and considerate pet owner. In economics this is referred to as a “negative externality,” or a cost affecting a person who did not choose to incur it.

For whatever reason on this day the bag of poop irked me more than usual and made me strike a deal with myself to not again be “that guy.” I have no moral authority here or interest in preaching, but think about it folks.

The final length of trail to the top of Montecito Peak.

View of Santa Barbara and Pacific Ocean from Montecito Peak, the crest of Santa Cruz Island just visible above the marine layer in the channel.

Posted in Santa Barbara County | Tagged Cold Springs Trail, Hiking, iPhoneography, Los Padres National Forest, Montecito Peak, Nature, Photos, Santa Barbara Hikes, Santa Ynez Mountains, Writing | 7 Comments

Oyster Mushrooms

Posted on January 13, 2014 by Jack Elliott

Wind carved tunnel through soft sandstone.

We spent yesterday morning wambling our way through the brush, up a shady wet canyon and back down the canyon, up an adjacent exposed sunny ridge over and down again the same canyon. Over to the next canyon, the sight of which, dry, narrow, tight and clogged with brush, quickly withered our enthusiasm. So we called it quits by half-day and headed back out not without a few scratches and a bit of frustration.

Tiny oyster mushrooms waiting for rain that won’t come in time.

I did manage to spot a few still fresh oyster mushrooms, which during this spectacularly dry winter, in the midst of an increasingly severe drought, might be unexpected. I saw a number of tiny oysters that had sprouted after the last rain only to be thwarted and turned woody, their growth cycle stopped dead, by no subsequent rain showers. These fresh ones below had sprouted from the underside of a log about a foot above the trickling creek and so managed to suck up enough moisture to grow to decent size.

Wild oyster mushrooms are a tasty treat when lightly battered and fried in butter and olive oil or a bit of bacon grease.

Posted in Santa Barbara County | Tagged Foraging, Hiking, Mushrooms, Nature, Oyster Mushrooms, Wildcrafting | 1 Comment

Rock Art Ramblin’, Searching For Chumash Pictographs

Posted on January 5, 2014 by Jack Elliott

David Stillman standing at the base of the second fall in a series of waterfalls which flow when it rains.

So we go and so it is, around this bend and that, up over and down under and around we go again. This branch breaks, that one doesn’t, a slice and a scratch, trip, stumble, slide and on up the dry creek and over the hills we go.

By early afternoon, having been barging and breaking our way through a wildfire charred landscape for hours, I’m streaked in black slash marks and covered in a fine powder of black dust with several red gleaming stinging cuts across both arms .

It’s hot hiking in the sun, for winter. And dry, pretty dry, for winter. But there are a number of pockets of water around replenished if only slightly by the last minuscule rain to fall seemingly so long ago. There’s plenty to keep you alive in a pinch, but not much more than that. And it’s around these few seasonal seeps and channels that drain occasional runoff that we search for tell-tale traces of times long past.

The dry waterfall just below the one shown in the previous photo. Seasonal runoff has carved a deep winding slot through the sandstone bedrock with multiple waterfalls.

The rugged terrane bristles with chaparral and does not lend itself to easy travel or encourage and invite exploration. It quickly reveals weaknesses. To hike even but a few miles off-trail into its midst requires not just physical, but mental fortitude and the discipline to tolerate a fair amount of various discomforts.

The sun’s blistering glare and heat, even in winter, insidiously saps energy while drawing a constant stream of water from the body, initiating a relentless battle to maintain sufficient hydration, which necessitates constant drinking, usually of less than appetizing warm water drawn from one’s backpack.

Clouds of dirt and charcoal dust explode into the air when breaking through the brush and tramping over the silty dry soil. The superfine particulate coats eyeballs in a gritty film and irritates the nose triggering sneezing fits and sniffling.

And there is the general physical strain of lumbering over a wild landscape of loose soil, shifting rocks and big boulders, across and up and down steep slopes, and through bushes that poke, stab and lacerate soft human flesh like needles and blades. These are the dues that must be paid, nature’s abstract gatekeepers that allow only the most determined and fit adventurers access to the treasures of the backcountry.

Looking down a miniature gorge. Seasonal runoff flows over the lip of the ledge at the bottom of the photo and falls about ten feet, and then on down the slot over several additional waterfalls.

Another miniature gorge or tiny slot canyon of a sort. The water flows over the yellowish stone at the bottom of the frame and falls about eight to ten feet before washing down the slot and over additional waterfalls.

Discovering or locating Indian rock art in such a landscape requires indefatigable persistence to press on to the next inconspicuous small cave, alcove or sheltered nook where there may lie hidden a faded, highly eroded pictograph measuring only several inches in size. Finding a pictograph in the chaparral is comparable to locating that needle in haystack everyone talks about.

Looking in every little pocket in the sandstone which may conceal rock art throughout even a small area of rugged terrane is laborious, time consuming hard work. Even if you know the general area where a painted cave is located, you may beat yourself to a bloody, tired mess and not find it or not even cover the entirety of the area in question due to insufficient daylight or depleted energy and waning interest.

Looking over the edge at Stillman scrambling down a dry creek.

Vintage beer can.

We finally found a single pictograph in an outcrop holding several bedrock mortars. Etiquette dictates that I not provide so much as a single clue to its location and any photos shared be limited in their scope so as not to reveal distinguishing features of the surrounding landscape, which may disclose where the archaeological site might be located.

There exists a contingent of rock art enthusiasts out there who believe it’s their personal duty to enforce such unwritten rules and to protect the exclusivity of such sites for none but the select, chosen few. And if these rules are infringed upon or violated they will not hesitate to inform you of your transgression. No doubt some even grit their teeth over the mere mention of the existence of such archaeological sites in a post entitled such as this one.

Meanwhile, the fragile ever-eroding pictographs and petroglyphs continue fading into oblivion from exposure to the elements. If not intentionally destroyed by vandals or unintentionally by increasing numbers of respectful visitors unknowingly panting moisture laden breath into the caves and kicking up dust, nature will erase these delicate traces of a mystical time long past once and for all. It’s now or later, but it is indeed inevitable.

A bear scratch inside a cave. Presumably the bear found the inclusion in the sandstone strangely out of place and pawed at it out of curiosity.

This here’s a deep, completely dry cave. Nice one. There is plenty of space to sleep inside with a lot of extra room, was my first thought. It’s maybe like ten feet long, two to four feet high and three to four feet wide. It has another slightly larger entrance at one end. It very well may have been used as a dry cache by the Chumash. Who stacked those rocks?

The outcrop holding the mortars and pictograph.

Sometimes all that remains is a tiny spot of paint such as this centimeter wide dot. The Los Padres National Forest spans some 1,752,400 acres.

Posted in Santa Barbara County | Tagged Archaeology, Chumash, Hiking, Indians, iPhoneography, iPhonography, Los Padres National Forest, Nature, Photos, Pictographs, Rock Art | 10 Comments

Lion’s Mane Mushroom

Posted on December 30, 2013 by Jack Elliott

Afternoon reflections on a deep pool, which would be a lot deeper, as the mineral stain on the rock shows, were it not for the current droughty conditions.

Hericium mushrooms are one of the subtle signs of annual change in the Los Padres National Forest. When they sprout from their woody hosts it signifies the return of the rainy season.

For 51 weeks the hericium hunter patiently awaits the first rain showers of the season, which trigger the short-lived growth of the “Lion’s Mane” mushroom. If the first rain comes early, however, so too will the mushrooms, but sometimes the wait is longer than a year.

There is but a fleeting window of opportunity, about a week or so depending on weather, to harvest hericiums in their prime before they begin to turn woody and then rot. Then, typically, they do not grow again until the next season. It is a rare treat.

A hericium growing in the Santa Ynez Mountains. They have a pleasant, fruity mushroom fragrance and can taste like lobster or shrimp when picked fresh and sautéed in butter and olive oil.