The Carrizo Experience: Ten Hours on the Plain II

This post is second in a series. Read the first here: The Carrizo Experience: Ten Hours on the Plain I: Ruminants on the Range.

Selby Rocks as seen from the Caliente Range, Selby Campground on the left at the foot of the hill.

The Bedrock Mortars of Selby Rocks

The silence hit me again when I stepped from my rig. It filled my head with its low hum, as my ears strained to hear what was not there. The ticking of my hot truck engine was the only sound. I stood on the Caliente Range peering over the tops of juniper and scrub brush, and down onto the isolated plain far below devoid of the hordes of hurried humanity left behind for the day. I had seen more pronghorn antelope than humans so far.

Back down on the plain standing perched atop the Selby Rocks I could see mortars of all sizes and ages riddling the bedrock around me. Some were relatively new looking while others were so weathered and eroded and thickly covered in lichen that they were barely discernible. Archaeologists estimate that the earliest inhabitants of the area arrived during the Paleoindian period circa 11,000 to 9,000 B.C. How ever old the bedrock mortars are, it’s evident that long ago a significant amount of labor was carried out here grinding seeds.

It brought to mind what I imagined might have been a typical scene carried out hundreds or thousands of years ago. The murmur of an indecipherable native language spoken by women hunched over bedrock millstones grinding away. The constant scrape of sandstone pestles in mortars and the air tinged with the acrid scent of wood smoke from smoldering campfires. The throaty squawk of ravens circling overhead punctuated the silence as I stood lost in thought.

I moseyed up the nearby seasonal creek, which runs through a gap between massive chunks of bedrock, and passed through its short needle-eye narrows. With little rain this season, the sandy ditch was merely damp in places and covered in the low green growth of this year’s annual grasses. Above and beside the creek, adjacent the narrows, the soil-level bedrock formation is pitted with even more mortars. Many of them are filled with dirt, perhaps there are yet still more buried out of sight.

As I left the area and walked back to my truck I pondered the difference between the Selby Rocks site and nearby Painted Rock. Some faint traces of pictographs still stain the more protected niches of the Selby Rocks, but nothing remotely close in size or scope compared to Painted Rock. The former rock outcrop is dotted in clusters of mortars with little rock art, while the latter is covered in paintings but has few millstones. I pulled the truck door closed, turned the key and with the roar of the engine headed down the road toward the prehistoric murals on Painted Rock.

A section of the Selby Rocks with deep, highly eroded mortars.

A closeup of the large mortar seen in the previous photo near the grass. It measures about 10 to 12 inches deep.

There are at least seven mortars in this photo all in various stages of disappearance due to the elements. Some have nearly vanished entirely.

A view showing how the mortars were started in the natural depressions atop the outcrop, which appear to have been worn into the stone over the centuries by sitting water during the rainy season. Compare these smaller mortars, which measure just a couple of inches in diameter, to the larger ones in the previous photo. Note also how once created the mortars somehow erode more slowly than the rest of the surrounding stone and so eventually seem to rise out of the natural depression.

A group of highly eroded and lichen covered mortars. I was able to discern no less than ten mortars in this frame when I snapped the shot.

Selby creek or what is better described as a seasonal drainage ditch.

The narrows.

The exposed bedrock here is riddled with smaller mortars. At least six are visible in this photo. The creek runs through the rocks on the right and about 25 feet from where this photo was taken.

Related Posts:

Cave’s Eye View on the Carrizo Summertime Soda Lake Selby Rocks Carrizo Plain Wildflowers Wallace Creek Offset, San Andreas Fault Soda Lake Winter Reflections Elkhorn Plain  Dragon’s Back Ridge, San Andreas Fault

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Condor Point

Condor Point

There had been a spring up there at one time. Condor Point Spring seeped up through cracks in the sandstone, flowed weakly across the mossy slab of bedrock and into a long, broad concavity. The steady trickle puddled in the low spot forming a pool about a foot deep before washing almost imperceptibly over the edge of the outcrop and disappearing into a pile of boulders.

When the Spanish arrived in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the constant circling of condors over the hill caught their eye and they began to refer to the location as “la colina de los buitres” or “the hill of the vultures.” Encircled by the safety of steep chaparral covered slopes that deterred predators, the spring was a near perfect watering hole. A soaring bird could easily approach or depart from the bare rock flat by way of maritime winds sweeping off the Pacific Ocean or lofting thermals rising from the slopes of the sun-blasted Santa Ynez Mountains.

How long the seep had filled the pool atop the hill was unknown, but it vanished suddenly one day. On Saturday, November 4, 1927, an earthquake estimated to be 7.1 in magnitude rocked Santa Barbara County. The following day the Santa Barbara Morning Press reported that the massive temblor caused several dry wells in Lompoc to “flow anew.” One gushed so profusely that it flooded out a nearby school.

Not long after the earthquake, observant Barbarenos noticed fewer and fewer condors circling around what had become known as Condor Point in the American era. It was soon discovered that the quake had shook shut the small seep. The pool had gone dry. Though the spring ceased flowing and the birds disappeared entirely, the place name bestowed by the Spaniards had long ago passed to the Americans and the shoulder of the ridge continues to be called Condor Point today.

At least that’s the story I imagined as I tromped through the brush inhaling the invigorating herbal pungence of oily greasewood and sage on a warm winter afternoon. When I got to the crest of Condor Point it was but one more stony ridgeline bristling in chaparral. Of course, I knew that. I wasn’t really expecting to find some fantastical spring. With a name like Condor Point, though, I couldn’t help but dream.

Some placenames lend themselves to the imagination. Sitting on the point overlooking the Gaviota Coast and the glistening Pacific, several turkey vultures circled overhead stoking further daydreams and hinting at what la colina de los buitres was once like in the time of the condor.

A Bureau of Reclamation marker stamped “condor” and dated 1947.

Looking southeast over Ellwood Canyon and the Santa Barbara littoral, a turkey vulture soaring overhead.

Looking south over the green fields of Naples and the Pacific Ocean with the islands Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa and a sliver of San Miguel visible.

Watershed. The headwaters of Dos Pueblos Canyon.

The trail home.

Condor Point on the left pointing like a pyramid into the golden orange glow of sunset.

Related Posts:

Desperate Fight with Condors: Narrow Escape of Santa Barbara Man (1899)

Dick Smith Calling a Condor, Piru 1970

Condor in a Cage

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Matilija Unmentionable

One of the less glamorous, unnamed cascades in the Matilija Wilderness. Compared to the other nearby more well known Matilija waterfalls this cascade is less spectacular and visited less often, but it still serves as a decent destination for the more enthusiastic hiker.

Looking over the top of the cascade.

A small waterfall just above the cascade.

This little fall is just tall enough to stand under like a shower.


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Twin Arches, Gaviota Crags

The red arrow notes the location of the arches.

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Broiled Fowl and Mushrooms—Capital Thing!

“Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a whisper passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and nods of assent were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger.

‘You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,’ said he, ‘will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude by begging the favour of your company at dinner?’

‘Great pleasurenot presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and mushroomscapital thing! What time?’

Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers (1836)

It was an exceptional day for chanterelle hunting in Santa Barbara County. A gloomy afternoon beneath a weepy sky and the leaf mulch was moist and dark. The brightly colored golden-orange chanterelles were glowing in the darkened conditions like jack-o-lantern pumpkins on an unlit porch. I could spot them from 20 yards away. The constant slapping of rain drops falling through the oak canopy to the forest floor was the only sound.

Chicken and chanterelles in a Madeira wine butter-cream sauce. I came up short in extra sauce; a ladle full over the top of everything would have been good.

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