Santa Cruz Island.

Talley-Jones, Kathy

"A volcano!" My five-year-old nephew Ellis catches his first sight of Santa Cruz Island from the Island Packers catamaran. It's a chilly and gray winter morning, and only a hesitant peak peers through the low clouds. I had expected we would have the boat to ourselves, but it is packed with hardy German tourists who face the stiff breeze with nothing more than light jackets. We, however, are bundled in all the sweatshirts, fleece jackets, and scarves that can be found in a southern California household.

Ellis is disappointed to learn that Santa Cruz Island is not a volcano, even though it looks like one. But though the wind fingers its way through his two sweatshirts and Buckeye jacket, Ellis doesn't stay crabby for long--he's happily distracted by a pod of dolphins that plays off the bow of the boat. We lean over the rail and Ellis takes pictures with my digital camera. I have learned to be vigilant and catch it when he accidentally drops it toward the froth and foam.

When we land at the Scorpion Anchorage after an easy hour's journey, we get enticed by the cobble beach and almost miss the ranger's hike. Ellis is a connoisseur of rocks. They tell him stories: mostly about violent events like landslides, volcanoes, and earthquakes. Rocks have strange qualities something like subatomic particles: violence, newness, and flavor. The rocks on the beach are salty, hurt when they fall on your toes, and are the "newest rocks I've ever seen," Ellis says.

We easily catch the ranger, but then, he can't get far. Access to the interior of the island is limited; most of the area owned by the National Park Service is temporarily closed so that the feral pigs can be eradicated once and for all. If you plan to go camping on the island, check first that the campgrounds are open with the Island Packers or National Park Service.

"Domestic pigs were turned lose on the island in the 1860s and became a major nuisance," Clifford McElrath notes in his very colorful memoir, On Santa Cruz Island--McElrath was cattle boss for the island's owners from 1919 to 1929. "We paid the men a bounty for every hog snout they brought in--two Toscano cigars for each snout. Cuate Ezpinoza had a small cur dog named Tiempo who was good at catching a small pig or sow by the ear and holding it until Cuate could catch it and kill it. The sows and piglets were not bad to eat, but as for the boars, I would as soon try to eat a wolf" (McElrath, p. 33)

In 1997 the Caire/Gherini family holdings became park service lands encompassing about a quarter of the island, the rest of which is managed by the Nature Conservancy. Santa Cruz Island is the largest (96 square miles) of the islands off the coast of California, and in the interior of the island it is possible to feel as remote from the ocean as a canyon in the backcountry of the Santa Monica mountains.

We hike up to the headlands with the ranger, paying special attention to the soft chalky rocks and the slivers of schist that look like preformed Indian arrowheads. On the bluff is a large shell midden. Indians who lived on this island--and their history goes back ten thousand years--sat here to enjoy the view and keep an eye out for interesting goings-on at sea.

We decide this is a good spot for our own lunch. We are joined by a pair of ravens speculating loudly about the crumbs we'll leave behind for them. From previous camping and kayak trips to the island I know that the ravens here are rowdy and insulting. Indeed, Clifford McGrath observed the same thing, although he hadn't learned the mnemonic "Wavens have wedgies" (wedge-shaped tails) and mistook the ravens for crows:

"The crows were the most ornery, mean, audacious, intelligent, and interesting of all the birds. They ... made the Main Ranch their hangout. 'Hangout' is the only word that fits such a bunch of thieves and cutthroats. Abelino Lugo, a dour old California Spaniard who seemed to croak with the voice of doom, said, 'Son las almas de los Indios. Vuelvan a molestar a los blancos.' (They are the souls of the Indians, returned to pester the white people)" (McElrath, p. 20)

Ellis throws carrot sticks and tofu bologna to the ravens. They sneer at our veggie fare and fly off to see what the Germans have to eat. Bratwurst, they hope, or potato chips at the very least.

After we hike to the edge of the park service property, we hook back up with the ranger. From the bluff he tells about Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, who sighted the island the Chumash people called Limu on October 13, I542. Gaspar de Portola claimed the island for Spain in 1769. Measles wiped out most of the Chumash Indians; the rest lived in the shadow of the Ventura and Santa Barbara missions.

The ranching era began on the island when Mexican Governor Alvarado granted the island to Andres Castillero. Justinian Caire purchased the island from its American owners in 1880 and built a ranch with its outlying buildings. Not only did he run a sheep ranch, but he also planted more than two hundred acres of Zinfandel, Reisling, Burgundy, Muscatel, and Grenache grapes, bottled under the label of the Santa Cruz Winery.

We attempt to fly kites on the bluff, but the winter wind, so biting on the catamaran, has turned sweet and mild. Ah, California. The layers of sweatshirts and jackets are tied around our waists or stuffed into knapsacks. We explore what's left of the ranch and its outbuildings. In the golden afternoon light, the rusted farm equipment looks like a lovely contemporary sculpture garden. Ellis snags my camera and takes thirty-seven photographs of the Caterpillar tractor logo shaped charmingly like--what else?--a caterpillar.

The farming equipment marks the remains of the Gherini family agricultural enterprise, the descendants of the Caire family who operated the ranch between 1926 and 1984. Offloading the equipment was hazardous. A family memoir tells how

"a pick-up truck was being offloaded.... The ocean surged around the cement pier, and as the boat's boom lifted the truck from the deck and swung it over the pier, the boom snapped like a toothpick. The truck dropped into the ocean and became another island relic" (Gherini, p. 200).

Ellis, who is delighted by mayhem, hopes to see the truck as the Island Packers catamaran chugs out of the anchorage. But after a busy day collecting rocks, he falls asleep in the stuffy cabin. He sleeps so soundly that we don't wake him to watch a large pod of dolphins chasing fish.

We shield our eyes and watch the magnificent animals leaping into the sunset.

The California Historical Society has been honored to receive the generous support of Polly Phleger Goodan (1922-2005), who cared deeply for Santa Cruz Island and was an active member of the Santa Cruz Island Foundation.

RESOURCES

Island Packers: For prices, schedules, and reservations, call or write: (805) 642-1393; Island Packers, 1691 Spinnaker Dr. Suite 105 B, Ventura, California 93001. www.islandpackers.com. Boats leave from Oxnard and Ventura harbors.

National Park Service, Channel Islands: http://www.nps.gov/chis/ index.htm. Check this site for park closures.

The Nature Conservancy: A landing permit is required by all private boaters wishing to go ashore on The Nature Conservancy's portion of Santa Cruz Island. http://www. nature.org/wherewework/northame rica/states/california/features/ sci_overview.html

Santa Cruz Island Foundation: http://www.west.net/~scifmail/

Gherini, John, Santa Cruz Island: A History of Conflict and Diversity (Spokane, WA: Arthur H. Clark, 1997).

McElrath, Clifford, On Santa Cruz Island: The Ranching Recollections of Clifford McElrath (Santa Barbara: Santa Barbara Historical Society, 1993).