Primitive Hut

If you live at the wildland/urban interface then you have to make a decision, either actively of by default, as to the most appropriate demeanor to adopt as a creature confronting a substantially alien environment. Broadly speaking, you can stand apart or attempt to be a part. Similarly, that carapace we call home can be designed to either confront or acquiesce to, the primal energy of the wilderness.

As I point out in Bingo, we are now and forever discontinuous with our aboriginal environment - having been well and truly cast out of the Garden of Eden - but as Joseph Rywkwert notes in his book, On Adam's House in Paradise: the Idea of the primitive Hut in Architectural History, MIT Press, Cambridge, MA., 1971, “Paradise is a promise as well as a memory," and, he argues, humankind’s quest for the archetypal dwelling has, historically, been most often resolved as a Hut which...

“....in some way resembled or commemorated those which ancestors or heroes had built at some remote and important time in the life of the tribe. ... And in every case they incarnate some shadow or memory of that perfect building which was before time began: when man was quite at home in his house, and his houses as right as nature itself.”

We took the barn as our archetypal model and situated it in a clearing. I like to think of it as an extruded hut. It is notionally open to the landscape and our conceit is that the land flows, like the canyon breezes, through the short axis of the building.

Although Rykwert focuses on the Western tradition, it is the Japanese custom of the simple life lived in a simple dwelling that speaks to me more insistently and it is my sons William and Griffin, who were the first victims of my pursuit of this elegant ideal - in 1998 they were each immured in a ten-foot square ‘hut’ or hojo on our property in Santa Monica Canyon.

Kamo-no-Chomei’s Hojoki or Record of the Ten-foot-Square Hut, Kyoto, 1212, is an undisputed masterpiece of Japanese literature, and its opening lines are known by every school-age child in that country,

“The river flows on ever changing, on the still pool foam appears and disappears, and so it is with the people and houses of this world....”

Rereading the translation by Burton Watson in his Four Huts - Asian Writings on the Simple Life, Shambala, Boston, 1994, I noticed my inscription on the flyleaf, “For William, Enjoy your New Hut, Love Dad, 1998”. Will was 13, his brother Griffin 7. They were to be sequestered each night in the hojo for the next five years until Will went to college, and then Griffin alone with Derek, our dog (Wild Thing) for a further four until he went away to board at Happy Valley School.

The word hojo has developed over the centuries to mean a Buddhist monk’s cell with an integrated garden. Our hojo functioned as a pair of 10’ x 10’ huts - in the original limited meaning - and in the later sense as novice monk’s quarters, for both rooms opened out to the south to a small sunken courtyard garden. The hojo was the only new structure in a compound that included two single-wall craftsman buildings from about 1915, and its simplicity informed the design of our Koenigstein house.

Kamo-no-Chomei wrote Hojoki at the beginning of the Kamakura Period, at a time of great political uncertainty and it records his retreat to the north of Kyoto where he lived in his simple dirt-floored and thatch-roofed hut in the forest - where the deer have no fear of him and trailing boughs of wisteria frame his views. There are obvious parallels with Thoreau: both Walden and Hojoki are examples of pastoral or hermit literature and Chomei has been called "the Japanese Thoreau".

Thoreau's cabin and Chomei's hojo are both huts and both exist at the wildland/urban interface: on Mt. Hino beyond Kyoto and Walden pond outside of Concord, MA. Thoreau and Chomei were, in varying degrees, political refugees and attempted to establish a cosmic-biological connection to their surrounding landscape.

Many years ago Lorrie and I stayed in a ryokan at Ohara for a month while studying the temples and gardens of Kyoto. Chomei writes, “five years I spent in the clouds of the Ohara Hills, though I have little to show for it”, and it was here, failing to find enlightenment, that he decided to build his hut on Mt. Hino further to the south. We had an altogether more positive experience. It was in Ohara that I fell in love with Japanese minka, the traditional farmhouse - in its simplest form not much more than a hut - and Lorrie was entranced with a traditional Japanese style of architectural drawing that ‘folds out’ elevations from the plan and in that style she drew Sanzen-in, a buddhist temple which dates back, through several iterations, to 788 and was across the street from our inn.

Chomei’s signature hut, the hojo, went on to influence the form of the tea house as well as suggesting the basic form of the monk’s cell. Such elemental buildings occur all over the world and here in Ventura County the Chumash built their version of the primitive hut.

I was looking at an 1853 map of Ventura recently and Indian territory was indicated either side of the mouth of the Ventura River - in that wedge of land between what is now the 33 Highway and Taylor Ranch Road which runs to the north below the hills that rise up beyond the delta. This was after missionization had run its course and it was a dispirited people that hung on in the littoral. But even at this stage they were still building their domed grass houses because as late as 1924, a Chumash man by the name of Jose Romero built a version at the Ventura County Fair. Their structure is thus well documented.

Willow and sycamore were used to erect a framed hemisphere approximately twenty feet in diameter and ten feet high. Tule (bulrush, Scirpus spp). was used to thatch the exterior and provide matting for the interior. Even the door was made of bulrushes and tule mats were also used as partitions in these huts that would house up to fifty people. There is still a tule marsh at the mouth of the Ventura River. Although more famous for their plank canoes, the Chumash also made so called balsa canoes of bundled bulrushes (Jan Timbrook).

The Chumash huts were typically clustered quite close together in villages and such social congeries of buildings belong in a quite separate category to the kind of eremitic tradition of Chomei and Thoreau. Similarly, many wildland/urban interface dwellers live in areas of suburban-like density pushed up against the wildland. But many of us in Upper Ojai have crossed over that line - we are not hermits, and not all of us live in huts, but we have deliberately spurned the social proximities of the suburb and embraced the primal energy of the wilderness and seek a cosmic-biological connection with our environment.

Bingo

Prior to 1769, on that day before California, the Chumash population is estimated at around 20,000 (The Day Before America, William MacLeish, Houghton Mifflin, New York, 1994). Although there had been sporadic contact with Europeans since 1542 when Cabrillo arrived on the scene, their complex hunter gatherer society remained intact until the eighteenth century apocalypse of disease and missionization. By the early 20th century they numbered less than 200. They had been decimated and then decimated again in the literal meaning of the word. Remarkably, a group of people now thrive in the State who identify themselves ethnically with the Chumash and in some cases are direct descendants of that small band of holocaust survivors.

A week ago Lorrie and I traveled down the Chumash Highway (154) to visit one of the four towns of the Santa Ynez valley and I was quietly pleased that the highway’s name reflected the fact that it followed the path of the old Chumash trade route between the Chumash villages of Syuxtun in Santa Barbara to Soxtonokmu and Kalawashaq in the Santa Ynez valley via the San Marcos pass. My pleasure derived, in part, from a conception that there was - in part of Sacramento’s bureaucratic machinery housed in some musty wood paneled office on the fourth floor of an Italianate pile from the 1920’s (serviced by a rickety elevator) - a wizened and bespectacled bureaucrat who had made the naming decision on the suggestion, perhaps, of the Santa Barbara Archaeological Society. This notion was founded on a childish faith in the benign intent of an entirely mythical, paternalistic (and comfortably autocratic) government.

The naming rights to State Highway 154, I now learn, were bought and paid for by the Casino Industry by way of political contributions to Assemblymen up and down the State. The highway’s name reflects the fact that the Chumash Casino, in Santa Ynez, is now the preeminent cultural institution of the Chumash people.

On the way back to Santa Barbara, we stopped at the Painted Cave, in the foothills above the coastal plain, inland from Goleta. This tiny State Park is marked by a small sign at the road where there is room for a couple of cars to pull off to the side of the narrow road. A set of steep rock steps takes you above the road, past a shallow sandstone cave and then to a larger cave opening securely barred with steel gates.

Between the bands of steel we shone our flashlights and illuminated the amazingly vibrant iconography of the Chumash shamans - limned in red ochres, grey, black and white set against the buff colored rock of the cave. Rattle snakes (guardians of the spirit world), a centipede (representing death) and sun-like circles are depicted as well as a black disc which is thought to represent an eclipse from the late seventeenth century. In pristine condition, the work is reputed to be the finest example of rock art paint in the western United States. More significantly, it stands as testament to the intrepid work of the shaman - who broached pathways to the spirit world by the simple act of entering the cave and then recorded his findings on the rock wall. Absent such human conduit to the spirits of the Chumash world it is doubtful if their culture can now, in any sense, be considered intact.

Yet their casino does, in an ironic and perverted way, represent a kind of cultural continuity. For the Chumash people had a highly developed economic system in which shell beads were used as currency. Their mint was located on the Channel Islands and plank canoes, or tomols were the means by which goods were exchanged between the mainland and the islands. The demand for the currency from large population centers near the coast as well as more isolated groups of villages (such as those clustered around Ojai) served as an impetus for this intensive bead making industry. In turn, the currency provided a mechanism by which food and other commodities could be exchanged between communities. These currency beads have been located as far afield as the Great Basin and the Southwest. (The Chumash World at European Contact, Lynn H. Gamble, U.C. Press, Los Angeles, 2008). Chumash society, pre-contact, represented a peak of neolithic achievement.

Despite their proto-modernity, the Chumash retained, like all Native peoples of the Americas, some sense of a cosmic-biological connection to their landscape. And it is to this sense that we continually return in our romanticization of their ancient lifeways. They were fully sentient: we are domesticated creatures forever alienated from our environment. As MacLeish puts it, “Environmentalism signifies a concern for one’s surroundings, and early Americans seem to have had little sense of being surrounded. They were part not apart.”

Lorrie reminded me over dinner this evening that it was Farley Mowatt in his autobigraphical study, Never Cry Wolf, McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 1963, who claimed to have eaten wood rats to more fully understand the nature of the wolves he was tracking. He wanted to ingest what they ingested - to be part, not apart.

While the Chumash were heirs to the Neothermal - that post ice-age warming trend that we still enjoy and that made agriculture possible - their agricultural practices were confined to low-level environmental interventions such as fire to encourage grass seed yield, or sometimes to drive out rabbits. Jan Timbrook notes that the Southern Californian Cahuilla people burned stands of chia to improve their productivity and the Chumash may well have done the same.

But here in the chaparral, acorns, cherry, toyon, elderberry, chia and grass seeds were in ample supply while rabbits, bobcats, mule deer, grey squirrels, ground squirrels and foxes provided furs and meat. The Chumash lived off the landscape and therefore fully lived in it. Their bead currency allowed for societal savings - to purchase a hatful of acorns or chia in lean times. Alternatively one commodity might be traded for another such that one hatful of chia was worth five of acorns (Timbrook).

That connection to the landscape is now lost. The remnant, contemporary Chumash are truly apart from the natural world living, instead, off the netherworld of gambling where Blackjack, Let-it-Ride, 3, 4, and 5-card Poker, Ultimate Texas Hold’em, Omaha High/Low, Slots and Bingo provide a kind of sustenance.

Peace Walk

Traditions rarely develop without some political or religious impulse. This originating impulse, if lost in the mists of time, is sometimes replaced with a new idealogy: the gravitas of the past appropriated by the shallow presumptions of the present.

Originally a fall feast tradition of the Wompanoag - gatecrashed by the Pilgrims in 1621 - the Thanksgiving Holiday had fallen into disuse until Sarah Josepha Hale (author of the nursery rhyme Mary Had a Little Lamb) suggested to Lincoln that this hi-jacked Native American festival might become a celebration of national unity. The President subsequently issued his Thanksgiving Proclamation in 1863. Similarly, if less beningly, leaders of the National Socialist German Workers Party appropriated mystical traditions, symbols and pageantry from ancient aryan traditions. The conflation of Christian celebrations with pre-existing pagan observances is well known.

At the Walk of Peace, a celebration of the UN International Day of Peace, a joint production of Meditation Mount and the Ojai Foundation the organizers elaborated the send-off rally, and its celebratory ending, with a variety of purloined traditions. In between, the walk was held in silence save for the occasional striking of a Buddhist meditation awakening bell. In another nod to the Buddhist tradition, saffron scarves were tied to branches along the way.

The UN General Assembly, in resolution 55/282, of 7 September 2001, decided that, beginning in 2002, the International Day of Peace should be observed on 21 September each year. This was a reaffirmation of an early resolution in 1988 that established the opening day of the The General Assembly in New York as Peace Day. The change to a fixed date echoes FDR’s jiggering with the Thanksgiving date - Lincoln established Thanksgiving as the last Thursday in November but outraged shopkeepers concerned at the shrinking Christmas sales season when that Thursday fell on the last day of the month in 1939 persuaded Roosevelt to declare that the Day be the third Thursday of the month. After that date was widely reviled as ‘Franksgiving’ it was settled that the holiday be observed on the fourth Thursday of the month.

The UN Day of Peace is observed as a day of global ceasefire and non-violence, an invitation to all nations and people to honour a cessation of hostilities during the Day. The International Peace Garden at Meditation Mount is dedicated to strengthening the capacity of its visitors to lead more peaceful, purposeful and compassionate lives that are a real force for good in the world; as such it is the perfect venue for mobilizing a Peace March.

The secondary agenda of the event was to establish a physical link between the Mount and the Ojai Foundation by inaugrating a trail that connects the two. Thirdly it was about establishing a nexus between two nodes in Ojai, the Peace Garden promontory overlooking the Ojai valley to the west and and a knoll that rises above the Foundation which sits on Annie Besant’s Happy Valley both of which are considered places of particular earth energy - known as power spots or vortices. A connection between the two would therefore qualify as a ley-line (Stoned) although these are traditionally straight and our route through precipitous avocado fields, the meandering creek bottom and the switchback climb up the north eastern flank of of a diminishing Black Mountain, was anything but.

We walked between places of similar mystique and elevation - the so called ‘Power Point’ set in reasonably undisturbed chaparral above the Foundation buildings is about 200 feet higher and it was there we gathered in the gloaming for a circle around a fire-pit into which were thrown the sprigs of white sage that we had been given upon our departure. In the billowing herbal smoke, the occasional flash of a camera, the steady beating of a small conga drum and the drone of a didgerdoo we achieved the apotheosis of borrowed tradition, conflated spiritual practices and the miscegenation of folk instruments from different hemispheres. My deepest regret is that I could not accompany this witches brew with my wobble board (a home-made skiffle instrument popularized by the Australian musician Rolf Harris). The chant-along was concluded with a collective ommmm.

The event was held two days before today’s full moon and in the normal course of events our evening walk would have ended under the light of the rising moon. As it was, the marine layer drifted in half an hour after we started and we finally clambered down to our car at the Ojai Foundation in full darkness. The opening ceremony had been held in bright sunshine in the Peace Garden at the Mount and here was initiated the macedoine of ancient rituals - but heavy on the Native American.

Laura Whitney of the Ojai Foundation shared with us her vision for the connection between the two Ojai institutions which by ley line, are less than a mile apart. She mentioned that there are over a hundred miles of trails in Ojai and her ultimate dream is for these to be linked together. Most of the trails in Ojai, other than those in the Sespe, are profoundly discontinuous and linkage, when possible, is achieved through privately held land. Our short Peace March was dependent on the good graces of the owner of High Winds Ranch. Upper Ojai, as I outlined in Things Fall Apart is mostly a mess of privately held ranches, oil properties and institutional holdings.

Eric Baumgartner provided an opening prayer - a generic Plains Indian paen to the four cardinal directions given on what we were told was Chumash sacred land. Each obeisance to a cardinal direction culminated in affirmation by the crowd by way of the call, ‘aho’ originally a Lakhota expression of agreement, but borrowed into many other North American languages as a result of inter-tribal pow-wows in the 20th century.

Even within the Plains Indian tradition of directions and the colors associated with them, there are many variations. This cosmology was sculpturally expressed in the medicine wheel - earth art used for various spiritual, ritual and healing purposes. Most medicine wheels have a basic pattern - a central stone cairn with spokes radiating to an outer ring of stone - surviving examples have been dated back at least 5,000 years on the Great Plains of the United States and southern Canada.

On a Native American discussion forum ThunderDreamers.com, there were dark warnings of mixing traditions: “You never know what the outcome may be, and someone could get hurt, have a problem with their health, their family, or their home”. What I wonder, might be the result of of declaiming the prayers of the buffalo hunters on Chumash sacred ground? I demurred from shouting ‘aho’, and perhaps I wil be spared misfortune.

As a small act of compassion on our return to Meditation Mount, I slowed the car to pass someone walking down the dirt track from the Foundation out to highway 150, and Lorrie enquired if he would like a lift. He got in and we drove him almost to the end of Mc Nell, a good 5 miles, which apparently he had been willing to walk on-top-of his Walk of Peace.

I reflected that I had been surrounded on the walk by such good and resolute souls: believers in peace, lovers of nature, trusting in the power of community (and mostly convinced that there are telluric currents that energize all of life). I was with them, one of them: but next time perhaps, the organizers will hold the faux Native American spirituality - it diminishes us and the traditions we filch.

Q&A

I was introduced to the art of the Japanese Zen garden while I was at Sydney University School of Architecture in the late 1970’s. Zen Buddhist priests began creating gardens for meditation in the middle of the Kamakura period (1185-1392) and these typically included stones, water and evergreens, remaining visually constant, apart from a mantle snow in the winter, throughout the seasons. This minimalist approach was further developed in the Muromachi and Higashiyama periods (1392-1573) when gardens contained only stones, a style that reached its apotheosis with Ryoanji in the late 15th. century.

The Ryoanji temple serves the Rinzai branch of Zen Buddhism which emphasizes the use of koans in meditation. When I sat on the temple engawa (porch) at Ryoanji in 1982, during a semester abroad with UCLA School of Architecture, I pondered the raked gravel around the rocks and wondered what mind-teaser the monk had wrestled with while he created the flowing field.

When I was a kid I would enjoy short circuiting my brain by trying to think of nothing. By the time I got to an image of a black void I would call foul because void suggests that it is surrounded by non-void - at which point the synaptic fireworks would provide a pleasant buzz. Hey, it was healthier than sniffing model-airplane glue.

A friend asked me the other day how the weeding was going. “Fine”, I said. I didn’t have the heart to explain that it is winter in the chaparral and apart from mustard, pretty much everything calls it quits by the beginning of July. All my son Griffin and I have been doing for the last three months or so is raking.

We weeded all winter and then weed wacked for six weeks or so and now we rake. What’s taking so long? Shouldn’t we be sitting back in our lawn chairs by now and enjoying the parched land? The fact is that no one really likes to rake in the hot weather. So we catch a few hours at the end of the day, and then not every day. My son was charged with raking to earn a few bucks for college. He would do a few hours most days and there’s a pile of grasses, thistles and clover on the west meadow that attests to his efforts. I call it a compost pile, but it looks a lot more like a hay stack and is the size of a small house. I wish he had done more, but it really is soul destroying work and I was limited in my motivational resources.

In Haiiti, to make a zombie, a voodoo priest administers pufferfish poison to the intended victim. Exhibiting the usual signs of death the incipient zombie is buried, then, at the voodoo priest’s leisure the victim is dug-up, revived and, in his neurologically damaged state becomes a pliant slave in the sugarcane fields. There is some evidence that in 1918 a gang of zombie laborers was ‘employed’ by the American Sugar Corporation.

The novitiate Zen-monks of fifteenth century Japan underwent a more humane neurological intervention: they were set to work at jobs of mind-numbing boredom armed only with a koan. 

The Machiguenga Indians who live on the foothills of the Andes in southeastern Peru at a base elevation of around 2300 feet cultivate maize, manioc and other root crops in their steeply sloping gardens. They also hunt and collect wild food 2,000 feet up steep forest trails that run further into the foothills. Research has demonstrated that their work rate is beneficially impacted by their habit of chewing coca leaves.

Work on our acreage is conducted at a similar elevation and in similar sloping conditions to the gardens of the Machiguenga; the degree of difficulty in raking dried thistles approaches that of sugar-cane work and the boredom quotient compares (I suspect) with the leaf and gravel raking tasks undertaken by Zen monks. 

But Griffin’s labor was underpinned only by the lure of ten bucks an hour and that was clearly not sufficient to get the job done. I’m ending up doing a great deal of it. I understand, however, that I get a lot more satisfaction out of the work than my son ever could. At times I almost enjoy it - it’s the ultimate recursive activity. Seeds and straw fly through the rake tines away from the gathering pile so you rake again until, at last, you figure that the quail will take care of those last clover, rye, thistle and broome seeds and the wind will blow the errant straw away or perhaps it will be plucked to make a nest.

Griffin would mutter darkly that all this raking was asking for major erosion come the first rains of winter. I was seeing that after the birds did their work, the rains would gather the last remaining weed seeds and wash them down to Bear Creek. We have startlingly different world views vis a vis the little bit of scrub that we own. Let’s face it: I’m working on a vision that is not widely shared, even within my own family.

Lorrie tolerates my approach, but she’ll be wanting to see results by the first quarter of 2011. I tell her it’s a five year plan, that the idea is to rid the meadows and margins of weeds and allow the chaparral to grow back in and that our success is initially signalled by deer weed - the first plant in the chaparral succession. And look at that - the artemesia is growing in, and elderberry and walnut and chamise. She sees rocks and thistles.

She has profound doubts that I know what I’m doing. In this she is fulfilling the traditional role of the distaff side. She is right to have doubts. I am bouyed by my vision not my technical expertise. But my vision is based on observation, and that provides me with an unimpeachable guide.

We have raked down to the bare crust. I wish it were the 30,000 year-old soil crust of typical chaparral but we are working with disturbed soil, ravaged by excavators and back-hoes for nigh-on a decade. The accepted theory is that Chaparral succession is unique in that it succeeds itself rather than being preceded by other vegetative types. My experience is that severely disturbed soils, particularly at the wildland/urban interface come back as weed patches, then soft chaparral (coastal sage scrub) and then finally hard or classic chaparral.

The weeding/weed wacking/raking protocol is designed to hasten this process and also to facilitate seeding of select areas come the rains. Now according to Chaparral 101,

“Immediately after a disturbance the herbs and forbs initially dominate because of their sheer numbers and showy flowers. Within 2 - 5 years the seedlings of chaparral plants and the shrubs resprouting from their crown roots or burls take over. Their more aggressive root systems exploit deeper water reserves and they will eventually shade out the forbs and grasses and replace them.”

Santa Barbara City College Biological Sciences, Introduction to Chaparral.

the operative word in the above is, as Manuel the Spanish waiter in John Cleese’s Fawlty Towers would so affectively say, eeventuaarly.................

Our raking is in service to expediting the process. With Griffin gone, I now have two tools at my disposal, the rake and the koan. I know the intention. I know the answer to the koan must be ‘Chaparral’ - emerging flickeringly at first and then less faintly from the deepest recesses of the Zen beginner’s mind, echoing the emergence of the indigenous eco-system from the traumatized land. I’m still working on the question.

Saturday Night Special

This evening I hopped on my bicycle and rode to the Stagecoach market at the Summit in Upper Ojai. I picked up a quart of milk and a can of peaches. I had to wait in line. There were two check-out cashiers. At least two people in front of me were purchasing lottery tickets. Glittery spools of tickets hung above the cash register. Someone asked for one of the new and one of the old - like some currency that had been devalued, apparently the date of issue is now relevant to the lottery. I am abysmally ignorant of the mechanics of what I have always, somewhat condescendingly, considered a tax on the poor. Time to learn....

There are five different games, Winning Numbers, Mega Millions, SuperLotto Plus, Fantasy 5 and something called Callottery Replay (your second chance to win!). Then there’s the Scratchers - that come in four flavors, $1, $2, $3 and $5. (The first four prime numbers.....). Nine ways to support California Schools. To be fair, the State returns about half the income in prize money, gives about 35% to the Schools and the rest is swallowed up in retailer rewards, marketing and overhead.

There is some evidence that selling lottery tickets reduces revenues at convenience stores due to dimiished food sales and an increased incidence of shop-lifting while cashiers are focused on selling tickets. Nationally, about 40% of gambling addicts are Lottery ‘users’. Active marketing by State lottery agencies essentially recriuts addicts many of whom it later has to support with social welfare services.

At the Stagecoach Market, the rolls of lottery tickets are fully stocked, and the beer fridge is bulging. Food is a little thin on the ground. Today there was no fresh produce. I bought the solitary can of peaches.

Their idiosyncratic wine selection appears to be gathering dust, although I did notice that they had added a few bottles of Boccalli’s Topa Topa 2008 Syrah at $22 a pop, “handcrafted in the scenic Upper Ojai valley”. I didn’t like the label and I had the frightening thought that their wine may be no better than their pizza.

In any case I doubt that it is half as good as Ojai Winery’s 2005 Syrah Bien Nacido Special Bottling which Adam Tolmach claims tastes,

“like a California version of a French Hermitage. It reveals this vineyard’s graphite/lead pencil-like character as well as lots of blackberry, cassis, licorice, plum, and incense aromas. As the wine sits in the glass, notions of smoke and earth also emerge. Dense and full-bodied, this 2005 should evolve for 15+ years.”

Robert Parker gave it 95 points. A wine for a special occasion. Thanksgiving perhaps. Absolutely worth ten $5 Scratchers, I suspect.

During 2009, first living in Ojai while we were building, and then after we moved into our Upper Ojai house we were served (and entertained) by Jeffray and Daphne Fargher, their young daughter Kamile and Jeffray’s grown daughter Brittany at the Upper Ojai Market. Jeffray had the lease for a year after the Market had opened a couple of years previously.

The store is a useful asset to the local community - the next closest convenience market is seven miles heading south to Santa Paula (the cryptically signed, ChhinaMkt) or eight to the Westridge market in Ojai but during Jeffray’s tenure it briefly threatened to become something more than a market - a real community locus, a place where upper, Upper Ojai could come together.

The Summit at around 1575’ is truly that, the high point on the Ojai-Santa Paula Road before it begins it’s dip down to Sulphur Springs. In that brief moment in time when stagecoaches ruled the road, it was indeed a stop on the Los Angeles-Santa Barbara trail. The next stop west was the Little Tower Ranch at the bottom of the grade - the one-room tower, which still stands, originally serving as a waiting room for coach passengers.

There is no remaining stage infrastructure at the Summit but the developers of the new store created a board and batten barn to reflect their idea, perhaps, of a stagecoach station. The stage lines came from (and returned to) Los Angeles via the Simi, Conejo and Santa Clara Valleys and then travelled out to Ventura through the Ojai Valley and up the coast to Santa Barbara. Initiated in the 1860’s it was replaced, less than twenty years later by a branch line of the Southern Pacific Railway that ran from Los Angeles through Saugus to Ventura (along the route of the 126).

The community that has sprung up around the Summit is spread over a few blocks of suburban development between Topa Lane and Sisar Road which themselves lie between the Elementary School and the Summit Cafe. Watts, Chumash and Tree Ranch are outlier roads to the west and Koenigstein and Osborn to the east. All this is to the north of the 150 but there is also sporadic residential development to the south amidst the oil properties.

As you leave the Summit cafe heading east, the fire station, VCFD #20,  comes first on the left, and then as you dip down the hill Rancho Tierra Bella, a distinctly redolent goat and horse property. Further down is the Ojai Oil company property which runs between Topa lane and Koenigstein and there, just above the turn-off to Koenigstein is an old stone cottage with a nodding donkey oil pump between it and the road - like a lawn ornament.

At the corner of the 150 and Koenigstein, deeper in the oaks and above a murky pond is an old and mutch patched corrugated sheet metal cottage. This last is a foreshadowing of the community along Osborne road which runs off into the chaparral beyond - a heavily oaked, fenced and rustic looking settlement with a fine collection of rotting trucks dating back to the 1940’s scattered between mostly ramshackle houses.

All-in-all, a community large and diverse enough, you’d think, (along with the weekend tourist traffic) to support a store. The beer and wine license finally came through a month or so after Jeffray’s lease was terminated but from casual observation it doesn’t seem to have made much difference to business. Most often the store is empty except, apparently, for the Saturday evening lottery ticket rush.

 Jeffray imbued the store with enormous energy and charm while Daphne made it relevant, to us at least, by stocking wonderful produce and her preserves. The market has certainly ceded any notion of being at the center of Upper Ojai. That ambition reverts to the cafe, which the Los Angeles Times claimed back in 2003,

“...exudes all the ambience of a '50s Dairy Queen -- is more than the community's sole restaurant....(it) also functions as town hall, infirmary, library, lonely hearts club, homework center, kennel and -- occasionally -- massage parlor. The place and its owner, Kathleen Weedon, are the center of Upper Ojai.....”

We used the small enclosed dining room  for our early morning meetings with the contactor when we were building. It’s a funky little space with a small library and an oil-drum wood-burning stove. The cafe opens early and serves breakfast. So yes, it briefly served as our Upper Ojai office, and we’ve eaten our share of burgers there, but that did not make it, for us, the center of Upper Ojai.

Upper Ojai is state of mind, a gestalt, a deeply individual cocktail of resonances that is unlikely to coalesce in a market or a cafe. Our houses are our individual ‘centers’; ours, like many others, is sustained by an internet connection, provisioned, by Trader Joe’s and Costco and animated by its connection to the landscape. Yes, it would be nice to have a great little restaurant and a gourmet market......but what really establishes the Summit as a place are its institutional book-ends, the Elementary School and the Fire Station; ours are the mostly dimly lit, dark-sky-observant homesteads that exist in the gravitational field of this locus. 

Localore

We don’t often get to talk about cold weather in September. Having just posted a piece extolling the Indian Summers of Southern California, I feel somehow responsible (The Citrus Belt).

As the National Weather Service, Scientific Forcaster Discussion puts it for September 8th., “surprisingly strong cold front for this time of year moving through central California today. And highs ... are again shattering low maximum records in the valleys where it's been mainly in the 60s so far...”.  Let me tell you, that front rolled on through Upper Ojai and turned September into March.

It will warm up over the weekend and the summer will resume. It’s not so much that I dislike the cold, it is more that I resent the intrusion of weather into our placid lives: Southern California, as Carey McWilliams pointed out, has Climate not Weather!

In Britain, where Weather triumphs over Climate, the atmosphere oozes moisture. The phrase Scotch mist is perhaps the best, understated, description of the prevailing humidity - and is used to deny the actual phenomenum of rainfall by substituting the more benign notion of swirling vapor. I still use the term to describe any rain falling at a rate less than an inch an hour. In Upper Ojai it is debatable whether the term oil-seep comes from the same Scottish tradition of understatement: but here, it is the ground not the air that customarily oozes.

Interest in these oil seeps began, for European settlers, in 1854 when surface oil from Sulpher Mountain was collected and then refined for oil lamps. By the 1860’s, tunnels were dug into the mountain and became, for that era, highly productive generating up to 20 barrels a day. They continued in production for almost a century and a half. The last Sulphur Mountain oil tunnel was only plugged and abandoned in 1997.

Cabrillo made use of the asphaltum from seeps to caulk his flagship San Miguel on the eponymous Channel Island off Ventura in the 1540’s and it is here that he later died and is puportedly buried - although his grave has not been found. The explorers had seen the Chumash use the sticky oil to caulk their ocean-going Tomols as well as making woven baskets waterproof.

The first commercially productive well in California was in Rancho Ojai just down the Ojai Road as it heads to Santa Paula along side of Sisar creek and just north of the oil-seeping Sulphur Mountain. It was drilled to a depth of 550 feet in 1866 and produced 15-20 barrels a day.

California’s first gusher was located close by in Adam’s Canyon which winds up from the Santa Clara flood plain a little west of the 150 towards the Sulphur Mountain ridge. This blew in 1892 and 40,000 barrels ran down the canyon into the river below and were washed out to sea just south of Ventura harbor before it was capped. There were no video cameras to record the environmental damage and this, the first major oil spill in the United States, has passed quietly into History. In 1910 the greatest gusher of them all was unleashed in the Midway-Sunset field 2 miles north of Maricopa which ran unchecked for eighteen months and spilled over 8 million barrels.

Santa Barbara’s oil fields were discovered towards the end of the nineteenth century and in 1896 the County’s first off-shore well was sunk off of Summerland. The 1969, 100,000 barrel off-shore spill in the County’s Dos Cuadros field focused world-wide attention on the environmental havoc wrought by the pursuit of oil and is the event that spurred the creation of the first Earth Day, and arguably began the modern environmental movement.

This summer’s Gulf spill, at around a total of five million barrels was smaller than the Maricopa leak but occured in a far more environmentally sensitive area. Both wells are estimated to have produced, at their peak, around 100,000 barrels a day. BP’s well was finally capped in July after a three month gush.

Exactly a hundred years separates the Maricopa and the BP Deepwater Horizon spills: both were historic gushers, both, for their time, were deep wells. Maricopa reached 2,225 feet before it became productive. BP drilled over two miles into the earth’s crust to unleash their gusher (after passing through a mile of water). Clearly, the earth’s supply of oil is finite, but our technical ability to access it, by this one very rough measure, has kept pace with its increasing scarcity.

Which brings us, of course, to the Peak Oil hypothesis which is driving at least one global movement to prepare for the apocalypse (Transition). My position is, as Peter Maass suggests in his Crude World - The Violent Twilight of Oil, Knopf, New York, 2009, that we are going to keep on grubbing for fossil fuels for as long as they remain the high density/low cost energy source (Cosmic Futility). Furthermore, I would expect the eventual tapering off in oil production (it is currently increasing at quite a clip) to be exactly equalled by the increase in solar production and reductions in energy use across the transportation, industrial, shelter, appliance and communications spectra. Demand is currently around 85 M barrels a day and is growing, according to the International Energy Agency at one M barrels per day per year so that by 2030 global consumption will reach 105 M barrels per day. Fear that said barrellage will not be forthcoming is driving the Peak Oil hysteria.

Over the years I have looked forward to the impending apocalypse with all the fervid anticipation of someone brought up in a caste system genuinely believing that any revolution would most likely advance their relative position in the world. Having arrived at the realisation that by any measurement I am now in the fortunate half of the world (and fair-dibs, always was) such topsy-turvydom has inevitably less appeal. Age then, has fostered conservatism but also, I hope, an historical clear-sightedness: every century battles impending doom, be it Malthusian hunger, depopulation or the scourge of witchcraft. We have arrived at a time when, in the popular imagination, environmental despoilation, global warming and peak oil have formed the perfect doomsday trifecta.

All three are powerful notions that are shaping our world and making it less likely that we will succumb to their worst impacts. Which is to say that a little honest-to-god terror is a good thing. But if we are not quite at the point espoused by Charles Mackay, in his Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, Richard Bentley, London, 1841, it’s certainly time for a little historical perspective.

As a localore (a local-historian), I am delighted that the above examples were so geographically close at hand; as a chaparralian I am not entirely happy to be living in the oil-lands. Any debate on energy in Ojai must take account of our unique historical role in the development of the industry. It is not an abstract concern that can be dealt with by the application of the appropriate bumper-sticker. Oil is as close to the heart of Ojai as Citrus, and may well outlive it as a source of local wealth.

The Citrus Belt

The Labor Day weekend marks the traditional end of summer. When my older son Will worked as a Lifeguard for Los Angeles County, the holiday Monday was his last day of work. The beaches are crowded, the ocean warm, and then on Tuesday, quite suddenly, they are deserted until Memorial Day rolls around the following year. In the interim they are left to the surfers, the gulls and the patrolling porpoises.

Inevitably, when I lived near the beach, in Sydney or Los Angeles, winter was my favorite time of the year. Or, taking a late summer vacation in Maine, I would be exhilerated by the first chill winds of autumn. In the Southern Californian chaparral an Indian summer is the norm. Some of the warmest weather of the year arrives in September and October.

This year, according to the seasonal outlook from the US Forest Service, (A Change in the Wind) the developing La Niña will bring warm temperatures and an increased possibility of Santa Ana winds to SoCal in the next two months. La Niña, which influences the course of the Pacific jetstream, tends to bring heat, wind, and dryness to SoCal, but cooler, wetter conditions to NorCal, above I-80 that slices through the state from San Francisco to Sacramento (then continues east to Salt Lake City and beyond to New York).

But there is another dividing line that more truly reflects what we understand as Southern California. Carey McWilliams describes it in his classic, Southern California: An Island in the Land, Gibbs Smith, Utah, 1946: we are walled off from the great Central Valley by the transverse Tehachapi range that spans between the Sierra Nevadas and the coastal ranges. To the east we “are rescued from the desert” by the San Bernadinos and the San Jacintos which mark the inland extent of this coastal strip, where soft air, warm breezes and light tempered by a faint scrim of moisture define the SoCal experience.

In a week or two, we can expect the first Santa Ana winds of fall. These hot desert winds bring threat of fires, frayed tempers and the final dessication of the already dry and brittle chaparral. Below us, in Ojai, where there is a constructed landscape of citrus, olives, and avocados on the agricultural tracts of the east end and irrigated lawns and exotic plantings in the residential areas to the west, the humidity remains considerably higher. Lake Casitas, which was filled between 1958-1978 also tempers the Ojai Climate. While the marine layer pushes into Upper Ojai on many mornings just as often it reaches no further than the Ojai valley floor and on those days that it is entirely absent Ojai is often shrouded in a light morning haze of humidity.

We visited two houses deep in the Ojai citrus and avoacado belt over the weekend. Pamela Burton and Richard Hertz have owned a wonderful 1929 stone cottage for twenty five years and are surrounded by Sunkist orchards. The setting is old-world mediterranean with glorious views to the west of the valley and the coastal range. The property drifts gently down at a consistent 7% slope east to Reeves Road and looking beyond to the slopes of the Black mountain ridge as it peters out into the Topa Topa massif, I was aware of how close it is to Upper Ojai - but distinctly separated by the Grade, elevation and land use.

Almost due North, off of Thatcher Road, Joan Churchill’s family home is a part of the Pierpont designed enclave that included the old Nordhoff Hotel built in the 1890’s (and Ojai’s first hotel) until 2001, when it was lost in a fire. The Churchill house, built in 1905, shares a view of the Twin Peaks in the Nordhoff range with Pamela Burton’s house and while still in the Citrus belt it is separated by its own charming garden of mediterranean plantings from the serried rows of orange and avocado beyond.

These houses set in citrus, avocado and now olive groves are typical of the east-end where agriculture remains the dominant land-use; it is this agricultural element that makes it such an attractive place to live where orchards and sometimes vineyards create a profound old-world allure.

This layer of European agricultural tradition dominates the Ojai valley and is in marked contrast to the wildland fringes of Upper Ojai where the cultural touchstones are the Chumash and the people of the Milling Stone Horizon. The Spanish Missions forever stamped California with an Iberian impress of citrus, grapes, rice and wheat; but where the oaks were too thick, the ground too rocky or the chaparral too impenetrable for  agricultural purposes, the native spirits survive in the rocks, creeks, and shrublands of the indigenous landscape.

Father Junipero Serra planted the first citrus seeds in California in 1769, but it wasn't until William Wolfskill, a northern European frontiersman, planted oranges and lemons in what is now downtown Los Angeles in 1840 that the commercial potential of the crop was realized. The development of the naval orange from cuttings in Brazil popularized California citrus in the 1870's and the completion of the trans-continental railroad later in the decade assured its distribution throughout the country. By 1893, a cooperative of growers was formed known as Sunkist, and at about the same time Annie and William Friend planted the first acreage of oranges in Ojai.

As the town grew up around the early homesteaders, the oil industry and citrus growers it was given a Spanish colonial veneer with Edward Libbey's building of the downtown arcade and the Post Office tower along East Ojai avenue and the Ojai Valley Inn. Upper Ojai remained apart, and here the landscape bends to the Seasons rather than to the cultural atavisms of the Spanish Conquest.

In the chaparral, the bio-mass links directly back to the last ice age: its preservation ensures a continuity with the time before human culture. The land has not been broken: it has suffered drought, flood and fire but the shrubland is adapted to these cyclical hardships, it endures. The chaparral is an ecosystem unimaginably older than European agricultural traditions of citrus and olive, of grape and pomegranate. Older still than the garden tradition of Cyrus the Great and older than the oldest human footprint on the continent.

The new, re-made lands of Ojai are a delightful place to visit, they are redolent with history, but I want to live in a land before History, a land shaped before human culture and a land that is adapted to a climate un-mediated by sprinklers, smudge-pots and wind-machines.

Three Wheeling

Chugging up the Grade in our 1977 Chevy C-10 short bed with a yard and a half of Ojai Lumber’s finest top-soil in the back, I heard a god-awful grinding and sensed the truck leaning awkwardly towards the center of the road.

I was on one of those Grade curves that turns left but provides a generous turn-out to the right - which is where I headed. I got out of the cab in time to see the back left wheel taking off down the hill. It had sheared off the axle and the truck traveled its last few yards on three wheels and a brake hub. I retrieved the wheel which came to rest against the cliff wall on the inside of the curve and collected the wheel nuts that were scattered across the road.

The potential injurious or deadly scenarios that this mechanical malfunction could have created are too numerous to catalog. Simply put, the accident (and my demise) could by now have been memorialized by a simple white roadside cross rather than my writing about it on this blog.

This is the second time that this truck has shed a wheel. The first being about eighteen months ago while my son Griffin was driving home (when we were living in Ojai) from Happy Valley around nine at night. He had just crossed over Lion Canyon Creek and was headed up towards Dennison Park. He too found a convenient turn-out and retrieved the wheel - and got on the phone. (The white-cross comments above apply equally to this drama). We drove up to the scene, called Triple A and had the vehicle towed to CJ’s automotive on the corner of Bryant and East Ojai Avenue.

Doubly-lucky then, given the strange propensity of the truck’s wide mag wheels to become un-tethered. CJ is perplexed, but blames the cheesy mag wheels that, for my son, were a big attraction when we purchased the truck.

The latest misadventure was concluded when: Abbott’s towing schlepped the truck down to CJ’s; Kim Maxwell happened by just when the truck had been successfully hoisted behind the tow-truck and drove me home; and this morning I picked up the truck with a loaner wheel attached and successfully delivered the soil to our house on Koenigstein. From Ojai Lumber the trip took about 45 hours.

This evening I wheel-barrowed the soil from truck to planter-bed. Eighteen barrow loads. The planter is now full (I had already dumped about 6” of dirt and wood chips in the bottom).

Griffin and I dry-laid concrete block on a gravel bed foundation with gopher wire beneath the bottom block across the width of the planter, it is two blocks high with a 2” cap, we grouted every other cell. We bagged it with a self-colored stucco (an Australian technique whereby a skim coat of stucco is applied with a piece of hessian - hence bagging). Four foot by sixteen. It now awaits seed.

This is a token gesture towards grow-your-own. My version of Back-Yard Romance (2010-05-13). I understand that I’m not saving the world, more like a few bucks every Sunday avoiding the more rapacious sellers at the Ojai Farmer’s Market.

We live in straitened times. A dollar saved is a dollar earned. But first we have to make back the hundred bucks spent on soil, and the two hundred and fify for block, wire and cement. Twenty bucks for seed. Say four hundred with truck repairs, gas etc. Our water costs what we consume in electricity to pump it. In time I hope to set up a 1000 gallon corrugated tank which will be fed from the pool cover pump. But at $1500 plus the cost of installation I do not expect to live long enough to recoup the outlay - but you cannot put a price on the feeling of self-righteous satisfaction that I wil have every time I water the raised bed with harvested rain water.

More immediately, I hope that the garden produces say $25 of vegetables and herbs a week. So we can offset the $400 in 4 months. The tank must be amortised against the cost of pumping water from the well. A few bucks a week, maybe 100 or so a year. I take it back: goddam it, barring white-cross events and mountain lion maulings I will too live to make back the cost of the tank and enjoy it for a further fifteen or twenty years before I or it rusts out. The well pump, by the way, is metered separately from the house and is thus not part of our grid-tied PV system. Ideally, we could make back enough from Edison to pay for that bill too. The pool cover pump runs on our house power so theoretically comes under our net zero-energy equation.

We were about $700 shy of reaching our goal last year but there were extenuating circumstances (Are We Green Yet  08-24-25), Dirty PV’s and insufficiently seasoned fire-wood for the Rais Wood Burning Stove are a part of the explanation. We were also not using the clothes drying hoist for the full year. We installed it sometime towards the end of last summer.

This last energy saver is critical. The original rotary clothes line was developed and marketed by an Australian, Lance Hill in 1945 and finally patented in1956. The Hill’s Hoist is as emblematic of the suburban Australian backyard as the barbie - at least when I was there during the 1970’s. There are now more sophisticated lighter versions than the original steel contraption and we chose to install a Swiss aluminum model manufactured by Stewi. Because the house is all-electric, clothes drying is otherwise an energy expensive proposition using the Whirlpool electric dryer.

Lorrie is now atuned to the advantages of line-drying. I grew up in a culture where the linear clothes line (usually hoisted high with a forked clothes prop), with clothes attached with rustic pegs sold door to door by gypsies, was the norm. In summer, clothes customarily went through an extra rinse cycle on the line courtesy of the endemic English ‘showers’. Timing was everything. In winter, they could go through days of thaw and freeze cycles before the perfect moment arrived for their retrieval - having achieved a state that my mother called ‘rough-dry’. Further days in the ‘airing cabinet’, a cupboard warmed by the chimney, would result in clothes that if not dry, were not actually moist to the touch.

If Tehachapi is the windiest place in the world (Dreaming 2010-09-01) then Upper Ojai in summer must rank as one of the fastest clothes drying venues on the planet. But here too, timing is important. Clothes must be retrieved before the evening chill sets in, otherwise it’s an extra day on the line.

Hot days and chill nights are the perfect prescription for a passive solar strategy with regard to interior thermal comfort. And mostly it works, but our house has too much glass to operate without a little Air Conditioning. AC is inherently inefficient - operating at about 10% of the theoretical optimum energy exchange. The only efficient air conditioner is the one that’s turned off. We try.

There is a profound connection between frugality and sustainability. We are where we are because of excessive personal consumption accross the board: Clothing, Food, Water, Energy, Transportation, Entertainment and Security. As our collective revenue streams diminish the theoretical practice of sustainability becomes financially compelling. Being ‘Green’ is a lot like practising for your retirement - getting by with less.

Our generation has put this delicious spin on genteel poverty - it has made the worn-out, the recycled, the old bicycle, the vegetable patch in the back yard and the AC set at 85 degrees - chic. And the old truck?

The Chevy doesn’t get such great mileage, but it exists in the world and will, perhaps for another twenty years. It’s a work-horse. Like Christine, the psychopathic-killer-car from the mind of Stephen King (Viking, New York, 1983), it’s had a couple of tries at decimating the family. I think it just wants respectable wheels again. CJ is on the look-out for an old set of steel rims.

Dreaming

Our house has six terraria. Most of the time they are empty except for the living diorama in the three facing south, of meadow, middle distance oaks and the distant ridge-line of Sulphur Mountain; and in the three facing north, of the deer weed bowl, oaks to the east and west and the distant Topa Topas holding up the sky.

A few weeks ago we had a specimen - a tarantula (Aphonopelma eutylenum) - in the middle north terrarium. Then a similar creature in the middle south and yesterday, a four foot long, fat, rattle snake (Crotalus viridis). Each terrarium is formed by our floor to ceiling inset glazing that provides a three-sided view of the concrete porches that are their floors. Initially draped along the east (short) wall of glazing the rattler then moved to the south west terrarium - lured perhaps by the smell of my running shoes - and then repulsed, returned to the middle bay. There the snake coiled itself neatly on the doormat taking no more room than a dinner plate, tight against the glass door, where it snoozed. We locked the door from the inside and let it be.

I went into Ojai and when I returned later in the afternoon, Lorrie told me that the snake had slithered off down the gravel precinct and returned to the meadow. Now is the time of maximum activity for snakes, it is a little cooler and they need to stock up on rodents before they become torpid in the colder months. In Southern California they do not truly hibernate.

Our specimen had 11 rattles and was of a size to handle a small rabbit. Rabbits are very susceptible little creatures and I imagine a short rattle from this venerable snake could put a bunny into paralytic shock - no venom necessary. There is no shortage of rabbit meat roaming the front meadow. We escaped a return visit from the Fire Department so our bunch grass remains longer than VCFD regulation - and the rabbits (Sylvilagus audubonii) are now systematically felling the dried stalks and discarding them after a nibble or two. Having been brought up on Beatrix Potter's  The Tale of Peter Rabbit, Frederick Warne & Co., London, 1902 and then living through the Myxomatosis holocaust in England I am willing to give them a pass.

Myxomatosis is a disease first identified in South America and introduced into Australia in 1950 in an attempt to control the six hundred million European rabbits whose ancestors were introduced as game animals in the mid-nineteenth century. Although the disease wiped out 99% of the population, the remaining six million developed resistance and by the late 1950's their numbers had rebounded somewhat. The disease spread to England and the Surrey countryside was littered, during my childhood, with dead and dying rabbits.The cotton-tail of the American south west like the original host of the disease the South American forest rabbit or tapiti (Sylvilagus brasiliensis) is immune, but only their bunny hop can save them from rattlers.

The disease was, from the point of view of Australian farmers, a highly successful government intervention and it remains one of the few examples of successful biological control of a pest animal. It happened at a time when there was a greater acceptance of the benefits of Government science, technology and infrastructure - whether it was the development of the hydrogen bomb (in which Australia was complicit by providing test ranges for the program); neurosurgery (State mental hospitals were veritable production lines of 'ice-pick' frontal lobotomies until the mid-1950's) or the building of the interstate freeway system - which cut through ancient wildlife corridors and continues to threaten the wildlands by turning them into a mosaic of wildlife islands. (Chaparral Mantra 2010-8-11).

There is a tangle of freeway overpasses that run above Riverside Drive on the edge of Frog Town just east of Echo Park in Los Angeles where Algerian ivy (Hedera canariensis) has envined the supporting columns, reached up into the freeway side-rails 40 feet in the air and now cascades down so that it trails over vehicles passing below on the surface street. Such heroic vegetal striving has always inspired in me the hope that nature would somehow re-colonize the concrete freeways, crack, rend and turn them into a sort of chunky vermiculite to mix with the native soils below.

Thus it is I am very conflicted by a blizzard of reports lately about solar roads. Do we really want to further utilize an interstate network that balkanizes our states and partitions our country? The greatest transportation success story in America is the private car; next perhaps, the air-lines, then the interstate trucking business and on down through the railroads, buses and light rail. In any kind of green future all, with the exception perhaps, of light rail, are due for a profound overhaul. It seems to me that some of the 1.7% of the continental land mass devoted to roads could be better utilized as high-speed rail - that could then replace interstate vehicular traffic and most domestic air routes.

We denizens of the wildlife/urban interface are the outliers of the twenty first century. The planet is moving towards greater urban density, not increased numbers of fringe-dwellers in the mildlands. In such a world, narrow rail corridors (with appropriate wildlife underpasses) can link widely dispersed, but supremely dense centers of urban life. Within cities, light rail, electric buses, taxis, share cars (Zipcar) and bicycles can prevail.

The appeal of solar roads lies, I think, in the pleasing paradox of the solution. It's like a vaccine - you manipulate the virus and create a substance that instead of promoting sickness generates antibodies and confers immunity. The great evil that has soaked up a trillion barrels of oil now becomes benign and powers America. Except that you are left with the infrastructure of the disease - you are left with the roads and by implication the (electric) cars that run (still quite slowly) on them, thus air travel remains an appealing alternative. Ah, you say, we can still have high-speed rail (France's Train à Grande Vitesse top speed is 357m.p.h.). Keep dreaming: political reality says that any great leap forward is highly contingent, and a multi-directional leap virtually impossible.

PV embedded in roads would also represent a diffuse grid - with much of the power generated needing to travel great distances to its end-users. California is blessed with vast solar (sun and wind ) resources and centralized production is now located reasonably close to population centers.

Just 100 miles from Los Angeles, Tehachapi represents the world's largest aggregation of wind farms. The wind turbines were originally installed in the area thirty years ago. I remember first seeing wind turbines in the San Gorgonio Pass in the early eighties just beyond Hadley’s on the ten and just before our destination at Two Bunch Palms in Desert Hot Springs (Where Native Meadows Come From 2010-04-14).  Road trips to San Francisco in that same era were enlivened by the sulptural presence of Altamont’s wind farm in the Diablo Range between the Central and Livermore valleys. Tracy, the closest town, has a special place in my memory as the issuing precinct for a speeding ticket I received one very wet night while driving our Mercury Sable wagon to a conference in San Francisco.

But of the three major Californian sites Tehachapi is considered the best and is one of the windiest places in the world. Todays turbines stand about 400-500 feet tall and produce about 1-2.4 megawatts each. The Tehachapi Renewable Transmission Project (TRTP) now under construction and slated for completion in 2012, will result in a high-voltage transmission system delivering 4,500 MW of clean energy into Los Angeles drawing power from 50 square miles of wind-farms in the Tehachapi area. Inevitably, there is an environmental cost and the recent success of the California condor (Gymnogyps californianus) breeding program has resulted in concerns about this endangered species expanding into the Tehachapi Wind Resource Area. Although larger turbines that produce more energy means fewer machines per acre and fewer access roads per MW, the threat remains and such projects will likely push deeper into the Mojave.

But perhaps these environmental threats can be offset. How long I wonder, would it take the desert sands, the sidewinders (Crotalus cerastes) and desert tortoises (Gopherus agassizi) to re-colonize the interstate? And, with the abandonment of our 1950's infrastructure the blight of the strip development along its flanks would melt away and the steel armature stubbornly resisting oxidization in the dry desert air would provide perches for the Condor.

You can dream: but it is I think, useful to dream the right dream.

Are We Green Yet?

Last weekend I washed down our thin-film photovoltaic array for the second time this summer. It's a matter of climbing an aluminum step ladder and squirting water at the blue black material stuck to the sheet metal roof between the standing seams. Muddy water slowly becomes clear and the film emerges to convert solar energy to electricity through its amorphous silicon cells at full efficiency once more.

Summer is dry and dusty in Upper Ojai. Last year the situation was exacerbated because our driveway had not been sealed and we were building the pool. Our suspicion is that we lost a great deal of PV efficiency through the months of June through September with the film caked in a layer of dirt. On October 12 last year it began raining and continued, on and off, for five days. Five or six inches of rain later, the PV was clean for the winter.

This summer we knew better. Topher Blunt Of Ojai Solar Electric who installed our PV (and the Shucco solar thermal panels for the hot water tank) now has a lucrative side-line in cleaning the solar arrays that he builds. He has the contract for washing down the 235 kW array at Santa Barbara City College he installed last year. Like selling razors at a loss to make money on replacement blades, his business model may subtly change to reflect this new service component. I suggested to someone at a dinner party, whose job it was to find 'Green' careers for ex-cons, that cleaning PV arrays might be a viable option. In any case, newly conscious of this maintenance aspect I did the first cleaning in July.

The PV effect was discovered in 1954, when scientists at Bell Telephone found that silicon created an electric charge when exposed to sunlight. Up until the I980's solar cells were being used primarily to power space satellites and smaller items like calculators and watches, although they had some agricultural and 'back-woods' applications since they could be used to re-charge 12V battery packs for lighting and small appliances.

However, there was enough buzz in the architectural community about their potential residential application that in 1981 I designed a single family house dubbed 'Ole Soleil' in a design studio at UCLA the model for which had a roof covered in a blue foil to indicate a PV material. A year later in Japan, again under the auspices of UCLA, I was attaching black wing-like elements to model robo-houses that were designed under the influence of the emerging solar power construct, samurai costumes and Gundam mecha (or robot) anime.

During the 80's and 90's solar power continued to exist in high-tech military and space applications, in small consumer electronics and kitsch items like lawn ornaments as well as on the Alternative Technology frontier where it was seen to have a potential political role in, quite literally, bringing power to the people.

By the late 1990's the architectural potential of the technology was finally realized with the first BIPV (Building Integrated PV) installation on the south and west facing curtain walls between the 37th and 43rd floors of a skyscraper in Times Square. By 2001, Home Depot was selling residential PV kits in its California stores.

But early in this century it became apparent that thin-film rather than flat-plate technology represented the way forward. Lorrie was flipping through the pages of Architectural Record in the summer of 2008 when she saw an advertisement for Uni-Solar thin-film solar adhered to a standing seam metal roof. Although the slab had already been poured for our Ojai house, and the roof specified as corrugated steel (with the expectation of installing flat-plate PV panels above it), we revised the specs and went with standing seam and in the spring of 2009 the solar fruit-leather was rolled out between the seams.

We have Stanford Ovshinsky (and his marketing team) to thank. Born in Akron, Ohio the son of a Lithuanian scrap metal dealer, he founded ECD (Energy Conversion Devices) in 1960; our thin-film PV's are manufactured (right here in the good old USA, in Greenville, Michigan) by Uni-Solar, a subsidiary. His pioneering work in the field of amorphous and disordered materials has become the enabling technology in thin-film photovoltaics.

Ironically, Suntech, one of the largest solar photovoltaics providers in the world has bet its future on old fashioned, flat-plate silicon and Wuxi, the city of 5 million that has grown up around its plants in China, now faces the prospect of becoming China's Detroit.

We narrowly avoided avoided the fate of using first generation technology at a moment in time when third generation PV using nanoparticle expertise and zinc oxide (sunblock!) is being developed at The University of Pennsylvania (Sierra, The Magazine of the Sierra Club, September/October, 2010). Green technology is a moving target. (One of the allures of passive-solar is that, give or take a heat exchanger or two, it's a timeless strategy.)

Our house is a product of its time. The Green zeitgeist of the mid-aughts mandated PV, radiant heating and geo-thermal HVAC. We adopted thin-film solar (just-in-time). We avoided the active radiant heating boondoggle (more on that another time) and decided that geo-thermal didn't really make sense if you could offset your straight-up air-source HVAC with PV generated power.

We also reached back into the the 1970's and 80's and to our education at UCLA where passive solar was king and expertly taught under Murray Milne and Baruch Givoni. Givoni's classic text,  Man, Climate, and Architecture, John Wiley & Sons, Hoboken, NJ, 1976 was, at that time, considered the most authoritative volume in the field of building climatology - at a time when green was a color, inexperience ..... and nothing more. For a while we toyed with the idea of a Trombe wall the ne plus ultra of passive solar.

A Trombe wall is a sun-facing wall patented in 1881 by its inventor, Edward Morse, and popularized in 1964 by French engineer Félix Trombe and architect Jacques Michel. It is a massive wall separated from the outdoors by glazing and an air space, which absorbs solar energy and releases it selectively towards the interior at night (Wikipedia) It works on the green-house (meaning, back in the day, a glass structure for horticulture!) principle whereby solar radiation passes through glass but is then trapped as infra-red radiation to which the glass is opaque.

We elected, in the end, to rely on the concrete slab to absorb heat on winter days and radiate it on winter nights for our passive radiant heating. The glazing is shaded such that no sun enters the house past April and only reappears in October.

Are we green yet? I've been around long enough to find the question exasperating. What I have done for the last thirty years is apply appropriate technology to the system requirements of human habitation. Our national reliance on dirty fuel for the majority of our electricity demands that we find ways to reduce usage (Passive strategies) and maximize on-site generation opportunities (Active solar - sun and wind); diminishing water supplies require a program of rainfall capture, grey water irrigation (or no irrigation) and reduced usage; waste management is covered by reduce, re-use and recycle of which reduce is the most powerful and potentially transformative dictum.

Was the green solution to stay in our 90 year old house in Santa Monica Canyon? Perhaps, but having built a net-zero-energy, recyclable-steel framed 100 year house ( based on our fire resistant strategies) it seems to me that we may have earnt the right to offset a little of that green angst that now infects us all.

Cloudland

To look at the landscape in England is to see as much cloud as land - the vaporous scrim demands equal attention. When I was very young, perhaps four or five, I thought the swirling cumulus was another land. My sheltered imagination had decided that the sky was a place, a wildland as faraway as could be imagined: Scotland.

At the beginning of last week I called my sister in England. I had not spoken with her since last Christmas. She's a few years older than me and lives in Barton-on-Sea in Hampshire with her husband Tim; their kids are grown and they have six grandchildren. I rely on her for news of my one remaining aunt and our various cousins, nieces and nephews.

Extant Aunt Joan is my deceased father's youngest sister. Last month she celebrated her 90th birthday and there was a gathering of the clan at her home in Beaminster, Dorset. Joan, a widow now for ten years or more, has three children and all were in attendance. Her youngest, Andrew was - last time I checked - a doctor at a large Southhampton hospital. He qualified as a doctor in his twenties but almost immediately decided that he wanted, instead, to be a Vicar in the Church of England. He pursued this for many years but after being shunted around to one miserable parish after another decided that medicine might not be such a bad idea after all. Thus it was that ten or fifteen years ago he returned to doctoring.

His news at his mother's party, however, was that he had now retired and moved to a croft in the north of Scotland with his Pagan academic girlfriend. I was intrigued on all counts - Scotland, the croft and the Pagan academic.

I finally made it to the far country with two friends from the Gloucestershire College of Art driving north from Cheltenham in a 1950's Austin Somerset. It was Spring Break - April - and the car had no heater. We stayed in youth hostels and drank a lot of beer. We made it as far as Inverness and saw some glorious countryside. It snowed, we got very cold in the car, but the white mantle made the land almost cloud-like.

Meanwhile, I had read Gavin Maxwell's Ring of Bright Water, Longmans, London, 1960 and his much darker, Raven Seek Thy Brother, Harper & Row, London, 1968. Sometime in my teens I had read Eric Linklater, Compton Mackenzie and just a couple of years ago while on vacation on North Haven, Maine, I read Lillian Beckwith's The Sea for Breakfast, Hutchinson, London, 1960 - her comic novel of crofting on Skye, in the Hebrides.

Such was my preparation for receiving the news of my cousin's relocation to Scotland. My sister said that he had moved to the far-north of the Highlands, 'somewhere on the left'. A few minutes on the internet and I located him in the wildlands of Scoraig on a remote peninsula between Little Loch Broom and Loch Broom, south of Ullapool in Ross and Cromarty, Highland, Scotland. With no road access or grid-tied electricity the community relies on wind-power, solar, diesel generators and batteries; access to non-indigenous supplies and services is by boat across Little Loch Broom, the crofters' awaiting vehicles and a major road, the A832.

Originally inhabited in the first millennium, the land was divided up in the 19th century into narrow strips of agricultural holdings known as crofts to support a minimum level of subsistence for Gaelic-speaking Highlanders; the population peaked at the end of the 1800's at several hundred before slowly dwindling until by 1960 it was almost deserted. The last permanent residents left in 1964. (Wikipedia)

Today it supports English-speaking 'back-to-landers', 'good-lifers' (both British locutions) and retirees seeking an alternative, off-the-grid lifestyle like my cousin. It is an up-market version of Slab-City the ad-hoc trailer park outside of Niland on the south east margin of the Salton Sea. There, an old WWII army base demolished except for the concrete building slabs, supports an alternative living community located near an active bombing range in the Anza Borrego desert. With no grid-tied electricity, fresh water or sewage treatment, residents rely on solar panels, batteries and generators and their own waste system and share one communal shower, a concrete cistern that is fed by a hot spring 100 yards away. I have visited a couple of times and am reassured that such an anarchic, lawless community can prevail on the interstice between a major NAFTA truck route, the 111 from Mexicali, on up through Brawley, Calipatria and beyond to the 10, and the desert wildland as it backs into the Chocolate Mountains. This is the kind of end-times village that may yet contain seeds of the planet's salvation as it rushes towards global urbanization.

Scoraig may grow much of its own food, erect its own wind turbines and stack its own dry-stack walls but as noted above it remains connected to the goods and services of the EU and is economically dependent on capital brought in by newcomers, which is generally spent on building 'properties' (Wikipedia). My link to Andrew was through the company he employed to install his green roof (Green Roof Systems , UK) on a geodesic dome-roofed yurt that he's built for himself and his partner.

Ah, the partner. The Pagan Academic. As those who have been following along will understand, I profess an openess to animism, shamanism and mysticism - all isms thoroughly disavowed by the rational thinkers of the Enlightenment and after, but Academia has now opened its arms to Pagan Studies, and one of the new discipline's leading lights, Sabina Magliocco teaches at California State University at Northridge. Her background is in the disciplines of anthropology and folklore which have been fundamental in validating the embrace of Paganism and witchcraft as legitimate fields of study.

Living in an earth-roofed yurt in the wilds of Scoraig can only have sharpened Andrew's partner's appreciation and knowledge of the Spirit World. The windswept western highlands, with the smell of peat smoke in the air where gannets, eagles and razor bills (Alca torda) wheel and seals and otters slice through loch and burn must put an observer awfully close to the whirring of the cosmos.

Scoraig, a western spit in the cloudland - manifestation of my earliest imaginings - and Ojai, enmeshed in the traditions of the Chumash, are both wreathed in earth magic. In such places, the Pagan tradition, which is concerned with the ritual reanimation of the world, seems like an entirely rational response to the churning of the seasons and the antic life-force of the wildlands.

Tin

A while back John Diehl mentioned that he was interested in a piece of rusting sheet metal half buried in our oak grove at the northern property line (Palimsest, 2010-06-22). When we got around to clearing the thistles beneath the oaks, Griffin hauled the tin fully to the surface and trucked it down to John in the East End.

John makes his living as an actor but has always made art. This morning I stopped in at THE/Main Gallery and looked at the ten pieces he has on display - mostly sculpture and a few oil paintings. I suspect that his sculptural pieces have been created over a long period of time - there is none of that manic iterative process that is at the heart of creativity whereby the artists digs himself out of hole by producing piece after piece of almost non-existent difference until a new direction slowly emerges out of the sameness.

Here, instead, is work of many directions but with an abiding theme: America embodied in the matrix of family, materialism and spirituality. The best work has a primal, earthy quality - like Tabernacle - a glazed adobe box with small openings revealing an intriguing, mystical interior of black shard-like planes; Traveling Church which is quite literally a small model church on wheels and Ark, a patch-worked assemblage of wood and metal in the approximate form of an tiny diluvian boat clamped in a wood worker's vise: it appears to be in dry-dock awaiting a re-fit, awaiting the deluge. John Baldassari had signed the visitor's book with the admonition, "Keep it Real".

I was disappointed that the wrinkled, crinkled, oxidized, torn and earth-stained sheet metal we had donated to the cause was nowhere in evidence. Such found objects are, of course, capable of rising to art merely through their objectification on a gallery wall. Next show.

The gallery is neighbor to our office on East Matilija in Ojai and is run by Carl Thelander - on the ground floor of a Victorian cottage which also houses his environmental analysis and remediation practice, BioResource Consultants. Carl was a constant presence, as were we, at the Ojai Playwrights Conference which ended last weekend.

Robert Egan, the Director of OPC sets up this fascinating invitation: "to hear the voices of....playwrights who speak courageously and honestly about the world we live in". That we did, in seven shows that dealt with Palestine, Vietnam (two shows), 9-11 and its aftermath in Spain (the Madrid train bombings of 2004), the outing of a gay scout master; Big Pharma and the stunning slice of life (and suicide) from Len Jenkin, Psalm151: Heaven Have Mercy that somehow combined Runyonesque plot points (the mob and high-stakes gambling) with bleak suburban lives and even bleaker Florida senescence.

After the last performance, late afternoon Sunday - directed by a former client of mine Ron Lagomarsino - we emerged into the sunshine from the Zalk Theater on the grounds of Happy Valley reeling from our five day stint of play-watching. The political and social impacts of some of the world's thorniest issues had been expressed in terms of human drama and we engaged with them on a profound and soulful level. Lacking sets - all the plays are readings - the craft of the playwright and his or her actors, are expressed in startling clarity - and the structure of the play is witheringly exposed. Every audience member a dramaturg(e).

Such cultural festivals are reminders that we are remarkable mammals. And so young! In The Time before History - 5 million years of Human Impact, Touchstone, New York, 1997 Colin Tudge notes that Homo sapiens has been anatomically modern for some 100,000 years - but most mammals have lasted roughly a million years before they have become extinct or evolved into something else. Do we have 900,000 years to go and what, if anything, has Theater got to do with it?

Theater provides opportunities for re-invention, to establish space for emotional and intellectual reactions that we, as an audience, might not otherwise experience. Like all art forms it magnifies our existence. Artists function as shamans in our culture and they transmit their messages through their chosen medium: none is as immediate and transparent as Theater. Robert Egan uses the phrase, "the world we live in". Theater has the ability to blur the distinctions between that world and our lives such that we more fully inhabit the universe. We become of  the world rather than merely living in the world.

If our species has a future it depends on our participation in the larger cosmic-biological nature of the planet. That participation might begin with a connection to the idea of what it is to be a Palestinian in a Lebanese refugee camp (Urge For Going, Mona Mansour) or a confused adolescent (Wild Animals You Should Know, Thomas Higgins) and ultimately extend outwards to other species and even elemental features of the planet; to become part of the world in all its variety rather than apart: to eliminate the notion of environment, and establish humankind in a reciprocal relationship with all that surrounds it, except that in this process we absorb the meaning of our surroundings as the environment absorbs us, eschewing separateness.

Painting and sculpture inhabit a space where our customary ways of seeing are knocked askew. The church with wheels that John Diehl presents (Traveling Church) extends the range of the possible.

In a gallery we stand ready to receive new meaning - a piece of rusted sheet metal perhaps a portal to a deeper involvement in the cosmos.

Things Fall Apart

In David Foster Wallace's great book, Infinite Jest, Little Brown, New York, 1996, the USA has been transmuted into ONAN - the Organization of North American Nations a post-NAFTA amalgam of America, Canada and Mexico. The great seal features an eagle wearing a sombrero with a maple leaf in its beak.

I am 400 pages into this densely footnoted, 1000 page tome which I have declared as my summer reading. I am acutely aware that Labor Day is less than a month away. But having reached the middle stages of the book it falls open more readily and I can now make good progress before, once again, the actual mechanics of holding the book become difficult. It is a good advertisement for a Kindle, Nook or i-Pad but toting the paperback to a solitary lunch in L.A. or having it lie in the front seat of the car when I am pumping gas has exposed me to members of that fraternity that have either read the book and are devoted to it or are determined to take it up 'when there's time'. There is of course no time like the present, but with a book of this heft, the present takes on historical dimensions.

While the success or failure of the European Community still hangs in the balance, it remains an example of the way that the political and economic arrangements of a continent can change in ways unthinkable half a century before. Although I broached the idea of California Succession to State Senator Shiela Kuhl some years ago at a fund-raiser I did so as a mild provocation rather than any heartfelt political belief (for the record, she was not amused and perhaps detecting my English accent, asked me whether I had ever heard of the Civil War - she turned to another conversation before I had the chance to tell her that not only had I heard of it, I had taught it's complex history to a fair number of this state's impressionable teenagers (California Dreamin' 2010-02-27)).

As a onetime teacher of history and now a reader of it (and occasionally touching on it in this blog), my approach to History is less ideological than it is tempered by a profound belief in discounting the most fervidly held shibboleths of conventional, sentimental wisdom. I am thus receptive to ideas like Wallace's that challenge the apparent immutability of these United States. I have always thought that it might make sense for the Western states, Mexico, British Columbia and Alaska to coalesce as some sort of Pacific Rim political and economic entity.

When entertaining this thought the one thing that gives me pause is the number of military bases there are in Southern California......does the federal government just hand them over to California (as happened when the USSR dissolved and constituent states were presented with nuclear missile bunkers, tank squadrons and airfields) lease them back or, Guantanamo style, retain ownership of the mosaic of defense installations?.

In this reverie I am concerned with avoiding a Fort Sumter-like situation where the Union refused to give up the fort to South Carolina, one of the seven states that originally declared secession. Its subsequent bombardment by the North began the Civil War: I am not so concerned with the ownership of the military hardware, what clouds this daydream is the thought that the vast acreage of defense lands would be threatened in some way. The fact is that the military have, without intention, become one of the great conservators of wildlands in California.

They have been, for instance, vastly more successful than the Coastal Commission in preserving wetlands. Drive by Ballona wetlands on Lincoln in Mar Vista and then Point Mugu on the PCH and you will understand my point. Mugu Lagoon into which the Calleguas creek flows, sits to the north of the one pristine wetland between L.A. and Ventura - protected by the Naval Base at Port Hueneme. The Military are landlords on a grand scale, and lacking the profit motive, are content to let vast areas of land lie fallow in the interest of perimeter security, the occasional 'exercise' or, as at China Lake, just outside of Ridgecrest, a ground zero for short-range missiles.

Earlier in the year, after presenting my new American passport to the phalanx of security at the entry to the Naval Air Weapons Station (NAWS), China Lake, I visited the Navy's 1.1 million acres of land in California's upper Mojave Desert. I was headed for the high ground of the Cosos where several canyons run through the north south trending ridge and contain the largest concentration of petroglyphs in the Americas and quite possibly the world. Little Petroglyph canyon is currently the only canyon open to a tour chaperoned by retired rocket scientists - with an interest in archeology. The Rock Art is pristine with none of the graffiti that plagues smaller sites outside of this vast security compound. While sporadically littered with spent rockets the dry lake, mountains and plains are also safe from the maraudings of the 'Green' power industry who see the Mojave as prime solar and geo-thermal pickings.

Britain was forever changed after the Suppression Acts of 1536 and 1539 dissolved hundreds of monasteries, abbeys, and priories and their lands, property and wealth were taken by the crown or sold off to supporters of Henry VIII. In California, the establishment of the Ranchos - political spoils gifted at the discretion of the Mexican government after the banishment of the Franciscans - impacted the dispostion of nature and civilization, the wild and the tamed, in the entire region. With or without the development of an altered political landscape, the military, as one of the largest institutional landowners in the state, is pivotal in any consideration of wildland resources in California.

On Friday, Jodi Kasch, the photographer, came by to take pictures of the house for an article to be published in Ventana magazine in September. It turns out that she had lived for ten years or more on the Flying H ranch which in the 1980's ran on both sides of the 150 west of Happy Valley. Her then husband Taylor Kasch, taught at Happy Valley School and began the theater program there which today thrives under the direction of Scott Campbell.

She told us tales of finding metates and shells on the ranch in what were clearly Chumash village sites. Although the ranch still exists (in 2007 Arnold Schwarzenegger and Marie Shriver made an unsuccessful bid for it) much of the land was sold around the turn of the century and it is now dwarfed by its spawn, Aspen Grove Ranch and Black Mountain Ranch on either side of the 150.

Much of Upper Ojai remains locked in large estate holdings and like the military bases, the size of the acreage contributes to the continuing viability of wildland species and avian predator flyovers. On the south side of the Sulpher Mountain ridge, as it slopes down to the 126 is the Aliso Ranch, the oldest continually operating cattle ranch in Ventura County. William Dewey Hobson began running cattle in Ventura in 1859 and by 1910 the Hobson brothers made Aliso Ranch the headquarters of their operation - which later came to include the Flying H Ranch in Upper Ojai. Today, the Aliso property is lightly ranched and the 7,000 acres of oaks, hills, canyons, and chaparral provide happy hunting grounds for mountain lions, bobcats, coyotes and their prey as they roam up and over the ridge into our high valley.

While the greatest threat to California wildlands has historically been commercial and residential real estate development along with the associated infrastructure of roads and power distribution, the enduring economic down turn has eased these pressures. At the same time, the increasing fragility of the State's economic situation, the disfunction of the federal government and the changing demographics of the state make for a political and economic tinderbox. It is in this context that it is useful to consider the fate of the wiildlands in the futures with which we may be presented: while ONAN, CONAN (California Organization of North American Nations - with, inevitably, Schwarzenegger as its first President) or some barbaric fragmentation of central power may await us - what seems certain is,

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

From "The Second Coming" W.B. Yeats, 1919

Chaparral Mantra

We live on the margins of the wildland; not in its depths. Here there is still the tracery of urban civilization - roads, power lines and overhead the flight paths of commercial airlines. Sometimes contrails festoon the evening sky from military jets out of Vandeburgh or Point Mugu. Looking to the south are other houses, horse corrals and barns. We can see, in the distance, the fire station (VCFD 20) and the back of the Upper Ojai market.

Not complaining, just saying. So, not truly wildland, more like mildland. But we are very much wildland adjacent, and that is the beauty of our site. Looking to the north there is nothing that stands in the way of the wildland corridor until just south of San Francisco. Moments before I sat down to write this paragraph I saw a young coyote standing sentinel on a rock twenty yards away from the back of the house. Their range can be up to a six mile radius around their den. A coyote then, of the Upper Ojai, on the edge of the wild, sniffing the wind.

We've been over-run this year with varmints. A friend in Topanga suggested that the baiting of rats has taken its toll on the top predators such as coyotes and bobcats. But yesterday morning while I was running, Lorrie was awakened by a great racket in the oaks just above the house and from the window saw three bobcats scrambling up a tree in pursuit of prey - just what she couldn't determine - but its noisy snarling and snorting and possibly her presence at the window seems to have saved it. When we looked under the oak later in the morning there was no evidence of a kill. A little later that morning I saw another coyote stroll across the meadow below the house. This summer, such sightings have been unusual.

I suspect that the mild winter, with rain through the early part of June, favored the rats, squirrels, gophers and rabbits that now animate the chaparral and that their predators, with such plentiful and easy pickings, are less inclined to venture into the wildland margins where the dangers of humans, poisons and traffic abound. The size of a bobcat's home range is similar to that of the coyote, so the three Lorrie saw are locals, but like the coyotes they seem to be spending more of their time away from our property and hunting deeper in the wild, up in Bear Canyon.

The scale of the wildland stretching north is critical. David Janzen, the noted conservation biologist, makes the point that, when it comes to saving wilderness, size matters. Only “big chunks of nature,” will survive the threats of spreading human civilization and climate change. He writes,

" the only places that are going to survive in the long run are big conserved pieces. Small pieces may be very pretty, but they die, just because of insularity. They turn into islands. And we all know what happens on islands. Islands never have high species richness. And even when they do, like Hawaii did when people got there, [they are] very, very fragile, very susceptible to human perturbation."

A Pioneering Biologist Discusses The Keys to Forest Conservation, Caroline Fraser, Yale Environment 360, March 23, 2010

Jantzen's solutions, like the major threats, are two-fold. One is his idea of 'gardenification' whereby the world's remaining wildlands are integrated into the human genome. We have so thoroughly infiltrated the planet he argues, "to survive, a non-human species must be too diffuse to be thoroughly captured, too trivial to be noticed, or too immutable to be changed". Or, it can be woven into humanity's embrace and wildland conserved as garden.

The other part of his solution is education. Because right now, he says,"the planet is blind". We do not recognise bio-diversity - we are illiterate. He suggests that with a cheap pocket sized dna bar-coder we would be able to 'read' - to "identify anything, anywhere, anytime — what you ate, what bit you, what you’re sitting on, what you just picked up, what grows by the side of the road". That, he believes, will change our relationship to bio-diversity.

The notion of a universal fluency in the language of bio-diversity seems, at this point in time, a Douglas Adamsian fantasy like his Babel Fish, but I can vouch for the value of emerging literacy in 'chaparral' earned the old-fashioned way, with books and the occasional walk with the vastly knowledgable Margot. Curiosity that focuses on our natural environment, rather than on the constructed cultural (now primarily electronic) fabric of our lives seems to be waning and is only likely to further atrophy as the world becomes more highly urbanized. It is a luxury to live near the vanishing wilds, and with or without a dna-barcoder, a privilege to begin to understand them.

Franzen is working in Costa Rica and there he says, the forest is vanishing, beginning at the margins of paved roads. Like the hedgerows in England which in my youth were a standard feature of country roads and are now greatly diminished through neglect or active eradication the looming forests of Costa Rica, which once lined the roads have now retreated. His focus is on saving the parklands and he has worked to expand a small national park in northwestern Costa Rica into a 300,000-acre reserve — the Area de Conservación Guanacaste, or ACG.

Sarah Munster, my former landscape design partner, owns two and a half acres of cleared forest outside of San Ramon and is considering building a house there. The site, she tells me, has classic views of smoking volcanoes and cloud forests. Meanwhile, she must visit annually to prevent the villagers from moving their animals onto the property. Despite a large system of parks catering to eco-tourism Janzen points out that the 160 different little pieces of conserved wildlands are a patchwork still under threat from the pressures of agriculture and development.

The chaparral in California, as Rick Halsey points out is under similar threat, compounded by the frequency of anthropgenic fires - which can reduce this delicate eco-system to weed infested grassland in a generation. Like Janzen he believes that the wildland "has no value unless it is identified, has a name and is understood" (Fire, Chaparral and Survival  in Southern California, Richard Halsey, Sunbelt, San Diego, Ca., 2005)

My odyssey began with W.S. Head's little book, The California Chapparal, An Elfin Forest, Naturegraph, Happy Camp, Ca. 1972. While still in Los Angeles I would use his list of the twelve most common plants of the chaparral as a mantra while running in Will Rogers State Historical Park.

Naming the plants in the wildland is the first step in its gardenification. The second is restoration of its primal character. Around our house, planting and weeding the wildland garden are the keys to its restoration  - the way to re-integrate our fractured island property into the big, sustainable wildland on our doorstep.

Wild Thing

It is not often that we receive impromptu lunch invitations. Saved from the prospect of egg sandwiches at Rainbow Bridge, sharing a burger at Vesta or heaven forfend, munching rice crackers and almond butter alone at our desks, Lorrie and I joined Steve and Caroline for lunch at their Sulphur Mountain equestrian estate where they were entertaining our mutual friend, the production designer David Brisbin.

We arrived to find that Tim Cummings, Polixines in Theater 150's recent production of The Winter's Tale (see The Winter's Tale 2010-07-29) - who had been billeted with them for the duration of the run (which ended a week or so ago) would also join us for lunch. The six of us sat down to a Mexican feast contributed by various friends and housekeepers. Their beautiful dog, half wolf, lurked at the margins of the gathering.

David is an American ex-pat living in Vancouver with his partner Laimis. We have known him for twenty years or more. Originally trained as an architect he has had a stellar career in production design and has directed his own film Nice Hat! 5 Enigmas in the Life of Cambodia Canada/ Cambodia, 2005. Color 86 Minutes, which we saw upon its release five years ago in L.A.

Laimis is a Lithuanian Geographer whose field of study is his home town Vilnius - that historically embattled, culturally marbled city at the heart of the European maelstrom. Together, these global citizens live in Vancouver at the western edge of the Canadian Universe where 'niceness' and 'friendliness' masks the usual dark North American history of genocide. Their respective fields of study (David's is avocational) concern places with thick, tangled histories that are intensely stratified - each uncovered layer revealing new strands of profound complexity.

Their home is an isthmus of bright blue-glass sky-scrapers, pacific north west cuisine, runners, ultimate players and sequestered remnants of rain-forest that sit like an arboreal ghetto at the far end of Stanley Park. It's cultural heritage is encapsulated in the crisp, hard planes of Arthur Erickson's Museum of Anthropology on the UBC campus. Only the relentless influx of asian immigrants threatens the placid contentment of the Canucks and their Britannic triumphalism. We visited them in their English Bay apartment a few years ago.

There is, in California a very different sense of destiny. It is not race based, or even historically founded. It is, instead, something that springs out of the 'being present' nature of the place. It is willfully a-historical, willfully spiritual and at the same time, willfully materialistic. At lunch, we spontaneously toasted the news that Judge Vaughn R. Walker’s had struck down Prop. 8 - California’s ban on same-sex marriages. After lunch, we trekked down to the horse-barn where there was a new born foal, Lilly the Filly. Barely a week old its mother Eve, an exquisite black pony pivoted to protect her tiny offspring from our inquisitive gaze.

Outside the barn, talk turned to feral cats with a taste for rats and the acquisition thereof. We are all under seige currently from wood rats. They are hiding behind the newly installed fire-doors at Margot's, living under our entry deck and whooping it up in the pool equipment corral. We need cats! I spoke with Lorenz and he is on the look-out for likely felines. They are assured a healthy diet of Neutoma muridae - the signature animal of mature chaparral.

Until recently, our thoughts had been on dogs. Derek died nine months ago and we still miss him. He was a profound presence in our lives. I first set eyes on him when I was working for an architectural firm in West Hollywood. The two principals of the firm would have their hair cut by an itinerant hairdresser who was also in the business of rescuing dogs. So it came about that Derek accompanied her on her visit to the office and she parked him in the basement, where I had my desk, while she cut hair. It was empathy at first sight. Derek was suffering from acute post traumatic stress disorder, but over a few weeks of visits to the dog rescuer's house, and slowly introducing him to the family it became evident that despite his damage, he was the dog for us.

Over the years and with the intense involvement of our two sons, Derek became a wonderful house-dog. A couple of years after our taking him in he was spooked by fireworks one fall evening and ran away into the chaparral north of Sunset Blvd. in the Pacific Palisades. After a month's absence we were ready to give up, "if that which is lost be not found".

Then, miraculously, late one night we received a call from a security guard who had seen an emaciated dog behind a building site in the Palisades Highlands - connected that with our lost dog posters - and called us. Early the next morning, with a jingle of keys and raw hamburger meat Derek was finally lured from the bush. Covered in ticks and having lost 20 pounds he was days away from from being taken by coyotes. Derek was home for Christmas - a heartwarming winters tale that seemed to further embed him into our family.

While in Pittsburgh recently for the Brown family meeting a cousin of Lorrie's was selling her sister's recently published book, The Sacred Path Beyond Trauma - Reaching the Divine Through Nature's Healing Symbols, Ellen B. Macfarland, North Atlantic Books, Berkeley, Ca., 2008. Reading the book I realized that while we had healed Derek, the process had been mutual - he had had a healing influence on me and perhaps the entire family.

Ellen maintained a private psychotherapy practice in Milwaukee for twenty years before getting her Phd in Jungian depth psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute in Santa Barbara. She now lives in Big Sky, Montana - close to Bozeman.

As she would have it, Derek was healed through his embodiment in the life of our family. But she would also suggest that Derek was bestowed to us by the universe to heal us and help us claim our full family potential. She describes the healing power of dolphins, horses and trees. These material beings, these wild things, also exist as imaginal symbols always present to serve in the communication between soul and conscious awareness.

Nature provides us with symbols to salve the soul. Our inner harmony, she suggests, can be facilitated by an engagement with the natural world. She made the decision to move to the wildland/urban interface with this benefit in mind.

The Talmud tells us that the dog has no soul. Marc Sirinsky, an old friend and for many years now a rabbi in Ashland, Or., explained to me that a reasonable interpretation of this would be that the dog has given its collective soul to mankind. Ellen is now working with the wolf nation - a member like the dog, of the Canidae family - whose plight in Montana is well known. Wolves she writes, "seemed to take over my dreams, and I experienced soulful connections to these animals that were impossible to ignore." By listening to the symbols that call to us from the wild, and finding solace in their imaginal presence, we can perhaps find space to harmonize our relationship with the natural environment.

The work of this century is to re-establish the necessary synaptic connections between spirit, soul and matter - towards a re-integration of the universal soul. That's my kind of Globalism. Perhaps it can be achieved one dog at a time, or one tree at a time. Those of us fortunate to live in the wildland have a particular responsibility to move this project forward.

I have taken on the care of the chaparral in my little neck of the woods - time will tell whether it will reciprocate as my spirit helper.

Dogtrot

I visited Roger Conrad, a neighbor across the way on Sulphur Mountain, on Sunday morning and toured his new dogtrot house that he has been building for a year or more. It's closed up and awaits stucco.

On Saturday evening I chatted with Leon Berg at a reception at The Beatrice Wood Center for the Arts for The Rangoli Dance Company. Leon is the expediter-cum-project manager for the Besant Hill School Pool project which includes boys and girls changing rooms. Originally designed as a butterfly roof structure the changing rooms were split asunder in order to skirt the County's fire-sprinkler requirement - the two buildings being less than the minimum size requiring sprinklers. The two shed roofed structures are now designed to be 10' apart providing a kind of dogtrot-like breezeway between them.

Roger's house is a variation on the Shotgun typolgy: a long thin house type popularized in New Orleans and originating under a tax code that was based on a building's frontage. Minimising the width and extending the length was thus the most efficient strategy in terms of tax liabilty. Avoiding the installation of an expensive sprinkler system has been the driver for the bifurcation of the dressing rooms into two separate pavilions.

Thus it is that design develops as a direct result of tax-policy, legislation or municipal codes. Constraints are good for design. I have often credited the California Building Code as my co-designer - not entirely in jest. Certainly the energy provisions under Title 24 have a dramatic influence on the design of fenestration, and shear wall requirements - made more restrictive after the 1994 Northridge earthquake - can provide a major design impetus.

The two issues that prompted Roger's design were the need to provide natural cooling (as an off-the-grid project utilizing a limited photo-voltaic array Roger could not afford the energy use of air-conditioning) and audio privacy between both ends of a small house. Roger's wife Ruthie Marks, the crochet designer, is a great baseball fan and Roger is allergic to the 'soundtrack to summer' provided by Vince Scully and others. As a child I loved listening to Test Match cricket with soothing voices of John Arlott, Richie Benaud and Brian Johnston. In Australia I enjoyed listening to Rugby League with the incomparable Frank Hyde (1916-2007) providing the commentary. I even enjoy listening to Vince Scully on occasions, but quite understand Roger's aversion.

The screen porch which divides the kitchen living and dining end of the house from the two bedrooms/offices solves both these design constraints and does so in a way that has the imprimatur of tradition - always a useful ally in architectural design- and makes his house typical of the dogtrot typology.

We met early on Sunday because Roger was driving down to Malibu for a re-union with Peter Jon Pearce and their colleagues. Pearce had headed up a major design and engineering firm (Pearce Structures) in the latter part of the twentieth century and was involved in many mega-structure projects throughout the world most notably perhaps, the design of the superstructure for the Biosphere II. Bits and pieces of prototype glazing systems still litter Roger's yard from his time on that project.

Pearce is now focused on his own 'Ecohouse' the prototype of which he plans to build on a few acres in Malibu. Ultimately he envisages a community of 'Ecohouses'. Later that morning, having looked at Pearce's web-site it was fascinating to consider Pearce's contribution to the genre in light of my own house and my visit to Roger's new home - both after all could claim to be eco-houses. Pearce suggests that his Ecohouse "takes solar design, green design, green architecture and pre-fab building beyond green, beyond pre-fab."

But first he needs to design the tooling for the space frame struts and knuckles that will form the armature for the 'Climate Management Canopy' that "intercepts solar radiation...and incorporates solar panels and solar thermal collectors''. Roger and I utilized a climate management canopy in our eco-houses, but we refer to them as walls and a roof. Pearce uses his exo-skeleton to shade what is essentially a glass box which assures abundant natural light and ventilation. We used windows.

Pearce suggests that his project "comprises a paradigm shift, which is intended to further the goal of contributing to the sustainability of the built environment through the implementation of a high performance design ethic". The pay-off for Pearce's Ecohouse is "a carbon-netral footprint by means of a net-zero energy use on an annualized basis". We just achieved that with our grid-tied photo-votaics and Roger has been living 'off-the-grid' these many years without recourse to Edison's help or accounting.

I should point out that the cynicism with which I view Pearce's endeavor is all mine. Roger told me of the projected Malibu Ecohouse in order to share his enthusiasm for a bravura engineering exercise and to touch on his own background as an engineer.

On a more prosiac level, Roger has achieved the great feat of persuading Ventura County to sign-off on an 'off-the-grid' residential project. His engineering background has been put to solid use designing his photo-votaic array and storage system as well as the water systems to support sprinklers, a draft hydrant and domestic supply. Constrained by budget and lacking any vestige of architectural ego or bombast he has (with designer Jane Carroll's able assistance) devised a modest but supremely 'green' house.

The Winter's Tale

It's winter in the chaparral.The subversion of the customary seasons is a typical characteristic of the Mediterranean climate which rules southern California and, in total, less than three percent of the earth's land surface. Fall arrives in June and Spring in November. The hot months of drought are winter for the  chaparral plant community.

This year's California summer has been uncharacteristically cool while the East coast broils. But arriving back from our sojourn in Pennsylvania and Ontario in the middle two weeks of July I could see that the season's first sustained period of heat (which we missed) had fried the mimulus and browned the tops of the creamy chamise blossoms. The heart-leaved penstemon which still sported red blossoms when we left has lost its battle with the heat and its leaves are burnt an orangey-brown. The black sage and buck wheat sport dried buttons of seed. Only the laurel sumac, drawing its moisture from 20 feet and more into the soil remains apparently impervious to the season - its fruited blossom bracts still looking like the rarest caviar swirled with cream.

The bio-mass is now in a crouched defensive posture - waiting out the heat, playing rope-a-dope with the sun. A sanguinary flush has suffused the deer weed, the green long gone its yellow blossoms a memory, its stems are now brown, orange and carmine: the bowl behind the house a field of rust. The tar-weed is dessicated, its skeleton fragile but still with a fringe of yellow flowers. The bunch grasses on the front lawn: plugs of thinning straw hair on a dry, over-tanned scalp. Eeuww.

The season has its charms. On the morning after our late night return from the East coast, I was coming back from my run and at the top of the rise above the house site, having just passed through the oak grove which serves as the property's northern portal, I breathed deeply of the resinous perfume of the chaparral - it is a scent like no other, sage, sumac and chamise with top notes of toyon - or so I imagined. It was good to be back!

Later in the week we saw The Winter's Tale - Theater 150's attempt at reviving the Ojai tradition of Shakespeare in the Park. It's a perennially problematic play that is weirdly bifurcated by a sixteen year time lapse at its core. The tone of the play shifts from tragedy to pastoral comedy and then to magic realism. There have been many attempts to imbue the play with meaning beyond the story-line of its pilfered narrative (it is based on an earlier romance, Pandosto or TheTriumph of Time, Richard Greene, 1588). The director, Cal Arts grad Jessica Kubzansky decided that it really is about the nature of time and the time-keeper chorus figure is given dramatic centrality. This conceit was elaborated by the score which features ticking clocks and the stage rendered as an astrolabe cum sun-dial.

It seems to me that it is as least as much about Winter - the meaning hiding in plain sight, in the title, all this time. At the opening of the play, summer is alluded to in the boyhood friendship of Leontes and Polixines before fall descends in the form of a livid jealousy when Leontes, certain that he has been cuckolded by his old friend, imprisons his wife where she dies (or not), their young son Maximilimus wastes away for love of his mother and the newborn Perdita is banished to Bohemia for a long winter of sixteen years.

Scholarship has established that it is upon the Mediterranean coast that Shakespeare imagines Perdita to be cast out and her protracted winter of estrangement from her family becomes, in the play, a pastoral interlude of shepherds and cut-purses, princes and paupers: a time of endless Mediterranean summer (botanically winter) contrasting (or aligning) across the water in Sicilia, with a bitter (emotional) winter for Leontes and gang. Seasonal confusion thus replaces the more usual sexual misaprehensions of Shakespearean schtick. I could go on.... but here was The Winter's Tale performed mid-summer in the depths of the chaparral winter (in the grounds of Chaparral High School).

The chaparralian winter is an interegnum where fruits like coffee berry and holly leafed cherries mature, the feathered seed plumes of the mountain mahogany shroud it in a soft veil of fecundity, the solanum berries darken and ceonothus seed capsules crack open in the dry air - a kind of winter of early morning mists and mellow fruitfulness alongside dessication and blazing heat. The chaparral may die a little above ground but much of its bio-mass exists below the soil. As Rick Halsey points out, the stuff we see is mostly plant sex organs.

Come November, the first winter rains will have greened things up a little and spring will presage the growing season - the wet months of winter. The wild cucumber (Marah macrocarpus) is an early indicator of spring as it sends long tendrils up over and around the shrubland. The western slope of the enfolding hills to the east of the house are draped in these ragged fringes of bright green as the chaparral emerges from hibernation. The cucumber survives the heat by virtue of its massive storage tuber, a characteristic that has given rise to its other common name, man-root. We rely on a fridge well stocked with Pellegrino, ice and pomegranate juice and the pool.

When we first bought land in Ojai six years ago Jerry Michaels, our real estate agent, extolled the climate but mentioned that August and September were best spent at the beach. I knew then that the months to spend by the waves were October and November when the autumn swells roll up from Baja. Jerry is not of the surfing fraternity. But his advice reflects a common view in Ojai.

I arrived in California  in September, thirty years ago, directly from Sydney's winter. My stay in the antipodes had begun in October eleven years before and in 1969-70 I thus enjoyed a full year of summer. I began my time in California, 1980-81 with almost a full year of winter. I remember the beautiful Topanga days of September and October before, quite suddenly, it seemed, I was back in winter. Seasonal Confusion Disorder comes naturally to me. My dyslexia embraces it.

A love of the wild storms of Sydney's winter stays with me. August and September were beauts - as the Aussies would put it. With minor mental adjustments here too, in the chaparral winter, these two maligned months can entrance.......and spring is right around the corner!

Thinking MYA

In a piece called What the Earth Knows in the summer 2010 issue of The American Scholar, Robert Laughlin, a Nobel laureate and Stanford physicist argues for an understanding of the difference between energy use and climate change in terms of temporal sweep, the significance of humankind in its development (anthropogenics), and scale.

He demonstrates that the two issues, inextricably linked in the popular imagination, are separated by a vast gulf in the metrics of their scientific analysis. Energy use - ultimately the conversion or burning - of all the earth's fossil fuels and their subsequent conversion into carbon dioxide (etc.) will be resolved by the dissolving of the gas in the ocean and, more slowly into the rocks beneath the seas. In Geologic time this will be accomplished in the twinkling of an eye. The impact on the climate of this one-time event, while significant from a human perspective, is trivial when set against the longer term (100,000 year) cycle of glacial episodes.

I was alerted to his perspective, to be enshrined in a book on the future of fossil fuels to be published next year, in an op-ed column by Neil Reynolds in Toronto's Globe and Mail.

On our annual binge of fossil fuels, blown out the twin engines of an airbus A320, we were in Pittsburgh for a family re-union, then Toronto to visit friends and finally, a few days on a group of three islands (called The Ideals) in the Georgian Bay on Lake Huron. Carooming through airports and rubbing shoulders (and shoulder strapped computer cases) with vacationers and business warriors was to be reminded that the world revolves around an ethos startlingly different than that which some of us, as bourgeois dilettantes perhaps, are embracing in the rareified enclaves of Ojai.

At the same time, on the same trip, I was exposed to the more attenuated geologic time scale: visiting Andrew Carnegie's museum of natural history in Pittsburgh that houses his great stash of dinosaur bones and then the scarified rocks of the pre-cambrian shield in the Georgian Bay, wiped clean of their erstwhile sedimentary mantle by glacial activity and now exposed as the oldest stone in North America and perhaps the world.

The Great Lakes are glacial - their vast reserves of fresh water coming from the last glacial melting, around 15,000 years ago. The underlying rock, including the group of three islands owned by our friend Gar Smith, is much older and may have been created between half a billion and four billion years ago. The age of Dinosaurs, by such standards, is comparatively recent, spanning between 65 and 245 MYA (million years ago).

There are 30,000 areas of rock that rise out of the Georgian Bay varying in size from a few hundred square feet to the largest fresh water island on the planet, Manitoulin, which totals several hundred square miles. Gar's lithic trinity totals barely an acre and the Township of the Archipelago, the local governing body, has denied him the right to build on it. He had camped on one of the rocks for many years and had assumed it to be Crown land until the summer of 1989 when he saw a 'For Sale' sign wedged between boulders; he subsequently purchased the land and thus acquired his own piece of the Canadian Dream.

Despite lying more than 150 mile north of Toronto the islands of the bay function as a vacation-land annex to the big city; the area is known as Cottage Country and for the two or perhaps three months of the year when the weather is clement these islands of ease host the harried (but wealthy) workers of the metropolis. In this respect they serve a similar function to the ocean islands of Penobscot Bay in Maine where we have vacationed on North Haven in three of the past five years and which have traditionally catered to the Boston brahmins during the months of July and August. We Californians are outliers in either location.

Port au Baril, the entrepot from which vacationers make their final leap into the serene (but barely navigable) waters of the bay is a raw, bare bones kind of place more at ease perhaps, under several feet of snow and echoing with the sound of snowmobiles. But for brief halcyon days of summer it hosts a couple of marinas from which power boats zip back and forth to said summer cottages. I must have skirted this burgh when I hitch-hiked, one cold November night 43 years ago, from Windsor (on the Canadian side of Detroit) to Sault Ste. Marie on what was then two-lane black top.

King's Highway 400 is now a velvety macadamed six-lane super-highway that rolls over farm country before cutting through, in the interests of maintaining its relentless northern bearing and minimizing elevational disturbances, the primordial rocks of the pre-cambrian shield. This is the first leg of the armature that has transformed the bay islands from sparsely vegetated wind battered scraps of the Northern Ontario hinterland into (for two months) out-islands of Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville; the second is a jouncing power boat ride through the treacherous channels of the shallow bay.

While most of the islands of any size sport summer cottages, screened porches, pump houses and docks, Gar's islands have the raffish air of being inhabited by cast-aways sheltering under brightly colored scraps of nylon tenting. The Canadian flag flutters over many of the islands while The Ideals float in the channel under one of Garfield's 'Seven Colored Flags'. The Grey, Blue and Pink standards were variously flown when we were in residence.

Gar's islands are, of course, less a vacation-land than an art-work in the making. Although he has relinquished his former profession of Canadian Artist, he remains an agent of manifestation - to which his three islands will eventually succumb.

The country house, certainly from the time of Palladio, has traditionally served as a sink hole for the excess resources of the mercantile class. But for a brief moment in the second half of the twentieth century wealth had been re-distributed in the west to the extent that a rising middle class could also afford a cabin by the lake, a caravan at the seaside - or, in America, an RV or Airstream trailer to roam, for a couple of weeks a year, the nation's great natural wonderlands. Nickel miners from Sudbury, Ontario bought starter-cottages in the Georgian Bay and prosperous Los Angelenos, ensconced in their Case-Study modern houses could start to dream of a weekend retreat in Ojai or at Lake Arrowhead with some hope of its reaching fruition.

That moment was perhaps a high point in Western civilization - at least in those nations enjoying some semblance of social democracy - from which we are now in full retreat. We now experience the vertiginous kinetic energies thrown off by the regression of an emerging egalitarianism into an era that echoes the Gilded Age of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, where the then wealthiest man in the world, Andrew Carnegie, raised in the slums of Pittsburgh achieved his prodigious wealth on the backs of his steel workers who remained trapped in the urban hovels of his own youth.

The coal that contributed to Pittsburgh's wealth through the conversion of iron ore into steel was laid down in the Carboniferous geologic era, from 354-290 MYA an age further separated, in America, into the Mississippian (Lower Carboniferous) and the Pennsylvanian (Upper Carboniferous). The latter, mostly covered now by a grassy mantle, awaits the end-times of coal mining when its value exceeds the economic, environmental, social and political costs of its extraction.

Similarly, the shale reserves of Texas and Alberta and the natural gas of - like, everywhere - await their call to arms.The slick connections between urban concentration and far-flung holiday hideaways continue to hasten the day. Even on vacation there is a limit to the intellectual comfort I can gain from thinking in the broad vistas of geologic time.

Independence Day

In Apercu 2010-06-12, I noted that insights gleaned from casual reading can sometimes rise to the level of epiphanies. Glancing at the CD booklet for A Choir of Angels - Mission Music performed by the vocal ensemble Zephyr, Civic Records, 1997 I read the following paragraph by William John Summers Ph.D., a historical musicologist and Professor at Dartmouth College,

".....California was named by Hernan Cortez (ca. 1536) after the mythical island paradise described by Garci Roderiguez de Montalvo in Las sergas de Esplandian, Seville, 1508. Upper or Alta California, which included the entire west coast of the United States, British Columbia and Alaska was ignored by the Spanish crown until 1768 when King Carlos III ordered Jose de Galvez (Visitador General of new Spain) to begin the colonization of this region to forestall Russian colonial encroachment upon the west coast of North America. In 1769, under Gaspar de Portola, Governor of Baja California, expeditions were sent north from Baja, one by sea and one by land."

I covered much of this story in Blowback, 2010-01-14; and in Mission Creep 02-22-10, I explored the shortcomings of the History curriculum in both grade and high school: here I thought, was a paragraph that should be tattooed (in Spanish, perhaps) on the wrist of every nine-year old in the state which is when, in Fourth Grade, California deems its children should learn its history.

It situates California in a global context that has very little to do with the founding of the United States in 1776 and makes Independence Day sublimely peripheral to our true origin story. While important to the thirteen east coast colonies, the War of Independence was an after-shock of the power struggle that had erupted amongst the European powers in the Seven Years War (1756-1763). The founding of the United States - an event, as it would prove, of huge historical significance - was an unintended consequence of this skirmish except for those few who understood the opportunity that the distracted George III presented to them.

The mythical status of California as an island continued to have profound resonance during the storied days of the Nation's founding. The event of real consequence in California in 1776, was the founding of the seventh mission by Fr. Junipero Serra in San Juan Capistrano - as Spain continued to tighten its grip on California through the work of the Franciscans and their military protectors, the Spanish army. Four Presidios functioned as the army's military base. The last to be built, in 1782, was in Santa Barbara and its detachment oversaw security from the Los Angeles Pueblo to just south of San Luis Obispo.

Last Thursday, Lorrie and I were in Santa Barbara for an exhibit organized by the California Central Coast Chapter of the U.S. Green Building Council and which featured drawings of our Upper Ojai house. We parked on Anacapa Street and walked though the newly restored Presidio. The beautiful, massively thick white washed adobe walls and a mission tile roof supported on old growth red wood timbers presented the romantic ideal of old California, complete with a decomposed granite courtyard dotted with a few gnarled olive trees. This glorious vision of Spanish provincial architecture was curiously at odds with the grim historical reality of its function as regional base to an occupying army protecting cadres of religious zealots that terrorized the indigenous population.

The parade in Ojai celebrating the birth of a nation, was held Saturday on Juy 3rd, in deference, apparently to the church-going habits of the local citizenry; I suspect it was very similar to last year's parade which we attended, the highlights of which, for me, were the Danza Azteca Cuauhtemoc, a troupe of indigenous dancers and drummers; the Mexican dancing horses and the Mexican American vaqueros, their high waisted suits and their steeds dripping in tooled silver as they paraded under the shade of the rider's broad sombreros: here were celebrations of our pre-Columbian, Spanish and Mexican heritage that balanced the endless parading of U.S. war veterans and the waving of the Flag of Empire, the stars and stripes.

California was, of course, home to vibrant native cultures before the Spanish arrived, and then part of Mexico after they left, briefly an independent republic (under the Bear Flag) and then, as part of the slave/free-state Congressional compromise, granted statehood in 1850.

Yesterday, as Lorrie and I weeded the last stand of now brittle thistles on the west bank of the seasonal stream four single propellor airplanes, perhaps of World War II vintage, flew over us in formation - following their sweep over the parade route on Ojai Avenue.

Today, we are celebrating by taking a hike up Bear Canyon and perhaps this evening we will enjoy, what the vaqueros, anglo-cowboys and african-american cow-punchers worked so hard for - a barbecue of cheap beef; and we will drink a California red in rememberance of the first planting of grapes at San Juan Capistrano Mission in 1779, ten years after the arrival of the Franciscans in California - and of their first Californian vintage in 1782.

In Search of a Shaman's Lair

The day after Lorrie's birthday party Doug Brotherton came over for brunch. He is a friend and colleague at the UCLA Rock Art Archive headed up by Jo Anne Van Tilberg and housed in the Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, next to the Fowler Museum. He introduced me to the Rock Art group some two or three years ago and his knowledge of Native American archaeology far exceeds mine, but since moving to Ojai I have been interested in the possibility of finding traces of the local Chumash culture in the local trails, rocks and creek beds.

The rock art that we have focused on in our work at UCLA relates to an area in the Mojave deep in Shoshone cultural territory. Living in Santa Monica Canyon, where a neighbor found a massive store of obsidian in his back yard, and Gabrieleno sites were scattered on the beach headlands and creeksides of the canyon I was also, effectively, in Shoshone territory - the local tribes having been re-named by the Spanish after the local missions. Coastal Shoshone used the Lakic branch of the broad Uto-Aztecan language family, while their desert brethren used Numic, and bands closer to the Sierras, Tubatulabalic. The Shoshone held sway over a wide swathe of Southern California, from the coast east to Death Valley, the Mojave and the Colorado River.

The Chumash established their dominion from what is now Malibu (ethnographically Maliwu, original meaning: sound of crashing waves) north to San Louis Obispo and east to where the 5 now bifurcates the state. This small, coastal influenced territory, wedged between the Pacific (but including the Channel Islands of Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa and San Miguel) and the Shoshonean, Yokuts and Salinan cultural areas, has been home to the Chumash for perhaps 6,000 years ( See Class of 2010, 10-06-01) and here they developed perhaps the most advanced material culture in Native California.

'So Doug', I asked, 'is it true that all Chumash rock art uses paint?' I didn't get a definitive answer; there may be none. Versions of the universal pit and groove motif exist in Chumash territory, most notably at the inland village of Soxtonocmu, close to S&S seeds in the eastern Santa Ynez Valley (Where Native Meadows Come From 2010-04-14) where cupules and incised grooves may have been part of a fertilty ritual (Georgia Lee, Journal of California & Great Basin Anthropology, vol.3 no. 1, 1981). But certainly the most well known Chumash rock art sites feature painted motifs. My interest is parochial; I want to find pecked or painted rock art somewhere in all this great mess of boulders and rock outcroppings that are the Topa Topa foothills. Paint is inevitably ephemeral, but pecked motifs can date back 10,000 years or more, and in this area, that would take us beyond the Chumash to the Oak Grove people of the milling stone horizon.

Doug suggested that given the significance of the Topa Topa rock face to the Chumash a rigorous archaeological mapping might be undertaken from the base of the spalled face on up. Somewhere, he suggested, there must be a Chumash trail leading to a shaman's lair. I told him that in these foothills there is reputed to be a vast field of chia, the remarkable grain that sustained super human efforts of endurance running amongst Native Americans. Talk turned to the Tarahumara (more properly, the Raramuri -the running people), natives of Copper Canyon in Chihuahua, Mexico, who use chia to fuel their epic runs through the rocky canyon bottom.

A year ago I attended a talk at The Santa Barbara Archeological Society with Jay Fikes showing the BBC documentary, Tales from the Jungle: Carlos Castaneda, 2007, which featured both him and local archaeologist Richard De Mille (yes, son of Cecil B.) debunking the validity of Castenada's work. Much of their complaints centered on doubts of Don Juan's native identity. Castaneda suggests that Don Juan is Yaqui, and his seminal work The Teachings of Don Juan, UC Press, Los Angeles, 1968  is subtitled A Yaqui way of Knowledge, for which he was awarded a PhD by the UCLA School of Archaeology. But hiding out in Mexico for months and years while his wife waited in Westwood, Castaneda had reason to obsfucate his whereabouts. The recent book Born to Run, Christopher McDougall, Knopf, New York 2009, suggests that he may have been hanging out with the Tarahumara in Copper Canyon, where the drug fueled partying that is intrinsic to their societal structure would have suited Castaneda, a philanderer not averse to altered states of consciousness.

I had a date marked in my calender in the spring of 1998, to go see Carlos Castaneda at Local Hero in the arcade where Feast now is (in the good old days when there were two independent book stores in Ojai) but this engagement was cancelled a couple of weeks before the day and a little while later the world learnt that he had died of liver cancer on 27 April 1998.

On the Monday after seeing Doug - without aid of chia, but instead a small cup of green tea for me and a glass of water for my son Will, he and I ran up the Sisar trail to the ridge-line fire road seven miles distant. From there we were some way west of the Topa Topa face and, at around 6,000 feet the impression was that we were almost looking down on its rugged imperfections off in the distance. A marine layer swirled along the coast far beyond us, but Point Mugu was visible as a spine emerging from the fog bank. At that elevation the Manzanita is dwarfed and dominates the scrubland, but scattered under it was sometimes the beautiful piinkish red Turkish Rugging (Chorizanthe staticoides), yellow Mariposa Lilies (Calochortus plummerea), and Blue Larkspur (Delphinium parryi). Here it is still spring, and the Manzanita has yet to flower.

It would be a long run, albeit slightly down-hill to the base of the Topa Topas, and that day we had no intention of taking it: instead, we returned to White Ledge Camp and then back to the Sisar trail head. A more direct route from Koenigstein would be up Bear Canyon, but I have yet to find a trail beyond the spring tributary which feeds the year-round creek.

But perhaps a Chumash Shaman continued on, clambering directly up the rocky gorge carved deep into the canyon by winter rains. Perhaps he ran up it, and perhaps he was barefoot, like the Raramuri and, then perhaps, he pecked at the sandstone base of the Topa Topas with a palm sized chunk of quartz he had carried in his medicine bag and immortalized his entoptic vision.