Category Archives: folklore

View Vasquez Rocks

Where All Good Location Scouts Go When They Die

The Old West as Outer Space. The rocks’ visuals are of jutting planes apparently defying the normal geometries of gravity: like a Bierstadt landscape, hung crooked on the wall.

Unsettled, is built into the suspenseful psychology of the scenery.

Surely, any characters beamed into this disjointed landscape must be in tension themselves; on the brink; at a tipping point.

Today it is a Los Angeles County Park; 1,000 acres spread across 20 million years. The lay of the land is a north-facing slope with a series of hog-back ridges poking up through the slope. North-facing slope means shade, which prospers old-growth mosses and lichens, in dazzling variety.

The sedimentary layers are similar to those in the Valley. The alluvia laid down as sea, estuary, or bay floor make a beautiful sequence of inter-fingered sandstones, siltstones and mudstones. Then, the layers were crunched up into folds and anticlines by compression (between the Pacific and the NA Plates). Then the land got pulled back – extension – and a rift formed. Wet sands were intruded from below by volcanic metamorphic magma. Uplift out of the sea followed, and the hogbacks of harder rock emerged out of differential erosion of the softer rock.

The regional tectonic story is the breakout of the San Andreas Fault. This occurred when the compressive force of the Pacific Plate, partially sliding under the old Rodinian Riviera at what is now San Gabriel Fault, jammed. The old seaward faults (those in LA, e.g.) had been sutured into a mass riding atop the Pacific Plate. The tectonic border moved inland, which became our current plate boundary, the San Andreas Fault, with its dextral strike-slip. (The ’Great Bend’ in the San Andreas is just a few miles northeast of Vasquez Rocks.) Sadly, though unsurprising to me at this point, the visitors center contained no information whatsoever about the geology of the area. Anyone coming to the site of Vasquez Rocks to learn about Vasquez Rocks, will be disappointed.

Above: scrub oak, Quercus dumosa.

It is one of the most fragrant parks in So Cal, thanks to the junipers. Fun Fact: that’s mistletoe dangling from the branches. Who knew it favored juniper?

I liberated some berries to crush into my martinis for a little aromatherapy.

There is a commendable but basic exhibit on the Tataviam, the northern part of whose territory included this gorgeous place. But it is a general cultural overview, with nothing about how or when or why they used this particular site. There are what looked like Chinigchinich-religion-inspired wall paintings on a rock near the entrance, including the Centipede character. I don’t know whether the figures are genuine or graffiti, or what artifacts archaeologists might have found so far.

Why is it called “Vasquez Rocks?”

”Vasquez Rocks” got the name in the 1860s-70s, when the ”gentleman bandit” Tiburcio Vasquez camped here as a hideout. The bandido’s suave Monterey manners, fluency in English, and fine connections among good Californio families give his legend an undeserved air of grace. Certainly he was handsome and of fine carriage; hearing he might be near would cause local girls’ hearts to swoon. Envious or disaffected young men among the lower classes took him for a revolutionary emblem, a folk hero fighting against the Yankee oppressors. This was the defense Vasquez used at his trial: he claimed he did it all as a freedom fighter for California. But there’s not a thing in it; Vasquez’s decades-long string of petty robberies and random hold-ups, interrupted twice by stints in San Quentin, add up to nothing but pointless and not very profitable thuggery. Honestly, he seemed to be in it for the girls — which is how he was caught. He was canoodling with local girls while holed up in Greek George’s adobe, on what is today’s Sunset Strip in West Hollywood.

The posse kept surveillance on Vasquez while he was at Greek George’s (somewhere around the Sunset Tower?), from view-points in Nichols Canyon. Vasquez was held in LA for a week, while adoring senoritas crowded the jail, sang to him, and pleaded for his release. He wrote favored girls little love-verses. He was moved upstate and tried in San Jose, and executed in 1874.

The Threatened Swan

VAN NUYS A VIEWING PART 7 Continuing View of the American experience of wheat farmer Aucke Jansen van Nuys, immigrant ancestor of the Valley’s wheat farmer Isaac Van Nuys…

New Netherland, Old Netherland, Old York, New York 1654-1664 the pivotal decade

The Threatened Swan, by Jan Asselijn, 1650

This famous image was for years erroneously analyzed as an allegory. Decades after it was painted, a nostalgic old-timer had graffitied the canvas with captions for the dog: ”Enemy of the State” and for the egg: ”Holland” and for the noble swan, ”The Grand Pensionary.” Ever since, people assumed it was meant as a political fable, depicting the heroism of the Grand Pensionary of Holland, Johann De Witt, who fended off Monarchy when he led the republican oligarchy in the States General from 1652.

With his officious brother Cornelis, De Witt led the ”True Freedom” party or machine or cabal. They passed laws limiting the traditional powers of the House of Orange, popular defenders of de Kerk and military guardians of The Garden of Holland. De Witt forced through laws in the name of Republicanism (not democracy) that decreed no member of the Orange-Nassau dynasty could be appointed as stadholder of any province. Bizarrely, Amsterdam’s anti-monarchical program was driven by a secret treaty that Cromwell had forced upon the Dutch in 1654: Cromwell, one mafioso dealing with De Witt, another, foresaw a time when a combined Dutch-English force under a popular Protestant Orange, would end Parliamentary Supremacy in both countries, and bring back monarchy. At bottom: the current Prince, a boy of 4, was half-Stuart, and the English court-in-exile was holed up in Het Mauritshuis. De Witt’s role, the price of peace, was to keep Orange, and his relatives the other popular Princes and Counts, and their guests the Stuarts Charles and James, out of Dutch civilian politics forever. The power of the De Witts lasted 20 years, until the Disaster Year — the Rampjaar 1672 – when the silver swans met their fates in the street, amid desperate shouts of ”up the Orange!” …..more anon.

But it turns out, Asselijn painted it in 1650, when De Witt was green in politics and merely a geeky theoretical mathematician, busy inventing numerical alchemy, e.g., actuarial insurance. So the Swan is innocent of politics. Still, Patient Reader, consider the graffiti artist didn’t caption the dogThe Prince of Orange,” who actually (and brutally) deposed De Witt. The tagger instead invites us to identify, in the Light of Experience, in our own consciences, just what are the true enemies of any peoples’ state? Oh, sure, alphabetically? Everything from apathy to zeal… Maybe our own Dutch hero stuck his thumb in it: Fear Itself is the only real enemy.That’s what Asselijn’s swan is trumpeting too, no allegory about that.

Jacob Steendam, Aucke’s land partner, was one of many local and vocal critics of the WIC; in 1659 he had published and circulated in Mother Amsterdam, the cries of her helpless daughter:

Stuyvesant’s plan for ”breadbasket Long Island” was remarkably successful, on the whole, but it was too slow to achieve its real goal — that is, to make New Netherland permanently dominant in its territory. The onslaught of English settlers, Puritans but others with crazy religions, continued to encroach on the Delaware, in New Jersey and in Connecticut. On the other hand, he favored many other colonies of English, hoping they would be the free-spending marks shoppers thronging his new Farmer’s Market.

Internally, there was the horrifying violence of the Peach Tree War. This was a Raritan reprisal on the Dutch in 1655, prompted when the Company fiscal, van Dyke, went out of a sparkling morning to scratch on his stoep, and spied a little Raritan girl in his garden. She had been drawn by the luscious peaches on his tree; naughtily, she slipped over his swine-trampled fence to pick one. Of course he shot her dead over the stolen peach. During the general Indian conflagration that resulted, the Rockaway tribe — clients to Mohawks — wiped out the Keskachauge, and demanded Stuyvesant re-negotiate the land sales Great Sachem Penhawitz had made. They claimed the patents were extinguished. At first Stuyvesant haughtily refused it as ”protection” money; but he was embarrassed into paying and reporting it when Midwout neighbor Jan Snedeker shouted publicly that it was his land (and Aucke’s) land the Indians were sore about:

To shore up defences against the English as well as the Indians, Midwout and all the towns were to be stockaded and militia-ed up, and Nightwatches set. Aucke Jansen was there, hammering, watching. Stuyvesant’s next challenge was silencing the burghers’, and WIC’s whines — ”how’s it going to be paid for?” — by telling them just how. First a new whip-around, for the constant Fort and Wall and palisade maintenance. Stuyvesant had the medieval law of the wijk, the modern de Stapel, on his side; merchants were traditionally responsible for defence contributions to the sovereign, in case the favored port were attacked. De Stapel, the Law of the Staple, was held in common across all the wijk-wereld. Now it prevailed, too, on Hudson’s River:

Above, note Aucke’s assessment. Note too, the voluntary offering of fat Freddie Flypzen, Aucken’s Midwout neighbor. He was another Company carpenter, and was certainly getting on in the New World to afford a double assessment. Of course he isn’t a family man, like Aucke; and anyway, building civilization isn’t a competition, is it? [Vlypzen may also have had a windfall from an interest in the cargo of Africans from the White Horse]. That Sybrant Jansen listed below Aucke must be Sybout Claesen, who was Aucke’s contracting partner (and relative?) on his various building projects (discussed in the previous post.) Gov. Upstate had to balance the demands of City Hall downstate (and downstairs) for revenues, with the nagging of his corporate board in Amsterdam for profits.

Aldus Spraakt Stuyvesant: In the face of tax revolt, cheating, inflation, and non-existence of other monies, a practical, anti-inflation feudal tax was levied: the quitrents and tithes were to be left standing in the field for collection, presumably by gangs of Company slaves. Thus wheat (and the other cereal grains, pro-rata) became officially legal tender; as well as pay; as well as pannekoeken. The Director-General still faced the fury of the people. He had to take the whip out several times. He even negotiated a tax-holiday for the first year of the levy, on behalf of the farmers. Still, some – even the Midwout schout – balked at having to pay anything at all.

Eventually good grain cash flowed from the villages on those fecund prairies. It was not a big profit to the WIC, but individuals did quite well and the region’s economic course was set for two centuries of constant growth. Anyway it got the WIC off Stuyvesant’s back about his Max Bialystok bookkeeping. And where grain grows, so grows population; so grew Brooklyn. As we shall see, Stuyvesant’s success here implanted and nativized an agriculture that had an enormous effect on the history of the world. And I don’t mean silk.

The last mention Of Magdaleen I found, was her 1659 attempt to collect rent in arrears. A bit oddly, she was told Aucke himself must come to demand it. Ordinarily, as we’ve seen, a wife ought to have power under Dutch law for such things. Even more bizarre: Aucke’s apparent arrest for stock rustling. Somehow Aucke ended up with somebody else’s cow. Oddest of all, and maybe explanatory of the whole thing, was that Aucke’s third wife, married after 1674, was one Geeritje Gyzbrechtsen — a relative, possibly the wife or daughter, or the very same person as, the owner of the cow, Geerit Gyzbersen. Secretarial sloppiness on spellings and names, and mistranslations are everywhere in the record. Maybe the court may have misinterpreted Aucke’s (embarrassed) testimony that Geertje WAS the woman he paid for the cow. So, was Aucke really that smooth an operator, getting his milk for free, without owning that cow?

Sadly, Magi died very soon after in 1660 and was buried at the new Breukelen Kerk. Aucke was just putting the finishing touches on Midwout; the family home seems to have remained in Breukelen until her death. Magi must have been one of the first interrments. And she must have died in childbirth, because Femmetje Jans was listed as a founding church member, see in the last page below. I assume Aucke left the little girl with a family on the Slope, anyway with a nurse or nanny. Femmetje made a very nice marriage a few years later, as we’ll see. Aucke, in Midwout, recall, had to submit his work to Freddie Flypzen’s review to get his right wages. Poor Dr. Polhemus never got his full wages either, and in asking for a raise, only ended up having to do more work. He resigned himself to preaching at three different locations every week — Midwout, Breukelen, and vespers at the Bowery for the restful convenience of the Dir. Gen.’s household and guests. Finally he was joined by Dr. Selyns who took over in Breukelen. St. Nick’s, of course, in Ft. Amsterdam, was served by Dr. Megapolensis and his preacher son Sam. All four of these Dominees were important to the social and political structure of the colony downstate.The following classic is revealing of that side of Old New York society that is scarcely recalled today: https://books.google.com/books/about/History_of_the_First_Reformed_Protestant.html?id=ysXVAAAAMAAJ Only remember, reading about the humorous squabbles between two proud churches, Midwout was the First Reformed Church of Long Island. Breukelen, to Christ? Always a bridesmaid, always a bridesmaid.

Aucke moved to Midwout in 1661, and requested of the Breukelen congregation that they put a fence up around the cemetery to keep the infernal swine from rooting up his wife’s remains. The churchwardens replied with Dutch sympathy that if he wanted to add to the sanctity of the grounds, they would be oh, so grateful, praise God, to receive any gift of free fencing he was inclined to donate. I think I remember reading that he did the job.

Meanwhile, back in Europe… Restoration of Charles II, 1660. He and James returned to England. They planned to use all they’d learned about their gracious hosts of Orange — not least from being inside the shooting barrel during Cromwell’s Naval War against Holland — and about Dutch sea-power and tolerance and politics in general (but not economics; figures made pretty Stuart heads swim) — to put their boots up the nether regions of those insufferable Jew-loving republican Calvinist Netherlands.

Antonio Verrio, The Sea Triumph of Charles II.

By 1661 the WIC was sailing on the Red Sea — ink that is. They sold off much of what became Pennsylvania, Delaware and West Jersey to the City of Amsterdam, who themselves sold it off to others who sold it off. Many of the buyers were those very Quakers and Mennonites and Lutherans of New Amsterdam, I’ll-treated under Belgic Lion Stuyvesant. Here is that fortunate fudging of foreign faiths in the former New Netherland counties; that complication of creeds that led the English to begin their rule there under presumption of religious liberty:

English movements among the Mohawks brought attacks on the upstate frontier

Just before the end came in 1664, there was another urgent whip-around for re-building the Singel, the Fortifications, out of stone, like Amsterdam was doing back home. Freddie Flypzen is prominent with a handsome contributionof 200 fl. Aucke’s contribution, I could find nowhere.

In 1662s Flypzen had married Margaret Hardenbroek Jacobsen, wealthy and driven ship-owning widow played by Agnes Moorehed in my movie. With this tower of strength by his side (and united by a very interesting Dutch law called usus, a kind of pre-nup that allowed Margaret to be the dominant business and trading partner in the marriage) fat Freddie’s ship had come in, see he’s pointing it out! And, since it was really Margaret’s ship, it came laden with gold, spice, molasses, rum, and slaves, and was sent out again, holds groaning with their burden of golden wheat, with Margaret sailing as her own super-cargo to drive the shrewdest bargains she could get.

And there it is above: a caesura, then sudden concern over His Royal Majesty of England. That March, 1664, Charles had granted the land of New Netherland to his brother James Duke of York. A marine-commando invasion force was already being assembled.

I pulled this section out to note the poignant parallel with Cap. Gen. Andres Pico’s 1847 capitulation of Los Angeles and California to the Yankees:

Much more on the history of Yorkshire-on-the-Bay next time. But I was excited to find a rare document, anonymous but informed, appended to a useful early document compilation by te Paulding. It more or less confirmed to my satisfaction that the historical themes I’d been following, and you’ve been following, are in fact not just wills-o’-the-wisp. In sum:

The Valley’s Wild West

😈 Hallowe’en 2021 Creepy Neighborhood Award: the Weird, Wicked West Valley

This year the Palsied Hand for creepiest, most terrifying 😱 LA Neighborhood goes to [eunuch strikes gong] 🤔🤭😏🙄🤞🏼🙋‍♀️🤷🏽‍♂️🙈

The old Rancho Las Virgenes, once owned by Miguel Leonis, see below. This trailhead, north of the Kobe site at the end of Las Virgenes Road, is a perfection of West Valley despair. Gorgeous but dangerously sick, protected but a firetrap. This is the core habitat of the rare Engelmann Oaks, which you see, are as exquisite dead as alive. I quickly recognized the mineralization patterns roasting the hills. (Drought schmout, it just rained.) But I only got two hundred yards down the trail when I was overwhelmed with putrid, pungent fumes of natural gas from the blowholes along the trail;— the unmistakable odor of driving up the Turnpike past Elizabeth, NJ. I took to my heels. More on poison gas later….😈

West San Fernando Valley! Go anywhere west of Van Nuys and you’ll find yourself in LA’s Transylvania. The mountains are creepy, the hills are gray like ghosts, the boulders make obscene mocking faces at you, there are gas fumes in the canyons, and the treacherous slopes hide a thousand Ways to Hell. Its bowls and washes cradle weird gated suburbs where ageless rich people seem to go in (Tesla, Tesla, Mercedes, Audi, Tesla…) but never come out. There are stoplights that are red in all directions and never change. Take this virtual tour of the SFV’s strangely sterile, outlandishly pricey, desperately macabre badlands…Timid Reader, you’ll cringe, gasp and retch at these scary, spookly stories! 😈 HA ha ha ha ha….

They Like Me! They REALLY like me!’ — The West Valley

LEONIS ADOBE: The snake-like road at the bottom of the map is the Ventura Freeway, aka “the 101,” which follows the route of El Camino Real, which is Ventura Blvd, upon which the Leonis Adobe fronts, and has done since 1844. The town of Calabasas was built around the ranch — location location location. It served in good times as a coaching rest stop. But sometime in the mid-1870s, a brutish Basque bully of a sheepherder named Miguel Leonis got control of Rancho El Escorpion by marrying Espiritu, the legitimate Chumash heiress. Leonis turned her ranch house on the Camino into a center of terror and intimidation for the whole West Valley. If arguments and fistfights and lawsuits didn’t settle it Don Miguel’s way, a gang of hitmen at midnight would. Murders and beatings just happened to people who crossed him. He stole, swindled, and connived; he drove off Yankee squatters with blazing shotguns. He acquired land and wealth and water rights simply, it seems, in order to dispossess other people. When he died, he dispossesed Espiritu; she had to wage a court battle for 20 years against the estate; they finally ruled it did belong to Mrs. Leonis, the by-then octagenarian Indian princess. She lived in her adobe home until she died in 1906, still looking great by the way.

Miguel Leonis, the Devil of Calabasas, died in September 1889, while driving a wagon home from a victorious session in court at downtown LA, and a celebratory booze-up afterwards. As his horse plodded across the silent, moonlit Cahuenga Pass (recently bought by the brand-new village of Hollywood), somehow the drunken miser fell from his buckboard and tumbled under the wheels, which left rut-marks across his face and chest. If such a thing could be an accident, it was natural justice, fittingly ‘Hollywood’ in tone and atmosphere. BUT, the ghosts are all in the West Valley. The adobe is famous as one of the most haunted places in LA. The house is a museum, where people come to see ’em — as they did this afternoon with kiddies in costume, etc.

Bonus creep: John Carradine was the last private resident of the adobe, sometime before 1962. His son Keith recalled him as an abusive alcoholic, and his mother as a dangerous schizophrenic; there were beatings, bars on windows, etc. The boys’ childhood must have been pretty harrowing.

👹 KOBE’S DOOM — January 26, 2020, was a foggy, overcast day in the West Valley, not cheery and picturesque like the photo above. It seems the helicopter pilot became disoriented flying over the hills, tricked by the flat gloomy light. The accident shocked the world and sent basketball fans into mourning. The tragedy was compounded by an ugly legacy of accusations and lawsuits that have yet to run their course. This grim LA story just won’t go to its rest, trailing fetid fetters of money, fame, envy, and that most horrifying of all our dooms, human error. It may haunt us for a long time to come. RIP.

FOUNTAIN OF THE WORLD CULT BOMBING SITE

😈 Box Canyon Road is the road the heroine shouldn’t turn onto, in a Shirley Jackson novel. Meandering, narrow, hard to turn around on once inside, it is cut off from the rest of the Valley. This is one of those places that refugees from the new Atomic reality retreated to after the War… land so remote, so uncivilized, so sore to the eye, that nobody else had ever wanted to touch it before. Like many such marginal places in LA, it attracted its own cult; which, like many such cults, attracted its own disgruntled suicide bombers armed with twenty sticks of dynamite.💥 🔥

🛎🛎🛎👺 BONUS POINTS for the Standard Air disaster of 1949, noted in the red box above. The Fountain of Life folks helped rescue the survivors, God bless them all. This ghastly accident followed an eerily similar chain of events to Kobe’s demise; a pilot distracted by passengers, but not badly, flying in morning fog not too bad, descending through a familiar flight path too quickly, but not all that fast… The accident report is fascinating and depressing. It happened right at the Devil’s Slide, by Chatsworth Reservoir. For a chilling View of how the Valley fog can distort our hills for pilots, let lovely 🌋Lopez Canyon be our spokesmodel.👺 Land of Contrasts, indeed!

Top row, see the low hills in fog. Bottom, see the high hills hidden behind the low!

ROCKETDYNE SANTA SUSANA FIELD LABORATORY NUCLEAR REACTOR MELTDOWN SITE / WOOLSEY FIRE RADIOACTIVE FALLOUT 😈 Suck it up, SFV, the wages of sin is dust! 😮‍💨 Lucky that Valley Village is a few blocks out of range of the worst zone. The View has already uncovered the Cold War hubris involved in Rocketdyne’s 1952 sodium-nuclear reactor meltdown and cover-up. Now that we definitively know it’s as bad as we all thought it was, let’s cover it up again.🙈 🕵🏼‍♂️ What about the possibility that the Woolsey Fire was started in the first place by methane or other hydrothermal venting? 🙉

THE DEVIL’S SLIDE, PIONEER CEMETERY, CHATSWORTH PARK SOUTH, VITRIOL FALLS

🤡 Check back issues of the View for the infamous Devil’s Slide. The stagecoach road leads straight down to Oakwood/Pioneer Cemetery, then veers sharply around it at the bottom.

The humid green lawns seem especially eerie in these Latter Days of drought and sprawl. The 20th century fixation on turning the West Valley into the West Country of England, or Westchester West, with green lawn estates and clapboard churches, seems…a bit like folly, eh? 🤡 The tombstones here are great, creative, not somber. Angelenos, RIP.

😈 The gaping mouths of Vitriol Falls must be fresh in your mind from the recent post:

CHATSWORTH PARK SOUTH https://ssmpa.com/chatsworth-park-south-old.php This was the old RR Ranch, home to Roy, and Dale, and Trigger, pictured below. 😈 Part of it was developed as a skeet-shooting range in the 50s; afterwards the City figured to save it for a park, happily (for wildlife) contiguous to other West Valley parks. But in 2008 they found spent shell casings and lead contamination everywhere. They closed the park for YEARS; in 2013, the City renovation plan emerged, which was to tear out all the nature and turn the site into a giant parking lot for…itself. Finally they came up with something green, but without any imagination or uniqueness or sense of site ecology — just swing-sets and brown lawns and picnic tables — but anyway a few years ago it was re-opened. It was a terrible disgrace for the City of LA to take so long. It took dogged community activism to get that park back; the link above is to the website archive of the Santa Susana Mountains Association. It’s worth a Hallowe’en skim to remind yourself how much citizen work it takes to get the right thing done.

JUAN FLORES CAPTURED “Head ’em off at the Pass!” The Santa Susana Pass, fka Simi Pass, and the San Fernando Pass, and the Newhall Pass, fka Fremont Pass, were collectively “the Pass” — and they were all used by bandits and desperadoes as hideouts and get-aways back in the days when the SFV was the Wild West. One of the dreamiest most charismatic worst was revolutionary hero California rights activist murderer and robber Juan Flores. After he shot the sheriff, but did not shoot the deputy, a massive manhunt was coordinated by Rancho Ex-Mission San Fernando owner, U.S. Senator, and former Captain General of the California Lancers, Don Andres Pico. Flores was finally forced to surrender in the Pass. His hanging at Fort Hill, as reported by the Star, was so botched and gruesome it invites Hallowe’en perusal:

SPAHN MOVIE RANCH AND THE MANSON FAMILY CAVE

Roy Rogers wasn’t the only one whose Western-themed ranch hit hard times in the 60s. After the Hollywood studio heyday waned, Ed Spahn kept a movie location ranch going on some camera-ready acres in the Santa Susana Pass by booking it for TV Westerns like Gunsmoke and Bonanza. By the late 60s, even this second-wind was fading, and the ranch lacked business. So when Spahn met a nice fellow called Charles Manson who had been beating around the chaparral after leaving the Fountain of Life, Spahn hired him; and he let the youth’s groovy friends move in to do chores on the place, sleeping rough and running around barefoot and letting the sunshine in. 😈 Helter Skelter! On the new freeways, chic Laurel Canyon was just a few minutes away.

Natural gas — methane — can be smelled all over the West Valley but especially in Porter Ranch. (Natural gas is odorless; if you can detect it, it’s man-made. They put the sulfurous odors in so that it can be detected.) I’ve been driven off trails in Las Virgenes and elsewhere in the Wild West by the stench. It’s awful that the State has recently re-committed to pumping tons of methane into the West Valley storage grounds even after the scandalous Aliso Canyon leaks.

https://projects.laist.com/2019/after-aliso/ LAist.com has put together a good discussion of the problem. 😈 Because educated public discussion is always great at solving society’s problems! HA ha ha ha ha ha……

HAPPY HALLOWE’EN FROM THE VIEW!!😈💥🌋🔥👻🎃🧛🙈🙉🙊⚡️⚰️🦦

A Walk, a Wall, a Wash: Tujunga

Unusually dark, almost black squirrel. Portola seems to point to that squirrel; his gesture is a message for the Indians! Hallo; Portola didn’t explore California in a ship. Nor did he wear a Conquistador’s moro. Hmm..I suppose it’s meant as Portola, the embodiment of Cortez, still in the eighteenth century savaging the continent, still seeking Califia and her gold-banded viragoes. Hmm… the art made me think. So I guess the squrrel was just a McGuffin?

I went over to check the the other side — and sort of cheered up…

Growing up and through the arms of a sheltering white sage, I found a saltbush. I had just seen one on Sugarloaf last week, and tried to research the species name by using the usual head-banging method: stabbing words into the search engine, which you think would describe the plant to a botanist, if you were trying to think as botanists think. Chaparral erect shrub; numerous spikes cones inflorescences small yellow flowers; leaves dull green like oak but pointy spiny spiked pike-shaped lobed; September flower. Try! If you pull up saltbush I’m a Dutchman. I finally gave up and went to check the Linnaean for mulefat; and up came a random nature page that said it featured mulefat — but not showing mulefat at ALL. But there was a saltbush in the corner of the shot, and they, mentioned it the caption. So now I know! You too. Check out the fabulous leaves. They’re soft, not sharp at all.

Like almost every plant in the CFP this could easily be a prized garden ornamental. I went to Home Depot today on a yard-redo-job, and in their entire enormous garden wing, they had NOT ONE CFP plant for sale, except the remote possibility that some of the succuulents might be CFP cactus. But they didn’t even carry cholla! (I doubled right back to the Theodore Payne Foundation, nevermind the traffic, and got the right plants for a California garden…) My California Initiative PLANT YOUR FUTURE! STATEWIDE, NO SALES TAX ON CFP PLANTS! Write your assemblyman. California plants hardly need water and don’t need any fertilizer or soil amendments WHATSOEVER. Every nursery in California should have them on prominent display, instead of their fifteen aisles full of butterfly bushes and pesticides and hi-nitro jump-juice that are poisoning the world. A CFP yard is practically free and brings butterflies and birds and bees TO LIFE and TO YOUR DOOR; a ‘conventional’ garden (lawn; plus your normal hyper-toxed beds-and-borders full of showy exotics) is expensive and KILLS LIFE DEAD. It’s as simple as that.

The tan-yellow veins in the schist were dazzling with mineral sparkles in the afternoon sun; but the sparkle never comes out in photos. Gold-bearing ore? Gold Creek is a Tujunga Tributary.,.