Giants Fallen: The Destruction of Converse Basin Grove and its Giant Sequoias

The true tragic story of one of the worst environmental crimes in California history.

The stump of a Giant Sequoia at Converse Grove in California. (Photo: National Park Service)

California has faced its share of environmental calamities. We’ve experienced wildfires that have denuded the landscape, destroying valuable forests and homes, and taking human lives. Oil spills have soiled coastlines and killed wildlife. But of all the great environmental crimes the state has faced, perhaps few rank as high as the destruction of Converse Basin Grove in the late 1800s. And yet very few people have ever heard of it.

Located in the southern part of the Sierra Nevada Mountains east of Fresno, just outside Kings Canyon National Park, Converse Basin Grove spans over 6,000 acres and 700 feet of elevation. The basin was once home to the densest and most majestic expanse of Giant Sequoia (Sequoiadendron giganteum) on the planet.

Loggers and a team of horses pose on a fallen sequoia 26 feet in diameter. (Wikipedia)

Between 1892–1918, the Sanger Lumber Company logged the grove using ruinous clearcutting practices, and cut down 8,000 giant sequoias, some of them over 2000 years old, in a decade-long event that has been described as “the greatest orgy of destructive lumbering in the history of the world.” Only 60-100 large specimens survived. Currently, The most expansive remaining sequoia domain is the Giant Forest in Sequoia National Park, which has an estimated 8,400 giant sequoia trees that are more than one foot in diameter at their bases. The park is home to the world’s biggest tree, the General Sherman.

(See our feature on the biology behind the immense size of redwoods and sequoias here.)

General Sherman Tree (Photo: Erik Olsen)

The grove’s discovery in the late 19th century coincided with a burgeoning demand for lumber in the wake of California’s Gold Rush and subsequent population boom, particularly in San Francisco. This demand drew the attention of loggers to the massive potential of sequoias. In particular, the Kings River Lumber Company, which secured this coveted area through both lawful and dubious means shortly after its incorporation in 1888. This marked the first instance of industrial-scale logging targeting the Sierra redwoods, a venture that required substantial initial investment due to the challenges of building a mill in the mountains and the engineering marvel needed to transport the colossal timber to lower elevations.

The 54-mile-long flume, or log conveyor, from Converse Basic Grove to the town of Sanger, about 20 miles from Fresno.
(Photo: National Park Service)

To get the logs to mills from the High Sierra Mountains the company, based in San Francisco, constructed a 54-mile-long flume, or log conveyor, from Converse Basic Grove to the town of Sanger, about 20 miles from Fresno. This giant wooden waterslide, balanced on trestles along steep canyon sides, allowed lumber to be swiftly transported to the nearest train station, some 60 miles away, in just half a day. Upon reaching the station in Sanger, a town that proudly proclaimed itself the “Flumeopolis of the West” at the flume’s inauguration in 1890, the lumber’s journey to the market began the following year. It should be noted that the massive flume also became an inspiration to modern amusement park log rides such as the Timber Mountain Log Ride at Knotts Berry Farm in Southern California.

High trestle under construction on the Sanger Flume. (Public Domain)

Rugged terrain and unnavigable streams had protected these big trees for decades. That it became possible to log so many magnificent trees in such a hard-to-reach place was due to the passage of one of the most unintentionally destructive environmental laws ever passed in the United States.

In 1878, the United States Congress enacted the Timber and Stone Act to promote the private ownership of timberland and support the logging industry. This legislation permitted individuals to claim federal lands in the Sierra Nevada mountains, acquiring individual parcels of 160 acres for a nominal fee upon filing a claim.

Stacks of lumber with workers at Converse Basin (Public Domain)

Prior to this legislation, there was no legal framework allowing individuals to purchase timberland directly from the government specifically for logging purposes, as opposed to agricultural use. However, following the enactment of the law in 1878, it became possible to acquire nonarable, nonmineral public lands at a minimal cost of $2.50 per acre. To claim these 160-acre parcels, the claimant only needed to attest that their intention was to utilize the land for practical, non-speculative purposes, excluding any plans for resale or contractual transfer to another entity.

This enabled the easy transfer of vast expanses of land from the government to lumber companies, which commonly enlisted and compensated individuals to file claims on their behalf. Among these companies was the Kings River Lumber Company, which acquired some of the lands legally, but also got its hands on vast acreages using dubious and illegal tactics that took place right under the noses of government regulators.

Converse Basin Panorama from 1900. (Photo: National Park Service)

The Timber and Stone Act required buyers to use the land for personal, non-speculative purposes, but the company circumvented these restrictions by using a practice known as “dummying.” In this scheme, the lumber company recruited individuals to act as stand-ins or “dummies” to file claims on parcels of the Converse Basin under the pretense that these claims were for personal use. After securing the claims, these individuals would then transfer the parcels to the Kings River Lumber Company, often for a profit. This allowed the company to amass large areas of prime sequoia forest, much of which was still old-growth timber, under dubious legal pretenses.

Lumber production began in Converse Basin in 1891, launching with 20 million board feet of timber flowing down the flume. But the company had been created through the issuance of massive debt, and the company was under pressure to increase output to become profitable. However, the flume frequently required costly repairs. In 1895, following an unsuccessful reorganization attempt, the firm was taken over by creditors and renamed Sanger Lumber. The new management pushed for maximum production, extending the narrow-gauge railroad deeper into the basin and constructing a new sawmill in 1897.

Cut end of tree showing welded crosscut saws. (Photo: National Park Service)

During its operation, Sanger Lumber was responsible for the felling of approximately eight thousand mature sequoias within the 5,000-acre Converse Basin, leaving only one giant standing. At the northern edge of the grove, overlooking Kings Canyon, loggers spared a single large tree, now among the world’s ten largest, and named it after their foreman, Frank Boole. The Boole Tree still stands today. It is the eighth tallest sequoia in the world and ranks No. 1 in base circumference, at 112 feet. Estimated to be more than 2,000 years old, the behemoth is the largest tree in America’s national forests, but it stands less as a monument to the grandeur of the trees themselves than as a testament to human avarice and recklessness.

The operation peaked in 1903 with a production of 191 million board feet, employing up to seven hundred men. However, the process was notoriously unsafe and wasteful. Decades later, the superintendent of Sequoia National Park noted the profound damage and inefficiency of the logging, with many fallen trunks left unprocessed, free to decompose over time.

Logging, Converse Basin, near Boole Tree. (Photo: National Park Service)

The entire operation ended without profit, leading to the sale of the company in 1905 and the eventual destruction of the Converse Basin mill. What followed was a period of secondary logging, akin to scavenging, that persisted into the 1910s. In a Harpers’ essay titled The Last Stand of the Redwoods, the Yale English professor Henry Seidel Canby wrote that a visit to the basin evoked a deep sense of melancholy, describing what he saw as “a vast and lonely cemetery”.

By 1905, after depleting the majestic stand of trees without turning a profit, a Michigan lumberman acquired the operation and shifted focus to a lower-elevation, mixed-species forest. The remaining structures at Converse Basin were deliberately burned, and logging continued on a smaller scale, resembling scavenging more than harvesting.

In 1935, the U.S. government repurchased the ravaged land for fifteen dollars per acre, incorporating it into what is now the Giant Sequoia National Monument. This area, marked by fields of blackened stumps and surrounded by new growth, stands as a public testament to the historic exploitation and a somber reminder of the past.

The devastation of Converse Basin helped to catalyze the conservation movement in the early 20th century. Galvanized by the widespread destruction of such majestic trees, naturalists and conservationists, led by figures like John Muir, began to advocate more vehemently for the protection of natural landscapes. Their efforts were instrumental in the establishment of national parks and protected areas, ensuring that other groves and natural habitats were spared from the fate of Converse Basin.

Today, most remaining sequoia groves are publicly owned and managed for conservation purposes. Giant sequoia forests have faced extensive fire exclusion over the past century and suffer from the lack of frequent low-intensity fires that are necessary for giant sequoia reproduction. The long-term trend of Sierra snowpack reduction, in combination with warmer temperatures and widespread fir, pine, and cedar tree mortality from drought and pests, is greatly increasing the risk of severe fire and threatening the giant sequoia ecosystem.

U.S. Forest Service wildland firefighters protect Giant Sequoia tree during the Castle Fire in August 2020.
(Photo: US Forest Service)

The 2020 Castle Fire, part of the larger SQF Complex Fire in California, was particularly devastating for the giant sequoia population. Estimates suggest that approximately 7,500 to 10,600 mature giant sequoias were killed by this fire, which represents 10-14% of the total population. These numbers underscore the severe impact of intense wildfires on these ancient trees, which are typically resilient to fire but have been increasingly vulnerable due to factors like drought and climate change. This event has highlighted the need for new strategies in forest management and fire prevention to protect these iconic trees.

Today, the area, with its fields of blackened stumps encircled by new growth, stands as a testament to both the destructive power of industrial logging and the fragility and resilience of nature.

Autumn’s Alchemy: Unveiling the Science Behind California’s High Sierra Fall Foliage

Fall colors changing in the Eastern Sierra (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Ah, the changing of the leaves—a hallmark of autumn that heralds the end of long summer days and the arrival of crisp, cool weather. The spectacle is especially captivating in the high Sierra region of California, where deciduous trees put on a breathtaking show every year. This year’s show began in early October with an explosion of gold, persimmon, and vibrant orange blanketing the granite crags of the Eastern Sierra.

For years, the Eastern Sierra Fall Color Report has dutifully documented the arrival of Autumn and the magnificent changing hues of millions of trees. But have you ever stopped to wonder why the leaves change color? Why do leaves go from a robust green to vibrant hues of orange, red, and yellow? Well, it’s not just nature’s way of getting all dressed up for Halloween; there’s a complex interplay of biological, chemical, and physical processes at work.

Let’s start with the basics: chlorophyll. During the growing season, leaves are green due to chlorophyll, the molecule that helps plants photosynthesize. Photosynthesis is the process by which plants convert sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide into sugar and oxygen. Chlorophyll’s structure is such that it absorbs blue and red light well but reflects green light, making leaves appear green. However, as the days shorten and temperatures drop, it becomes a signal to the trees that it’s time to get ready for winter.

Structurally, chlorophyll is a complex molecule with a central magnesium ion surrounded by a long hydrocarbon tail. This structure is particularly adept at capturing and utilizing photons from sunlight for photosynthesis. Yet, chlorophyll is also a bit delicate, getting easily damaged by factors like intense light, exposure to oxygen, and even its own activity. That’s why plants are continuously synthesizing it during the growing season. In a sense, chlorophyll is both the engine and the fuel of the plant world, driving the processes that sustain not just the trees themselves but also the ecosystems that rely on them.

Seen through a microscope, chlorophyll is concentrated within organisms in structures called chloroplasts – shown here grouped inside plant cells. By Kristian Peters — Fabelfroh – Self-photographed, CC BY-SA 3.0

As autumn approaches, the biological clock inside trees ticks toward a season of preservation. Photosynthesis slows down, partly because there’s less sunlight but also because the plant is actively throttling this process. As a result, chlorophyll begins to break down and isn’t replenished. Other pigments present in leaves then take center stage, like carotenoids and anthocyanins. Carotenoids are always there, hanging out alongside chlorophyll, but are usually overshadowed by it. They are the ones that give leaves their yellow and orange hues, and are also the molecules that give the pink flamingo its rosy color.

Drone view of changing Fall colors in the Eastern Sierras

Anthocyanins are another class of pigments, but these are a little more high-maintenance; they form only when certain conditions are met. You see, anthocyanins are created through chemical reactions that are influenced by the pH levels in the leaf cells and the amount of sugar that is present. That’s why some years, when conditions are just so—like a warm, sunny fall following a cooler period—you’ll see a dazzling display of red leaves. Anthocyanins absorb light at both the blue and green ends of the spectrum and reflect red light, giving leaves their gorgeous red and purple shades. Anthocyanins are what help give boysenberries their deep purple color.

In California’s high Sierra region, where the elevation provides a unique set of environmental factors, the changing of the leaves can be particularly spectacular. Deciduous trees like the Black Oak, Quaking Aspen, and Dogwood populate these areas. The interplay of sunlight, soil acidity, and temperature variations at higher elevations creates an ideal stage for the full spectrum of fall colors to be displayed. Even within the same species of tree, or sometimes even on the same tree, you can see a diversity of colors due to slight variations in soil composition, moisture, and sunlight exposure.

Changing aspens in the Eastern Sierra (Erik Olsen)

It’s all a spectacular display, but it doesn’t last forever; in fact, the most vibrant colors only last a few weeks. And then the leaves die and fall off. It’s not gravity doing its thing, but rather a biological process called “abscission.” As winter approaches, a layer of specialized cells grows between the leaf stem and the tree, severing the vessels that supply nutrients and water to the leaf. This triggers the leaf to die and eventually fall, making way for new growth in the spring.

While the fall colors in California’s Eastern Sierra are an annual marvel, they’re not immune to the sweeping hand of climate change. Rising temperatures and shifting precipitation patterns have started to tinker with the timing and intensity of the autumnal display. For instance, warmer conditions could delay the onset of the color changes and potentially shorten the duration of peak colors, while altered moisture levels might impact the vibrancy of hues. Even subtle shifts in climate can affect the complex chemistry of leaf coloration. As much as the changing leaves are a symbol of nature’s constancy, they also serve as a barometer for the environmental changes unfolding on a global scale.

The transformation of leaves in the high Sierra is far more than a seasonal aesthetic; it’s a vivid illustration of how meticulously nature has calibrated life to adapt and thrive. As the leaves cycle through shades of green, orange, red, and finally brown, they tell a tale of survival and renewal, a complex story scripted in their very cells. This fall spectacle is a fleeting moment of brilliance, orchestrated by an array of biological, chemical, and physical processes, each contributing to the grand narrative of life on Earth. In essence, each leaf is a microcosm of resilience and change, characteristics not just of a California autumn, but of life itself.

Gumming Up the Works: The Eucalyptus Tree’s Twisted Path to Californian Soil

The California landscape is dotted with numerous plant species, many of them native, but few have a story as rich and multi-faceted as the eucalyptus tree. Native to Australia, this tree has made California its home over the past century and a half, creating a blend of wonder, economic expectation, and ecological concerns.

The journey of the eucalyptus tree to California dates back to the mid-19th century. Attracted by tales of gold and prosperity, many Australians made their way to the Golden State. Along with them came seeds of the eucalyptus tree, which they believed had great potential value. By the 1870s and 1880s, California was amidst a timber crisis. Native woodlands were diminishing, and the state was in dire need of a rapidly growing timber source. The eucalyptus tree, known for its rapid growth and towering heights, appeared to be a promising solution. Its proponents, believing it would not only serve as an excellent timber source but also act as a windbreak and ornamental plant, began widespread plantations.

While the eucalyptus grew impressively fast, hopes for it being a top-tier lumber source were quickly dashed. Most species planted in California had wood that was prone to warping and splitting upon drying. The enthusiasm surrounding the eucalyptus as a miracle timber tree gradually waned. What was initially perceived as a solution turned out to be more of a decorative element in the landscape rather than an economic boon.

Despite its failure in the lumber industry, the eucalyptus managed to root itself firmly in the Californian soil. Over time, this rapid settler began to pose significant environmental concerns. Eucalyptus trees are thirsty plants. Their deep roots often outcompete native species for water, hindering the growth and survival of native Californian plants and altering the balance of local ecosystems. Furthermore, eucalyptus groves have become a concern for wildfires. Their oil-rich leaves and peeling bark make them exceptionally flammable, amplifying dangers during California’s fire-prone seasons.

While over 700 eucalyptus species exist, only a handful made it to California. The most commonly planted and now dominant species is the blue gum eucalyptus (Eucalyptus globulus). Towering over most trees, the blue gum can reach staggering heights, quickly establishing its dominance in the landscape. Other species like the red gum (Eucalyptus camaldulensis) and the sugar gum (Eucalyptus cladocalyx) have also found their way into California, albeit in smaller numbers. The sugar gum is particularly present around the campus of Stanford University.

By the late 1900s, concerns over the eucalyptus’ impact on native habitats led to movements advocating for their removal. Environmentalists and local residents began to see the tree as an invasive species that hindered the natural balance. Efforts to cut down and manage the eucalyptus population intensified, often clashing with those who had come to admire the tree’s majestic presence and the unique ambiance it provided.

Considered among the thousand-plus established alien vascular plants in California—two-thirds of which originated in Eurasia—Eucalyptus seems relatively benign. Of the 374 species in the genus that have been introduced since the 1850s, only 18 have naturalized, and only one of those, E. globulus, has become a nuisance, and then only at the urban-wildland interface along the fog belt of the central coast and Bay Area, and there only after humans gave it an enormous head start with plantations.

Even in these locations, self-sustaining feral forests have not grown dramatically beyond the boundaries of the original plantings. In the Golden State the blue gum has never been especially invasive; rather, it used to be hugely desirable. Other vegetation imported to California for ornamental purposes has spread far more widely or densely—for example, English ivy, periwinkle, ice plant, and pampas grass. Unlike Saltcedar (Tamarix ramosissima), Tasmanian blue gum is not a true problem plant. It cannot be considered a paradigmatic invader, or even a noteworthy one. The authoritative Encyclopedia of Biological Invasions makes note of the “enigmatic” low invasiveness of eucalypts worldwide—“orders of magnitude less successful as invaders than pines.”

From the perspective of both ecology and fire safety, the blue gum eucalyptus is particularly concerning in California when plantations of a single species have transformed into dense, closed-canopy forests. This issue, though, is confined to a limited number of areas within the fog belt. Even within these regions, the eucalyptus thickets are far from being barren, hostile environments.

That said, a relatively recent event did not cast the tree in good light.

The East Bay firestorm of 1991 was a catastrophic event that claimed 25 lives and rendered thousands homeless. Extensive areas of eucalyptus were consumed by the flames. For 26 years, the East Bay Firestorm firestorm was considered the worst fire in California’s history. It was also America’s most costly fire in the wildland-urban interface (WUI).

“People at the time, I don’t think, associated that with a planted plantation; it was just a eucalyptus forest,” CalPoly botanist Jenn Yost told KQED. “And then when the fire came through — I mean that fire came through so fast and so hot and so many people lost their homes that it was a natural reaction to hate blue gums at that point.”

However, it is again important to point out that the density of trees in the area was unusual and not representative of many other areas where eucalyptus have taken root.

Those opposed to the trees argue that their tendency to shed large quantities of bark exacerbates the fire hazard, and hence, they should be removed. On the other hand, proponents highlight that many of California’s native plants are also prone to burning. The 2018 Camp Fire scorched an area 153,336 acres in size, and destroyed more than 18,000 structures, most of the destruction happened within the first four hours of the fire and most of the destruction was the result of pine forests that have long been improperly managed. Both factions claim that science supports their viewpoint, but as of now, no definitive study has been able to settle the argument conclusively.

This ongoing debate has stirred deep emotions. A few years ago, an incident in the East Bay hills saw federal funding for cutting down trees withdrawn after protesters, in a dramatic display of support for the eucalyptus, got naked and literally embraced the trees on the Cal campus. While some have argued that California needs to return its natural environment to a more “pristine” state, meaning just California natives, others say that the eucalyptus poses no greater danger than many species of conifer, and that the effort to expunge eucalyptus from the landscape, given its contribution to the culture and beautification of the state is tantamount to discrimination against immigrant trees solely due to their origin, an idea which some have extended to the human population.

“We’re not natives either,” the San Diego County chief entomologist said in defense of the county’s signature tree genus.

One ecological study that compared a gathering of oaks to a blue gum grove in the neighboring areas, concluded that the blue gem eucalyptus has no major impact on animal life. In fact, the tree’s leaf litter is bustling with life, containing a complex array of microhabitats. In fact, while oaks tend to be home to more rodents, eucalyptus contains a greater number of below-ground invertebrates.

The complex relationship between Californians and the eucalyptus reflects deeper questions about nature, risk, and our connection to the landscape, and it’s a debate that shows no signs of resolution.

Among the thousand-plus non-native vascular plants that have made their home in California—two-thirds of which hail from Eurasia—the Eucalyptus is relatively mild-mannered. Since the 1850s, 374 species of Eucalyptus have been introduced to the state. Yet, of these, only 18 have successfully naturalized, and merely one, the E. globulus, has ever become problematic. This issue is isolated mainly to the WUI boundary along the fog belt of the central coast and Bay Area, and even there, only after humans heavily promoted its growth through plantation efforts.

Even within these specific regions, the self-sustaining “feral” forests haven’t expanded significantly beyond the original planting sites. In California, the blue gum eucalyptus has never been notorious for being particularly invasive; rather, it was once highly sought-after. Other non-native plants brought to California for decorative purposes, such as periwinkle, English ivy, ice plant, pampas grass, and tamarisk, have spread much more extensively or densely.

Unlike plants like Scotch and French broom, the Tasmanian blue gum eucalyptus doesn’t qualify as a genuine problem plant. It’s not viewed as a typical invader, nor is it even considered particularly noteworthy in that regard. A state survey that consulted floricultural experts produced a broad spectrum of opinions concerning the potential threat posed by eucalyptus to California’s wildlands. This contrasts sharply with the unified negative evaluation of salt cedar, which has bedeviled land managers from Southern California to Mexico.

The final verdict on the fate of eucalyptus in Southern California has yet to be rendered. Many still think the trees have become an iconic symbol of the state, with so many trees proudly and elegantly lining pocketed and immensely Instagrammable stretches of California highway. Perhaps the key to the trees survivability and reputation is simply one of proper management. Where the trees have become too dense in fire-prone areas, maybe some measure of thinning is prudent. But to eliminate them entirely would be a great loss to the aesthetic visual appeal of California, an appeal that many Californians, even conservation-minded artists like Ansel Adams and Erin Hanson often summoned in their work.

The eucalyptus tree’s journey in California is a tale of expectations, surprises, and evolving perspectives. Whether viewed as an ornamental marvel or an ecological concern, the eucalyptus remains an integral part of California’s diverse tapestry.

The Sweet Tale of the Boysenberry: From Berry Vines to Theme Park Lines

In the pantheon of berries, nestled somewhere between the well-known blackberry and the mysterious loganberry, lies the boysenberry. With its deep maroon hue, tantalizingly sweet-tart flavor, and large size, the boysenberry is an edible emblem of innovation in horticulture. But how did this unique berry come into existence, and what does a Southern California amusement park have to do with its popularity?

The journey of the boysenberry begins with its namesake, Rudolph Boysen. In the early 1920s, Boysen, a curious California-based farmer and horticulturist, began experimenting with berry plants at his home in Napa, California. His objective? To develop a new hybrid berry that combined the best attributes of the European raspberry, blackberry, American dewberry, and loganberry.

On relocating to Orange County, he didn’t leave his passion behind; instead, he brought along his precious berry vines, planting them on his in-law’s property in Anaheim. Between 1921 and 1950, Boysen dedicated his professional life to serving as the Anaheim City Parks superintendent. His persistent efforts bore fruit in 1923 when his hybrid successfully grafted and flourished.

However, while Boysen was successful in creating the berry, he faced challenges in cultivating it on a larger scale. Some years after his initial success, a near-fatal accident sidelined him, and his boysenberry plants began to wither away, seemingly destined for obscurity.

Enter Walter Knott, another farmer with an insatiable curiosity. Upon discovering that Boysen had given up his cultivation experiments and sold his property, Knott went in search of the delicious berry. Accompanied by George M. Darrow of the USDA, the duo ventured to Boysen’s former farm. There, amidst an overgrowth of weeds, they discovered a few withering vines clinging to life. Determined to give these vines a new lease on life, they carefully relocated them to Knott’s farm in Buena Park, California. With diligent care and attention, Knott revived these plants, enabling them to thrive and produce fruit once again. As a result, Walter Knott became the pioneering figure in the commercial cultivation of the berry in Southern California. Knott learned about Boysen’s creation and, understanding its potential, sought out the remaining withered vines.

With a blend of horticultural expertise and an entrepreneur’s spirit, Knott not only rescued the dying boysenberry vines but also began cultivating and selling the berries on his own farm, which was located in Buena Park, California.

As the berries grew in popularity, so did Knott’s business. By the 1940s, Knott’s farm had transformed into a bustling destination, offering visitors not just the chance to buy fresh boysenberries and boysenberry products, but also to experience the charm of a recreated ghost town and other attractions. As the business evolved, it gave birth to what is now known as Knott’s Berry Farm, one of the most popular amusement parks in Southern California.

The rise of Knott’s Berry Farm solidified the boysenberry’s place in American culinary and cultural history. While the park is now known for its thrilling roller coasters and entertaining shows, boysenberry-centric events and foods—such as boysenberry pie, jam, and even boysenberry-infused beverages—remain central to its legacy.

Biologically, the boysenberry is a testament to the wonders of plant hybridization, showcasing the ability to combine distinct plant species to produce something entirely new. But beyond its genetics, the boysenberry story is one of human tenacity, collaboration, and vision. It’s a narrative about how a berry, once on the brink of obscurity, became an icon, all thanks to the efforts of two California farmers and the enchantment of an amusement park.

Tejon Pass: A Journey Through Time, Terrain, and Tectonics

Interstate 5 coming out of the Grapevine near Cajon Pass

Tejon Pass, located in the mountains of Southern California, is more than just a mountainous pathway connecting the San Joaquin Valley to Los Angeles. It’s a geological and historical marvel that tells a story of native tribes, daring transportation, seismic activity, and continued human reliance.

Stretching up to an elevation of 4,160 feet, Tejon Pass’s unique topography is a fascinating blend of rugged mountains, deep canyons, and expansive plateaus. This area has provided a natural transportation route for centuries, and its scenic beauty is a blend of contrasting landscapes brought together by geological forces.

Perhaps one of the most captivating aspects of Tejon Pass is its seismic significance. The region is situated at the intersection of two major fault lines: the San Andreas Fault and the Garlock Fault. This combination has made the area a hotspot for seismic activity and has resulted in a number of substantial earthquakes over the years.

Image of the Garlock Fault created with data from NASA’s Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM)

The most significant of these occurred in 1857, with an estimated magnitude of 7.9. Known as the Fort Tejon earthquake, it caused a rupture along the San Andreas Fault, leaving a lasting imprint on the landscape. Although the area was sparsely populated at the time, the quake’s impacts were far-reaching and could be felt as far as Las Vegas. The event serves as a stark reminder of the region’s seismic vulnerability, spurring modern research and monitoring to understand and mitigate future risks.

Tejon Pass near Grapevine, California, in 1868

Tejon Pass’s history dates back to Native American times when it was used as a vital passageway by the Chumash and the Yokuts tribes. Pre-Columbian indigenous Californians “would have stopped there when it was the Tataviam village of Kulshra’jek”, a trading crossroads for hundreds to thousands of years. These indigenous peoples recognized the strategic importance of the pass, and it became a critical route for travel, trade, and communication.

With the arrival of European settlers, the pass continued to play a vital role in California’s development. It became one of the state’s oldest continuously used roadside rest stops, a title it still holds today. The pass has borne witness to the evolution of transportation, from horse-drawn carriages to modern highways.

However, not all the tales from Tejon Pass are picturesque. The area has earned the foreboding nickname “Dead Man’s Curve.” This name references a notoriously dangerous curve on the old Ridge Route, infamous for its high number of accidents. The treacherous curve became symbolic of the broader challenges of early automotive travel through the mountains, where both engineering and human limitations were tested.

A section of the 1915 Ridge Route in Lebec, California, known as “deadman’s curve,” was abandoned when the highway was improved over the Tejon Pass. photo by George Garrigues.

The Ridge Route, constructed around 1910, stands as the first automobile highway to connect the Central Valley with the Los Angeles Basin. Ingeniously laid in a winding path through the ridges and valleys of the Sierra Pelona Mountains, it made its way to Tejon Pass. This pioneering road featured a section known as “The Grapevine,” located in the northern portion that later became part of U.S. Route 99. The name likely refers back to Spanish explorers and settlers, who named the canyon “La Cañada de las Uvas,” meaning “The Canyon of the Grapes,” because of the abundance of wild grapevines in the area. With time, the Ridge Route underwent significant transformations. It was replaced by a three-lane alternate highway in 1933, expanded into a four-lane expressway in 1947, and eventually gave way to the modern eight-lane Interstate 5 Freeway in 1970.

Today, Tejon Pass continues to serve as a crucial thoroughfare for Californians and visitors alike, with Interstate 5 traversing the landscape. The pass’s unique blend of history, topography, and seismic importance still fascinates scientists, historians, and everyday travelers.

Whether viewed through the lens of geology, anthropology, or simple human endeavor, Tejon Pass offers an enriching glimpse into California’s multifaceted past and present. It stands as a testament to the unrelenting forces of nature and the persistent human drive to connect, explore, and thrive amidst a landscape that challenges and captivates in equal measure.

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