The Magic, Wonder, and Science of Ocean Bioluminescence in Southern California

How and why so many of earth’s creatures make their own light.

Bioluminescent waves in Southern California

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Last month, a video went viral showing a small pod of dolphins swimming at night off the coast of Newport Beach. Seeing dolphins off Southern California is not particularly unusual, but this was a very special moment. In the video, the dolphins appear to be swimming through liquid light, their torpedo-shaped bodies generating an ethereal blue glow like a scene straight out of Avatar. The phenomenon that causes the blue glow has been known for centuries, but that in no way detracts from its wonder and beauty. The phenomenon is called bioluminescence, and it is one of nature’s most magical and interesting phenomena.

A Caridean shrimp, *Parapandalus* sp., enveloped in bioluminescent spew emitted during an escape response. *(NOAA/OER)*

Bioluminescence is the production and emission of light by a living organism, and it is truly one of the great magical properties of nature. At its core, bioluminescence is the way animals can visually sense the world around them. It’s all built on vision, one of the most fascinating and useful senses in the animal kingdom. Seeing is impossible without light, and so it makes sense that in the absence of sunlight, some animals created a way to make their own light.

I have been fascinated by bioluminescence since I was a child growing up near Newport Beach when the occasional nearshore red tide bloom would illuminate the waves like a high tech LED light show. It’s a truly magical experience. I’ve also experienced bioluminescence in various places around the world, including Thailand, Mexico, and Puerto Rico. In fact, 13 years ago, I made the trip to Puerto Rico’s Vieques Island and its world-famous Mosquito Bay, for the sole purpose of seeing the bay in person and swimming and kayaking in its warm, glowing waters (there is a rental outfit there that does tours at night…it’s amazing. Trust me.)

The phenomenon of bioluminescence is surprisingly common in nature. Both terrestrial and sea animals do it, as do plants, insects (for example, fireflies), and fungi. Curiously, no mammals bioluminesce. That we know of, although several species fluoresce, which is when organisms absorb light at one wavelength and emit it at another, often under ultraviolet (UV) light. The platypus is an example. But the ocean is definitely the place that animals and plants bioluminesce the most. Which makes sense because deep in the ocean, there is little or no light. Light is absorbed very quickly in the water, so while on land you might be able to see a single streetlight miles away, after about 800 feet, light largely disappears in the depths of the ocean. I know. I’ve been there.

It’s estimated that nearly 90 percent of the animals living in the open ocean, in waters below 1,500 feet, make their own light. Why they do this is in part a mystery, but scientists are pretty sure they understand the basic reasons animals do it: to eat, to not be eaten, and to mate. In other words, to survive. And to communicate.

The angler fish dangles a lighted lure in front of its face to attract prey. Some squid expel bioluminescent liquid, rather than ink, to confuse their predators. A few shrimp do too. Worms and small crustaceans use bioluminescence to attract mates. When it is attacked, the Atolla jellyfish (Atolla wyvillei) broadcasts a vivid, circular display of bioluminescent light, which scientists believe may be a kind of alarm system. The theory is that the light will attract a larger predator to go after whatever is attacking the jellyfish. While this is still a theory, a 2019 expedition that took the very first images of the giant squid used a fake Atolla jellyfish designed by the scientist Edith Widder to lure the squid into frame. I had the fortune of interviewing Dr. Widder, one of the world’s top experts on bioluminescence, several years ago for the New York Times.

Edith Widder holds a vial of bioluminescent plankton. Credit: Erik Olsen

Making light is clearly beneficial. That’s why, say evolutionary biologists, it appears that bioluminescence has arisen over forty separate times in evolutionary history. The process is called convergent evolution and is the same reason that bats and birds and insects all evolved to fly independently. Clearly, flying confers a major advantage. So does making light.

While the Internet is awash in images of bioluminescent creatures, very often the term is confused with fluorescence (mentioned above). Even reputable science organizations sometimes do this. Bioluminescence is not the same thing as fluorescence. Fluorescence is the emission of light by a substance that has absorbed light or other electromagnetic radiation. Many animals like scorpions and coral fluoresce, meaning that they appear to glow a bright otherworldly color when blue light is shone on them. The key idea here is that the animals are not generating their own light, but rather contain cells that reflect light in fluorescence.

Fluorescent (not bioluminescent) scorpion in Baja California, Mexico. Credit: Erik Olsen

So what about the recent explosion of bioluminescence in Southern California? The light we are seeing is made by tiny organisms, type of plankton called dinoflagellates (Lingulodinium polyedra) that occasionally “bloom” off-shore. Often, this is the result of recent storms that bring tons of nutrient-laden runoff into the ocean. The tiny plankton feed on nitrogen and other nutrients that enter the ocean from rivers and streams and city streets. A lot of the nutrients come from California’s vast farms, specifically the fertilizer used to grow California’s fruits and vegetables. With all that “food” coming into the ocean system, the algae rapidly multiply, creating red tides, or vast patches of ocean that turn dark brownish red, the color of pigment in the algae that helps protect it from sunlight. Michael Latz, a scientist at Scripps Institution of Oceanography at UC San Diego, says that the animals use bioluminescence as a predator avoidance behavior.

Sometimes red tides are toxic and can kill animals and make people sick who swim in the ocean. (That does not appear to be the case in California right now). At night, when they are still, the animals can’t be seen. But when the water is disturbed, which adds oxygen into the mix, a chemical reaction takes place in their bodies that causes luciferin (from the Latin lucifer or ‘light-bearer’) to oxidize and becomes catalyzed to make luciferase, which emits photons or particles of light. It’s not understood exactly how or why this happens, but we do know there are many kids of luciferase. In fact, scientists know the genes that create luciferases and have implanted them into organisms like mice, silkworms, and potatoes so that they glow. They’ve made bioluminescent plants, too. An Idaho-based start up called Light Bio, in fact, sells bioluminescent petunias that you can purchase.

Light Bio’s genetically engineered petunias glow green thanks to DNA added from bioluminescent mushrooms. Photo (Light Bio)

Perhaps the most magical thing about bioluminescence is that it doesn’t create heat. Almost all the lights we are familiar with, particularly incandescent light, like that from generic light bubs, generate a tremendous amount of heat. Of course, we have learned how to make this heatless chemical light ourselves, easily experienced when you crack and shake a glow stick, mixing together several chemicals in a process similar to the one animals in the ocean use to create bioluminescent light. But the light from glow sticks is not nearly strong enough to illuminate your back yard. In the last few decades, we’ve learned how to make another kind of light that produces little heat: LEDs. Though the process is very different, the concept is the same: talking a molecule or a material and promoting it to an excited state. Where electricity is used, in the case of LEDs, it’s called electroluminescence, where it’s a chemical reaction it’s chemiluminescence, of which bioluminescence is one form.

Whether you are a religious person or not (I’m not) it’s no coincidence that one of the first things God said was, “Let there be light!” Light and light energy give us plants and animals to eat, and allows us to see. It heats our world, it fuels our cars (oil is really just dead organic material compressed over time, and that organic material would not have existed without sunlight). While some animals deep in the ocean can live without light, most of us cannot. And it’s a rather astounding feat of nature than when there is no light, many of the earth’s creatures have evolved to produce it themselves. If you don’t believe me, just go down to the Southern California shore in the evening when there is a red tide. Leave your flashlight at home. You won’t need it.

The Lost Island of Santarosae off California’s Coast

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Imagine a massive island off the coast of California roughly thrice the size of Maui, a lush and wild place where miniature mammoths once roamed and ancient humans hunted in the shadows of towering trees. This island once existed and it’s called Santarosae, and while it is gone now, it was once a thriving ecosystem, teeming with life. Its story provides a captivating window into the ever-changing natural history of the California coast region.

During the last Ice Age, approximately 20,000 to 25,000 years ago, when sea levels were significantly lower, Santarosae Island was a single, expansive landmass that now comprises most of California’s Channel Islands. As the cooler Pleistocene climate transitioned into the warmer Holocene (the epoch we are in now), the Earth’s oceans heated and expanded. Continental ice sheets and glaciers melted, releasing vast amounts of water and causing sea levels to rise dramatically.

At its peak, Santarosae was massive—four of today’s Channel Islands (San Miguel, Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz, and Anacapa) were all connected into a single landmass. It spanned around 1,500 square miles, making it a significant feature of the Pacific coast landscape. Today, only remnants remain in the form of those four separate islands, but evidence of Santarosae’s ancient past continues to reveal itself to scientists.

Map depicting the reconstructed geography of Santarosae.

Anacapa was the first to break away, around 10,300 to 10,900 years ago, as rising waters gradually submerged the narrow isthmus that once connected it to the rest of Santarosae. This slow disintegration of the super island was witnessed by the humans already inhabiting the region. Having arrived between 12,710 and 13,010 years ago, possibly even earlier, these early settlers likely traveled by boat, following the “kelp highway“—a rich, coastal ecosystem of underwater seaweed forests stretching from northern Japan and Kamchatka, along the southern shores of Beringia, down the Pacific Northwest, and into Baja California. For these early explorers, Santarosae would have appeared as a land of abundant resources.

One of the island’s most captivating features was its population of pygmy mammoths, found exclusively on Santarosae. Standing between 4.5 to 7 feet tall at the shoulder and weighing around 2,000 pounds, these miniaturized versions of mainland Columbian mammoths were about the size of a large horse and evolved to suit their isolated island habitat (see our story on the island biogeography of the Channel Islands). The reasons for their dwarfism stem from a phenomenon called island rule, where species on islands often shrink due to limited resources and isolation, as well as a shortage of predators. Despite their smaller size, these island-dwelling mammoths likely shared many characteristics with their larger relatives, including a similar body shape, short fur, and a large head. These mammoths roamed Santarosae until they disappeared around 13,000 years ago, coinciding with both climate changes and the arrival of humans.

Pygmy Mammoth excavation on the Channel Islands (NPS)

The first discovery of “elephant” remains on Santa Rosa Island was reported in 1873. Over time, additional excavations provided insight into the island’s mammoth population, which gradually became smaller over generations, eventually disappearing at the end of the Pleistocene. Notably, paleontological digs conducted on Santa Rosa Island in 1927 and 1928 unearthed the remains of a new species, Mammuthus exilis. In the 1940s and 1950s, Philip Orr of the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History recovered further specimens while conducting archaeological and geological work on the island.

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Most pygmy mammoth remains have been discovered on Santa Rosa and San Miguel Islands, with fewer finds from Santa Cruz Island and even fewer from San Nicolas Island, which lies outside the Channel Islands National Park.

Santarosae was not just a wilderness for megafauna—it was home to some of the earliest known human settlers in North America. Archaeological discoveries, such as the remains of a 13,000-year-old woman unearthed on Santa Rosa Island, point to a sophisticated maritime culture. These ancient humans, likely ancestors of the Chumash people, navigated the waters around Santarosae in plank canoes, hunting seals, birds, and fish, while gathering plants and shellfish.

Archaeologists excavate a anthropological site at the Channel Islands (NPS)

The island provided ample resources, but it wasn’t isolated from the rest of the world. The people of Santarosae were part of a complex trade network that stretched across the California coast. Evidence of these connections can be seen in the tools and materials found on the island, some of which came from distant sources. As sea levels rose, however, these early inhabitants had to adapt to the shrinking island, eventually migrating to the mainland.

Santarosae’s landscape during the Ice Age was strikingly different from what we see on today’s Channel Islands. Dense forests of pines, oaks, and other vegetation covered much of the island, supporting a rich diversity of life. The island’s topography included hills, valleys, and freshwater sources, offering an ideal environment for both humans and animals. As the climate warmed and sea levels rose, the island’s ecology shifted. Forests retreated, and the landscape began to resemble the wind-swept, scrubby terrain seen on the modern Channel Islands.

The rise in sea levels didn’t just transform the landscape; it also altered the ecosystems. Many of the animals, like the pygmy mammoths, couldn’t survive the changing conditions (or human hunters), while new species adapted to the shrinking landmass. Birds, insects, and plant species began to dominate, and the island ecosystems became more specialized.

Today, the remnants of Santarosae offer an invaluable window into the past. The Channel Islands National Park protects much of the area, and researchers continue to uncover clues about the island’s history. Ongoing archaeological digs and ecological studies on the islands help piece together the story of Santarosae’s people, animals, and landscape.

Tourists now enjoy the natural beauty of the Channel Islands (Erik Olsen)

For those who visit the Channel Islands today, it’s hard to imagine the ancient world of Santarosae—a much larger island teeming with life. But the remnants of this lost island still hold secrets waiting to be uncovered, offering a fascinating glimpse into California’s distant past and a reminder of how the forces of nature continually reshape our world.

Though Santarosae is now submerged, its influence is still a significant part of California’s natural history.

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California’s Elephant Seals are the Giants of the Golden Coast

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Once teetering on the brink of extinction, the California elephant seal has made an astounding recovery thanks to stringent conservation efforts. But as you’ll read below, their recovery comes with an asterisk. These remarkable creatures, once hunted for their blubber, now thrive along California’s iconic coastline. With their distinctive trunk-like snouts and massive size (They really are huge. I’ve visited the beach near San Simeon several times to photograph them), elephant seals are an incredible sight.

Elephant seals can be seen along the California coast year-round, but specific times are better for different activities. The peak times to observe them are during their breeding season (December to March) and molting season (April to August). During these times, especially from January to March, beaches are filled with males battling for dominance and females giving birth. Outside these seasons, many seals are out at sea, but some can still be spotted during quieter months.

Even considering the animal’s unique appearance, the elephant seal is not just any ordinary seal. Its eating and mating habits are a riveting blend of deep-sea dives in pursuit of prey and intense beachfront battles for dominance during the breeding season.

The species has two main branches: the northern and southern elephant seal. The ones lolling on the California shores belong to the northern branch. Adult males can weigh as much as 2,300 kg (around 5,000 lbs) and can reach up to 14 feet in length. Females, though smaller, play a pivotal role in the seal’s lifecycle.

Elephant seals are deep-sea aficionados, embarking on two major foraging trips each year. To fuel the intense energy demands of mating season, they dive to impressive depths, often around 1,700 feet (518 m), but have been recorded reaching as deep as 5,015 feet (1,529 m). These long dives, sometimes lasting over an hour, help them hunt squids and fishes while also avoiding predators like great white sharks. Only sperm whales dive deeper and longer, showcasing the elephant seal’s mastery of the deep ocean.

The mating habits of the California elephant seal are a spectacle, a mix between The Biggest Loser and UFC. In wintertime, the beaches teem with activity. The males arrive first, establishing territories and preparing to woo potential mates. Skirmishes between rival males are like mixed martial arts battles between extreme heavyweights (ok, I’ll stop). As they fight for dominance and the right to mate, the elephant seal mating ritual can be quite intense. They engage in ferocious body slam battles, using their massive bodies and long proboscises to assert their strength. These skirmishes, often leading to visible scars and wounds, as well as broken bones, are all for the right to mate. The victor, having established his dominance, can then secure a harem of females, while the less dominant males must wait their turn or go without. This intense ritual underscores the seal’s primal drive to ensure its lineage in the face of fierce competition.

Mating battles between elephant seals can be brutal. Photo: NOAA

A 2023 study published in the Royal Society Open Science showed that the mating battles take their toll on the animals, revealing that males with large harems who fought the most, also lived markedly shorter lives.

By the end of the season, successful males might have a harem of up to 50 females. After the mating rituals, females give birth to pups from the previous year’s mating season. The shores become dotted with adorable seal pups, drawing gawkers and photographers from around the globe.

Elephant seal near San Simeon, California. Photo: National Park Service

To catch a glimpse of these magnificent creatures, the California coastline offers several attractive vantage points. Popular spots include Año Nuevo State Park, Point Reyes National Seashore, and Piedras Blancas near San Simeon. Further offshore, the Channel Islands serve as a remote sanctuary for these seals, away from the bustling mainland. Specifically, San Miguel Island and Santa Rosa Island, both part of the Channel Islands National Park, are known hotspots for elephant seal rookeries. These islands provide remote and undisturbed habitats, making them ideal locations for elephant seals to mate, give birth, and molt.

Elephant seal rookery at Piedras Blancas near San Simeon

The elephant seal, despite its impressive size and strength, is not exempt from the challenges of predation. Great white sharks and orcas, or killer whales, are the primary natural predators of the elephant seal. While younger seals and females are more vulnerable due to their smaller size, even the massive adult males are not entirely safe. Great white sharks tend to target the seals when they’re in deep waters, ambushing them from below. Orcas, on the other hand, have been known to employ strategic hunting techniques to isolate and attack seals, especially near the shorelines. Several rather astonishing videos have been captured of orcas going after elephant seals in the wild.

The threat of these apex predators plays a significant role in shaping the behaviors and migratory patterns of the elephant seal, as they navigate the perilous waters of the Pacific in search of food and safe breeding grounds.

Elephant seals are known to be migratory, traveling thousands of miles across the Pacific. After their foraging trips, they return to their natal beaches to molt, shedding and replacing their fur and the outer layer of their skin.

Elephant seals on the beach at Piedras Blancas near San Simeon. (Erik Olsen)

However, the journey of the California elephant seal hasn’t always been smooth sailing. Over the past 50 years, there have been significant fluctuations in their population. In the late 19th century, they were nearly hunted to extinction for their blubber, which was valuable in oil production. By the end of the 1800s, only a small colony of fewer than 100 seals (some place the number closer to 25) was believed to exist. But here’s where the story takes a hopeful turn. Thanks to robust conservation efforts and protective legislation, their numbers began to rebound. Today, it’s estimated that the population is around 250,000, a testament to what protective measures can achieve. That said, an unknown proportion of elephant seal populations is always at sea, making accurate assessments of total population size is difficult.

Recent research in 2024 reveals a deeper consequence of this near-extinction event. Genetic analyses show that Northern Elephant seals, while rebounding, still bear “genetic scars.” The dramatic population decline going into the 20th century led to the loss of genetic diversity, raising concerns about inbreeding and potential future vulnerabilities to environmental changes or diseases. However, despite reduced diversity, no immediate health issues have been observed in the species.

Given the many other biological and ecological riches of California (this magazine highlights many of them), the elephant seal owns a precious spot in the pantheon of California’s natural wonders. With their unique lifecycle, impressive size, and dramatic beach battles, elephant seals hold a special place alongside the state’s ancient redwoods, vast deserts, and diverse marine life. Their remarkable comeback from near extinction and the key role they play in coastal ecosystems make them a symbol of resilience and the enduring power of nature to regenerate when given the chance.

The Desert Garden at The Huntington is a Sanctuary for Succulents and a Battleground Against Poaching

Golden Barrel cacti in the Desert Garden at The Huntington Library, Art Museum and Botanical Gardens (Erik Olsen)

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Plant theft, especially of rare and exotic succulents, has become a significant concern for botanical gardens, nurseries, and natural landscapes worldwide. The growing popularity of these visually striking, low-maintenance plants among collectors and hobbyists has fueled a thriving black market, now worth billions of dollars globally.

From private collections to protected areas, thieves target rare, endangered, or difficult-to-cultivate species, undermining conservation efforts and threatening the survival of these plants in the wild. The scale of this problem is vast; between 2016 and 2020, the illegal global trade in protected plant species was valued at $9.3 billion, nearly five times higher than the value of the illicit animal trade, according to the 2022 World Wildlife Trade Report by the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species (CITES).

The Huntington Library, Art Museum and Botanical Gardens in San Marino, California, is one of the institutions on the front lines of this battle against plant theft. The Desert Garden at The Huntington is a place of exquisite charm…if weather permits and the temperatures are below 90 degrees. Spanning over 10 acres, the garden is one of the oldest and largest collections of cacti and succulents in the world, with over 2,000 species on display. Established in 1919 by Henry E. Huntington, it showcases a diverse array of plants from arid regions around the world, including unique specimens from North and South America, Africa, and Madagascar.

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The Desert Garden at The Huntington features a stunning variety of succulents from arid regions around the world, some of which are rarely seen outside their natural habitats. This expansive collection includes towering cacti, like the iconic saguaro and golden barrel, alongside unique agaves and aloe plants with their spiky rosettes. Smaller, intricate species like Echeveria and Crassula provide a contrast with their colorful, fleshy leaves, ranging from deep greens to vibrant reds. The garden’s layout showcases the amazingly diverse shapes, textures, and growth habits of these hardy plants, creating a landscape that highlights the beauty and adaptability of desert flora. It is a succulent lover’s paradise. Trust me, I’m one of them.

At the upper end of the desert garden, a greenhouse shelters around 3,000 vulnerable succulents that are highly sensitive to excessive water or freezing temperatures. Some of these plants are too small and delicate to compete with more robust species in the outdoor environment. Even larger specimens, like the impressive Astrophytum ornatum, remain fragile despite their size, requiring careful protection to thrive.

Unfortunately, the stunning array of succulent plants in the garden attracts not only those captivated by the diverse and resilient forms these hardy plants can take but also those who seek to add them to their private collections or profit in their illicit trade.

Succulent plants (*Sedum rubrotinctum*) at The Huntington Library, Art Museum and Botanical Gardens (Erik Olsen)

Succulent theft has become a growing concern both at The Huntington and across California and the world, fueled by the global demand for these visually striking and low-maintenance plants. Between 2016 and 2020, the illegal global trade in protected plant species was valued at $9.3 billion, approximately five times higher than the value of the illicit animal trade, according to the 2022 World Wildlife Trade Report by the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species.

The report emphasizes that plant poaching is a growing concern that leads to the loss of species, with many threatened or becoming extinct in the wild. Botanic gardens, as repositories for rare and endangered plant species, are uniquely positioned to combat this problem through various means, including raising public awareness, research, and collaboration with law enforcement and other stakeholders.

In response to a series of plant thefts from the Desert Garden in 2021, The Huntington created signage that calls attention to the crime. Photo by Linnea Stephan. | © The Huntington Library, Art Museum, and Botanical Gardens.

The Huntington’s Desert Garden, with its rare and mature specimens, is particularly vulnerable to thieves who recognize the high market value of certain succulents. Theft at the garden has been an ongoing problem, with criminals targeting species that are rare, endangered, or difficult to cultivate. Such thefts not only undermine the conservation efforts of botanical gardens but also pose a threat to the survival of these plants in the wild.

“People don’t think of it as theft when they’re just taking a little piece here or there,” says John Trager, The Huntington’s Bernie and Miyako Storch Curator of the Desert Garden and Collections. “But it’s most annoying, of course, when they take an entire plant, dig it out of the ground. Sometimes those are not that easy to replace.”

Blue echeveria, *Echeveria secunda*. (Erik Olsen)

Trager reported that the garden recently suffered a significant theft involving a species of succulent called echeveria, a large genus of flowering plants from the Crassulaceae family, native to the semi-desert regions of Central America, Mexico, and northwestern South America. The Huntington had three documented specimens, each with known provenance, making them especially valuable for scientific research. Two of the three specimens were stolen.

“When the second one was taken, we’re left with a lone individual that can’t be self-pollinated and with no chance of being able to propagate that documented collection for perpetuity,” laments Trager.

Nationally, and particularly in California, succulent theft has reached alarming levels in recent years. California’s native dudleya plants have been especially targeted by poachers, who uproot them from coastal cliffs and wilderness areas to sell them on the black market, often overseas. In 2018, California law enforcement agencies seized over 3,500 succulent plants from poachers bound for Asia, where they can fetch high prices among collectors and gardening enthusiasts.

*Aloe bussei* in the Desert Garden at the The Huntington Library, Art Museum and Botanical Gardens (Erik Olsen)

The illegal succulent trade is now estimated to be worth millions of dollars annually, with plants like Dudleya farinosa (also known as bluff lettuce) selling for as much as $100 each or more, depending on their size and rarity, and poachers often harvest them by the truckload. The damage caused by the theft of these plants may seem modest compared to the illegal wildlife trade in animals, but the impact is devastating.

Wild succulent plants have a special cachet in Asia. “It’s like having a Fendi bag on Rodeo Drive,” a California game warden told a student journalist. “A dudleya farinosa from the wild bluffs of Mendocino, California, especially a five-headed one, is apparently a super cool thing to have.”

More than 65 species and subspecies of Dudleya can be found from Southern Oregon to the southern tip of Baja California, including the Channel Islands and Baja California Islands, the Sierra Nevada and Santa Monica Mountains, and parts of Arizona and Utah. Poaching operations often involve stripping entire landscapes, leaving behind ecological damage that can take decades to repair.

California *wildlife officer Pat Freeling replants a Dudleya in Mendocino County, CA*
*(Travis VanZant/California Department of Fish and Wildlife via AP)*

“When you start removing them from the ecosystem, the cascading effects are potentially really significant,” Jared Margulies, an assistant professor at the University of Alabama who studies the illicit succulent trade told Vox.

The environmental damage caused by succulent poaching has become so severe that, in September 2021, California enacted a law prohibiting the harvesting of dudleya from the wild without explicit permission from the landowner or a proper permit. Violating this law is considered a misdemeanor and can result in a prison sentence of up to six months and fines reaching as high as $500,000. But enforcement remains a challenge due to the remote locations where thefts often occur.

Desert Garden at The Huntington Library, Art Museum and Botanical Gardens (Erik Olsen)

To combat this growing threat, The Huntington has implemented a range of measures. The garden’s extensive security protocols include increased surveillance, patrolling guards, and staff vigilance around particularly vulnerable plants. But The Huntington has also taken a more innovative approach by launching a facility dedicated to propagating and selling plants recovered from theft sting operations. This facility operates in partnership with law enforcement and conservation agencies to recover stolen plants and reintroduce them to legal, sustainable markets. The recovered plants, after undergoing health checks and quarantine periods to prevent the spread of pests and diseases, are propagated in controlled environments to ensure their survival and genetic diversity.

Succulent plants available to buy at the annual Cactus and Succulent Show and Sale.
Photo by Sandy Masuo. | © The Huntington Library, Art Museum, and Botanical Gardens.

The Huntington’s unique program, known as International Succulent Introductions (ISI), is designed to encourage the conservation and cultivation of rare and unusual succulents from across the globe. Founded in 1958 at the UC Botanical Garden at Berkeley, the ISI was taken over by the Huntington in 1989, where it has been steadily expanding ever since. The ISI aims to reduce the demand for wild-collected plants by offering collectors, researchers, and enthusiasts an opportunity to acquire ethically propagated succulents.

“The purpose is to distribute new and interesting plants to collectors, institutions, researchers, et cetera, anyone who’s interested,” says Trager. “A lot of them are increasingly endangered, so there’s a conservation component, but we’re interested in both wild species and horticultural entities. So both of them are within our purview.”

The Covid pandemic led to a rise in interest in indoor gardening and houseplants, including succulents, as people spent more time at home and looked for ways to enhance their living spaces and alleviate stress. Succulents, known for their low-maintenance care and unique aesthetic appeal, became particularly popular. The existence of the ISI allowed many people to collect unusual varieties not available at their local nurseries.

“The ISI is fairly unique,” says Trager. “It’s the only plant introduction program of any botanic garden that exclusively focuses on succulent plants.”

Visitors walk through the Desert Garden at The Huntington Library, Art Museum and Botanical Gardens (Erik Olsen)

Each year, the ISI introduces a carefully curated selection of plants, including both new species and cultivated varieties, all grown at The Huntington’s facilities. They offer about 30 plants through mail order each year via an online catalog. The remaining plants are then sold to visitors at the annual Cactus and Succulent Show and Sale, which took place this June at the Huntington. This initiative not only provides access to rare specimens but also supports conservation efforts by raising awareness about the risks of poaching and habitat destruction. The proceeds from the sale of these plants are reinvested into further conservation work, research, and education, making ISI a vital component in the global effort to protect succulent diversity.

Trager points out that since the program moved to the Huntington, the garden has distributed over 1,480 species and cultivars, totaling approximately 74,000 plants. Given that many of these plants are endangered, the program functions as a kind of Noah’s Ark, protecting these rare species and helping to ensure their survival for the future.

By using recovered plants to promote sustainability and education, The Huntington sets a powerful example in the fight against illegal succulent trade. This effort highlights the vital role botanical gardens play in conserving plant diversity while celebrating the stunning beauty and intricate wonder of desert flora, inspiring visitors to cherish and protect these unique organisms.

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Unraveling the Geology Behind Palos Verdes’ Ongoing Landslide Crisis

A neighborhood threatened by landslides at Portuguese Bend on Palos Verdes (Erik Olsen)

For decades, geologists and engineers have been aware that the Portuguese Bend region of Palos Verdes is prone to landslides. Early maps and aerial surveys from the 1930s show continuous movement from the upper hills towards the high cliffs and bluffs that reach the Pacific Ocean.

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Over the years, with a few exceptions, the ground movement was relatively slow, averaging about a foot per year. However, after the intense rains of the past year or two, the land is now shifting much more rapidly—up to 9 to 12 inches per week—plunging neighborhoods and communities built on this unstable terrain into panic and disarray. This accelerated movement has caused irreparable damage to some homes and led California to declare a state of emergency.

Aerial survey from the 1930s showing landslide potential at Portuguese Bend in Palos Verdes (Ranch Palos Verdes city government)

People have been allowed to build homes at Portuguese Bend largely due to a combination of historical oversight, demand for coastal real estate, and limited understanding of the area’s geologic instability when development first began. In the 1950s and 1960s, when much of the residential development in the area took place, there was less awareness and fewer regulations regarding the risks of building on unstable ground. Additionally, the picturesque coastal views and desirable location made Portuguese Bend an attractive area for developers and homeowners. Despite known landslide risks, building permits were often issued because of insufficient geotechnical assessments, political and economic pressures, and a lack of stringent land-use policies at the time. Over the years, as the understanding of the area’s geologic hazards has grown, there have been more restrictions and efforts to mitigate risks, but many homes already exist on land prone to movement.

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The situation is similar to building homes in fire-prone areas – well-known to Californians, of course – within the so-called Wildland-Urban Interface (WUI), where human development meets and mixes with natural landscapes, creating a high-risk zone for natural disasters.

Small landslide at Portuguese Bend in Palos Verdes (Erik Olsen)

Portuguese Bend is one of the most active landslide zones on the peninsula. Here, the earth moves continuously, almost imperceptibly at times, but the effects are undeniable. The land isn’t just sliding; it’s flowing—like a slow-moving river of rock and dirt—down a natural depression, a sort of bowl or gulch formed by the interplay of tectonic activity and erosion. This gradual yet relentless descent toward the sea is driven by a combination of factors: the underlying geology of ancient marine sediment layers, heavy rainfall, and the constant forces of gravity pulling on the steep slopes. As a result, roads buckle, homes crack, and entire sections of land shift over time.

The geological makeup of Palos Verdes is complex and varied. The most prominent rocks on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, and the most crucial in terms of slope stability, belong to the Miocene Monterey Formation, which we wrote about in a previous article. This formation, over 2,000 feet thick in some areas, has been divided into three distinct members based on their rock types: the Altamira Shale, the Valmonte Diatomite, and the Malaga Mudstone, arranged from oldest to youngest.

Portuguese Bend at Palos Verdes

The Altamira Shale primarily consists of thin-bedded sedimentary rocks formed from layers of clay, interspersed with numerous layers of tuff, or volcanic ash that has largely transformed into weak clays over time. Thick deposits of volcanic ash, laid down millions of years ago, have been compacted into a clay-like material known as bentonite. When bentonite comes into contact with water, it becomes extremely slippery, acting like a natural lubricant. This slippery nature has been a major factor in triggering landslides throughout the Rancho Palos Verdes area, where the land’s stability is continually undermined by these underlying geological conditions.

Another factor contributing to landslides is the region’s tectonic activity. Palos Verdes sits above several active faults, including the Palos Verdes Fault. The movement along these faults exerts stress on the rock formations, leading to fractures and cracks that weaken the slopes. These cracks often become pathways for water to seep into the ground, further destabilizing the already precarious terrain.

The road along the coast at Portuguese Point has been moving for decades, a slow but relentless reminder of the dynamic nature of California’s landscape. (Erik Olsen)

Water plays a crucial role in triggering landslides in this region. Heavy rains, especially those associated with El Niño events like the atmospheric rivers of the last few years, can lead to a rapid increase in groundwater levels. When water infiltrates the ground, it increases the pressure within the soil and rock, reducing the friction that holds everything together. In Palos Verdes, where irrigation, septic systems, and urban development are common, human activities can exacerbate this natural process by altering drainage patterns and increasing water saturation in vulnerable areas. This convergence of natural and human-made factors makes the slopes more prone to sliding, particularly during or after intense rainfall.

To combat this, construction teams have installed a series of dewatering wells and pumps to actively extract groundwater from deep within the hillside. By lowering the water table and reducing the amount of water that saturates the soil, these efforts help to decrease the pressure within the slope and mitigate the risk of further ground movement. This method of dewatering is a crucial element in stabilizing the land, as it helps prevent the soil from becoming too heavy and reduces the lubricating effect that water has on the bentonite clay layers.

Closed road at Portuguese Bend in Palos Verdes (Erik Olsen)

Coastal erosion is another critical factor. The rugged cliffs of Palos Verdes are constantly being eroded by the ocean’s waves, wind, and rain. Over time, wave action undercuts the base of the cliffs, removing the support for the upper layers and leaving them hanging precariously over the ocean. As the base erodes away, the upper cliffs become more susceptible to collapse. When combined with the weakened geology and increased groundwater levels, this coastal erosion sets the stage for dramatic landslides.

Portuguese Point cliffs are part of the constant coastal erosion process at Palos Verdes aerial photo (Erik Olsen)

Recent studies are shedding new light on why landslides in Palos Verdes continue to be a concern. Geologists are now using advanced technologies, such as ground-penetrating radar and satellite imagery, to better understand the underground conditions that contribute to landslides. A study from the University of California, Los Angeles, has explored how even minor shifts in groundwater levels, exacerbated by climate change and increasingly unpredictable weather patterns, can tip the balance and trigger significant slope failures. This research emphasizes that it’s not just the obvious heavy rainfall events that pose a threat; subtle changes in water content due to human irrigation, drought, or even slight variations in precipitation can also destabilize these slopes over time.

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Moreover, new geological mapping and subsurface studies have provided a clearer picture of the fault lines and the fractured rock layers beneath Palos Verdes. These studies suggest that the interaction between multiple fault zones may be more significant than previously thought, potentially increasing the region’s susceptibility to movement. Understanding these interactions is crucial for predicting future landslides and developing mitigation strategies.

But in the end, nature will likely have the final say.

Portuguese Bend in Palos Verdes (Erik Olsen)

The picture that emerges from these studies is one of a region where natural geological processes and human activities are in a delicate balance. It’s an ongoing fight that really offers a precarious vision of the future for residents and others who use the area for recreation. The weak rock formations, intersecting fault lines, and relentless coastal erosion create an environment where the land is always moving and on the brink of collapse. Add to this the unpredictable impacts of climate change, which can bring more intense storms and alter precipitation patterns, and it becomes clear why Palos Verdes is so prone to landslides.

Efforts to mitigate the risk are ongoing. Local governments and geologists are working to develop more effective monitoring systems and better land-use planning guidelines to manage development in these sensitive areas. Understanding the complex geology and hydrology of Palos Verdes is critical to preventing future disasters and protecting the communities that call this beautiful but unstable coastline home.

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Looking back at John McPhee’s Assembling California: A Journey through Geology and Time

Sierra Nevada Mountains and Hot Creek Geological Site (Erik Olsen)

California’s diverse landscapes, rich history, and abundant natural phenomena have inspired many scientific-themed popular books, ranging from John Steinbeck’s “The Log from the Sea of Cortez,” with its focus on marine biology, to Mary Austin’s “The Land of Little Rain,” a lyrical examination of California’s desert environment, not to mention the late Marc Reisner’s Cadillac Desert, an epic history of California’s contentious relationship with water. (I’ve read it twice.)

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But when it comes to exploring the state’s geology – its mountains, coastlines, and, most notably, its fault lines – few books can match the prowess and eloquence of John McPhee’s “Assembling California“. Part of his Pulitzer-winning series, “Annals of the Former World,” the book offers a comprehensive and accessible tour through the geological history of California, crafting a fascinating narrative that is as engaging as it is informative.

John McPhee is an acclaimed American writer and pioneer of creative nonfiction, renowned for his deeply researched and beautifully crafted works that often explore topics related to nature, science, and geography. A long-time staff writer for The New Yorker and the author of over 30 books, McPhee is celebrated for his ability to turn seemingly ordinary subjects—such as geology, oranges, or transportation—into compelling narratives. His distinctive style blends meticulous research with accessible, often poetic prose that has been widely immitated. I’ve read several of McPhee’s books and while some of the work can be hard going, I’m usually very satisfied once I’m done. Assembling California is, in my opinion, one of his best.

Here’s an excerpt:

An old VW bus is best off climbing the Sierra from the west. Often likened to a raised trapdoor, the Sierra has a long and planar western slope and—near the state line—a plunging escarpment facing east. The shape of the Sierra is also like an airfoil, or a woodshed, with its long sloping back and its sheer front. The nineteenth-century geologist Clarence King compared it to “a sea-wave”—a crested ocean roller about to break upon Nevada. The image of the trapdoor best serves the tectonics. Hinged somewhere beneath the Great Valley, and sharply faulted on its eastern face, the range began to rise only a very short geologic time ago—perhaps three million years, or four million years—and it is still rising, still active, continually at play with the Richter scale and occasionally driven by great earthquakes (Owens Valley, 1872). In geologic ages just before the uplift, volcanic andesite flows spread themselves over the terrain like butterscotch syrup over ice cream. Successive andesite flows filled in local landscapes and hardened flat upon them. As the trapdoor rises—as this immense crustal block, the Sierra Nevada, tilts upward—the andesite flows tilt with it, and to see them now in the roadcuts of the interstate is to see the angle of the uplift.
John McPhee in Assembling California

The Sierra Nevada, a massive mountain range stretching like a spine nearly the length of California, provides the central geological narrative in “Assembling California”. Known for its stark beauty and dramatic peaks, the Sierras are also a textbook example of the immense forces that shape our planet. (We’ve written and will continue to write about them.) McPhee masterfully explicates how tectonic activity shaped this terrain over millions of years, giving readers a sense of the awe-inspiring age and dynamism of the Earth.

A brief bit about the man: Born in 1931, McPhee studied at Princeton University and Cambridge, and his writing straddles diverse topics from basketball to nuclear energy. His primary strength lies in his ability to seamlessly interweave complex scientific principles with engrossing human stories (there’s always an interesting character and the heart of his work), making the intricate world of science both comprehensible and enjoyable to the lay reader. His skill and prolificacy have earned him numerous accolades, including the Pulitzer Prize.

Assembling California stands out for its illuminating journey through California’s intricate geological history. Traveling with the late geologist Eldridge Moores of the University of California Davis, McPhee unpacks the layered story of California’s geology from its seismic activity to its unique rock formations. There is an excellent excerpt in a 1992 issue of the New Yorker.

Moores was a renowned geologist known for his significant contributions to understanding the geological history and structure of the Earth, particularly in relation to plate tectonics. Born in 1938 in Phoenix, Arizona, he spent the bulk of his career as a professor of geology at Davis, where his research significantly advanced the theory of plate tectonics. He was particularly interested in the geology of his adopted home state, California. Moores also held the position of President of the Geological Society of America in 1996. Apart from his boundless energy, Moores’ real gift was his vision: his ability to “see” geologic history in a pile of rocks. His passionate teaching style and profound knowledge made him a beloved figure in the field of geology. Moores died in a tragic accident in 2018 while on a field trip in Greece, leaving a significant void in the geology world.

Moores explains to McPhee how the Sierra Nevada range didn’t just emerge from the Earth’s crust, as geologists long thought. Instead, the building blocks bubbled up from faraway rifts in the ocean floor called “spreading centers,” then transported thousands of miles on moving plates and piled up onto the North American continent.

Sierra Nevada Mountains and Owens River (Erik Olsen)

The movement of the Earth’s crust along fault lines, as in the well-known San Andreas Fault, is a central theme of the book. By explaining the shifting of tectonic plates, McPhee brings to life the reality of living in California: a landscape that is constantly, if imperceptibly, in motion. His descriptions of earthquakes, both historic and potential future ones, vividly underscore the seismic hazards associated with residing in the state. McPhee’s ability to humanize these impersonal geologic processes is a testament to his storytelling prowess. You will learn a lot about what happens to the California beneath your feet.

However, “Assembling California” is not just a tale of geological forces. McPhee also weaves in fascinating narratives about gold prospectors and vineyard owners, infusing the state’s human history into its ancient geological story. You really can’t tell the story of modern California without delving into the resource-driven economic narratives that are a fundamental part of the state’s history. We try to do a lot of that in this magazine.

For those who want to go beyond McPhee, another fine author is Simon Winchester, whose “Crack at the End of the World” picks up where McPhee left off, both in terms of theme and approach. Winchester, a British author and journalist known for his popular science writing, explores the devastating 1906 San Francisco earthquake. Like McPhee, Winchester expertly merges detailed geological explanations with human stories, providing a compelling account of one of the most significant natural disasters in American history. This is also a very fine book.

The legacy of “Assembling California” lies not just in its rich storytelling but also in the path it blazed for a new kind of popular science writing – one that’s engaging, comprehensive, and profoundly human. By understanding our planet’s past and the forces that shape it, we are better prepared to navigate its future. As readers, we owe a debt of gratitude to writers like McPhee and Winchester who, through their craft, help us appreciate the intricate dance between the Earth’s geological processes and human civilization.

Since McPhee wrote “Assembling California,” technology has made leaps and bounds in the field of geology. Advancements in technology like LIDAR (Light Detection and Ranging), which uses lasers to measure distances and can create high-resolution maps of the Earth’s surface, and improvements in seismograph technology and satellite imaging, have allowed scientists to study geological phenomena in greater detail and with better accuracy.

Geology, like all scientific disciplines, evolves over time as new techniques and technologies become available. This progress often refines our understanding of geological phenomena and can lead to new theories and models. We’re still learning a lot about how our state literally came together, with new research being done all the time that sheds light on our mountains, coasts and valleys.

More recent studies of the San Andreas Fault, for instance, have allowed us to better understand the fault’s behavior, including how frequently significant earthquakes occur and what triggers them. For example a 2022 study from Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory suggests that the San Andreas Fault moves slowly in a process called “creep,” which was previously thought to release tectonic stress and reduce earthquake risk. However, this new research suggests that this creeping segment might instead be accumulating stress, potentially leading to larger and more destructive earthquakes than previously anticipated.

Not exactly good news, but it’s always better to know what’s happening and to have science that backs it up, and McvPhee was a master at helping us understand he way the world works.

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Why Parkfield, California is the Nation’s Earthquake Capital

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When Big Joe Turner sang “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” he probably wasn’t thinking about a dusty little town in Central California, but in Parkfield, it’s practically the town motto.

Parkfield, California, is a quiet, dusty farming town tucked into the rolling hills of the Cholame Valley, just off Highway 46 (worth the drive if you ever have the chance). A few miles down the road lies an historic intersection, the place where James Dean was killed in a near head on collision crash in his Porsche 550 Spyder on September 30, 1955. The collision ended a blazing young career just as it was taking off and cemented Dean’s image as a tragic icon of American cinema. While tourists still visit the nearby memorial, Parkfield itself is better known to scientists than to star-watchers.

Parkfield is an unremarkable town, with one exception: it lies directly atop the San Andreas Fault and is known as the Earthquake Capital of the World. This is not because there are so many earthquakes there, although there are, but because it has one of the highest densities of seismic technology anywhere. In addition to the larger magnitude 6.0 earthquakes that tend to strike about every 22 years, Parkfield also experiences a steady rhythm of smaller quakes. These minor tremors, often below magnitude 1.0, happen with such regularity, that scientists have compared them to “seismic pulsars” for their consistent, almost clock-like behavior. (And for what it’s worth, Petrolia, California actually has the most earthquakes).

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The San Andreas Fault is one of the best known, and most active faults in the world. In the Parkfield area, the San Andreas Fault is constantly shifting—millimeter by millimeter, day by day. This continuous movement is unique to the region, as the fault remains relatively locked in both the northern section around San Francisco and the southern section near Palmdale. While the fault in these other areas stays immobile, the central part near Parkfield steadily creeps, creating a contrast that puts pressure on the locked sections to the north and south.

Parkfield’s main strip, stretching just a quarter mile, hosts a small collection of buildings, including a one-room elementary school, the USGS-Berkeley earthquake monitoring site, a Cal Fire station, and the Parkfield Cafe and Lodge. Outside the cafe, a row of mismatched mailboxes serves the dozen or so homes scattered along a few dirt roads branching off the main street. Parkfield might be a small, obscure town to most Californians, but to geologists fascinated by the workings of the Earth, it’s the epicenter of seismic research.

Every hillside and valley, grassy nook and riverbed is home to some kind of instrument that measures earthquakes. Over the years, these instruments have become more sophisticated and expensive, making it necessary in many cases to fence them off with the threat of arrest. These instruments monitor, hour by hour, or better, millisecond by millisecond, the stirrings of the earth. To geologists, it is ground zero for seismic measurement.

The town is proud of its reputation. A water tower boasts the tourism slogan: BE HERE WHEN IT HAPPENS (see photo). There is also an iron bridge in the town that has the distinction of standing astride the San Andreas Fault. One one side of the creek that runs beneath the bridge is the North American tectonic plate. On the other is the Pacific tectonic plate. Those two plates are moving south and north respectively at a rate of about 2 inches a year. As we all know, that movement creates immense pressure as the two plates seem otherwise locked in place. That pressure will have to be released at some point. It always has. When that happens, we can expect a potentially devastating earthquake that will rock the state from top to bottom.

The writer Simon Winchester calls the fault an “ever-evolving giant that slumbers lightly under the earth’s surface and stirs, dangerously and often, according to its own whims and its own rules.”

Since 1985, a focused earthquake prediction experiment has been in progress in Parkfield. Known as “The Parkfield Experiment“, the project’s stated purpose is to “better understand the physics of earthquakes — what actually happens on the fault and in the surrounding region before, during and after an earthquake.”

Since the mid-1980s, scientists have deployed an array of advanced monitoring devices, including seismometers, strainmeters, creepmeters, and GPS sensors, to capture detailed data on ground movement and strain accumulation. These instruments are designed to measure subtle changes in the Earth’s crust, helping researchers predict seismic events and understand the processes leading up to an earthquake. By continuously collecting data, the experiment has provided valuable insights into the mechanics of fault movement and the potential for earthquake prediction.

An art installation, known as the Parkfield Interventional EQ Fieldwork (PIEQF), used earthquake waves recorded by the USGS seismic network in California to trigger a hydraulic shake table which was installed in an excavated trench. (USGS)

Experts also once bored a 10,000-foot-deep hole into the ground in Parkfield, into which they placed a large array of sensors to measure the earth’s movements. The goal of the $300 million project, called the San Andreas Fault Observatory at Depth, or SAFOD, was to allow scientists to study how faults work and how earthquakes happen. The drilling stopped in 2007, but Parkfield remains a hot spot for geologic research.

Additionally, the Berkeley Seismological Laboratory operates the High-Resolution Seismic Network (HRSN) in the Parkfield area. This network comprises geophone arrays aimed at monitoring microseismicity along the San Andreas Fault, providing valuable data on the fault’s behavior.

Parkfield remains critical to better understanding seismic dangers in California. The fault zone is poorly understood at depth and so far, the predictability of earthquakes in the near term is pretty limited. But devices like these could help improve prediction, especially if there is a large quake. But that’s the rub, really. We need to experience a large earthquake to get the best data to know how to predict later ones. So it is in California.

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