Basking under the sun, barking from buoys, and sometimes tormenting boat owners, the California sea lion (Zalophus californianus) is a familiar, playful marine mammal common up and down the coast. Known for their intelligence, dog-like demeanor, and underwater agility, they are a symbol of the Golden State’s rich coastal biodiversity. Despite occasional years of periodic starvation and decline, the California sea lion has made a remarkable recovery over the last two decades and is now one the most common marine mammals seen along the California coast. It’s hard to go out in one of California’s many harbors and not see at least one prowling about, often poking their heads above water to take a loud breath.
California sea lions are part of the family Otariidae, which includes all eared seals. These agile marine mammals are well adapted for life in the ocean, with streamlined bodies, strong flippers, and a layer of blubber to help regulate body temperature. Male sea lions are larger than females, weighing up to 800 pounds (363 kg) and measuring around 8 feet (2.4 meters) in length. Females are slightly smaller, weighing around 250 pounds (113 kg) and measuring about 6 feet (1.8 meters) long. Although many people refer to them as seals, they are a different species, and it is fairly easy to tell them apart. Unlike true seals, sea lions have visible ear flaps and long front flippers that enable them to “walk” on land.
NOAA
Ranging from the Gulf of California to British Columbia, these marine mammals are a frequent sight around harbors, beaches, and offshore islands. These highly social creatures also congregate in large colonies on rocky shores, such as the Channel Islands off the coast of Southern California. During breeding season, males establish territories and compete fiercely for females, often engaging in vocal displays and physical battles. The females give birth to a single pup each year and provide maternal care for several months until the pup is ready to venture into the water.
California sea lions are opportunistic feeders, primarily preying on fish species such as anchovies, herring, salmon, and squid. With their excellent underwater vision and agile swimming abilities, they can dive to great depths, sometimes reaching over 900 feet (275 meters) to search for their prey. They are capable of consuming significant amounts of food, with adult males consuming up to 5-8% of their body weight each day.
Sea lions on a buoy in Orange County. (Erik Olsen)
Despite their formidable size and agility, California sea lions face predation from their most notorious adversary, the white shark (Carcharodon carcharias). White sharks are highly efficient hunters and occasionally target sea lions, particularly the young as well as inexperienced individuals. While these encounters are relatively rare, they underscore the ongoing struggle for survival that sea lions face in their natural habitat. Because of the resurgence in the sea lion population on the West Coast, white shark populations have also rebounded significantly, with a recent study suggesting that there can be as many as 40 juvenile white sharks just 50 feet from shore at some of the most popular beaches in SoCal. While this rise in the white shark population off California has made many people concerned about the potential for attacks on humans, records show that just 15 people have died by shark attacks in California since the 1950s.
The California sea lion population has experienced both remarkable recoveries and challenging times. In the early 20th century, they faced severe exploitation for their fur, resulting in significant declines in their numbers. However, conservation efforts and legal protection brought about a remarkable turnaround for these marine mammals.
Under the Marine Mammal Protection Act and state regulations, California sea lions are strictly protected, prohibiting hunting and harassment. Additionally, the establishment of marine protected areas and efforts to reduce pollution and fishery interactions have contributed to their recovery. As a result, the population rebounded, with estimates suggesting that there are now around 300,000 individuals along the coast of California.
Sea lions in Newport Beach. Credit Erik Olsen
Despite their resurgence, California sea lions face ongoing challenges, particularly during certain years when large-scale die-offs occur due to starvation. These events are often linked to El Niño weather patterns, which disrupt the marine ecosystem and cause shifts in fish populations. During such periods, the availability of prey may be limited, leading to malnutrition and high mortality rates among sea lion pups.
While California sea lions have made a remarkable recovery, ongoing conservation efforts are crucial to ensuring their long-term survival. Monitoring their populations, protecting their habitats, and addressing climate change impacts are vital steps to safeguarding these charismatic marine mammals. By raising awareness and promoting responsible stewardship of our coastal ecosystems, we can ensure a bright future for the California sea lion and the diverse marine life it represents.
There’s something quietly remarkable about living alongside California sea lions. They slip through the surf with ease, haul out on docks and rocks, and bring a sense of life and motion to the coastline. Like puppies of the sea, they’re curious, playful, and deeply social. But they’re also resilient animals that have weathered challenges and bounced back. Not that threats still don’t exist. But their presence is a reminder of the ocean’s complexity and beauty, and of how lucky we are in California to share our shores with them.
The Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), also known as California State Route 1, is one of the most iconic roads in the United States, renowned for its breathtaking views of the Pacific Ocean and rugged coastline. This scenic highway stretches over 650 miles from Dana Point in Orange County in Southern California to Mendocino County in Northern California, offering travelers unparalleled vistas and a quintessential Californian road trip experience. While some suggest that PCH runs from Mexico to Canada, that is mistaken. U.S. Route 101 continues north from California, running along the coast through Oregon and Washington, up to the Olympic Peninsula. That said, it is still the longest state route in California and the second-longest in the US after Montana Highway 200. The story of its construction is as dramatic and intricate as the landscape it traverses.
The origins of the Pacific Coast Highway date back to the early 20th century, when the automobile was becoming an essential part of American life. The idea for a coastal highway was initially conceived to connect the state’s isolated coastal communities and improve access to California’s scenic beauty. The concept gained traction in the 1910s and 1920s, and construction began in earnest in the 1930s, to provide jobs during the Great Depression.
Lovely aerial of Pacific Coast Highway in Central California
“It took decades to get the highway built,” Carina Monica Montoya told the Los Angeles Times. Montoya is the author of, “Pacific Coast Highway In Los Angeles County” (The History Press, 2014).
The construction of the PCH was an engineering marvel, given the challenging terrain it had to navigate. The road had to be carved out of steep cliffs, cross numerous rivers, and be supported by bridges spanning deep ravines. One of the most significant and iconic portions of the highway, the Big Sur section, presented formidable challenges. This stretch of the road, which runs between San Simeon and Carmel, required extensive blasting and drilling into the rugged coastal mountains. The effort was spearheaded by the California Division of Highways (now CalTrans), with a workforce comprising both state employees and workers from the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), a New Deal program.
PCH
Key figures in the design and construction of the PCH included engineers and architects who had to innovate continuously to address the formidable natural obstacles. One notable engineer was John D. Isaacs, a prominent builder who contributed to the design and construction of several key bridges along the PCH, including the famous Bixby Creek Bridge. His innovative approach to bridge engineering helped overcome the difficulties presented by the steep canyons and coastal bluffs.
The Pacific Coast Highway took decades to complete fully, with different sections being opened to the public at various times. The Big Sur segment, for example, was officially completed in 1937 after nearly 18 years of labor. The total cost of constructing the highway is difficult to pinpoint precisely, given its piecemeal development, but it ran into tens of millions of dollars—an immense sum at the time.
The Pacific Coast Highway near Santa Monica, California, circa 1930s.
Several colorful characters also play a role in the highway’s history. The Pacific Coast Highway might not exist today if May Rindge, a resolute landowner, had succeeded in her long battle against the county. Since at least the 1890s, a primitive road, often submerged at high tide, hugged the rocky coast between Santa Monica and Malibu, passing under a natural arch and ending at a locked gate on Rindge’s 17,000-acre ranch.
As the owner of Rancho Topanga Malibu Sequit, Rindge was determined to protect her property. She and her late husband had long fought to keep homesteaders off their land. In 1906, she even forced the Southern Pacific Railroad to divert its Santa Barbara line around Malibu and through the San Fernando Valley.
In 1907, when the county proposed extending the coastal road through Malibu, Rindge posted armed guards at the entrances to her ranch and contested the county’s power of eminent domain in court. A stalemate ensued for years, but the road’s prospects improved in the early 1920s when it was included in the planned Roosevelt Highway. In 1923, the U.S. Supreme Court upheld the county’s right to appropriate the land for the highway, and in 1925, a superior court judge granted the county title to the right-of-way in exchange for $107,289, finally ending the dispute.
The book “The King and Queen of Malibu: The True Story of the Battle for Paradise” by David K. Randall (2016) tells the story of Ringe and a wonderful history of Malibu.
Lexus on PCH
Today, the Pacific Coast Highway is one of the most famous and iconic strips of road in the world. Featured in countless commercials as well as movies and TV shoots, sections of PCH are immediately recognizable. Of course, it helps a lot that the highway in in such close proximity to legions of DPs (Directors of Photography) who live in Los Angeles and work in commercials and film. Shooting on the highway is an easy day trip from LA and Hollywood, although it can be difficult to get permits to film on the highway given it is such a busy working road.
That said, the highway faces significant challenges due to climate change and coastal erosion. Rising sea levels and increased storm activity are accelerating the natural erosion processes along California’s coast. This has led to frequent landslides and road closures, particularly in the Big Sur region. One notable event was the massive landslide in 2017 at Mud Creek, which buried a section of the highway under 40 feet of debris, closing it for over a year and requiring extensive repairs. A timelapse of the landslide produced by the United States Geological Service can be seen here.
The Pacific Coast Highway in Newport Beach (Erik Olsen)
The New Yorker ran a piece on the concerns about the highway’s future viability as a means to travel long distances along the coast.
The Washington Post wrote back in 2021, “the engineering folly of a road built on sheer cliffs has meant that closures are annual events — the “whens,” not “ifs” — for the people and the economy it supports.”
The most recent slide to afflict the region took place in April 2024 following heavy rains, when large chunks of the road broke off, tumbling down a cliff and into the ocean near Rock Creek Bridge. Safety officials closed off about 40 miles of road as crews worked to assess the damage and stabilize the road.
Although the Pacific Coast Highway remains one of the greatest road trip routes of all time, the challenges in maintaining its full length are significant for the state and its residents. Despite its enduring popularity, the highway often operates in sections due to frequent closures and repairs caused by natural disasters like landslides, erosion, and wildfires. These ongoing issues demand substantial resources and effort to keep the entire highway operational, making its full-length service a constant struggle.
Still, it remains a pretty excellent place to take a drive. As the Boss once put it, roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair.
Southern California is best known for its sun-soaked beaches and Hollywood glamour, but it also has a wilder, largely forgotten past: it was once an oil kingdom. It’s a story even many Californians don’t know, a tale of spectacular gushers, fortunes won and lost, and larger-than-life characters straight out of a movie. Without oil, Los Angeles, and much of Southern California, would be very different places today.
The story of oil in Southern California is inextricably linked to the Long Beach fields, an area that once seemed more like a scene from Texas or There Will Be Blood than the Golden State. The discovery of oil in this region wasn’t just a footnote in economic journals; it was a seismic event that transformed the landscape, both literally and metaphorically. And it provided an industrial center of gravity to a region of the state that was just beginning to emerge as one of the world’s great gateways of commerce.
Signal Hill, 1926 (Public Domain)
The early 20th century was the beginning of the era of oil in California. On June 23, 1921 at 9:30 a.m., the Alamitos No. 1 oil well on Signal Hill in Long Beach was drilling 2,765 feet beneath the surface when the drill struck an underground oil deposit. This oil was under high pressure due to natural gas, blowing a gusher of oil over 100 feet high, and heralding the start of the Long Beach oil boom.
This event marked the discovery of one of the most prolific oil fields in the Los Angeles basin. Throughout the 1920s, Signal Hill, along with the nearby Santa Fe Springs field, experienced numerous blowouts, which erupted into dramatic pillars of flame that could be seen for miles. These incidents eventually prompted calls for stricter safety regulations. Consequently, in 1929, the state mandated the use of blow-out prevention equipment on all oil wells drilled in California.
Signal Hill quickly mushroomed into a forest of oil derricks, with fortunes being made overnight. As one of the most productive oil fields in the world, the Long Beach field was at one point yielding a staggering one-third of California’s total oil production. By the mid-1920s, California was producing nearly a quarter of the world’s entire petroleum supply, much of it from the Long Beach area.
Signal Hill, Long Beach oil development. (Public domain)
That so much oil is present beneath the surface of this stretch of Southern California is a gift of geology. Millions of years ago, the area that is now Long Beach was covered by the ocean. This marine environment was ideal for the accumulation of organic material, such as the remains of tiny plants and animals, on the ocean floor.
Over time, layers of sediment buried this organic matter. The high pressure and temperatures associated with deep burial initiated the transformation of this organic material into hydrocarbons – essentially, the formation of oil. Southern California is, of course, known for its active tectonics, influenced by the Pacific and North American Plate boundary. This tectonic activity has created a complex network of faults and folds in the earth’s crust in the Long Beach area.
The folding of the earth’s layers into anticlines (a type of fold that is convex up and has its oldest beds at its core) and the formation of fault traps (where displaced rocks create a seal that traps oil) are particularly important. These structures create reservoirs where oil can accumulate and be preserved over geological time scales.
Map of the Long Beach oil field.
As the oil flowed, so did the stories of those who sought their fortune in black gold. Perhaps the most famous of these was Edward L. Doheny, a name synonymous with California oil. Doheny, an ambitious prospector, was one of the first to recognize the potential of the Los Angeles Basin’s oil fields. His success in the oil industry was meteoric, but it was not without controversy, as he was later embroiled in the infamous Teapot Dome scandal.
Portrait of oil magnate Edward L. Doheny (Wikipedia)
The impact of oil production in Southern California extended beyond economics. It reshaped the region’s landscape, both physically and culturally. Towns sprung up around oil fields, and workers flocked to the area, drawn by the promise of jobs and prosperity. Long Beach, once a sleepy coastal town, burgeoned into a bustling city.
During the 1920s, regulations on well spacing were minimal, allowing Signal Hill to market narrow town lots. These lots were swiftly purchased by aspiring oil tycoons who installed wells so close to each other that they almost touched. Despite the dense placement, the wells generally remained profitable, though they rapidly depleted the oil field. The hill earned the nickname “Porcupine Hill” due to its appearance from afar, bristling with numerous wooden oil derricks since the more compact “nodding-donkey” pumpjack had not yet been developed.
The booming oil industry in the region attracted a massive influx of workers and investments. As oil fields expanded, Long Beach rapidly transformed from a seaside resort into an industrial powerhouse. The surge in economic activity and the availability of abundant oil fueled the growth of industries in and around Long Beach, including the burgeoning shipping and maritime sectors.
Container ships outside the Port of Los Angeles during the Covid lockdown in 2020. (Photo: Erik Olsen)
The construction of the Port of Los Angeles, which began in earnest in the early 1900s, was driven by the need to support the growing economic activities in Southern California, including agriculture, manufacturing, and oil. The proximity of Long Beach to the port, only about 20 miles south, meant that it was strategically positioned to benefit from and contribute to the port’s activities. The port served as a critical node for shipping oil, among other goods, which further integrated Long Beach, and Southern California as a whole, into the global trade system.
Signal Hill in Long Beach today. (Erik Olsen)
Moreover, the infrastructure developments necessary to support the oil industry, such as roads, railroads, and later pipelines, also facilitated the growth of the port. These developments enhanced the logistical capabilities of the region, making it more attractive for commercial and industrial activities. The oil boom thus not only transformed Long Beach but also had a cascading effect on the development of the Port of Los Angeles, cementing the region’s role as a vital hub in international trade and commerce.
As big and diverse in industry Los Angeles has become, it mostly started with oil. The fact that Los Angeles is now hardly known for oil, but better known for its massive entertainment and tourism economies is an astonishing transformation.
Of course, the influx of wealth and people also brought challenges, including environmental concerns and the need for regulatory oversight. It is well known that several major oil spills have taken place off the coast, ruining beaches and killing animals by the millions. In 1969, the Santa Barbara oil spill released vast quantities of oil into the ocean, creating an environmental disaster along the California coastline. This catastrophic event galvanized public awareness and activism, leading to the creation of the first Earth Day, as well as significant environmental legislation, including the establishment of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.
The oil slick visible around Platform A in the Santa Barbara Channel emanated from fissures in the seabed. (Photo: USGS)
Oil spills continue to take place in Southern California and the existence of 26 rigs off the coast are a reminder of that oil boom era. Those rigs are coming to the end of their productive life, however, and an on-gong controversy is what to do with them. Remove them or leave them — or part of them — as artificial reefs?
Over time, oil production in Southern California has waxed and waned. The easily accessible oil has largely been extracted, and production has declined from its mid-20th-century peak. Yet, the legacy of this era persists. It’s etched into the region’s physical and cultural landscape, from the bobbing oil derricks still dotting Signal Hill to the fortunes and institutions built on oil money.
The story of oil in Southern California, particularly the Long Beach fields, is a saga of geologic luck, ambition, ingenuity, and, at times, dangerous greed. It’s a chapter in the state’s history that’s as rich and complex as the oil that still lies beneath its surface, and yet it remains largely unknown to many people who think of Southern California as a paradise of sand and rolling waves.
“A story of greed and mass destruction of a mighty forest.”
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. This remarkable concentration of trees was largely due to the basin’s unique combination of geological and climatic conditions.
The grove’s deep, well-draining granitic soils provided a stable foundation for sequoia growth, allowing their extensive root systems to spread and access water efficiently. Additionally, the region’s position in the Sierra Nevada ensured a steady supply of moisture from winter snowfall, which melted slowly into the summer, maintaining the soil’s hydration even during dry months. Sequoias also depend on periodic low-intensity wildfires, which clear competing vegetation, release seeds from their cones, and create the mineral-rich soil conditions necessary for seedlings to establish. This natural fire cycle once maintained the grove’s density, fostering the exceptional concentration of ancient trees that once dominated area.
Loggers and a team of horses pose on a fallen sequoia 26 feet in diameter. Converse Grove, California 1917. (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.
So how did this happen? The Converse Basin 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. A huge portion of early San Francisco was built using redwood. In fact, redwood was the dominant building material in much of 19th-century California, and San Francisco was practically a redwood city.
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 SF-based company 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,” the lumber was dried, finished and prepared for rail transport to markets across California.
High trestle under construction on the Sanger Flume 1905. (Public Domain)
But how did this happen in the first place?
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 if they simply filed a claim. Like other land laws of the era, it was also designed to encourage westward expansion by making it easier for settlers and speculators to acquire and develop land in the American West.
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.
Converse Basin Grove today (Wikipedia)
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.
“Personally, I really think it’s one of the best birding spots in the world,” Ryan Terrill, science director at the Klamath Bird Observatory.
Within a 45 minute drive from the urban chaos of downtown Los Angeles, lies a natural, ornithological marvel: Bear Divide, a vital corridor for the annual migration of numerous bird species. Every year — roughly between March 15 and June 15, with peak migration between April 10 and May 20 — thousands of birds funnel through the narrow pass. The divide is a small dip in the otherwise impregnable San Gabriel mountains, allowing birds in the midst of their migration to pass through safely at relatively low altitudes. This area is not just a haven for bird enthusiasts but also a critical research site, especially for the team from the Moore Lab of Zoology at Occidental College, who have been delving into the intricacies of these migratory patterns.
The Moore Lab of Zoology is renowned for its extensive bird specimen collection, one of the largest of its kind in the world for Mexican birds.
Part of the large bird collection at the Moore Lab at Occidental College in Pasadena (Erik Olsen)
Bear Divide is strategically positioned along the Pacific Flyway, a significant north-south migratory route used by birds traveling between Alaska and Patagonia. The geographical features of the San Gabriels provide an ideal resting and feeding ground for these birds, making Bear Divide a crucial stopover during their long journeys. It’s this unique combination of location and topography that makes Bear Divide an essential component of avian migration.
U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service
The discovery of Bear Divide was a lucky happenstance. A bird researcher was conducting overnight monitoring in the spring of 2016, and when morning came, he noticed legions of small songbirds whizzing past his monitoring spot. His report caught the attention of postdoc bird scientist Ryan Terrill at Moore Lab at the time, and he began an effort to monitor the birds. Terrill and his team would ultimately record as many as 20,000 birds in a single morning.
“It really is overwhelming to stand on the road and have 5,000 birds of 80 species fly by your knees in a morning,” Terrill said. The effort has continued to this day with startling results. Terrill has since left and is now the science director at the Klamath Bird Observatory.
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“Last year 2023 we counted 53,511 birds of 140 species from February to May,” said John McCormack, a professor of biology and the Director and Curator of the Moore Laboratory of Zoology. “And of course, we missed many thousands more because most travel at night. It’s easy to say that there are hundreds of thousands of birds passing through Bear Divide.”
As many as 13,000 western tanagers, lazuli buntings, chipping sparrows, hermit warblers, orioles, grosbeaks and warblers pass through Bear Divide on a single day. Why they do so, is not entirely understood. The unusual topography of Bear Divide essentially serves as a funnel for the migrating birds, with many of them shooting through the gap just a meter or two above ground.
“Personally, I really think it’s one of the best birding spots in the world,” Terrill told the LA Times.
McCormack says that the “ultimate goal is to better understand the Pacific Flyway and how it’s used, especially by small terrestrial birds. Little is known about their movements because they are hard to see and usually travel at night.”
Hooded Oriole (Ryan Terrill)
Because many of the species sighted at Bear Divide are in steep decline. The lab says that year-to-year counts will help set a baseline for future trends that can be associated with weather, climate, and urbanization. “Tracking individual birds will give granular knowledge on how migratory birds use the landscape, which helps individuals and homeowners create corridors for them to travel,” says McCormack.
The best time to catch the show at Bear Divide is late winter early Spring. McCormack says Cliff Swallows and Lawrence’s Goldfinch are some of the early movers in March, and that by May, streaking by are Yellow Warblers, sunset-faced Western Tanagers, and bright blue Lazuli Buntings.
“There is so much we still don’t know about these birds and their world,” Lauren Hill, the site’s lead bird bander, told the Los Angeles Times. “For example, no one knows where they were before showing up here after sunrise.”
Lazuli Bunting zips past the camera at Bear Divide (Ryan Terrill)
The team is counting birds in order to establish a baseline of the populations coming through Bear Divide so they can understand how much we are changing the environment and what effect that may have on bird populations, many of which are in severe decline.
Their research spans a variety of topics, including how climate change is impacting migration routes and the effects of urbanization on bird populations. The lab has recently begun a program to put satellite trackers on birds at Bear Divide to follow individual birds, providing deep insight into their migration and resting patterns. This research is not only pivotal in understanding avian behavior but also crucial in shaping conservation policies.
One of the most fascinating aspects of Bear Divide is the sheer variety of bird species it attracts. From the diminutive hummingbirds to the impressive birds of prey, each species adds a unique dimension to the study of migration. The Moore lab’s findings have shed light on the varied responses of different species to environmental changes, offering a glimpse into the broader ecological shifts occurring across the globe.
Yellow-rumped Warbler (Ryan Terrill)
One compelling result of the Moore Lab’s study at Bear Divide suggests that the peak of a particular species’ migration is correlated with the latitude of its breeding site. Species that breed at higher latitudes migrated through Bear Divide at later dates. It’s also unusual in the West for species to migrate during the day. Most species of birds using the Pacific Flyway are known to migrate at night.
The Moore Lab of Zoology
In addition to its scientific contributions, the Moore lab is also known for its involvement in citizen science. Collaborating with local birdwatchers and volunteers, the lab extends its research capabilities and cultivates a community actively engaged in bird conservation. This collaborative approach not only enhances the breadth of their research but also underscores the importance of community involvement in conservation efforts.
Bear Divide is on public land, so anyone with a legitimate research project can get permission to work there. UCLA graduate student Kelsey Reckling, who has worked as a counter at Bear Divide since the beginning, is leading the counting efforts this Spring to understand changes in numbers of birds and species across years. Cal State L.A. graduate student Lauren Hill lea ds the group of bird banders, who catch some of the birds and record data, attaching a lightweight metal band around one leg and releasing them. Her lab mate Tania Romero is putting small, lightweight tracking devices on Yellow Warblers, which send signals to a network of tracking (MOTUS) towers across the continent.
Many bird species are under serious threat around the globe from a number of different impacts, including climate change, pesticides and habitat loss. Birds play a critical role in the health of our planet. They regulate ecosystems by preying on insects, pollinating plants, and spreading seeds. Healthy ecosystems are important for breathable air, food, and a regulated climate.
Bear Divide (Ian Davies)
According to a 2019 study, nearly 3 billion breeding birds have been lost in North America and the European Union since 1970. That’s about 30% of the bird population in North America. The 2022 State of the Birds Report for the United States found that bird declines are continuing in almost every habitat, except wetlands. Protecting birds’ habitats, and migration routes and reducing mortality through conservation efforts are crucial to ensuring the survival of these magnificent creatures.
The research conducted at Bear Divide by the Moore lab transcends academic interests, emphasizing the interconnectivity of ecosystems and underscoring the need to preserve natural migration corridors amid urban expansion. The insights gained here are invaluable to both the scientific community and conservation efforts, highlighting the need for a balanced approach to wildlife preservation and ecological sustainability.
Band-tailed Pigeon (Ryan Terrill)
“What’s magical about Bear Divide is that it’s the first real place to see small, migrating birds at eye level in daylight hours,” says McCormack. “I don’t want to oversell it: it’s still a lot of small birds zinging by in a wide open place and it takes a while to get good at identifying them. But by seeing them out there, struggling against the wind and the cold, but still making progress, it gives you a real sense of how amazing their journeys are–and how we shouldn’t make them harder if there’s anything we can do about it.”
Standing tall against the backdrop of the sun-scorched Mojave Desert, the Joshua Tree (Yucca brevifolia) is an emblematic figure of resilience and beauty. With its twisted, bristled limbs reaching towards the sky, this iconic species is not just a tree but a symbol of the untamed wilderness that is California’s desert landscape.
The Joshua Tree’s biology is as unique as its silhouette. It’s often considered to be a member of the Agavaceae family (along with agaves), more closely related to the asparagus than to other trees. This desert dweller is an arborescent, or tree-like, species of yucca, characterized by its stout, shaggy trunk and a crown of spiky leaves. Unlike most trees, the Joshua Tree doesn’t have growth rings, making it difficult to determine their age. However, these trees can live for hundreds of years, with some ancient sentinels estimated to be over a millennium old. The tallest trees reach about 15 m (49 ft). New plants can grow from seed, but in some populations, new stems grow from underground rhizomes that spread out around the parent tree.
Joshua Tree National Park (Erik Olsen)
The Joshua tree is also known as izote de desierto (Spanish for “desert dagger”). It was first formally described in the botanical literature as Yucca brevifolia by George Engelmann in 1871 as part of the famous Geological Exploration of the 100th meridian (or “Wheeler Survey“).
The moniker “Joshua tree” is believed to originate from Mormon pioneers traversing the expanses of the Mojave Desert around the mid-1800s. They found the tree’s distinctive shape—with its limbs persistently outstretched—reminiscent of the biblical tale where Joshua extends his hands for a prolonged period, assisting the Israelites in their capture of Canaan, as recounted in the Book of Joshua. The tree’s tangled leaves also contributed to this image, giving it the semblance of a beard.
Nevertheless, this charming story lacks direct historical evidence from the period and the name “Joshua tree” doesn’t appear in records until after the Mormons had already settled in the area. Interestingly, the tree’s unique form may bear a stronger resemblance to narratives associated with Moses rather than Joshua. The absence of contemporary accounts leaves the true origin of the name enshrouded in the mystery of the past, adding to the tree’s allure and the folklore of the American West.
Joshua Trees burned in the 2020 Dome fire. (Photo: Erik Olsen)
The habitat of the Joshua Tree is as unforgiving as it is beautiful. They are found primarily in the Mojave Desert, the highest and coldest desert in the United States. These trees have adapted to the extremes, flourishing at elevations between 2,000 and 6,000 feet where the temperatures can plummet below freezing at night and soar during the day.
One of the most fascinating aspects of the Joshua Tree is its symbiotic relationship with the yucca moth. In a marvelous evolutionary dance, the moth is the tree’s sole pollinator, and in turn, the tree provides the moth a place to lay its eggs. This mutualistic relationship underscores the delicate balance of desert ecosystems.
Joshua Tree National Park was established as a national monument in 1936 and later upgraded to a national park in 1994, largely to protect the distinctive Joshua Trees and the unique desert ecosystem they epitomize. The effort to safeguard this landscape was driven by citizens and supporters who were passionate about the conservation of its otherworldly terrain and the diverse life forms that inhabit it.
Despite their hardy appearance, Joshua Trees harbor secrets that are only now being fully understood by scientists. Their root systems, for instance, can extend vertically to 30 feet and horizontally to 36 feet, a testament to their search for water in arid soils. Moreover, these trees are a keystone species, providing critical habitat for a host of desert organisms, from the Scott’s Oriole that nests in its branches to the black-tailed jackrabbit seeking shade under its canopy.
Joshua Trees burned in the 2020 Dome Fire (Photo: Erik Olsen)
However, the stability of the Joshua Tree’s future is uncertain. Climate change poses a significant threat to its survival. Rising temperatures and altered precipitation patterns are projected to shrink the suitable habitat for Joshua Trees by up to 90% by the end of the century. Efforts are underway to understand and mitigate these impacts, with conservationists advocating for policies to reduce carbon emissions and protect the Joshua Tree’s habitat from development and resource exploitation.
In August 2020, a devastating blaze known as the Dome Fire swept through the Mojave National Preserve, scorching over 43,000 acres of one of the most extensive Joshua tree forests on the planet, located at Cima Dome. The inferno, which was one of the most destructive in recent history, decimated an estimated 1 million to 1.3 million Joshua trees, transforming a once thriving ecosystem into a haunting landscape of charred remains.
Joshua Trees burned in the 2020 Dome Fire (Photo: Erik Olsen)
This catastrophic event not only altered the physical landscape but also raised urgent questions about the future of these iconic trees in the face of escalating climate change threats. The resilience of Joshua trees to fire is typically low, and the recovery of these forests could be severely hampered by the changing climate, with hotter, drier conditions becoming more common. The loss of these trees in such vast numbers is a stark reminder of the vulnerability of desert ecosystems and the need for immediate action to mitigate the impacts of climate change and protect these natural treasures for future generations.
Although California came out of drought in 2023, there is no guarantee that dry, hot conditions won’t continue. If they do, Joshua trees could lose 90 percent of their range by the end of the century, Dr. Cameron Barrows, a research ecologist with the University of California Riverside’s Center for Conservation Biology told Outside magazine.
The Joshua Tree’s importance to California’s landscape is indelible. It’s not only an ecological mainstay but also a cultural and historical icon, inspiring artists, musicians, and nature lovers alike. The trees’ spiky profiles are a testament to the unrivaled beauty of the American West.
A 1985 methane explosion in L.A.’s Fairfax district turned a Ross Dress for Less into a disaster scene. Photo by Dean Musgrove, courtesy of the Herald-Examiner Collection – Los Angeles Public Library.
In the heart of Los Angeles, on a seemingly ordinary spring day in 1985, a sudden explosion tore through the Ross Dress for Less store at the corner of 3rd Street and Fairfax Avenue. This wasn’t an industrial accident nor was it an act of malice—it was a force of nature that had been lurking unseen beneath the city’s streets: methane gas.
The Fairfax District, a bustling area known for its shopping and historic Farmers Market, is also part of the larger Salt Lake Oil Field, a subterranean landscape rich in hydrocarbons. Over millions of years, decaying organic matter trapped in the earth’s crust had transformed into vast reservoirs of oil and methane gas. It was this methane that had stealthily migrated close to the surface, building up in closed spaces, waiting for an ignition source to set off a dramatic release.
On that day, as shoppers browsed through discounted apparel, an explosive mixture of methane, oxygen, and sewer gases found its spark. The blast shattered the storefront windows and caused a partial cave-in of the roof, turning the shop’s interior into a mangled wreck of metal debris. Twenty-three individuals were left with injuries severe enough to necessitate hospital care. In the aftermath, police cordoned off a four-block radius encompassing the bizarre spectacle of gas fires that jetted into the night sky, a haunting tableau that persisted until dawn.
The aftermath of the explosion was a scene of chaos and confusion. Emergency services sprang into action, addressing the immediate humanitarian concerns. But once the dust settled, a more profound issue loomed: the implications for the city’s ambitious underground Metro Rail project.
At the time, Los Angeles was in the throes of planning and constructing the Metro Red Line, a subway system that promised to link various parts of the sprawling city. Wilshire Boulevard, one of the busiest thoroughfares in Los Angeles, was to be a central artery in this new subterranean network. However, the explosion at Ross Dress for Less exposed the heretofore underestimated risk of tunneling through methane-rich zones.
The city of Los Angeles created a methane zone map showing shaded regions of the methane zone and methane buffer zones.
Fears quickly escalated about the potential for similar explosions occurring elsewhere, particularly along the planned subway routes. The public, already wary of the high costs and disruptions associated with the Metro line, grew increasingly concerned about the dangers of tunneling through methane pockets.
In the wake of the explosion, city officials and Metro Rail engineers faced a daunting challenge. They needed to ensure public safety without derailing the critical infrastructure project. This task required a multifaceted approach. First, there was a thorough scientific investigation. Experts from various fields, including geologists, engineers, and safety specialists, were brought in to assess the risks of methane gas in the Fairfax District and along the proposed Metro route.
In a comprehensive regulatory response, the city imposed stringent building codes and established the Methane Zone Ordinance, which required new constructions in certain areas to implement gas detection and venting systems.
But the blast also resulted in a measure of technological innovation. The Metro Rail project incorporated state-of-the-art methane detection systems and emergency ventilation procedures in its design, setting a new standard for subway safety. The process was aided to some extent by significant community engagement. Public meetings and forums were held to address community concerns, offer reassurances, and provide education on the measures being taken to prevent future incidents.
Despite these efforts, the fear of what lay beneath Los Angeles’ streets had a chilling effect on the Metro’s progress. The Red Line faced delays as policymakers and the public grappled with the cost and complexity of making the subway safe. It wasn’t until the early 2000s, with the introduction of advanced tunneling technologies and robust safety protocols, that the Metro expansion regained momentum.
The 1985 methane explosion, while a localized event, reverberated through time to shape the development of Los Angeles in profound ways. It brought to the forefront the invisible risks of urban growth, challenged engineers and city planners to innovate, and ultimately reaffirmed the resilience of a city determined to rise above its subterranean challenges.
1983 rendering for the planned subway station at Wilshire and Fairfax – a casualty of the Ross explosion. \Courtesy of the Metro Transportation Library and Archive.
The dangers of methane beneath Los Angeles are far from gone. The Porter Ranch leak, also known as the Aliso Canyon gas leak, was a massive methane leak in the Santa Susana Mountains near the neighborhood of Porter Ranch in the northwest section of the San Fernando Valley.. Discovered on October 23, 2015, gas was discovered escaping from a well within the Aliso Canyon underground storage facility. On January 6, 2016, GovernorJerry Brown issued a state of emergency, and numerous media reports suggested that the methane could be dangerous to residents. On February 11, the gas company reported that it had the leak under control, and finally on February 18, state officials announced that the leak was permanently plugged. Still, an estimated 97,100 tonnes (95,600 long tons; 107,000 short tons) of methane and 7,300 tonnes (7,200 long tons; 8,000 short tons) of ethane were released into the atmosphere.
Today, as the Los Angeles Metro continues to expand, the lessons learned from that explosive day in 1985 continue to resonate, ensuring that safety remains at the core of the city’s march toward the future.
