The Garibaldi’s Dance of Color and Character in California’s Coastal Ballet

Underwater photos of California’s coast featured in books and magazines almost always showcase a certain fish: the garibaldi. Within the underwater kaleidoscope of California’s coastal waters, the Garibaldi fish stands out with its fiery orange hue. The garibaldi, a member of the damselfish family, is the California State marine fish, and its possession is illegal.

The fish is likely named after the 19th-century Italian revolutionary Giuseppe Garibaldi, whose army wore bright red shirts, or after the “garibaldi”, a woman’s red blouse worn in the 1890’s.

Biologically speaking, the Garibaldi fish owe their orange coloring mainly to pigments called carotenoids. These carotenoids are pretty interesting; you’ll find them in many fruits and vegetables, like carrots, for example, where they give off that familiar orange glow. Garibaldi eat a diet rich in crustaceans, such as crabs and shrimps, which are packed with these pigments. When the fish ingest them, the carotenoids are absorbed and deposited into the skin tissues.

Carotenoids can also act as antioxidants, which means they might even play a role in protecting the fish’s cells from damage. This is a bit of a two-for-one deal: not only do they get to look good, but they also get some potential health benefits as well.

Interestingly, there’s a bit of a territorial aspect to the bright orange coloration. Garibaldi fish are known to be quite territorial, and the males are especially flashy. They use their bright coloration to ward off rivals and also to attract mates.

The color isn’t just a superficial beauty mark; it plays a significant role in the fish’s survival and reproductive strategies. The orange hue signals strength, dominance, and overall fitness. It’s like a badge of honor they wear to proclaim, “Look at me, I’m strong, healthy, and in charge here!”

The Garibaldi is more than just a pretty face in the crowd. This fish, found from Monterey Bay down to Baja California, displays behaviors and characteristics that make it a subject of intrigue for marine biologists and diving enthusiasts alike.

One of the best places to see Garibaldi if you are a diver or enjoy snorkeling is off the coast of Catalina Island, about 20 miles from Long Beach. One particularly popular spot is Casino Point in the city of Avalon on the island.

Known for being highly territorial, the male Garibaldi is an underwater homeowner, meticulously crafting nests from red algae during mating season. This homemaking process is not just about building; it’s about showmanship. The males showcase their algae-laden nests to prospective females in an underwater dance, swimming around their creation with pride, hoping to entice the females to lay their eggs there.

A California Garibaldi protecting its nest.

But the courtship doesn’t end with the dance. Once the female is wooed and the eggs are laid, the male Garibaldi takes on the role of a nurturing parent. He stands guard over the eggs, fanning them with his pectoral fins to ensure they are well-oxygenated. He even goes to the extent of confronting divers or other fish that venture too close to his precious brood.

The Garibaldi’s territorial nature also extends to a curious interaction with humans. Despite their fierceness in protecting their domain, these fish are known to approach divers, examining them with an inquisitive gaze. This friendliness, coupled with their radiant color, makes them a favorite subject among underwater photographers.

“The only thing that seems to affect their fearless behavior is the color of the animal that’s approaching them,” said Cabrillo Marine Aquarium (CMA) Research Curator Dr. Kiersten Darrow. “They will attack everybody else, but if they see that it’s a garibaldi fish of a certain type then they will back away.”

Perhaps even more fascinating is the Garibaldi’s voice – a distinctive thumping sound that some divers have reported hearing. Though the exact reason for this sound is not entirely understood, it’s believed to be related to their territorial behavior, adding another layer to the mystique of this remarkable fish.

Beyond its engaging behaviors, the Garibaldi’s story carries a note of triumph in conservation. Its popularity led to overfishing in the past, which spurred protective measures. Today, the Garibaldi enjoys protected status in California waters, safeguarding it from harm and allowing it to thrive.

A testament to resilience, the Garibaldi can live for over 20 years, growing slowly and reaching full maturity at about six years of age. This longevity, coupled with its unique characteristics, makes it a symbol of the diverse and vibrant marine life that graces California’s coastline.

Catalina Island and Casino Point (Erik Olsen)

In the world of marine biology, where hidden wonders often lie beneath the waves, the Garibaldi emerges as a charismatic star. With its bold color, intricate courtship rituals, protective parenting, and friendly curiosity, it captures the imagination, not just as a beautiful spectacle but as a complex character in the grand tapestry of ocean life. Whether seen during a dive or behind the glass of an aquarium, the Garibaldi remains a fascinating glimpse into the rich and often surprising world beneath the sea.

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The Eucalyptus Tree’s Twisted Path to Californian Soil

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Tejon Pass is a Journey Through Time, Terrain, and Tectonics

Interstate 5 coming out of the Grapevine near Tejon Pass (Photo: Erik Olsen)

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There’s a drive that I’ve done many times where I tend to look around and wonder about the place. It’s while I’m on I-5 headed north, a while after passing Santa Clarita, Magic Mountain (I always strain to see if there are people on the roller coasters), and the CalArts up on the hill (where so many Pixar legends once trained).

Perhaps you’ve done it, too. Maybe you get gas in Castaic, then you pass Pyramid Lake, and you’ve fully left the San Fernando Valley behind. Then the climb begins and the terrain changes dramatically. It’s subtle at first. The road starts to rise, winding past low ridges covered in golden grass and sun-bleached rock. Then the grade steepens. You see warning signs for trucks: “Turn off A/C to avoid overheating.” Semis tuck into the right lanes, their flashers blinking, straining against gravity. You’re ascending into the Tehachapi Mountains. The name comes from the Southern Paiute word “Tihachipia” meaning “hard climb”, which makes a ton of sense when you’re there. These mountains are part of the geologically fascinating Transverse Ranges, which we’ve written about before. Up ahead is Tejon Pass, the official name for the mountain crossing, but it’s more famously known to most drivers as the Grapevine, the steep stretch of I-5 that descends into the Central Valley.

The highway carves through steep canyon walls and hillsides sometimes bright with flowers, sometimes scarred by past wildfires. If it’s summer, the air gets drier and hotter; in winter, it might be raining or even snowing. You’re crossing one of the most weather-vulnerable stretches of highway in the state. The road is wide but unforgiving. Watch for crosswinds, or the occasional patrol car tucked into a turnout. Tejon Pass is more than just a mountainous pathway connecting the San Joaquin Valley to Los Angeles. It’s a geological and historical hotspot that tells a story of native tribes, daring transportation, seismic activity, and human ingenuity.

The weather can change quickly near Tejon Pass (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Rising to an elevation of 4,160 feet, Tejon Pass’s unique topography is a fascinating blend of rugged mountains, deep canyons, and expansive plateaus. At the summit, the land briefly levels out. There’s a moment where the mountains give you a glimpse in both directions. Behind, the tangled ridges of Southern California. Ahead, a vast, hazy bowl: the southern end of the Central Valley. You pass the Fort Tejon Historical Park turnoff, and suddenly, you’re descending.

The road plunges down in a series of long, controlled curves. Runaway truck ramps cut into the hillside like scars. Then, like stepping through a door, you’re out of the mountains. Flatness stretches to the horizon. Orchards, oil derricks, and cattle fields mark your arrival in the valley. The air feels different. Denser, warmer. You’re in Kern County now, approaching the outskirts of Bakersfield, and the Grapevine is behind you. It’s as if you crossed an invisible line, a border between two Californias.

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

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

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

Tejon Pass near Grapevine, California, in 1868

Long before European contact, Tejon Pass was a vital passageway for several Native American tribes, including the Chumash and Tataviam. The area around present-day Gorman, near the pass, was home to the Tataviam village of Kulshra’jek, which functioned as a significant trading crossroads for centuries. These Indigenous communities recognized the strategic importance of the pass, utilizing it for travel, trade, and communication across regions.

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

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

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

The Ridge Route, completed in 1915, was California’s first paved highway directly connecting the Los Angeles Basin with the San Joaquin Valley. Engineered to traverse the challenging terrain of the Sierra Pelona Mountains, it followed a winding path from Castaic to Gorman, culminating at Tejon Pass. This innovative route was a significant milestone in California’s transportation history, facilitating automobile travel between Southern and Central California.

A notable segment of this route is known as “The Grapevine,” located in the northern portion descending into the Central Valley. The name originates from the Spanish term “La Cañada de las Uvas,” meaning “The Canyon of the Grapes,” a reference to the wild grapevines that early Spanish explorers, including Don Pedro Fages in 1772, observed growing abundantly in the area.

Over time, the Ridge Route underwent several significant transformations to accommodate increasing traffic and improve safety. In 1933, it was replaced by a three-lane alternate highway, later designated as U.S. Route 99. This was expanded into a four-lane expressway by 1953 . Eventually, the route evolved into the modern eight-lane beast known as the Interstate 5 Freeway, completed in 1970, which continues to serve as a vital artery for transportation in California. You will encounter lots and lots of trucks.

Today, Tejon Pass continues to serve as a crucial thoroughfare for Californians and visitors alike, with Interstate 5 traversing the landscape. The Tejon Ranch Conservancy plays a central role in protecting and interpreting this remarkable landscape. Established as part of a landmark 2008 conservation agreement, the Conservancy is tasked with stewarding over 240,000 acres of permanently protected land—making it one of the largest private conservation efforts in California history. Its mission goes beyond preservation; the Conservancy offers guided hikes, wildlife tracking programs, and educational outreach that invite the public to engage directly with the land.

Superbloom near Tejon Ranch (Tejon Ranch Conservancy)

Soon, however, you leave Tejon Pass behind and continue north on I-5, dropping into the southern end of the Central Valley. You pass through the outskirts of Buttonwillow and Lost Hills, where the landscape flattens into a broad, arid plain. It’s mile after mile of industrial agriculture, just endless rows of almonds, pistachios, and oil wells under a hazy sky. The scenery turns monotonous, and although it does have a story (mostly about moving water), it’s one we’ll save for later.

Tejon Pass is one of those places most people barrel through without a second thought. It’s just a steep stretch of I-5 between Los Angeles and the Central Valley, a name on a weather report when the Grapevine closes in winter. But if you take a moment to look beyond the guardrails and gas stations, you’ll find a landscape layered with deep history and surprising complexity. Knowing what lies beneath the pavement won’t make the climb any less steep—but it might make the ride a little more meaningful.

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Baja California Is Slowly Breaking Away from the Mainland and May One Day Become an Island

Baja California and the Sea of Cortez (Photo: Erik Olsen)

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Geological forces are always at work, reshaping the planet, just usually on a timescale too slow for us to notice. But over the long haul, they can completely transform places we think of as fixed and familiar, like Southern California and northern Mexico. I’ve been down to Baja a bunch of times, including a few unforgettable multi-day kayak trips in the Sea of Cortez. Paddling past sheer cliffs and sleeping on empty beaches under the stars, it’s easy to feel like the landscape has been frozen in time. But that sense of permanence? It’s an illusion.

Baja California stretches like a crooked finger pointing toward the tropics, wedged between the restless Pacific and the calm, warm waters of the Gulf of California. This long, skinny slice of land, more than 1,200 miles from Mexicali to Cabo, is full of contrasts: sun-blasted deserts, jagged mountains, hidden oases and mangroves. But it’s not just a finger of land: it’s a fracture. Baja was ripped from mainland Mexico by slow, grinding tectonic forces, the Pacific Plate dragging it north and leaving the Gulf in its wake. And it’s still on the move.

Kayaking the Sea of Cortez out of Loreto, Mexico on the Baja Peninsula (Photo: Erik Olsen)

Every year, Baja creeps a little farther away from the continent, slowly widening the gap. Some scientists think that, millions of years from now, the whole rift could flood, turning parts of northern Mexico into a vast inland sea. It’s the continent, cracking apart right under our feet. it’s just taking its time.

This process is linked to the activity of the San Andreas Fault and other associated fault systems, which collectively form a boundary between the Pacific Plate and the North American Plate. The movement of these tectonic plates is a slow but relentless process, occurring over millions of years. (Slow, and yet as we’ve documented, there’s been quite a bit of movement over that long period of time).

The Pacific Plate is moving northwest relative to the North American Plate, and the San Andreas Fault system primarily accommodates this movement. In essence, the Baja California Peninsula is moving with the Pacific Plate alongside and away from the North American Plate.

The separation is taking place at an average rate of about 2 to 5 centimeters per year. Over millions of years, these movements accumulate, leading to significant shifts in the geography of regions like Baja California. According to some geologists, within the next 20-30 million years, this tectonic movement could eventually break Baja and the westernmost part of California off of North America to create a vast inland sea, if not an island.

The movement of the continental crust in the area is due in part to seafloor spreading at a massive underwater seam called the East Pacific Rise. This mid-ocean ridge stretches from the southeastern Pacific near Antarctica all the way north into the Gulf of California. Its northernmost extension, known as the Gulf of California Rift Zone, reaches close to the mouth of the Colorado River, helping drive the slow but steady separation of the Baja California Peninsula from mainland Mexico.

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That geological rift didn’t just shape the land—it created an entirely new sea. The story of Baja California’s tectonic journey isn’t just about earthquakes and shifting plates, it’s also a story of water. The Gulf of California, also known as the Sea of Cortez, is a geologically young sea, having formed around 5.3 million years ago when the Baja Peninsula began drifting northwest. That rifting process continues today, slowly widening the gulf and redrawing the landscape of northwest Mexico.

The azure waters of the Sea of Cortez (Photo: Erik Olsen)

This body of water is a critical habitat for marine life, including several species of whales and dolphins that depend on its warm waters. Jacques Cousteau, the famous French oceanographer, famously referred to the Gulf of California as “the world’s aquarium” due to its vast array of (declining) marine life.

The Sea of Cortez today is under threat from our short time so far on the planet. Unfortunately, overfishing and pollution, including nitrogen-rich runoff from the Colorado River, which (sort of) flows directly into the gulf, imperils wildlife. Nutrient flows can lead to a dramatic decrease in oxygen, depriving plants and animals of the life-giving gas. The potential extinction of the critically endangered vaquita (Phocoena sinus), represents one of the most urgent conservation crises in the region. The vaquita is the world’s most endangered marine cetacean, with estimates suggesting only a few individuals remain. This dire situation is primarily due to bycatch in illegal gillnets used for fishing another endangered species, the totoaba fish, whose swim bladder is highly valued in traditional Chinese medicine.

Habitat destruction is another growing concern, as mangroves, estuaries, and reefs, vital for the breeding and feeding of marine species, are increasingly destroyed to make way for tourism infrastructure and coastal development. Climate change intensifies these problems, with rising sea temperatures and ocean acidification threatening reefs and the broader ecosystem.

Baja California as seen in April 1984, from the bay of a Space Shuttle (Photo: NASA)

The birth of the Sea of Cortez also has an intriguing connection to a body of water hundreds of miles to the north: the Salton Sea. The Salton Sea, California’s largest lake, sits in the Salton Trough, an area geologists consider a “rift zone,” an extension of the same tectonic forces at work in the Gulf of California.

As the North American and Pacific Plates continue their slow-motion dance, the area around the Salton Sea may sink further, eventually linking with the Gulf of California. If this occurs, seawater could flood the basin, creating a new body of water significantly opening the Sea of Cortez. As mentioned above, eventually this could lead to the full separation of the peninsula from the mainland. However, such a dramatic event is likely millions of years in the future, if it happens at all. Interestingly, the Salton Sea acts as a mirror, reflecting the past processes that led to the formation of the Sea of Cortez.

The Sea of Cortez stands at a crossroads, shaped by both human impact and tectonic drift. Baja California is slowly pulling away from mainland Mexico, a process that could one day create a vast inland sea and dramatically reshape the region. While no one alive today will witness the full transformation, its ultimate impacts could be extreme—redrawing coastlines, shifting ecosystems, and isolating parts of southern California and Mexico in ways we can scarcely imagine.

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How Citrus Transformed California

A Look into the Roots and Ripened Impact of the Citrus Industry

You might associate California with Hollywood, Silicon Valley, or even its stunning coastline. However, a significant cornerstone in the Golden State’s development, prosperity, and identity was quite literally golden: zesty, golden orbs of citrus fruit. California’s citrus industry had a profound impact on the state’s economic, labor, and global landscape, particularly within Southern California.

The citrus industry in California has surprisingly humble beginnings. Spanish missionaries brought orange seeds to California in 1769. The San Gabriel Mission was established in 1771 and had extensive gardens that included a variety of fruits and vegetables. The seeds for the Mission’s citrus trees are believed to have come from the Spanish missions in Baja California, Mexico, which in turn got them from the Spanish mainland. The original citrus varieties in Spain were likely brought over from Asia, as citrus trees are native to South Asia and the East Indies.

But the true beginning of what became a multibillion-dollar industry can be attributed to one man. In 1841, William Wolfskill, an American-Mexican pioneer, cowboy, and agronomist in Los Angeles, planted the first commercial orange grove on a 100-acre ranch near what is now downtown Los Angeles. Wolfskill, a frontier entrepreneur, had initially tried his hand at vineyards, but saw potential in the rugged, fertile Californian soil for more than just grapes.

Obtaining his initial seeds from the orchards of the San Gabriel Mission, Wolfskill’s citrus venture started small. However, his methodical approach to farming and his adoption of innovative irrigation techniques allowed his grove to flourish in the Mediterranean-like climate of Southern California. Wolfskill’s oranges were renowned for their quality, gaining him a reputation that extended beyond the borders of California.

Known as the father of the California citrus industry, his foresight and innovation set the stage for the development of an industry that became a cornerstone of the state’s economy and identity. Wolfskill’s real legacy lies in his profound impact on California’s agricultural landscape. When William Wolfskill passed away in Los Angeles in 1866, citrus was booming, but it was mostly a local industry.

The real turning point for the Californian citrus industry was the completion of the transcontinental railroad in 1869. The railroad’s establishment allowed for the efficient transportation of his citrus crops to markets in the east, bringing the sweet, sun-kissed taste of California’s oranges to consumers across the country. This access to nationwide markets transformed local citrus farming into a profitable commercial industry.

The citrus boom in California reached its zenith in the late 19th and early 20th century. It was during this period that the citrus industry became a pivotal part of the state’s economy and helped shape its cultural identity. The industry’s growth was inextricably tied to specific regions, primarily Southern California, including Riverside, Los Angeles, and Orange counties.

Orange groves cover the Southern California landscape early in the 20th century.

Riverside, the city in which the iconic parent Washington navel orange tree still stands, was the epicenter of the navel orange industry. These sweet, seedless fruits were a hit across the nation, revolutionizing the American diet and transforming Riverside from a small town to a thriving city.

Characterized by its bright orange skin, seedless interior, and distinctive “navel” at the blossom end, the navel orange is a variety synonymous with California. But its journey to the Golden State began thousands of miles away, in the far-off city of Bahia, Brazil.

The navel orange is a natural mutation that occurred in a Selecta orange tree, a variety of sweet orange, in the early 19th century in Bahia. This mutation caused a secondary fruit to develop at the base of the primary fruit, giving the appearance of a ‘navel’. The resultant fruit was larger, sweeter, and seedless, distinguishing it from other orange varieties.

But the navel orange is not the only variety that came to define California citrus. Orange County, aptly named, was a crucial player in the citrus game, its groves sprawling over thousands of acres. At one point, Orange County was the largest producer of Valencia oranges in the world.

Valencia oranges, named for the city of Valencia in Spain, are believed to have originally come from Southeast Asia, just like all other citrus varieties. Citrus trees are native to regions including present-day China, India, Myanmar, and surrounding countries. Over centuries, traders and explorers disseminated citrus fruits across the globe.

The Valencia orange was brought to the United States in the mid-19th century. In California, they found a new home in the perfect growing conditions of Southern California. The peak ripening season of Valencia oranges — late spring through mid-summer — complemented that of the navel oranges, which ripen in the winter. This made Valencia oranges an appealing addition for California citrus growers as they could provide fresh oranges to markets year-round by growing both varieties.

Los Angeles County, although now synonymous with the urban sprawl of the film industry, was once carpeted with citrus groves. The rolling, sun-dappled orchards were integral to the local economy and became an iconic image of the Golden State.

But the growth of the citrus industry brought about significant labor issues. As the demand for citrus surged, so did the need for labor. Initially, much of the work was done by Chinese immigrants. However, with the implementation of the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, growers turned to Japanese immigrants, then later to Mexican immigrants.

Working conditions in the citrus fields were often harsh, leading to numerous labor disputes and strikes, notably the Citrus Strike of 1936 by Mexican workers in Tulare County. The citrus industry thus played a significant role in the evolution of labor rights and immigration policy in California and the United States more broadly.

The golden fruits of California did not just revolutionize the state but also had far-reaching global impacts. California’s citrus industry significantly influenced agricultural practices worldwide. Its innovative irrigation systems, pest control methods, and marketing strategies were adopted by many other countries.

However, the industry also faced challenges on the global stage. Competition from other citrus-growing regions, like Florida and countries in the Mediterranean, put pressure on California’s growers. Additionally, changes in international trade policies and global consumer preferences continually shaped the trajectory of the state’s citrus industry.

Today, while the landscape has changed with urbanization and competition, California’s citrus industry remains a significant part of the state’s agriculture, generating billions of dollars annually. Moreover, the citrus industry’s historical and cultural impact is undeniably intertwined with California’s identity. Its echoes can still be seen in the names of places, like Orange County, or tasted in the sweet tang of a California navel orange.

The story of citrus in California is a tale of transformation, from a single orange grove in Los Angeles to a global industry that rippled through the state’s economy, workforce, and identity. It’s a testament to the power of agriculture to shape a region and its people and serves as a vivid reminder of California’s golden past.

Today, California Citrus State Historical Park preserves some of the rapidly vanishing cultural landscape of the citrus industry and tells the story of this industry’s role in the history and development of California. Furthermore, it recaptures the time when “Citrus was King” in California, recognizing the importance of the citrus industry in southern California.

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Ghost of the West: The Tragic Story of the California Grizzly Bear’s Journey from Wilderness to State Flag

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In the expansive and diverse landscape of California, many iconic animals are an integral part of the state’s reputation for natural beauty and untamed wilderness. Yet, one particular creature looms larger in the Californian narrative than many others – a species that has been extinct for nearly a century, but lives on as a powerful symbol: the California Grizzly Bear (Ursus arctos californicus).

The California Grizzly Bear, a subspecies of the Grizzly Bear, was a formidable presence in the wild terrains of California. This remarkable beast could grow up to 8 feet tall when standing on its hind legs, and adult males often weighed in excess of 2000 pounds. They sported a lustrous fur coat that varied in color from blond to dark brown, making them a striking, and sometimes terrifying, sight in the California wilderness.

The famous California Grizzly “Monarch” was housed in an enclosure at Golden Gate Park around 1910.
It passed away the following year. (California State Archives)

The name “Grizzly” could have meant “grizzled,” a term referring to the animal’s golden and grey tips of hair. Or quite possibly it meant “fear-inspiring” (as a phonetic spelling of “grisly”). The naturalist George Ord formally classified it in 1815 as Ursus horribilis (“terrifying bear”).

This giant was an omnivore with a varied diet that changed with the seasons. The bear’s dietary staples included seeds, berries, roots, fish, and small mammals. But the California Grizzly was also known to take down larger prey, such as deer and elk, when the opportunity presented itself. The first recorded encounters with California grizzly bears are found in diaries kept by several members of the 1769 Portola expedition, the first European land exploration of the southern stretch of the West Coast. Several place names that include the Spanish word for bear (oso) trace their origins back to that first overland expedition. For example, the city of Los Osos.

Prior to Spanish settlement in the second half of the 1700s, it is estimated that 10,000 grizzly bears inhabited what is today considered modern-day California.

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Stories about the California Grizzly Bear echo throughout the annals of California’s history and literature. In his book “The Mountains of California,” renowned naturalist John Muir recounted his encounters with these awe-inspiring creatures, stating, “When I discovered him, he was standing in a narrow strip of meadow, and I was concealed behind a tree on the side of it.”

California State Flag featuring the California Grizzly

As enduring as any mountain or redwood forest, the legacy of the California Grizzly Bear persists in the emblem of the state flag.

The inclusion of the grizzly bear on the California flag traces its roots back to a revolt in 1846, before California was a part of the United States. At the time, California was under Mexican rule and a group of American settlers staged a revolt known as the Bear Flag Revolt, in which they declared California to be an independent republic.

The settlers needed a flag to represent their new republic, so they designed a simple flag that included a grizzly bear, a single red star (inspired by the lone star of Texas), and the words “California Republic.” The grizzly bear was chosen because it was seen as a powerful and formidable creature, much like the settlers saw themselves. It was intended to represent strength, unyielding resistance, and independence. The republic was short-lived, however, because soon after the Bear Flag was raised, the U.S. military began occupying California, which went on to join the union in 1850.

The man who drew the bear on the original flag, William L. Todd, was a cousin of Mary Todd Lincoln, the wife of Abraham Lincoln. Unfortunately, Todd was not a great artist, and his bear looked more like a pig, which led to some ridicule and a new design.

The original California state flag, as designed by William L. Todd

In 1911, the design of the flag was standardized, and the grizzly bear became the central figure that we recognize today. The bear depicted on the flag is named “Monarch” after the last California grizzly bear captured and held in captivity. Monarch was captured in 1889 by newspaper reporter Allan Kelly, at the behest of William Randolph Hearst. Monarch’s remaining life was not pleasant. He spent his remaining 22 years in captivity, and was moved to Woodwards Gardens in San Francisco, and then to the zoo at Golden Gate Park. After the bear’s death in 1911, it was mounted and preserved (ahem, poorly) at the Academy of Sciences at Golden Gate Park.

Despite its iconic status, the California Grizzly Bear could not withstand the pressures of expanding human civilization. The arrival of settlers during the California Gold Rush in the mid-19th century marked the beginning of the end for the bear. As the human population exploded, the bears’ natural habitats were destroyed to make way for towns and agriculture. Additionally, the bear, seen as a threat to livestock and a danger to humans, was hunted extensively.

By the early 20th century, the California Grizzly Bear was on the brink of extinction. The last confirmed sighting of a California grizzly bear occurred in 1924 within Sequoia National Park. This marked the end of the species’ presence in the state, following decades of hunting and habitat loss. Prior to this, the last known grizzly in Southern California was killed in 1916 near Sunland, in the San Fernando Valley. The California grizzly, once abundant throughout the region, was declared extinct in the wild by the mid-1920s. The California Grizzly was declared extinct in 1924.

In recent years, discussions have emerged about the feasibility of reintroducing grizzly bears to California. Research indicates that the state possesses substantial suitable habitat for grizzlies, particularly in the Sierra Nevada and other mountainous regions. Some studies suggest that California could support a population of approximately 500 grizzly bears.

In 2014, the Center for Biological Diversity filed a legal petition urging the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to expand grizzly bear recovery efforts across the American West, including California. The petition identified 110,000 square miles of potential grizzly habitat in areas such as the Sierra Nevada. However, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service rejected this petition, citing concerns about habitat suitability and potential human-bear conflicts.

California grizzly taxidermy specimen at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History (Vahe Martirosyan)

The following year, in 2015, the Center for Biological Diversity initiated a petition directed at the California state legislature to reintroduce grizzly bears to the state. This effort aimed to raise public awareness and encourage state officials to explore the possibility of reintroduction. Despite these initiatives, the California Department of Fish and Wildlife has expressed reservations, emphasizing the significant changes in the state’s landscape and human population density since the grizzly’s extirpation. Officials have highlighted the potential challenges of human-bear interactions, given California’s current population of nearly 40 million people.

The debate over reintroducing grizzly bears to California continues, balancing ecological restoration goals with concerns about human safety and land use. While the state retains areas that could potentially support grizzlies, the complexities of modern coexistence present significant challenges to reintroduction efforts.

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A Deep Dive into the World of California’s Orcas: Majestic Ocean Predators

The marine ecosystem of California is both vibrant and diverse, boasting an array of majestic creatures, from the smallest microorganisms to the most massive marine mammals. One of the ocean’s most iconic inhabitants, the orca or killer whale (Orcinus orca), has attracted a significant amount of fascination and intrigue due to its striking appearance, formidable hunting abilities, complex social structure, and enduring presence in human culture.

In May, an uncommonly large grouping of orcas for Northern California — around 20 to 24 animals — was spotted by a whale-watching tour off the coast of San Francisco, likely gathered together to celebrate a successful hunt for sea lions or seals.

“I screamed ‘orca!’” Michael Pierson, an Oceanic Society naturalist leading the tour, told KTLA “those distinct dorsal finds poking out of the water.”

“It was really, really special,” Pierson said.

In June, a crowd of 30 killer whales met for a whale party in California’s Monterey Bay. Observers said they did belly flops into the water, slapped the waves with their flukes and spumed water from their blowholes, surprising marine biologists who had never seen the animals engage in such playful behavior for such a long period.

“Just like kids that are in a park, they get excited and play with the other kids and may be more active,” said Nancy Black, a marine biologist with Monterey Bay Whale Watch and the director of the California Killer Whale Project. “The little ones were wrestling and rolling like a bunch of puppies.”

An astonishing video last May showed a group of 30 orcas attacking two grey whales near Monterey. “We were able to observe the unique hunting strategies of the pods and the rarely seen defensive strategies of the two Grays,” Monterey Bay Whale Watch said. “The battered gray whales eventually made it to shallow water, and the orcas broke off.”

Black’s California Killer Whale Project has spent thirty years cataloging the killer whales that spend time in Monterey Bay. The group is able to recognize many of the whales by their spotted markings and the common tail notches.

The whales are rarely seen further south of Monterey, but another whale-watching tour off the coast of Southern California spotted a pod of killer whales last April, just off Newport Beach. The viewing included a rare glimpse of a three-year-old albino calf named Frosty due to its white appearance. (The white skin of the whale may not be albinism, per see. Several known conditions cause certain animals, including orcas, to look white. One condition is the extremely rare leucism, which is a genetic condition that causes the unusual coloring and the pigmentation of the skin to be paler. The other is Chediak-Higashi syndrome, an inheritable immune deficiency that can cause partial albinism.)

The term “killer whale” is a bit of a misnomer. Killer whales are actually dolphins and the largest species of the family Delphinidae. An adult male can typically grow up to 26 feet long and weigh up to 6 tons, while females are typically smaller. That said, The largest recorded male killer whale was 9.8 m (32 ft.) in length and weighed 10,000 kg (22,000 lbs.) The largest recorded female was 8.5 m (28 ft.) and weighed 7,500 kg (16,500 lbs.). They are known for their distinctive black and white coloration, with a dark dorsal side and a lighter ventral side. The tall, triangular dorsal fin of a male orca, which can reach heights of up to 6 feet, is a distinguishing characteristic.

Orcas are warm-blooded mammals, with an impressive ability to regulate their body temperature even in the cold waters off California’s coast. Their thick layer of blubber not only insulates them but also acts as a reservoir of energy when food is scarce.

Killer whales are top predators and display a diverse diet, although their food preference varies depending on the population. They are known to feed on fish, squids, seals, sea lions, and even other whales. In California waters, salmon, particularly Chinook, is a crucial part of their diet, but they also consume marine mammals such as sea lions and seals.

In orca societies, females generally choose the mates. Gestation lasts for about 17 months, with females giving birth every 3 to 10 years. The mother-calf bond in orcas is remarkably strong, often lasting for a lifetime. Orcas are known for their complex social structures, including matrilineal groups comprising grandmothers, mothers, and their offspring.

Killer whales are found in oceans worldwide, from the frigid Arctic and Antarctic regions to tropical seas. In California, they are most frequently sighted in Monterey Bay, the Gulf of the Farallones, and along the northern coast near the Oregon border. They migrate following their prey, and their appearance in California waters often aligns with the migration of gray whales, a favorite prey species.

Orcas have been popular in human culture, depicted in indigenous art, folklore, and mythology. Their image was catapulted into the modern mainstream by the 1993 film “Free Willy.” Yet, their captive display in marine parks like SeaWorld has sparked controversy and fueled a significant shift in public perception towards marine mammal captivity. The 2013 documentary “Blackfish” shed light on the stressors faced by these magnificent creatures in captivity, leading to policy changes and declining popularity of such exhibits.

Orcas are not typically dangerous to humans in the wild, and there are very few documented cases of wild orcas attacking people. However, tragic incidents involving captive orcas and their trainers have occurred, which some attribute to the psychological stress of captivity.

Despite their wide range and lack of natural predators, orcas face significant threats due to human activities. These include pollution, overfishing of their prey, habitat degradation, and noise disturbances. In some parts of the world, orcas are hunted for their meat and blubber.

A female resident orca whale breaches while swimming in Puget Sound near Bainbridge Island, Wash., as seen from a federally permitted research vessel. The National Marine Fisheries Service has finalized rules to expand the Southern Resident orca’s critical habitat from the Canadian border down to Point Sur, Calif., adding 15,910 square miles, (41,207 square kilometers) of foraging areas, river mouths and migratory pathways. (AP Photo/Elaine Thompson, File)

All killer whales are protected under the Marine Mammal Protection Act (MMPA) and the Southern Resident population is listed as an endangered species under the Endangered Species Act (ESA).

The majesty and power of the orca have undeniably earned it a special place in human imagination and culture. Yet, it’s crucial to understand and respect these creatures in their natural habitat, to learn from them, and to work towards preserving the marine ecosystems they call home. California’s orcas are a testament to the incredible life thriving in our oceans, a life we must commit to protecting.

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