Santa Cruz Island Anthology | Occasional Paper Number 1

NOTICIAS Quarterly Magazine Op The Santa Barbara Historical Society Vol. XXXV, Nos.1,2

Spring.Summer 1989

/SLANDf i sr

C%UZ ISLmQ) ANTHOLOGY Edited by Marla Daily

Occasional Paper Number 1

1989 Santa Cruz Island Foundation

In cooperation with the Santa Cruz Island Foundation, the Historical Society offers to its members this special double issue o/NOTICIAS on the history of Santa Cruz Island.

The articles in this anthology have previously appeared in NOTICIAS, the Ventura County Historical Society Quarterly, and The Californians magazine and together form a unique account of the "'Island of the Floly Cross."

We hope you enjoy it.

Michael Redmon, NOTICIAS Editor

The Santa Barbara Historical Society, 136 E. De la Guerra Street, Santa Barbara, California 93101

c^z isLzifAdp ANTHOLOGY

s^v\£m c‘Ruz isLm0j ANTHOLOGY

Edited by Marla Daily in collaboration with The Santa Barbara Historical Society and The Ventura County Museuna of History & Art

OCCASIONAL PAPER NUMBER 1 1989

SANTA CRUZ ISLAND FOUNDATION Santa Barbara, California

c^z rscno\(p ANTHOLOGY

Anthology copyright © 1989 by tho Santa Cruz Island Foundation. All rights rcserved.

The Santa Cruz Island Foundation gratefully acknowledges the cooperation of the Santa Barbara Historical Society and the Ventura County Museum of His tory & Art for granting permission to reproduce the articles and photographs which have appeared in their respective publications.

Copyright of those articles written by Helen Cairo rests with the author and arc reprinted herein with permission.

Cover and book design by Marla Daily and Nancy Donnelly, Santa Cruz Island Foundation.

Printed by Kimberly Press, Inc., Golcta

ISBN: 087461-077-X First Edition

To the Caire and Stanton Families who together preserved the history of Santa Cruz Island for 118 years

and

To Carey Stanton (1923-1987) who established the Santa Cruz Island Foundation to protect, preserve and carry on the work of the Caire and Stanton families

Preface The Santa Cruz Island Foundation was established by the late Dr. Carey Stanton to promote research on California's Channel Islands. This current work has been undertaken as the first in a series of occasional papers which will, in part, fulfill this mis sion.

As institutions dedicated to the preservation of California history, both the Santa Barbara Historical Society and the Ventura County Museum of History & Art have encouraged the publication of articles about the California Channel Islands.

Of the thirteen articles included in the Santa Cruz Island An thology, eight have previously appeared in Santa Barbara Historical Society's Noticias, and four have appeared in the Ventura Historical Society Quarterly. Herein published for the first time is a partial Justinian Caire family genealogy and Santa Cruz Island chain of title.

For the sake of continuity, the island articles herein have been arranged chronologically. They cover a time span of over a century. Whenever possible, the photographs which accompa nied the original articles have been included. In some cases, ei ther substitute images were used, or new materials from the collections of the Santa Cruz Island Foundation were intro duced. Brief editorial notes, in italics, precede each article.

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Acknowledgments The editor gratefully acknowledges the following people and institutions who facilitated in the publication of this anthology: Patricia Clark of the Ventura County Museum of History &: Art initially shared her idea for such a publication with Publications Committee Chairman David Myrick and Librarian Michael Redmon of the Santa Barbara Historical Society. David Myrick approached the Santa Cruz Island Foundation, and Foundation Directors David D. Watts of Los Angeles and Eric P. Hvolboll of Santa Barbara voted affirmative support. Richard R. Esparza, Executive Director of the Santa Barbara Historical Society, aided in logistics. Helen Caire of San Francisco and Vivienne Caire Chiles of Inverness graciously offered additional Caire family materials and photographs. Typographer Judy Sutcliffe aided in the computer typesetting and layout phases of the anthology.

Photographer William B. Dewey was and is always ready to help, often times with little notice. Foremost, Santa Cruz Island Foundation Associate Nancy Donnelly enthusiastically and tirelessly applied her computer, editorial and design skills in completing this Santa Cruz Island Anthology.

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation Directors President Marla Daily ...

Eric P. Hvolboll Vice President/Treasurer David D. Watts Secretary Administrative Assistant

Nancy Donnelly

1989 Santa Cruz Island Foundation Advisory Council Charles S. Allyn Thomas F. Andrews Richard and Rosemary Bergen Shull and Lucy Bonsall Anthony Brown Jonathan Brown Larry and Nancy Callahan Patricia Clark John and Vivienne Caire Chiles Helen Caire Mark Connally Richard and Phyllis Diebenkorn Thomas E. Donnelly William H. Ehorn Richard R. Esparza Jane Fonda William and Polly Goodan Theodore S. Green Bob Hansen Victor Illig Jarrell C. Jackman John R. Johnson

Anthony Kroll Robert J. Lagomarsino Lyndal L. Laughrin Edvv^ard R. Lewis Mildred E. Mathias Francis McComb Steve J. McCormick Knox Mellon Jean Storke Menzies John and Barbara Merritt David F. Myrick Norman Neuerburg Doyce B. Nunis, Jr. Dennis M. Power Francis Earl Rider Lila C. Sexton Clifton F. Smith N. Russ Vail A1 Vail Carol Valentine Joe Walsh Msgr. Francis Weber Marion Witbeck

IX

Table of Contents

Preface

vn Vlll

Acknowledgments Introduction

1

Santa Barbara Historical Society's Santa Cruz Island Exhibition

2

Partial Caire Family Genealogy

4

1. Diary of a Santa Barbara Visitor, 1909 Excerpt from the 1909 diary of Gordon Forbes

7

2. Our Trip to Santa Cruz Island

by Horace Sexton (1922) ....

11

3. A Brief History of Santa Cruz Island from 1869 to 1937 29

by Helen Caire 4. Christmas at the Island (Expanded from a 1933 essay in 1983)

by Helen Caire

49

5. Santa Cruz Island Mrs. Ambrose Gherini is interviewed 63

by Mr. Spaulding (1959) XI

6. Island Rancho 71

by Pier Gherini (1966) 7. Historical Highlights of Santa Cruz Island

by Marla Daily and Carey Stanton (1983/1986)....

79

8. Island Roundups and Shearing

by Helen Caire (1986)

89

9. The Last Vaqueros

by Helen Caire (1986)

107

10. Hunting Wild Hogs on Santa Cruz Island

by Helen Caire (1987)

121

11. Two Island Dogs

by Helen Caire (1987)

133

12. Santa Cruz Island Vintage

by Helen Caire (1987)

143

13. John Barrymore's Visits to Santa Cruz Island

by Helen Caire (1988)

153

Santa Cruz Island Chain of Title

160

m

Introduction In 1839 Santa Cruz Island was granted to Andres Castillero by the Mexican governor of California. For the past one hundred and fifty years, Santa Cruz Island has remained the largest pri vately owned island off the coast of the continental United States. Millions of people see the island from the mainland; some have had the opportunity to visit, but only a few have come to know it intimately. Of those few, only a handful have put their experiences to paper and ink.

Helen Caire is one of the few persons who has had the fore sight to preserve Santa Cruz Island's history through her writ ings. Here, collected for the first time, are eight of her poignantly colorful articles which recount island days and a way of life now gone the way of the California condor.

The Caire family has been involved with Santa Cruz Island since 1869 when Justinian Caire purchased an interest in the is land. By 1880 he had become sole stockholder in the Santa Cruz Island Company. Upon his death in 1897, he was survived by his wife, Albina, and six children. His two sons, Arthur J. and Frederic F., continued active management of Santa Cruz Island.

As a result, Arthur's three children ("the A.J.s") and Frederic’s five daughters ("the F.F's) spent considerable time on the island. Family litigation began about fourteen years after Justinian Caire's death, causing a division among his heirs.

Justinian's widow Albina, and four of the children (Delphine, Arthur, Frederic and Helen) were challenged by daughters Amelie and Aglae. Amelie died in 1917. However, her daughter Maria, whose husband was attorney Ambrose Gherini, contin ued to represent his wife's family branch. In 1924 Albina Caire died and in 1925, due to the family litigation, the island was partitioned. In 1937 the westerly 55,000 acres of Santa Cruz Island were sold to Edwin L. Stanton, a business man from Los Angeles. Today only Amelie Caire's descendants retain a por tion of the island—the easterly 6600 acres which are slated for future inclusion within Channel Islands National Park.

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The Stanton family occupied Santa Cruz Island for fifty years (1937-1987). Edwin and Evelyn Stanton had two sons, Edwin Jr. and Carey. Edwin Jr. was killed in Normandy in World War II. With Edwin Stanton's death in 1963, management of the Santa Cruz Island Company passed to Carey Stanton.

On December 8, 1987, through the generous preservation foresight of Carey Stanton, upon his death the westerly 9/lOths of Santa Cruz Island passed to The Nature Conservancy.

Carey Stanton established the Santa Cruz Island Foundation to ensure that after his death, the work to which he had devot ed much of his life, would be preserved for public benefit. The Santa Cruz Island Foundation is proud to present this antholo gy in conjunction with Santa Cruz Island exhibits which will be on display in 1989 at the Santa Barbara Historical Museum followed by the Ventura County Museum of History & Art. Marla Daily February 20,1989

Exhibits of the Santa Cruz Island Foundation -1989

Santa Cruz: IsCand of tfe OdoCy Cross Idle (Private years idle Caire "Era

Idie Stanton Era

SI Century ofSanta Cruz IsCand(Paintings Santa Cruz IsCand: iCien andOdcnv (Pfwtograpfis By iVdCiam (B.(Dewey

2

Justinian Caire and his daughter, Delphine, in the Petaluma cart, circa 1880s.

Photograph from a broken glass plate.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection)

M The Santa Cruz Island Company office as it appeared December 8, 1987, was recreated for the 1989 exhibits at the Santa Barbara Historical Society and the Ventura County Museum of History & Art. (Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection. Photo by William B. Dewey)

3

PARTIAL CAIRE FAMILY GENEALOGY Jean Baptiste Caire = Marie Anne Arduin ( ? -1855) (1778-1874) JUSTINIAN CAIRE = Albina Cristina Sara Candida Maria Molfino (1831-1924) (1827-1897) Delphine A. / Adrien M.A. / Arthur J. / Amelie A. / Albert A. / Aglae S. / FfcdgriC F. / Helene A. / Marie C. (1859-1942) (1861-1917) (1862-1875) (1864-1943) ( 1865-1950) (1867-1929) (1871-1873) (1858-1858) “ietro Rossi ■= Mary Suich ^.G^apuccio a-Lillian Suich

(1856-1949)

1. Justinian Caire II (1906-1986] = M. Bemheim

1. Maria Rossi (1883-1960) = Ambrose Ghcrini

1) Yvonne(b.l939) 2) Jacquline(b.l941) 3) Justinian III(b.l948) 2. Olivia Lucille Caire = G. Swonfiguer 1) Arthur 2) Robert 3. Miriam Frances Caire

2.

1.

(Joffredo (fDO'Mm) = 1. Keidenauer

2. Aglac E. '●Ciu"(19091) Marie(b.l907) = M. McDougald 2) Ilda(b.l910) 1) Lawrence 3) Pier Ghcrini(b.l912; 2) Catherine 4) Francis(b.l914) Edmund(1887-1974) =B. Brandt

3.

Robert(1887-1961) =E. Bulotti

4.

5.

Esther(1809-1968)unmarriec Aimee(1892-1985)nun

)

1. L. A. Jeanne 2. Marie 3. Helen Caire 4. Delphine 5. F. Vivienne = J. Chiles 1) Mary B. 2) Frederic 3) James F. 4) Catherine 5) John G.

6. A. 01ga(1894-1983)nun 7. Beatrice(1896= J. Tonens

)

8. Albina(1899= C. Wall

) )

9. Elenore(1901= V. O’Donnell 10. P. Carlon902)priesi ● Justinian Caire = EGO *● Bold names indicate authors of articles in this anthology Underlined names of Arthur J. and Frederic F. Caire indicate Justinian Cairo's sons who managed the island after his 1897 death

San Pedro Point

Fraser Point

Smugglers Cove Yellowbanks

a.

Q-

a a

D a

SANTA CRUZ ISLAND

Aerial view of Santa Cruz Island's east end facing west. Santa Rosa and San Miguel Islands can be seen in the distance. The high ridge line running in a north/south direction in the foreground forms the property boundary between the 6,600-acre Gherini Ranch and the 55,000 acres now owned by The Nature Conservancy.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection. Photo by Robert Wheeler)

DIARY OF A SANTA BARBARA VISITOR,1909

By Gordon Forbes

The following is an excerpt from an article entitled Diary of a Santa Barbara Visitor, 1909, which was first published in the Santa Barbara Historical Society's Noticias, Winter, 2984.

We have taken excerpts from the diary of Gordon Forbes, father of Wilson Forbes of Montecito, which is on file in the Gledhill Library. After a tour of Europe, he arrived in Santa Barbara ]anuary 25, 2909, for a two-month visit before leav ing for his home in the east.

A Seal Hunt As I had been trying ever since iny arrival in Santa Barbara to get someone to make a trip to Santa Cruz Island, I jumped at the chance to go under any conditions & when my driver cas ually told me he was leaving next morning at 6 a.m. (it was then 5 p.m.) with a Captain Vasquez, I immediately sought out the Spanish captain & made arrangements to go as one of the crew. It was decided to be gone about a week at least, to camp on Santa Cruz Island and if the weather should prevent hunting during that week to come home for more provisions & return. The object of the expedition was to procure alive & unhurt 50 sea lions to be shipped east for a circus—the price offered being $50 per seal, F. O. B. Our crew comprised the following men: Capt. Vasquez, Spanish; 1st mate, Dago," Italian; 3 brothers, full blooded Indians; 1 Mexican, G.F. [Gordon Forbes], quartermaster and photographer to the expedition.

At 6 a.m. we embarked on the Gussie M, a small boat of only 14 tons, 40 feet by 14 feet, equipped with 20 H.P. engine.

She was completely covered by the 20 crates which were to be the prison houses for our prey.

The three Indian boys were very drunk and as each had a quart bottle of whiskey which they indulged in behind the 7

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Captain's back, the chances of becoming sober soon were remote. We had a rough trip over—rain & wind comprising 4 hours for the trip.

The north shore of Santa Cruz Island is most impressive.

Throughout its entire length of 20 miles there are only 4 or 5 possibilities of land, owing to the high & almost vertical cliffs which run up from the water about 200 or 300 feet. We landed in Fry's Harbour which is a small pebbly beach about 100 yards long & flanked by steep rocks on either side—a most picturesque spot which together with crew and language reminded me of the smuggler's cave in Carmen.

Captain & I put up 8 x 10 tent on beach &c had lunch of onion soup & macaroni at 2:30.

Wind still blows hard from S E, which makes it impossible to use nets owing to heavy sea, so we will have to wait.

The Island has many sheep which have been running wild for so many generations that they are as quick of sight & keen of smell as a mountain sheep. Took rifle after supper to try & get one, but as they were all to leeward I had to give it up as they get wind of me when over a mile away. It was quite interesting to see a ram suddenly look up from grazing & search all the country to windward, but not seeing me he spoke to the flock of 4 or 5 & they slowly walked up the mountain.

In bed by 7:15. Rain all night in big drops.

March 27th. Strong wind in W, but too much swell to handle nets & boats. The Mexican & I went two miles below camp for sheep & after working round to leeward he finally got one—I only had my Mauser rifle. Had a liver & kidneys for lunch. At 11 a.m. tried for sheepshead, but as we had no crawfish which is right kind of bait, had no luck. Went up canyon after lunch & after two hours meandering & crawling on hands & knees finally got a shot, but it turned out to be a ram, which of course is useless for eating.

Supper at 4:30 & in bed by 7—these are certainly queer hours.

Still heavy swells so had a lazy day fishing. Looks good for tomorrow. I think that after seeing the Indian boy cook and having partaken thereof I could eat anything. His method of 8

Diary of a Santa Barbara Visitor, 1909

tasting soup with stirring spoon accompanied by a gurgling noise is not appetizing—he made some bread today with dirty hands & the flour was black.

Method of Capturing Seals March 29th. Breakfast at 5:15. Left for cave at west end of Island at 5:30—a run of an hour. The shore of the island here has several caves running back 100-300 feet & here the seals are to be found. The method of capture is as follows: A net 30 feet in depth is placed around mouth of cave & tied to rock on either side.

Capt. Vasquez stands in stem of skiff just outside this net.

A rifle shot up into cave by its sound drives the seals out into the enclosure at mouth of cave. The first thing seen is a gray streak through the water, but as seal has to have air, a head is soon seen for a moment above water only to disappear in a second. The captain's duty is to anticipate the place where a seal is going to appear & throw a lasso which catches seal around throat & noose tightens the fur prevents it from slip ping over his head which is very little bigger than his neck.

The sport now begins, for it is a pretty even fight between a man in a skiff and a 225-pound bunch of muscle. The next step is to get a second rope around his tail which branches out into two stiff points. This involves much roaring on the part of seal—snapping and jumping out of water in trying to bite the man's arm. It is no child's play k. the man has to know his business very well to be able to outwit the sea lion. After 15-30 minutes the second rope is fixed to his tail, thrown ashore & pulled in by 3 or 4 of the crew—and as I had the pleasure of helping in this performance, I want to say that no fish on any light rod had the show & run for his money that a 200-pound seal has with a rope about his tail. By putting the respective ends of the two ropes through opposite ends of the crate the seal is finally pulled in &c boxed up. After roaring, snapping & thrashing about for 15 minutes he very sensibly comes to the conclusion that it is useless & lies still with his flippers folded under him, looking very peaceful & gentle with his big, soft.

9

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

cow-like eyes. The crates are left in the water tied in a string & towed back to camp where they are moored to a buoy until ready to be taken home.

April 13th. Spent three more days waiting for swell to go down, but without result. So Capt. Vasquez brought me home, refilled his larder & went back to crew whom he left on Island to prevent all becoming drunk if taken to Santa Barbara for a night.

This week I will always regard as one of the most interesting ones in my life. The Island is in itself well worth spending a couple of weeks on as it is most beautiful— somewhat like the Azores. The pictures I took of actual catching of seals are not good, owing to rain & bad light.

This 1912 oil painting by Carl Oscar Borg (1879-1947) is entitled Captain McGuire Catching Seal, Santa Cruz Island. Captain McGuire owned several seal hunting boats which operated out of Santa Barbara, including the Gussie M. Captain Vasquez operated the Gussie M for Gordon Forbes' charter.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection)

10

OUR TRIP TO SANTA CRUZ ISLAND

By Horace Sexton This account of a two-week camping trip to Santa Cruz Island in 1922, enjoyed by St Clair and Marion Morton and Horace and Ella Sexton, was loaned to the Santa Barbara Historical Society by Mrs. Morton. It was first published in Noticias in Summer, 1981.

Horace Sexton (1885-1971) was a member of the Sexton family of Goleta. In 1964, with the help of Santa Barbara historian V^alker Tompkins, Horace Sexton published Fourteen at the Table, an informal history of his family.

Sunday, August 6, 1922—All the anxiety and worry of trans portation to Santa Cruz Island was solved by our good friend, Rhodehaver, who responded to a 4:30 a.m. call when we re ceived the news that he would be free to take us across in the good ship Unome as soon as I could come and get him. Good luck was assured when we found a dollar bill on the way to the wharf. Rody made the boat ready while St Clair and I hauled down three Ford loads of equipment and grub. We rounded up the skiff and after loading, we were off at 7 a.m.

After passing the buoy we realized that we surely were started, and the sweet purring of the motor and smooth riding quali ties of the boat assured us of a perfect trip across, no matter what weather we might meet.

Our trip across was more than satisfactory, everybody en joying the trip watching the birds, sharks, schools of fish and even a whale. Ella contributed a little to the feed of the enter tainers, but, taking it all in all, stood the trip much better than I had expected. The island soon loomed up out of the haze, and we found ourselves in Dick's Harbor before we realized it.

Let me add here that the Unome is the most comfortable and the easiest handled boat I have made the trip aboard.

Our luck was still with us, for the harbor was free from other campers, and we proceeded to unload and pick out a camp site. We soon located one about a block and a half up from the beach beneath a beautiful grove of maple, oak and 11

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Dick's Harbor, Santa Cruz Island

12

(Mrs. S. Morton)

Our Trip to Santa Cruz Island

holly trees beside a rippling brook of fine drinking water.

Camp located, we went on board again and had a try at deep sea fishing off Twin Harbor, but, having no luck, ran out to Pelican Bay and received the usual welcome of Captain Ira Eaton and his wife, and Rody proceeded to fill up on every thing he could ask for, while the rest of us chose between coffee and other stimulants. We also picked up a stray craw fish trap on the way back to camp and planted same for future reference.

Next came the task of lugging all our junk from the beach to our camp site, and, believe me, this proved to be some job, but thanks to Rody and our enthusiasm for this wonderful harbor, we had most of the gear moved and made ourselves comfortable for the night.

Monday—After a reasonably good night we arose and had breakfast and all went to the beach to pull our trap and see Rody off. We found that our skipper, who had slept aboard, had set a net across the harbor mouth and had caught a collec tion of mackerel, smelt, flying fish, etc. We made a successful catch of spiders, which we forced on Rody to take home and then explored the cave and adjoining bight.

Rody left us with whistle blowing and spray flying while we trolled for mackerel. St Clair soon hooked a dandy, which gave him a fight that nearly got his goat and took rod and all.

It was decided that this fish weighed about ten pounds and was at least eighteen inches long. Spent the rest of the day putting our camp in order, clearing out the pool and making the refrigerator beneath the rocks in the creek. Went to bed at dark with the satisfaction that we had the most beautiful camp, as well as most comfortable camp any of us had ever enjoyed.

Found out today that we have the wrong sized films for the Kodak. Marion has about a dozen for hers, so will have to make them do for the whole trip.

Tuesday—As usual, the first night in a strange place was long and wakeful. The mice and mosquitoes had their turn, and everyone got up more or less glad the night was over.

Spent the morning poking around in the kelp beds, fishing

13

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

J9

V»V;

Bathing Pools

14

(Mrs. S. Morion)

Our Trip to Santa Cruz Island

and putting out a mooring for our skiff, which has been chris tened Li'l Snappin' Turtle. More eats, and then a trip up the canyon, which proved to be trip of beauty and interest. A beautiful creek flows over the rocks, making waterfalls into wonderful pools overhanging with ferns and greenery, while the oaks, holly and maple tower overhead.

Everybody went fishing and caught lots of kelp fish, which were very gamy and were grateful to be thrown back to be caught again tomorrow if we decide to fish again in the same

place.

Had a wonderful meal consisting of St Clair's famous mackerel baked with tomatoes and onions. Also combination salad, lyonnaise potatoes, etc. Alternated between loafing, reading and eating, and finished up about dark with crab salad. Started to read the book, Man Size, aloud by the camp fire, and after several skirmishes with mice, which are so tame as to come right into the firelight, we turned in for the night.‘ Wednesday—Morning gun soon after daylight, and all hands turned out to cantaloupe and coffee with reports of a very comfortable night, except once when a wild hog was sur prised on his trip from the hills to the beach by walking into camp. Found the tide very low,so decided to make a try at abalones, so rowed down the coast and beached our boat on the rocks and had no trouble getting plenty of abalones, but they will soon be gone for camps. Got off on Mussel Rock and laid in a supply of great mussels for a stew and bait. Our trap delivered us a fine mess of crabs, and after puttering around in the kelp beds awhile, we returned to camp and tackled the hot cakes, bacon, eggs, more bacon and a couple of big mussels roasted. Loafed around, read, got wood—then another meal of cabbage, roast beef, baked potatoes, corn bread, etc. Went out by the harbor mouth and tied up to the kelp and had a fishing contest, varieties counting instead of numbers. Back at our camp we had our usual mouse hunt while reading. This consisted of waiting for the animal to approach the campfire, then get him before he could reach the rocks in the darkness.

We have been looking for Rodehaver all day, but guess he will be over Sunday.

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Thursday—Got up late (about 7:30), everybody having had a dandy night. Coffee and toast, then for the boat for an exploring trip up the coast. Went as far as Fry's Harbor, which took us about three-fourths of an hour. Fry's is a beautiful harbor, but the beach and canyon are awfully dirty. A party of four men camping there were not overly talkative, so we decided they were moonshiners.

After leaving Fry's we stopped in all the coves. The first stop was at Dardanelles, where we passed through the cliffs onto a little beach where the swells ebb and flow through a little straight made by a long rock beside the cliff; hence the name, "Dardanelles."

Then to the Fern Cove, where we found the most wonder ful marine gardens and a cave where we rowed in and took some pictures. Then we went ashore on the rocks and walked up the cliff and saw the bank of ferns about sixty feet high with a cave below filled with ferns and moss. Next comes Crawfish Cove, where we pulled our trap, but something went wrong. Our bait was gone and not a thing in the trap.

The next cove around Mackerel Point has not been named as yet, but will find something suitable in the future. We were out three hours and hunger drove us in. All hands flew to the job and soon had a swell meal to match our appetites, consisting of abalones, bacon, potatoes and gravy, tomatoes, etc., with two helpings of each.

After considerable debating as to where and why we should swim, it was decided to go up the canyon and find a pool in the sunshine and out of the wind. This part proved easy, but Lord, that water was cold. One dive was sufficient.

Went out about two blocks off the harbor mouth and ran into a school of mackerel, and —O Boy!—the sport we had cannot be equaled in many years. About every fifteen minutes a school would hit us and from then on until the fish were landed all hands were busy with their own problems, or laughing at those of others. Sometimes we would get two at once, or a twenty-inch fish and then how the reels would sing as they took the line away. SOME SPORT!!!!

Our dinner tonight consisted of broiled lobster, buttered beets, cucumbers, toast and loganberry jam, tea, cheese and 16

Our Trip to Santa Cruz Island

bread pudding. Plenty at each serving.

Read by the campfire, but mouse hunting was poor and we retired early.

Friday—Last night at high twelve our friends the hogs made another call, passing down the canyon above the camp.

We were warned of their approach by the rocks rolling into camp. I got a shot at one in the creek bottom below camp, and, if it had not been for our woodpile, I am afraid he would have cleared out St Clair's tent. However, he was turned off and continued up the canyon, where, at a safe distance, he growled in defiance.

This morning we went exploring down the coast, calling at the mussel shoals, Orizaba Rock, the marine gardens, Orizaba Cove, where we baited a stray trap, then to Twin Harbors and Arch Rock. Had a good chance to get a tow home, but the owners of the launch we met were about as hospitable as rest of the outlaws over here, so we poked along the kelp beds coming home. The sea was so smooth that we could pass into all the coves and approach the rocks, nooks and corners just as if we were on a great, glassy lake.

Again our trap failed us, but we have two meals planned ahead and we have baited with the choicest mackerel, so surely we will have luck next time. We were on the water five hours this morning, and surely saw a wonderful variety of beautiful and interesting scenery both under the v/ater and on shore. Finished our book and prepared a meal consisting of fillet of mackerel, fried onions and potatoes, boiled carrots and peas, toasted bread and jam, coffee, cheese, olives, and ice cream was mentioned only. Loafed around, read, got wood, etc., all afternoon, and toward evening went mackerel fishing while the girls took a swim. St Clair caught a twenty-inch mackerel, which gave him a real fight. Crawfish salad, toast, tea, read awhile and then to bed.

Saturday—Everybody had a grouch this morning. The night was warm and the mosquitoes numerous and all hands had some wakeful hours. Went down to the shore before breakfast and found a very low tide, so went abalone hunting.

Landed on the rocks and soon had a good mess. Bacon and eggs and hot cakes and into the boat again to visit our trap.

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Something is eating the bait without getting caught, so moved it into deeper water.

Ella washed some clothes, including my shirt and pants which had become slightly soiled with fish scales, etc. Marion read our new book aloud while this operation was performed, and St Clair and I lay down wondering what we would be doing this Saturday if we were at home.

Made a big mussel cioppino and vegetable salad, which we cleaned up in short time. Spent the afternoon reading, sleeping and loafing around; went down to the beach and washed out the boat. Went swimming and tried the trap, but no luck.

Had two boats visit our harbor this evening: a party on the Venture, who evidently are cruising the islands and stopped for abalones, and a fishing boat looking for bait. A wind down the canyon made our harbor undesirable for an anchorage, so they passed on up the coast.

Made great preparations for the night, battened down the tents, put in smudges and drove out all the mosquitoes, read awhile and turned in. We have sea food of all kinds today in hopes we can feed lots of company tomorrow.

Sunday—Everybody got in nine hours of good sleep last night and all turned out to prepare for our company, who will have a wet trip, as it is getting pretty rough outside, and the wind coming up all the time. Our cove is protected by the hills and it makes no difference how much it blows outside, we never have more than a gentle breeze in the camp. I think that is the reason for the oak trees in this canyon being so tall and straight and the ferns so beautiful. Upon visiting our trap we discovered the reason for our poor catches and lost bait in the shape of a short, round shark, resembling somewhat a baby seal. We fixed him, so he won't bother us any more, and put him overboard for an example to the rest of the family, and hope for better luck.

Spent the morning loafing around waiting for Rodehaver and speculating on who he would bring with him, but gave up all hope around noon and prepared our dinner of fried abalones, Spanish beans, pineapple and cake and the last of our bread, toasted. We had enough left over for someone who should have come but didn't.

18

Our Trip to Santa Cruz Island

Toward evening we took the guns and went for a hike up the hills. Found a trail and puffed up over the rocks, pausing now and then to locate small bands of sheep and enjoy the wonderful colors on the hilltops and the indescribable panorama of bay and ocean. All of a sudden Marion located a hog on the crest of a ridge about 150 yards up the hill, and St Clair and I immediately opened fire, he with the automatic and I with the rifle. The pig was taken by surprise and made the mistake of coming down the canyon toward us. At the second or third shot he fell and started to roll down the steep hillside toward the creek hundreds of feet below. He finally lodged on the edge of a cliff and lay still.

The pig no more than stopped rolling when Ella yelled, "There goes a fox!"

Again the artillery opened fire and Mr. Fox ran across the hillside in plain view with puffs of dirt flying up all around him, sometimes so close as to bounce him up in the air.

Several times 1 thought we had him, but he always landed running and finally disappeared over the ridge and the battle was over. All this happened in a very few minutes, but, believe me, excitement ran high while it lasted. We all went down and took a look at our dead hog, which proved to be a young boar, weighing about 255 pounds, with the tusks just starting. He was the typical wild hog type with bigger hams in front than in back, long nose and fin-like row of red hair down his razor back. The girls did not like his looks, so we left him for the ravens and made our way back to camp where we discussed the hunt, our modesty prohibiting us to brag about our good marksmanship, but I must say right here that it was SOME SHOOTING. Monday—St Clair and I arose early after a fine sleep, made coffee and went fishing while the girls continued to sleep.

Didn't have much luck, but got into schools where the mackerels were chasing the sardines. The schools were as large as a city block, but our hooks were evidently not as alluring as a live sardine, and the numerical odds were a mil lion to one against us. Picked up the girls and visited the trap.

Only caught one crawfish, but our bait was not molested by the sharks, and we moved it back from Shark to Crawfish Bite 19

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

and expect a fine haul tomorrow. Spent most of the morning reading and tending to the fire, and at the end had a real '"heman" meal, consisting of ham shank and cabbage and Span ish beans.

Loafed around all evening. Just before dark St Clair and Marion took a stroll down to the beach and found the bay alive with sardines, with the mackerel chasing them from underneath, and pelicans and sea gulls attacking them from above. They put off in the boat and soon had the reels singing.

Ella and I heard the excitement, so went down and got aboard.

We let the girls take the poles and I surely thought they would jump overboard with excitement. They were still bit ing when we came in, but it was getting dark and in the half hour we were out caught fifty and the Lord knows what we will do with them. Sure wish we could land some of our catches in Santa Barbara. We have live crawfish in the receiver, boiled ones in the camp, a sack of mussels, cold abalones and fish galore. If Rody should drop in now, we sure could fill him up.

The girls have been making bread,^and the preparation of the yeast and mixing of the same seems to be a cross between the way Marion's mother, Ella's mother, I and you and the rec ipe and yeast package recommend, so we are looking forward with great interest to the results. Fried some mackerel, did the dishes, fussed around with the bread some more, put same to bed wrapped in a blanket and then followed ourselves.

Tuesday—Ella got out first thing to look at the bread, and reported semi-favorable. Had a small breakfast of sliced oranges, fried mackerel, bacon, eggs, hot cakes and coffee.

Visited the trap and made a fine catch—many more than we can use.

This was our last loafing day. Baked the bread, which turned out fine. We have three big brown loaves, and fresh bread sure does taste good. Read, slept, took a swim in the pool.

Corned beef hash, steamed pudding with brandy sauce (the last of the make).

Tomorrow we make a trip to the top of the island and to night have prepared a lunch and filled the canteens. Expect to get an early start, so will turn in early.

20

Our Trip to Santa Cruz Island

Wednesday—Up early, had breakfast, took up our packs and started for the top of the mountain. Our trip took us up the canyon through the trees until we came to the forks in the creek, where we started to mount on the ridge between the two creeks. The first few blocks was climbing straight up.

Then, when we had mounted the crest, we followed the ridge in a gradual grade between two canyons. In about one and one-half hours we reached Castle Crags, which we skirted to the right and around, and with some more steep pulling reached the top of the rocks only to find another ridge beyond, but by the time three hours had elapsed, all of which time we had been steadily going up, with intermittent pauses for breathing and to admire the wonderful scenery, we reached the crest and had our first glimpse of the valley below and the hills beyond. This side of the Island is altogether different

The camp (other tent was at left).

(Mrs. S. Morton) 21

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

from our side, being more like the Gaviota and Santa Inez country.

Everybody stood the trip in good shape, except Ella, but she more than made it up going down, where St Clair and I suf fered the worst, my knee making a poor brake for me, and St Clair's shoes opened new blisters on his feet. Before reaching the bottom he was crawling backward to take the pressure of his shoes from his toes. We had our lunch at the top and returned by a slightly different route, seeing lots of sheep going and coming, but no more pigs or foxes. Great flocks of crows (or ravens) had gathered in the vicinity of our dead pig.

Upon our return to camp we had a bath in the creek, followed by a sauerkraut and weenie dinner, which was very welcome.

Thursday—The skunks visited camp last night, tapping and stepping through the leaves, filled up from the garbage pit and departed without being disturbed, although I must say the visit disturbed us some, but could have been much worse.

While visiting the trap we sighted a boat on the horizon coming straight for us, and, of course, everybody knew it was Rody, and, when he answered our signal (made from an improvised flag), we knew we were right. With him, as Cabin Boy, was Joe Sexton. They towed us home to camp and loaded us up with sacks and boxes of muskmelons, peaches, vegetables, etc., and we went to camp to prepare a meal for our guests. Joe did pretty well for his size, but Rody wasn't hungry and only ate sparingly of our baked mackerel, Spanish rice, lobster salad, hot biscuits and apricot marmalade, sliced peaches, coffee, etc. However, he said he had enough, and, as we were too full, let him do the dishes. After lunch they brought up their Kodak and took some pictures of the camp and creek, and we found that the films we had brought up were the proper size for their Kodak.

They wanted to be on their way as soon as lunch was over, but somehow we worked it so they took us for a boat ride, going down to Orizaba, then up the coast past Fryer's, Point Diablo, Arch Rock, Mary's Harbor, Gull Rock, Lady's Harbor, stopping at Valdez Harbor, where we went ashore and explored the cave and beach. On our way back we set the sail and opened her up and slid home in no time, riding the 22

Our Trip to Santa Cruz Island

swells like a toboggan. Rody felt his appetite returning a wee bit, so we had a light lunch and found the proper way to eat green lima beans is to get a large plate heaping full, then cover the mess with salt, pepper and lots of sugar, followed with boiled ham, onions. Chili sauce, dill pickles, toast and some more beans, finishing with jam and crackers and tea.

We spent the evening around the campfire singing, telling fish stories and listening to Rody's tales and experiences in these waters .. .

Our guests departed for parts unknown, while the girls mixed up some more bread and put the loaves to bed in a blanket to be baked in the morning. Rody's wild tales of killer sharks, wild hogs, Indian bones, eels and skunks have turned the girls up to a point where if a skunk shows up in camp tonight we will all have to climb a tree. We go to bed with a horrible outlook for the night to come, but the thoughts of a wonderful day spent with Rody and Joe. Friday—The night was not so bad as anticipated. The skunks visited us as expected, but we left them alone and they were kind enough to reciprocate. Spent the morning washing, baking and cleaning up. Then brought in the trap preparatory to returning same, as we have more crawfish in the receiver than we can eat before we go home. Tried for mackerel, but only caught one big one, which we fried for lunch upon returning to camp. This is the first time we have had to throw away cooked food, but when you know that besides the fillet of mackerel we had potatoes, fried onions, string beans, new bread (lots of butter), pickles, olives, etc., you will forgive us.

Loafed around awhile in the afternoon and then went exploring along the hillside and up the canyon. While inspecting a moonshiner's camp we stirred up a yellow jacket nest and Ella and I got stung immediately, but Marion and St Clair got too good a start as we all tore through the brush up the canyon. However, we were followed, and Marion received her share and Ella a second sting later. I was stung on the arm, but modesty forbids me describing the girls' wounds.

We finally beat them off and returned by another route.

Upon our return to camp we were called to the beach by the whistle of the Sea Wolf and were informed that they 23

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

, *'

Luxuriant vegetation at the pools.

●●

(Mrs. S. Morton)

would land another party the next day at noon and we could return at that time, so we decided to make another try at pig hunting. Toward evening we climbed the steep canyon wall and went out on the ridge above the harbor. Didn't see any pigs, but the view from the cliffs in the evening was wonder ful and well repaid us for the effort. Went sadly to bed, expecting this to be our last night in camp.

Saturday—Got up early after a miserable night. I think all the skunks on the island have collected in our camp and spent the night trotting around our tent through the dry leaves until sleep was impossible. Some of the more ignorant ones decided to come inside the tent, and for protection I lit a candle and placed same on the ground, covered up my head and went to sleep. This served the purpose of keeping them outside, but it did not disturb the convention outside. We were fortunate to get only a couple of whiffs of their breath through the night, but it was enough to warn us what would happen if we got reckless and tried to drive them away.

St Clair and I went fishing, but luck was against us, so we returned, had breakfast and dismantled the camp and lugged everything to the beach, where we awaited the arrival of the 24

Our Trip to Santa Cruz Island

Sea Wolf. There evidently was a misunderstanding as to the day we should depart, for our ship did not arrive this day. To kill time we went out and caught enough fish to bait the trap, as we wanted some fish to take home with us, and we could see another chance to replenish our stock, which we lost this morning by breaking the line which held the receiver and turning loose all those we planned to take in. This done, we made a temporary camp and proceeded to get a good night's sleep away from our friends the skunks, who now have undisturbed and entire access to our old camp.

Sunday—Everybody had a fine night and awoke to a clear day and calm sea. Went out and got a fine catch of mackerel.

Also, our trap delivered us ten crawfish and we were on the rocks collecting a sack of mussels when the Sea Wolf hove in sight, so we hurried back to camp to collect our luggage and get on board for our trip home. We warned the new party coming in of the skunk convention, but they were all enthusiasm and game to tackle anything. God help them.

Went on board and proceeded to Pelican Bay where we had lunch and found the party that the Sea Wolf had brought over on the regular Sunday Excursion. Also met up with the finest bunch of men I have ever seen out on a camping trip.

They proved to be a party of ten Los Angeles policemen.

Secret Service men and detectives on a two-week vacation, and they were surely having the time of their lives. Spent a couple of hours at Pelican Bay enjoying their "close harmony" and horseplay, and departed feeling that we had known them for days instead of hours.

The trip across was through a choppy side swell, which puts most of the passengers' heads over the sides continually, but our party of hardy seamen and seawomen never blinked an eye, and were as fresh upon arriving as when we set sail.

This is a record breaker for Ella, but it entitles her to the high rank of "Sea Dog", and she can look down on those Landlubbers that made a mad rush for the landing when the boat arrived. The Mortons were at the dock to meet us, and after taking our luggage to our respective homes, St Clair and I joined the rest of the party at a regular dinner at the Mor tons', after which we went home to bed. The trip is over and 25

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

another year of hard work ahead of us, but we still have the memory of the finest vacation possible.

FOOTNOTES 1. Mrs. Morton says that they had sticks with which to whack the kangaroo mice when they came close enough.

2. They had taken along a reflector oven.

Editor's note: There are no "kangaroo mice" on Santa Cruz Island. The two species of mice present are doer mice and western harvest mice. There are no rats on Santa Cruz Island.

26

Our Trip to Santa Cruz Island

I

Ira Eaton’s resort at Pelican Bay was a common destination for campers visit(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection) ing Santa Cruz Island.

27

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Schooner Santa Cruz taken from Valdez Cave.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Arthur }. Caire)

28

A BRIEF HISTORY OF SANTA CRUZ ISLAND FROM 1869 TO 1937

By Helen Caire The following article by Helen Caire first appeared in The Ventura County Historical Society Quarterly in Summer, 1982.

Helen Caire is Justinian Caire's granddaughter, one of five daughters born to Frederic Felix Caire and his wife Lillian Suich Caire. Miss Caire has contributed greatly to our knowledge of the history of Santa Cruz Island through the publication of her many interesting historical articles appearing in both the Santa Barbara and Ventura historical societies.

The Channel Islands form a chain along the coast of Califor nia where it swings east from Point Conception to Point Hueneme. Santa Cruz, breaking the sea about twenty-five miles south of Santa Barbara, is the largest and most beautiful of the first four. As an introduction, a summary of its earlier back ground should perhaps precede its history from 1869 to 1937.

The first inhabitants were the Chumash Indians’ who called the island Limu. They were there when Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo^ discovered the islands in 1542. Sebastian Viscamo,^ exploring the region in 1602 was the first to note that the four northern islands run parallel with the Californian coast. In 1769 Juan Perez,^ Captain of the San Antonio, sailed up the coast. The explorers landed on the island to take on wood and water. Aboard once more, the two Franciscans with the expedition realized they had left behind an iron cross on a staff. When the ship was about to weigh anchor, some Indians came rowing swiftly out in their excellent canoes to return the cross. The island was then named La Isla de la San ta Cruz. In 1804 the Franciscan friar Estevan Tapis® suggested establishing a mission on the island. The natives refused to leave their island home although the Indians of neighboring Santa Rosa were willing to go to Santa Cruz should a mission 29

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

be built there. Two years later Fray Tapis wrote that an epidemic of measles unfortunately had decimated the Indians, so the project was abandoned.

Some years later the Mexican government decided to send convicts to California against the protests of the governor and the Californians.^ In February 1830 about 180 convicts were sent north on the Maria Ester. On their arrival at Santa Barbara, Captain de la Guerra kindly helped them. Only about thirty-one were sent to Santa Cruz Island, the Santa Barbara Mission providing them with necessities. From that incident the main port of the island, lying due south of Santa Barbara, was named Prisoners' Harbor. After several months the prisoners escaped on a raft to the mainland. They were allowed to remain and seem to have become good citizens.

The Chumash had long been removed from the island when the Mexican governor in 1839 granted it to Andres Castillero in reward for services. It is not known if, or how much, he developed the island. Eustace Barron and his associates

Prisoners' Harbor with La Playa at the right.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Eugene Overton)

30

A Brief History of Santa Cruz Island From 2869 to 2937 purchased the island in 1859, title being taken in the name of his nephew William E. Barron.

In 1869 ten San Franciscans, directors of the French savings bank {Societe Francaise d'Epargnes et de Prevoyance Mutuelle founded in 1860) filed papers of incorporation to form the Santa Cruz Island Company. Their purpose was to develop the island as a ranch. The directors included Gustave Mahe, Camilo Martin, Thomas J. Gallagher, T. Lemmen Meyer, Adrien Gensoul, Pablo Baca, Nicolas Larco, Alexander Weill, Giovanni Battista Cerruti and Justinian Caire who early was named president. In the course of about twelve years, Justinian Caire acquired sole ownership. Long before his death in 1897, he transferred to his beloved wife Albina C.S. Caire entire ownership of the capital stock of the island. For three generations the family continued to use the island as a ranch and cherished vacation home.

Sheep from England and fine merinos from Spain had been imported by the former owners. Purebred Rambouillet merinos were added by the Santa Cruz Island Company.

Every year sheep were shipped to market from the wharf at Prisoners' Harbor. Shipments were made in the company schooner Santa Cruz constructed by Matthew Turner, master shipbuilder on the west coast. The wool usually went by coastal steamers to San Francisco "for ultimate delivery in Boston or Philadelphia, where its quality was well-known to buyers . . On the subject of shearing, my father noted: . . a goodly number of men—riders and shearers—were brought from the mainland for a period of forty or fifty days.

In early days as many as 40- to 50,000 sheep roamed the Island; later the number was regulated to accord with natural conditions determined by rainfall and feed reserves."^ Some erosion was due to sheep; but had they devastated the island ecology as has sometimes been alleged, Santa Cruz Island could not now be in such an unusual state of preservation.

Indeed, it is one of the best preserved regions in the United States.

Justinian Caire imported Durham cattle. In later years they were crossed with purebred Herefords which forage farther for feed and water than Shorthorns, an important considera31

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

tion in southern California which is subject to cycles of drought years.

Selected vine stock from France was imported by my grand father and planted in the foothills of the Canada del Medio where the earth is particularly rich in chemicals needed for the cultivation of vines. The vine stock included Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Noir, Barbera, Petite Sirah, Malbec, Cantal, Zinfandel, Muscat Frontignan and Riesling, producing wine widely known and highly regarded for its excellent quality.

"The island [Santa Cruz] wine is said to have a peculiar bouquet not to be found on the mainland," wrote the historian Rider.® Adams states: "Santa Cruz Island . . . was renowned before Prohibition for the prize-winning wines //9 grown there. ..

My grandfather infused into his employment policy the right amount of patriarchal spirit, a policy followed success fully by his son Frederic and grandson Justinian II. Vaqueros to work cattle and sheep were usually Barbarenos. A larger number was recruited in Santa Barbara for the roundups and shearing, and during the vintage season. Most of the field

■jjti

Winery at the left of the Main Ranch buildings.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Arthur J. Caire)

32

A Brief History of Santa Cruz Island From 1869 to 1937

.^● >

Main Ranch buildings in the Central Valley as seen from Portezuela.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Arthur }. Caire)

workers and vine dressers were Italian. The experts in charge of the wine cellar were French. Skilled Italian stonemasons shaped the quoins from ground to roof for the adobe houses at the Main Ranch, at La Playa (Prisoners' Harbor) and at the west and east end ranches. The centers of the stone quoins of the chapel at the Main Ranch were each carved with a cross.

To prevent erosion in vulnerable places, those expert hands built stone walls without cement, which continued to be maintained.

The masterly layout by Justinian Caire of the Main Ranch in the Canada del Medio (Central Valley) was unique in California. The three-mile road up the Canada del Puerto from Prisoners' Harbor ended in a T in front of the gradual rise of the fenced residence enclosure. There the road stretched east and westward, the latter leading into the barn yard. Beyond that great expanse, it continued for eleven miles to Christy Ranch at the west end.

The earliest buildings on the island were mainly of adobe bricks, but bricks were also fired for constructing the walls of the chapel in 1891, the large and small stables, the winery and fermentation cellar at the Main Ranch and the large double warehouse at Prisoners' Harbor in 1887. Kilns to extract lime 33

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Colorados in the background.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Arthur }. Caire)

to mix with mortar for cementing the bricks in building stood long after needed: one at the Main Ranch; the other not far from Prisoners' Harbor, opposite a eucalyptus grove.

The two adobe houses at the Main Ranch and the one at Prisoners' Harbor, dating probably from the time of the Barrons, were remodeled by Justinian Caire in charming Mediterranean style. The front terraces of each faced square gardens. Balconies, outside staircases leading to the second storeys, terraces and garden fences were railed with wrought iron fashioned in the island smithy. One of the houses at the Main Ranch in the enclosure unfortunately became unsafe and was razed to be replaced by a large U-shaped frame house. One of the oldest buildings, the residence dining room and kitchen remained a separate building when remodeled. A long porch running its length ended in a short staircase lead ing to one ell (L) of the house.

Beyond the enclosure stood the office with the men's kitchen and mess hall some distance behind it. Sloping gently westward spread the barnyard, larger than a football field. On 34

A Brief History of Santa Cruz Island From 1869 to 1937

Old gabled adobe at La Playa.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Arthur }. Caire)

V

.1

' ● ● » f

■

I

r

(-

i

" :i . t il U

Remodeled building in Mediterranean style.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection)

35

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

the southern side were two bunkhouses and corrals. The Colorados, the red range of the southern boundary of the Canada del Medio, is covered with dense chaparral.

At the far end of the barnyard the widely pitched roof of the shearing shed corral had an ample, welcoming look. The road to Christy separated the shearing shed from the stallion's cor ral with its small red brick stable and loft. In the center of the northern boundary the red brick main stable, its high-arched entry outlined in white, gave an accent of character and color with the dark green of the walnut grove behind it. The saddle room was on one side; on the other, the carpenter shop, the tool shop and the smithy. Separated by a high cypress hedge at the end of the walnut grove, spread the vegetable garden fenced on the opposite side from the road to La Playa.

My grandfather planned and executed the development of

Houses and barns at the Main Ranch.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Arthur }. Caire)

36

A Brief History of Santa Cruz Island From 1869 to 1937 the island in diversified ranching: sheep, cattle and viticulture; operations continued by his descendants. At no time did he contemplate establishing a colony there. The family at frequent and long visits, and the employees were the main residents. Pelican Bay, one of the coves on the northern coast, was leased to Captain Ira Eaton as a camp where he brought visitors. So many yachtsmen and others wished to visit the island that this was deemed the best way to resolve the problem and to preserve the beauty and ecology of the many accessible canyons. Permits were also given to responsible persons who requested them.

From earliest times the Caire family was interested in the ecology and history of the island. Scientists were always welcomed. William W. Rand, who made extensive geological studies at the island, wrote: "Probably no area of similar size exists in California which contains so wide a variety of //lO interesting geological phenomena as Santa Cruz Island.

Ralph Chaney,” the eminent and affable paleobotanist of the University of California at Berkeley, was often a welcome dinner guest at the Main Ranch on his several field trips.

Once when Herbert Mason’^ and he had returned from extensive field work at the west end, Frederic Caire asked them if they had found fossilized trees in the Canada de los Sauces del Oeste (Canyon of the Willows of the West).

Amazed, the scientists replied that they had made that very interesting discovery. My father explained that as a young man, riding in that canyon with a friend in the lumber busi ness, he had pointed out strange trees embedded in a high bank sliced away by the creek. His friend had identified them as Douglas firs. The paleobotanists discovered not only Douglas fir, but also eight other species of fossil trees, re mains of a decidedly northern forest. All are extinct today on the island except the Santa Cruz Island pine (Pinus remorata Mason) which exists with the Bishop pine in several large is land forests, while the eight other species are found together in the same forest only in one place today. They do exist 450 miles north-northwest and 5.5° latitude further north than the ancient island forest, near Fort Bragg in Mendocino County.

37

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

■

-n

Windbreak of Eucalyptus at the Main Ranch.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection)

As we rode along narrow trails in the chaparral, the slightly prickly-edged leaves of certain trees with loose clusters of small red berries brushed our shoulders and sleeves. On an all-day ride to Fry's Harbor, a cove on the northern coast, we left our horses near the beach, as usual, and hiked up the canyon. Part way up we met Maunsell Van Rensselaer, then Assistant Director of the Blaksley Botanic Garden, now the Santa Barbara Botanic Garden. He and his party, on a botanizing expedition, were resting near the creek. On both sides tall Woodwardias and other lacy ferns flourished luxuri ously. Red and orange mimulus covered a high bank on one side of the canyon. We paused, too, in our upward climb to en joy the cool beauty, shaded by branches of huge oaks. We shed our boots and socks; and rolling up our jeans, we let our feet dangle in a pool while we chatted. "What do you call the tree with the bright red berry?" Mr. Van Rensselaer asked. "We call it the mid-summer Christmas berry." He added that they were 38

A Brief Histon/ of Santa Cruz Island From 1869 to 1937 trying to find a common name for it. We call it summer holly," I told him. We all laughed, amused at the lengthy name the botanical scholars had suggested, which was of course more accurate for the tree is not a holly. Mr. Van Rensselaer nodded in approval that both names had the same basic idea. I never followed up on what they had decided to christen the tree, but I have heard that it is called summer

holly.

A tree now found only on Santa Cruz, Santa Catalina, San Clemente and Santa Rosa Islands is a species of ironwood (Lyonothamnus floribundus asplenifolius). At the island it was called palo fierro. It has dark green, femlike leaves and in summer is covered with tiny white flowers. Years ago Van Rensselaer asked my father if it would be possible for seeds of the palo fierro to be gathered at the island. Of course, my father acquiesced. My sisters and two cousins who were at the island that fall volunteered to be the Talo Fierro Mounties.'

They set out several times with huge white bags sent over by Van Rensselaer to ride down the southern slopes of the Colorados where, in sheltered pockets of the ridge, clumps of the trees flourished. They gathered whole flower clusters now gone to minute seed, sometimes standing on their saddles to reach higher branches. The four girls returned to the Main Ranch with the enormous bags tied to the saddle horns, bulging with future potential island ironwood trees for the Santa Barbara mainland. It was officially designated the Santa Barbara County tree.

While preserving the native flora, the family introduced many trees for beauty or use. My grandfather imported eucalyptus, blue gums with stately marbled columns and newcomers to California at the time, for use as windbreaks and wharf piles. The great interest of his eldest daughter Delphine, when at the island, was the cultivation of young trees. Monterey pines were planted along the shore at Prisoners' Harbor to hold down the sand behind the rocky beach. Monterey cypresses made windbreaks at windblown Christy at the west end of the island. Some other trees introduced in the course of years were Italian stone pines, pepper trees, acacias, oleanders and locusts in addition to

39

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

English walnuts, almonds, peaches, apricots, figs, oranges and lemons.

A tree we loved especially was The Pine. Planted by my grandmother from a seed in the residence enclosure, it grew to a tremendous height and spread. The bench of laths built around it was enlarged periodically as the huge trunk expanded. On summer evenings it was a fine place to sit and chat and sing, always ending with the old French song, "Bon soir, mes amis, bon soir . . .", which our friends, too, liked to learn.

Of course many garden flowers were introduced. My grand father had gardens made in front of the charming adobe houses at the Main Ranch and at La Playa, especially planted to roses. The bushes at Prisoners' Harbor in summertime grew almost as high as the wrought iron balcony across the second storey, old French roses which gave generous bouquets in spring and fall. Castilian roses were brought to the island so long ago we did not know when they had first been intro

duced.

The island birds and wildflowers are too numerous to list here. I will mention only a certain place on the edge of the chaparral, a short distance off the road to Sur, where each summer we had to dismount and investigate again what we called 'the tiger lily forest'. The plants with many purplespotted orange flowers reached almost to the top of the scrub oaks. One spring we discovered delicate fairy lanterns growing nearby.

As to our island days, they were as near to paradise as one can come this side of eternity. When we were children, there were days of wading in and exploring the wonders of the creek of the Canada del Medio or in the waves at La Playa and sailing the boats we had made in the carpenter and black smith shops at the Main Ranch, and making elaborate 'parks' in the sand above the rocky shore.

There were picnics and barbecues at Prisoners' Harbor, at the Cascada some two miles from the Main Ranch on the road to Christy, or at the Sur about the same distance eastward. At the Cascada we always waded to investigate the crow's nest in a dry basin above the deep pool in the rock wall bounding the

40

A Brief History of Santa Cruz Island From 1869 to 1937

Wharf at Prisoners' Harbor.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Arthur J. Caire)

high waterfall. There were barbecues under huge oaks at the Sur near the Canada Pomona creek at a place where the vaqueros took their lunch break during the roundups.

My father, wearing a linen duster, drove the team of the charabanc which easily accommodated at least nine people.

The buggy (formerly my grandparents' city rockaway carriage, finally minus its top but otherwise in good condition) and a cart or two (misnomered the sulkies) followed, depending on the number of picnickers. Later, of course, we rode while our elders took the Model-T Ford, and then a Dodge.

We must ride over the broad fields of the Sur, tying our horses to the last fence, to follow the steep trail down over dusty, glistening Indian-mound soil to reach the mouth of Pomona Creek where it flows to the sand of the long strand of Valley Anchorage. We had to cross the creek to enter the 'tun nel' which pierces a sea-washed slope. Inside, we picked our way in the semi-obscurity from rock to rock, bending our heads to avoid overhangs in the 'ceiling.' Above, below, on all sides the 'tunnel' is a narrow stretch of amethyst, lees of grapes and porphyry: another world. At the end we emerged on a shelf of volcanic rock. Here it was always somewhat 41

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

V ■ ●,

T*- ►

Painted Cave.

(Helen Caire collection)

exciting, for we must watch the tide. At high tide this farther entrance to the "tunnel' was flooded by wildly crashing waves.

On 'schooner day' we would ride down to Prisoners' Harbor for a swim, sit on the beach sunning ourselves and chat.

When the Santa Cruz arrived, we would go down to the end of the wharf to get the mail pouch from the captain. After reading letters and exchanging news, we would slip the enve lopes down the leg of our boots for the ride home.

Remembering our island days makes summarizing materi al difficult. We were out-of-doors all day: riding, boating, swimming, gardening. There were cruises to the Painted Cave in the Santa Cruz or with yachting friends: an eerie other world where light shafting through the high entrance showed all shades of amethyst and emerald; and tawny tones extin guished to Stygian darkness as one penetrated into the cav erns. Seals leapt off ledges with echoing barks as they swam out into the sea-world of light.

42

A Brief History of Santa Cruz Island From 1869 to 1937 Wild hog hunting was a good sport for the animals damaged fields and vineyards. Sometimes on long rides we would take picnic lunches in the saddle bags but no meat on the chance of getting a young wild hog to barbecue. We were never disappointed.

Many of our days were spent in the saddle, riding in a cavalcade of from four or five to eleven or twelve, over the trails to canyons of the southern or northern coasts down to their coves. It was a very long ride to Cueva Valdez, called Tres Bocas in early days because of its three "mouths" (high entrances) one to the shore and two to the sea. The trail led down to a high mesa above the eastern side of the cove. Near the end of the headland, an old vaquero pointed out a large cactus patch with the best tunas on the island where we must always dismount to skin the prickly, thick outer-layer carefully and eat the refreshing fruit.

Westward beyond the great inland pine forest, we some times left the road to Christy to ride down the Canada de los Sauces where sweet clover reached up to our stirrups in

Middle arch at Tres Bocas.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Arthur J. Caire)

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation

spring and summer. Far down the canyon, sitting in the creekbed near the entombed ancient forests, we used to wonder how the island was in those prehistoric days. Did mammoths wander here? Our wonderings about the ancient past increased as we researched early island history. Cabrillo died on one of these Channel Islands and his grave has never been found. We used to hope that it was on Santa Cruz. How ever, after consulting the best sources, we reluctantly had to admit that the lost grave must be on San Miguel Island. . . .

Where would the mission have been established: at Prisoners' Harbor; in the Canada del Medio where there were no Chumash villages for they must always be near the lifegiving sea. We agreed with Professor Herbert E. Bolton's tracing of Cabrillo's journey around the Channel Islands rather than that of other sources . . . Smugglers, sea otter hunters: ample scope for wonderings.

Besides the rancherias there were other reminders of the island Indians. One day having crossed the rugged and difficult trail over Sierra Blanca, the white range which rams itself in to the Colorados almost in the mid-southern coast, we rode down to the long sandy beach of Johnson's Lee. Later, high above the strand we came upon a stone mortar in which centuries ago a Chumash housewife had ground acorn, islay or other seeds. Though it was large and heavy, the boys took turns carrying it, resting it on their saddles near the horn all the miles to the Main Ranch.

Christmas at the island! We had long dreamed of it and one winter it came true. A full Bishop pine from the great pine forest, beginning in the hills behind La Playa and stretching far westward, was placed in front of the largest living room window. It soon was decorated with colored oak tree 'balls,' gilded garlands of eucalyptus 'bells' and strings of popcorn, which had jumped to white fluffiness in the wire popper over coals in the living room fireplace. The Rev. Thomas Sherman, the son of General William Tecumseh Sherman of the War Between the States, was our visitor. He celebrated three Christmas masses in the chapel, the bell in the little belfry ringing its particularly sweet sound over the vineyards and fields and buildings in the Canada del Medio.

44

A Brief History of Santa Cruz Island From 1869 to 1937

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Surrounding hills and canyons.

(Helen Caire collection)

We feasted later on fat wild geese brought to the Main Ranch from the fields at Christy. It was gala.

Our outdoor life at the island made urban living seem like another world when we returned to the city. There on those sweet sea-encircled hills and cafiadas, all that counted was what you were as a person, as a human being. It was a good world.

In 1925 the island was partitioned: 54,000 acres continued to be operated by the Santa Cruz Island Company as a single ranch, held by Mrs. Justinian Caire until her death and four children (Delphine, Arthur, Frederic and Helene A. Caire); the 6,000 acres at the east end being operated as a separate sheep ranch. In 1937 the Santa Cruz Island Company sold its holdings to Evelyn and Edwin L. Stanton of Los Angeles.

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Their son Carey Stanton holds ownership of the Santa Cruz Island Company land except for 15,000 acres which he sold to the Nature Conservancy.

The island is a lovely place. Let those who go there step lightly, touch gently.

BIBLIOGRAPHY 1. Alfred L. Kroeber. Handbook of the Indians of California,552-68.

Ronald L. Olson. "Chumash prehistory" in the University of California Publications in American Archaeology and Ethnology, XXVIII, I, 1-21; and "On the island of the dead" in the California Monthly, XXI, 3,166-167.

2. "The Cabrillo-Ferrelo expedition, 1542-1543" in Herbert E. Bolton, Spanish Exploration in the Southwest, 1542-1706, 25-26. Henry R.Wagner.

Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, Discoverer of the Coast of California.

3. 'The Viscamo Expedition" in Herbert E. Bolton, Spanish Exploration in the Southwest, 1542-1706, 87-89.

4. Hubert Howe Bancroft. History of California, 1 (Early California Annals, 1542-1800) 126-28. Zephryn Engelhardt, The Missions and Missionaries of California, II, 10-11.

5. Hubert Howe Bancroft. History of California, II (Annals of Provincial California, 1801-1824) 33-34. Zephryn Engelhardt. The Missions and Mission aries of California, II, 618-20.

6. Hubert Howe Bancroft. History of California, III (Annals of Territorial California, 1825-1840) 46-50. Zephryn Engelhardt. The Missions and Mission aries of California, III, 253-54.

7. Excerpts from a letter of Frederic F. Caire, dated December 19, 1939, in reply to an inquiry by Edward N. Wentworth, Armour's Livestock Bureau Di rector, regarding sheep operations carried on the coastal islands of Califor nia for an article to be published in the California Wool Grower.

8. Rider's California, a Guidebook for Travelers, 569-70.

9. Leon D. Adams. The Wines of America, 258.

10. William W. Rand. "Preliminary report on the geology of Santa Cruz Is land, Santa Barbara County, California in the Report of the California State Mining Bureau, XXVII, 2, 214-19; and The Geology of Santa Cruz Island (M.S.) 11. Ralph W. Chaney and Herbert L. Mason. "A Pleistocene flora from Santa Cruz Island" in the Carnegie Institute of Washington Publications, 415,3-25.

12. Herbert L. Mason. 'The Santa Cruz Island Pine" in the August 1930 Madrono.

46

A Brief History of Santa Cruz Island From 1869 to 1937

*

Justinian Caire (1827-1897) (Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection. Photo by Arthur J. Caire)

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation

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Jeanne Caire and wild geese for Christmas dinner, Main Ranch.

(Helen Caire collection)

48

CHRISTMAS AT THE ISLAND

By Helen Caire Christmas at the Island was published in the Winter, 1983 issue of Santa Barbara Historical Society's Noticias.

In 1933, Helen Caire's essay, Christmas at a CaliforniaIsland Hacienda, won first place in a contest sponsored by The Monitor of San Francisco. It is indeed fortuitous that fifty years later. Miss Caire expounded upon her childhood memo ries of Christmas time spent at Santa Cruz Island, an event which few have had the pleasure to experience.

It was coming true at last—our dream of Christmas at the Island. Our sojourns were always during the summer vaca tions, sometimes in the fall or spring. But this was to be in winter at Christmastime!

Several weeks before the day, there were countless confabulations as preparations got under way. Of course, the Christmas tree would be a pine—not the Santa Cruz Island Pine,' the remnant of an ancient era. A close kin of the Torrey Pine, it has disappeared from elsewhere in the world. With branches thrust out irregularly, its outline has a rugged look, as though daring the centuries to uproot it. These primeval pines would reject being trimmed; but its forest fellow, the Bishop Pine, full and symmetrical, would lend itself well to garlands and ornaments.

Early one morning my cousin Justinian set out with a workman for the Pinos Chicos, the forest that marches north westward from Prisoners' Harbor to Pelican Bay; beyond, stretch the Pinos Grandes.

The Santa Cruz Christmas Tree Hours later, the old Ford rumbled over the bridge, and when it came to a halt before the side gate of the residence 49

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

enclosure, we rallied around it with cries of mock-surprise: "Santa Claus! How did you find us here 'way out in the Channel?" and "How did your reindeer turn into a tin Lizzie?" Laughing cheers greeted a full-branched pine when it was unloaded and carried into the house.

Hercules Pico, the regular cook, was on vacation in Santa Barbara, so the temporary cook importantly left his pots and skillets for an afternoon—though his feet "hurt somethin' terrible"—to make a stand for it: a wooden box painted bright green. The rough trunk fitted perfectly into the round hole at the top. Centered before the view window of the living room, the pine stood proudly in its aromatic green.

We looked at it and then at each other with quizzical expressions—the thought in each mind: a fine thing, a beautiful thing as it was. Why trim it? Youthful intolerance, laced with a fillip of Gallic bias, prompted some mutterings of "What a Teutonic notion! to decorate a tree—." Finally, someone suggested, "Oh, come on. It's a Christmas custom we've always had. Let's go ahead!" So untimely prejudice was quashed.

Not having brought the usual decorations from home, we set out in search of ornaments. The clear, brittle air of winter nipped at our warm sweaters and jeans in spite of the sparkling sunshine. My sister Marie, always ingenious in im provising and fashioning things, was bubbling with ideas.

From tall eucalyptus trees we picked blue-gray "bells" to be gilded and strung into garlands. Even now, years later, they still retain their aromatic scent. Others we covered with colored foil—red, silver, green, yellow—and tied them in clusters. Still others we fashioned into shining bells of bright glazed paper. Marie painted oak tree "balls" with white lead and sprinkled them with pastel-colored crystals. We gilded the tight brown cones growing on several branches of the tree—"built-in" ornaments which the pine itself furnished.

The weather, clear but cold, made particularly welcome a big wood fire, crackling and snapping in the hearth, sending up clean, good-smelling flames every evening. When the fire was low, we sprinkled kernels in the old wire basket of the com popper and snapped the cover tightly. Soon the sudden.

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Christmas at the Island

surprised hop of the yellow kernels fluffed out in the wire gasket and the smell of popcorn permeated the warm room.

Later, there was the buttered batch to munch from a handy bowl while we threaded the popcorn on long strings.

My cousin Lucile emerged one day from secret sessions in her room, holding up the head of old Santa Claus himself.

She had drawn the outline on cardboard. For Santa's red coat and cap she fastened Toyon berries; for eyes she chose black seeds from the ligustrum hedge behind the patio, and for a luxuriant beard, popcorn billowed over the lower half of his face. He had a merry look as he topped the tree.

The cook was brought in to admire, and Juan, the saddle maker, too. It was the first Christmas tree on the Island— really a tree of love and happy labor. Now mid-morning or mid-aftemoon, the kitchen was redolent of the scent of spices, chocolate, pinenuts, citron and other savory ingredients that escaped the oven to announce that the Christmas cake was baking. My mother had a super culinary gift; under her direc tion the Christmas feast was sure to be a gourmet's delight.

Several days before Christmas some of us rode, some drove down to La Playa (Prisoners' Harbor) to greet Father Thomas Sherman, who was to be our guest. We were pleased that he had promised to celebrate the three Masses of Christmas. When the schooner Santa Cruz came alongside, my father stepped nimbly onto the wharf with the whitebearded padre. He somewhat resembled his father. General William Tecumseh Sherman. The black hat and long black coat looked rather incongruous with his khaki outfit and doe skin leggings which an Indian had made for him. He was most affable and very interested in the Island, so we all arrived at the Main Ranch in high spirits.

Father Thomas Sherman Father Tom, a highly individualistic person with definite tastes and ideas, was a most agreeable guest. He was a good conversationalist and had a store of interesting anecdotes to relate. One day at dinner in the long dining room, we asked him about the truth of the Sherman rose story.

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Ranch, the little building was squared by stone blocks at the four corners from ground to roof. A cross was carved by an expert Italian stone mason in each quoin. The sturdy red brick chapel with its brown belfry, close to a hillslope of the north ern range, almost surrounded by the glistening green of the vineyard, presented a tranquil scene. Calls of meadow larks and mourning doves deepened the ambiance of serenity. But now in December the green leaves had turned to scarlet and gold and finally withered in season. The vine trunks stood out gnarled and thick above the plowed eath. /.

Interior of chapel at Main Ranch

(Helen Caire collection)

A detour down a trail of the past is relevant here with regard to plans for a mission at the island, referred to above.

As early as 1770 the Franciscan padres had thought of building a mission on the island.^ In 1804 Father Tapis broached the subject to Arrillaga, the governor of California, who approved particulary as an aid in putting a stop to contraband. Many 54

Christmas at the Island

foreigners were smuggling goods, especially sea otter fur, as the names of Smugglers' Coves at Santa Cruz and at San Clemente Islands attest. Since the padres wished to convert the Island Indians, and the Spanish government wished to halt smuggling, an island mission was planned. The Chumash from neighboring Santa Rosa Island were willing to move to Santa Cruz, but would not consent to go to the mainland to beautiful Santa Barbara Mission.

However, chiefly because of an epidemic of measles which raged through the Chumash villages on both islands, the populations were so reduced that all plans for building a mission on the island were abandoned. Instead, the few survivors were brought to the mainland, probably to Mission Santa Ynez.

We wondered why the Island Chumash had not been taken across the channel to the Santa Barbara Mission. Finally we decided that the padres, realizing that nostalgia in daily seeing their islands swimmng on the channel horizon would be too much to bear, transported them inland behind the coast range. Good psychology, we agreed, for we could sympathize with the native islanders.

So in place of the projected early nineteenth century mission, there was a late nineteenth century island chapel.

In 1893 Justinian and Albina Caire planned to have a mission in the chapel for the Island workmen, since going to the mainland to attend Mass was not possible. It was not, of course, such a mission as the Franciscans would have built, but a course of sermons and services in the chapel for reviving faith and zeal. Father Genna, S. ]., a friend of my grandparents, conducted the mission to which the employes, chiefly Californios and Italians, responded well.

So much for the detour wandering into the past, and time to return to our twentieth century Christmas at the Island.

The Search for "Toyons" A few days before Christmas we rode over the trails in the hills, armed with shears to find Toyon berries for the chapel, huge crimson clusters for the Bambino's house on His 55

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Riding down to Canada del Puerto

(Helen Caire collection)

Birthday. Father Tom exchanged his black hat for the straightbrimmed khaki-colored one he had worn as a chaplain in the cavalry. He was not at all disconcerted by the steep, narrow trails in the chaparral of the Colorados, the rolling red range forming the southern boundary of the Canada del Medio, the central valley where the Main Ranch lies.

The largest, brightest Toyon berries ripen on the southern slopes of the range. We tied crimson bunches on both sides of the saddle horns, the clusters of berries reaching over the shoulders of our horses. They objected somewhat, but not disastrously. Then our cavalcade of six or seven returned with hingling bridles and bright red berries to the higharched entrance of the stable.

What a good place the red brick stable was with its smell of hay and harnesses and horses! How clean were the tarred 56

Christmas at the Island

cobbles between the swept planks of the stalls lined on either side! The arch at the farther end opened on a corral almost bisected by a long manger. The hay chute sloped to it from the loft, our best slide when we were children. We always liked he stable. Now it reminded us vividly that in a far land the Christ Child chose to be bom in a stable, the humble place of the animals that serve us.

Abelino, the stableman, especially took pride in keeping it in order. He had been at the Island when my young mother and aunts rode on side saddles and wore divided skirts. We could not remember any other stableman. He was not at the Island this December. Rheumatism kept him on the main land, wistfully looking across the channel. So it was Juan, slight and squinting behind his readymade glasses, who came from the tack room which was called the saddle shop, probably because Juan was a professional saddle maker. He more than willingly left the high seat to his work table, facing a window with a wide view of the barnyard. The paisano was a chatty person with an eager "What's doing?" personality. He admired the berries and made other chat as he took our horses.

On our second trip we took the more efficient, if less interesting method for carting Toyons—the Model T Ford.

Justy cranked it up for us and stepped nimbly aside, waving us off elaborately with his sombrero, as with a jerk, we started up, rattling down the almost three-mile road in the Canada del Puerto to Prisoners' Harbor. There Rafael, newly from Mexico—the regular employe at La Playa must have been on vacation—emerged from the barnyard across the creek.

Trailing him along the bridge was a procession of dog, chickens, piglet, and calf.

Greeting us with his sweet, childlike smile, he enthusiasti cally helped to pick more berries "por el altar por la Navidad.

We climbed the zigzag trail up the steep slope to the look-out house, used to spy the mast of the sailboat Star of Freedom through a telescope before the Santa Cruz was built. Not far beyond the small building of weathered wood we found generous trees with heavy clusters on the edge of the chapparal.

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation

When we came down, we entered the garden surrounded by a wrought-iron picket fence in front of the two-story adobe house. We paused to look up at it; it was so charming with green shutters on French doors leading to wrought-iron railed balconies. Poinsettias, flaming in a comer of the garden, had been saved for this feast day, and we took the best blooms.

Rafael helped us load our floral cargo into the Ford. While we bumped and rattled on the creek-bed road up to the Main Ranch, we carefully protected our bouquets to keep them from being brusied or broken.

The Santa Cruz Island Chapel On Christmas Eve, having ransacked the ranch for vases, we decorated the chapel, opening the double doors with a wonderfully long French key. Father Tom had appointed Jeanne sacristan. On the simple altar she laid the smooth linen cloth. Between branched candlesticks, poinsettias and berries flamed in their vases and on the deep sills under the four ogival windows.

Back at the house in the living room we rigged up a confessional with a screen and a footstool for a kneeler, and on the other side, a chair for Father Tom and a table with a candle, casting a shadowy light. Now we were ready for the day.

Berry clusters on both sides of the mantel and on the center table, the fresh greenpine, and firelight glowing on the oldfashioned frames of chairs and high-backed sofa radiated an ambiance of warmth and festivity.

Christmas morning dawned crisp and clear. We shivered as we donned "city clothes" and pulled on our riding boots to keep our legs warm, laughing as we looked at each other in our semi-urban, demi-ranch costumes. Singing carols, we set out for the chapel, two big puppies scampering after us, through the peach orchard, over the bridge, and over the plowed earth of the vineyard. "The first Noel, the angels did say . . ." and "Gloria in excelsis Deo ..." The words of the ageold carols streamed over the fields, over the fertile clods and gnarled vine trunks, while from the little belfry resounded the sweet, mellow pealing of the chapel bell.

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Christmas at the Island

The Rev. Thomas Sherman, S. /., Christmas Day (Helen Caire collection)

We entered under the Gothic arch of the doorway. Early light touched the windows in slanting paths of amber, rose and blue. Beyond the wrought-iron sanctuary railing, forged long ago in the Island smithy, the altar candles blazed in tongues of light; the flowers bloomed for their God. The Island Christmas Masses The chapel was filled. Father Tom, at the altar in white vestments, began the first Mass. It did not detract from the 59

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

solemnity that his doeskin leggings showed below the alb.

Justy, acting as acolyte, looked even taller in his Western boots.

There knelt my father, his shoulders neat and straight, my pretty mother beside him, my sisters and cousins. The ranch hands had filed in, and remained for the three Masses—all of us kneeling before the Myster of the Birth. Rafael had been driven up from La Playa for the Masses. He wore a white panama hat. Winter or not, this was his best hat to be worn on great occasions.

"Adeste Fideles. . —"Holy Night, Silent Night. .

The Host was raised before the lights and bright blooms, the Mystery of the Death celebrating the Mystery of the Birth. The second and third Masses followed. The very air of the little chapel was filled with sacred beauty.

At one point our puppy companions which had been barred entrance, pushed in their heads at the door and were swiftly banished. But when we came out, leaving the chapel with its sweet scent of snuffed candles. Bully Boy with the sad eyes and head of a mastiff, and fat, brindle Donnie, sons of old Don, yelped and romped happily.

We returned to the house, our boots avoiding the clods of the dormant earth, and chattered of the gala feast to follow, with roasted wild geese, plump from the grainfields of Christy Ranch at the west end, and other tasty dishes, good wine heightening flavor and enjoyment—all finally capped with our traditional Christmas cake.

First the Feast of God, then the feast of men: This was Christmas at the Island.

FOOTNOTE 1. Hubert Howe Bancroft. History of California, III (Annals of Territorial California, 1825-1840) 33-34. Zephyrin Engelhardt. The Missions and Mis sionaries of California, III, 235-54.

60

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justinian Caire's granddaughter, author Helen Caire, 1989.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection. Portrait by William B. Dewey)

61

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

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Two schooners anchored at Prisoners' Harbor, circa 1890s. Photograph from a (Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection) broken glass plate.

62

Santa Cruz Island Mrs. Ambrose Gherini is interviewed by Mr. Spaulding The following article by Edward S. Spaulding first appeared in the Fall, 1959 issue of Santa Barbara Historical Society's Noticias.

Mrs. Ambrose Gherini (1883-1960) was Justinian Caire's granddaughter, nee Maria Rossi. Maria was fourteen years old when her grandfather died. She was the oldest of ten sur viving children in her family. Her mother, Amelie Albina Caireijustinian Caire's daughter), had married Pietro C. Rossi in 1880.

Maria Rossi married Ambrose Gherini in 1906. They had four children, Marie, Ilda, Pier and Francis, who today own the eastern portion of Santa Cruz Island which is slated for National Park purchase in the near future.

Interviewer Edward Selden Spaulding (1891-1981) came to Santa Barbara as a six year old boy in 1897. During his youth he made several camping trips to Santa Cruz Island and eventually became one of Santa Barbara County's most avid naturalists and a leading author of local history.

Reviewing Mr. Justinian Caire's interest in Santa Cruz Island, we must first trace his arrival in this country.

Justinian Caire, the youngest of a large family, was bom in Briancon in the French Alps. As a very young man, he had visited Genoa where relatives of his had business interests.

Appearing in a report issued by the Society of California Pioneers, 456 McAllister Street, San Francisco, is the following: Justinian Cairo and his brother Adrien appear first in the 1853 Directory of San Francisco as the firm of Hardware Merchants at 142 Washington St. It was formed in March 1851. Justinian Caire arrived in San Francisco March 29, 1851, from France on the Aurelie. The first name of the firm was Caire and Long, and they imported luxury items from England and Germany as well as supplies for the miners. Married in

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Genoa in 1854 to Albina Cristina Sara Molfino. It is apparent that Adrien was the Paris member of the hardware concern.

It took my grandfather, coming around the Horn, six months to reach here. San Francisco in those days, we know, was continually beset by conflagrations, and it wasn't too long after his arrival that his stock and all were completely destroyed by the Great Fire of May 4th and 5th, 1851. Not dis couraged, he started to rebuild, but before completing the modest superstructure, he dug deeply and covered the pit with metal sheeting. Everyone laughed at him and called him the "crazy Frenchman". But not for long, did they laugh.

Within months, when fire bells sounded again, my grandfather dumped all his merchandise under ground and thus he was able to continue in business as soon as the em bers had cooled off.

When my grandparents returned to San Francisco after their marriage in December 1854, they crossed through Nicaragua from the Atlantic to the Pacific and then north to San Francisco. Their first home was on Telegraph Hill in the latter city. My grandmother was so disillusioned with the city then, pigs roaming through the streets, and water being peddled from horse carts, that she wouldn't learn English. It was only when her family was growing up and she saw no possibility of returning to live in Europe, that she mastered the language.

Meanwhile, Santa Cruz Island had been owned by an English firm represented by Bolton and Barron with a Mr. Shaw in charge of operations. Mr. Barron had a nephew, who was consul or vice-consul in Spain, and it was through him that they imported the fine Merino wool sheep from Spain.

When the English decided to sell the island, owing to their more recent interest in the Almaden Mine near San Jose, a new group was formed under the sponsorship of the then socalled San Francisco French Bank with Gustave Mahe as president.

This was in 1869. The members, as I have copied from a book by Col. Wentworth, were as follows; Pablo Baca, Justinian Caire, Giovanni Battista Cerruti, Thomas J. 64

Santa Cruz Island

Gallagher, Adrien Gensoul, Nicolas Larco, Gustave Mahe, Camillo Martin, I. Lemman Meyer, and Alexander Weill.

Exactly what happened I don't know, but Mahe committed suicide when the Bank failed and as my grandfather had vouched for two others and these couldn't meet their pay ments, he found himself with a larger share of responsibility.

At some time during the period 1880-1890 we find the name of Alex P. More as interested in Santa Cruz Island, but soon, my grandfather bought him out. Alex P. More then purchased Santa Rosa Island.

My grandparents had a large family and soon the eldest daughter was sent to France to study. My grandmother was ailing and somewhere during the seventies my grandfather decided to help the family return to Genoa, where medical care could be procured and the older children sent to school.

At that time, there was a train crossing the United States, but no dining cars. After five years, the family returned to reside not in San Francisco but in Oakland at 8th and Harrison.

On December 26, 1880 my parents were married and we lived in San Francisco. My grandfather was a very kind man, with a keen sense of humor, and, maybe, somewhat formal at times. Imagine my surprise when I received the enclosed note dated May 26,1893, to me,a young lady almost ten years old.

May 26,1893 Miss Maria Rossi—from town Dear young lady.

If my memory fails me not, I will call for you tomorrow, Saturday at 2 P.M. to show you the new schooner Santa Cruz, which is moored at the Italian fisherman's wharf.

Give all a good kiss for me. A hearty hug for yourself.

Justinian Caire.

I cherished the note and went with him to see the new schooner Santa

Cruz—a sailing vessel with a gasoline

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation

auxiliary engine. This Santa Cruz was to supplant the old Star of Freedom.

There is a further note addressed to me as of February 15, 1895, delivered by messenger, with a request for an immediate answer, inviting my twin brothers, aged 6 1/2 years, to go to the store on Market St. with Mr. Radovich and from there, they would accompany their grandpa to spend Saturday and Sunday in Oakland.

San Francisco, February 15,1895 My dear Maria, from town.

Would you ask your mother if the twins could or would come to the store with Theo Radovich from there to wend their way with me to Oakland to spend Saturday and Sunday.

Give bearer immediate reply. Give a good kiss to your father, your mother, your little sisters for your grandfather who will return you a hundred fold for your efforts for him.

Justinian Caire Of course the only transportation from San Francisco to Santa Barbara was by ocean-going vessels. In my childhood many were the trips we made on the Eureka. By the time we crossed the Golden Gate, most of us would be seasick; it couldn't have been the motion exactly but the lack of fresh air.

The cabins were down below, off the dining room, and the engine odors permeated everywhere. If the ship left here in the morning of a certain day, we would travel all that day, that night, and we would not reach Santa Barbara until the next afternoon.

The Eureka was really a freight boat. On the way South, we would stop at Port Hartford (now Port San Luis) and if they intended to load and unload we would have time to take a train ride on the narrow gauge up to San Luis Obispo. We'd visit the mission there and then return by train to the wharf, happy for a chance of getting off the ship for a while. Another 66

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stop was Cayucas. Sometimes the tide would be low and the wharf would be higher up, and, if any passengers were to board the Eureka, they would be placed in baskets and lowered like freight. The stops depended on when and where cargo was due to be picked up or delivered. When the Santa Rosa replaced the Eureka as a passenger boat, that was a true luxury—but still we never rebelled; it was all worth it, be cause, when we left San Francisco, we expected to stay the whole six weeks or more at Santa Cruz Island.

In a letter from my grandmother written on July 4, 1904, she speaks of the Schooner Pasadena being due at Prisoners' Harbor to pick up a load of wool, bundles of hide and 590 sheep. These latter were already in corrals at Prisoners' awaiting to be loaded. She said "we won't expect to receive any mail through here because it's the Eureka which makes a call here on her way directly to San Francisco."

My grandfather was an uncommon Frenchman in that he had mastered Italian and English and he had a working knowledge of Spanish. All Spanish names on the Island attest to this. In private, he even spoke the Genoese dialect with his wife, but, of course, never in front of his children. He made his plans in an orderly manner, and each ranch had handdrawn drawings on a thin type of oil cloth sheets showing the different fields and their positions in respect to the main buildings. Rock work, done in gullies to preserve the water and meanwhile prevent land from being washed away, exist to this day as firm as ever.

Concerning those French type houses at the Main Ranch, Mr. Justinian Caire built one for himself and family and the other for the use of the superintendent and business guests.

The family house had three rooms upstairs all with French doors opening on the balcony and on the rear of the house was an outside stairway. Downstairs in the center of the house was a sitting room and in each comer of the house was a bedroom opening into it, as well as on the outer porch. In the lower rear near the foot of the stairway was a small bathroom, with mnning cold water. As occasion required, hot water from the outer kitchen could be brought in to take off the chill; 1 can still visualize the tall, green-spruted 67

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containers which served the purpose.

The family dining room, also separate from the main house, was not far from the cook house.

The important part of the houses were the front gardens— my grandparent's pride and joy. The house at Prisoners' Harbor was built for the use of any one wanting to remain overnight, either before leaving the island or on arrival.

Actually, I don't think it was much occupied at the time.

These houses were all built right where they are standing today; those at the Main Ranch may be before 1880 and those on the outer ranches up to 1886 and 1889.

Of course, my grandfather had a knack when he interviewed laborers to find out from them what trade they had pursued in the Old Country and thus make use of their talents.

He was a man of imagination. When the market for wool was very low, at one time, he refused to accept the low offer and he built a brick warehouse at Prisoners' Harbor, and stored his sacked wool there until the market improved. Of course, the bricks were made and baked right on the spot, and many old lime kilns still show evidence of having been used in the distant past.

All the forges and shops of all kinds were principally at the Main Ranch.

Sometime in the Spring of 1896 my grandfather had a slight stroke while at Santa Cruz Island and a ship was sent to bring him to Oakland. I remember pasting clippings in a book for him—several concerning carrier pigeons; he was worrying about communications between the Island and the mainland.

As I look back, now, it seems to me, that medical science didn't do very much to help him recover. He was a robust man all his life, but of course I remember mostly his very blue eyes and wavy gray hair.

He died at his home on December 10, 1897.

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(Translations of letters from the French) Laplaya (Santa Cruz Island) June 15, 1895.

My dear Maria, With great pleasure, we have read your little note of May 27 in which you related the ceremony of your First Communion.

You must have been very happy according to all reports, particularly on seeing yourself surrounded by so many who are dear to you. No doubt out will cherish happy memories of this solemnity. As to us, grandmother and I, as well as aunt Aglae, were very happy to hear that you offered up for your grandparents, the first prayers said on the new rosary; that, my little Maria can't help but bring you much happiness throughout your life. Now, you would be wise in telling us, if this was suggested to you by someone, or was it a thought of your own; nevertheless, whatever its origin, your good intention is not forgotten by those upon whom you called down the blessing of The Almighty.

You seem to be enjoying your stay in San Rafael; your brothers and sisters will certainly share the same pleasure.

You will embrace every member of the family, the older ones and the little ones as well and you will try to keep us informed as often as possible.

Your affectionate grandfather Justinian Caire

(Must have been written in 1894 when the Midwinter Fair came to San Francisco.)

My dear Maria, Grandma and I have decided to ask you to beg your uncle Domenico (my father's brother) to come to the Island for a couple of days. Try to invite him so convincingly, so very graciously, that he won't dare refuse you.

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We could take advantage of your vacation time to accompany you, Maria and the twins. Wouldn't that be a propitious occasion for you three?

Be courageous,go about it tactfully and your uncle Arthur could plan your arrival in Santa Barbara to coincide with the delivery of the gasoline.

Here (at the Main Ranch) there is a darling little boy who could be a good playmate for the twins.

A big kiss for you all Justinian Caire.

P.S. You must be broken of your habit of lisping while speaking because the public is beginning to make fun in this regard.

70

ISLAND RANCHO

By Pier Gherini The following article by Pier Gherini first appeared in the Winter, 1966 issue of Santa Barbara Historical Society's Noticias.

Pier Gherini (1912- )is Justinian Caire's great grandson.

Pier was born fifteen years after his great grandfather's death. He is the third of four children born to Maria Caire Rossi and Ambrose Gherini. Today, Pier Gherini and his three siblings, Marie, Ilda and Francis, own the eastern portion of Santa Cruz Island. At an unknown future date, this land will be purchased by the U.S. Government for inclusion in the Channel Islands National Park. Pier Gherini is a retired Santa Barbara attorney.

Edward Selden Spaulding (1891-1981) enouraged Pier Gherini to write the following article for Noticias, just as he had encouraged Pier's mother, Mrs. Ambrose Gherini, to be interviewed for the Fall, 1959 issue.

Selden Spaulding has asked that I record some of the experi ences in operating a ranch in the sea.

My personal experiences go back to the late twenties. It was then that my father and mother had acquired the eastern end of Santa Cruz Island from other members of the family.

Prior to his final decision, my father, a San Francisco lawyer, made it rather plain that the operation of this ranch would become the increasing responsibility of my brother Francis and myself. We were then in grade school, and the prospect seemed rather exciting, even though we knew little or nothing about ranching.

During the period that the entire island had been run as a single unit, the Eastern end had often been referred to as the "granary of the island." Its broad plateaus and rich black soil made it suitable for the raising of grains and other crops for the use of the islands as a whole. As a rule, fields bore names of Spanish origin. "Potrero Llano", "Campo Grande", 71

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"Campo de Los Toros", "Aguaje", are examples. Other fields or locations bore historical reference. "Smugglers" Ranch" and "Smugglers" Field" and ""Smugglers" Cove" referred to an era in early California history when custom duties were evaded, and apparently Smugglers' Cove was used as an interim stopping place prior to the entry at mainland points.

While the ranch was operated as a unit, both sheep and cattle were raised on the Eastern end. The large mesa compos ing what is now Smugglers' and Scorpion Fields was cattle land, and the hillier open countries were devoted to the raising of sheep.

Smugglers' Ranch was one of several out ranches developed by Justinian Caire in the later part of the 19th century. Note the large sundial above the main entrance. The smaller wooden building is no longer standing. Photo graph circa 1890s.

(Santa Barbara Historical Society collection)

Upon acquiring the ranch, my father consulted Clifford McElrath, now a prominent cattleman in Northern California, but then a recent graduate of UC, Davis. On the advice of McElrath and others, it was decided to forego the dual operation, and to confine our activities to the raising of sheep and wool.

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The island sheep then, and to some extent even today, possessed characteristics that set them apart from their main land counterparts. The breed is predominately RambouilletMerino. The wool is in the fine wool category, as distinguished from the coarse wool and intermediate categories. The sheep are smaller, quicker and more of a range type animal. The ewes lamb on the range and are excellent and very protective mothers. Any effort to have shed lambing as is done in many mainland operations would be chaotic.

During the early days the sheep were rounded up in day long "corridos" or roundups. Twelve, fifteen or more riders would round up animals, usually steering them toward the Main or Middle Ranch where they would be docked, sorted, sheared and readied for shipping.

Upon acquiring the Eastern part of the Island, it was apparent that many changes would have to be made. First of all, an elaborate system of fencing and cross-fencing had to be instituted. There were two reasons for this. One, for greater control of the animals, and two, to permit conservation of range lands by closing off certain pastures each year to permit reseeding and regrowth.

Another problem encountered was the matter of transportation. While there were several harbors on the East end, it was obvious that Scorpion Harbor located at the base of operations was the natural harbor to use and develop.

Scorpion faces to the Northeast and is in the lee of some rather steep bluffs. It is a deep water harbor, with a rocky beach. As a result of its location, it is sheltered from the pre vailing Northwest winds and is exposed only to the Easterly winds. The strong Northeasters which come infrequently, but with great violence and velocity, were the principal concern.

Without any boat of our own, we soon learned that transportation was the most important problem—and headache. During the first few years of our operation, we depended on several sources of transportation—all rather unsatisfactory. For routine supplies we depended upon the Larco fish boats which came to pick up lobsters and supply the lobster camps. In consideration of receiving transportation, we granted the company the right to maintain fish camps at 73

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Potato Bay, Scorpion, San Pedro Point, and at Yellow Banks.

These camps were occupied by as varied an assortment of characters as one would ever find. The "Big Swede" whose name was Axel Swanson, was a man of some 240 or 250 pounds. I recall him telling me as a child how he drank "fusil oil" because he got a kick out of it. Then there was Ben Journeay, a tall, lean French-Canadian. Ben was bom in 1850.1 will never forget an incident in the summer of 1936. Ben rowed his skiff out to a cruiser that had dropped anchor. I suspect that Ben might have brought a few lobsters with him.

At any rate, Ben was enjoying liquid refreshments and the company aboard the yacht when it lifted anchor. When they were over halfway up the Island going West, Ben suddenly discovered that the yacht was heading back for Santa Barbara.

He took off and rowed 11 or more miles in a stiff breeze—at the age of 86. Ben loved the Island and seldom left it. Finally, his daughter persuaded him to come live with her in San Diego, and he died shortly thereafter.

Sam Hageras was another rugged individual. Sam made his camp at San Pedro Point on the Eastern tip of the Island.

In those days, there was an unwritten law that each camp had its own lobster grounds. For example, Charley Gunderson would fish from Chinese Harbor to Cavern Point. Ben Journeay would fish from Cavern Point to approximately halfway between Scorpion and San Pedro, and so on around the Island. These men used wooden lath traps built by them in the off season. These traps were weighted with rocks. They covered their fishing grounds in 14- to 16-foot skiffs, and in almost all cases used oars as power.

Charley Gunderson was one of the first to use an outboard motor. He had a little Johnson, which moved his skiff at 4 or 5 miles an hour. Gunderson, like all these men, was a hardy and experienced seaman. I recall Gunderson coming into Santa Barbara from Potato Harbor with his little outboard, a twenty-plus mile journey. Of course the weather was smooth, and Gunderson knew his weather.

All of these men lived in an informal type of servitude to the fish company. They always managed to spend their season's earnings and go in debt. As a result, they needed 74

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advances for the next season's gear and equipment. Payment of these advances would be made out of their catches.

Usually a large boat owned by the company would make the round of the camps once every week or ten days, and pick up the catch of each camp. The week or ten days figure was always qualified by the term,"weather permitting."

We came to know that the term "weather permitting" came to have many meanings. Perhaps the wind was blowing too hard, perhaps it was too foggy, or maybe there was engine trouble, or the skipper had a bad night. In any event, transportation was the principal headache we encountered in our first years of ownership. Nor were alternative means ever completely satisfactory. The fact that we didn't have a boat made the boat a very important item.

Nor was the problem confined to shipment of ordinary supplies. Shipping of livestock posed an even greater problem. During the early years we relied upon Alvin Hyder, a little man with remarkable skill. Hyder owned a 65-foot work boat called the Nora. He transported animals for us for several years. He also hauled livestock from San Clemente, San Nicolas and San Miguel Islands. While no doubt he was a skilled operator, Hyder's time schedules left something to be desired. Either through other commitments or a general disdain for time and schedules, the Nora would often arrive days late. Upon arrival, he always expected everything to be ready, and loading to commence without delay.

All of this pointed to the very obvious fact that sooner or later we had to have our own boat. My brother always had an interest in boats and boating. In 1932 we found a 42-foot vessel that had been used in Alaska as a salmon troller. With some modifications, it seemed to be what we needed. After some refurbishing, we made plans to bring it to Santa Barbara.

It was the year of the general strike. All of San Francisco was tied up. It was only with a great deal of difficulty that we were able to get fuel and supplies and head through the Golden Gate.

We ran into strong headwinds and soon discovered that the small diesel was no match for the heavy seas we encountered. We reached shelter at Princeton Beach, near 75

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Half Moon Bay. With a bigger or better heavy duty diesel installed, my brother brought her to Santa Barbara soon after.

The Natco served us long and well for many years until we replaced her with the Hodge, which is larger, and more adaptable.

Many of the men who worked on the Island left vivid memories. Felix Mauri, an able iron worker was one. During his time we still used draft horses and wagons, and the skill of an iron worker was always in demand. In addition to repair of plows, wagons, sleds, there was of course horse shoeing and other related jobs. With Felix, breakfast was an important meal. Each morning he would have a "rosetta", consisting of four raw eggs and a glass of wine mixed together.

Jim Perla, who died last year here in Santa Barbara, worked on the Island for over 50 years. An excellent rider, Jim also possessed all around attributes that are needed in Island living.

Shearing time was and is a busy time. Island shearing should take place while the grass is still green and before it turns to seed. Clover, while an excellent feed, contains a spiral burr that intertwines itself in the wool. Foxtail, once dry, also offers problems. The best time to shear is usually in the latter part of April and May. In the early days most of the shearers came from Santa Barbara. They would remain on the Island till all the flocks were sheared. The number of hand shearers was very scarce. Mechanical shears were replacing the hand shears. Today, three men can do the work of twice their number using hand clippers.

By the time we acquired the Eastern end, sheep raising activities on the mainland in this country had been steadily decreasing for many years.

Shearing was done with hand clippers. Payment was on a per head basis and the average shearer would shear approximately 75 head per day. The crews would be housed and boarded at the ranch during their stay.

Shearers today usually travel a fairly well defined circuit.

We still do our principal shearing in the late spring.

The wool is sacked at the ranch. The average sack weighs about 350 pounds. It is inspected by buyers and the price is usually fixed after the usual haggling before shipment. Like 76

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most wool grown in the United States, the Island wool invariably finds its way to New England mills.

Communication on the Island and between the Island and the mainland has always been a concern. Years ago when the Island was operated as a single unit, hand crank telephones powered by four 11/2 volt batteries provided contact between the various ranches on the Island. However, reliance on contact with the mainland was primarily by boat.

In 1927 the late Earle Ovington of Santa Barbara and one of the pioneers in American aviation flew to our ranch. He landed in the small field by the ranch house at Scorpion. It took several days before an easterly wind permitted him to take off. In the meantime, he located two sites which were much more satisfactory. These fields still serve us today for this purpose.

Shortly after his first trip, I flew over to the Island and then back to Santa Barbara. His "field" was a strip a few hundred feet in length, bordered by a grove of eucalyptus trees on the Samarkand Hills area. Earle would circle the trees until he was low enough to come in around them for a landing.

About 1935 we were able to improve communications by getting an FCC permit to operate a 5 watter. By maintaining schedules with Anacapa Light Station, messages could be relayed to the mainland in case of emergency.

As time went on, communications improved as more powerful stations were permitted. These have been supplemented with mobile phone equipment. The Islands are no longer isolated as in the past.

The matter of keeping equipment in repair has always been a problem. While minor repairs can always be accomplished locally, often the shortage of a key part or tool can present delays. There is no parts store, or repair shop around the corner.

There is, of course, much more that could be said. The intelligent and always polite Japanese seiners crews would come ashore from time to time before World War II. The thought that some of these men were in the Japanese Navy was not dismissed. World War II itself presented real problems. My brother, a naval reserve officer, was called to 77

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duty in early 1941, and shortly thereafter was overseas for the duration. I was called to duty with the Air Corps in August of 1941, and didn't get back to civilian life until 1946. War time travel across the channel was rigidly controlled by defense au thorities. To the late Hal Proctor, who operated our boat and kept communications, we owe an everlasting debt of gratitude. The usual problems were compounded, but somehow or other, we muddled through.

The recent death of Sam, at the age of sixteen years, reminds us of the value and close relationship of a ranch and a dog. Sam was a red-boned hound. He came to the Island as a two-week-old pup. Gentle as a kitten with livestock, poultry and persons, Sam was death on wild hogs. He would sit on the front seat of the jeep and be constantly on the lookout. Once he caught the scent of a wild pig he was off.

There was no real sport in hunting hogs with Sam along. He took personal charge, ran down and then cornered his prey.

Before Sam there was Jack, a bull-collie, Chico, a "heinzhound", and others. All were good, but we miss Sam the most.

The story of an Island ranch is largely the story of people, as this tale indicates. Joe Griggs, whose formal education ended in the 3rd grade, but who had a touch of genius, is another example. Joe could do most anything, except write. An expert rider, huntsman, and general ranch worker, Joe also was a mechanical whiz. He once took a 1915 Waterloo Boy tractor that had been "mothballed" because the early workmen wouldn't touch it, and used the parts to make a sawmill. The fact that we didn't need a mill in no way detracted from the ingenuity and skill that went into its making. All of these people had one common characteristic. They knew and loved the Island. Each in his own way was rugged and self-reliant.

They took its beauties and hardships in stride.

78

HISTORICAL HIGHLIGHTS OF SANTA CRUZISLAND

By Marla Daily and Carey Stanton The following article first appeared in the Fall, 1983 issue of La Reata, the publication of the Santa Barbara Corral of VJesterners, International. With minor changes, it was republished in The Ventura County Historical Society Quarterly in Summer, 1986.

Carey Stanton (1923-1987) was born in Los Angeles, California in 1923. In 1937, when he was fourteen years old, his parents bought the western nine-tenths of Santa Cruz Island from Caire descendents. April 10, 1987 marked the Stantons' 50th anniversary of their island purchase, an occasion which Carey Stanton celebrated with his closest lifelong friends. On December 8, 1987, at the age of 64, Carey Stanton died unexpectedly at his island home. Three years before his death, he wrote to co-author Marla Daily: 1 had the unique experience of spending all my school vacations and as much other time as possible on our 55,(XX) acre island ranch. It was truly a wonderful place to grow up, a marvelously-preserved, 19th century working cattle ranch.

Marla Daily (1950- )began her work on Santa Cruz Island in 1973, after completing her B.A. in Anthropology at the University of California at Santa Barbara. Through their mutual interests, and for over a dozen years, she and Carey Stanton worked together collecting art, references, photo graphs, artifacts, books, maps, court documents, ephemera, and other information concerning the history of Santa Cruz Island.

Santa Cruz Island is the largest (ninety-six square miles) of the four northern Channel Islands and is located twenty-five miles off the mainland coast of Santa Barbara. It is larger than Washington, D.C., and four times the size of the island of Manhattan! Its unique history and chain of ownership is an anomaly among (California properties. Rather than the number of landowners increasing through land divisions 79

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with time, Santa Cruz Island remains owned by only two concerns and is relatively undeveloped by today's standards.

The first known inhabitants of Santa Cruz Island were the Chumash Indians and their ancestors. Radiocarbon dating shows that the island was inhabited at least as long ago as seven thousand years.* As the Chumash left no written record, information about their island cultures is primarily gathered through archaeological examination.

Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, probably the first European explorer to reach the coast of California, wrote of the ^nta Barbara Channel in his journals of 1542. His is the first written account known to include mention of the island, although he called it by a different name. Continuing through the next two and one half centuries, at least four explorers, including Cermeho in 1595, Vizcaino in 1602, Portola in 1769, and Vancouver in 1795, charted and wrote of Santa Cruz Island. Portola's expedition is credited with naming the island Isla de Santa Cruz, and Vancouver's charts finalized the names of all the northern Channel Islands. These early European explorers were more concerned with the California mainland and tended to pay little attention to the islands.

Some did stop for wood and water in passing.^ In 1769, Santa Cruz Island (along with all of California) became vested in the King of Spain. During Spains' owner ship, Chumash Indians continued to live on the island although decreasing in numbers until, in 1822, the last of the Chumash left Santa Cruz Island to live on the mainland.^ No Europeans are known to have settled on the island during the Spanish era, and presumably the island was "deserted" for many decades with perhaps the exception of a few seasonal fish camps scattered about the island's shores.

In 1821, after Mexico's long and successful revolt against Spain, California became part of the new Republic of Mexico.

On July 20, 1838, the President of Mexico directed the Governor of California, Juan Bautista Alvarado, to grant lands to Mexican citizens who had performed various patriotic services. On May 22, 1839, governor Alvarado conveyed the Island of Santa Cruz to Captain Andres Castillero. Specified in the grant was the island's description ". . . in extent of eleven 80

Historical Highlights of Santa Cruz Island

Rancho and Valley Santa Cruz Island, Watercolor by James Madison Alden, 1855. The earliest known view of the Central Valley, the painting bears evi dence of the existence of animal husbandry and agriculture at this date.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection)

square leagues and no more, and has for its boundaries the water's edge."^ With this grant, Castillero became the first private owner of Santa Cruz Island, and he held that status for eighteen years (1839-1857).

Soon after California was admitted to statehood in 1850, the United States government appointed a Board of Land Commissioners to settle civil questions of California land ownership. Title to all land previously granted by the Spanish and Mexican governments during their rule in the newly formed State of California had to be proved by the owner before the Land Commission, according to United States Law. In the case of Santa Cruz Island, on April 13, 1852, Andres Castillero filed his petition to secure confirmation of his title.

His petition was repeatedly challenged and he was kept in court for twelve years. On November 7, 1864, the final necessary document was recorded by the United States Supreme Court, which confirmed Castillero's title as sole 81

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owner of Santa Cruz Island. In the meantime, however, Castillero had sold his interest in the island.

During the latter part of Castillero's ownership of Santa Cruz Island, Dr. James B. Shaw, an English physician residing in Santa Barbara, supervised the island. He is thought to have introduced to the island the French Merino sheep and perhaps the ancestors of the now feral pigs. During Shaw's management, the first known ranch house was built in the

Chapel of the Holy Cross, Santa Cruz Island, 1964. The wrought-iron fencing surrounding the chapel, built in 1981, was handmade on the island.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection)

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Wineries, Santa Cruz Island, 1938. In 1950, the wineries were gutted by fire.

Today the walls have been lowered and the buildings reroofed.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection)

Pelican Bay, Santa Cruz Island, 1920$. Today just a few foundations and plant ings remain as evidence of this resort run by Ira Eaton.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection)

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island's Central Valley by 1855.® After Castillero sold the island in 1857 to William Barron of Barron, Forbes & Company of San Francisco, Shaw continued to supervise the island for an additional twelve years.

Barron owned the island for twelve years (1857-1869), until he sold it to ten San Franciscans, directors of a French savings bank, who formed a corporation called the Santa Cruz Island Company. This was the first time that the island had been owned by more than one person.

Before Barron's 1869 sale, very little had been done in the way of ranching development. Improvement began under the ownership of the Santa Cruz Island Company—its president and most active shareholder being a Frenchman from San Francisco named Justinian Caire. Within the course of twelve years, Caire bought out his nine partners in the corporation and became the sole owner of Santa Cruz Island by 1880. In that same year he paid his first visit to the island to survey his holdings and pursue the planning of what was to become one of the most prosperous, well-managed and beautiful ranches and vineyards in the entire state.

Under Caire's direction, the Santa Cruz Island Company developed a variety of agricultural and ranching endeavors.

Buildings including ranch houses, bunk houses, barns, wineries, a chapel, mess hall, blacksmith shop and saddle shop were constructed. Wherever possible, native island materials were used. Kilns were built for the manufacture of bricks and limestone mortar. Stones were quarried and cut to shape on the island. A resident blacksmith forged wrought iron fittings, railings and hinges used on many of the buildings. Full-time employees included masons, a wagon maker, carpenters, painters, team drivers, dairymen, a butcher, vintners, grape-pickers, sheep-shearers, and a sea captain and sailors to run the Santa Cruz Island Company's sixty-foot schooner.

The island was a very efficient operation and almost entirely a self-contained one. Flour, sugar and coffee were among the few staples which were required from the mainland. Temporary extra labor was brought to the island from Santa Barbara during the sheep-shearing and grape84

Historical Highlights of Santa Cruz Island

Prisoners' Harbor, Santa Cruz Island, 1964. Prisoners' Harbor remains the main point of entry for supplies and shipping of livestock.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection)

picking time. The wine which was made was shipped in bulk in kegs to San Francisco where it was bottled. (No known bottle of Santa Cruz wine exists today.) A vast number of acres of oat hay and alfalfa were cultivated to keep the draft horses fed. All of the work on the island's ninety-six square miles was done on horseback or with the aid of wagons. Justinian Cairo's masterly plan for the island is unequaled.

In December, 1897, Justinian Cairo died, having transferred all of the stock in the Santa Cruz Island Company to his beloved wife, Albina.^ Extensive litigation within the Cairo family followed until, in 1925, the island was partitioned. The easterly 6,600 acres remained with the Cairo descendants who were the dissenters in the family litigation, and the westerly 54,000 acres were offered for sale. This nine-tenths of Santa Cruz island remained on the market until 1937 when Edwin L. Stanton purchased it.

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For the first two years of his ownership, Edwin Stanton tried to revive and improve the sheep business. It was a difficult task because the sheep had become accustomed to life in the wild and would not cooperate with roundup and shearing efforts. Emphasis was then switched to cattle, and polled Herefords were introduced. They remain the mainstay of the island's ranching operation today.

Edwin Stanton died in 1963 and management of the Santa Cruz Island Company passed to his son Carey. The island continues to be operated in much the same manner as a nineteenth century California ranch was. It offers a very special window into the past, with a twentieth century emphasis being placed on preservation and ecology. In the year 2008, the Santa Cruz Island Company holdings will pass to The Nature Conservancy, an organization dedicated to land preservation. The eastern tip of Santa Cruz Island, which remains in the ownership of Caire family descendants, is slated to become a part of our National Park System at an unknown future date.

NOTES This article was first printed in the Fall 1983 edition of La Reata, the quarterly publication of the Santa Barbara Corral of the Westerners, copy right retained by Marla Daily and Carey Stanton.

1. Glassow, M.A., 1980. "Recent Developments in the Archaeology of the Channel Islands" in D. Power, ed.. The California Islands: Proceedings of a Multidisciplinary Symposium. Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History, pp. 79-99. Glassow lists 7140 ± 210 radiocarbon year B.P. for a sample taken from Punta Arena, Santa Cruz Island.

2. Dana, Richard Henry,(1964). Two Years Before the Mast. Ward Ritchie Press, Los Angeles.

3. Johnson, John, 1982. "An Ethnohistoric Study of the Island Chumash."

Unpublished Masters Thesis, University of California at Santa Barbara, p.

195. Johnson lists baptismal records of Chumash Indians from Santa Cruz Island in 1822.

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4. March 21, 1897 (Patent Date). 'Transcript of the Proceedings in Case No. 176. Andres Castillero, Claimant, vs. The United States, Defendant, for the Island of Santa Cruz."

5. Stenzel, Franz, 1975. James Madison Alden, Yankee Artist on the Pacific Coast, 1854-1860. Amon Carter Museum, Ft. Worth, Texas, page 50, plate 15, "Rancho and Valley Santa Cruz Island, California, 1855" watercolor 7" x 10 3/8". This is the earliest known view of Santa Cruz Island. It shows a man on horseback, some haystacks and fowl, establishing agriculture and animal husbandry on the island at least as early as 1855.

6. Caire, Helen, 1982. "A Brief History of Santa Cruz Island from 18691937" in Ventura County Historical Society Quarterly, Vol. 27, No. 4, Summer 1982, pp.1-33.

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i

An unidentified Santa Cruz Island va<\uero rides the Company's schooner to work.

(Helen Caire collection)

88

ISLAND ROUNDUPS AND SHEARING

By Helen Caire The following article by Helen Caire first appeared in The Ventura County Historical Society Quarterly in Summer, 1986.

There is no documentation for the first introduction of sheep to Santa Cruz Island, although they are known to have pro vided mutton to Los Angeles markets as early as 1856.

Between 1985 and 1987, The Nature Conservancy shot approx imately 32,000 sheep in a concerted effort to eliminate the now feral population from the western 9ll0ths of the island.

PART ONE: ROUNDUPS

Santa Cruz Island lies about twenty-five miles due south of Santa Barbara. It is one of the links in the chain of four islands which, where the California coast takes an east-west swing, form the Santa Barbara Channel. Justinian Caire, in his development of the Island ranch, added vineyards and cattle to the formerly-introduced sheep as the main ranching operations. Consequently, the busiest seasons were the vintage and the cattle and sheep roundups. With regard to the latter, my father, Frederic Caire, noted: A goodly number of men—riders and shearers—were brought from the mainland for a period of forty to fifty days. In early days as many as 40 to 50,000 sheep roamed the island; later the number was regulated to accord with the natural conditions determined by rainfall and feed reserves.

In early days there were two shearing seasons—spring and fall, but with the reduction in the number of sheep only one in spring was necessary. Because of the nature of the terrain, the roundups and trasquila (as the shearing was referred to at the Island) remained much the same for over half a century.

Other ways were tried but were never successful. These attempts, which will be mentioned later in this account, provided a good laugh for the oldtimers. Most of what follows was written at the Island during the last roundup.

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Lineup of vac\ueros before roundup. Main Ranch and barnyard. To the left is (Helen Caire collection) the shearing shed.

The Vaqueros in the Santa Barbara region, called Barbarehos, are recruited on the mainland for ranch work on Santa Cruz as well as on the three other islands on which there are sheep operations: San Miguel, San Clemente, and San Nicolas. Of course, they are also recruited for cattle operations on Santa Cruz Island and on the mainland. After roundup, some continue work on the ranches breaking horses, riding fence, checking water holes for cattle, etc. But most of the vaqueros find other jobs during slack season.

From Santa Barbara, crossing the channel in the Santa Cruz Island Company schooner Santa Cruz, the vaqueros arrive at Prisoners' Harbor, the main port of the Island. Up the three-mile canyon bed road of the Canada del Puerto by truck (in olden days by horse-drawn wagons), they alight at the Main Ranch in the Canada del Medio, the central valley.

After stowing their gear in one of the bunkhouses, they cross the vast barnyard to the red brick stable where horses, saddles, and bridles are assigned. Spurs, reatas, chirrion (braided rawhide quirt), and knife are each man's personal 90

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concern. Now the chorus of crickets and frogs take over; then the night is still.

Very early the next morning, the bell on the knoll behind the kitchen rings mercilessly—before the birds have begun their chorus of matins in the pepper trees, even before the white dawn. Often it is in pitch darkness that the vaqueros start their day. After breakfast in the long mess hall they set out, catching their horses and saddling up. More than likely there are several mad dashes across the barnyard, the younger horses skittish at this early hour. Amid laughter from those on quieter mounts and cries of "Bueno! Stay with him!" a short wild west show breaks out.

The bucking is soon checked; in the semi-obscurity the vaqueros trot up to form a circle around the mayordomo who gives them their posts for the roundup. He points east, west, north or south in his explanations. Few instructions are needed as the vaqueros are old hands and usually take the same posts every year.

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Lineup of vaqueros before roundup, Christy Ranch.

(Helen Caire collection)

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Each roundup, called corrida in Islandese, covers some section of the territory being run, such as the Pinos Chicos (a hard one) and Pinos Grandes (a long, rough one) both on the northwestern coast; Potrero Norte (rolling hills, easy country); Punta del Oeste (to the westernmost point, a very long trek that starts from Christy Ranch); Coches Prietos (on the southern coast) as well as many others.

Now hoofbeats sound on the still air as the riders start out.

Beyond the barnyard they separate to take the roads east or westward; after a distance they follow the trails in the northern or southern ranges between which the Canada del Medio is cradled. Here and there a man begins to drop off to reach his pointed place.

Lead man has one of the hardest jobs, as his is the farthest outpost of the territory being covered. The roundup begins when he starts. The vaqueros in the near vicinity, hearing his shout, close in gradually. The canyons and hills echo and resound with whoops, cries, and cracks of chirriones. "'Hoop-ah! Hoop-ah!" The mayordomo is here and there to see that all goes well, urging, commanding.

The horses, too, know the game. Sturdy-legged, broad-chested, with the hoofs of goats, energy and stamina from mustang blood—these are the horses that work on the annual roundups at the Island. Without the horses' "savvy" in such rugged country, the roundups would be impossible.

They follow the sheep, watching their movements, and gallop in to cut off their breaking. The tough, accustomed hoofs can follow the sheep almost everywhere. At certain strategic points a punta manga (wing fence) helps the vaqueros and horses to head the sheep in the right direction especially toward the last stretch of the run. Sometimes, of course, a few sheep will break and get by a horse and rider.

Then there must be swift backtracking to round them up again.

Hour upon hour the pursuit and driving continue—up one Canada and down another, across one ridge to a farther one. More and more sheep join the band, the semicircle of vaqueros behind them always increasing and closing in. The ranges, usually lying in a great spell of silence, echo and 92

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re-echo with the voices of men, the thud of horses' hoofs, cracks of chirridnes, the bleating of rushing sheep—the sun has long ago risen and climbed high in the sky, but the work goes on. The riders keep following till all the bands of sheep are united, the semicircle horsemen close behind.

The sheep are driven toward a punta manga which leads into fields not far from the Main Ranch, or from Christy where the roundups and shearing also take place. The rest stop may be in the hanging valley of Portezuela where the sheep are herded into the Descanso field. There hang the silver skeletons of fiddlenecks, their gold long-since spent.

Men, horses and sheep rest for an hour or so before the final drive into the Main Ranch, or Christy and the corrals near the shearing shed there.

During this pause in the corrida, if you want to hear an oldtimer chuckle, ask him if he ever saw a buck running around the Island hills with white sails on his horns. You'll hear this story: One year the Santa Cruz Island Company, though skeptical as to results, allowed a different mode of rounding up the sheep. A number of skilled and experienced sheepherders and their dogs were included with the vaqueros at the start of the corridas. The herders were excellent sheepmen on their smooth or gently rolling land with flocks accustomed to their methods, but at the Island . . .

Alas for Little Bo-Peep! The dogs returned to the Main Ranch footsore, paws pricked with cactus spines. Improvised little leather shoes failed to help them. Worse yet, the sheep failed to shy clear of the four-foot-high white cloth strips nailed to the fence on both sides of the home stretch. (This novel spectacle was intended to encourage the animals to continue in the right direction.) Thus arose the hilarious legends of rams roaming the Island hills with white streamers waving. It was enough to make the oldtimers laugh until they rolled off their saddles. Thereafter, the usual ways of sheep roundups were reinstated. On the rugged Island terrain this method proved the best.

But now it is time to return to our muttons, deserted at their resting place. If it is near enough to the Main Ranch, Hercules Pico, cook, has driven out to leave provisions: bread.

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onions, frijoles, coffee. Having unsaddled, the vaqueros prepare for a meal. A few men set about building a circular fireplace with large creek rocks. Some gather firewood. Others whittle points on slim branches or reach up for the barbecue sticks of the previous year, stuck across boughs of great oaks shading the barbecue area. A few vaqueros are roping a lamb or two for the feast. The lazy ones are lying on their backs or pretending to be busy about a saddle or a sore finger. But there is no bickering. In the main, the work is taken on good-naturedly by the energetic men.

The lambs are quickly dispatched, drawn and skinned with the hunting knife, which is stuck in the belt and used for many things. Without it the vaquero would be almost lost.

How else could he slice his bread or cut a leather thong from the saddle if necessary, or clean his nails?

The meat is cut up and spitted on the barbecue poles. If a young wild pig happens to be caught not far from the resting place, he becomes part of the menu. Soon arises the peculiarly savory odor of came asada cooked outdoors, an irresistible scent to a hungry group that has worked hard, so usually the meat is eaten underdone. The fat sizzles down on the hot coals which sputter and flame up.

After the meat is cooked, a vaquero with a delicate palate places a lamb's head whole into the glowing coals. When he considers his prize well-done, he lifts it out with sticks, cleaves it open, and shares the well-roasted brains with other gourmets. Thick slices of Pico's good bread are toasted, spread with the finest fat—which any vaquero will tell you is as good as butter—then topped with hearty onion rings.

Talk is rather general, broken by laughter at the remarks or antics of a comedian or two. Mingled with the aroma of cooking meat are the scents of boiling coffee and of hand-rolled cigarettes. After the barbecue, there is time for a siesta on the generous leafy mattresses cushioning the earth, with a saddle for a pillow.

Then the vaqueros are back in the saddle again for the few miles of the home stretch. As they near the Main Ranch, a vanguard of two or three rides ahead to open gates, close others, and take various posts so that the sheep will be headed 94

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Came asada barbecue, Sur-Canada Pomona.

(Helen Caire collection)

toward the corrals near the shearing shed at the western end of the barnyard. (In olden times a few tame goats were kept, usually at Prisoners' Harbor; there never were wild goats on the Island. They were trained so that during roundups one would lead the sheep across the barnyard to the corrals. This method was eventually discontinued, however, and the goats dispatched.)

When the last band of sheep is crossing the barnyard, through clouds of dust, the riders appear a short distance behind them. There are husky bleats and occasional whoops to urge on the laggards, and some snapping of chirridnes.

Though the lambing season is over, there are some late lambs; one or two vaqueros are carrying the tired, hungry late-comers before them on their saddles. A few men dismount and urge onward the older stragglers. (When we are at the Island during the corridas, we make pets of the lepes (orphans), bottle-feeding them.)

At length the heavy gates close on the hindmost sheep.

Plaintive bleating and milling continue for a while. The dust settles in the great barnyard as the men unsaddle, wash up, and rest or sharpen their shears for the morrow's shearing.

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Coming into the Main Ranch.

(Helen Caire collection)

End of the roundup. The sheep are being driven across the barnyard to the (Helen Caire collection) shearing shed.

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The first bell on the knoll behind the kitchen starts ringing.

The men stroll toward the whitewashed stone mess hall and line up along a railing till the dinner bell rings. Tomorrow the shearing shed will be the center of activity.

PART II—ISLAND SHEARING Departure of the vaqueros for the Island roundups and shearing provided the opportunity for a gala occasion. 1 am picturing one of these farewell events from my memory of my father's amused recounting of those happenings, going back to the time of his father, Justinian Caire.

It is a windless day in spring. The Santa Barbara Harbor lies smooth as glass. Green water laps almost noiselessly around the horny red barnacles of the wharf piles. Above, the broad planks of the wharf resound with merrymaking. While the vaqueros wait for wind to swell the canvas of the Star of Freedom, or, some years later, for the schooner Santa Cruz (built in 1894), to get under way, they waste no spleen with fevered impatience and frustration at delay.

With light hearts they enjoy the time with their wives, mothers, sweethearts and children. Several have their guitars. Honored among them are those who have the gift of the troubadour—the poet-musicians. One makes a circle of the ladies, saluting each with a bow and doffing his hat with a flourish before beginning. Then strumming his guitar, he improvises complimentary songs suitable to each. There is a round of applause, an eager flashing of black eyes as the audience congratulates the vaquero.

The group passes the time happily dancing on the rough wharf planks, singing plaintive, sentimental old songs, laughing at jokes and yarns, chatting and gossiping. At last the breeze comes up, announcing the wind that will blow the groups of leave-takers apart, or, in later days, the engine of the Santa Cruz starts, announcing she will soon be weighing anchor.

At this point, more often than not, my grandfather (later my father or his brother Arthur) is accosted by a vaquero.

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announcing that Angel or some other compadre is not here.

"But where is Angel? He was here a while ago."

"Si, Don Justinian," comes the answer "^Que sea in dificultades?"—Might he be in difficulties?

From long experience my grandfather knows that this

November 12, 1884 The Schooner Santa Rosa arrived in our harbor yester day from Santa Cruz Island with 100 head of fine sheep on board consigned to /. K. Fisher. ("In Old Santa Barba ra," compiled by Stella Rouse. Santa Barbara NewsPress.)

sudden news, so delicately put in Californio-Spanish, could mean only one thing. With a word to the other vaqueros that they should prepare to leave soon and that they are not to stray back to town, he hurries down the wharf to the little old city jail.

There, sure enough, is Angel—unangelically and blissfully bleary-eyed. Then Justinian Caire hurries to the court with a word to the judge. Angel is brought to court. The wise judge knows that the vaquero will be in a much safer and healthier climate and earning an honest living to boot on the Island ranch. Thus, after hearing the plea of guilty, he pronounces sentence, then suspends it. He urges the erring Angel to see that he does not over-imbibe in the future and further orders him to leave at once for the Island. The vaquero, chastened though still rather incoherent, meekly agrees; much to his satisfaction when he sobers up, he finds himself on shipboard somewhere on the Santa Barbara Channel, on his way to the Main Ranch.

The shearing shed is humming with life. Between seasons the large building is silent. But now the trasquila (the shearing in Islandese) is on in full force. The snip, snip, snip of shears is heard hour after hour. There is the tap, tap, tap of the sheep as they are pulled on three legs out of the corral, the 98

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thud as they are jerked over on their backs, the bleating of sheep in the pens, the shuffling of feet as the vaqueros bring up each fleece and get the fichas in return, snatches of song, little talk.

A great number of sheep brought in on each roundup are driven into the huge roofed corral directly in front of the shearing shed. From there, some sheep are herded into a long runway all along the length of the shearing area. When it is filled to the end, heavy gates on rollers are closed, separating the runway into small pens. Except for fencing, this side of the shearing shed is unwalled. A narrow gate from each pen opens into the shearing area. While the trasquila is on, most of the activity takes place in this section of the long double building. After all the sheep in the pens are shorn, the gates are rolled back. The sheep are driven out into an immense corral and another band is driven into the runway.

When all the sheep are shorn, they are separated: those for market are turned into certain fields to be trucked down to Prisoners' Harbor and shipped to the mainland aboard the schooner Santa Cruz, which crosses the channel frequently during this season. The rest are driven back to their territory, the number in each section being determined by the nature of the terrain and the amount of feed available.

During the shearing, the mayordomo perches himself in

Shearing shed and covered corral. The weighing and packing portion of the shed is to the right of the picture.

(Helen Caire collection)

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the high seat built in the narrow space joining the two sections of the shearing shed. Across his knees is a wooden shelf with a number of slits in its broad surface. Into them he slips small metal disks of fichas, about the size of a penny, stamped with a cross for Santa Cruz on one side, with the company's initials, "S.C.I.Co," on the other. Passing from hand to hand for over sixty years, the fichas are worn thin.

When a vaquero has shorn a sheep, he wraps the fleece into a bundle, tosses it on one of the broad shelves flanking both sides of the seat, and takes a ficha to keep tabs on the number of sheep he has shorn. At the end of each day's trasquila, the vaqueros form a long queue in the office. The fichas of each are taken and recorded to his account. In addition to his wages, the vaquero's record of fichas adds to his pay.(A thousand years from now, if some anthropologist should dig up one of these tokens, I wonder what he would call it.)

January 13,1920 The Santa Cruz Island schooner, Captain George Nidever,^ came in from the island yesterday with a cargo of 13,000 pounds of the fall wool clip. A cargo brought in Tuesday amounted to 25,000 pounds. Captain Nidever stated that there were several cargoes yet to be brought over. The fall clip is the smaller one of the year and the spring shearing is expected to double the present output. Owing to the heavy early rains, the spring clip will be in a much cleaner condition. (“In Old Santa Barbara," compiled by Stella Rouse, Santa Barbara News-Press).

The vaquero then makes his way among the shearers to one of the whetting stones set on narrow shelves along the wall. He dips his shears into a small barrel of water on the floor beside each shelf. He rubs the blades on the stone, dips them occasionally into the water, and runs his fingers a bit 100

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away froin the edge of the blades to test their sharpness.

When he is satisfied, he chooses a sheep from a pen (a specified number of shearers draw sheep from each pen), and pulls it out by a hind leg. He bends to his work once more.

Snip, snip, snip—the fleece falls away from the animal.

One may ask why the old method of shearing is still in use.

A number of years ago, shearing machines were installed.

The oldtimers tried them for a while, but in a short time went back to the shears. A speedy shearer can gather a very tidy number of fichas by the end of the day. Besides, these men must not only be professional shearers, but vaqueros as well, able to ride over rugged country while rounding up sheep.

Everyone is busy. Most of the vaqueros are bare-headed, and shocks of hair fall over their foreheads as they bend to their work. One vaquero keeps his hat glued to his head all day. Another knots the four comers of a red cotton bandana and wears it snugly on his crown. He is rather old, but nimble and strong. At intervals he sings snatches of songs in a good baritone.

The ditty of ditties in this busy place, however, used to be sung by Nini Ayala who prided himself on being the oldest Island vaquero. He rode the Island ranges for more than sixty years. He might be looking over the pen for a sheep, sharpening his shears, or walking up to get his ficha—the old refrain was chanted over and over when he was in the mood: Ay, ay, ay!

Y mas ay, ay!

Parece que llueve, Es agua que cae . ..

To translate roughly: Oh, dear me!

Many dear me's!

It seems to be raining.

It's water that falls.

This amusing, foolish sing-song went on and on.

However, Nini never chose another. Mini's roundup and 101

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trascjuila days are over now. The ancient beams of the shearing shed must surely miss that long repeated chant and the jaunty, humorous little old man who intoned it.

There is little talk during the shearing but once in a while there are brief verbal exchanges and sometimes a wager. A vaquero—let's call him Juan—has almost finished shearing a large sheep with a heavy fleece which lies like soft rug on the stout planks of the floor. Someone—Ramon, perhaps—says, "1 bet you that weighs almost twenty pounds, eh?"

"Bah," answers the perspiring Juan. "Thirty pounds."

A few nearby shearers pause to chip in with their views. At last Juan replies with finality, "Thirty. I bet you a cigar."

"Twenty," replies Ramon.

"Done!"

Juan, laughing, bundles up the fleece. Others exchange more opinions as the two vaqueros make their way past one of the broad shelves beside the mayordomo's high seat, but Juan does not toss his bundle on it. Followed by Ramon, he goes through a low gate into the second section of the building where the wool is sacked and weighed. The wool packer from his height near the beams of the ceiling, gives his views, and so does anyone else who happens to be nearby. After all, a fleece of thirty pounds is almost as fabulous as the Golden Fleece.

Ramon removes the three hundred or so pound weight marker on the scale balance for weighing the wool sacks and adjusts the lightest one. Juan throws the contested fleece on the scale and, with a wink at the packer up on his perch, keeps his foot on it.

"Forty pounds!" murmurs Ramon. "^Es posible?" Then he looks down. "Hey! Take your foot off there, hombre!"

Twenty-five—but that's quite a fleece just the same! The two vaqueros return to the shearers' section. Juan gives the woolly bundle to the vaquero, Lugo, who, with a light cord, ties up the fleeces. The mayordomo discusses the weight. Juan picks up a ficha and resharpens his shears. And so the trasquila goes on: Snip, snip, snip—tap, tap, tap—ba-a-a, ba-a-a—"Bet you a cigar"—"Done!"

While this section of the shearing shed is constantly busy, there is action in the other section, also. Here the wool is 102

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packed into sacks, weighed, marked, and stored till it is trucked down to the warehouse at Prisoners' Harbor to await its trip to the mainland. Luis Hammond, the packer, with the help of Lugo has just rolled a heavy, filled sack toward its brothers and is now making ready a new one. He wets the open end of the burlap to prevent slippage or tearing and adjusts it with a strong hoop to the top of the ten-foot-high scaffolding. There hangs the great wool sack, limp and empty as an expectant, gigantic Christmas stocking.

Before climbing up to the top of the scaffolding, Hammond, always wearing bib-overalls, has put on certain accessories: wide leather cuffs and belt, and a green eyeshade.

He sits on one of the four planks which make a square at the top of the scaffolding, waiting till Lugo has tossed up enough fleeces into the sack for him to begin packing down the wool.

Lugo is picking up the fleeces from the two shelves, tying them into bundles and throwing them into a wide stall near the scaffolding. When he has a good number, he tosses them upward. Fleece after fleece is gobbled up in the yawning mouth of the gradually bulging sack.

At intervals, Hammond seizes the rope hanging from a beam directly over the opening of the sack and disappears into the depths below to pack down the wool. Now and again he heaves himself up on the heavy rope and sits on one of the top boards, mopping his forehead with a dark blue bandana while Lugo tosses more fleeces into the insatiable wool sack. Then down goes Hammond once more. He is like wood on rising water. At the start he is invisible. As he rises to the surface, first his head appears, then his shoulders, till, when the ravenous sack is filled, he emerges completely.

Having propped heavy boards against the sack with the help of Lugo, Hammond climbs again to loosen the hoop at the top. Then the men ease the sack down to lie lengthwise.

With a curved giant's needle and heavy thread, Hammond begins sewing up the end of the sack, leaving small "ears" at each comer to facilitate handling. Now the men roll the sack to the scale. The weight is recorded and the sack rolled over to join others of its kind.

Hammond stencils in black paint the company initials: 103

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Inside view of shearing shed. To the left are the rolling gates which form the partitions. In the right center is the seat from which fichas are given out. On both sides of the seat are the shelves on which the wool is thrown. On the op posite sides of the shelves are the low gates leading into the weighing and packing portion of the shed.

(Helen Caire collection)

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Steamer Humboldt at the wharf, Prisoners' Harbor.

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(Helen Caire collection)

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"S.C.I.Co." and the number of the sack on the rough burlap.

He surveys his work and is pleased with the result. (In olden times the wool sacks were marked with red pigment found in Indian mounds. Centuries ago, the Island Chumash used it for coloring their designs.)

After the trasquila is over, the wool sacks will be hauled from the red brick warehouse at Prisoners' Harbor and trucked to the end of the wharf.^ The wool will be shipped to the mainland by coastal steamer—the Humboldt or the Celilo.^ The sheep, after being conveyed by truck to the wharf, will be shipped on the Santa Cruz. (In early days one of the small flock of imported Angora goats was trained to lead the sheep to the wharf.)

With the roundups and shearing all over, the vaqueros check in saddles and bridles. The shearing shed will be silent till next year's work begins. As the Santa Cruz weighs anchor and turns her prow toward Santa Barbara with the departing vaqueros, one still hears the old refrain, accompanied by Garcia's guitar: A Dios, a Dios, amoves, A Dios, patria querida, A Dios, patria querida.

Me boy a retirar . . .

NOTES 1. George Nidover, captain of the Santa Cruz at one time, was the son of George Nidevcr, well-known in the history of sea otter hunting around the island. The Life and Adventures of George Nidever (1802-1883), edited by Henry Ellison, University Press, Berkeley, California, 1937, is the interesting autobiography of this pioneer.

2. The shipping itself is well-described by my father in answer to an inquiry from the Santa Barbara News-Press: In early years the island was stocked with sheep and cattle which were shipped to the mainland in the Santa Cruz or directly to San Francisco by coasting steamers, loaded at the island wharf at Prisoners' Harbor. In days before the Santa Barbara harbor had been developed, sheep cargoes were lightered ashore, while cattle were cast overboard to swim to land. After Los Angeles had established stockyards, livestock was shipped directly to Santa

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Barbara and from there trucked to Los Angeles, or shipped directly to the southern city by way of the port of San Pedro. Throughout the years, the wool was shipped the same way as the livestock, for ultimate delivery in Boston or Philadelphia, where its quality was well-known to buyers.

3. On the white facade of Sponger's, the well-known seafood restaurant in Berkeley, CELILO is clearly painted in black—part of the old vessel far from its moorings?

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THE LAST VAQUEROS

By Helen Caire The following article by Helen Caire was first published in The Californians, September/October, 1986. It is the only previously published article included in this anthology which did not first appear in either Noticias or The Ventura County Historical Society Quarterly. It has been included here, however, for the sake of completing this republication of Helen Caire’s articles.

Cattle were raised on Santa Cruz Island for over a century.

Helen Caire recounts tales of hunting the wild cattle left from the Barron island years (1857-1869). Under the direction of Edwin Stanton, as carried on by his son Carey, for half a century cattle became the mainstay of the Santa Cruz Island Company's island operations (1937-1987). In spring of 1988, following Carey Stanton's death and the passage of the western 9/lOths of Santa Cruz Island to The Nature Conservancy, cattle raising operations came to a close, thus ending a great era in California's history. The ranch in the sea is no more. A small group of persistent white-faced wild eyed animals escaped the massive exodus, once again forming a small band in the wild.

A woman's intimate recollections revive the unique characters of six horsemen from el tiempo antiguo, who once rode in the Santa Cruz Island corridas.

These sketches were written at Santa Cruz Island many years ago. I am leaving them mainly in the present tense as I origi nally wrote them, with a few additions and changes due to the passage of time, for in that passage the first cowboy of the Americas—the vaquero—has disappeared and entered ranch ing history.

For three generations vaqueros have been riding on the is land. Every spring they come for the yearly roundup of sheep.

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called from early times corrida . Most of them are Barbarenos, born in or near Santa Barbara of Mexican-Califomian stock, often with a dash of Indian. The best ropers among them come also for the cattle roundups.

But now the number of vaqueros is decreasing. Their sons do not follow the old work; they migrate to cities. They have lost entirely the spirit of the older vaqueros. The young take other paths; the old have very nearly come to the end of theirs. In another generation the vaquero, in California at least, will have become a ghostly rider of a phantom trail. For that reason I am jotting down sketches of a few about whom legend still repeats stories.

Fierce and uncouth, even rather frightening at the end of a roundup season, some of these oldtimers might seem to greenhorns. The vaquero's get-up consists of a blue shirt and jeans, a knife stuck in his belt in a leather sheath, a worn old hat, not a fancy sombrero. He knots a red or blue cotton ban dana around his neck. The vaquero's tools are a good horse

One of lh£ author's father's vaqueros, in the Main Ranch barnyard on Santa Cruz Island.

(Helen Caire collection)

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and a reata, a rawhide lariat coiled and tied near the saddle horn.

The vaqueros arrive on the schooner Santa Cruz at Prison ers" Harbor, the Island"s main port, about 25 miles due south of Santa Barbara. Most of them step on the wharf cleanshaved or perhaps with a mustache, but as time goes on, many let their whiskers grow. This gives certain ones a wild look, but to a few a rather patriarchal appearance.

El Viejo,Jose Espinosa Jose Espinosa was the kingpin of vaqueros—barring none. I can only remember him when he was called El Viejo, The Old One, but those who had seen him in his prime vouched for his outstanding skill and he was still up there with the best in his later years. As a young man Jose was very handsome, very handsome and crafty—should one say diplomatic? —as old Reynard himself. Teamed with Ulysses, he would have whipped the world. Not a living soul could pull the wool over old Jose's eyes— black, piercing eyes, hawk eyes that could sight anything in line of vision, seemingly no matter how far.

And Jose with the reata—there was a roper! He was one of the best California has seen. Like all fine ropers, he never threw the lasso till he was sure of his aim. He didn't rope so gracefully as some, but his reata went whirring out straight as a die to its mark. I can still see him one day in a large corral working cattle, sitting his horse loosely, watching, watching, smiling with mocking malice at a miss, and cutting in with a neat, straight throw at the calf himself.

Jose had other talents, besides. He had such a knowledge of medicinal herbs that all the paisanos had unquestioned faith in his skill at healing. One summer the sleek little bay mare my sister Didi would be riding had a small saddle sore on her back which even a good rider's saddle would rub open again.

Didi was very distressed, for it seemed she would not be able to ride Perla for several weeks. When she told Jose about it, he nodded knowingly, and with an "I'll fix it," he led the mare away. The next day the sore spot was healed! Didi's eyes opened wide. "Jose, how did you ever cure it?" "I got up 109

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two—three times last night—" the old vaquero admitted, but a knowing expression and the trace of a smile kept the secret of the cure.

One summer when we were young children, the workmen teased my cousin Justy by telling him fantastic yarns, such as the old one: 'Tut a horsehair in water for awhile and it'll turn into a snake." At that time, Justy happened to have several warts on his hands. One of the vaqueros noticed them and suggested that if he wanted to get rid of them, he should ask Jose for a cure. So my cousin went to the former mayordomo for a remedy. Jose looked at his hands, and proceeded to give the prescription: "Some night, light a fire. Hold a handful of rock salt in your left hand. Then put the first finger of your right hand in your ear. Drop the salt into the fire and quickly stop up the left ear with the hand that held the salt, before you can hear the fire crackle. Then run as fast as you can for about 50 yards and come back. If the fire is not crackling, your warts will come off; if it is still crackling, they will stay." I am sure the old vaquero's lingo was somewhat different. I can only give the directions accurately. Though he was a Barbareho, Jose spoke English fluently.

One day in the saddle shop, we were looking at the side saddles on racks, one above the other behind a burlap curtain.

They had been used by my mother and aunts years ago. We decided to try them for fun. We took a trail up the Colorados, and I can remember coming down the steep ridge behind the almond orchard, laughing and chatting about how much more comfortable it was to ride astride than with one leg around the doubly curved pommel and the other foot in the dainty stirrup.

Later, when my sister Jeanne was talking to Jose, he recalled olden times and highly praised the equestrian skill of two of our aunts who rode the roughest island trails on side saddles.

El Viejo shook his head, marveling at their horsemenship, and anyone who knew this excellent rider remembers that he was seldom lavish in praise of anyone, even though he was gallant and courteous in sweeping off his hat and making courtly bows to the ladies. Sometimes he would bring in wild flowers from the hills and present them to my mother and

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aunts with a deep bow and a flourish. Elegant and gracious— Jose who could lash a man when aroused.

Perhaps a more ruthless and harder-working mayordomo there never was on the island than this lone wolf. He kept aloof from the other vaqueros and spoke in a friendly way to only a few. A very slave driver on the corridas, the men so feared him that they would blame each other for the loss of sheep when he accused them. The mayordomo would lash the whole gang of vaqueros "with the valor of his tongue/' and on one occasion he actually did flay a man with his chirrion (short rawhide quirt)—behavior not approved by the Caires.

When in a rage, he bared his teeth; this gave him a fierce and feline expression. When Jose bared his teeth, the vaque ros stepped lively. He worked like a cyclone on the ranges, was everywhere, saw everything; but he didn't use the best psychology, for even though the men feared him they re belled at heart. While they worked like Trojans when his black, piercing eyes were on them, they made up for it when he was out of sight. For whatever reason, he seemed hard on his younger brother Cuate, sending him as lead man over dif ficult territory—why, nobody ever knew.

Ruthlessness came out, too, sometimes in his sense of hu mor. Once while working cattle, he had picked up the hind legs of a large, mean-looking calf and Cuate had the head.

When it was time to let up the calf, Jose slackened his taut reata somewhat, and told the medicine boy to take off the noose. The lad drew back, afraid. Jose ordered him angrily to do so. They boy obeyed, but that mean calf just lay on the ground.

"Twist his tail," commanded Jose.

Again the boy hesitated. Then Jose bared his teeth and his fierce expression terrified the lad into obedience. One twist was sufficient; the steer charged furiously at the boy, who just made the fence in time. When he looked back, there was Jose chuckling.

He was famous at hunting, too. From all accounts, it seems there never was a wild hog that Jose set out to get that es caped. Hee never used a gun. His reata and knife were his 111

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trusty weapons. He would sight a cache far across a canyon on another ridge and spur his horse after it tirelessly. When eve ryone in the group was willing to say, "That one's gone/' Jose would gallop up or down and invariably meet the hog com ing around the way he had taken. Then he would throw out his rawhide lariat and rope the pinto or black cache with un canny neatness. This requires great skill, for a hog, particular ly a razorback, is one of the hardest animals in the world to rope. On one memorable day, my father saw him get 21. Al though an excellent raconteur, Frederic Caire did not go in for fabricating tall tales.

There is no doubt that Jose was one of the best riders, ropers and all-round vaqueros in California and one of the greatest personalities in his field. That tough, canny, hard-driving in dividual rode almost up to his death. When he died at the age of 86, there was a long article devoted to him in the Santa Bar bara newspaper. One hopes he rides happily in Eternity.

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*4.* . .

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Cuate in the Main Ranch barnyard.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Harry Sheldon)

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Cuate Cuate was rather old when we came to know him, but he seemed older than he was. His name was Juan Espinosa, but he was always called Cuate, "Twin," though his birthmate had died as a baby. Though he would arrive at the island with a haircut and mustache, he apparently considered the services of the compadre who acted as barber unnecessary. I remember him, short and slight, with a shock of coarse gray hair, soupstrainer mustache, and grizzled whiskers which made his lin go almost incomprehensible at times. His appearance gave an ambivalent impression of a somewhat blear-eyed paisano and a statue of St. Joseph.

For a number of years Cuate owned a dog called Tiempo be cause he was quick as a flash, and Cuate loved almost as a child. Where you saw Cuate riding, there was little brindle Tiempo trotting behind the horse or as often held up on the saddle. That dog was spoilt. When he died, Cuate wrapped him up in a brand new sweater and dug a grave for him on a knoll behind the kitchen and mess hall at the Main Ranch.

My father gave Cuate a young pepper tree to plant on Tiempo's grave. When Cuate told us about it later, tears filled his sad,faded eyes.

In his youth, my father and the young vaquero had often gone hunting together and practiced roping. Cuate told us of these past experiences. Never a top-notch vaquero, he was a great storyteller, relating his tales in a thin, rather hoarse voice. We heard of the races he had miraculously won as a jockey, of hunting adventures, of horse "genTing," of experi ences on the corridas, and of olden days at the island.

When we were youngsters my father sometimes sent Cuate to guide us on long rides over the steep, often chaparralflanked trails. Cuate only needed an audience to get started.

At the time my grandfather Justinian Caire acquired the Island, several mules were used as pack animals. They were useful then, since probably only the road in the Canada del Puerto from Prisoners' Harbor to the Main Ranch was good.

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with a very skillful driver all day on the old Camino del Cairo to Christy, for much of the road followed the ridgepole of the Colorados westward.

"They wuz one mule that usta open gates/' Cuate began one day in his thin, low voice as we sat around a barbecue fire in the Canada Laguna. "No madda Were they pud 'im, he can always open that gate an' get out. He wuz a good mule, but you never know w'ere you gonna find him."

k

.lii An unidentified Santa Cruz Island vac\uero.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Harry Sheldon)

Our driftwood fire, crackling and tangy, was in the creek bed near sally trees, not far from the lagoon which gives the canyon and cove their name, and the fresh water sustained grassy stretches around it. We could not see the sandy beach where wicked breakers foamed, but beyond, we caught blue glimpses where the great Pacific rolls.

"He wuz smart, that mule," Cuate continued. "One time we wuz at Christy brandin' cattle, an' that mule wuz in a cor ral with a good lock onna gate." Cuate's deepset eyes almost disappeared as the wrinkles increased when he chuckled. He turned his barbecue stick so that the meat might roast on the other side. "Well, we got done an' wuz gettin' ready to go back 114

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to the Main Ranch, but—w'ere's that mule? Freddy soon Don Justinian—your grandfather—he phones from the Main Ranch—The mule's there! He open' that gate that night and walked all a way back, an' he goes inna stable, inna stall an' he's munchin' hay! So your grandfather says, 'Can you man age?' Sure we can. They wuz other pack mules, an' all of us can take blankets onna back of the saddle—That mule—he's smarder en a lodda people." The old vaquero shook his head, laughing softly.

F. Dominguez, Santa Cruz Island vaquero.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Harry Sheldon)

One day Cuate was with us on the long ride to Cueva Valdez Cove on the northern coast. When we reached the high mesa overlooking the channel, we dismounted near an enormous round cactus patch.

"Tm gonna show you somethin'." Bearded Cuate was pull ing his knife out of its leather sheath as he walked toward the cactus. "These are the best tunas on the Island."

Skillfully he cut off and pierced with the point of his knife a very large, light yellow prickly pear. He let it drop, and with the tip of his knife rolled it in the pale gold grass to rub off the tiny spines. Then carefully handling it, he peeled off the thick 115

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outer coating to leave the light green seedy tuna ready to eat.

Each of us had one; and after our long ride were grateful that the golden, lotus-like blossoms had ripened to this slightly sweet, thirst-quenching fruit. This particular patch, always thereafter referred to as "Cuate's cactus," produces the largest and juiciest fruit of any Opuntia cactus on the Island. Other patches of the same variety bear fruit of average size, as do those of the red-flowering Opuntia which give red tunas.

Cuate's cactus grows in a vast Indian mound. As we started on the trail to the beach of Cueva Valdez to visit again Tres Bocas, our boots were powdered with fine rancheria dust, glis tening with bits of shell. Long before, the Chumash Indians must have cherished this cactus patch. Did they love the view from the mesa whose base is lapped by the channel waters?

Another time when we were riding along the ridgepole of the Colorados, Cuate reined in. "Wait! Tm gonna show you somethin"." We all stopped and Cuate dismounted and walked toward a low rounded bush in the chaparral. He cut off some berries and gave each of us some. When one bit through the prickly skin, the liquid inside was refreshing on a hot summer day. After that, whenever we rode past that bush, we had to have some of Cuate's gooseberries.

Besides being a vaquero, Cuate was also a horse-breaker.

His method was "gen'ling" rather than breaking a horse. Once he did this too thoroughly. Manzanita was a big sorrel mare.

When he had her gen'led, he used to let her plod along at a snail's pace and occasionally crop a tempting bunch of alfalfa or grass wherever she pleased. The result—she grew to be the size of a cow.

Manzanita became sick, so sick, in fact, it was thought that she would die—but not Manzanita. She got well and even larger. Cuate's version of the story was this: "Manzanita, she got sick, yes, ma'am, oh, awful sick. Then something inside busted in her; yes, ma'am, some of her insides busted; an' that's what makes her so fat. An' then she got well. Yes, ma'am, she's never sick no more."

Be that as it may, when he began riding her again, she was so fat she held the saddle badly. He used to call her "Bahloon." We would meet him coming around a bend in the 116

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road, talking in a soothing, low monotone: "Bah-loon, some day I'm gon' keel you." But he never even made her walk any faster.

One summer Cuate was gentling a bay mare with good gaits; she was quick and light, and Didi very much wanted to ride her. My sister wheedled beguilingly, but my father still shook his head. "When Cuate has finished breaking her, you can ride her." And he cautioned the vaquero that she was not to ride Campana till "you say she is safe." Cuate promised.

Didi's pleas, "Cuate, you know I can ride her!," brought only an apologetic smile and gentle shaking of his head.

A short time later, a guest riding a horse's length ahead of Didi lost her hat in a gust of wind. Didi spurred her horse and, at a lope, picked up the hat. Cuate, on his way to or from some errand such as checking a waterhole, looking over cattle or the fencing of a pasture, saw her from a distance. His face crinkled up into a smile when he went to my father. "Senor, the Senorita Delfina can ride Campana."

Always gentle-hearted and soft-spoken when sober, Cuate became ugly and took to knives and quarrels when "drink and the devil" had done for him. A strong, firm arm was the only thing that could drag this wisp of a demon off to his bunk. But this was a stranger, not the real Cuate. The scapular he always wore was more than a token evidence of the real faith in his heart. Vaya con Dios, Cuate.

Pedro Garcia Pedro Garcia was a vaquero who rode on the island round ups for many decades. He plays the guitar with great skill and gusto and, in spite of his gray hair and beard, dances lively Spanish steps. There is a certain verve to him which, even in his old age, makes him hold his back straight with the young.

One evening during the roundup, when a clear full moon was shining over the eucalyptus westward and flooding the Canada del Medio with a silvery light, the vaqueros were sit ting on a bench in front of the adobe bunkhouse after the day's work. Pedro was strumming his guitar and singing longremembered Spanish ditties with several other voices chim117

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ing in pleasantly. In the warm evening the age-old songs carried on the quiet air to the soft twang of the guitar.

At one time Garcia, his son and grandson all rode on the island roundups. But the grandson left the vaquero life as all the present generation has. Only the son still rides, for Garcia is at last too full of years to mount a horse and swing a reata.

He lives in town and has just married a buxom wife.

Lugo Then there was Lugo who, because of his unusual skill as a vaquero, was made mayordomo one year. When in the mood for a lark on a good horse, "Vamos!" he would shout. "Let's gallop!" and with a laugh he would be off, rolling a cigarette with one hand.

But far from having the domineering temperament of old Jose, he was a very gentle man. Though excelling in horse manship and roping, his disposition was not fitted to direct others. Riding through canyons and hillsides of cottonwood, ironwood and oak up to the bare, wind-swept ridgepoles, he issued his orders as mayordomo; but the vaqueros openly dis regarded them. Then this soft-spoken Lugo, this vaquero of undisputed skill, sitting on his horse between earth and sky, would weep that his orders were disobeyed. Tears in a leader do not bring obedience, so Lugo, who is still named among the great vaqueros, came no more to the island roundups af ter that, though his son is a steady worker there now.

Guelo Guelo—Miguel Lugo—must be mentioned, for though he is not a first-rate vaquero he is a reliable worker and an excel lent shearer. He is now somewhat over 70 but is uncertain about the exact number of years. He first came to the island at the age of 12, before my grandfather acquired it. It was not un usual for a boy to start work in his early teens, before educa tion was compulsory. However, he told my cousin Justy that he had attended school up to the third grade. He had learned to spell "cat" and "rat." With a twig he laboriously traced the 118

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letters in the smooth ground near the saddle racks between the stable and saddle shop. Then his face, open as a child's, crumpled into puzzled wrinkles. "But which one is cat7" he asked.

Guelo used to tell of the old days when wild cattle roamed from the flats of Cueva Valdez westward to the Punta del Oeste. They must have been the last of a herd introduced by the Barron Company before The Santa Cruz Island Company acquired the island. My grandfather exterminated them, re placing them with purebred Shorthorns.

Once Guelo was sitting on the beach in front of the bunkhouse, talking over the old days with a compadre. "We used to slaughter the cattle in a Canada west of Cueva Valdez," Guelo was remembering,"and jerk the beef there, then pack it into the Main Ranch. The last wild cow was shot in the time of Leopoldo." The old paisanos reckoned time at the island by the superintendent in charge at the period of their recollec tions. Certain small events took on some importance and were not to be tampered with.

"No," interrupted the other oldtimer, "it was in the time of Moullet."

Guelo's guileless face became earnest. He spoke with some emphasis: "Well, then Moullet must have been a liar because the last one was shot in the time of Leopoldo." There the disagreement ended.

Guelo is not the happy-go-lucky, improvident type of some of his compadres. In town every Sunday he attends the little church of Our Lady of Guadalupe. At the end of the roundups a benevolent pilgrim's bearded face looks out from under the battered hat. He is the exceptional type of human being who never loses his childhood innocence.

Francisco Dominguez Of Francisco Dominguez I write last because he seems to embody the best type of worker among the fast-disappearing California vaqueros. A steady, thorough person, very compe tent and, therefore, sure of himself without conceit, the mayordomo can trust him to do his work well all the time. He is a 119

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splendid man with the reata; the graceful ease of his action in throwing the rope might deceive a greenhorn—he seldom misses his mark.

Silent and dignified, Dominguez is unique. He has none of the loquacity of many of his compadres. Once in awhile he tells of the glorious days when there were no fences on the ranges, and when the vaqueros got up in the black of morn ing to get the wild cattle at waterholes. But usually he goes about his business, hour upon hour, with scarcely an uttered word; yet he does not seem withdrawn nor unfriendly. Does he have long, long thoughts of the past? Does he know he is among the last of the vaqueros in California? In his reserve there is something monumental and ancient.

From author to reader: When I first sketched these six oldtimers who rode for decades on our Santa Cruz Island ranch, three were dead, one was too aged to ride and only the last two were still active vaqueros. These were the thinning ranks of the elders who remembered el tiempo antiguo—the olden times. Of course, there were many others of these often pictu resque and sometimes picaresque individuals still riding that I might have sketched—but enough. Many, many years ago they rode the historic trails. Now who is left to remember?

—HC

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HUNTING WILD HOGS ON SANTA CRUZ ISLAND

By Helen Caire The following article by Helen Caire first appeared in the Spring, 1987 issue of Santa Barbara Historical Society's Noticias.

No one knows exactly when the first pigs were introduced to Santa Cruz Island. However, island manager James B. Shaw testified in an 1857 land claim suit, that when he first went to the island in 1853, a man named James Box was raising pigs, and had done so from December 1852 until October 1853.

According to Shaw, he left in 1853, having sold his pigs."

An 1857 Santa Barbara County suit filed by Thomas V^allace More against James Box for non-payment of a $3000 loan reveals that Mr. Box had used his Santa Cruz Island swine as collateral. Captain Martin Kimberly was sent to re trieve this unusual security, but reported to More "that the greater part of said swine had become wild from abandon ment and neglect of the said defendant (Mr. Box)." Kimberly succeeded in capturing a small number (about 200) pigs.

Regardless of their initial introduction to the island, today wild pigs remain a problem on Santa Cruz Island. While sport hunting programs continue to operate, various studies continue to address the question of their eventual removal.

Note: Thomas Wallace More purchased interest in neigh boring Santa Rosa Island in 1859. Perhaps pigs reached Santa Rosa island via James Box's Santa Cruz Island stock.

We probably owed the presence of wild hogs on Santa Cruz Island to the providence of early Spanish explorers. They sometimes stocked animals on islands to furnish meat for stranded mariners whose ships might founder on their shores. Another possibility is that in 1830 the Mexican Government sent thirty convicts or more to the Island, land ing them with some supplies donated by the Santa Barbara Mission, on a roadstead now called Prisoners' Harbor.

Bancroft does not mention pigs. However, he does not give a 121

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detailed account of the supplies. If the prisoner did have hogs, they would probably have left them behind and their descen dants reverted to the wild.

Whatever the well-meant stocking of the Island, it was a menace to later ranching operations. Sows produce two litters a year, numbering to about ten piglets. Unchecked, their numbers would have caused great destruction to crops and vineyards. In a year when wild hogs were particularly plenti ful, I remember seeing a big patch in a cornfield laid waste in one night by a pack which had managed to break into the field. From early days a bounty was given to any employee who brought in a nose as proof of a successful hunt. Besides their destructiveness to ranching operations, the hogs were a danger to the ecology, rooting up bulbs and devouring acorns and other seeds.

To give them their due for one possible good, since no St. Patrick walked the Island though some great Franciscan padres briefly did, if poisonous snakes had existed there, the wild hogs may have exterminated them. The layers of fat under the tough pigskin prevents the lethal poison from en tering the bloodstream.

The wild hogs roaming the Island have reverted to earlier types: razor-backs with long snouts, lean hindquarters and straight tails. They are all black or pintos—spotted black and white. Very huge boars weigh as much as 250 pounds or more.

Hunting Procedures The hunter used a gun, knife, or long spear, usually with the help of a dog or two. Sometimes the hogs were roped be fore being knifed—an extremely difficult feat, as a pig has no neck and can gun through the loop of a reata if it doesn't also catch a leg. The coup de grace was given quickly. The knife must strike a vital spot, for here again the tough hide is pro tective.

This is not a sport for greenhorns. A boar at bay will "chop" his jaws at hunter and dogs, and, foaming at the mouth, will slash with pointed tusks to make cruel wounds.

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Justinian Caire, II and wild boar.

(Santa Barbara Historical Society collection)

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Because of the danger, when the well-known African game hunter, Howard Hill, requested permission to hunt with bow and arrow, my father was reluctant to grant it. However, be ing highly experienced, he was granted a permit. He actually did get some wild hogs, probably the first person at the Island to achieve this feat. We still have the arrow Howard Hill in scribed to my father, Frederic Caire.

Around the early 30s, a group of four men arrived at Pelican Bay to hunt wild hogs with bow and arrow. They crossed the Santa Barbara Channel in the Sea Wolf, Captain Eaton's boat. The Santa Cruz Island Company leased the cove to Eaton, who ferried vacationers, movie companies and others to his camp there.

Of this group, according to an article in Field and Stream, April 1933, by Earle Stanley Gardner, apparently only "tXisty" Roberts was experienced in hunting big game with bow and arrow. The author downed a sow, but Roberts was the only one who bagged a large boar. He recounted that he saw "a mountain of flesh coming toward him . . . great white tusks that flashed in the sunlight, big powerful shoulders, glitter ing, beady eyes." . . His first arrow hit and "buried itself to the feathers . . ." The boar, raging, continued to charge. Another arrow struck, but the hog was not downed. "The third arrow came back to the head." The boar staggered, then fell over dead. The hunter cut off the head to bring it back to the camp.

He estimated the boar weighed about 450 pounds. That was certainly a mountain of a wild boar, most maximum weights being about 250 or perhaps 300 pounds. A bit of bragging does no harm, and it might have been an outsize animal.

Of course, the Chumash Indians had bows and arrows, but the native fauna—foxes, skunks and mice,—being small game, most likely would have been snared. If the Spaniards did introduce hogs, it is doubtful the Island Indians hunted them. I have never heard of anthropologists' having found bones of swine in kitchen middens of the rancherias. The staple fare of the Chumash was seafood. If the wild hogs were descendants of those probably left behind by the prisoners shipped there in 1830, the natives had all left before their arrival.

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Hunting W/ild Hogs on Santa Cruz Island

A Naturalist's Experiences For three years Harry Sheldon came to the Island several times to continue natural history work, studying mammals and birds. An amusing and interesting conversationalist, he was good company. While deploring cruelty to animals, he was an excellent hunter and was gladly lent a ranch dog.

"Dogs are indispensable when hunting old tuskers . . ."

Sheldon stated. Jerry, savvy and eager, was a "heroic co hunter."

In a Vield and Stream article of December, 1932, Sheldon wrote: "... I have found that hunting wild boars with dog and rifle is in a class by itself. There is no other animal in the United States that will accommodate you as quickly with a fight as an old boar."

He goes on to described a wild boar at bay: "Large boars will charge a man as soon as he appears within reasonable dis tance. At this stage of the game, the animal becomes totally in different to the barking dog, lowers his head, and begins champing his jaws until he actually frothes at the mouth with rage. Then he takes a few uncertain steps forward and with coughing guttural grunts rushes with surprising speed to the man foe. I have never allowed one to advance beyond the 'uncertain' steps. The champing jaws, and the click of those white daggers is thrill enough; a bullet to the right place at the first possible moment is the natural impulse and the sane ac tion for the safety of both man and dog, especially the dog."

For a while Harry was camped in a snug cabin in the hang ing valley of Portezuelo. One evening Jerry got the scent of a wild hog not far away across the creek. "I could tell by the deep, throaty grunts that he was a big one . . ." Jerry pursued the hog into the hills. Harry debated whether to take the chance that the dog or the horse he was riding might be slashed in the dark, but Jerry continued baying. Harry decided to go back to camp and get his flashlight and rifle. He rode up a horse trail, following the sound of deep barks. He shouted to Jerry to let him know that he was following. On hearing his voice, the hog turned at bay, ready to fight.

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Harry Sheldon and wild boar.

(Helen Caire collection)

Harry dismounted and saw the boar in a deep ravine. He detoured, climbing the mountain to stalk him on the down hill. At the right time, he could see only Jerry's white coat. "I snapped on the flashlight, and there stood the boar, head on, under a wild cherry tree. He was a great black tusker. His jaws were working, and I could see the long tusks gleaming as they clicked a challenge. Yet only for a brief second or two, for the little bead settled to the center of the big black head, and he went down kicking, with Jerry tugging viciously at his throat.

"What a beautiful specimen of an ugly beast! Here at last was the big black boar for which I had hunted so long. He had five-inch tusks, and a great head with long wiry hair, and 126

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five-inch bristles down his withers—250 pounds of wild board."

With aid of the dog, Harry Sheldon rid the Island of 165 wild hogs.

Jose Espinosa was a topnotch vaquero and the mayordomo for many years during the roundup and shearing season. As to hunting with the reata and knife, he had no peer. His eyes were as keen as they were black and piercing. He might see a coche far-off, spur his horse to a gallop and the hunt was on.

Across one canyon, up one ridge, down another, tirelessly, he pursued his game to the end. Others might give up—not Jose.

He would not quit till he had bagged his quarry. No gun for him. At the right moment he would throw out his rawhide reata) the hog was stopped by the loop, a difficult feat. Jose dis mounted, pulled out his knife and dispatched the animal. No one ever saw him start after a wild hog that he did not cap ture it. My father witnessed his getting 21 in a day!

An Impromptu Barbecue An unusual, even freak wild hog capture happened one midsummer day. We decided to revisit the Canada Laguna and the cove at its mouth, a day's round-trip from the Main Ranch in the heart of the central valley. We rode west for about a scant mile, then south up a long ridge where the red earth was greened with chaparral, to the bare summit of the Colorados, the southern range. Riding along, we joked with two guests about increasing our lunch with some fresh pork.

Though it occasionally happened, we were not likely to meet a wild hog in the middle of the day. Cuate, an old vaquero who had accompanied us on our rides before we knew the trails, came with us.

We rode westward along the Camino del Carro, which in olden days before the new road was made, was the wagon road to Christy, the west end ranch. After a while we turned south down a long red ridge to the canyon of Laguna.

Riding at a jog trot along the now dry creek bed of the can yon, we arrived at the grass-encircled lagoon for which the canyon and cove are named. In the shade of wild willows we 127

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called sally trees, we unbridled our horses and tied them to branches.

We were about to set out for the beach when a fat pinto piglet appeared from behind a cactus patch. He looked at us in bewilderment. What were these creatures? A fatal pause— Marie, ever quick in action, caught him. Suckling pig on the hoof! We all started laughing, and in the excitement one of the guests stepped back, lost his balance and sat on cactus. Ris ing swiftly, he learned about cactus while his cousin pulled spines out of his jeans to make the ride back to the Main Ranch more comfortable.

Cuate quickly took charge of the pig, promising to have it ready for came asada by the time we returned from the beach.

After a long look around the familiar cove, we sauntered along the shore above breakers seething in from the bluegreen sea. Not a footstep except ours broke the smooth, white sand. It was beautiful.

Hungry, we returned to our picnic place where the dressed porker hung from a branch while Cuate whittled points on slim branches for the barbecue spits. We scouted around for firewood and heaped it inside large rocks set in the shape of a horseshoe by the boys on the dry creek bed.

When the flames died down, Cuate skewered the meat on the sticks. We took turns ducking the smoke as we held the meat over hot coals, while others brought out sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, oranges and other picnic fare from the saddle bags. Little flames leapt up from the coals as fat trickled from the pork. Then we all sat around and chomped happily on the delicious suckling pig.

Another strange tale of hog hunting was told by two compadres who sighted a hog running southward. The men were pursuing him from an easterly direction. One of them stopped, took aim, and shot. The hog rolled over—dead. The other paisano ran up, then stood, scratching his head and star ing down at the hog.

"How is this? We were coming from the east, the coche was running south, and you hit him on the west side?" The animal actually had been shot on the right side while the two men approached from his left.

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His compadre was also baffled. Then coolly and seriously he explained, 'TVell, you see Pedro, I whistled to him, and he turned his head when I shot."

A Frightened Pig A very odd experience concerned the pig-that-died-offright. Two hunters where chasing a cochito up a steep trail, shooting and missing two or three times. Suddenly the young pig dropped in his tracks above an incline and rolled over it.

When the panting hunters raced down, they found the cochi to stiff as a board and dead. He had not been shot nor wound ed in any way. One of the paisanos whipped out his knife and stuck him. He did not bleed. Finally the men massaged the rigid carcass to be able to bleed the animal so that the pork would be edible.

"Next time", chuckled one of the hunters relating the // // event, "I bring one of the things to make him breathe, Pullmotor—?" someone suggested. "Tha's it!" A puzzled expres sion lined the paisano's weathered face as he finished his tale.

"I never see a cochito like that—He was so scare, he's dead!"

When we went out in a cavalcade, my cousin Justy Caire or some other boy would knife or shoot the wild hogs. One year Vivi remained at the Island with our parents into late fall and early winter. A skilled equestrienne, riding was her chief diversion. (Some years after we sold the Island, when she was vacationing at a dude ranch, a cowboy was watching her mount. He stared in open admiration. "You are one woman in a hundred who knows how to get on a horse!" he exclaimed.)

At that time there was a young dog, all-white, mostly pit bull, learning to hunt. At that season, apart from a man's go ing out on his own, there was no one employed to hunt wild hogs. Pal took to following Vivi on her daily rides.

One day he got the scent of a wild hog and gave chase. Vivi reigned helplessly within sight of the hog being circled by Pal. He was barking and holding the coche at bay, once in a while looking at her to close in with knife or gun. Knowing it would be confusing to a young dog newly trained to hunt to 129

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

be called off, reluctantly she ordered, "Come on Pal! Come home!" and turned Gypsy back. The dog knew this was wrong; puzzled at first, he did not obey, but finally followed, looking up at her questioningly every once in a while. Why had she let him down?

So thereafter, not trusting her marksmanship with a gun, she slipped my father's hunting knife with its long, sharp blade into its leather sheath on her belt when she rode out with Pal. The first time the white dog gave chase and barked to announce he was holding a hog, she jumped off her horse, threw the reins over Gypsy's head to the ground, and pulling the knife out of the sheath with a trembling hand, advanced toward the cache Pal was holding by an ear. She admitted hop ing it would be a huge boar—too much for her to take on, but then Pal would hold him at bay, not tackle him. It turned out to be a rather small sow. She dispatched it as swiftly as possible and mounted quickly to ride back to the Main Ranch, the dog delighted he had done his duty. One less cache plus future lit ters to ruin the harvests and Island environment, Vivi rumi nated, somewhat pale under her golden tan. She got several wild hogs that season. Pal eagerly capering around her horse

Gypsy loaded with wild hog.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Harry Sheldon)

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whenever she rode out of the Main Ranch. Though she never cold get used to the kill and wondered each time how she managed it, she had been on enough hunts to know what to do. I think my father was proud of her skill and courage.

Tall Tales of Pigs Tall tales of hunting wild hogs are endless as fish stories and just as good, each topping the other. One razor back has become a legend; he grows at every telling. By now he must rival Paul Bunyan's Blue Ox in size. Above the bristles on his back is an outsize growth, so he is called Old Wart. This enor mous wild boar has been sighted by mariners far out in the channel, though we never could find a person who had actu ally seen him.

It was Captain Ira Eaton who first told us about Old Wart, tongue-in-cheek and straight-faced. Since many persons wished to see the Island, Pelican Bay was leased to him as a camp where visitors might come, and for a while he was cap tain of our schooner, Santa Cruz. This lean, shrewd Yankee, whose keen blue eyes swerved everywhere as he talked, was not easily taken in by yarns. My question, "'Have you ever seen him?"—he evaded so skillfully that I cannot remember his answer. As to Old Wart, he still may be roaming the Is land hills and canyons.

Tony, sometimes the assistant cook, was an excellent shot.

A lean paisano with a sallow complexion, he was a very good hunter. He told us a whopper, which we were too young to take with straight faces and innocent-cunning remarks.

It was night, and from his ambush Tony saw a wild boar loom in a clearing of Altura Facial, the hillslope north of the Main Ranch. All was quiet. Suddenly a shot rang out. The boar fell in his tracks. Another wild hog, not too far away to see his brother fall in the night, but far enough away, of course, not to have heard the shot, investigated. He sniffed the dead swine inquiringly. Again a shot rang out. The second hog fell dead. A third coche, curious, came up and sniffed the second. The paisano shot him, too. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Down went a grand total of seven wild hogs!

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Tony's too-bright eyes looked at us, unblinking. We should gently have voiced some reaction as "Why, what a bunch of curious cochesV'—thereby letting him know we hadn't been taken in, but not letting him lose face by the clear exposure of our disbelief. We laughed and shrugged incredu lously, while he insisted the story was true. Of course, wild hogs were not usually that inquisitive.

To return to suckling pig—I have never tasted any as deli cious as that of the Island. The flavor is very delicate. Some times we decided to vary the more usual roast and served suckling pig diced in a bechamel sauce. Guests were always puzzled when they tried to guess what the meat was—not ex actly chicken, they often suggested, but something like it.— Small or medium-sized fat sows made flavorsome roasts, rather different from domestic pork, but not gamey.

If, through a strange interlude, we might have entertained some early Spanish explorers to join us at a feast of succulent roast pork from the descendants of the caches probably left by them centuries earlier, what a gala feast that would have been!

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TWO ISLAND DOGS

By Helen Caire

The following article by Helen Caire first appreared in the Spring, 1987, issue of Santa Barbara Historical Society's Noticias.

Don—Died in Action On a moonlight night in early fall the hunter set out from the Main Ranch with a dog. The grapes were ripening, so, as usu al, wild hogs might have broken into the vineyards. Besides, if allowed to proliferate, they were a danger to the ecology, rooting up bulbs, eating acorns and other seeds. Further, they were a menace to ranching operations, invading fields to the ruin of crops.

After some success in the vineyard west of the Main Ranch, the hunter, followed by the dog, turned to the exten sive vineyards eastward. They got a hog, Don scouting the vines, then returning to the hunter. They were almost at the end of the last vineyard. Perla was about to give up. Suddenly he heard the dog barking. He hurried toward the urgent barks—But this is starting at the end of the story.

Don had come to the Island as a very small pup, his tail not yet docked. Captain Eaton, who had brought him across the channel from Santa Barbara, decided to undertake the curtailing.

He has almost none left! You cut it off too short!" laughed my father.

The puppy whimpered and shortly forgot the loss of part of his "wagger," but what had been left him could scarcely be called a tail at all.

In his puppyhood Don was roly-poly and playful. When he outgrew the gaggHrig age, however, he became serious and dig nified, devoted to my father, conscientious in duty, and repose ful when idle. Never morose or sullen, he seemed to have un133

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

shakable poise. A well-mannered canine, at picnics he would sniff at a proffered tidbit, and turn away uninterested.

The Island dogs were taught to hunt caches, but not sheep—sometimes hard for canine brains to understand, since the killing instinct, inherited from wild ancestors, once started, is generally impossible to curb.

Usually the dogs were taken out to hunt in pairs. They learned from experienced dogs to seize a small or medium hog by the ears, one on each side, thus preventing it from at tacking them until the hunter arrived with knife or gun.

More than one dog was cruelly slashed by the curved, pointed tusks, though, rarely, even killed.

Don's training began at the usual age. He soon learned that chasing sheep was taboo. It was amusing to see him occasion ally sight a sheep at some distance away, mistaking it for a wild hog, begin the chase. Suddenly, recognizing the unswinish look of the animal, he would stop in his tracks and trot back as though he had been fooled, as though someone had played a practical joke on him. Always calmly goodtempered, peacefully sure of his own worth, and honest to the core, that was Don. With his square, jowly head and sad, somewhat bulging eyes, he looked like a huge brindled frog. His bulldog snout and chest were white. He gave the impression of bigness, heaviness, and even ferociousness at first sight, with some scars from hog tusks marring his smooth-haired coat. There was one, the largest, crescent-shaped, on his left shoulder, and a few small ones scarring his sinewy flanks and hind legs; but once you saw the friendly wag of his small stump of a tail, you were never afraid of him again.

When he was learning to hunt, at first, like most young dogs, he tried to seize the beasts by the throat. After having been ripped by a sharp tusk, he learned to be warier, not to seize the large hogs, but to circle them, barking and holding them at bay for the hunter.

Once he was on the trail of a wild hog, he never stopped.

Don would tackle a hog of any size, and many boars have long tusks, but no champing of jaws of the hugest wild hog ever intimidated him. A cut only made him hotter for battle.

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and he would hang on with the grip of a vise, or keep barking and circling the large coches till the hog was downed by the hunter.

Of course, most of the time he was not wounded, but when he was, he would limp home behind the hunter on his horse, and how good he was when his cuts were doctored! I remem ber one night he went out with my cousin Justy and a friend; they carried him back with a dangerous gash close to the throat. That wild hog had almost got him! We bathed his wound and poured diluted iodine into it. Don didn't have to be muzzled. We never heard him snap or growl at a person, even now when an otherwise good dog is apt to growl.

Donnie only looked up at us with pain-filled eyes, knowing we wouldn't hurt him any more than we must. His trust in human nature was complete.

V

>'

Don, champion hunter, Santa Cruz Island.

(Helen Caire collection)

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My father was very fond of his dog, and Donnie, of him.

Don knew that he was my father's dog, though all at the ranch made much of him. Pico, the ranch cook fed him as well as all the other dogs and the cats.

On warm days when my father was in the office, Don would lie on the cool cement floor, and on an ancient rug in winter near the high stool of the desk which sloped gradually away on both sides, a "ridgepole" between both desk areas.

But let a hunter appear with a “Vamosl Cache" and he would jump up, alert for the hunt.

Don's End One fatal night before the vintage season when the grapes were ripening, Don went out, as usual, with Perla to guard the vineyards. At the time my father had some malaise which kept him housebound for a few days. Donnie used to lie on the veranda outside his room, resting from his nocturnal work.

It was a moonlight night. The hunter, carrying his gun, walked eastward through the last vineyard, Don at his heels, except when scouting around among the vines.

The next morning we were cultivating and watering the petunias, balsams, mignonette, roses and other plants in Grandmother's garden, when we saw Pico crossing the resi dence enclosure. He came slowly toward us. His brown face was serious under the white pillbox cap.

He hesitated and fumbled a bit with his apron, then reluc tantly spoke: "El perro de Don Frederica esta muerto." A na tive Barbareho, Hercule Pico used to speak to us in English without an accent. But now the Spanish of his ancestors came to his tongue.

We looked at him incredulously—trowel, watering can or secateurs in hand. Donnie—dead—It couldn't be true! But Pico nodded unhappily, adding that it had happened in the vineyard. He waved his hand vaguely eastward and let it drop to his side.

How had it happened? Did a wild hog get Don? We did not ask aloud: "Was he shot by mistake?" If it were true, the 136

Two Island Dogs

hunter would be deeply sorry. Perla was an excellent shot— Pico shrugged his heavy shoulders helplessly. Don had started back with Perla after the coche was killed. All of a sudden he fell without a sound.

Pico turned and trudged back to the kitchen. He evidently had been chosen as messenger of the bad news by the men, who gathered in quiet groups near the bunkhouses after lunch before the workbell rang. Perla was nowhere in sight.

This fact was not normally surprising; working at night, he was free to catch up on sleep in the daytime.

We stood in the wrought iron fenced garden, hardly able to realize the news. No more would the faithful dog follow hap pily at his master's heels. No more in the hot hours of summer would he rest on the cool office floor, nor on cold winter days lie on his rug, while his master sat at the high desk over which, as light waned, the lamp, hanging on pulley chains from the ceiling, would be lighted. We couldn't tell Father now.

At last we decided to drive out to bring back Don. The old Dodge must have been in use, so Abelino hitched up dappled gray Evelina to the cart, and we drove out on the Camino del Este. Away at the end of the vineyards, not far from the last fence, we spied a huge black bulk. We halted the mare, tied the reins to a shaft and jumped out of the "sulky." We walked on the plowed earth between the green vines, heavy with ripen ing grapes, and stopped. It was the largest boar we had ever seen. It almost seemed the size of a small calf. The pointed ends of amazingly long tusks protruded from his ugly jaws.

Not very far away near a vine lay Don. We looked down at him. There was no sign of any cut, but as someone gently turned his head, a thin trickle of dark blood oozed out on the white chest. That was it! One of those cruel tusks had struck before Perla had fired, and the wound must have bled inter nally. A wild boar had got him at last, but Don had held him at bay till the hunter arrived. Savagely turning, the boar gave him a mortal wound, before being struck down. Even to the end Don's brave heart held out.

A good hunting dog was a valuable and necessary asset on the Island, so it was not only the loss of a fine pet, but of a needed one.

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We brought Donnie back, and decided to make his grave under an Italian stone pine at the corner of the enclosure fence where the road entered the barnyard.^ Perla came, shovel in hand, unasked, to dig the hole. He was grief-stricken, trembling, almost weeping, perspiration beading his forehead, he begged to know that it was not a bullet that had finished Don. We assured him that it wasn't and showed him the wound. Brokenly he told us what had happened. They had got one hog, and then went along al most to the last fence of the vineyards. Suddenly Don bounded off and started barking. Perla gave chase. He came upon the dog, barking and circling a huge boar at bay. Mak ing sure that Don was out of range, he shot the hog. When they turned back, Don followed the hunter a short distance— then fell over. Perla examined the dog, making gestures of slashes around the neck. "Niente\” No cuts—Perla rubbed his sleeve over his forehead and continued digging. Perhaps it was foolish to cover a dog's grave with fragrant pink olean ders.

Gloom hung over the ranch that day.

My father thought that Don was with some of the work men when he didn't come to lie on the veranda, but the next day he asked, "Where's Don? I haven't seen him all day—not yesterday."

We had to tell him. He said little, but when he was up, he came to see the grave, Good old Don—Well, that's it, I guess." He turned and went back into the house.

I asked Cuate, a vaquero who had been at the Island for decades, to get me the lower tusks. There were two methods of getting them out, a difficult task, as they are embedded deep in the jawboneidigging them out with a chisel or burying the head till it partly disintegrated and the tusks loosened.

Toward the end of our stay at the Island, Cuate brought me the tusks—the longest anyone had ever seen. Very large pairs of Island hog tusks make a circle when placed together, points up. But these overlap a circle by almost a quarter length. It took a monstrous old tusker to finish off Don. Where the road from Prisoners' Harbor turns into the barnyard, to a low branch of the pine we hung a wooden 138

Two Island Dogs

board. In the smithy we had burned the letters: DON—WHO DIED IN ACTION. Jerry Flynn—Ace Hunting Dog Jerry was a dog with a surname. He was simply dubbed Jerry, but the foreman called him Jerry Fleen, so Jerry Flynn he became. He was such an active dog that he always re mained thin; though the cook was over-generous in feeding the dogs, Jerry always had a lean, ribby look. The foreman with his soft Italian accent often greeted him with, "Ay, Jerry Fleen, Jerry Fleen, you skeeny dog!"

Jerry Flynn, Santa Cruz Island.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Harry Sheldon)

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Jerry came to the Island when he was about eight months old. He was a long, smooth-haired dog—all white except his head which was a rusty tan. There was an Oriental slant to his amber eyes. His bark, a deep, loud ah-woo, woo, woo, was very heartening to hear. A sailor told us that he was an Australian staghound. We thought he was as much Australian staghound as he was dogfish, but perhaps he had a dash of staghound in his background. Probably he was of mixed breed.

Whatever it was, it certainly produced a fine dog.

Jerry was a sociable dog and enjoyed the presence of hu man beings. But he was essentially a hunting dog. He would unceremoniously leave our company for a man with a gun.

He was one of the best hunting dogs the Island has ever seen.

He had terrific joy in the hunt. He would pick up a scent, run about tracing it and then be off like a flash after his prey.

Soon his deep ah-woo, woo, woo, would be echoing over the ridges. He would stay with the hog till the hunter arrived.

For several months Harry Sheldon, a well-known natural ist, was camping at the Island making a study of birds and mammals. He was exceedingly fond of hunting. As it was a season when the workmen were very busy and there was no need yet for a hunter in the vineyards, Jerry Flynn was lent to him. The number of hogs they eliminated made a record. The wild hogs were exceptionally plentiful that year. If there was one anywhere in his vicinity, Jerry found it. The ranch was almost over-supplied with pork. Young wild hogs, and espe cially sucklings, are excellent eating.

Once on a hunting trip, Jerry got too close to the hog as the man fired. That time he lost a toe of a fore-paw. For several days we bathed, disinfected and dressed his wound. His big bandage gave him a gouty look. When he began to run about again, he was rather lame, but soon the lameness wore off.

We feared, however, that he might have lost his zest for the hunt, even becoming gun-shy. Quite the contrary, his hunt ing spirit seemed to have become keener. Perhaps he wanted to avenge the loss of his toe!

On one hunting bout, he received a dangerously long and deep gash at the neck. From this he recovered, too. Cured, he again set out, eager for the chase.

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Jerry Flynn made a fine record in his short, brave life. His clarion, ah-woo, woo, woo, was too soon silenced. One morn ing he was found dead; no one ever knew the cause. So it was never again "Ay, Jerry Fleen, Jerry Fleen, you skeeny dog!"

Though we don't believe in dog cemeteries, he was deemed worthy to be buried under the younger pine tree with Donnie.

FOOTNOTE 1. The pine tree fell. A marker to Don now is attached to a pepper tree near his grave.

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Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Wine label designed by Arthur }. Caire.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation collection)

142

SANTA CRUZ ISLAND VINTAGE

By Helen Caire

The following article by Helen Caire first appeared in The Ventura County Historical Society Quarterly in Summer, 1987.

The days of Santa Cruz Island vintages are no longer. Prohi bition stopped the exportation of wine from Santa Cruz Island. The grapes which continued to be grown and sold to lo cal mainland markets proved unprofitable, and eventually the vines were removed. Today, no bottle of Santa Cruz Island wine is known to exist.

All through the dog-days the grapes are swelling. With au tumn, the clusters are ripening well: in the Canada del Medio, up to the undulating foothills of the Colorados, the southern boundary of the central valley, symmetrical bright green, row-upon-row, stretching eastward more than half-way to the Sur. At last, the vintage season has arrived.

Westward from the Main Ranch, vineyards spread on the lower reaches of the northern range for some distance toward the Cascada. Hiding the fence of the Burgundy district high above the creek bank of the Canada del Medio, a thick hedge of wild roses once bloomed; their delicate flowers, pale pink in spring, flame in thick clusters of round, orange-red hips in autumn. The healthy vines flourish. his Santa Cruz Island In planning diversified operations on ranch, Justinian Caire judged the climate and soil particularly favorable for the cultivation of wine grapes. Many years later, Carl Bremner, a geologist, would agree: soil close to the sur face contains the minerals and other nutrients necessary for grape vines. Records of The Santa Cruz Island Company of 1885 list statistics for selected vine stock from France: Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Noir, Petite Sirah, Malbec, Cantal, Mataro, Barbera, Hock, and, in 1893, Zinfandel. Of the whites, there 143

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

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Longtime Caire employee, Pete OHvari, plowing vineyard.

(Santa Cruz Island Foundation)

were Muscat Frontignan, Riesling, and Chablis. These were so labeled. Later the red wine (with the exception of Zinfandel and Hock) was labeled "Burgundy/' following the Californian habit of the times of using the generic appellations.

The Phylloxera . . . destroyed 75 percent of France's vineyards between 1860 and 1890 and ravaged all other countries of Europe. It laid waste seventy-five thousand acres in California as well. . . . Not until the mid-1890s was it brought under control.’

Providentially, the insect did not cross the Santa Barbara Channel to Santa Cruz Island, so Justinian Cairo's 600 acres of vineyards were spared. Aunt Delphine Caire's expression be came very serious when she talked of the Phylloxera.

Educated in Paris at the time the scourge was raging, the con vent schoolgirl must have received a deep impression of the agonizing concern of the French for their previous vineyards.

Wild hogs proved to be the problem on Santa Cruz Island.

During harvest time, their trips into the central valley in144

Santa Cruz Island Vintage

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Albina Caire (Helen Caire collection)

creased substantially. Even though the long fences had been inspected, some of the hogs managed to break into the vine yards while the grapes were ripening and during the vintage.

The hunter set out each evening to guard the grape harvest through the night, a gun or long lance in hand, a knife at his belt, and a dog or two running happily along, scouting among the vines. In years when the hogs were prolific, he returned frequently with a snout or two. From my grandfather's time, there was a bounty on each nose brought in; wild hogs dam aged not only the vineyard, but corn and grain fields, and the ecology as well.

Long before Prohibition, carros drawn by strong teams (lat er, trucks) headed back and forth between the upper winery and the districts where the pickers were working. The lavishly stained boxes, filled with mounds of grape clusters over which hovered yellow jackets, were emptied to fill the ravenous maw of the crusher. Then, empty, they were carted off to be refilled.

Though the vaqueros and some other workmen were Barbarenos (Mexicans from Santa Barbara), most of the em145

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

Partially loaded cart in the field.

(Ventura County Museum of Art 6* History collection)

ployees were Italians. Many of the latter who came to the United States at this time were field hands and skilled vine dressers, so during the vintage their number was increased. A Santa Barbara News-Press item discovered by Stella Haverland Rouse notes the following: October 8,1911 The island schooner Santa Cruz came over yesterday... . She sailed again this morning with a crew of 20 men to handle the grape crop on the island and work in the winery.

Years later my sister, Jeanne, in a professional capacity, met an elderly Frenchman. Of course, she could not recognize him, but he recognized her surname and told her that long ago he had been cellar master "a /'f/e."Though an expert in his field, he was unemployed. Prohibition, then the Depression had ruined him.

The two winery buildings were built of red bricks, made and fired on the Island. The upper winery stood on a low hill side a short distance above and behind the lower one, the fer146

Santa Cruz Island Vintage

Santa Cruz Island Wine Depot, on the corner of Anacapa and De la Guerra streets, Santa Barbara.

(Santa Barbara Historical Society collection)

mentation cellar. Eharing the vintage the usual quiet of the winery was shattered when the crusher did its work. The juice was funneled into gigantic tanks. A wide plank was laid across the full tanks. A workman holding a long-handled plunger walked along the board to stir the must. After a few days, it was funneled down by gravity flow into the vats in the fermentation cellar.

The cellar opened on the Camino del Este, leading eastward out of the Main Ranch. The six heavy, double doors, painted brown, were nearly always closed at other seasons. When my father was showing friends around, he opened a small door in one of the large doors. Entering the long, deep interior, we used to follow with "scary" delight. The dark interior backed into the hillside. The flashlight disturbed long shadows which closed in on all sides when the light was quenched. Daylight, slanting through the small door, soon disappeared. We slipped around the huge vats and oak casks, so old we looked 147

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Santa Cruz Island Vintage

at them in awe. They held about 100,000 gallons or more.

There was an echo in the cool darkness, repeating our words and footfalls on the cement floor. As children, being in the wine cellar was for us something like—not quite so exciting— but something like being in the Painted Cave.

The wine was bottled at the Island, though some was shipped in barrels. The labels, whose pleasing design Arthur J. Caire directed, bore The Santa Cruz Island Company seal: sur mounted by a rustic cross for Santa Cruz, a circle bearing the name of the corporation encloses a sketch of Island activities—the schooner Santa Cruz, sails set; headlands breasting the channel; a ewe and lamb standing near wool sacks. On either side are leaves and clusters of grapes.

Rider's California includes this statement: The island [Santa Cruz] is said to have a peculiar bouquet not to be found in mainland wines.^ As for the exceptional quality of the wine, Leon D. Adams, the eminent wine authority, writes:

'It always seemed as though the long, dreamy days would last forever."

(Ventura County Museum of Art & History collection)

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Santa Cruz Island ... was renowned before Prohibition for the prize-winning grapes grown there by the late San Francisco importer and hardware merchant, Justinian Caire.^ The heirs of Justinian Caire continued wine operations until Prohibition forbade it.

To digress a moment in lighter vein—in connection with the discarded residue of the grapes, my father related a hilari ous incident. Once a number of the domestic hogs had a meal on the lees of the grapes. The result was the most humorous caricature of thoroughly stoned human beings he had ever seen. Sitting at the head of our long table, he liked to describe and mimic the drunken antics of various hogs, relating them to their human counterparts—the quarrelsome ones squealing and biting; the reeling ones weaving around on tipsy trotters; one or two off by themselves, the sullen sots; the mumbly fellows grunting in befuddlement. My father's take-off of a bunch of boozy Duroc Jerseys was so vivid that our laughter must have shaken the pulley chain of the lamp hanging over the center of the table.

When, at length, the vineyards give up all their fruit and the winery is quiet once more, there comes, morning and evening, the suggestion of a cold snap in the air. Shadows be come longer and more slanting as the sun swings more to the south. The vineyards flaunt scarlet, maroon and gold as if a constant carnival were in progress.

It always seemed as though the long, dreamy days would last forever—the vintage was beautiful season—gone now and not even the lees of the grapes nor their royal pur ple stains are left.

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Santa Cruz Island Vintage

NOTES 1. Teiser, Ruth and Harround, Gathering, Winemaking in California (McGraw Hill: New York,1983), p.99.

2. Adams, Leon D., Wines of America (Houghton Mifflin Company: Bos ton, 1973), p. 285.

3. "Peculiar," in this instance, meaning particular or individual. Rider, Fremont, Rider's California: A Guidbook for Travelers (MacMillian: New York,1925), p.570.

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Ira Eaton's resort, located on the north shore of Santa Cruz Island catered to movie makers from Hollywood. Films with such alluring titles as Heart of My Heart (1912), Pearls of Paradise (1916), Sirens of the Sea (1917), Battle of Hearts (1918), Adam and Eve (1918) and Male and Female (1919) were filmed on the island. In 1928 Ronald Coleman and Lily Damita starred in The Res cue based upon Joseph Conrad's novel.

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JOHN BARRYMORE'S VISITS TO SANTA CRUZ ISLAND

By Helen Caire The following article by Helen Caire first appeared in the Autumn, 1988 issue of Santa Barbara Historical Society’s Noticias.

Pelican Bay, on the island's north shore, was leased as a concession area to Captain Ira Eaton by the Caire family from about 1910 until the island’s sale in 1937. During this time, Eaton, his wife Margaret, and their daughter Vera welcomed visitors to their island camp. The island’s north shore re mained a popular movie location site from the silent picture era, continuing into the "talkies."

John Barrymore introduced himself and my father greeted him cordially. Years later, on return trips to the island. Barrymore used to repeat the story of the encounter, marvelling at my father's hospitality. He would begin, "There I was in a khaki shirt, old sweater and trousers. . and would continue, making much of the meeting.

He explained that he was on vacation at Pelican Bay Camp with some friends from Montecito. (Since many persons were interested in seeing the island, the Santa Cruz Island Company leased a cove on the Channel coast west of Prisoners' Harbor to Captain Ira Eaton. He transported sports men, movie companies and whatever holiday groups wished to cross the Channel in his Sea Wolf.)

My father and John Barrymore talked for a long while, standing among the glistening green vines, the actor occasional running a hand through his hair, his nervous eyes betraying fatigue. He very gladly accepted my father's invita tion to lunch.

After a long and successful run of The Jest (1919) in New York, he was extremely tired and needed a rest, he explained.

He was a fascinating conversationalist; among other things.

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Left to right: Joseph Cawthorne, Dolores Costello and John Barry more on Santa Cruz Island. Cawthorne was Barymore's manager, Costello his wife.

(Helen Caire collection)

he discussed Sem Benelli and La Cena delle Beffe. The great actor laughed, "I felt like a long string bean in those green tights." He mentioned that he was reading The Four Horse men of the Apocalypse and told my sister Jeanne that he would send it to her.

Because my father and Barrymore hit it off so well and he was such good company, he and his friends were invited for dinner a day or two later. Naturally, it was a dinner for grown-ups and not for little girls. Marie and Jeanne were to be present, but I was supposed to go on a picnic with my younger sisters and cousins. I can vividly recall how I begged my mother, teased and wheedled to let me attend, until she laughed and yielded.

The guests arrived around noon. The tour of the Main Ranch included the winery, of course, so we walked eastward along the road to the large building of red bricks, fired in is land kilns in my grandfather's time. My father unlocked one of the huge double doors and we entered. Since the rear of the 154

John Barrymore's Visits to Santa Cruz Island

winery was carved out of the hillside, within, it was cavernously cool, shadowy and echoing. As we walked around, dwarfed by the enormous casks, my father pointed out the oldest ones of aged oak and discussed island wines. Before leaving, the guests were, of course, treated to wine tasting, a vintage Riesling.

As to the dinner, Num outdid himself, except for the stuffed zucchini prepared by my mother. Barrymore gasped in delight at the sight of them and rolled his large fatiguenervous eyes in mock ecstatic pose.

Ambrosia!" he murmured dramatically. "Too good to eat!

If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly," my father laughed, lifting his fork in a gesture of mock menace at his plate.

"Let the assassination trammel up the consequence; was Barrymore's rejoinder as he happily speared the succulent zucchini, topped by fawn-colored, buttered breadcrumbs.

The actor was in the heyday of his brilliance and wit. My father enjoyed the theatre. He was a Shakespeare buff and knew reams of the plays by heart. If only tape recorders had been invented then, that dinner conversation, especially between my father and John Barrymore, would have been worth recording. It bounded as the lightest crystal ball; it sparkled like cut glass in candlelight; it had the excitement of a brandied dish alight with aromatic flames. Remark and riposte flashed with lightning swiftness. No wonder a young ster, all eyes and ears, didn't know what she was eating!

Marie and I were scarcely noticed and had the sense to lis ten. But Jeanne, blonde and attractive, in her teens, allowed to wear he hair up for the first time, drew several remarks from the actor. He had brought the promised book, then very popular. He seemed somewhat concerned, "I don't know if the sisters at the convent would approve .. ." On the flyleaf, he had sketched her head of a bearded man with a somewhat sardonic expression—himself as a character in a play?—and inscribed it.

He told us that his first ambition had been to be an artist.

As dinner drew to a close, Barrymore made a witty speech of appreciation and thanks. I wish 1 might remember it, but 155

Santa Cruz Island Foundation

the only phrase that stuck in my mind, pronounced in his most mellifluous accent, is . . and with hummingbirds in my stomach."

When the guests left, John Barrymore was carrying a box of gently packed, stuffed zucchini in one hand and a bottle of Riesling in the other.

Barrymore's next visit, some years later, was with his wife, Dolores Costello, sweet and pretty, who called him "Winky;" their baby, and a party of friends, all of whom sailed up on the Barrymores' yacht. Infanta. The actor's reaction to that vis it was headlined in an article in the Santa Barbara Morning Press, June 10, 1930. Barrymore said that someday he would like to own an island kingdom like Santa Cruz and that he envied Fred Caire more than anyone else he knew. The paper quoted Barrymore as saying, "It is the greatest institution of

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Pelican Bay was a popular anchorage for yachtsmen. This 3922 view shows the dining hall of Eaton's camp in left background.

(Santa Barbara Historical Society collection) 156

John Barn/more's Visits to Santa Cruz Island

The Main Ranch on Santa Cruz Island. Note vineyards in the foreground.

Wine making facilities were maintained on the island for many years with an aging area for wine in oak casks dug partially into a hillside.

(Santa Barbara Historical Society collection)

its kind in the world, being so near Santa Barbara, the supercivilized community. The supercivilized may be taken as you will."

The last visit of John Barrymore occurred years later. We were aboard the yacht of friends in Pelican Bay where the In fanta was also anchored. Hearing that some of the Caires were aboard, he came over for a visit. Time had added some weight to the slim, brilliant actor of his first arrival and gray lightly threaded his once coal-black hair. When he recounted again his first meeting with my father, he sported the dapper blue jacket, white trousers and visored cap of the yachtsman.

With him were his sister, Ethel Barrymore, and he son, Sam Colt. We invited them up to the Main Ranch for a visit the next afternoon.

The island lay serene on a balmy summer day. Ethel Barrymore was not feeling very well at the time, so the ride up the Canada del Puerto on the creekbed road was rather hard on her. Though she was interested in everything about the place, she was not up to walking around the Main Ranch.

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Mr. flMii Mrs. Fr^d Cflj’re indulge in the 1920's passion for Pee-YJee golf at the Main Ranch on Santa Cruz Island.

(Helen Caire collection. Photo by Helen Caire) We sat under the pine and brought her Castilian roses. She loved the pretty pink flowers with their golden hearts and sweet fragrance, which could fill the large living room in a few hours.

John Barrymore was eager to play a round of Pee-Wee golf on the course we had rigged up nearby in the enclosure. The game was all the rage at the time and the visitors were sur prised to see its layout on the Island. The great actress stands out in my memory as a gracious person with a delightful, deep chuckle and a nice, low voice. The summer afternoon waned pleasantly with talk and refreshments.

When we drove back to Prisoners' Harbor, the pines be hind the beach were casting long shadows toward the shore where low waves lapped almost soundlessly.^ FCXDTNOTES 1. Among the many buildings erected under Justinian Cairo's direction were a chapel and wineries. A variety of wines was produced and the busi158

John Barrymore's Visits to Santa Cruz Island

ness was carried on by Cairo's sons. Prohibition stopped the production of wine, although grapes continued to be sold for a time.

2. These visits to Santa Cruz Island were not Barrymore's first to the San ta Barbara area. In 1916, Barrymore appeared in James Barrie's play. Panta loon, at the Santa Barbara Club.

159

Santa Cruz Island Chain of Title

Chumash Indians and Their Predecessors King of Spain Spanish occupation of California began in 1769 with the title to all the land becoming vested in the King under the Laws of Indies.

The Mexican Nation Spanish rule in California gave way to Mexican rule in 1822, through Mexico's successful revolt against Spain.

Andres S. Castillero By grant of Island of Santa Cruz from Juan Alvarado, Mexican governor of California, to Andrds Castillero on May 22, 1839. California was coded to the United States by the Treaty of Hidalgo in 1848, and the title of Castillero was confirmed by the United States as evidenced by its patent issued November 7,1864.(Recorded in Book A page 34 of Patents.)

William E. Barron By a deed from Andres Castillero, dated June 21,1857.

Gustave Mahe Camilo Marlin Alexander Weill T. Lemmen Meyer Nicolas Larco Adrien Genoul Giovanni Battista Cerruti Justinian Caire Thomas J. Gallagher Pablo Baca By a deed from William E. Barron, dated February 16,1869.

The Santa Cruz Island Company a corporation By a deed from Gustave Mahd, et al., dated March 29,1869.

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Stockholders of the Santa Cruz Island Company a dissolved corporation Through partition action wherein F. F. Flournoy, George W. McComber and Frank M. Whitner were appointed referees to make a partition of Santa Cruz Island and wherein a final decree was entered on November 16, 1925, setting apart Tract Numbers 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 from Tract Numbers 6 and 7 as referred to in the Referee's Report to the Santa Cruz Island Company. Aglae S. Capuccio vs. Arthur I. Cairo, ct al.. Superior Court Case No. 10812.

Edwin L. Stanton a married man By a Deed from the Santa Cruz Island Company dated April 10, 1937.

Edwin L. Stanton and Evelyn C. Stanton husband and wife Each as to an undivided one-half interest as separate property by Deeds between E. L. Stanton and E. C. Stanton, dated January 1,1938 and August 4, 1948.

The Santa Cruz Island Company a corporation

By Grant Deed dated December 21, 1964, from Evelyn C. Stanton and Deed of Executor by Carey Q. Stanton as executor of the estate of Edwin L. Stanton, pursuant to Court Order dated December 3, 1964.

The Nature Conservancy A District of Columbia nonprofit corporation

By Deed dated September 15, 1978 as to approximately 12,000 acres in fee and as to the balance a remainder interest after a 30 year term, or the lifetime of Dr. Carey Stanton, reserved by the Santa Cruz Island Company.

Carey Stanton died at his island home December 8,1987, and the western 9/lOths of Santa Cruz Island passed to The Nature Conservancy.

Parcels 6 and 7 created in the 1925 partition action remain with Caire family descendants. At an unknown future date this eastern portion of the island is slated for inclusion within Channel Islands National Park.

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SANTA BARBARA HISTORICAL SOCIETY BOARD OF TRUSTEES Mrs.John C. Woodward Dr.John Merritt

President ....First Vice President

David Gledhill

.. Second Vice President

Mrs. Burke Simpson ...

Michael Rodrigue Glenn D.Hillebrand . ...

Secretary Treasurer Immediate Past President ...Executive Committee

Frederick S. Allen,Jr....

Mrs.J. William Beaver.

Mr.J.James Hollister III Mr.Eric H volb0ll Mrs. DelfinaR. Mott

Mrs.Richard J. Callanan Mr.Leland Crawford Mr. Oswald J. Da Ros

Mr. David F. Myrick Mrs.J. Terry Schwanz

Mr. C.John Douglas,III

Mr.Donn Tognazzini Sir John Galvin, Honorary Director Richard R.Esparza, Executive Director LIFE MEMBERS Mr.Stephen A. Acronico Mr.and Mrs. Danily Bell Mr. Marvin J. Branch

Mr.Richard C. Harpham Mrs.NatalieB. Clark-Harpham Mrs.Gene M.Harris

Dr.and Mrs.Ashleigh Brilliant Mrs.Robert N.Burgess,Jr. Mr. H. R.de la Cuesta Burkhart

Mr.and Mrs.Glenn D.Hillebrand

Mr.and Mrs.Pierre P. Claeyssens Mr.and Mrs.Charles Cleek

Mr.William W.Murfey Mr. David F. Myrick Mr.and Mrs. Godwin J. Pelissero Miss Frederica D.Poett Mrs.Rena Redmon Mrs. Alma R.Ritchie Dr. W T. Robbins

Mrs. M.C.Conkey Mrs.Florence Corder-Witter Mr. J. V. Crawford Mr.Richard G. Croft,Jr. Mrs.R.E. Danielson,Jr. Mr. and Mrs. Oswald J. Da Ros Mrs.Albert de L’Arbre Mr.and Mrs. Wilson Forbes Mr. Donald R.Foyer Mrs. Helen W.Foyer Mr.John Galvin Mr.Michael Galvin Mr.and Mrs.Keith Gledhill

Mrs.Jane Rich Mueller Mr. Spencer L. Murfey,Jr.

Mr.and Mrs. Wade Rubottom Mrs.Russell A.Ruiz Mrs. Melville Sahyun Mrs.Nina Sandrich Mr. and Mrs.J. Terry Schwartz Mrs. David Shoudy Mr.Walter Silva Mr. and Mrs.John C. Woodward

BENEFACTORS;Santa Cruz Island Foundation, Northern Trust of California and Two Anonymous Categories of membership: Benefactor,$5,000 or more; Life,$1,000; Patron,$500;Business/ Corp. $250; Sustaining, $100; Supporting,$50; Regular, $30; Society Volunteer, $15. Contribu tions to the Society are tax-exempt.

Museum and Library; 136 East De la Guerra Street, Santa Barbara, CA 93101 Telephone; 805/960-1601

SANTA

X CRUZ ISLAND

NOTICIAS Quarterly Magazine of the

Santa Barbara Historical Society P.O. Box 578 Santa Barbara, California 93102