Big Sur in summer 2013, part 2: North Pacific High, Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park, and the beach at Kirk Creek

This post is the second of two. To see more Big Sur photos, click here.

WHY THE FOG?

By now I'd figured out that in Big Sur, August is a month in which fog can last all day long. The fog was a constant presence during our trip, breaking only briefly one afternoon. Often it felt like Sundari and I were marooned on an island with an ocean of gray on all sides. We talked about our lives, about fears and hopes and preparations underway. The fog was a constant visual reminder of the limits of our knowledge. We couldn’t see what lay ahead of us in life any more than we could see the coastline beyond that thick enfolding mist.

When I got home I decided it was time to find out why summer is foggy in Big Sur and to a lesser extent, in Santa Cruz. I couldn’t unravel the deeper mystery of what lay ahead in life, but I could certainly grasp the scientific concepts behind the physical reality of August gloom. That’s when I learned about the North Pacific High, a strong, stable high pressure system that basically owns the California coastline in summer.

This system begins when warm air rises from the equator and cools, releasing its moisture. Once cool and relatively dry, the air descends between 25-40 degrees north of the equator, in a region called the subtropical high pressure belt. After descending here it spreads out over the surface of the Earth, and in the northern hemisphere the descending air begins to spin clockwise, thanks to the Coriolis effect. This clockwise-spinning air is the North Pacific High Pressure System. It’s hugely influential on the climate of the central coast. It rules the weather here between the end of May and October, keeping storm systems from approaching land and ensuring that rainfall is rare during the summer.

So how does the North Pacific High make fog happen?

The NPH pushes surface water against the shore, which then directs the surface water south, away from the eastwardly-curving edge of the land. When surface water gets steered away from land, the colder water in the depths can rise up to replace it. And there is some very cold water available for this purpose right off the coast of California, especially in the Monterey area, where the Monterey Submarine Canyon is 6,000 feet deep. Further south, the steepness of the Santa Lucia range is continued underwater, and the steep continental slope leads to some of the deepest submarine canyons on the planet. The nearly freezing water in the submarine canyon depths wells up and meets the winds of the North Pacific High at the surface, causing the moisture in these winds to condense, and creating – you guessed it – fog.  

Once that fog forms next to the Santa Lucia range, whose cliffs drop nearly straight down into the water, it’s not going anywhere. The mountains trap it and cause it to pile up. In summer, warm air comes out from the land and sits on top of the cool air from the ocean, creating what’s known as the inversion layer. Where land meets water, the inversion layer tends to draw in and hold on to the fog. Away from the cold water and further inland, fog disappears.

LOCALIZED AND TRANSITORY

Up on the hill near the New Camaldoli Hermitage was a perfect place to see this pile-up in action. We approached it hoping to rise above that layer of grayish-white, but as we wound our way further and further up the steep road to the hermitage, we remained stuck inside the fogbank. From the passenger seat I gazed down at the coastline we’d just traveled, feeling like I was on the edge of a precipice. It seemed impossible to have gotten so far above the highway in such a short time. The steepness of these coastal slopes is disorienting, especially when observed through gray haze. We reached the hermitage, where the fog broke just above the cluster of buildings. Here at 1300 feet above sea level we were near the elevation where the fogbank ended. We were sometimes inside, sometimes outside that field of gloom. Beyond the sunlit trees that lined the driveway, fingers of mist reached out into canyons.

Going downhill we got engulfed in gray again. On the highway I saw breaks in the clouds, places where the sun shone through and illuminated a section of road or a rocky cliff. It was strange to be enclosed in fog ourselves while up ahead we could see the warm glow of direct light. I had never before been in a place where the fog was so localized and transitory, able to inhabit one tiny area while leaving another alone. Again my sense of time and location was disrupted. This murk stripped away color and depth, made me lose sight of the nearby peaks. When it lifted, I was suddenly aware of my place as a tiny human next to these tall mountains.

Seventeen miles north of our campground, at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park, we set out on McWay Falls Trail. A small building on the creek housed an old Pelton Wheel, a type of energy-generating water wheel that had provided the first electricity in Big Sur. The lush McWay Canyon lay open before us. I ate a Pink Pearl apple, my favorite fruit that summer. It was sweet and slightly tart with a fleeting raspberry flavor, and its flesh was the color of a Pink Pearl eraser. I couldn’t get enough of these apples, which are only available during certain months. With one hand I gripped the sticky half-eaten fruit and with the other I took pictures of Sundari as she walked into the tunnel under the highway. Then I followed her through it, luxuriating in the apple’s taste, the contours of the metal tunnel’s inner ridges, and the anticipation of my first sight of the famous McWay Falls.

NATURAL POSITION UNCERTAIN

McWay Cove, with its waterfall that empties McWay Creek into the ocean, is just as spectacular as everyone says it is. It’s also the site of the McWay thrust fault, an offshoot of the Sur-Nacimiento Fault I described in the previous post. Here Cretaceous conglomeratic rocks are pushed against Salinian Block metamorphic rocks. The tree-covered rock out in the water, known as Saddle Rock, is made of these Cretaceous conglomerates, while the spot where I stood to take the picture is made of the Salinian metamorphic rocks. McWay Creek travels along the fault edge and pours into a notch created and deepened by fault activity. Fed by springs in the canyon, it runs all year long.

Some sources I read asserted that the waterfall’s position is not natural, but rather the result of the redirection of McWay Creek by builders of nearby Waterfall House. The natural position of the creek may be in the back of the cove. However, no detailed history of the creek has been found, so we can’t be sure. Not only is the waterfall’s placement possibly altered by humans, but its landing spot has been changed by human activity as well. Signs along the trail told us that until 1985, this waterfall emptied directly into a beachless cove filled with seawater. But then a gigantic landslide happened just north of here on Highway 1, and the repair efforts involved stabilizing slopes with debris, much of which fell into the water below. This influx of sand led to the formation of new beaches south of the slide, including one here in McWay Cove. Now the waterfall carves rivulets on the beach at low tide, and shorebirds skitter about on the sand.

Humans aren’t allowed to climb down to the cove, and there’s a fine if you do that, because of crumbling dangerous cliffs and the need to preserve and restore this landscape. Luckily there is no prohibition on taking pictures. I gawked at the cascade from behind my lens, shooting it continuously as I walked along the boardwalk trail, to the amusement of Sundari. I told her that you never know which photos will turn out the best, so it’s important to shoot a variety with different framings and exposures and so forth. But I think she knew that my barrage of shutter clicking was just my usual spastic response to an extraordinary scene.

A TRUE PIONEER

A cliffside trail led us past the falls and around a bluff to the former site of Waterfall House. Once a mansion with an overlook of McWay Falls, it’s now only visible as a hillside foundation. Signs told us of the history of this building and others in the park. Constructed around 1940 by Helen and Lathrop Brown, Waterfall House was an elegant structure surrounded by gardens. It had a large black marble staircase, valuable artwork, and even a 100-foot funicular railway to bring visitors to the house from the highway above. Electrical power for the funicular was provided by the Pelton wheel I mentioned earlier.

Waterfall House and the Pelton wheel fascinated me, and I wanted to know what else happened here before it became a park. I learned that in the early to mid 19th century, the Big Sur region was known for being hard to reach, and considered by many to be an uncharted wild territory. In 1848, California became part of the United States, and landowners had to prove their deed claims on California land were legal; if they couldn’t, as was the case with many Mexican landowners, the property became publicly owned. Much of the Big Sur wilderness fell into that category. The Homestead Act of 1862 permitted US citizens to claim public land. Intrepid souls who didn’t mind the remoteness and inaccessiblity of the Santa Lucia range came in and set up homes, ranches, and mining operations.

Christopher McWay was one of these settlers. He bought the property that would someday become known as Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park from the US government. The McWay family homesteaded here in the 1880s, and the canyon, creek, cove, and waterfall still bear the family name. In 1924, after the property had changed hands a few times, Helen Hooper Brown and her husband Lathrop Brown acquired the land, naming it Saddle Rock Ranch after the saddle-shaped rock in the cove. Julia Pfeiffer Burns and her husband John Burns leased grazing land on the ranch, which brought Julia into close proximity with Helen.

The two women had very different lives and different backgrounds, yet they became close friends during the last few years of Julia's life. Helen's great admiration for Julia lasted long after Julia’s death in 1928. When she donated Saddle Rock Ranch to the state many years later, Helen stipulated that the new park be named after this early Big Sur resident, who she described as “a true pioneer.” Julia grew up in Big Sur, learned to do every job on her father’s ranch, and eventually ran it when he was too old for such work. In contrast, Helen was an East Coast socialite, the wife of a former Congressman and a millionaire who had other homes elsewhere and had always lived in comfort and luxury. It's easy to understand why Julia would seem remarkable to Helen. She represented an older era of Big Sur, before Highway 1 was built, back when resourcefulness, toughness, and a willingness to experience isolation were all requirements for a successful life here.

NATIVE AND EXOTIC SPECIES

After pondering the perspectives of mansion owners, we walked over to the dense grove behind McWay Falls, where we could see signs of a humbler abode: the blankets and suitcase of someone’s unofficial sleeping spot. Nearby were two walk-in campsites that I learned have to be booked six months in advance due to their immensely desirable location. The only camping spots in the park, they’re right above the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean, and offer an amazing view of passing whales and other marine animals.

I loved the wild beauty of this place above McWay Falls and Saddle Rock, with its nest of sheltering branches. These trees are Monterey cypress, and unlike the ones at Point Lobos, they were planted here by humans, as were the palm trees seen in the photos above. The plant life here is a mixture of native coastal scrub and non-native plants, including exotic species planted by the Browns, who maintained elaborate gardens around their house and elsewhere on the property. Out in the cove I could see more cypress trees and the evidence of bird activity. Western gulls and black oystercatchers nest on these rocks. Brown pelicans and cormorants can also be seen, and the central coast’s only double-breasted cormorant colony nests offshore.

There’s also evidence that the Esselen people camped here long ago. Mussel shell fragments have been found around Saddle Rock. Both the Rumsen and Esselen groups of the Big Sur coast are known to have made mussels an important part of their diets, and middens containing shells have been found far inland. It’s believed that California native tribes recognized neutral routes to the coast which inland tribes could use to access the bounty of the sea. This use of the land is one more intriguing intersection between different eras of Big Sur history here in the park.

NO TIME FOR SHIPWRECKS

We’d missed lots of good stuff that day at Julia Pfeiffer Burns: a trail into the canyon, another waterfall, a hike along the coastal ridge, and Partington Cove. The park even continues underwater, as it does at Point Lobos. The Julia Pfeiffer Burns Underwater Area is 2.5 miles long and extends from Partington Canyon to the north to Anderson Canyon just south of the park. Scuba divers can explore here, entering at Partington Point. They say there are three sea vessels lost in the underwater portion of the park. Maybe someday I’ll learn how to dive, and then I’ll find myself exploring this cold, cold water and taking pictures of the shipwrecks. Underwater photography would really take this photoblog to the next level.

Walking up the fire road from the environmental campsites to Sundari’s car made us realize that we were hungry. It was time to go back to our own camp. Sunset was happening now, or maybe it wasn’t. Who knew, with all that white stuff obscuring our view? Fog engulfed us as we rode down the highway. Moisture in the air made my clothes feel damp and heavy. Back at our campsite, Sundari cooked bratwurst over the MSR stove, filling the air with a wonderful bacon-like aroma. I sliced cheese and more pink apples. We consumed this delicious meal quickly, licking the grease from our fingers as twilight turned into indistinct night.

THE PATH TO KIRK CREEK BEACH

The day had not required much of us in the way of exercise. I felt restless and adventurous and convinced Sundari to venture with me down the path to the rocky beach below the campground. It wasn’t as treacherous as I’d expected. The trail, though a bit creepy, was well-cleared and easy to follow. The full moon diffused through the mist, creating a glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Fishing boats cast green lights on the water, moving about in the deepening gloom like ghost ships. Enormous rocks lurked just offshore. I cranked up the ISO, set my camera on a rock and tried to photograph them. The results were grainy yet pleasing. I’ve got to come back here tomorrow morning before we leave, I thought.

The next day I woke up early, packed up my tent as quickly as possible, and ran with my camera to the start of the path at the edge of the campground. Upon reaching it, I slowed down and started taking pictures of the journey. This trail fascinated me now that I could see it in the light of day. It began amid coastal scrub on a high bluff, then descended quickly into the mouth of a canyon. Here it crossed over Kirk Creek via a tiny footbridge within a world of green. It was surprising how quickly the earth tones of the landscape above had given way to the vibrantly verdant palette below.

I hurried along, aware that Sundari needed to get back to work in Santa Cruz that day. I would’ve rather lingered near these gleaming rocks and river plants. Lying just below where I’d spent the last few nights, Kirk Creek seemed like it was mine somehow, much like the creeks of my childhood in South Carolina. A younger version of me emerged then, as it does in such places, and I felt my heart lighten as I bounced along the path with my camera. 

TANGLED, LAYERED, TILTED

In these depths vegetation grew high and wild. Enormous thickets of blackberry and other plants I couldn’t identify towered over the path. It was obvious that without regular treatments using sharp tools, the jungle of plants down here would take over the trail completely. The creek I’d just crossed was now buried beneath several feet of green leaves and thorns. I could hear water trickling somewhere off to my right, but I could no longer see it. I pictured the many acres of coastal land that were covered with huge tangles of vines just like these. I imagined the dark spaces underneath the brush and all the creatures that might hide in them, completely sheltered from humans. Thousands of animal eyes might be watching me from the sides of this tunnel. The thought made me shiver.

As I progressed along the trail to the ocean, stones began to protrude from the ground, hinting at the formations ahead. Suddenly the mouth of the forest opened up and spilled me out onto the tiny rocky beach. Here, as in the green vegetation tunnel, there was little space for a human to stand. Enormous boulders occupied much of the shoreline. Coastal scrub plants like sage and buckwheat had found places to grow in the narrow zone between the woods and the rocks. Where Kirk Creek emerged on the waterfront, pampas grass and tiny yellow flowers grew in profusion.

It was wonderful to be on this beach alone, with plenty of light to illuminate the rocks this time. I photographed them thoroughly, wanting to be able to revisit their textures and patterns later. Layered and tilted, banded and veined, their earthy hues glowed dully under the indirect light from the fog-bound sun. I examined them with my hands as well as my eyes, traced their striations with my fingertips. These were Nacimiento Block rocks at their finest. They were formed under the ocean and then dragged further down into the accretionary wedge of the Farallon plate’s subduction zone. Metamorphosed under high pressure, they were brought to the surface again and placed next to unmetamorphosed rocks. Their journey has been a strange one, involving travel to and from great depths and encounters with unlikely companions.

THE SPELL IS BROKEN

As I took pictures on the beach I noticed that the hazy light from the sky seemed to be getting brighter and warmer. Could it be that the fog was about to lift, just when my time in Big Sur was almost finished? The colors of the rocks began to brighten as the veil of mist grew thinner. Now they were even more beautiful, and I could see hundreds more photographs I wanted to take, but there wasn’t enough time. I was already late. Sundari was probably waiting for me in the car. I took a final long look at the waves crashing into the laminous stone offshore, then dived back into the tunnel of green and up the trail to the campground.

I don’t know if the fog ever left Kirk Creek that day. We drove north on the highway and saw blue sky as we approached Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. We stopped at Big Sur Bakery for tea, and I caught with my camera the edge of the mist as it rose above the mountains. From here to Santa Cruz the weather would be sunny. Our enchantment within the fog had ended. It was remarkable how quickly the events of those two gray days receded into distant memory, to be retrieved only when I looked at these pictures again. It was as if my brain had been tricked into thinking it was all a dream, just because it happened to look like one.

However, I am learning my lesson about this kind of trance. Fog-shrouded mountains and mind-bending deserts don't make events any less real. Forgetting doesn't make facts go away forever. At some time in the future, what has been hidden will again emerge. It may take on a new form, but it will be the same old truth we encountered before. But when we meet it this time, maybe we will be different. 

This post is the second of two. To see more Big Sur photos, click here.