Tyler promised you ocotillos, but right now I am sitting on a bench overlooking Pacific Ocean swells and all I can think about or write about is water.
You could argue that even our brief desert time was primarily shaped by water, of course. Where else but the desert can the effects of water be so plainly seen? Even if it is from the lack thereof. When do ocotillos leaf and bloom? When it rains. Whether seasonally cyclic or sporadic and random, the ocotillo doesn’t care; it just wakes up.
Maybe, secretly, we were always longing for the ocean. We camped a night on the edge of Clark Dry Lake, a crazed surface of baked mud. This ancient lake bed, like so many others including Badwater Basin in Death Valley, filled with water during last summer’s storm activity. But there was no water left when we camped there last October, and none at all this January. The only hints of the ancient lake left were the flashing blue wings from the Mountain Bluebirds fly-catching near our camp at dusk.
With a clear sky and bone-dry forecast, we were looking at a classic desert night. We put the fly on the tent anyway, for warmth. We’re no fools; the desert gets cold at night! We went to bed early, expecting to wake at some point and steal a glimpse of the stars when the need to pee drove one or the other of us out of the tent. Well, the need to pee did arrive, but so did the wind! It sounded like a sandstorm whipping the sides of the tent and bending the poles anxiously low. It took a while to even dare a peek out of the tent flap.
In the end, it was less of a sandstorm than it sounded, though it was surely a fierce wind. Eventually, when it was light enough, I took the tent apart around Tyler, who acted as a weight to keep the shell from whipping away across the empty lake bed. We had a tentative breakfast date with a LeConte’s Thrasher that had been seen in the area, but had to take a rain check (a wind check?) on that one. We decided to move along and try better luck at the Sea.
Oh, but wait, this is still a story about the desert!
The Salton Sea is not properly a sea but a strange man-made ecological confusion. It’s what happens when you say, “Hey, let’s fill up that ancient lakebed and go waterskiing!” What eventually happens is water evaporates, salinity increases, chemicals and agricultural runoff concentrate, fish die and things just kind of stink. But also: birds by the millions have come to depend on this desert lifeline, given that their prior stop-overs and breeding grounds have been decimated by development in wetland zones. So, the Salton Sea is de facto an important ecosystem, even as it's a weird and somewhat unlikely-feeling one. The drive from Borrego across the stark, flat dustbowl is mirage-inducing, and it seems prudent to question the reality of the acres and acres of fields before you as you approach the southern end of the Sea. But yes, here is kale, and alfalfa, popping out of desert dust. Everywhere that old joke: Hay!
(Here, I wish I had taken a photo of a stack of hay bales in the desert. Just picture it, ten feet high and with a Cattle Egret perched on top.)
And snuffling around in the muddy furrows are 2500 Snow Geese. Look closely enough and you can find a smaller-billed Ross's Goose. On the wires looped between power poles, you can find Kestrel after Kestrel after Kestrel. Standing sentry on the dusty dirt berms blink the Burrowing Owls. Ducks and grebes nest on the artificial islands dotting the piped-in freshwater pond at the Sonny Bono Salton Sea National Wildlife Refuge Visitor's Center. Gambel's Quail gambol around the feeders by the gift shop. A birder's paradise, if you can stand the heat and the glare. There's a bottle-filling station, and the water doesn't taste too musty, considering how far it's probably traveled through culverts to get here.
Climbing Rock Hill, we meet another birder and stand in the sun a while swapping tips on local sites. It feels, while we are there, that we could spend months exploring the weird corners of the Salton Sea, straining through the eye cups at distant bird-speckled shores.
And now, a couple weeks later, I sit in view of the vast Pacific, and wonder how I could look at the Salton Sea and think it anything but a puddle? No matter how many millions of creatures depend on any one lake, the Pacific is another league altogether. Do you know how big the Pacific is? Almost half the world’s water surface! And have you ever been to this part of California, the stretch from Big Sur to Santa Cruz? It’s astonishing! Dramatic, rocky, cliff hung, with dunes and cattle ranches and artichoke fields and stately groves of Coastal Redwoods and Monterey Cyprus all rambling right down to the ocean’s edge. After several days of coastal birdwatching here, you begin to feel you’re making friends with the local sea otters, and that the Black Oystercatchers are making a special effort to alert you every time they burst into chattering calls and resettle on a new promontory. (They’re only alerting each other, of course, and would roll their eyes with disdain at my self-flattering narrative, but listen: we’ve seen Oystercatchers every day we’ve been here! It’s insane! No wonder I’m spinning yarns about them and turning them into my comrades.)
We’ve been staying with friends here, and have been easily persuaded to overstay. To future hosts: be wary of making your home too cozy and your guest bed too comfortable… especially if you live near such a wealth of national beaches and state parks. Or even, I dare say, if you live in a big city. We stayed a couple nights in LA, too, and I never expected to have half as much fun in a concrete jungle like LA! Our friends there have a whole backyard with wonderfully unkempt cactus and gardens! And a child who makes art and rides a scooter down the bowl at the skatepark like a champ, apparently. And a sweet puppy dog who also knows a thing or two about making himself at home in your heart. I’m surprised we even made it to Monterey at all; I could have popped up the tent in the rambling backyard and set up an art studio and stayed forever.
But we did continue northward, up the Grapevine and past the many grapevines and all the way to Monterey.
What do you think it would be like to live in water all the time? The Monterey Bay Aquarium wants to teach you all about it. It’s a glorious place. The ticket price is definitely a consideration, but if you ever have the chance, just take it. The money goes to ocean preservation and research! Plan to spend the day if you can. Get there early and go straight to the jellyfish and then the big tank.
If you’re like me, you’ll want to sit by that tank for the better part of an hour, and maybe plan to come back before you leave. Bring snacks and eat on the back deck overlooking the bay when you need a break. If you’re lucky, there will be a raft of otters in the bay mouth and you can use your handy binoculars that you brought to the aquarium with you to look at them! Yes, even bring your binoculars to the aquarium! Wander the other exhibits as long as you can stand, maybe go see a video presentation about Luna the Baby Sea Otter because come on: baby sea otters? And then go back to the big tank because it’s definitely the best part. You can stand back and take in the whole thing, and then you can walk right up to the glass and try to pretend you are a sea turtle or a sunfish. The big ball of sardines is the prettiest, but I can’t imagine being one because I can’t fathom how they flock so swiftly. A sea turtle moves at the pace I feel most comfortable with, the pace I would like to live at generally.
Definitely go to the Aquarium before you go to Big Sur. Then, when you park at the Condor Overlook to try your luck there, you can stare out at the immense swell and imagine all the creatures you didn’t know about before. Maybe you’ll see a whale spouting, or an otter lolling, but also you can picture the jellies and the squids and the fish and the rays. You can get name-specific even; not just a squid, but a Vampire Squid! Not just a fish, but a Snakehead Eelpout! You can even picture in detail the microscopic drifting krill, like a blizzard of unique snowflakes, enough to fill an ocean.
PS: Tyler and I are vegetarian, but I have been known to break form for the occasional fish dish. If you do eat seafood, check out the helpful guide to sustainable seafood that the Monterey Bay Aquarium has helpfully compiled for you!