The Intricate Dance of Herding Sheep

"I gotta go," I announced to my brunch companions this past Saturday. "I just scored tickets to this weird sheepherding performance later this afternoon."

After a moment of puzzlement, my friend Phil broke the silence with, "That's not something you hear every day."

Unless, of course, you're friends with me.



I was lured to the historic polo field at Will Rogers State Park by something called Doggie Hamlet—some kind of interpretive dance performance starring some sheepdogs, sheep, and dancers.



Well, two out of three ain't bad.



I can't say I understood a thing about this "3-D pastoral poem"—and I'm not sure that I was supposed to.



But sitting behind that temporary fence, perched upon a bale of hay, I got to thinking about sheep, safety, and power.



In sheepherding, there are, of course, the fluffy beasts of the orvine variety—but there are also the herding dogs, sometimes just one for a flock of 1000 sheep.



And the dogs take their cues from the shepherd, who doesn't do much direct herding of sheep, but is still an essential part of the equation.



Snarky humans criticize sheep for being mindless followers, using that old insult, "sheeple."



But if sheep were so dumb, they wouldn't bother to pay attention to their canine master.



They wouldn't flow into the hypnotic patterns that keep them safe as one undulating mass.



They somehow know that if they disperse, they'll die.



And it's to their advantage to stay living—at least long enough to reproduce.



But they can't do it alone.



And there's nothing weak about taking help when you need it, maintaining safety in numbers, or even obeying—as long as your obedience benefits you in the long run (by, say, ensuring your survival).



God-fearing Bible readers will recall passage after passage in scripture that refers to shepherds keeping watch over their flocks. Sheep are mentioned in the Bible more than any other animal is—mainly used as an analogy for God's followers.

And yet, the "Lamb of God" was also the Big Guy's supposed one and only son—who was much more a leader than a follower, if you believe the stories that have been told.

Maybe atheists and agnostics are the ones who scoff at sheep.

But even if they're not God's creatures (and even if there is no God), their synchronized choreography is something to be admired.

After all, every dancer needs a choreographer.

And every sheep needs a shepherd.

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If you happened to find yourself at the Highland Springs Ranch & Inn in Cherry Valley, CA (about 30 miles east of the City of Riverside, in Riverside County), it probably would be for one of three things: olives, lavender, or sheep.

Or, if you're lucky, you can experience all three at once.

The town of Cherry Valley is still incredibly rural, considering its proximity to the 10 Freeway. But its history of cherry-picking (reportedly the first to debut the popular "U-Pick" during a shortage of farmhands) has given way to these new crops (and to the apples that send people through Cherry Valley on their way north to Oak Glen).

Photo Essay: A Historic Oasis in the Valley of the Oaks

One of the stops on the Portola expedition of 1769—when Spanish explorers first arrived—was right here in the San Fernando Valley, in the LA neighborhood now known as Encino.



But at the time, it was an Indian village (a "rancheria," to the Spaniards) known as "Siutcanga" that the Tongvas (who the Spanish called "Fernandeños" or "Gabrielinos") had occupied for several thousand years.



Once Mexico gained control over Southern California, the rancheria became known as "Rancho Los Encinos," in reference to the oak trees that grew in abundance in the Valley.

Those that inherited the rancho from the Mission Indians that were granted it were unable to run it themselves, so in 1849, they sold it to a ranchero named Vicente de la Osa. 

De la Osa built a long, narrow adobe whose every room has at least one door that connects to the outside.



An excellent example of the basic Californio style, many of the adobe's adjacent rooms don't even connect to each other—which means you've got to go outside and then go back inside to move your way from room to room.



De la Osa established a small vineyard on his rancho, where he also raised sheep. But his real success came from renting rooms to people who were traveling along the El Camino Real.



After de la Osa died in 1861, his widow briefly took over operations of the ranch but then transferred the property to her daughter and son-in-law. When her daughter died in 1868, Eugene and Phillipe Garnier stepped in and purchased it.



At the time, in the early 1870s, cattle ranching had been more or less wiped out by three years of drought in the LA area, which created an all-out sheep boom—and the Garniers took full advantage of it, earning a reputation for producing the finest wool in all of Southern California.



But whenever there's a boom, there's a bust—and in 1873, the sheep business went belly up and the Garniers went deep into debt, along with the rest of the country who were hit by the nationwide depression.



Flat broke, the Garniers lost their ranch to auction in 1878, when it was purchased by their main creditor, a Basque named Gaston Oxarart. When he died in 1886, the ranch passed to his nephew Simon Gless (yes, a relative of actress Sharon Gless), who sold it to his father-in-law, Domingo Amestoy, in 1889.



This was the last time the 4,460 acre ranch was sold as a whole. After changing hands so many times, it's amazing that there's anything left to see.



And over time, it was split up and parceled out...

...like many of the other ranchos from the Spanish and Mexican land grants.



In 1949, the State of California purchased the last remaining parcel of land, thereby creating the present-day Los Encinos State Historic Park.



It was all thanks to the efforts of a local preservationist named Mary Stuart, who mobilized the local community to save the De La Osa adobe, Garnier House, sheepherders' shelter (later used as a blacksmith shop), and pond from developers.



Although Mrs. Stuart couldn't protect the abode from getting hit pretty hard in the 1994 Northridge earthquake, the damage from it ended up revealing historic details that had been long covered up: underneath the crumbling plaster lie frescos and walls that were painted to look like marble (during the Garniers' time).



All of the damage was painstakingly catalogued...



...and while much of it was repaired...



...portions were left exposed to show the "before" and "after" of their post-earthquake restoration work, for which the park earned a Governor's Award for Historic Preservation.



During their time here, one of the biggest contributions the Garniers made to Rancho Los Encinos was building a stone-walled pond in the shape of a Spanish guitar...



...at the site of a natural spring.



It's now filled with ducks, geese...



...and a few interlopers.



For a few coins you can get some bird feed...



...to lure some friends over.



Just be careful, because in case you were wondering, ducks do bite (especially when they're hungry).



Upon the shore of the pond was once the original location of the first El Torito tiki bar / Mexican restaurant, now the Lakeside Cafe.



The pond is fed by the artesian well, and it used to drain into a stream that drained into the Los Angeles River.



It now drains into the flood control system.



And while it's not exactly a "lake" per se, it provides a nice, natural body of water for nature and recreation—in a valley that's dry and hot for most of the year.

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A Change of Heart in Central Park: Tavern on the Green

In the time I spent living in New York City, I never really knew why everyone always made such a fuss over Central Park.



Sure, I liked to sit on the Great Lawn for Philharmonic concerts and fireworks and run up to Rumsey Playfield for free Summerstage shows; but I was usually more interested in what was along its perimeter—The Met, The Plaza, The Frick, The Guggenheim—than Strawberry Fields or Sheep's Meadow.



I never even rode in a hansom cab in Central Park—despite enjoying the opportunity to travel en calèche in Tunisie.



But I'm coming around a bit. When I'm back in New York, I'm trying to cross some places off my list, and Central Park keeps coming up. Case in point: Tavern on the Green.



Several years ago, Maria and Mike were talking about taking a trip down to "The City" from Upstate, and as they rattled off where they'd like to go, they mentioned Tavern On the Green.



"Uck, why?" I bemoaned, "It's not even that good." But back then, you didn't really go for the food anyway; you paid for the experience. Back then, I was more interested in new trends rather than the establishment.



What I didn't understand until I found myself there six years after having moved out of New York City was that going to Tavern on the Green—established as a restaurant in 1934—is a rite of passage.



I didn't yet know that although the restaurant had been a staple of the 20th century, the structure it was housed in dated back to the 19th century, having been designed by designed by Calvert Vaux and Jacob Wrey Mould and built in 1870 as a sheepfold—to house the sheep that would graze the meadow (hence its logo, which I never paid much attention to, either).



Upon the conversion of the Victorian Gothic building into a restaurant, that flock of sheep relocated to Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Seventy-five years later, Tavern on the Green filed for bankruptcy and closed, the building once again transforming, but this time into a visitor's center.



Lucky for me, this historic eatery—the one I had so mistakenly underestimated and, in fact, had denounced—underwent a massive restoration and reopened as a dining establishment in 2014.

And I'll admit: I was wrong about the place. Of course I want to eat in a 19th century former sheepfold. It almost doesn't matter what I eat there or how it tastes. What history have we here!

Fortunately for me as well, the meal surpassed all expectations—and was punctuated by a dessert of the best carrot cake I have ever had, hands down.

What other iconic NYC experiences have I dismissed and missed out on? The probability seems definite; the possibilities seem infinite.

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