Photo Essay: Exploring the Navy's Explosive Island Across the Santa Barbara Channel

I'm a completionist. So of course I've been tracking how many of California's Channel Islands I've been to—and how many I can eventually get to. 

I've already been to Catalina, Santa Rosa, Anacapa, Santa Cruz, and San Nicolas. (Santa Barbara is closed until they can fix the anchorage, and San Clemente is off-limits as a Navy station.)

And as of last weekend, I've crossed yet another off my list: San Miguel. 

Photo Essay: The Twice-Relocated Shipbuilder's House of San Pedro Bay

In 1901, German immigrant shipbuilder Wilhelm (William) Muller bought a Colonial Revival-style house at 129 Front Street in the Nob Hill section of San Pedro at the Los Angeles Harbor and moved in with his wife Elsie and their children. 

At the time, he was working as a master shipwright at the Banning Company's Mormon Island Shipyard in nearby Wilmington, designing steamships that took tourists to Catalina Island—like the Hermosa II and the Cabrillo—and even some of the glass-bottom boats at Catalina. That's when William Banning of Wilmington still owned Catalina Island—before he sold to William Wrigley in 1919. 

 

 

The house had been built in 1899 by San Pedro pioneer Edward J. Mahar for his parents at First and Front Street—but they never moved in, making the Mullers the only family to have ever resided there.

A Midnight Mating Party for California's Most Exhibitionistic Fish

For 10 years since moving to LA, I'd wanted to go check out a coastal wildlife phenomenon known as the "grunion run."

And for 10 years, I'd put it off because I didn't like the idea of hauling my cookies to the beach late at night to witness a group of small, sardine-sized fish (the California grunion, Leuresthes tenuis) that may or may show up.  

But no matter how much of a crapshoot it may be, I knew I'd never see this summertime spawning event if I didn't at least show up and try.

 

Photo Essay: The Plowed Ruins of a Private Malibu Enclave at Nicholas Canyon Beach (Updated for 2022)

[Last updated 7/9/22 3:32 PM PT—Architect Harry Gesner's death noted]

We were in search of some architectural treasures in Malibu—and my friend had read that the best way to get to them would be from Nicholas Canyon Beach. 

    

We both shrugged, neither one of us familiar with the county-run beach—or the other treasures we were about to find. 

Photo Essay: Santa Barbara's Spanish Castle of Courts (And Its Ever-Ticking Clock)

I've had no official reason to visit the Santa Barbara County Courthouse, as I'm not a constituent of the county and haven't broken any laws therein.



I haven't even gotten the chance to get married there, though one of my ex-lovers has. I must admit, his heartbreaking nuptials piqued my interest about the place.



So, on two different occasions when I had some free time on my own to explore the historic core of the city of Santa Barbara, I chose to visit the 1929 Spanish Colonial Revival courthouse.*



Mostly, I went back a second time not to torture myself more—but to get into the clock tower, which was closed for visitors my first time around.



Under that red terra cotta tile roof—and beyond its white stucco walls and window grilles—there are the day-to-day operations of the Santa Barbara Courts and Public Administration.



But visitors like me want to see the structure itself—a national landmark that took only three years to build, starting in 1926.



Originally designed by Paris-trained architect William Mooser III, the courthouse as-built was reportedly more the result of modifications made by architect J. Wilmer Hershey. Unfortunately, Hershey died before he could see his work come to completion.

The Spirit of the Ocean fountain, by the Anacapa Arch

Finished at a cost of nearly $1.4 million, the courthouse was funded by oil tax revenue that had come in from the 1928 oil strike at Ellwood. And it's a good thing, too—because the courthouse was dedicated just two months before the 1929 stock market crash that kicked off the Great Depression. 

It could've been even more expensive, too—but using some local materials, like sandstone, helped defray some costs.



And while it's only three stories tall, it's actually an L-shaped amalgamation of four separate buildings, connected by arches, bridges, or breezeways.



In addition to the Superior Court proceedings, the Santa Barbara courthouse also handles small claims, civil, and criminal cases (including traffic court), as well as family law, juvenile court, probate, and appeals.



It no longer, however, houses prisoners in its "Jail Wing."

circa 2016

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There are other county courthouses in Lompoc, Santa Maria, and Solvang—but as the City of Santa Barbara is the county seat of Santa Barbara County, this one is the flagship of the county's court system.



On the second floor, the former County Board of Supervisors' assembly room is now the Mural Room—featuring a 4200-square-foot mural depicting Early California (at least, the Spanish colonial period,  starting in 1542). Daniel Sayre Groesbeck hand-painted it in just four months. 

circa 2016

That's where the docent-led tours start—and that's where lots of people get married, right there under the wrought-iron chandeliers and 30-foot coffered ceilings, in front of depictions of explorers and conquistadors like Cabrillo and Vizcaíno and Frémont. 

When Mooser was working on the architectural plans for the courthouse, he considered this a kind of "throne room"—reinforcing the sense that you're in an Andalusian castle.



Hand-made terra cotta floor tiles throughout the building were made by Gladding McBean...



...and the feeling of "Old Spain" has been preserved inside and out, despite multiple renovations (including some ADA improvements).



Adding to the romance of the structure—or, I suppose, its romanticized representation of Santa Barbara's founding—is the 85-foot-tall clock tower and "El Mirador" observation deck.



Up there, the Spanish fortress opens up a little bit.



The Seth Thomas mechanized clock is still ticking—and there's an entire gallery devoted to its inner workings.



Too bad they don't let you have weddings up there. That's where you've got the best view—and where you can see how the courthouse occupies an entire city block. Seems like a good spot to exchange vows.

Most public festivities take place in the Sunken Garden—where the original 1872 courthouse stood until it was destroyed in a 6.3 earthquake in 1925. Hopefully its replacement has received all the seismic retrofitting necessary to survive the next "big one" that's sure to come.

Modern engineering has figured out ways to keep a building from crumbling under massive shaking.

But modern medicine hasn't yet figured out how to keep a heart from breaking—or how to put a broken heart back together.

*all photos circa 2017 except where noted

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: The Gardens of the Blacksmith (Los Jardines del Herrero), A Slice of Spain Outside of Santa Barbara
Photo Essay: The View from Above Balboa Park's Former Expo Grounds

Photo Essay: A Pink Stucco Palace Overlooking the Pacific

I'd never noticed "The Pink Lady" before, with her Spanish-inspired architecture by Pasadena-based architect Reginald D. Johnson. Then again, whenever I'd been in La Jolla, it was usually down by the Cove.



La Valencia Hotel was opened opened by La Jollans MacArthur Gorton and Roy B. Wiltsie just before Christmas in 1926 as an apartment hotel,  "Los Apartmentos de Sevilla."



The San Diego-La Jolla Railway line used to run right in front of it—but back then, La Jolla wasn't much more than a suburb of San Diego. Tourists didn't stop there. They headed all the way down to the Hotel Del Coronado.



Two years later, an eight-story second unit—designed by Herbert Mann and Tom Shepherd—added hotel-style rooms. And with the addition of the tower that same year, the hotel's name changed to La Valencia. The Great Depression that followed ended up being too much for La Valencia's proprietors—but the tower proved useful as a lookout during WWII. The hotel became a temporary home for soldiers on leave or on their way overseas during the war.



New ownership of La Valencia acquired the neighboring Hotel Cabrillo (opened in 1909 as the Wilson-Acton Hotel) in 1956. (It was around that same time that the whole thing got painted pink.)



Designed by architect Irving Gill (and a landmark in its own right), it now serves as La Valencia's west wing.

We didn't know what we were looking for—or what we would see—when we arrived to La Valencia during San Diego's Open House weekend.



Fortunately, they let us go wherever we wanted.



We ended up in Cafe La Rue, on the Prospect Street level, with its 1940s murals by Wing Howard—an "artist in residence" at La Valencia in the most literal sense.



The Philadelphia artist provided his watercolors of French scenes (including that of the Bois de Boulogne) in exchange for room and board (and reportedly to pay off his bar tab). He repainted them in the 1970s after the originals had deteriorated.



The Whaling Bar, which replaced the street-level shops in 1953, is gone as of 2013—despite being one of Raymond Chandler's favorite watering holes and home to the favorite booth of local resident Dr. Seuss (a.k.a. Theodor Seuss Geisel). (Its iconic namesake mural, “The Whale’s Last Stand,” has been chopped up into four pieces and relocated to a hotel conference room.)



The Sky Room (circa 1960s) on the 10th floor has been gone since 2015. And the elevator to get to it is no longer manual.



The interior design has changed, too...



...though thankfully the lighting fixtures are old, if not original...



...and the Spanish tile remains, too.



But as much as what's stayed the time, La Valencia is constantly evolving—with private villas having been added in 2000, after a dozen years' worth of planning.



Even the pool—which overlooks La Jolla Cove—wasn't built until 1950, when the lower three floors (4, 5, and 6) were constructed into the cliffside. (Floors 1, 2, and 3 don't exist.)



Out there, by the terraced gardens, with the Pacific Ocean in the background, is really the pièce de résistance of La Valencia.



That's where you'll find a tile mural of the Pink Lady's own mascot in traditional Spanish costume, wearing her mantilla over her peineta and waving her fan over her pink dress.



According to The San Diego Union-Tribune, the 1928 tile portrait was contributed by tilemaker Ernest Batchelder, who also supposedly contributed a tile scene depicting Poseidon elsewhere in the hotel.

I have my doubts, but I've been unable to verify one way or another.

It should be easy enough to figure out, now that La Jolla isn't so hard to reach and attracts the attention of vacationers from Hollywood and all across the country.

Some might even say they started coming because of La Valencia.

Related Posts:
High Tide at Sunrise
A Table With A View
Following in My Own Footsteps
My Turn to Paddle

The Seussian Mysteries of Mountain Munchkins and Bridges for Trolls

I'd gone to Mount Soledad in 2008 on my first trip to San Diego, but it was more or less by chance.



I'd read that there was a mountain with a view of the ocean and a cross on top of it, so I suggested we go check it out.



I didn't know then that Theodor Seuss Geisel (a.k.a. Dr. Seuss) had called this mountain home...



...or that the mountain's lore was nearly as mythical and magical as the fantastical creations in the Seuss canon.



First, there are the Munchkins (as in, The Wizard of Oz). They never lived or even stayed on Mount Soledad, despite rumors to the contrary—but the myth was perpetuated because some of the houses that were built on the steep incline looked rather miniature.



And then there's the mini version of the Cabrillo Bridge, which famously brought visitors into the west entrance of Balboa Park for the 1915-16 Panama–California Exposition. The petite doppelgänger at Al Bahr Drive (Arabic for "By the Sea") followed in 1928.



its resemblance to the landmark of the Expo grounds—10 miles southeast as the crow flies—was no coincidence. The mini one was commissioned by San Diego transplant (by way of Indianapolis) William French Ludington, who'd purchased a large plot of very steep land on the slope of Mt. Soledad—considered "worthless" by many. "W.F." Ludington had been an early merchant in the prominent subdivision of La Jolla, moved to San Diego in 1904, and later became a director of the 1915-16 Panama Exposition.



In that role, he helped create the Cabrillo Bridge (Puente Cabrillo) as a way to traverse an unforgiving landscape. Likewise on Mount Soledad, he relied once again on those classical arches so that automobiles could access his new Ludington Heights development and snap up its ocean-view lots.



But one bridge proved to be not enough, so he built a second at Castellana Road—with a deck that connects to the dead-end Puente Drive (Spanish for "Bridge Drive") and a winding road that double-backs along a hairpin turn to send you under where you originally came from.

This one is even smaller, and it's obscured by lush landscaping that darkens its tunnels—which has earned it the nickname of the "Troll Bridge" (though that moniker has come to refer to both bridges on Mount Soledad).



The dense plantings were the work of past neighborhood resident Delbert C. "Del" Colby and his wife Lois, who used to live by the bridge at 1775 Castellana Road. Colby was a landscaper who owned Rancho Santa Fe Nursery (closed December 1992), and he used many of his own specimens to plant the triangular parcel. It's now designated Colby Park in his honor.



The construction date of this continuous concrete beam bridge presents another mystery of Mount Soledad, as conflicting reports have it as circa the 1930s, 1949, and 1950. CalTrans has no date at all for it in its Statewide Historic Bridge Inventory.

But considering the fact that Ludington himself died of a heart attack in 1928, it seems pretty clear that both bridges were built that same year—before the stock market crash of 1929 rendered much of his property worthless, at least for the duration of the Great Depression.

It appears that a resurgence of development came to Ludington Heights in 1947—but at that point, I'm pretty sure the bridges were already there.

And of course La Jolla as a whole, as well as Mount Soledad and Ludington Heights, are quite posh now.

Yet despite the popularity of the area, these two bridges remain curiosities, hidden from view for most.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: The View from Above Balboa Park's Former Expo Grounds
Rocking the Boat Without Getting Seasick
Photo Essay: How An East Coaster Helped Turn San Juan Cove Into Dana Point