A Turkey-Free Thanksgiving at a Storied Mountain Lodge Outside of LA

When I was working as a field agent for Atlas Obscura a few years ago, I really wanted to host a dinner at Saddle Peak Lodge—specifically, a game meat dinner. 

I was fascinated with intimidating foods and thought that a communal experience would create a comfort level that I, and others, might not have alone. 

I couldn't get that event approved, so I finally went to Saddle Peak Lodge on my own a few years ago—but I wimped out both gastronomically and financially and just went to brunch. I don't remember the meal, but I'm pretty sure I had eggs (and not, like, ostrich eggs).

So, I've felt like I hadn't really experienced the restaurant—and when the 2018 Woolsey Fire swept through the area, fortunately sparing it, the urgency to return intensified.

I finally made it back yesterday, for Thanksgiving dinner—not because this colonial holiday is important to me (it's not), but because I felt like I needed the excuse of a special occasion to splurge on it. And since it's a Michelin star-receiving establishment, it also charges Michelin star-level prices.

Photo Essay: The Retirement Ranch of An Oil-Employed Fossil-Finder, W.W. Orcutt

At one point a few years ago, I'd set off to visit and document all the historic ranges in the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area and its environs.

But somehow after 10 years in LA, I still hadn't made it to Orcutt Ranch.

Maybe it's because its name didn't carry the same weight for me as "Paramount Studios" or "Lake Enchanto" or "Gillette" (of the razor empire). 

Its namesake, William Warren (W.W.) Orcutt, was a SoCal oil geologist and Union Oil exec whose name is less recognizable to us today than perhaps it was in his heyday. (Or, at least, to me—a California transplant.)

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. 

The Church Is Not The Building: Dispatches from Fire-Torn Paradise, CA

I've gotten used to driving through burn areas in Southern California. But this time, I wasn't in Southern California.

A group of us were on a road trip that started in Reno, worked its way up to Oregon's Crater Lake, and ended in Sacramento. Along the way, we stopped in Paradise, California—notoriously destroyed in the 2018 Camp Fire (named after where it started, Camp Creek Road, east of the town of Concow).

"Unexpected Hope" by Shane Grammer

My friends who were driving our three SUVs were looking for temporary murals spray-painted by Shane Grammer...

Circa 2017 (Photo: Paradise Adventist Church Facebook page)

...but I ended up far more interested in one of the churches that had succumbed to the deadliest fire in our state's history...

...stripped down to its bare bones.



It was the Paradise Seventh-day Adventist Church, with a congregation of about 1300 (now worshipping at Chico's SDA church).

It wasn't the only church the Camp Fire ripped through—though another one more famously had a wooden cross that was spared.



For a town of only about 26,000 people, it sure had a lot of churches.



Most of the rubble has been removed...

...leaving a thoroughly picked-over skeleton.



Some might say there's nothing to see here—because there's nothing left.

But there's something about that shell of a church that drew me to it...

...though most of the building itself was gone.



It wasn't "dark tourism."



In fact, it was heartbreaking to see the aftermath of the house of prayer and ponderosa pines having gone up in flames.



The attraction, for me, wasn't Shane Grammer's "art drop," either—despite this piece being one of the few that remain since their June installation. (Several of the pieces have already been razed by cleanup crews.)



It was the beauty in the ashes.

"Beauty Arises" by Shane Grammer

Sometimes, it's through destruction that life can start anew. 

It reminds us what's important—what we have to lose and what we can survive losing.



It was so beautiful, I found myself wishing aloud that they would keep the foundation as a living memorial to what happened. It doesn't seem right to rebuild in this exact spot.

But somehow, Paradise will eventually rebuild. There's already a new Starbucks in town—though its current customer base is probably limited to disaster relief crews and volunteers.

If you'd like to help—and Paradise still needs help—you can make an online donation through the SDA church or the Northern California chapter of your favorite charity.

In the meantime, below are photos and video from the immediate aftermath, shot by Golden Eagle Films:







Related Posts:
Photo Essay: The Wreckage of Paramount Ranch's Western Town, Burnt to a Crisp
Photo Essay: Things We Lost In the Woolsey Fire (Before & After Photos, Updated)
Corral Canyon, Malibu: Where the Fire Reached the Sea

Photo Essay: A Rustic Stagecoach Stop, Bypassed By a Freeway and a Giant Bridge

Time may march on but here at the Tavern we do our best to stop it.

—Menu from Cold Spring Tavern, Santa Barbara, California

No one really has to travel the San Marcos Pass anymore. But you'll want to divert off Highway 154, if only just to visit the old stage stop of Cold Spring Tavern, just 15 miles north of Santa Barbara in Los Padres National Forest.



Along what is now known as Stagecoach Road, Cold Spring Tavern was a stagecoach stop starting in 1868, while the old stagecoach route was still being built by the Santa Barbara and Santa Ynez Turnpike Road Company (under the leadership of Llewellyn Bixby)...



...and the Chinese immigrants it employed (and housed in the Road Gang House, still located on the site).



Beside the Gang House, there's a old ore car that was used at a silver and gold mine from the early 19th through the early 20th centuries.



Construction on the route was completed by 1870—and the horse-drawn stage line once carried both passengers and mail between Santa Barbara Mission and the mission's farm in Rancho San Marcos, now known as the Santa Ynez Valley. But once motor vehicles took over—and the pass had been paved—the stage line ceased operation in 1901.



Nowadays, this former stage stop is a time capsule of the late 19th century—between both its original structures and some relocated ones, like the Ojai jail, built in 1873. It was relocated to Cold Spring in 1959 after the City of Ojai wasn't interested in keeping it as a historical artifact. So, the two-room pokey was trucked over the Santa Ynez Mountains and parked here (making it "the only jail that ever crossed a mountain," according to Ripley's Believe It Or Not).



Several railroad packing crates were bought in 1941 and brought here as well—including one that was used as a tavern from 1942 to 1947, until the owner at the time decided to move in and use as her residence. She named it "Blisshaven"—which loosely translates as "safe harbor" or "peaceful home."



Completing the compound are relics from the ghost town of Gopherville, which got plowed with the widening and shoring up of the Gaviota Pass, a popular route through the Santa Ynez Mountains that led to the Santa Inés Mission.



Whatever was left of the town's buildings were relocated here after 1951.

Although there are some original structures, much as changed over the years—either from trees falling or annexes being added on as the use of the property changed from restaurant to rest stop to hotel (1893-7) to restaurant, with some ownership changes and vacancies in between.



The antiques/gift shop used to be a bunkhouse for the "mudwagon" drivers, who usually had to stop to switch out their horses.



The San Marcos Pass was so steep that every stage stopped at the tavern (then known as the "Cold Spring Relay Station") to add two more horses to the team.



Near it outside, there's an old piano of unknown origin or date...



...played only perhaps by the black-and-white cat who roams the roadhouse grounds.



If you want to go back to the earliest days of Cold Spring Tavern, people have guessed that the oldest original structure might've been built back in 1860.



Although no one really knows, every effort has been made to run and maintain the tavern in a historical state. It helps that members of the Ovington-Wilson family have been in charge continuously since 1941.

Old West blacksmithing and artifacts abound—even if they came from somewhere else.



The tavern still uses gas lanterns...



...even though it's had electricity since 1954 (which you can see illuminating the buggy wheel chandeliers).



To fully understand the undertaking that making this journey once was, you've got to take a side trip to Cold Spring Canyon Arch Bridge—by going a bit further down Stagecoach Road to view it from below or crossing it while driving on Highway 154.

Constructed for $2 million in 1963 as a “shortcut” to span 700 feet across the gorge below and circumvent the sharp curves of the old route, the welded steel bridge was cheaper than the original CalTrans plan to build Highway 154 by burying the Tavern under 125 feet of dirt.



At 400 feet above the canyon floor, it’s the highest arch bridge in the country and the highest of any bridge in California.



Standing under this massive marvel, you can see its reinforced concrete foundations up close and gaze up at the clean, geometric lines of its girders, trusses and arches. The result is a bridge that’s efficient, structurally sound and aesthetically pleasing.

And yet after it opened to traffic in 1964, so many motorists ended up bypassing Cold Spring Tavern altogether. Now it takes a special trip, instead of just pulling over on impulse.

But the detour is worth it.

Photos above from both 2017 (sunny) and 2019 (overcast).

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Along the Old Stagecoach Pass
Photo Essay: Chasing Phantoms in Malibu Creek State Park
Photo Essay: The End of the Old West at Gilman Ranch
Photo Essay: The Healing Powers of Highland Springs

Photo Essay: The Wreckage of Paramount Ranch's Western Town, Burnt to a Crisp

I knew Paramount Ranch's Western Town was gone after the Woolsey Fire of late 2018. I'd already seen photos of the wreckage.



But I wasn't prepared for what I would see when I made a site visit myself just after the New Year.



The bridge that leads to the old raceway track, beyond the model airplane field, was burned out, the trail coned off.



The entire line of trees along the creek that separates the parking lot from the Western Town was ravaged.



The paints and inks on the park signage had bubbled up from the heat, just like I'd seen along Angeles Crest Highway after the Station Fire.



Charred remains of wood posts glistened bright and shiny and almost blue.



The information board had partially melted from the heat, if not from direct contact with the flames.



Amidst the blackened landscape, it didn't smell smoky. It was nothing other than... crispy.



It felt raw and wounded, charcoaled and scarred.



And then the Western Town. I gasped.



It's fenced off for safety reasons but also, I assume, to prevent looting of any relics that might be found.



Another park visitor pointed out where his daughter had lived in some park housing, which explained the washer and dryer that seemed anachronistic among the bits and pieces of a saloon and general store.



I'd been to Paramount Ranch before, when it was in one piece, but I couldn't ascertain what used to be where.



All that survived was metal.



Sheets and sheets of corrugated steel covers the site like layers of emergency blankets at a crime scene.



Peeking out from below them are metal folding chairs, frames of folding tables, maybe metal shelves...



...barrels, cans, and jugs that look centuries old...



...and lighting fixture shades and other electrical equipment and vestiges from utilities.



It doesn't matter that the buildings weren't original to the Old West or the Gold Rush. It doesn't matter that they were just film and TV sets and not real ghost town relics. It is a horror show.



It was hard to discern what the path of the fire had been, because it hopped the creek—and even ran alongside of it—but it didn't crawl up the hillside. It spared the train depot, just steps away from the rest of the Western Town.



And the church still stands, without even a smudge of soot—certainly not saved by God, as it too was just a set piece and not a real consecrated house of worship.

Besides the buildings, lots of habitat was destroyed. But the birds were squawking, and the trails are open to pedestrians and equestrians alike.

The grass is growing back greener than ever.

And the stewards of the park vow to rebuild.

I think they should—just as Melody Ranch has been rebuilt after fire, more than once. It breaks my heart to see Corriganville reduced to a number of foundations and interpretive signs to explain what used to be there.

Inject some movie magic into Paramount Ranch. Let us pretend that our dreams and memories weren't destroyed, just this once.

Because Pioneertown may burn. Calico may become engulfed. Even Knott's Berry Farm could succumb.

A big enough earthquake could wipe it all out.

Accepting your own mortality is one thing. But living without the things you love feels like an even greater tragedy.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Paramount Ranch & Raceway (Updated for 2018)
Photo Essay: Things We Lost In the Woolsey Fire (Before & After Photos, Updated)
Corral Canyon, Malibu: Where the Fire Reached the Sea
Photo Essay: Melody Ranch Movie Ranch, Closed to Public (Except this Once)
Photo Essay: Corriganville Movie Ranch, Burned to the Ground