Photo Essay: The Monastic Life at St. Andrew's Abbey

I didn't really know what I'd find at St. Andrew's Abbey, but I was intrigued by the idea of Benedictine monks—or, any monks, really—cloistered away in the middle of the desert, along the San Andreas Fault.



And besides, I kind of like the idea of God's children devoting themselves to a life of service, making and selling things like beer and preserves and fudge and pumpkin bread.



In the case of these Mojave monks, it's local raw honey, olive oil, ceramics, and, oddly, printer ink/toner. I opted for some wildflower honey.



When I arrived, I told the gift shop volunteer that it was my first time, and I asked what there was to see (besides, of course, the gift shop). "Oh, lots," she said. "And you are welcome here."



First, she sent me up to the chapel. I wasn't expecting much more than a humble place of worship...



...but when I walked in, to my surprise I encountered the stained glass work of Roger Darricarrere, a French sculpturist who pioneered the use of the dalle-de-verre technique here in the U.S.—especially Southern California.



That's the "glass slab" style of architectural glass that I first discovered in a church in La Cañada Flintridge...



...its rough-hewn appearance a result of the colored glass chunks being cleaved with a hammer rather than being cut precisely.



Since Darricarrere couldn't get the same kind of glass in Southern California as he could in France, he ended up making his own "chunk glass" by melting down bottles and adding oxide colors.



This style—a far more mid-century modern take on a medieval art form—feels simultaneously abstract and geologic...



...which I guess is appropriate for its proximity to the longest and scariest seismic fault in the state.



There's an almost molecular entropy to it, the original chemical bonds having been shattered...



...and the resulting pieces then having reassembled to show all the bubbles and swirls and cracks and imperfections.



It is a raw and unrefined variation on art glass...



...one befitting the desert itself...



...and the wayward souls who may wander in to admire it.



I'd also been pointed to the duck pond behind the chapel, which seems to me like a necessary element of any place that's considered a retreat. But when you're visiting St. Andrew's Abbey, you have to remember that there are monks that actually live here—as well as pray and make stuff.



This Roman Catholic monastery was actually founded in 1929—but in China, by an abbey in Bruges, Belgium. They were kicked out of China in 1952 by the Communist Regime, so in 1955 they relocated to Valyermo, where they would join the Archdiocese of LA as the first Benedictine monastery in California. And they would be facing out toward China.



And so they moved into the former Hidden Springs Ranch, where the monks converted a stable into their chapel and a dairy barn into their living quarters.



Into the hillside above the duck pond, they built a meandering installation of the Stations of the Cross...



...from Jesus' first fall all the way to his crucifixion...



...surrounded by a variety of joshua trees and yucca (including the appropriately-named "Lord's Candle" plant) rising from the dry desert up to the heavens.



As an aside, the woman from the gift shop had said to me, "Oh, and there's a little cemetery up the hill behind the ceramics studio, if you're the kind of person that likes graveyards."



"I am definitely that kind of person," I said.



This is where the abbey's founding fathers are buried...



...and where the monks living at the abbey today will be buried when their time comes.



They've made a lifetime commitment to St. Andrew's...



...which, I guess, is nothing compared to their commitment to God, which extends into the afterlife.



And then there are the Oblates—those living out in the secular world who have offered up their lives to God, making them part of the abbey's "extended family." Some of them get buried here, too.



There are people out there—some living hours away—who are so devoted to the Benedictine mission of prayer and work that they keep to the same prayer schedule as the monks, wherever they may be at the time.



It's a nice place to spend the ever after, surrounded by art, perched high above the desert.



The sky even seemed bluer up there.



But, since I'm still among the living, I could only stay up there a short while before I had to descend back down to my own personal reality—devoid of seclusion, austerity, and asceticism, but with plenty of contemplation.

Related Posts:
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Photo Essay: A Farewell to the Palace on Mount Yamashiro (Updated for 2018)

[Update 6/11/18 8:22 PM PT: Yamashiro has been continuously open over the last two years, though the menu has changed more than once and some of the decor is decidedly more Chinese than Japanese. The restaurant debuted a prix fixe Sunday brunch, but on a June noontime visit, it was remarkably empty.]

[Update 7/31/16: Yamashiro reopened just as quickly as it closed, under its new ownership and management. Some changes have been made already, but more are to come with an imminent renovation.]

Over the last five years, there have been a few times when the sense of urgency to visit a particular place reaches a critical point because, for one reason or another, it might be my last chance.

The Proud Bird Restaurant, a bona fide planespotting institution over by LAX, was rumored to be closing in 2013. Although it managed to stay open for a while longer, it did eventually close—and now is being turned into a hipster food hall.

My first time at Tom Bergin's was also in 2013, on its closing night. Amidst the mayhem, the servers were literally giving away French fries, onion rings, and other bar food. The bartenders didn't bother to charge for every drink. Luke Perry got behind the stick and started serving. And then shortly thereafter, one of the bar's regulars bought and reopened it.

Bahooka wasn't so lucky.

circa 2018

But last night, I found myself saying goodbye to an LA landmark that I had my own personal history with—a place I'd started going to long before I even moved to LA...

Photo Essay: Hiking with Baby Goats [Updated for 2024—Closed to the Public]

[Last updated 11/16/24 3:26 PM PT—Angeles Crest Creamery is no longer engaged in any commercial enterprises, so you can no longer pay to visit for a ranch tour or a hike with the goats.]

[Ed 10/16/16 10:03 PM PT: Some minor changes made for factual accuracy]

Over the last year, I've really gotten out of the hiking habit. Sometimes I can't even believe that I used to hike once a week, even sometimes several times a week.

These days, as I'm battling fatigue, chronic pain, medications, and the occasional residual depressive slump, it can be hard enough for me to walk downstairs and out the front door.

But my desire to see and experience new things generally trumps my aching bones or my sapped energy, so if something is really appealing, I'll strap my hiking boots back on and hobble as best I can.

And that's exactly what I did when I had the opportunity to hike with goats at Angeles Crest Creamery in the Antelope Valley.

Because goats.



I'd been following the creamery for a while, dating back to its last iteration as Mariposa Creamery in Altadena, just north of Pasadena. At the time, the goats were living at the historic Zane Grey Estate, and I was trying to figure out a way to go visit them...and the landmark.



But now, the herd of goats have moved out to the country, free from complaining neighbors and with lots of space to roam.



The property is at the edge of Angeles National Forest and the Devil's Punchbowl Natural Area, where badlands desert meets the mountains, the temperatures are cooler, and the resources are rich.



And the timing was perfect, towards the end of April, to meet the new babies—like Sonora, who let me hold her in my arms and nuzzled my face.



There's also Ice Cream, with the billygoat beard...



...and a whole cast of characters of floppy-eared, sweet-faced, tender nibbling creatures of the cloven hoof.



And they seemed just as excited to see us as we were to see them.



The hike started off with a gentle stampede through the gate...



...but the goats soon became waylaid, distracted by the snacking opportunities that were immediately available to them, and resisting the call to actually hike anywhere to find something to eat.



The kids didn't know any better, and followed our human lead...



...but the adults scattered and hesitated, waiting for their usual leader, Apple, to set off ahead.



But that day, Apple wasn't feeling well, and hung back. And nothing we did to urge the rest of the goats would convince them to break up the herd.



That is, except for the babies—who'd been sustained mostly on milk up to this point, but had enough of a sense of adventure to break away and try something new.



It's actually not very easy to lead a herd when you're only four people. You need more of a critical mass of walkers all moving in the same direction in order for the goats to bother following.



But Gloria, the owner of Angeles Crest Creamery, is using these public hikes as an opportunity to learn—and practice—shepherding the goats. It's a whole other style of ranching, and more sustainable than, say, cattle (which were actually imported into the U.S. and never native here).



There are a few landmarks along the hike, including a sag pond—confirming its proximity to the San Andreas Fault.



Gloria says their little lake isn't very deep—but then again, she doesn't know how far down the water is coming up from (since it's not feed by any natural above-ground water source like a creek or a river).



The kids seem to like it there, at the lakeside rest stop...



...where there's plenty to eat, see, and sniff.



But, after a short break, it's time to move onwards and upwards...



...along what looks like an old Jeep trail...



...to their favorite bushes for snacking.



Angeles Crest Creamery isn't a full-time commercial endeavor for its proprietor, who has a day job...



...but she does use the milk from the goats to make cheese and to teach cheese-making classes.



She and her ranching partner also working with the USDA Natural Resources Conservation Service to figure out how to use the land sustainably...



....and forage what they can, like the native miner's lettuce that was historically eaten by folks during the Gold Rush to prevent scurvy. Now, Gloria uses it as a salad green—which apparently goes great with chèvre.



My lunch, however, was a chicken tamale I bought for $1.50 from a woman selling them out of the back of a van in the parking lot of a local gas station.



The goats partook of yet another bush for their midday meal.



So we didn't have the entire herd, but I was absolutely tickled that my "Hike with Goats" excursion turned into hiking with baby goats.



We got to experience the acreage with new eyes, just as they did.



And those babies would never be the same as they were on that Saturday afternoon—not the next Saturday, or any Saturdays after.



When we descended the hill back down to the red barn, there they were—the rest of the herd, waiting for us patiently by the gate, snacking away at whatever bales of grass or alfalfa had been piled up there and had probably distracted them on the way out.

We could hear them bleating the whole time, but not out of sadness or despair. It sounded like they were having a grand ol' time down there on their own.

And when we returned, it sounded like they were happy to see us again.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Facing Our Faults
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