Tag: Channel Islands

Santa Cruz Island is mostly flat, with its highest point reaching just around 2,000 feet. Our destination this time was the tallest peak in the east, standing at 1,880 feet. The round-trip hike covered over 10 miles. Based on typical hiking difficulty, it’s a comfortable 3-star level—not too exhausting, not too easy. Every time I visit this island, I try to stay on foot as much as possible, hoping to take in every landscape, plant, and creature along the way. For someone like me, slightly obsessed with nature, these moments are rare and precious.

The first half of the hike was full of lighthearted conversation and laughter. Without noticing, we had already climbed over 1,000 feet. Then, looking up, a brilliant brick red appeared before us—sudden and striking. Everyone was in awe of nature’s magic, how quickly the landscape transformed without warning or transition. Walking across this open stretch of red land was an almost surreal experience.

My two German colleagues—cheerful, humorous, and my good friends—added joy to the hike.

The vegetation here was especially interesting. Most of the grasses were silvery white, quite different from the dry yellow you’d find at lower elevations. These grasses still seemed to be in their growing phase, but something about them felt… alien. They reminded me of “Martian plants.” We joked that maybe the soil was rich in iron, and the plants had absorbed a good amount of it. But what about the colors? Maybe we could just use “ferrous iron” as an excuse.

Even up close, these strange plants were hard to make sense of. Thankfully, there were still some normal-looking shrubs scattered among them—just enough to remind us that we were still on Earth.

This photo wasn’t shot in black and white—it just turned out that way naturally. The contrast between colors surprised me when I went back to edit it.

Scattered weed stems lay chaotically on the red rocks, visually clashing with the bright blue sea and sky in the background.

Manmade traces remain too. A line of rusted barbed wire, installed long ago, now blends into the scenery—an accidental ornament softened by time.

Looking out, the scene made us feel as if we were witnessing the collapse of the heavens and the cracking of the earth during some ancient volcanic eruption. The scattered hot rocks eventually settled to form the beautiful island that now rests off the Pacific coast, home to countless living things, all quietly thriving.

Standing between volcanic rock and the endless blue sky and sea, it’s hard not to feel small.

Yet human footprints are everywhere.

As we continued upward and glanced back, the view stretched out behind us like a masterful painting—from the deep blue of the distant ocean to the vivid brick red, the greens of the vegetation, and the soft yellow of the ridges. Nature knows no boundaries in its palette.

The terrain changed once more, the red slowly fading behind us.

From our new vantage point, the eastern portion of the island came into full view. Looking back at the trail we had taken—it was long, gentle, and winding. At that point, we had reached about 1,400 feet in elevation.

One of the wonders of Santa Cruz Island is the dramatic shift in landforms across elevations. As we left the volcanic zone, the “plateau” opened up, rich with new plant life. Our steps grew lighter, and our eyes scanned eagerly for rare finds. I’m no plant expert, but even simple observation brought joy.

As the saying goes, you’re admiring the scenery—but to someone else, you are the scenery.

At higher elevations, tall trees began to appear—twisted and gnarly, with no clear reason why. What caught my attention most was the vibrant light green coating on their branches, like soft fleece wrapping the trees. These organisms are lichens—a symbiosis of fungi and algae. More than 400 species have been recorded in the Channel Islands, accounting for a third of all lichen species in California. Often found on rocks and bark, lichens are incredibly sensitive to air quality and climate change. They’re known as “indicator species.” The abundance of lichen here suggests just how pure the air must be. Breathing such clean air feels like a luxury in today’s world.

A wide variety of plants appeared as we walked. Even though we didn’t know most of their names, just appreciating their beauty was enough.

At around 1,600 feet, the far side of the island slowly revealed itself. We could see the vegetation becoming noticeably denser in the highly protected ecological zones. With most human activity restricted, the original ecosystems remain preserved. Somewhere along that coast lies the famous Pelican Bay—a sanctuary for brown pelicans. Thanks to conservation efforts, their population, which had plummeted in the 1970s, has now surged back to nearly a million. Expert fishers, they’ve become an iconic sight along California’s shores.

Everyone stood still, taking in the unforgettable view.

Just a few hundred feet higher, we reached our final destination—1,880 feet above sea level. Although that’s only 573 meters in metric terms, the 5-mile (8 km) hike proved how gradually the elevation had risen.

At the summit was a flat area, maybe 100 square feet wide. A solar-powered transmitter stood quietly to one side—its purpose unclear. In a corner of the clearing, we found a small iron box. Inside it was a notebook filled with signatures of those who had made it to the top. We flipped through the pages, then proudly added our own names.

On the return hike, we spotted two small figures across the ridge—an adult and a child. Framed by the clouds behind them, they appeared to be standing on the sky itself.

When the scent of sea air returned, we knew our journey was ending. Travel always feels short. All the beauty is stored on SD cards and in our memories. But no photo, no sentence, can fully express the feeling of truly being there—standing on that path, surrounded by silence, sky, and the timeless work of the earth.

Halloween fell on a weekend again this year. The iron fence still stands, separating the student apartments from Isla Vista (IV). Sirens echoed day and night. Children ran around in all kinds of costumes, chanting “Trick or Treat” with no end in sight. This is a wild place—and not just for the young.

A week earlier, I’d gathered a few like-minded friends—those who prefer peace over chaos—to plan an escape from the noise. With no extended holiday in sight, we decided to return to Channel Islands National Park. The Channel Islands refer to eight islands scattered along the Southern California coast; five of them form the protected National Park. More than 2,000 species call these islands home, 145 of which are unique, found nowhere else. In order to preserve this fragile ecosystem, the islands are kept free of restrooms, trash cans, and fuel-powered vehicles. The old saying comes to mind: “Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints.” And the people here take it seriously.

The ferry schedule changes daily based on weather, so to make the most of our time, we booked the 8 a.m. departure and 5 p.m. return. Luck was on our side—only ten tickets were left when we booked, and we secured six. I groggily rolled out of bed early Saturday and drove to the dock, half-asleep but completely captivated by the peaceful beauty of the coastline bathed in soft morning light.

The ferry departed on time as the sun steadily rose. The dock remained quiet, with only the low hum of our boat’s motor breaking the silence. The sea was glassy, interrupted only by the occasional bird gliding past. In moments like this, people and nature coexist effortlessly.

On a stone wall not far from the dock, a cluster of brown pelicans were grooming themselves in the sun, warming up for another busy day of diving, hunting, and feeding their young. Unlike gulls that beg for human scraps, these skilled divers are self-sufficient. They nest nearly 30 miles from the mainland and live simply, untethered to the noise of the human world.

Nearby, a group of sea lions lay sprawled across a tiny buoy, sleeping as if nothing could disturb them. I see them like this every time I go out to sea—morning, evening, always lounging, always in the same relaxed pose.

Looking back at the coastline, the details of the harbor had already vanished from view. Sunlight drenched the shore in golden warmth. Another sunny, peaceful weekend had begun. After enduring the chaos of Halloween’s first night, I couldn’t help but wonder if people were already starting to feel worn out.

Ahead, the outline of Santa Cruz Island emerged through drifting clouds—misty, ethereal, like a scene from a dream. The peak on the island’s eastern side was our goal for the day. The roar of the ferry engine echoed across the still, deep blue sea.

The 90-minute ride was calm. We leaned over the front railing the whole time but didn’t spot any marine life. Everyone was a little disappointed, wiping their noses and blinking back imaginary tears—not out of sadness, but from the biting cold. We soon docked at the barebones “pier” of Santa Cruz Island. Over 100 passengers disembarked in an orderly flow, making room for one another as if choreographed.

Santa Cruz is the largest of the Channel Islands. However, more than 60% of it is a highly protected zone where access is strictly prohibited without a permit. One of those areas includes the well-known Pelican Bay, a vital sanctuary and feeding ground for brown pelicans in Southern California.

Rounding a bend past the pier, we reached an open plain. It’s hard to believe this was late October. Only Southern California could serve up this permanent palette of green and gold. The island was pristine. Despite hosting hundreds of thousands of visitors each year, there was not a trace of trash or pollution.

Along the trail, we came upon a line of rusted farm tools left behind by herders in the 18th and 19th centuries—relics worn by time. Now, they’re lined up on display along the path, quietly retelling stories of a bygone era.

Away from the noise of civilization, walking between golden grasses and endless blue, the mind feels at ease. The hills here aren’t steep or imposing—they’re soft, sprawling, and open. Perfect for those of us always running at full speed, now learning to slow down and breathe again.

The trail to Santa Cruz Island’s summit begins in the flat central canyon and gradually rises. The island’s appearance changes little throughout the year; at times, it’s hard to tell if the grasses before you are alive or just stubbornly clinging on. Here and there, green bursts through the yellow like strokes on a painter’s canvas—giving the scene a dreamlike quality.

At around 600 feet elevation, the land suddenly opens. In the center of a field stands an old drilling rig, now nothing more than a monument rusted to a reddish hue, transformed by time into something quietly beautiful. Like a sculpture, it stands still, watching visitors pass by.

I took a similar photo last year—same spot, same angle. Back then, the land was barren and brown. This time, a touch of green returned. Maybe it’s the season. Or maybe the island’s ecological restoration is working. A quiet reminder: humans can harm nature, but also help heal it.

Soon, the eastern side of the island stretched out before us. In the distance, we could see the silhouette of Anacapa Island. Though small, Anacapa’s surrounding waters are rich with phytoplankton and fish. The sunshine and coastlines there offer haven to many marine mammals and seabirds.

During a short break, I captured a few moody black-and-white shots. Twisted deadwood in stark contrast to the season’s spirit—it felt fitting for Halloween.

Further along the trail, brown-black shrubs dotted the yellow fields. Rainfall on Santa Cruz Island is scarce. Few broadleaf trees can survive. The success of these low-growing plants is owed to their ability to retain water and endure dryness.

Naturally, cacti make their appearance. In the wild, they grow far larger than the bonsai versions we’re used to—sometimes as tall as small trees. One cactus stood out, shaped like a little man with a topknot. That bright “bun” was its fruit—edible, sweet, and eye-catching. But a word of caution to greedy fingers: those fruits are covered in fine, nearly invisible thorns that stick everywhere and won’t let go. We didn’t pick any from the island, of course. The ones near my home? Not quite so lucky—different place, different fate.

Below 900 feet, the island is dominated by grasses, shrubs, and cacti. Trees are rare, mostly found in canyon bottoms. But around 1,000 feet, the terrain changes dramatically, revealing the island’s geological story—a reminder of the ancient volcanic forces that gave this land its shape.

The Island Packers team has been faithfully carrying out its mission since 1968, running voyages between Ventura Harbor and Channel Islands National Park. Over the decades, they’ve supported leisure, education, and scientific research alike. At the harbor’s check-in area, you’ll find a whiteboard documenting the marine life spotted during the day’s journey—a charming tradition. Before boarding, we couldn’t help but glance at it: dolphins and humpback whales had made appearances over the past two days. That alone was enough to build up everyone’s anticipation.

The early morning sea was calm and deep blue, disturbed only by the gentle breeze brushing its surface. In the distance, the islands floated in a veil of mist—mysterious, otherworldly, like something from a dream. The weather today was, well, quite good. And by “quite good,” I don’t mean spotless skies. In fact, the scattered white clouds were a welcome relief from the monotonous, cloudless blue we coastal Californians often wake up to. Too much perfection, as it turns out, wears thin over time. Aesthetic fatigue is real. We humans are hard to please.

Brown pelicans, the tireless commuters of the coast, flew back and forth between land and sea. With their large bodies, flying isn’t exactly effortless—especially over the 30 to 40-mile stretch they cover. That’s why they fly in disciplined, single-file lines just above the sea, riding their invisible aerial highway. Occasionally, a few latecomers join from a “fork in the road,” falling into rhythm with the flock. Some peel away toward other destinations. This kind of organic cooperation keeps their formation tight and functional.

The voyage out to the island was uneventful, and the initial energy on deck gradually faded. Conversations slowed. The narrator—you know, me—also fell silent, chilled by the crisp autumn air. The excited crowd that once buzzed at the bow slowly thinned out, until just a handful of us remained, quietly braving the breeze.

Hope lingered in everyone’s eyes, in sharp contrast to the still, reflective ocean.

But miracles kept their distance. The sea remained calm, right up until we reached the dock at the island. With our hopes now transferred to the return trip, we stepped off the boat and launched into our island adventure with renewed enthusiasm. Later, when we descended back into the canyon flatlands, the sun was beginning its slow drop toward the western horizon. Long shadows of tall trees carried a comforting breeze that made everything feel just right.

Along the narrow beach, we found colorful pebbles scattered like candy—smooth, vibrant, and varied. Boats glided across the gentle sea, while rowers moved in harmony with the golden hour light. The scene felt painted.

We were a group of six—two each from Canada, Germany, and China. Quite the international ensemble. The Canadian pair were visiting Santa Cruz Island for the first time. One of our German colleagues had been here twice before but never caught sight of any marine life. The other? Even more dramatic—he once booked a dedicated whale-watching trip and only glimpsed a few dolphin backs in the distance. This time, everyone had high hopes and joked that maybe I’d be the one to finally “turn the tide” for them.

The journey back began just as calmly. But this time, there was a subtle impatience in the air. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were due for something special, so I kept scanning the horizon in silence. Then, around nine miles from shore, a stir broke the pattern.

The crew began to buzz. The guide made an announcement: dolphins ahead. The deck came alive in an instant.

The sea and the boat burst into synchronized energy. Dolphins—those brilliant, playful creatures—seemed to revel in the excitement. They weren’t shy about approaching us, leaping through the waves beside the boat as if they were part of the ride. It was rare and electric—to catch that perfect moment of a dolphin breaching.

They began a full performance. The collective voices from the deck seemed to egg them on. At that moment, words no longer mattered. Cameras were raised. Eyes widened. We all tried to freeze every splash in memory—or at least in pixels.

Eventually, the boat began to move again, and the dolphins responded like mischievous escorts. They zipped to the front of the ship, dancing just under the bow. Their control was uncanny—sometimes speeding up, sometimes falling back—always right in sync. I managed to capture one blowing a perfect stream of bubbles.

That breath, or rather the forceful exhale of air, happened in a blink. A split second, and you see everything—the power, the grace, the control.

The white spray beside the boat froze in midair—just for a moment.

Then came the star of the show.

The humpback whale.

Its sudden appearance lifted the entire deck into a cheer. Gone was the cold. Gone was the stillness. Humpback whales are baleen whales, typically 15 to 20 meters long and weighing over 30,000 kilograms. Females are often even larger than males. Their signature “hump” is the first thing to break the surface—a calling card.

This one surfaced close—so close, maybe 10 meters away. A tower of mist shot into the sky, sparkling in the afternoon sun. Near the whale’s head, you could see small nodules, like bumps. These are remnants of hair follicles—a unique feature among whales, and part of what sets humpbacks apart.

The mist, caught in the low golden light, shimmered with rainbow hues.

It was a perfect performance. Everyone was elated. And no one wanted to leave. But the sunset had other plans, reminding the crew it was time to go.

We turned back for Ventura.

As we entered the harbor, the sunset bathed the palm trees in warm amber. The boats floated in a golden haze.

Back on land, the trip quietly came to an end. People drifted off, heading home. Just then, I noticed a couple standing by the water, framed by the setting sun. An older gentleman sat nearby. When I lifted my camera, they turned to look at me.

They probably had no idea just how beautiful the scene behind them was. But I did.