Chow Time!

I don't think I've ever before witnessed a bonafide humpback whale stampede. Hell, prior to a few Sundays ago I didn't even know such a thing existed! Sure do now, though.

Father's Day 2016 dawned with bright blue skies and nary a puff of wind, the San Francisco Bay a placid, shimmering expanse of gray-green glass in the rising sun. A busy Saturday night at work in the restaurant biz kept me up well past midnight, and it seemed that I had just powered down for some shuteye when the alarm startled me awake at 6:00am. Undeterred and excited (once I remembered why I had set the thing so damned early), I popped outta bed and hopped in the shower, sipped a quick cuppa Peet's Costa Rica and packed up for an 8-hour day on the Mighty Pacific, then walked over to the Marina Safeway for provisions: a coconut-almond Kind Bar (I need more coconut in my life), a hefty, freshly made turkey sando from the deli (delicious), and a bag of dried fruits and nuts (just in case). Out the door and once again toward the bay, at 7:30am sharp I found myself huddled with a group of adventurous, like minded souls by the Saint Francis Yacht Club harbormaster building, listening to our naturalist from Oceanic Society give a detailed introduction on the Gulf of the Farallones National Marine Sanctuary, that incredibly productive and thank goodness protected patch of Pacific Ocean outside the Golden Gate. That wonderful watery world I love so much.

Under the GGB on Fathers Day 2016

Five hours later we were twenty-seven miles west of the mainland, hunkered down on board the 56' Salty Lady, and had just finished a somewhat leisurely, closeup look at the craggy, desolate Farallon Islands. I write 'somewhat leisurely' because things had changed quite a bit since we cruised under the bridge; the wind was howling in from the northwest, the sea was choppy with whitecaps, the afternoon swell was building - all of it a typical spring and early summer weather pattern in northern California - and our trusty whale watching boat was a rocking! Captain Roger Thomas, a 40+ year veteran of the bay and beyond, kept us in the lee of the islands, however, where the wind and the waves were a little less fierce. Slowly he motored back and forth from Saddleback Islet to Fisherman's Bay and guano-covered Sugarloaf, allowing us a chance to observe the lay of the land, the thousands and thousands of noisy, nesting seabirds - including several colorful tufted puffins, dont'cha know - the local pinniped population of gregarious, acrobatic California sea lions, homely elephant seals and endangered Stellar sea lions, and one juvenile California gray whale that had decided to linger by the Farallones instead of up in Alaska for the summer.

By this point in the day we had already seen several humpback whales, and the trip was shaping up to be a very good, if very blustery, adventure. Our first whale sighting was a surprise, lunge-feeding adult about 4 miles west of the Golden Gate; a whale we didn't even know was there, but a whale that was astutely predicted by a 12-year old boy standing at the bow of the boat. I was up there with him, searching searching searching for a blow, a fin, anything, when he noticed a mad swirl of seabirds diving into the ocean ahead of us. "Look, dad!" he exclaimed, "There's probably a big school of fish right under those birds, right under the surface."

I swear not 30 seconds later, right in the midst of all those birds, a gargantuan humpback came charging up from the deep, took an enormous gulp of water and whatever food it was hunting, then settled back into the ocean with a misty blow. I turned to Mikayla, a nice young woman from Dallas who was sitting next to me, and said, "I don't know about you but I'm sticking close by the amateur naturalist over there." Kudos, kid!

We were almost to the islands when Salty Lady swung hard starboard and headed south toward another whale watching boat in the distance. Based on the abrupt maneuver I figured our captain had received some good news via radio: good news meaning animals, animals meaning whales, and whales meaning...well, you never know. Ahead we could see spouts  - lots of spouts, and one looked so different, so tall and vertical, I immediately thought (hoped)...blue whale? - and were soon treated to our second closeup encounter, a large humpback that sounded in front of us with a beautiful, broad fluke salute high in the air. Like he usually will when a whale dives nearby, Captain Roger slowed the boat, idled the engine, and waited for the whale to surface. We waited, too, but not for long, as smack dab right in front of us, maybe 75 feet from where we stood on deck, rocking back and forth with the motion of the ocean, the whale rocketed from the water in a full on, super spectacular breach! Amazed, shocked, in awe, hooting and hollering our delight, we waited for the humpback to breach again, as they often do, but this time to no avail. Instead, after a few more looks at some other beautiful humpbacks here and there, we turned north again, straight into the howling wind and waves and swell for a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride to the Farallones proper.

Humpback whale fluke.

California and Steller sea lions at the SE Farallones.

Pelicans! And a seagull.

The Farallon Islands, aka the Devil's Teeth, shrouded in fog.

The north Farallones from a previous voyage: the weather and ocean have
to be just right to see these three bumps up close and personal,
so most trips to the islands visit just the main southeast group.

During our close up inspection of the southeast islands, while our naturalist educated us on their history and present day importance,  I continued to see blows south of us, back in the area we had already been, but there seemed to be more and more of them with every passing minute. Apparently captain Roger noticed as well, and before long Salty Lady doubled back for a rendezvous. And in this case, by rendezvous I mean whale stampede.

Sugarloaf Islet on Fathers Day 2016

The southeast Farallon Islands on Fathers Day 2016.

I swear it was like somewhere way up by the north Farallones someone had clanged a cetacean-sized dinner bell and a slew of hungry hungry humpbacks to our south heard the call. For 20 minutes, maybe more, we bobbed about with the wind and waves, scrambled back and forth across the boat in disbelief, as dozens of humpback whales - two, then three, then two more, then three again, then sometimes five or six together - swam around the boat, right under our boat, at times it seemed directly through the boat...and these whales were bustin' a move! We watched fluke after gorgeous fluke as they sounded one after another, glimpsed the occasional pectoral fin above and below the wind-whipped water, saw their bizarre and bumpy snouts as they hightailed it to who knows where, accompanied by blows and trumpets and quivering blubber and stinky whale breath. It was totally awesome! And each time a group passed there were more spouts to our south, heading directly our way.

In my mind I imagined an enormous neon sign suspended in the sky, pointing to the surface of the ocean above the Cordell Banks perhaps. "FREE KRILL! FREE KRILL!" it flashed, as humpback after humpback sped by the Salty Lady in pursuit of food glorious food. And then, lo and behold, amidst all the fantastic commotion, a call I have not (personally) heard out at the Farallones for several years: "Blue whale!"

The GGB, seen heading back in from the Farallones.
"The only thing we guarantee," Captain Roger avows, "is that
we're gonna pass under that bridge twice."

Yup...we were blessed with three different baleen whale species that day - one small gray at the islands, a good look at one gargantuan blue amidst the stampede (possibly two, we couldn't tell for sure), and, oh...I don't know, 50 humpbacks? More? Plus harbor porpoises and harbor seals and sea lions and sea birds by the zillions! It was, in retrospect, a very special day on the Pacific Ocean, in the Gulf of the Farallones National Marine Sanctuary. A windy and wild day for sure - several trips have been cancelled this year due to weather - but a beautiful, glorious and very memorable one to boot.

See ya' next time, landlubbers!
Peter J. Palmer

Livin' la Vida Lobos

Here's a fact: There are oodles of places on the California coast that rival the beauty of Point Lobos State Reserve, which is located a few miles south of Carmel in Monterey County. Here's another fact: Many of those places are just as picturesque, just as jaw-droppingly dreamy and dramatic, but none are more so. The meeting of land and sea at Point Lobos is one of the loveliest on Planet Earth.

As the crow flies California is 840 miles long from top to bottom, but if one were to (and actually could) walk step by step along the entire shoreline -  on sandy, wind-swept beaches; inland around bays and lagoons and tidal marshes; atop mountains and cliffs and headlands; through forested ridges and wide open, seaside fields - once accomplished the pedometer would clock in at a whopping 3,427 miles. Yup, the coastal caress of California is not straight. (What?) Instead, it's chock full of ins and outs and ups and downs and easts and wests - intimate nooks and crannies alongside vistas so grand they'll take your breath away - and Point Lobos State Reserve has them all in spades.

Point Lobos is relatively small, as well. At just over 500 acres, compact, and many of the in-and-out or loop hikes can be enjoyed in 30 or 40 minutes (longer, of course, if you linger). Thus one might explore several of the well-maintained trails in a single day, especially during the late spring, high summer and early autumn months when sunset retreats toward the 9 o'clock hour in these parts. The entrance fee is $10 per car and includes a spiffy, fold-out brochure containing, among other things, the history of the reserve, facts on native flora and fauna, a list of brief hike descriptions, a very handy, well-executed map, and supplemental information on adjacent Carmel River State Beach (the gist of which seems to be: no matter how calm and inviting it looks, don't swim there).

A recent Rent-a-Sommie gig at Pebble Beach Food & Wine found me shacked up in Monterey-town for a slightly overcast but warmish April weekend. My work load for the festival was light, so after a tasty Friday luncheon featuring a luxurious, five-course menu paired with Portuguese wines I parked my Kia Soul rental car at Fisherman's Wharf and enjoyed a leisurely, three-hour round-trip stroll along Monterey Bay: south through John Steinbeck's romanticized (but now pretty touristy) Cannery Row, past world-renowned Monterey Bay Aquarium and into the quaint, seaside hamlet of Pacific Grove. Along the way there are loads of tacky souvenir shops and restaurants in the heart of Cannery Row, lots of historic buildings and plaques, and, at the south end, a handful of small, rocky, crescent-shaped beaches that are permanently fenced off as they are protected haul-outs for the endangered California harbor seal. Springtime is prime time, and I paused for a spell to observe the newborn pups as they made their way in the world: snuggling and suckling on mom, learning to swim with her in the shallows, noisily and awkwardly sparring with their peers. On the return tramp I parked my rump on a bench overlooking the bay and gazed west as the sun set: watched more harbor seals and sea lions cruise the calm blue waters, watched the offshore beds of giant kelp sway with the incoming swells, watched a group of gregarious, playful southern sea otters go about their aquatic business.

When my work at the Grand Tasting on Saturday finished around 4 p.m. I drove south again, forked over $10 to a smiling park ranger and entered Point Lobos. The park is very popular - for good reason - especially on weekends, but luckily, as I approached, an employee was just taking down the "Lot Full" sign, which meant I didn't have to ditch the car outside and hike in to the coast (a pretty walk, but time consuming). Instead I leisurely drove the main access roads twice, an attempt to get the lay of the land and decide where I wanted to spend the next three hours. Turned out to be an absolutely lovely three hours, and I'm so glad I made the time.

I've got lots of pictures, so let's get right to it.

These first five are from Whaler's Cove, a unique feature of the Central California coast if there ever was just one, and an utterly enchanting place. The terrestrial part of Point Lobos is, as I mentioned, around 550 acres, but in 1960 another 775 acres was added, all of it submarine: one of the first underwater nature reserves in the US of A. Whaler's Cove and a large area of adjacent ocean are part of the reserve. Registered scuba divers and, I believe, a limited number of snorkelers can access the water at a concrete ramp; from there an underwater world awaits discovery - giant kelp forests, rockfish, sea urchins, starfish, sea otters, seals and sea lions, perhaps a passing gray whale. The parking lot has restrooms, picnic tables and several trailheads: one follows the gentle arc of the inlet, another climbs to a beautiful vantage point above the cove and northern portion of the park.  

Next, some photos of the spring wildflower bloom. The park is currently awash in all the usual suspects: the iconic California poppy, fields of Douglas iris, spiky Indian paintbrush, fragrant blue blossom, bushy bushes of Monkeyflower and much more. It's quite the visual and olfactory juxtaposition: the riotous technicolor of flowers, the deep greens of fertile forest, the mysterious blues of vast Pacific Ocean and expansive sky, a wisp of white fog, and myriad earth-tone hues of rich soil, massive stone and fleeting sand.

Below, some landscape shots from the southern half of the park. There is no way the Little iPhone That Could could ever capture the magnificence of the place, but there you have it. This part of the park has, in addition to great hiking, a pair of small, rocky, isolated beaches where one can supposedly walk in the water, perhaps swim (though you should check on the legality of that, and very seriously consider the frigid idea before you do).

And finally, if and when you do decide to visit Point Lobos, a hike that should be at the top of your list; that you should not miss, even if you only take one. I was driving toward the exit when I decided that - Hell yes! - I had time for one more walk: The Cypress Grove Trail. The park brochure lists it as "the favorite of many visitors", and as soon as I started walking I was glad for my change of mind and abrupt U-turn back to the trailhead. It is simply spectacular! A microcosm of all the park has to offer. The views are unsurpassed, both on land and out to sea. The chance to spot animals offshore - seals, sea lions, otters, birds, whales - is in your favor as the trail leads out onto a promontory of rock surrounded by water, and the loop winds through one of the last two naturally occurring stands of endangered Monterey Cypress trees. The orange stuff in the following pictures is a type of algae that finds a happy home on the gnarly, windswept Cypress trees and rocks.

I'll leave you with two artsy-schvartsy silhouette shots. Point Lobos is a Muse extraordinaire, nurturing the artist in us all - be it painter or poet - and there is a whole community (with its own website) devoted solely to the images she has helped create.

So make the trek and be inspired. Feel the ancient soul of Planet Earth where the worlds of land and sea and air collide. Discover the timeless magic of Point Lobos for yourself.

Hopefully I will get another chance in the not too distant future.

Until then, peace out.
Peter J. Palmer

Clandestiny

We'll make this a quickie and get right to the meat of the matter: A few days ago I strayed, found myself in the arms of another, and it felt kinda good.

Those of you who know me know that my decision to do so was not taken lightly, as for two decades now I've been faithful to my one and only: the Oceanic Society. Yup, we're talking about the ocean, the Pacific Ocean specifically, and getting out on the ocean to commune with those fabulous beasts that call the ocean home.

My relationship with the non-profit, San Francisco-based Oceanic Society began way back in 1989, I think, and since then I've been signing up for their 8-hour, summertime, naturalist lead trips to the Farallon Islands and beyond pretty much like clockwork. I'm hopelessly hooked. Smitten. So in love with what they do and how they do it that sometimes I fork over the cash and hop on board twice a year.

Recently, however, my buddy Keith and I drove an hour and forty-five minutes south to the funky seaside settlement of Moss Landing, halfway between Santa Cruz and Monterey town. It's there one finds the departure point for Sanctuary Cruises, a small boat operation that, quite frankly, gets it done on Monterey Bay.

Like many of you, several weeks ago I'd started to read online and in the newspaper accounts of what we'll call Unparalleled Upwelling 2012 (please refer to my previous post for a refresher course on the marine phenomenon). Unlike many of you, tho, I immediately began to fantasize over the reported, and almost unprecedented, animal sightings in Monterey Bay: forty or so blue whales out there, scores of breaching and lunge-feeding humpbacks, fin whales, the occasional orca, enormous mola mola (ocean sunfish), a leatherback sea turtle, a basking shark. All hanging out on the surface because their food source was at the surface and all in sunny, calm conditions, allowing lucky landlubbers a superb opportunity to watch them do what they do do.

I've had my heart set on a Monterey Bay whale watch for a while now, but life in general and other high seas adventures in particular - you know who you are - had always (coitus) interrupted the master plan. This year, once I began to learn of the action down there, I knew the time was nigh.  Still, it took me two weeks to get my shit together and schedule the time to make it happen. I'm happy I did, but I should'a dropped everything and gone sooner.

After check-in and a safety briefing we slowly puttered out of the harbor, delighted with the lack of that pesky petroleum smell as Sanctuary is the only boat on the bay powered by biodiesel. Not twenty minutes into our sea voyage the boat suddenly slowed (always a good sign), veered right, and the captain picked up the loudspeaker: "We've got a leatherback turtle at 3 o'clock." Leatherbacks are the largest of the sea turtles, and they're rare. I'd never seen one before and had to stifle myself from actually jumping up and down. Instead I smacked Keith on the arm and quickly made my way to the side of the boat. Turned out to be a masquerading sea lion; a bit of a disappointment, but nonetheless our whole ocean-top tryst with Sanctuary was a blast. Highly recommended. The day was foggy but winds calm. Our boat and Captain Brian were able and accommodating, and Giancarlo, our young but versed naturalist for the day, was a hoot. Alas the big blues have unfortunately moved on for the time being, and we spotted none, nor any basking sharks. But there were humps (humpbacks) everywhere, spouting and fluking and even breaching very near the boat, several graceful black-footed albatross, plus harbor seals, bottle-nosed dolphins, sea otters, red-throated phalaropes, murres, pelicans, sooty shearwaters and the ubiquitous, noisy and acrobatic California sea lion.

It was a lovely affair, and I'll certainly head back down for one more romp on the water with Sanctuary before the 2012 season is history. You should as well, especially if a trip to the Farallones seems overwhelming: too long, too intense, the water and weather too unpredictable. Won't get to see the fabled islands, the Devil's Teeth as their called, but you'll no doubt have a grand day out on the mighty Pacific. The road trip to Moss Landing is a lovely one, the area is of course beautiful, the 4-hour trips are a worthwhile $50 (sometimes longer if everyone on board is in cahoots), and the undersea drop off (into submarine Monterey Canyon, where a lot of the action takes place) is much closer to shore than than it is off the Golden Gate. An added delight is the chance to observe lots of charming California sea otters on their home turf (so to speak), an animal you don't see on trips out of San Francisco.

I'll leave you with a link to the Sanctuary Cruises website, which contains all sorts of cool information about what they do, where they do it, and a Captain's Log that details recent trips and sightings, including those extraordinary couple of weeks in late June and early July 2012:
https://www.sanctuarycruises.com/index.html

Oh...and one other website. Sanctuary may be my new mistress, my new secret paramour, but the Oceanic Society is still my main squeeze:
http://www.oceanicsociety.org/

As promised, that's it. Outta here.

Peter J. Palmer

Whale Soup

Odd how things happen.  A few weeks ago I had just started constructing this post for The Headlands Report when a friend called and asked if I was going to attend the 8th annual San Francisco Ocean Film Festival.  In years past my restaurant work schedule had always gotten in the way, and I'd never been able to make it.  Well, we all know that 2011 ain't like years past, eh?

I'm in! I emailed back, then happily spent some time online researching the different program offerings over the five-day event.  Finally I settled on one for last Saturday afternoon: an interesting-sounding collection chronicling, among other subjects, the plight of dwindling shark populations (alarming), the Farallon Islands (love 'em), and manta rays (also alarming).  The clincher, though, was a film titled Whales of Gold, which told the story of the "friendly" gray whales of San Ignacio Lagoon on the Baja Peninsula, the eco-tourism industry that has sprung up in the area, and the complex issues facing those communities and families who live side by side with the whales.

It was an interesting collection of films, and needless to say I wish I could've attended more.  The documentary on the Farallon Islands was informative and visually beautiful and right up my alley, of course, as y'all know what a big fan I am.  Sharks and manta rays, however, took center stage for the program with several films.  Gory, disturbing and eye-opening films.  The gist in a nutshell is that sharks are in serious trouble.  Scientists estimate that several species are now a mere 20% of historic numbers, and that shark fin soup is the biggest culprit.  It's also the biggest waste: if you're gonna catch and kill a shark, then you should eat/use every bit that's eatable/usable.  Instead, these days most sharks are landed (now by the hundreds, by the thousands), have their fins cut off, and are then thrown back into sea.  There they die.

Manta rays - so beautiful, so graceful, so gentle - are perhaps even worse off, for several reasons.  Shark fin soup has been around for centuries (no excuse for the modern, mindless, industrial-sized slaughter), but the demand for manta ray gills, some researchers say, has no traditional, medicinal or historic foundation; it is a recent phenomenon because sharks are getting so rare.  Worldwide mantas are also a much smaller population than sharks, and they don't become sexually mature until maybe 12 years old.  When they do reach reproductive age, mantas give birth to only one pup at a time every 3 years or so.  Talk about a recipe for disaster, for extinction within decades if the trend continues!

Two other tidbits, both a surprise.

First, apparently a fact: The city of San Francisco, it appears, will soon vote on a proposition to ban the sale of shark fins and shark fin soup.  Like a newly passed law in Hawai'i, merchants that sell and those who imbibe will have a year to get rid of the fins, the evidence and the custom, or face a $15,000 fine.

Second, and this of course we learned from the people leading the charge: Shark fin soup is almost devoid of flavor, carries little nutritional value, and - because sharks are apex predators at the top of the food chain - is loaded with mercury and other toxins.  Payback!

Okay then.  On to the original post.

*  *  *  *  *

Behold the mighty leviathan.  Behold their gargantuan size, their majesty and mystery; the improbable and gentle nature of a beast so undeniably big-ass and powerful.  And if you're into them get ready, because whale season in northern California is now underway.

First to arrive are the gray whales, who with their newborns calfs travel close to the coast on an annual journey north to the Gulf of Alaska, and are often visible from land.  The best place to see them swim by in our neck of the woods, should you desire, is at the Point Reyes Lighthouse lookout in western Marin County.  It takes a full two hours to drive there from San Francisco, and a half hour to hike down to the lighthouse, but if the weather and the whales cooperate you might just have a grand day out.

Toward the start of summer the great whales arrive.  Blue whales, fin whales, humpback whales, minke whales, even transient killer whales: with a host of other marine mammals they return to the abundant food source surrounding the Farallon Islands and the edge of the continental shelf.  Risso's dolphin, northern right whale dolphin, Pacific white-sided dolphin and Dall's porpoise join them for the feeding frenzy.

In March of 2001, ten years ago (yikes), I flew down to San Diego, rented a macho, fire engine-red Chevy Camero and drove east to the desert wilderness of Anza Borrego State Park.  For three days and three nights I explored: hiked up canyons and washes, dipped my feet in freshwater springs, looked for bighorn sheep and looked out for mountain lions, relaxed by the pool of the Oasis Motel during the heat of day and sat beneath the stars at night.  Coyotes yipped and howled from afar, lizards and crickets chipped in the dark, and the silent moon gazed down from the sky, illuminating the stark beauty of the nighttime desert.

When my time was up I cruised back to San Diego for a final night.  The next morning I packed up and checked out, then sat in the hotel lobby, waiting.  Soon a smattering of other people joined me.  And soon after that we began our 5-day aquatic safari: one of the world's coolest, most improbable meetings of man and animal.

*  *  *  *  *

Whale Soup

Laguna de San Ignacio, on my last night in this isolated desert wilderness, is dark and silent.  Dark except for the zillions of stars that blaze overhead, stretching to the horizon in every direction.  Silent except for the wind that swoops down from the Santa Clara Mountains in the north.  The lights from our temporary home, the music and laughter barely echoing from within the tents: all are dwarfed by the expanse surrounding our camp.  Standing motionless at the edge of the placid tidal flats, trying to breathe in and capture for a lifetime this unique combination of inhospitable, arid landscape and watery wonderland, I inhale deeply.  I feel the sprawling, white sand dunes across the lagoon, feel the lifeless salt flats still baking at my back.  I imagine the maze-like mangrove swamps snaking about the edge of the vast lagoon, sense the teeming deep blue water at my feet.  I remember the intense sun setting in the west as a cool moon creeps up in the east; smell the dry, briny, fresh and decaying air that consumes this place.  It feels timeless and complete.

Then off in the black, silent night before me, the somber, haunting blow of a gentle leviathan breaks the surface as it reaches for a breath.  It is the most powerful, pleasing sound on Earth.

Every year the California gray whale travels south from the rich, summer feeding grounds of the Bering Sea, south to their longtime winter home on the Pacific Coast of the Baja peninsula. In January and February hundreds of these giants arrive.  Many of them spend the next few months relaxing, mating and raising their young in the peaceful waters of San Ignacio Lagoon.  We travel south as well, to this remote corner of the planet: ten curious humans, voluntarily plucked from our lives back home, whisked down to the lonely, pristine shores of a truly remarkable place.

Flying down from San Diego in the belly of an cantankerous, riveted DC-3 with my fellow adventurers, I do not believe that I will be able to pet a gray whale.  Even though I am told that they arrived in Baja late this year, I am still worried that most of the whales might be leaving the lagoon for their long journey back north by the time we land in the middle of March.  I have absolutely no idea what to expect from this place, from these animals.  But after hearing stories of the “friendly” ones, having seen the pictures, I can only hope.  Thinking back as I write this, thinking back now to just last week, I can no longer remember how many whales I actually did touch, did pet and stroke as they lingered by our boat: four, five, six?  I can no longer remember how many of these magnificent creatures let me.

One of the smooth, gray babies - born 12 feet long and weighing one ton - is so curious and gregarious as it swims between our two 15-foot pangas, we later named it Sweetie Pie.  On just our first trip out on the water this youngster approaches the boats, closer and closer each time, finally allowing someone to touch it’s firm, rubbery, blubbery snout.  With a swish of it’s tail, Sweetie Pie plunges away, disappears for a moment, and then resurfaces only to do it all again.  Amid the shouts and hoots from the humans on board, this enthusiastic, playful juvenile becomes quite brave, spending more and more time within our reach.  For maybe half an hour Sweetie Pie bounds about like most fun loving young animals; all the while the massive, barnacle encrusted mother waits patiently near by, swimming between the boats or floating languidly on the surface.  Suddenly it is over.  Mom gives some silent signal and the two swim away to do some other important whale things.

Campo Ramon, Baja California Sur: life in the middle of nowhere, two hours in good weather by dirt road to the nearest small town. I would like to say how physically demanding it all was.  No electricity, save that which was generated by the sun and the wind.  No fresh running water, save that which was trucked in from San Ignacio town.  But I can’t.  The amenities provided by Baja Expeditions are endless: warm sun showers, odor-free compost toilets, cozy canvas tents, canvas cots with pillows and sleeping bags, three huge Mexican meals a day, strong black coffee in the morning, Happy Hour at 5:00 PM, lanterns to read by, lots of ice cold Negro Modelo and Pacifico, chamber pots for midnight bathroom duty (lots of ice cold Negro Modelo and Pacifico!), a presentation after dinner on the gray whale by a visiting biologist, the next night a slide show and talk on Baja California, freshly made ice cream, a small library of books on whales.  All trucked in at the beginning of the winter whale season and trucked back out in April, leaving no trace behind.

San Ignacio Lagoon sprawls across the surrounding desert 17 miles long and 5 miles wide.  The number of native Mexican people that live in the area is only in the hundreds!  We are lucky to have a few of them work in the camp, lucky to meet a few of them and hear some stories.

Some 25 odd years ago the father of Ranulfo, one of our proud, accomplished panga operators, was fishing on the lagoon as he and perhaps his father had done for years.  The whales wintered in San Ignacio then as they do now; they came long before being hunted to the verge of extinction, and they continue to visit now that they are no longer on the endangered species list.  Ranulfo’s family lived with them side by side.  But it was his father who one day had an inquisitive gray swim toward the small boat and offer the first “friendly” encounter.  Over the year’s word of the odd interaction spread.  As more whales offered up the unique experience, people trickled in to see for themselves: biologists, nature lovers, and inquisitive vacationers.  Our five-day excursion to the lagoon with Baja Expeditions is one small part of the adventure industry that has sprung up around these grand aquatic mammals and their curious behavior.  No one guarantees that you will touch a whale.  Law prohibits harassing or chasing them; they must initiate the encounter.  But nowhere else in the world, including the other lagoons of Guererro Negro and Scammon’s in the North, and Bahia Magdelena in the South, are the odds stacked so well in our favor.  For whatever reason, nowhere else are the friendly encounters so frequent.  The story is out.  On the day our group is scheduled to leave Ranulfo is returning home to “play” his father for a European crew filming a documentary on the history of the lagoon.

Five out of six times whale watching we have friendly encounters. It seems as though Sweetie Pie and mom are always out in the water somewhere, waiting for more interactions.  Other whales, some of which our guides recognize and know by their man-given names, approach the pangas as well.  Alejando and Susan, our camp manager and our camp guide say it is almost unprecedented: the weather is the best of the season, and the number of friendly encounters very unusual.

They call it whale soup.

Baja Expeditions has us all on a demanding schedule.  I slip into the routine as easily as the bottlenose dolphins we see one day slip through the turquoise water.  Awake at 6:30 am, I head to the big green tent that serves as the common area for meals, pour myself a cup of strong black coffee and walk to my sandy perch above the receding tidal flat at the edge of the lagoon. Seagulls whirl overhead, dropping clams onto the mud in hopes that they will pop open and expose the meal within.  Several brown pelicans glide by, decked out in their somewhat gaudy winter plumage.  Over the flock of feeding Brandt’s geese and one lone, spearfishing egret, I gaze out to the distant spouts of surfacing gray whales.  Before long Amarillo, the yellow tabby that serves as the camp’s protector against mice, saunters up for a morning snuggle.  Other whale watchers emerge from their tents, and by 7:30 a hot breakfast of chilaquiles or quesadillas is served.

The rest of the day is as predictable as the beautiful beginning. By 9:00 we are on the water in search of whales, guided in our pangas by Luis and Ranulfo.  Back to camp for a 12:00 lunch; Pupo the head cook knowingly serves some sort of hot soup ( one day a chowder made from local Pismo clams ), along with other delicious Mexican fare.  After lunch we are free to kayak up the mangroves, explore the beach or rest until 2:00, when Alejandro or Susan round us up with the familiar, drawn out yell: “Whaaaaaaaale Watchers!”  4, 4:30, and we return to shore with another expert landing that barely wets our shoes.  Happy Hour at 5:00.  Dinner at 6:00.  We eat like kings!  Huge chafing dishes full of freshly caught grouper with rice, pollo con mole, or beef tacos.  Always frijoles, soft tortillas, plenty of salsa and hot sauce.  A cooler full of beer, soda and local Baja wine made from the white Mission grape.  Followed by flan, fresh fruit or ice cream.  Over dinner we relive the various escapades of the fascinating gray whale.  By 9:00 people say good night, wander off, and zip up their tents.

Yup: On the pot

The Baja Expeditions Crew
with Susan and Alejandro in the lower left

In the mid 90’s Mitsubishi Corporation unveiled plans to build a salt processing plant on the shores of San Ignacio, just like the one it still operates up north at Guererro Negro, another gray whale wintering lagoon.  Looking at the meager settlements that dot the land surrounding San Ignacio, I can hear the company executives as they must have outlined the many improvements the salt plant would bring to the native families: paved roads, heat, running water, electricity, all leading to an heightened quality of life.  A long, drawn out debate ensued; multiple environmental impact studies were done.  And battle lines were drawn, pitting neighbors and family members against each other. I feel a guilty sense of pride, sitting now in my well-lit, heated, plumbed San Francisco apartment, knowing that in the end the people of San Ignacio chose to do without Mitsubishi.  The people instead embraced the Eco-Tourism that would hopefully provide them, and the whale, with a future that leaves the area preserved as the only undeveloped gray whale lagoon on the Baja peninsula.

A single adult whale is infatuated with the motor on the back of our boat.  For a long time the whale floats underwater on it’s back, snout just under the propeller, relaxed and pleased as punch.  When it swims toward the side of the boat and someone tries to touch, it veers away, dives under, and resurfaces at our stern, belly up, nose to the motor again.  Odd behavior, no one is sure what to make of it.

In addition to the Baja Expeditions crew there are three Canadian biologists staying at Campo Ramon.  This is their first year wintering here with the whales, making photo-identifications of individuals and beginning studies on the heart rate of gray whales.  After a fine dinner one night, William, the founder of CERF (Coastal Ecosystems Research Foundation) in British Colombia, delivers an interesting lecture on the gray whale, complete with snazzy computer pictures.  They accompany us out on the water as well, allowing Susan and Alejandro a bit of free time.  It is fun to have them in camp with us; their love for the whale is obvious, and their commitment to understanding it is impressive.  William later tells us an unbelievable story of mating whales.  But tonight, as he explains his research and shows us the somewhat jerry-rigged sensors he must temporarily stick on the whale’s back to retrieve data, part of me can’t help but wonder if these suction cup attachments are intrusive, and why we need the information. I know for sure that William’s own heart is in the right place, but I also wonder why we as humans just can’t leave them alone.

A whale urban legend.  It is a wild story of two randy males trying to mate with a lone female.  To elude their amorous advances, the female goes belly up, hiding right under an inflatable Zodiac being used by a couple of researchers.  With a pair of 35 ton, frustrated whales on each side of the boat, the stunned humans duck for cover as two nine-foot male sex organs flail overhead in an attempt to reach the female!

Too many whales can be a hazard to navigation.  During a rare quiet period on perhaps our third time out, we search and search, but no whales can be found.  Sure, off in the distance we see the distinctive heart shaped spouts of surfacing grays, but we learn early there is no need to travel far for sightings.  Just wait.  So as we troll on and on, the conversation turns from whales to other topics.  Cameras come down; we enjoy just being out on the water.  Suddenly, the boat lurches to one side with a thud! Passengers let out a yelp.  Out of the blue, a huge adult whale surfaces on our starboard side, from nowhere, right under the boat.  Just as shocked and I’m sure surprised as we are, I can imagine it thinking as it swims away, awakened rudely from it’s daydreaming: “Where the hell did YOU come from?”  That, or “Get the hell out of my way!”

Spy-hopping.  Although not as dramatic as a breach, when a 40-foot adult propels itself out of the water and high into the air, landing back on the surface with an incredible slash, spy-hopping is still perhaps the coolest of whale maneuvers.  It’s cool because it seems so effortless!  During a breach, imagine the power the whale must generate in order to rocket out of the water.  They must dive down deep; with incredible swings of their muscular tail and flukes they must speed upward and launch their massive bodies toward the sky!  With a spy-hop, however, the whale slowly and silently eases its broad snout out of the water, straight up, till most of the long tapered head is exposed.  There they pause, doing what no one is really sure.  After a moment, or several moments, they slip straight back down from where they came.  With barely a ripple on the surface the whale slides gently back under water and is gone.  It is always fascinating.

“The future of the region,” I ask Alejandro after dinner?  He responds that the paved road from town is inevitable, cutting down travel time to 45 minutes.  A paved airstrip will follow, and more people will come: in planes and campers and RVs. Electricity and water will bring even more sightseers, more boats, and more trash.  Susan, Alejandro and Ranulfo agree that the locals must decide on a plan for their own future.  They must map out the details for development before anyone else does. Although the region is part of the Vizcaino Biosphere Reserve and an UNESCO World Heritage Site, protected by several organizations, I can’t help but consider myself lucky to experience the wonders of San Ignacio Lagoon sooner than later.

As I researched this trip and toyed with the different options available for a first time traveler, I became quite confused about which outfit to chose, when to go, which lagoon to visit.  Not knowing for sure if this would be my one and only trip, I scoured the Internet for more info, looking for any first hand account of the different areas.  I received all kinds of information, but still remained confused.  Then I discovered a web-site by a Mexican woman who seemed to know the area well, but had no affiliation with any one company.  I sent off a correspondence with my concerns.  When she replied, she made it very clear that I should do anything and everything possible to chose the most remote, the most pristine and untouched of the three lagoons: San Ignacio.  Although I have forgotten her name, I thank her now for the advice.

A leviathan Madonna and Child

Why do the gray whales of San Ignacio have a reputation for more friendly encounters than those found in Bahia Magdelena or Guererro Negro?  What are they thinking; do they, in fact, think? After twice being hunted to the edge of extinction by man, why would these gentle, mysterious behemoths of the sea want to interact with us?  And now given the chance to further evolve on our blue planet, what other future delights might they have in store?

How can a protective mother whale, one that will hold her infant out of the water on her back to protect it from danger, wait quietly by while her calf cavorts with the same species that once made the waters of her winter retreat in Baja run red with blood?

My unscientific mind wants to believe it is their way of saying thank you.

PJP

March '01

*  *  *  *  *

This is my theory, and I’m sticking to it.

Dogs do not chase speeding bicycles anymore.  It has apparently been weaned out of their collective consciousness to find the spinning wheels and pumping legs and whirling bike pedals as attractive or as exciting as they used to be.

Sticks, tennis balls, frisbees, squirrels, the human crotch, sniffing other canine genitalia and random digging at the beach, it seems, retain a timeless appeal.

When I was a youngster living on Macauley Avenue in Cleveland, Ohio, the very sight of an unleashed dog as you rounded the corner on your 3-speed, banana-seat Schwinn was enough to strike terror into your heart, and you quickly scanned the area for possible escape routes.  They would go after you, fast!  Scotties and Collies and German Shepards and Corgis alike, yapping and barking and snapping at your heels.  Try to peddle and kick back at them and keep your feet away from the sharp-toothed, dirty, salivating snout.  Or turn about pronto, speed away and hope they couldn't catch up.

These days as I ride toward the Golden Gate Bridge, over 35 years later, the threat is no longer much of an issue, or an issue at all.  I wonder why.  My shiny green, mud-sprayed Specialized StumpJumper is much cooler and much faster than those models of old.  And the path winding through Crissy Field next to the San Francisco Bay is dog heaven: a plethora of riders all for the taking.  But we are no longer of interest.

The dogs have learned.

On some small islands off the windswept coast of South Africa, I recently read, a population of fish loving pelicans has started attacking gannet chicks and eating them.  Pelicans eating other birds?  Researchers and biologists are stunned, as the behavior is new and has never before been documented, anywhere.

The pelicans have learned to augment their perhaps diminishing menu of fish with their own avian cousins.

Sharks, for god's sake, must have learned.  They must have realized long ago that humans make for a shabby, bony, meager feast; realized that la specialité de la maison chez Planet Earth is instead the blubber rich marine mammals.  And thank goodness for that, because if not we'd be toast every time we entered the ocean.  Defenseless.  Obliterated, even.  Summer beaches on the east coast of America would be littered with bodies, with decapitated heads bobbing in the surf.  Believe me, or at least believe the experts: If they really wanted us, we wouldn't stand a chance.

The gray whales of San Ignacio lagoon have learned as well.  In an amazingly brief amount of time they have learned, and are teaching their young, to be wary no more of the strange (and in the past, violent) terrestrial beings in the boat.  Our floating, blubber-processing ships have been replaced with the 15-foot skiffs called pangas.  Our harpoons have been traded for cameras.

We humans have evolved.  We have learned.  In this day and age, it's the way life should be.


Peter J. Palmer