Wrightwood - a Wonderful Respite

The View on the main street in Wrightwood is gorgeous!

 With the gentle breezes caressing the High Desert on a recent Saturday, Laureen and I decided on an early morning drive to the close mountain community of Wrightwood.

Okay, the winds were howling from the south so intensely that a neighbor’s cow flew past our kitchen window. I thought they were shooting a remake of Twister nearby.

“Three straight days of gale force gusts,” I observed. “Let’s head for Wrightwood; maybe the San Gabriels will protect us?”

I remember when I moved to the High Desert back in 1987.  My new neighbor told me that I’d get used to the winds.

He lied. Time to head for the mountains for a respite.

I figured, perhaps the mountains named after the Archangel Gabriel, could possibly buffer the winds we had been suffering from day after day. This angel, according to theologians, played a pretty important role back in the day protecting all sorts of people. Maybe, he’d protect two weary residents from the High Desert from the onslaught of daily 300 miles per hour gusts.

Not sure if it was divine intervention or not, but as we drove into Wrightwood, there were no winds and a very sunny sun above us.

“See, I was right.”

Laureen peered out of the windshield as I found a parking spot. “The mountains act as a barrier; that’s why there’s no wind right now.”

“Ye of so little faith.”

Wrightwood is one of those small towns that beg a visitor just too just Keep Calm and Relax. That could be a great saying on a button. Reminder to self, check marketing on that concept.
Since it was pretty early, the town was just waking up, and parking along Park Drive - appropriate name to park – was easy.

As we exited the vehicle, we both knew that we had overdressed for the outing. The High Desert, with wind gusts of nearly four hundred miles per hour, was a rather chilly 50 degrees below zero, so we had worn parkas, lined jeans, and emus. And this was the beginning of June!
Okay, sweatshirts, jeans and sneakers, but still, with no wind and a bright, cheery sun hovering in the sky, we were suddenly overheated.

“We need to go shopping for short-sleeved shirts,” Laureen stated, unequivocally.

Wow, shopping. That was a surprise.

Wrightwood has a pretty interesting history, as do most places we travel, when you dig into the past.
This beautiful town snuggled into a long valley on the north side of the San Gabriel Mountains is the epitome of human ingenuity.

For more on the history - visit the Wrightwood museum.

In the 19th century, the area was utilized for cattle ranches started by two brothers, Nathan and Truman Swarthout. In fact, the valley in which Wrightwood is now located is the Swarthout Valley, was named after the two brother ranchers.

Later on, a man by the name of Sumner Wright – hmmm, I think there’s a clue here. Wright ended up owning the largest ranch in the wooded area. Wright saw the future of this haven of tall trees and cool temperatures, and began breaking up the ranch into commercial and residential lots. Soon, people were coming from all over Southern California to escape from the heat and crowds from down the hill.

You know, down the hill.

By the early 1920’s, a town had formed, and more and more people were flocking to Swarthout Valley. A boom was beginning. Soon, people who loved snow skiing saw a perfect opportunity on the steep north sides of the San Gabriels and Big Pines Park was developed into a ski resort in 1924. This area, originally was part of a Los Angeles County park.

From there the popularity flourished and the area nearly won the chance to host the 1932 Winter Olympics. There was a big campaign, especially since down the hill, Los Angeles was hosting the Summer Olympic Games, but no – the Olympic committee didn’t believe the area could support all that was needed to be the host of such a well-known world-wide event.

The winner for the winter Olympics of 1932 was Lake Placid, New York. New Yorkers? I mean really. Who wouldn’t rather be in California? They already had the best pizza and hot dogs, then they stole our Olympics. Don’t get me started on New York.

Anyway, Big Pines Park changed its name to the Blue Ridge Ski Area and then eventually to the more familiar Mountain High Ski Resort. This ski area, in the Swarthout Valley is one of the oldest ski areas in the United States. Who’d have thunk it?

We found a couple of shirts (alas, shopping never ceases in my world) and wandered about the town, enjoying the solitude.

A visit to the Veteran’s Memorial on Evergreen Road, was an emotional moment. A beautifully carved memorial stands proudly at the entrance, and the serene setting behind it offers the visitor or local a chance to thank all those who have served our country - past, present or future.

A serene setting to thank those who have or will serve.

Towering pine trees line the streets and fill the mountainsides – Jeffery, Douglas-fir, sugar, ponderosa, Coulter, black oak, and many more pines are there to enjoy. It’s a veritable cornucopia of pine trees. Our favorite is the Jeffery pine. If you stick your nose into the bark, there is a slight aroma of vanilla. Of course, you want to do that on the sly, when no one is looking.

Off of Pine Street is a skate park, and the Hollis M. Stewart Children’s Park. A great place to picnic while the kids run around like crazy, having fun.

The park is fun for kids of all ages.

Wrightwood is truly worth the trip, no matter the time of year.

According to a long-time resident by the name of Denice, “Wrightwood is one of those places people love to visit during any season. The winter for the skiing and sledding, and the rest of the year to hike, bike, or just to walk around and relax in our beautiful weather.”

And, Wrightwood is open! Get thee behind us, COVID-19!

“Soon, we’ll be seeing people visiting from all over Southern California again after the virus. On a typical weekend, there are huge crowds enjoying themselves. My husband and I have lived here thirty years, and we love it.”

Loving Wrightwood is easy to understand. For a day, a few days, or living there permanently, it is one of our favorite places to visit. Come on, that’s the best of both worlds.

I don’t even know what that truly means – but a trip to Swarthout Valley is a must.

Wonderchicken

As individual states begin implementing phased lifting of quarantine, we wonder if, in the shifting attention of many Americans, folks will soon begin to forget much of what we’ve collectively experienced for the past two months.

Will they forget about social distancing and toilet paper hoarding? Will they forget about masks and zoom meetings interrupted by children and spouses in underwear? Will all this fade happily into memory? Doubtful. No. More likely we won’t quickly forget much of this. But no matter the short attention spans of some of us or the desire to go back to our old ways of doing things, there is one thing we know none of us could possibly forget: the Wonderchicken.

What? Don’t tell me that you never even heard of a wonderchicken!

Are you saying that when the news of wonderchicken broke – at the same time the COVID-19 pandemic was truly heating up here in the US – you weren’t paying attention to the discovery of the 67-million-year old ancestor of our beloved fowl? Well, sit back. Let’s get you caught up.

During the Cretaceous period, wonderchicken would have been wandering around with the likes of triceratops, parasaurolophus, stegosaurus, and the maiasaurs. Maybe running around the legs of the mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex. Perhaps little wonderchicken stared up into blue skies at a flying pterosaur, or was caught stargazing when a large asteroid headed her way.  Perhaps that’s why she was named Asteriornis maastrichtensis, after Asteria, the Greek goddess of falling stars who could transform herself into a quail.

This quail looks like it's wearing a hat, or a crown, depending on your point of view...

Wonderchicken made her debut on this planet just two million years before the great asteroid strike is theorized to have wiped out the giant dinosaurs, and may provide scientists some much needed information to fill in the gaps of how our modern day birds descended from their dinoancestors.
Dr. Daniel Field of the University of Cambridge, provided details of this unique specimen of the only nearly complete skull of an ancestrally modern bird from the age of dinosaurs discovered thus far.

Dr. Daniel Field of the University of Cambridge with the 3-D printed skull
of Asteriornis maastrichensis, aka Wonderchicken. Photo credit: D.J. Field/Univ of Cambridge

Found in a quarry on the Netherlands-Belgium border, and weighing less than a pound, wonderchicken appears to be the tiny great grandmother of modern chickens, ducks and other poultry. Perhaps she was the original Turducken, despite being close the size of a Cornish Hen?

We also know that wonderchicken had long, slender legs, well-adapted to living on a tropical beach.

Wait, I thought he said wonderchicken lived in the Netherlands-Belgium area….not Hawaii. Well, climate change happens. It is also possible, paleo-ornithologists tell us, that wonderchicken could even fly. Winging her little way around the Belgium Bahamas, looking for dinner….avoiding becoming dinner.

This newly discovered fossilized bird could be the earliest ancestor of every feathered fowl on our planet.
Photo credit: Phillip Krzeminski/BBC

This news originally broke March 18th in Nature and Science News and was immediately picked up by National Geographic and others. California was on whatever euphemism we are using for COVID-19 lockdown and most of the nation was headed that way as well. As we start to lift our heads cautiously up and out, peaking around at our surroundings, let us remember brave little Wonderchicken. The survivor. She braved the great T-Rex and her children survive to this day. We can do it, too. The sky is not falling.

Long Live Wonderchicken!

A Big Rock - Really Big!

I (John) was recently asked if I would be interested in seeing a pot o noodle. Not much into instant foods, I declined the invitation.

“Dude, it’s really cool and not far from here.”

“I may have some Top Ramen somewhere in the pantry. Will that suffice?”

Turns out I was wrong on both counts. We didn’t have Top Ramen in the pantry, and the pot o noodle I was invited to visit wasn’t an instant dietary food source.

Pot o Noodle is not food, but the actual name of the giant rock near the town of Landers. In fact, it was once the largest free standing boulder in the world. That is, until sometime in the year 2000, when a huge section – oh, I’d say the size of a two-bedroom apartment – split from the main section.
It’s big, even with the piece lying next to it. The rock covers nearly 5,800 square feet and is almost seven stories high.

That ain't no can of noodles - it's just a big rock sitting there

I have no idea what Pot o Noodle stands for and the more I researched the name, the stranger the results became.

Let’s just say, Pot o Noodle, means, an extremely large piece of granite in the middle of the Mojave Desert that you cannot eat, looks nothing like noodles and wouldn’t fit in a pot anyway.

The Native Americans, who resided in the area of Joshua Tree, believed the giant rock and surrounding locale was sacred. Again, I have no solid understanding of why any particular area is considered sacred, but I feel that way about certain breweries. Not trying to be sacrilegious here; just saying to each man his own.

What is really interesting is all the – how does one politely talk about craziness in others? Oh, I know, the craziness some people adhered to what is aptly named Giant Rock.

For the record, I will never knock someone’s belief, no matter how crazy it may sound. I wrote that with a straight face.

Off Highway 247, near the city of Landers, is a humongous rock or boulder or big piece of granite just sitting on top of the desert. It’s big. A family of twelve could live on the square footage it takes up and maybe not see each other but once a week. For some families, that may be still too much togetherness – but, I digress.

The rock has been there for eons - that’s an indefinite and very long period of time. It’s also a term that can be used for exaggeration or humorous purposes.

Allow me to elucidate: Laureen and I went shopping and it took her eons to select a new purse. See, that’s used in a humorous or exaggerated way, because it only took four bloody hours, two malls and six stores, not an eon. On the other hand, I got lunch and two beers out of the bargain. Fair exchange, but I digress. Back to the rock.

Giant Rock has been there a long time and since it’s been there so long, it took on a persona of its own. Something almost mystical. Something that cannot be explained. Something that must be hiding the secrets of the universe.

In the 1930s, this big rock got the attention of Frank Critzer. He knew that tortoises and other desert life often burrowed beneath rocks and such to keep cool in the summer and warm in the winter. A great idea for burrowing critters.

So, Frank decided to follow the example of our reptilian cousins and soon Frank had dug himself a home, with the help of dynamite, beneath the largest rock on earth. He reported that his home beneath the rock never got above 80 degrees in summer, and never below 55 degrees in winter. Forget solar panels – he had found the perfect solution for comfort and relied on nothing but Mother Earth – literally.

Actually, Frank was a sort of a genius and not only built the home for himself, but set up an airport right near the rock on the dry lake bed. There would sometimes be one to two flights a week coming to visit Frank and his very unique abode.

If you miss the runway - there's about a million miles of desert to the left

It is rumored that Howard Hughes actually flew out to visit Frank’s home, invited by George van Tassel. Tassel was an auto mechanic (his actual history is a bit fuddled) who had met Frank and thought the man was interesting enough to maintain a friendship with. He would keep up that friendship until Frank died in 1942.
This is the realm where novels are created. There is mystery and intrigue about how and why Frank died on the July 25th of 1942.

Frank, not wanting to be totally out of reach with the world, had erected a tall radio antenna on top of Giant Rock. A German immigrant erecting the large antenna, living under a rock in the middle of the desert, attracted the curiosity of local law enforcement.

So, on that 25th of July, three deputies from Riverside County arrived to ask Frank certain questions. We all know the questions – it’s World War II, a guy of German heritage is lives beneath a rock in the middle of nowhere and has a large radio antennae bolted to the top of that rock.

That’s right, he must be stealing radio signals to listen to ball games for free.

As the deputies approached the hole that served as a doorway to Frank’s house, there was a terrible explosion. The three deputies received injuries, one very seriously, and unfortunately, Frank died during the explosion.

Was it an accident? That would be for the conspiracy theorists or novelists to determine at a later date.

Well, after that incident, Frank’s friend Tassel moved out there and became convinced there was something really special about the area. So special, that he believed alien life forms visited from time to time.

The largest rock on earth – why wouldn’t aliens want to visit it? The happiest place on earth, wasn’t to be built in Anaheim until 1955, so they had to have somewhere to go in the forties.

So, since that time, UFO enthusiasts routinely visit the area looking for signs of life from the heavens. Not sure that’s a great idea though – there’ve been enough Alien films (6) to know that never turns out well for the human race.

Calling all aliens, or humans who believe

But one thing, a visit to Giant Rock in Landers is a great experience. Fresh air, no crowds, and the history of this place is fascinating. Frank Critzer, was simply a man determined to find his own way in a chaotic time. Was he a hero, as some may claim? Who was George van Tassel? Those are questions only those reading their personal histories can determine.

But what isn’t in question, is Giant Rock is worth the trip. It really is. And, if I haven’t made the point, it’s really, really big. I mean, really. As in giant.