Santa Clara Valley Wine History

PRE-HISTORY

The Ohlone were the original inhabitants of the Santa Clara Valley, thriving from San Francisco Bay to Monterey Bay and Salinas. They did not consider themselves a distinct people, instead divided into separate  land-holding groups (tribes) which interacted freely in trade, marriage, and religious ceremonies. They suffered an occasional squabble amongst themselves, but for the most part lived peaceably, hunted and fished in what they called "The Valley of Heart's Delight."

Their lives changed forever when the Spaniards arrived in 1769 to construct a collection of twenty-one missions, from San Diego to Solano.

THE FIRST GRAPES

Over time, history becomes blurred, sometimes becomes legend, and often becomes myth. Not so much with wine, because the grapes and the vines upon which they grow have a documented geographical genealogy, which is often attached to a specific human genealogy. Wine grapes are a legacy passed from one generation to the next, and the bloodlines that link people to grapes remain strong — particularly when the vines are relocated half a world away from their origin.

The Spaniards had mapped and claimed California in 1542, but for nearly two hundred years the entire region remained ignored, left to the indigenous people who had lived here for ten thousand years. But in 1769 Spain decided to expand its colonialism and appointed Franciscan monk Junipero Serra as President of the Missions, and gave him the mission to establish missions in Alta California (land north of Baja).

Serra began in Baja California and walked his way north. July 1, 1769, his expedition arrived at what become San Diego. Fifteen days later he founded Mission San Diego de Alcalá. He also planted mission grapes, California's first winegrape vines. One year later, Serra founded a second mission — Mission San Carlos Borromeo del Carmelo — on Monterey Bay, and it was there, just seventeen miles west as the crow flies from where some of the richest history of California winemaking would take root, he planted more mission grapes. Over the next thirteen years, Serra founded seven more missions... and planted more grapes. Father Fermin Lasuén, Serra's successor from 1782 to 1798, also founded nine missions. He planted grapes. Three other Franciscan monks established three more missions from 1804 to 1823... and they planted mission grapes.

With the establishment of twenty-one California missions, the legacy of the Santa Clara Valley wine industry had sprouted in the fertile valley soil.

BRAVE NEW WORLD

Spain's primary control of Alta California lay rooted in the missions. But because the monarchy had no burning desire to expand much farther beyond San Francisco Bay. Alta California remained largely remote, left to its own devices.

In 1821, after an eleven-year struggle, Mexico won its independence from Spain, but the revolutionaries who gained Mexico's sovereignty had no plan or strategy for self-governance, thus the makeshift governments remained in disarray and in bitter conflict with themselves, unable to effect any substantial political clout in its newly acquired landholding — Alta California.

The Franciscan monks managed to retain control over missions lands, and continued to convert the indigenous people, but the Mexican war of independence had changed things. Alta California experienced an influx of immigrants from the U.S., France, and Russia, who began to form trade routes and established permanent outposts and settlements. Those who came were mostly trappers, traders, and more significantly farmers.

Even before the war, secular vineyards were already established in Alta California. Only five years after the war, Joseph John Chapman (a Massachusetts pirate-turned-farmer) planted his privately-owned Mission grapevines to establish the first commercial vineyard in California.

In 1833 the Mexican government managed to effect the Secularization Act, which divided mission lands into individual land grants. Alta California wasted no time with its new mindset of privatization and ownership. Neither did the world. The region experienced an even greater influx of immigration and commerce, and in 1846 — ignited by the U.S. annexation of Texas — formed an army and declared itself the California Republic, independent of Mexico.

Two years later, it was just that. At the end of the Mexican-American War California was an official U.S. territory — and just two years after that California became the thirty-first of the United States.

And just moments after that, California became ripe with the legacies that propelled it to the fourth largest wine producing country on Earth.

THE OTHER GOLD RUSH

The California Gold Rush (1849) proved to be the catalyst for the growth of wine growing and production in the Santa Clara Valley. California was pregnant with precious yellow metal, but not all who ventured west to seek a fortune had the gumption and wherewithal to stick with it. Mining was arduous work, sometimes a crapshoot, and too often involved danger from looters and robbers. Many who came for gold arrived from other countries, and knew how to do more with their hands than slam pick axes into rock and dirt and to sluice rivers. They knew how to farm. Besides fruit orchards and vegetable crops, they understood the cultivation of wine grapes, and they brought with them centuries-old winestock from France  and began to  cultivate more varietals than the mission grape planted by the Franciscan monks.

They saw another kind of gold in "The Valley of Heart's Delight."

A community of Frenchmen who arrived at the outset of the Gold Rush settled in Santa Clara Valley, because of the comfortable climate and the richness of the soil. Among them was Etienne Thée, who in 852 purchased eight thousand acres of the Rancho San Juan Bautista land grant. He planted vines of mission grapes. That same year, fellow Frenchman Charles Lefranc — who would later become the "Father of California's Commercial Winemaking" — went to work for Thée. The two formed a partnership and founded New Almaden Winery just south of San Jose (and what was once the oldest winery in California). Lefranc, unimpressed by the luster-less body of the mission grape, replaced the mission vines with superior French varietals he brought from the "Old World," and produced California's first Bordeaux. He married his partner's daughter, Marie Adèle in 1857 and inherited the business. Three years later, New Alamaden was the first and largest commercial winery in California.

Lefranc also instilled innovation into the growing California wine industry. In particular, he used redwood barrels, which impressed the California Agricultural Society, which reported the barrels were "... half as costly, and will last longer than casks made from the best of oak. Worms never touch them, and they impart neither taste nor color to the wine."

The wine industry began to ripen into the future.

NO WINE BEFORE ITS TIME

The future of California wine arrived in 1878, when Paul Masson migrated from Burgundy, France, to Santa Clara Valley and became the winemaker for Charles Lefranc at New Almaden — a productive and financially successful, nine-year relationship.

Masson married his boss's eldest daughter, Louise, in 1887. Two months later tragedy struck. Charles Lefranc was trampled to death in a freak horse-and-buggy accident. That same year, Masson and Henry Lefranc (son of the wine pioneer) formed a partnership, and they began to concoct a bottle-fermented sparkling wine, which they released in 1892 to unprecedented acclaim. With that triumph, Henry sold his share of the partnership to Masson, who took sole control over New Almaden, though the children of Charles Lefranc retained ownership of the winery.

Masson eventually grew dispirited with Almaden, yearned for his own vineyard — one situated on a hillside, which he believed would yield  a more crisp, robust grape. In 1896 he quelled his longing and purchased 573 acres acres in the Saratoga hills. He christened his new creation Le Cresta, and planted Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. He aimed to establish a hallmark of sparkling wines, and toward that end formed the Masson Champagne Company.

Masson's dream became his legacy. His sparklers became what wine expert Charles Sullivan has dubbed "The Pride of California."

THE DARK YEARS

The Great Depression, World War II, the Korean War, Vietnam... The path to recovery for the California wine industry lay laden with obstacles, and too many of the post-prohibition wineries grew grapes that could be fermented into what connoisseurs called only "belly wash."

But the fertile Santa Clara Valley soil remained just that, and sprouted three significant people with a pocketful of dreams, who kept the embers of Santa Clara Valley glowing through the dark years of rehabilitation.

Louis Benoist of San Francisco purchased Almaden Vineyards in 1941, and with help from renowned wine writer and connoisseur Frank Schoonmaker managed to distribute Almaden wines across the country — enough to make them one of the most popular wines in the U.S.

Martin Ray, a protegé of Paul Masson, purchased Masson Champagne Company in 1943 and wasted no time reinvigorating the stature of Masson wines — even established the Santa Cruz AVA. Ray was a boisterous, egotistical fellow with an overzealous passion for wine. Anyone who came in contact with him became implanted with that passion. It could be said he was responsible for the rebirth of modern winemaking in Santa Clara County.

Emilio Guglielmo, who founded his winery against all odds in the midst of Prohibition, also remained to lay  claim as the oldest continuing winery in Santa Clara Valley, and was ripe for the planting of the future.

The California wine industry shot like a rocket toward success, but when navigating uncharted territory anything can happen, and beginning in 1873 anything bad that could happen did... for the next fifty years.

Phylloxera claimed many vineyards in Santa Clara Valley, had chewed a large whole in the valley's wine production, but the fraction of the winemakers who remained began in ernest with a new grafting technique to regain their previous success.

The newfound hope, however, was short lived. The 1906 San Francisco Earthquake became an even heavier blow to the California wine industry — one which pinned winegrowers to the ropes, and dropped many to the canvas.

San Francisco had become the hub of the wine industry, with warehouses, wine houses, and enough ports to transport California wine toward world recognition, but when the two largest tectonic plates on the planet decided to no longer play nicely together, the city of San Francisco crashed to the ground. What little remained standing burst into flames — dubbed by writer Jack London as the "Great Fire."

Seventy percent of the city smoldered in ruin.

The earthquake ravaged everything from Santa Clara County to Sonoma. Almost nothing was spared, which reduced the California wine industry to just a skinny husk compared to its former rising glory. The California Wine Association lost eight million gallons of wine all its own. Hotels, restaurants, pubs... all of it was gone. Fifty million gallons of wine was decimated in San Francisco. Two-thirds of California's wine was gone. What remained of much of the wine in San Francisco was used to put out fires.

Still, the California wine industry, all but uprooted and completely trampled, kept whatever hold it could on the fertile soil and released new sprouts whenever it could for the next eighteen years.

DRINK AND BE MERRY, FOR TOMORROW WE DIE

Wet or dry? During the two years that followed the end of World War I, that question had nothing to do with the weather. It spoke about the heated division in the United States between those who wanted to ban alcohol and those who did not.

On January 1st 1920, the U.S. Congress and the House of Representatives ratified the Volstead Act, to set Prohibition into motion for the next thirteen years. Two days after ratification, the country went dry.

Prohibition made it illegal to manufacture, import, sell, and transport alcohol, though it did allow the homebrewing of wine and cider, and the use of wine for religious purposes.

It did not, however, provide a means to enforce the law, thus deferred all enforcement and legal aspects to the individual states.

California, ever a state which loves to enact laws into its books, had its share of bills written to provide the financial means to enact the national law. All but one was voted down by referendum.

It is ironic the one bill California did enact, and which had potential to end winemaking in the state altogether, was authored by T. M. Wright, the assemblyman from Santa Clara County — the same county which can lay claim as the birthplace of commercial winemaking in California.

Almost immediately, the country began to ease the restrictions imposed by The Volstead Act, but turning the wheels of government is a slow process, and by the time the U.S. repealed Prohibition, only 25% of California's previous wineries and vineyards remained.

Yet, a few sparks still glowed in Santa Clara Valley. Paul Masson survived prohibition with great success by making "medicinal" champagne. Some growers made wine for sacramental use, and others dried their grapes into raisins or made juice to ship across the country. A few remained under the radar and bootlegged their wines to any of the speakeasies prevalent in San Francisco.

Emilio Guglielmo made a daring move in 1925 -- in the belly of Prohibition -- and started his 15-acre winery in Morgan Hill because of the rising demand for wine at the time, and because he knew the back-firing law would eventually end.

But though embers remained, only a smattering of wineries still existed in the Valley, and many of those had fallen into disrepair, or were unable in the coming years to reclaim their former glory. It would be another thirty years before the Phoenix of the wine industry rose from the ashes left by Prohibition.

STAMP OF ARRIVAL

The defining mark for all of the California wine industry came in 1976 with what is now called the "Judgement of Paris."

For too many years only three wines existed: the good stuff (French), the very good stuff (also French), and everything else. Primarily the world felt the best wines came from "old world" vines, which remained landlocked in France. What few in the world of wine remembered, however, was that stock from those vines was imported to the US in the mid 1800s, and survived the phylloxera infestation, the San Francisco Earthquake, Prohibition, and more than 30 years of revitalizing the California wine industry.

Good winestock to be sure, but France could not lay claim to exclusiveness of those vines.

Steven Spurrier, a renowned British Wine Cellar and educator, organized a blind wine-tasting competition held in Paris, France. His goal was to pit unlabeled French and American wines against one another, and have them judged by nine French experts. The competition was poo-pooed by journalists worldwide. Only one reporter (from Time Magazine) covered the event. The results of the blind tasting, however, became global news, and tossed the world's wine market on its ear.

May 1976, ten French white wines were set side-by-side with ten white wines from the United States. Ten French red wines were also set side-by-side with ten American reds.

When the final tastes were spit into the cuspidor and all the scores were tallied, the U.S. wines had bested the French wines. Of course France rebuked the results, and even tried to ignore them. But the results of the competition did make the news, and did more than bolster the continued growth of wineries in Santa Clara Valley.

Even today, new Vineyards appear in the soil which retains a history from before California was even a state.

Historical Importance of the Vikings

Blog: IH
Status: Published
Author: Mike McLaren
Original Link: Viking Importance

Headline:
Historical Importance of the Vikings

Vikings — the first images that come to mind are of barbaric marauders ravaging, looting, and terrorizing the coasts of northern Europe. That may be accurate, to some degree, but not entirely. The Vikings gave the world sagas, collections of stories and poems that shaped the way modern fantasy and science fiction are written today. Without the old literature of Iceland, there probably would not have been J.R.R. Tolkien’s Hobbit.

The Vikings also gave the world the enduring legacy of the Alþingi , the world’s first parliamentary government. What we know of Norse mythology and Scandinavian history was written in Iceland.

To sustain themselves with food crops and livestock, they would have needed a calendar, and therefore a knowledge of the stars. To know the cosmos is to also understand mathematics.

Beyond literacy, political savvy, and agriculture, the Vikings were also a people who traveled the globe far and wide, in boats, which could only have been done with their knowledge of the stars and planets, and mathematics. In other words, the Vikings also knew science. To cross the ocean for global exploration and trade, in boats that could also serve as warships in shallow tides, the Vikings had to know more than just thumping people on the head.

And they did.

Fierce warriors, to be sure, they were feared opponents, but they were also sought after for trade, and for imparting their technological advancements. Kings in Scandinavia and other parts of Europe commissioned Viking longships, because in the years between 900 and 1100AD, no one could craft a sea-going vessel to match the Viking longship.

Their art, delicately crafted and intricately tooled, has been unearthed in archaeological sites across the globe. Their literature paved the way for current best-selling books and blockbuster movies. They gave the world a government which serves as foundation for governance in countries all over the current world.

In truth, the Vikings gave to and educated the world as much as the Greeks and Romans.

As you discover Iceland, with its hard, finicky weather, its rumbling mountains and tectonic activity, blue ice glaciers, and its isolation from the rest of the world, you have to image that the people who could settle in such a land, and who could be successful, must have been a bit smarter than the average polar bear.

From any Icelandair Hotel, you can easily tour and explore a world that marries fire with ice, and you can visit museums and landmarks to learn more of Viking history. If you stay long enough, you might even become a Viking yourself!

If You're Not A Viking, You're Not From Iceland

Blog: IH
Status: Published
Author: Mike McLaren

Original Link: Icelandic Heritage

Headline:
If You’re Not A Viking, You Probably Don’t Live in Iceland

Intro:
Settled permanently in 874, Iceland has retained its Viking and Celtic heritages so well that… well, if you’re not Norse, you’re probably just visiting.

Content:

Fifteen million years ago, a volcanic plume unleashed itself through a crack in the ocean floor and boiled its way upward to become a landmass above water. For the next twelve million years—and even today—seismic activity shaped and reshaped the small island country near the topmost arc of the Earth.

One thousand one hundred forty-one years ago, that landmass became the country of Iceland, the name given to it by Ingólfur Arnarsson, the man historians claim founded the first permanent settlement in the land of fire and ice. From its worldly, political inception in 874 to 930, more settlers arrived, determined to make Iceland their home. They were Vikings from Denmark and Norway. Even today, sixty percent of the total population of 330,000 Icelanders are of Norse descent. Thirty-four percent are of Celtic descent. It is believed Scottish monks arrived in Iceland prior to the settlement of the Vikings, thus the initial connection to the current Celtic heritage. Historians generally believe that Celts were immigrated to Iceland as slaves in the early years, having been ravaged by Viking raids in Scotland and Ireland.

Of the total Icelandic population, only six percent cannot claim Nordic or Celtic heritage. Native Icelanders can trace back their origins in the National Registry to several hundred years. Even today, during small talk, people bring up ancient names, as if the old Vikings are still around.

For several centuries, Denmark ruled Iceland, then Norway took possession in the 15th century, and then Denmark regained its rule, which held for centuries. Iceland did not regain its independence until 1944.

In general, and in keeping with their Viking heritage, Icelanders are a hardy, self-confident people, with a rampant desire to live, learn, share, and survive. They are a people who gave the world its first parliamentary government, and who gave the world Icelandic Sagas, a style of literature and storytelling that is responsible for modern fantasy and heroic movies and books.

But though Icelanders take their ancient ancestry very seriously, they are focused toward the future, pioneering safe and sustainable ways in which the world can solve its energy crisis. Ninety percent of Iceland is powered by geothermal sources, the cleanest, most efficient method of generating electricity on Earth. Transforming themselves over the centuries from being raiders, pillagers, and plunderers, Icelanders have become a people with no standing army, more technological savvy than most, and a desire to put education at the top of their social priorities.

Iceland is credited as the most literate and educated country in the world. They are also often credited as being among the most happy people on the planet.

But make no mistake, once a Viking always a Viking; you have to be to enjoy living a world covered by glaciers and rocked with volcanos.

Bobby Fischer: Iceland's Mate of Chess

Blog: IH
Status: Published
Author: Mike McLaren

Original Link: Bobby Fischer IH Content

Headline:
Bobby Fischer: Iceland’s Mate of Chess

By the age of fifteen, Bobby Fischer had already proved his brilliancy in the game of chess, had already captured the U.S. Chess Championship at the innocent age of fourteen, then the next year became the youngest World Grandmaster. Fifteen years later, Bobby Fischer stunned the world in what was called the “Match of the Century”.

photo: Philip Rother

In 1972, at a time when tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union threatened to swirl into an uncontrollable tempest, Fischer faced off against Boris Spassky of the USSR for the World Championship. The match began July 11, 1972, and lasted two months, at the Laugardalshöll arena in Reykjavík, Iceland. At the closing ceremonies on September 3, Fischer was crowned the first American-born player ever to win the World Chess Championship.

It was a match caught in an aura of political intrigue, accusations of psychological warfare, and grandiose rhetoric, and was most likely a catalyst for the volatile life Fischer would lead until his death.

Fischer maintained his title for three years. When set to defend it in 1975 against Anatoly Kasparov of the USSR, Fischer refused to play because the World Chess Federation would not acquiesce to his particular demands. For the next twenty years, the chess phenomenon removed himself from mainstream popularity, though he was often quoted for his anti-American and anti-Semitic remarks.

The most volatile event of Fischer’s career happened on the twentieth anniversary of his historical World Championship victory. In 1992, Fischer sat once again against Spassky for an unofficial rematch, held in Yugoslovia, which at the time was under heavy economic sanctions by the United States. Told by the U.S. not to participate in the rematch because of the sanctions, Fischer defied the order, played the match and won it, and received over $3 million dollars for the win. The U.S. issued a warrant for Fischer’s arrest, and the man who many called the greatest player of the game became a country-less fugitive.

Finally arrested in Japan in 2004, for allegedly using an expired passport to board an airplane, Fischer needed to avoid deportation back to the United States, where he had every chance of spending the rest of his life in jail. Fischer renounced his U.S. citizenship and appealed to Germany for asylum. His appeal was not granted. Fischer then sought Iceland, and though his original appeal was denied, the Iceland Althingi reversed the decision and granted Fischer full citizenship for humanitarian reasons, and as thanks for “putting Iceland on the map” in 1972.

Over the next four years, living in obscurity, Fischer did make friends and enjoyed reading, fishing, and sight-seeing. In a country populated heavily with chess enthusiasts, he never had to look far for a game.

Fischer died of kidney failure January 17, 2008, at the age of sixty-four. Per his wishes, he was buried at Laugardælir Lutheran Church, in Selfoss.

You can stay in the Gimli Suite at the Icelandair Hotels Reykjavik Natura — the same suite where Bobby Fischer stayed during his defeat of Boris Spassky in the 1972 World Chess Championship. Located in a green area of the city, you can enjoy hiking, biking, nature trails, and fine local cuisine.

Five Days Through Fire and Ice

Blog: IMG
Status: Published
Author: Mike McLaren
Original Link: Five Days Through Fire and Ice

Headline:
Five Days Through Fire and Ice

One of the most memorable ways to experience Iceland is to walk it, and we mapped our five-day Kingdom of Glaciers and Northern Lights tour to ensure you see everything that makes Iceland unique.

On the first day, we’ll pick you up in Reykjavik to begin the journey, heading east to the Golden Circle to vist Geysir hot spring and the Gullfoss waterfall. Geysir itself is not all that active, but nearby is Stokkur, which spouts a column of water and spray 100m (328ft) up about every six minutes. All around, steam vents from the belly of the Earth, and mud pools bubble across the land. The surreal area is a natural wonder of geothermal power, and illustrates why most of Iceland’s energy is harnessed from geothermal sources.

Headed just a stone’s-throw north, we’ll reach the River Hvítá, and Gullfoss, Iceland’s most spectacular waterfall. The water at Gullfoss plunges in two tiers, 11m at the first section and 22m at the second, for a total 33m (105ft) drop into a ravine which dives nearly 70m (230ft), and stretches for 2.5km (1.5 miles). The water flows through a fissure created by Iceland’s volatile volcanic activity. Since there are no fences or guardrails, you can stand just a breath away from the thundering falls. If you want to get soaking wet, don’t wear waterproof clothing, but if you wear glasses be sure to have handy a kerchief for constant lens wiping. Wear boots that can take you through mud and over slippery rocks, and over snow and ice in the winter.

Our next adventure winds along the black sand beaches of the south coast to the Þorvaldseyri visitor center, where you’ll stand at the foot of Eyjafjallajökull volcano and learn about the eruption which grounded air traffic for several weeks in 2010 all across Europe. Then, less than a ten-minute jaunt, we’ll arrive at the Skógar Folk Museum to discover Iceland history, traditions, and culture. The museum holds over 6000 artifacts, with multiple displays of Icelandic housing through the ages.

Having seen water spout and fall, and after standing beneath a volcano — the fire aspects of Iceland — we’ll spend our remaining days experiencing the spectacular ice aspect of Iceland upon the glaciers of Vatnajökull National Park, the largest national park in Europe.

Vatnajökull is the largest icecap outside the polar regions, and covers roughly thirteen percent of Iceland’s entire landmass. The ice is 1,006m (3,300ft) thick in some places. The park is a canvas of brawny mountains, table ridges, outwash plains, and sandy deserts. In places, Vatnajökull reaches 2,100m (6890ft) toward the sky, and in other places sinks nearly 300m (984ft) below sea level. The oldest ice taken from Vatnajökull was formed just before a volcanic eruption in 1150. Seven volcanoes rest below the Vatnajökull ice cap; Bárðarbunga, Hamarinn, Grímsvötn, Þórðarhyrna, Kverkfjöll, Esjufjöll and Öræfajökull—though at the moment, Bárðarbunga is not asleep..

Leaving the icecap, we’ll visit Jökulsárlón glacial lagoon, with its icebergs sailing toward the North Atlantic, and which is increasing in size from the melting of Vatnajökull.

Somewhere along this five-day journey, we’ll spend an entire evening hunting the Northern Lights.

This winter trip takes in everything that is Iceland — fire, ice, and Northern Lights. On any of the five days along our journey, we’ll walk anywhere from two to six hours, often divided into smaller walks. All accommodations are in cozy country hotels.

Book yourself for our Kingdom of Glaciers and Northern Lights tour, and discover the meaning, myth, and magic of Iceland.

Our Kingdom of Glaciers and Northern Lights page

Official Gullfoss Web Site

Searching for Elves and other Ancient Lore in North Iceland

Blog: IH
Status: Published
Author: Mike McLaren
Original Link: Elves in Iceland

Headline:
Searching for Elves and other Ancient Lore in North Iceland

Intro:
Traveling from Akureyri to Ásbyrgi and Jökulsárgljúfur National Park, only skeptics and those who aren’t looking don’t see elves, and maybe a troll or two.

Content:

Survey the people of Iceland about the existence of elves and you get:

• 17% say most definitely
• 37% say probably
• 13% say maybe not
• 19% say no

Across the entire high-tech country of fire and ice, only 19% disclaim the existence of elves, probably because those few just don’t know any better, or because they haven’t seen the proof like everyone else has in Iceland — or perhaps they haven’t taken classes and workshops at the elf school in Reykjavik to learn about the thirteen different kinds of elves who inhabit the diverse and mesmerizing landscapes.

To learn for yourself, head to Akureyri in north Iceland to explore myriad mythical landscapes, then travel just a bit east to venture into a land of Viking lore, and edge just a bit further to Ásbyrgi and the spellbound world of Jökulsárgljúfur National Park.

South of Akureyri, Iceland stretches in long desolation across craggy plateaus and valleys scarred by volcanic activity. Travelers, especially in olden days, avoided the area to remain clear of trolls, ghosts, and the outlaws who perhaps survived only by making pacts with non-human beings.

Across Eyjafjörður, Iceland’s longest fjord, and just forty-five minutes to the east of Akureyri thunders Goðafoss, one of many spectacular waterfalls along your adventure. The falls roars along the Diamond Circle, a loop of road which travels across lava-scapes that make you think you’re traversing the moon. Around the corner looms Hverjkall, an unmistakable volcanic crater 420 m (1,380 ft) in elevation. Below it sits lake Mývatn, which ripples amidst rich vegetation, and huge populations of waterbirds. It is not surprising, according to legend, to find a monster below the surface of an Iceland lake.

One more jaunt to the east, life in Jökulsárgljúfur National Park is fed by the river Jökulsá á Fjöllum, which flows from beneath the Vatnajökull icecap in the south, and empties into Öxarfjörður bay on Iceland’s northern shores. The journey into the park begins at Ásbyrgi and a horseshoe shaped canyon, formed by a thundering hoof of Sleipnir, the eight-legged steed of Odin, leader of the Norse gods. Fifteen minutes away, along the river Jökulsá, stands the enchantment of Hljóðaklettar (“Echoing Rocks”). Geologist’s aren’t exactly sure how the towering basalt formed into strange spirals, rosettes, and honey-combs, but the acoustic effect reflected from the black walls makes it impossible to determine the direction of the echoing Jökulsá á Fjöllum. Upriver plunges Dettifoss, Europe’s most powerful waterfall. Spray fills the air and sprinkles the sky with rainbows.

North Iceland abounds with landmarks that defy imagination, and as you explore the surrealistic formations of the earth you can’t help but see where trolls have been turned to stone… and then a faint sound, and as you look you’ll see just a glimpse of something — or a small someone — darting just out of sight. Those who know say the spirits of Iceland’s natural world will not bother you if you do not bother them. They are, however, just as curious about us as we are of them, so it only stands to reason that, with vigilance and a little patience, the human world comes into contact with a surreal world, in the same way that fire mingles with ice in Iceland. It’s up to you to discover what most Icelanders know: the country is alive with a world that some think exists only in our dreams.

Elves, trolls, ghosts, and other assorted spirits of the natural world abound not just in north Iceland, but throughout the entire country, and Icelandair Hotels has nine locations situated in all the places where you need to go to find the Huldufólk (elves).

In the north, you can stay at our Icelandair Hotel Akureyri, or our Icelandair Hotel Herad in . Either puts you within easy distance for discovery!

You might also be interested in:

East Iceland: A World of Magic and Monsters

Álfaskólinn, Iceland´s Elf School

The Elves...

Iceland’s 13 Yule Lads - Don’t Call them Santas

Iceland’s Dettifoss Waterfall - Europe's Most Powerful

Things to do in Akureyri

Halldor Laxness, Iceland’s Nobel Prize Winner

Blog: IH
Status: Published
Author: Mike McLaren
Original Link: Halldor Laxness

Headline:
Halldor Laxness, Iceland’s Nobel Prize Winner

Halldór Laxness, a fourteen-year-old farm boy from the countryside of Mosfellsbær, published his first newspaper article in 1916. Three years later he published his first novel, Child of Nature. Then thirty-six years later, Laxness became the only Icelandic writer to ever receive the Nobel Prize in Literature, "for his vivid epic power which has renewed the great narrative art of Iceland."

His career spanned seventy-nine years. Many of his twenty-two novels remain in print, which you can find at Eymundsson bookstores throughout Iceland.

Laxness wrote stories, travelogues and essays, several poetry collections, and eight plays. He began his literary career writing about his explorations of religion and his spiritual search. Baptized in the Catholic church as Halldór Kiljan Laxness, a name which honored the place where lived and harkened to Saint Killian, he eventually gave up his religion and focused his work primarily around socialist ideas.

He published his first significant work, The Great Weaver from Kashmir, in 1927, after traveling extensively throughout Europe, and coming under the influence of Upton Sinclair, with whom he later became friends.

In between his own writing, Laxness published several Icelandic translations of the world's major authors, including Ernest Hemmingway's A Farewell to Arms.

At the end of World War II, Laxness gained notoriety for his book, The Atom Station. The U.S. had taken over the occupation of Iceland from the British, and made a request to build a permanent military base at Keflavík. Laxness, afraid that Iceland would lose its autonomy and would also become a target for nuclear attack because of the proposed base, wrote his book in opposition to U.S. involvement in Icelandic affairs. Not long afterward, Laxness was blacklisted in the United States.

His career, however, remained strong throughout the rest of the world, and for the rest of his life. He finished his last work in 1987, with his memoirs. Several of his stories were published after his death in 1998. His books have been translated into 43 languages.

Gljúfrasteinn, the former home of Halldor Laxness, was opened to the public as a museum in 2004. The house sits on the banks of the river Kaldakvísl, in Mosfellsbær, just a fifteen-minute drive from downtown Reykjavik. Preserved just as it was when Laxness lived and wrote there, the house is open for guided tours, and hosts summer concerts.

Ice and Fire Fuel Iceland’s Geothermal Future

Blog: IH
Status: Published
Author: Mike McLaren

Original Link: Iceland Geothermal IH

Headline:
Ice and Fire Fuel Iceland’s Geothermal Future

Intro:
Drilling three kilometers into the earth, Iceland gathers steam and hot water which are used to provide 90% of the country with clean, sustainable power.

Content:

Iceland is just that—a land of ice. Vatnajökull Icecap, in the southeast of Iceland, is one of the largest glaciers in Europe. But underneath all that crystalline water roils boiling rock. Iceland also steams, hisses, and flows with Vulcan’s power, specifically because the small island country straddles the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a tectonic landmark of Earth, where the North American and European plates tear apart at 2.5 cm (nearly 1 inch) a year. This tectonic activity causes seismic and volcanic activity, which makes Iceland one of the most volcanic and seismically active places on earth.

Still, there is ice, and there are 300,000 people who live in Iceland… and people need heat… and so the people of Iceland figured out a way to turn Vulcan’s power into useable energy.

Technically, the country of Iceland is a segment of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Everywhere you go, steam vents from fumaroles, mud bubbles upon the surface of the land, and geysers spew hot water and steam toward the sky. All of that activity equates to energy—what is called geothermal energy. Icelanders capture that energy by drilling 3 kilometers (nearly 2 miles) deep into the earth to find pockets of hot water and steam, which they harness as a power source.

In one of six geothermal stations in Iceland, the water and steam are separated. The steam is used to power turbines which turn big magnets, which in turn creates electricity—power that is transferred to cities, villages, and individual locations. This geothermal power provides more than half of Iceland’s energy needs.

The hot water is also used in pipes that run beneath the streets of the country’s bigger cities. The heat from the water keeps the streets clear of ice and snow. The hot water is also used to heat 90% of the homes in Iceland, and allows greenhouses to grow crops that might otherwise be available on if imported.

The Romans knew about steam power two millennia ago, and steam powered the world into the Industrial Age at the turn of the 20th century. Iceland, however, beginning in 1946, forged its way to become the world leader in the methods that make renewable steam power one of the cleanest and most sustainable sources of energy for the future.

From any of our Icelandair Hotels, you are not far away from a geothermal power station, which you can discover and tour. Our Icelandair Hotel in Keflavik is right next door to Blue Lagoon, the world famous spa which is a result of the adjacent geothermal plant. Our Reykjavik Natura and Reykjavik Marina hotels in downtown Reykjavik are just forty minutes from Blue Lagoon.

Surreal Power of Dettifoss Waterfall

Original Link: Dettifoss

Though only 100m wide, and just 45m high, Dettifoss currently reigns as the most powerful waterfall in Europe — 500 cubic meters (96,500 gallons) of water per second. The spray of the waterfall, visible a kilometer away in all directions, forms vibrant double rainbows across the river Jökulsá á Fjöllum, which flows through a black gorge of jagged, columnar basalt.

Dettifoss means, literally, “Waterfall,” though over the years it has collected other names, such as “The Beast” and “The Raging Waterfall.” It provided the open backdrop for Ridley Scot’s movie, Prometheus, and is the namesake of a musical piece, written by the Iceland composer, Jón Leifs.

Dettifoss cascades near the southern boundary of Jökulsárgljúfur National Park, the most precious gem of Northeast Iceland. Getting to Dettifoss is not difficult, but neither is it a quick stroll in the park. To reach the eastern 2WD car park, you’ll putter along at 15 kph (10 mph). It is prudent to check road conditions to ensure the route is passable for the time of year when you visit.

West access to the falls requires 4WD, and roughly a twenty-minute walk. Once there, your heart rate increases as you stand on the rim of a canyon, with no walkways, viewing pads, or guardrails. Be prepared to get wet from the spray. Nothing stands between you and the thundering water.

Twenty minutes upstream (south) of Dettifoss you’ll find Selfoss, a little sister just as impressive in her own right. Downstream (north), just 2 km, you’ll come upon Hafragilsfoss, another waterfall which plunges into the deepest part of Jökulsá canyon, and which cuts through the Randarhólar crater row, ridges of lava that have collected from the spatter of the volcanic fissure in the east wall of the canyon.

Jökulsárgljúfur National Park will astound you with its surreal beauty. From the cliffs of Ásbyrgi — where Óðinn’s horse stamped a huge footprint in the earth — to the echoing rocks of Hljóðaklettar, you won’t find it hard to imagine that you’ve left the Solar System on an adventure to another world in a different galaxy.

You can read about spectacular places, or look at pictures, but Icelandic Mountain Guides offers several tours through some of the most stunning, surreal landscape in Iceland, to give you first-hand experience to last a lifetime.

Check out our spectacular tours through northeast Iceland:

Ásbyrgi - Mývatn - IMG44

Sixty-three kilometers and four days in Iceland’s eerie, Jökulsárgljúfur National Park. You’ll get soaked at Dettifoss, and will experience lava fields, craters of the Krafla volcano, and the famous lake Mývatn. The tour will exhilarate you with the sensation that you’ve walked from pastoral fields to craters on the moon.

Mývatn-Askja - IMG45

During this five-day backpacking adventure, we’ll hike from Lake Mývatn to Askja, with its natural beauty, diverse flora and fauna, and landscape shaped by volcanic activity. The colors, the scenery, and the stunning changes in landscape will provide you with memories you won’t be able to forget.

Neah Bay: Makah 1

I felt uncomfortably surprised in Neah Bay when my friend openly admitted being put-off by the look of dilapidation and that “these people wouldn’t do anything to better themselves.”  Better than what, I wondered.

Perspective is a funny thing. People can carry around hidden fears and biases, until the moment they are forced to bring their feelings straight to the surface.

Yes, the houses were run down, dogs ran all over town, and many yards had stacks of unwanted stuff lying on the ground. Still, I don’t think what I saw is what she saw. Neah Bay looked the way I thought it would. It’s a reservation. I’ve seen many, and I’ve seen worse. Indian nations are a whole different world. The dilapidation is the encroachment of the “white man”—the usurper. In my mind, I couldn’t think of how it would or should look any different, not after what the Makah have suffered. The European invasion of America demolished nearly everything that resembles native heritage and culture. Why shouldn’t an indian town reflect that.

We pulled into Neah Bay around one thirty, and stopped first at the Museum of the Makah Indian Nation. Our guide, Janine Bowechop, is the executive director of the museum, full-blooded Makah, as articulate as any professor with whom I’ve studied, and damned proud of her blood. I had never heard of the Makah, but I left the museum with overwhelming admiration. Over four thousand years ago, they were created through mythology—given sustenance by the Thunderbird—but they survived with scientific discovery and and engineering prowess. They still do.

They are a people who go head-to-head and toe-to-toe with life everyday. The Makah would not want it any other way. They fish, hunt, and log for survival. What they do defines them, and what they do—what they have done— fills them with pride. Their food does not come in plastic containers from Trader Joe’s. Their trinkets and knick-knacks do not sit idly on shelves, waiting to be dusted when company comes over. What they make for themselves has meaning and use. What they have gotten from the non-Indian lies discarded in heaps in their various yards—stacks of stuff that mean nothing to their heritage and way of life. Only because of changing times do they have to accept or buy into certain things and ideas; it’s hard not to when eighty percent of the vast lands that once marked your home were taken away in the 1855 Treaty of Neah Bay.

In the old days, they hunted whales from eight-man canoes. One man among the crew would jump onto the back of a harpooned whale, to sew closed the sea mammal’s mouth to ensure it could not submerge and escape. Riding the back of a wounded, albeit angry whale… I’ve never met a bull rider with that kind of intrepidity.

The Makah had to be a strong people. They still are; the land where they dwell, at the northern-most tip of the continental United States, demands it.

Thus, I will not berate them for the appearance of their yards, or their tendency to openly discard those things that the Earth does not provide. They have their own way of life, their own way of thinking, and I have no doubt that they are thinking quite along the same line as what the land needs and asks them to think.

Neah Bay: Makah 2

My friend surprised me again when she would not go into Take Home Fish Company, a dilapidated little shed in the backyard of a run down house owned by Kimm Brown, a full-blooded Makah who put on a pretty good show, until we let on that we knew he was putting on a show, and put on a show of our own.

My wife read about the fish shop in the Oregonian, had put it on her bucket list for whenever we took Trolley to Neah Bay. Because we did not take the ferry to Vancouver Island, Take Home Fish Company rose to the top of the list.

Eight hundred people live in the little fishing village at the edge of the world. It’s not hard to navigate yourself through town. It is hard to find someone home. My wife wanted to visit an art gallery, but it was closed. She had also read about another art shop, which was also closed.

We found Take Home Fish Company easily. My wife and I got out of Trolley and met our friends who had pulled up behind us.

My friend’s wife got out of their RV and stared wide-eyed, her arms folded. “You’re not serious about this?”

“Whadda ya mean?” I asked. “This place can’t have anything but the best catch.”

“I doubt that.”

I pretended not to hear. My wife and our friend followed me toward the decrepit little shanty. We stopped for a moment in the yard to play with the five dogs that were playing together. A girl of about seventeen stepped to the opening of the shed.

“Hello,” she beamed.

I followed her into the dark, rundown little shop marked with a hand painted sign. My wife and our friend followed me. His wife hung back, would not step foot in “such a dump.”

Brown stepped out from a closet at the back of the shed. “Look what I found,” he hollered, holding up a bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, an illegal item on the reservation. The label was nearly worn from the glass.

“Knock it off,” laughed a girl behind a make-shift counter. “These people want to buy.”

”They can buy all they want. We don’t have anything. Tell ‘em to go home, or send ’em out fishing. I’ll give ‘em the key to my boat.” He plopped down in a chair near the open door, of which there was no door. “Sorry, but we had a run on fish earlier. You get what’s left, unless you want to stay over and get what I may or may not catch tomorrow, if I even want to catch anything at all. Fishin’… just too damned much work.”

He pointed to a plastic Coleman cooler. I opened the lid and looked at three vacuum-sealed packages of smoked salmon, and one package of halibut.

“How much for the Halibut?” I asked.

“Twenty five bucks, American,” replied the girl.

“Double if you’re not from Canada,” quipped Brown.

“How much for the Salmon?” asked my friend. His wife peaked one eye inside the shed.

“You know,” said Kimm, “I don’t do math very good. Messed up my head with drugs when I was a kid. Cocaine, you know, was my drug of choice. Oh I miss that stuff.”

“Dad,” hissed the girl.

“Acid was my drug of choice,” I countered.

“Sugar cubes,” added my friend.

“Blue dots,” I insisted.

Brown laughed. “Tell you what. You want the salmon? How much you give me?”

“Sixty bucks for the fish and the vintage Mike’s Hard Lemonade.”

“Vintage,” he yelped. “Just bought it yesterday from a fella who looks like you.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I laughed. “He’s my evil twin brother. Stole the first bottle of liquor I ever bought for myself and came up here and sold it to you. Tell you what, skip the fish; how much for the Mike’s?”

“Oh you devil,” laughed Brown, winking at me. “Tell you what. For you, three salmon for forty, and I keep the booze.”

Later that night, during our usual evening of pinochle, My wife, our friend, and I shared one pack of Kimm Brown’s salmon. The three of us stared at each other, nearly with tears in our eyes. We had never tasted salmon done so well. I will make trips to Neah Bay specifically to purchase smoked salmon from Take Home Fish Company.

Sadly, my friend’s wife refused all offers to share such a joy.

Neah Bay: Makah 3

We pulled out from Take Home Fish Company, headed to Cape Flattery Road at the edge of town, four blocks away. Seven miles later, along the base of  Bahokus Peak, we reached the edge of the world.

Cape Flattery is a place that cannot be revealed by or translated into words. Even photographs do not display an accurate account. To get an idea of the power held within the land, one must experience Cape Flattery firsthand.

From the parking lot of the park we walked perhaps three quarters of a mile, often along a boardwalk of cedar planks, identical to the wooden path we took at Ozette.

Eight hundred feet from the actual point, a side-trail ended at a cliff, which overlooked a small cove guarded by tremendous rock formations and lush sea stacks. I do not know how long I stood mesmerized, but after some time I realized that my wife and my friend were no longer with me.

I met up with my friend at a lookout point just below the main observation platform. He had disappeared into the landscape in much the way I had just a few moments before. My wife had climbed onto the platform. She did not notice I had arrived.

I have traveled to all forty-eight continental United States of America, have seen more than my share of stunning places. Cape Flattery has taken over my dreams, and for the first time in over twenty-five years, I wake up and remember what I have dreamed.

Standing on the wooden outlook of the point, I wanted to hold my breath in wonder, but the power of the place only allows the body to feel the way it should. I could not feel the weight of myself, did not wince with arthritic pain as I leaned over this rail and that one to gape at the life happening where the Pacific Ocean folds into the waters of the Juan De Fuca Strait—puffin, cormorant, gulls, guillemots, sea lions, dolphins, and the dorsal of an orca… Sitka spruce, Cape primrose, cedar, hemlock… . Fog coming from the west blocked my view of Tatoosh Island, the home of the Cape Flattery Lighthouse, just seven hundred eighty-seven feet away. It didn’t matter. The cove off to my right basked in sunlight, with more sound, smells, and movement than I could fathom in a lifetime. It shone in direct contrast to what I would see of western Washington in three days time.

For a moment, I got the idea that if I jumped from the head, I would forever become a part of this place. Cape Flattery and I would be one-and-the-same. But my sanity reminded me that a jumper would cause too much commotion, and a lot of people would be either sad or pissed. I decided not to muck up such a beautiful place with an act of human folly. Besides, nothing lasts forever. One of these days, eternity will reclaim the beauty that it placed for a brief moment in our little corner of the universe, and Cape Flattery will return to the cosmos from whence it was borne.

In the meantime, I will sit with the joy of experiencing such a place. And when I’m not sitting, I will think of all the ways that I can return until I am reclaimed by eternity.

We spent so much time at Cape Flattery, that we did not arrive in Sekiu to camp until after sundown.

Ozette Lake

My wife and I walked a half-mile trail along the hill above Elwha Campground (illegally taking our pups*). We wanted to take a six-mile loop after breakfast, but by the time our pals rose from bed, ate, and we had walked our dogs, the morning disappeared. We wanted to make Neah Bay with enough time to explore the northwestern most tip of the United States.

Halfway along our western route on Highway 101, we ran into a road construction delay, Ten miles later, turning onto Highway 113, we ran into three more road delays. By the time we reached highway 112, we decided that we did not have enough time to reach Neah Bay and explore all that we wanted, so we opted for an early camping destination.

We took the Ozette Lake Campground turnoff, and within a mile began to wonder whether we had made a mistake with our choice of destination. The road roughed up our tires, and the never-ending tight bends and slow turns churned our stomachs. We discussed turning back to look for somewhere else to park our motorhomes for the night, but a big body of water suddenly gleamed like a jewel through the trees. We were back in Olympic National Park.

The campground, not modern, yet not primitive, was clean and roomy. Navigating the grounds was like walking through a park, and we found a flat site that accommodated both motorhomes.

Within fifteen minutes after our arrival, our friends were swimming in the cold waters of Ozette Lake. My wife and I chatted with kayakers, fishermen, and campers from as far away as Norway, Texas, and Nevada.

After the swim, we took the three-mile walk through a hemlock forest. The path, most of the way, was a “boardwalk” made of planks cut from driftwood. The novelty of the path and the beauty of the forest kept us from realizing we had walked for fifty minutes to reach the Pacific Ocean.

Coming out of the trees, the ocean vista was nothing we expected. Clusters of sea stacks rose out of the Pacific. Clusters of rock pads lined the shoreline, just twenty feet beyond the water’s edge. Several seal lions hunted for food just fifty yards out, and several whale spouts billowed from the water not much farther away. Above us, two bald eagles circled for several minutes to scan the beach activity.

Though tired, we did not complain about the fifty-minute walk back to camp.

We had no idea what we would learn about the lake on the morrow.

*—Unlike parks in Oregon, dogs are not allowed on the trails of National Parks in Washington.

Elwah Campground

Funny how distance and time can change a perspective. My wife and I always stood awestruck among the coastal redwoods (Sequoia sempervirens), thought we had never seen—or would ever see—forests as beautiful as those in Humboldt and Del Norte counties. Olympic National Park changed our thinking.

Originally, we intended to stay in Port Townsend at the Point Hudson RV Park, and then take a ferry from Port Angeles to Victoria and explore Vancouver Island, Canada, but at boarding time our friends balked, so we remained in our own country and ventured into the Olympic National Park.

Just before a small speck-of-nothing-town called Elwha, we turned onto Olympic Hot Springs Road, which ambles through a dense forest of Sitka Spruce and Western Hemlock.

My wife gasped. “This is what I always thought forests looked like in the Pacific Northwest.”

We stopped often along the road, and got out to gaze at the forest. Elwha enchanted us.

Undoubtedly, faeries, pixies, sprites, brownies, trolls, and the like inhabited the Elwha Valley. We love the redwood forests, but the temperate rain forests of Washington rendered us speechless.

Sadly, though, in the same way that Northern California forests and the mountains of Oregon are chipped and scarred by massive clearcuts, the lush forests of the Olympic Peninsula are surrounded by areas blighted by chainsaws and bulldozers.

Trees supply so much of our oxygen, and yet we cut them down the way chain-smokers rifle through packs of cigarettes. We’re cutting off our air supply.

Maybe we won’t nuke ourselves off the planet, or become extinct from climate change. Maybe we’ll suffocate.

Humboldt History

Dominion over the earth — that has been man’s goal since he first learned to use simple tools. Dominion, unfortunately, too often equates with destruction. Such is the history of the Lost Coast, though this land did hold out much longer than most undiscovered territories.

Several points along the Northern California coast were found as early as the late-1500’s, but Humboldt Bay was not “officially” discovered until three hundred years later. Because the exceptionally narrow entrance to the bay lay protected behind a shallow bar, a phalanx of jagged rocks and an almost continuous wall of tall breakers, sailors could not see the glass-like waters of one of Humboldt’s finest treasures.

Though it remained lost to the Europeans for so long, Humboldt did not suffer solitude. The first inhabitants of this undiscovered land were the Yurok, Hupa and Wiyot Indian tribes. The Mattoal, Lassik and Wailacki Indians lived in Southern Humboldt. These people of the earth were too busy living with the land, too busy fitting themselves into the scheme of Nature’s layout to bother themselves with gloating over land acquisitions. The indigenous peoples of the Lost Coast were individualistic. They cared little about what lay beyond the boundaries of the fog, or the local mountain ranges. Seldom did a member of any local Indian tribe venture more than thirty miles away from home during his or her lifetime.

From the outside, the Japanese, Chinese and the Russians were, most likely, the first to land upon the shores of the Lost Coast, though their contact with this part of the world was only by chance, perhaps from being blown off course during a journey, or because the captain of the ship was not skilled enough to avoid such dangerous seas. Their trips to Humboldt matter little, though, because they did not reach these inhospitable shores to further political causes, or to make their travels a matter of public record.

Truth and fiction become obscured even with records, however — especially when the recorded events happened more than four hundred years ago. At the time it is written, history is filled with the bias of the writer. Over time, especially after four hundred years, the lines of truth become blurred with hopes and romantic visions.

The most reliable records indicate that a Spanish expedition, led by Portuguese explorer Don Juan Rodriguez in 1542, was the first European discovery of the Northern California coastline. Cabrillo sailed from Navidad on June 7 and made his way as far north as the bay at San Miguel. Whether he made progress farther northward is doubtful. Severe weather -- a trademark of the Lost Coast -- forced the expedition back to calmer southern seas. Bartolome Ferrelo assumed command of the Cabrillo expedition, and ventured as far north as Point Arena. One year later, Ferrelo reached as far north as 40 degrees latitude, but his logs do not mention anything that resembles Humboldt Bay.

On route to discover the fabled Strait of Anian — the mythological Northwest passage — and with royal sanction to raid whatever Spanish galleons he might encounter, Sir Francis Drake sailed the Golden Hind to a point that he recorded as being farther north than 42 degrees latitude. Severe weather forced him to put in along the Oregon coast, after which he again sailed south, though nothing in his logs mentions the discovery of safe harbor along the Lost Coast. Historians believe that Drake may have discovered Buhne’s Point in 1579, but there is no proof that the famous explorer discovered Humboldt Bay.

In 1595, Sebastian Rodriguez Cermeno launched another Spanish expedition and reached Cabo Mendocino, named by the earlier explorer Ferrelo, in honor of Spanish Viceroy Mendoza. Cermeno sailed as far north as what is now called Trinidad Bay, though he did not anchor because of the dangerous rocks and the unyielding tide. Cermeno is credited with mapping the Lost Coast with great accuracy, yet his logs and maps failed to mention what is now called Humboldt Bay.

Not until 150 years later was the Lost Coast “officially” discovered. Juan Bodega found safe anchorage at Trinidad head on June 9, 1775, and took formal possession of the area two days later by planting the Spanish flag and erecting a cross with the inscription, “Charles II, by Grace of God, King of Spain..” June 11 was a Trinity Sunday, and thus the newly discovered landmark was christened Trinidad. Bodega remained at harbor until June 19th, after which nothing much is known until 1793, when Vancouver made his way to what he called “Trinidad Nook.” By 1800, Trinidad was well known to seafarers as the safest place to harbor beyond Shelter Cove, before sailing farther north to the Oregon Coast.

In 1806, it is said that Nicolas Resanof, under direction from the Russian American Fur Company, attempted to enter Humboldt Bay but could not, on account of the small entrance and the treacherous waters.

That same year, the honor of being the first captain to find the almost hidden entrance of Humboldt Bay and to sail her waters fell to Captain Jonathan Winship. He originally called it the “Bay of Indians.” The native people of Humboldt, however, did not like to intrusion of the white man, because the European explorers had begun to decimate the population of sea otters in a quest for fur. It is said that, during his travels to Humboldt, and then farther north to Alaska, Winship took in a catch of nearly 5,000 sea otters, and a catch of nearly 3,000 when he returned in 1809.

By 1812, fur traders lost interest in the Lost Coast because the decreased sea otter population made for unprofitable trips to the Humboldt shores. Hudson Bay Fur Company representatives stopped near Humboldt Bay in 1831, but they were unimpressed with the region and sailed on without dropping anchor.

The promise of gold in California changed the state forever, and Humboldt was not to be left out of the rush for wealth and quick fortunes. The gold diggings that began to tear up the Central Valley had spread north, and gold miners began to look for a way to transport gold from the headwaters of the Trinity River back to the Sacramento Valley, without having to tote their heavy loads across the rugged landscape of Northern California.

On November 5, 1849, a handful of gold miners set out from Rich Bar near Weaverville and headed toward the west, in a direction to where the Indians had reported a large bay. The party consisted of David A. Buck, Dr. Josiah Gregg, Thomas Sebring, Charles C. Southard, J.B. Truesdell, Isaac Wilson, L.K. Wood, and a Mr. Van Duzen. They set forth on their quest without knowing that they would spend the next month traversing some of the wildest, most grueling land on the earth. They were forced to ascend and descend mountains throughout the journey. To add to the rigors of their trek, the miners cold not ride their horses or mules, because the trees and the undergrowth grew to thickly for easy travel. At times, the men could travel no more than two miles a day, cutting their way through the thick foliage and fallen trees that were often twenty feet in diameter.

A week after setting out, the miners found the south fork of the Trinity River, which they followed to the main stem of the Trinity River. Game was scarce, and within a week the men were in danger of starving in the dreary North Coast winter.

On December 16, the tired party came within earshot of the surf. The next day, they came upon the mouth of the Little River, which they followed north, stopping finally at Trinidad to rest for several days.

On a clear day, you can stand at the site where Ferrelo erected the engraved cross and see a glimmering splinter of Humboldt Bay. Lost Coast winters, however, rarely allow glimpses of the sun, and it is a safe assumption that in mid-December, the miners failed to see their goal through the fog and the heavy rain. From Trinidad, they were but twenty miles north from the bay. But from Trinidad, they set out north, away from the bay, and instead made their way to Big Lagoon.

They returned south to the Little river, which they crossed, and reached the Mad River, so named because of a fracas between Gregg and the rest of the party. Emotions were high, because the men were tired and hungry. Gregg wanted to remain upon the river a while longer to make scientific observations and to make surveys of the land. The party did not want to linger, and when they set off, Gregg lost his temper and screamed obscenities like a banshee at his fellow travelers. Thus, the river got its name.

Gregg managed to get back with the party, and on the night of December 20, 1849, they stopped and camped on the dunes of the north peninsula, near what are now called the towns of Samoa and Manila. While searching for water, David Buck peered through the darkness and saw a body of water. The following day, the party stepped from the might towering sequoias and discovered Humboldt Bay by land.

They camped and spent Christmas where Arcata is now located, and then continued south with hopes of reaching San Francisco. Quarrels erupted between the men on which was the best route to reach their destination, and since they could not come to a compromise, the party split into two groups. Gregg, Van Duzen, Southard and Truesdell decided to make their way by following the coastline. Buck, Sebring, Wilson and Wood followed the Eel River, and found themselves faced with more danger than they wanted. The weather in the mountains grew fierce. Snow fell, forcing the men to stop and camp for five days. On January 26, Wilson and Wood became separated from their two comrades, and came face-to-face with a den of grizzly bears that were foraging in a small prairie near what is now called Redcrest. The promise of meat in winter made the men and the animals anxious for one another. The men devised a plan in which they would fire their rifles upon the bears, and then run for the nearest tree. Wilson made a kill and clambered up the nearest tree. Wood, however, after downing one bear, decided instead to remain in the clearing to reload his weapon for another volley. He did not have time enough to discharge a second shot before a third bear attacked him. Wood’s only recourse was to use his rifle as a club, which gave him enough advantage to scramble toward the tree where his partner sat perched upon a branch. But as he climbed, the persevering bear charged and knocked down the tree, sending both men tumbling onto the ground. Wilson managed to scramble up another tree. Wood was not lucky, though only by luck was he not fatally mauled by the grizzly that “suddenly lost interest and wandered off.”

The two men, because of the severity of their wounds, were forced to remain at the clearing for two weeks, after which they received medicinal help from a local Indian and were reunited with Buck and Sebring. A debate ensued about whether to continue along with Wood, or to leave him to die. The decision to strap Wood to a horse was made, and the party made their way to San Francisco. Isaac Wood eventually returned to Humboldt by ship and settled in Uniontown, which is now Arcata.

The other party also suffered hardships. The four men found the going too difficult at Cape Mendocino, and turned inland across the mountains toward the Sacramento Valley. Upon nearing Clear Lake, Dr. Gregg died. Southard and Truesdell and Van Duzen reported that their companion died from starvation, though most folks with an interest in the history of Humboldt believe that Gregg was murdered, and buried without a trace near where he died. Gregg’s three companions made their way safely to the Sacramento Valley in late February, 1850.

That spring, not knowing of the land discovery of Humboldt Bay, the Laura Virginia sailed from San Francisco and came upon mouth of the Eel River, which crewmen could see from the masthead. They could not see the entrance to Humboldt Bay because of the continuous line of breakers that conceal the small channel that opens into the bay. Continuing north, Captain Ottinger of the Laura Virginia sailed to the mouth of the Mad River, and of Little River, and then anchored in Trinidad for awhile. Ottinger’s further explorations took he and his crew to the mouth of the Klamath River, and as far north as Point St. George, which is now Crescent City. The Laura Virginia returned south to Trinidad.

Ottinger dispatched a shore party that hiked to Humboldt Bay on April 3, 1850. They camped upon the site where once stood the Humboldt lighthouse, and then returned to their ship to report their discovery of the “lagoon” where the Eel River emptied into Humboldt Bay.

On April 9, Second Officer Hans H. Buhne and three crewmen of the Laura Virginia attempted to cross the channel of the bay in a schooner. The boat was nearly swamped a dozen or so times, but Buhne managed to steer his crew through the heavy breakers and into the bay. Five days later, the Laura Virginia party established Humboldt City, just north of what is now Buhne’s Point.

The Laura Virginia was commissioned by the Laura Virginia Association, for the purpose of securing and taking possession of any discovered lands that the ship’s officers, and the on-board trustees of the association deemed of agricultural or commercial value. The fifty passengers aboard the Laura Virginia were equipped with provisions for two months, and gold digging machinery.

Thus began the settlements of the Lost Coast. Towns began became to blossom from an influx of pioneers. It took little time for Humboldt Bay to become a major port along the North Coast. Humboldt City eventually disappeared, and Union became Arcata. The town of Bucksport came and went quickly, giving way to Eureka. Towns like Kneeland and Korbel prospered during the lumber heydays.

Much good came from the discovery of Humboldt Bay. But with the discovery of a new and uncharted territory comes the threat of man’s dominion over the planet. Gold digging and the lumber industry wrought massive destruction throughout Humboldt.

Trees bigger in diameter than the perimeter of most houses in Humboldt once grew so close to the shoreline that the waves of the mighty Pacific Ocean once lapped at their roots. Those days are gone. Though the lumber industry has suffered near-debilitating losses and mill closures, many spots in Humboldt remain bare from where the magnificent sempervirens sequoias were stripped from massive patches of land.

Still, so much beauty remains in Humboldt to captivate the folks who live upon the waters and in the forests of the Lost Coast. Most of us who live here now will never leave.