Trans Catalina Trail

                                                                     by Andrea Ehrgott – Aug 2021

 I am convinced that every additional ounce in one’s backpack results in bruises, blisters, aches and pains on a logarithmic scale. In preparation for our Trans Catalina Trail (tct) trip—a last minute change due to smoke in the Sierras, I even weighed my underwear to select the lightest. As for a tent, it had to be feather weight, so I ordered a bivvy, a flimsy nylon sarcophagus providing a mere two inches of room to the sides and four inches above my sleeping bagged body, but weighing only 1.5 lbs. Sadly REI has not yet figured out how to make water lighter.

Shortly after the ferry left San Pedro harbor, where we’d been mesmerized watching containers being unloaded and loaded on cargo ships like an automated unstoppable lego building exercise, the intimidating profile of Catalina came clearly into view. I wondered if there was any chance a quick gust of accelerated erosion might lower the steep mountains a few hundred feet before we docked.  

We three are in our sixties, arguably too old for an adventure involving backpacks, five nights camping, and hiking over thirty miles from one end of the island to the other. We’ve known each other since our kids were in preschool and we’ve hiked in our local SM mountains over the years, but this was the first time we’d carried backpacks and camped together, the first time we’d shared dehydrated dinners, band-aids, toilet paper, and sporks. To add to the absurdity, we thought it would be a lark to wear pearl (fake) necklaces. Why not?

We walked along the coast from Two Harbors the first overcast morning and after several miles found a deserted private club where three Adirondack chairs invited us to stop and take our boots off and gaze at the yacht-dotted sea. A swim in the clear water of Emerald Bay refreshed us sufficiently for the long walk back to the campground and along the way, a bald eagle soared over the inlets. It was a sweet warm-up to our trek. That night, after Fish and Chips at the only restaurant, I wormed into my sleeping bag and bivvy. Through the fly net, I studied the starry night sky and fell asleep to the monotonous rhythm of breaking waves.  

The trail, the next day, took us inland up a mountain (1500’) and down again to Little Harbor on the other side of the island. It was tough and slow-going. We arrived early enough to relish the pretty coves, the campground shaded by Canary Palms, to swim along the rocky point, to paint, and wash clothes, all while keeping a close eye on a lone bison, apparently a permanent camp resident. He seemed most at home in our campsite and slept soundly under a tree not far from us that night.

From Little Harbor to the next campground, Black Jack, was hard work. The trail climbed steadily up to the middle of the island, and from the moment the sun rose, it was hot. Among the chaparral’s dry grass, browned shrubs and prickly pear, the few trees seemed defeated by the drought, leaves shriveled, few in number, and coated in dust. We stopped regularly to drink water, adjust our backpacks, soak up the panoramic views and to watch a herd of bison grazing. The promise of lunch at the small airport cafeteria motivated us to keep going. Suffering a little from heat exhaustion plus a good amount of regular exhaustion, we stayed at the airport long after our lunch, waiting for the air conditioner to revive us and for the heat of the day to pass before we continued. The last two miles to Black Jack, although tiring, was quite lovely with more diversity in the vegetation and more interesting topography. At this campground, the only one accessible exclusively to backpackers, we got a true sense of how many people hike the TCT. Not many. I could count the tents on one hand. I don’t know my astronomy but the night sky was beautiful and three planets stood out among the stars, dimmed only when the moon rose. Getting in and out of the bivvy is difficult at the best of times, but when leg cramp woke me up later that night, it was a slow, painful, and complicated effort to extract myself from the double confines of sleeping bag and tiny tent. A little later, after I’d wriggled my way back in, several bison walked through the moonlit campground, and I heard one snorting and huffing nearby. The only reason I slept is because I imagined they had to be ground squirrels or foxes, looking for scraps.

We left early the next day for the longest leg of the trail, 11 miles, to Hermit Gulch campground a mile outside Avalon, the main town on the island and our terminus. It was long and hot, long and hard, long and dusty, long and steep. At times the trail ran alongside a dirt road with traffic, at times it deviated, and other times it overlapped with the road, not the wilderness experience we longed for. There were trucks carrying cement, trucks servicing the cell phone towers and other infrastructure, and there were “safari” jeeps carrying tourists across the island, presumably to see the bison and beaches. Evidently we were unusual specimens to be pointed out too. One jeep stopped on the roadside and we heard the driver who was pointing at us, talking over the microphone to his safari customers mentioning words like “backpack” and “camp” and  “35 miles”. I decided, like any wild animal under observation, to speed up and make myself scarce.

It was a relief to finally reach Hermit Gulch campground, to rest, eat and shower. Foxes and deer visited as the sun went down. However a few hours later when we were ready to sleep (at eight pm), other campers were warming up with vodka and drugs for loud partying which went on long after midnight. I’d like nothing more than to erase this night from the adventure so that it doesn’t leave a sour taste. Next time I’d avoid this stop; I’d continue all the way to Avalon directly and take the evening ferry home, dirt and all.

Will I do this again, I kept asking myself? Apart from a level of fitness and a tolerance for dirt and discomfort, backpacking requires organized discipline and a good memory for all the storage details. A bottle of water must be within easy reach at all times, sunblock has to be reapplied throughout the day, blisters attended to, a tent rolled up wet from morning dew has to be dried out later in the day. I’m not so worried that my legs will be the reason I stop backpacking, or my back; it’s more likely to be my memory. What happened to my chap-stick? Who has the map? Which pouch did I put the granola bar in? Where did I put the car keys? Sad to say, I lost the pearls. They were probably left at one of the campgrounds and whoever camps there next must be mystified. I also lost the matches, necessary to start the stove - fortunately my fellow camper had a lighter. And a toenail is still tender and dark red suggesting that I will be losing that too before long.

But yes, it was worth it. There is satisfaction in taking any inviting path from beginning to end, and a feeling of accomplishment in following a ridge to stand atop a mountain from where horizons are widest. There is the delight of swimming in and out of clumps of healthy kelp after being overheated and dusty. It’s lovely to get to know friends even better, and it’s pure euphoria when it’s all over and the boots come off.

What happens when the price of a meal at your favorite restaurant suddenly increases?  Maybe you’ll eat there less often.  If cooling your home gets more expensive because your electricity rates go up, you might decide (if you haven’t already done so), to install solar panels on your roof.  It’s an economic truism - as the price of the product goes up, demand goes down.

Economists are in near universal agreement that making fossil fuels more expensive by putting a national fee or tax on them is the fastest and most efficient way to reduce their use.  That in turn will, of course, cut down on the CO2 emissions that play such a huge part in global warming.  Making coal, gas, and oil more expensive will also incentivize the development of alternative energy sources - like solar, wind, and hydroelectric power - which will become even more price competitive than they already are.  As Paul Hawken has said, “There’s not a single solution in Drawdown that wouldn’t accelerate...if we had carbon pricing.”

Recognizing that fact, legislators introduced six bills in the last Congress (2019-2020), proposing some kind of carbon tax or fee.  Six were introduced by Democrats and two by Republicans, an interesting show of bipartisan support for pricing CO2.  

None have come up for a vote, but some are sure to be reintroduced soon into our new Congress.  One of those is the Energy Innovation and Carbon Dividend Act (EICDA/HR 763), which not only had the most co-sponsors (86), but was also the only one with both Democratic and Republican co-authors, enhancing its bipartisan chances of passage.  The EICDA would put a fee on fossil fuels of $15/ton of carbon dioxide emissions when burned.  That fee would rise by $10/ton per year, with a larger increase if emission reduction targets are not met.  The fina target is a reduction of CO2 emissions to 90% of 2016 levels by 2050.

Once passed, the law would take effect in only 270 days.

We all remember the “yellow vests” movement in France in 2018, when protests against a rise in the gasoline tax broke out nationwide, supported by a large majority of the population.  The EICDA is different, because it protects people from any price spikes: the revenue from the fee on fossil fuels would be rbated in equal shares or dividends to the American people (with children receiving a half share).  Those payments would kick in a month before imposition of the carbon fee.  Recipients could use that money to, say, sign up for rooftop solar or ramp up their homes’ energy efficiency.  The increased price advantage of renewables over fossil fuels would also incentivize investors and power companies to shift toward clean energy.

The dividend speaks to the Sierra Club belief that equity matters: “No one should bear an unfair burden,” says the Sierra Club Carbon Pricing Guidance, “whether economic or environmental”.  While flat income taxes are regressive, this “flat” dividend is progressive, since low-income families, who spend less on energy than do the wealthy, would get back in dividends more than they’d pay out for higher energy prices.  As Manuel Pastor and James K. Boyce write in The Nation, “Carbon dividends would yield a net increase in income for everyone whose carbon footprint is smaller than average” (https://www.thenation.com/article/archive/carbon-economics-climate-change/).

Carbon pricing bills need to speak to environmental justice, but none of those introduced into Congress last year - to our knowledge - fulfill the Sierra Club principle of “engaging early” those most adversely affected by climate change.  EICDA, which is preferred by Citizens’ Climate Lobby, partially fulfills economic justice principles by reducing pollution associated with emissions in low-income communities and communities of color.  But it doesn’t assuage the fear in those communities that they’ll still be left behind by these climate fighting measures.  It would also be crucial for Congress, or perhaps state legislatures, to attack pollution “hot spots” in these communities, so that they can be cleaned up once and for all, without emitters wrangling a way to keep polluting them.

Both Sierra Club and Citizens’ Climate Lobby agree that carbon pricing is not a silver bullet for solving climate change.  We also need just transition programs that work, not simply promises of green energy jobs.  But putting a fee on fossil fuels while protecting frontline communities is a great way to start fighting global warming.  Five economists from Columbia University’s Center on Global Energy Policy agree.  Their study conservatively estimates that EICDA would drive emissions reductions of 36%-38% by 2030, exceeding the U.S. commitments to the Paris Agreement for that period (“An Assessment of the Energy Innovation and Carbon Dividend Act”).

by Kathy Seal, member of the Sierra Club’s West Los Angeles Group Executive Committee and leader of the West LA/Santa Monica Chapter of Citizens’ Climate Lobby

THE SAINT FROM AMERICA                          BY                      Gil Roscoe

    The idea came to me when I was twenty-four. Why not try to go around the world? I’d do it on my own with a backpack. I’d camp and stay in youth hostels. I’d see if I could find work along the way. It seemed like a quixotic dream, but the possibility possessed me. I began to set about arranging for it. In September of 1974 my mother dropped me off on a highway in southern New York. I stuck my thumb out and headed west.

    Over a year later, in December of 1975, I woke up in a cheap hotel in Jodhpur, India. I was living on the money I had saved while juggling two jobs in Perth, Australia for three months. On this day my plan was to walk up the hill north of the city and take a tour of The Old Fort that once defended Jodhpur. I didn’t know that in the hills between the city and the Old Fort lived a community of holy men.

    I walked by one of these men as he sat in front of his hut. He called me over. He spoke English and was very interested in who I was and the history of my life. I told him I was attempting to go around the world. The conversation immediately stopped and he just nodded his head for a few seconds. The next thing he did was to ask me to stay with him in his little hut. I thought it might be interesting, so I agreed.

    In India people don’t only want to know if you’re having a good time on your trip. They will often ask, “What is the purpose of this journey?” To the holy man my attempt to go around the world was not the whim of a young American with endless wanderlust. To him it was a pilgrimage with huge spiritual implications. The word spread quickly among the community that a man on a holy mission was staying with one of their fellows. The local Saddhu came and paid me a visit. My host translated his questions and my answers. I must have passed the test because I was readily accepted as one of them. My quest to circle the globe had given me instant holy man status. I enjoyed two days of conversations and invitations. I drank a lot of tea. I painfully discovered that a lot of chai can be a bad idea in a location where it’s hard to find a place to pee.

    Then everything changed. Word got out down in the city of Jodhpur that there was a Saint from America up in the hills. People started coming to see for themselves. It got kind of crazy. They would tell me about their lives and ask my advice. They would argue over who would get to talk to me next. One man wanted me to assign him a task to perform in order to prove his worthiness to speak with me. The dinner and lunch invitations were hard to keep straight in my head. A French anthropologist happened by while doing some research on local languages. He just shook his head when I explained to him how I had become an instant saint. After a week of this it got to be too much. I made a plan to slip away to the train station. I would head for Jaipur and relax for a few days. I desperately needed to feel like normal, unholy me again. People were making life decisions based on my advice. I couldn’t handle it anymore.

    One man had wanted to meet with me the next day to discuss some aspect of his life. He was the only one I told that I would be leaving by train the next morning.

   My sneak-away from the hills was quietly successful. But of course, there were a dozen people at the train station. They had flowers for me. They bowed as this world-circling pilgrim retreated from the most attention he’d ever had in his life. I had learned that being a saint is very tricky business. I was done with it.

 Gil Roscoe is a novelist living in Los Angeles. His books are available on all ebook services.

Trekking the Lares Trail in Peru’s Andes

Directly under the equatorial sun, hot air rises and drifts from the Amazonian jungle, carrying an endless supply of moisture. The water-laden clouds waft up and over the Andes Mountains and unload heavy rain, drenching the volcanic peaks, steep mountainsides and deep valleys; generously soaking me too.  The trail under my muddy hiking boots—one of thousands used by the Incas—is rough with granite rocks and it meanders between enormous boulders. Everywhere the ground is peppered in llama and alpaca droppings. In places the rocks are piled up in protective walls around small potato fields which are saturated by the rain and fertilized thanks to the livestock. Eking out a living at this altitude are the resilient descendants of the Incas, Quechuan speaking farmers. When the Spanish arrived hundreds of years ago, the Inca fled into the high Andes where they managed to survive growing potatoes and herding llamas. Today they still wear traditional dress, layers of woven and knitted sweaters; women in hats and thick skirts with knitted leg warmers, men in red woven ponchos easily noticed from afar, glints of bright color amid cloud.

It is too wet to sit on the grass by our tents. I stand shivering on a huge boulder and turning from one side to the other, I look at the lay of the land, the moody mountains shrouded in mist and the rocky valleys. Three girls in their indigenous dress play behind me on the rock, whispering secrets to each other, too shy to look in my direction. I am deep in thought, imagining the steps my husband took in these same mountains, forty years ago when he also visited Peru, long before these girls or their parents were born. Retracing his steps to Maccu Picchu is what motivated me to sign up for this three-day hike, to endure the challenge of high altitude hiking in cold rain with a group of people less than half my age.

The two smallest girls catch me by surprise with their Quechuan equivalent of “Boo”. I am not expecting it, and nearly fall off the boulder in fright, but it’s a universal game, the rules well known, and I have to reciprocate. I slowly pull out my plastic rain poncho with both hands, growl fiercely pretending to be a monster, and try to catch them under the crinkling plastic. Like little mountain goats, they dart away, jump from rock to rock, shriek with laughter, and evade capture. They wear several woolen garments under colorful cardigans, full skirts, warm legwarmers and hats, but open-toed plastic sandals. I point to their feet and ask in sign language if their feet are cold. Mine are frozen despite wearing two pairs of socks and hiking boots. They laugh. I move closer and touch their mud caked toes. Impossibly they are warm.

It all seems impossible. Miles to my west, two enormous tectonic plates meet at the eastern Pacific seabed. Moving east, the Nazca plate, compressed under the weight of the ocean is denser and thinner than the west-moving continental South American plate. Both move slowly but forcefully enough to create a deep offshore trench at the collision site. This abysmal scar provides a cold upwelling of nutrients for marine life. (Changes in temperature and associated fish catch alerted Peruvian fishermen to the “El Nino” cycle decades ago.) Nazca loses in the ongoing, shuddering tectonic battle and is subducted under the buoyant South American plate, consumed deep into earth’s mantle. The journey down is turbulent, hot with friction, and Nazca crust melts into magma chambers, reservoirs of molten rock. Periodically this bursts to the surface, volcanoes erupt and the Andes take form. The long mountain range, offset and parallel to the boundaries of two colliding plates and to the oceanic trench, stands here magnificently, a consequence of gradual movement of plates, unnoticeable, under the little girls’ impossibly warm feet.

A few days later I watch the clouds of mist over the remarkable Maccu Picchu ruins. One minute the Inca citadel is entirely obscured from view and the next, the mist disperses to reveal the Inca citadel, like a curtain being opened and closed, teasing us with glimpses of ancient stone terraces, spaced regularly up the mountainside, temples and walls. When the last of the clouds pass and Machu Picchu is clearly visible in all its expansive glory, visitors’ minds gasp trying to appreciate the decades of hard work, clearing the land, cutting stone into blocks for precision fitting, moving rocks, and constructing the carefully designed, beautiful city cradled high among mountain peaks in thin air, towering above sacred valleys and thundering rivers.  

-Andrea Ehrgott, March 2020

The Power of One by Gil Roscoe

    I have been part of discussions where people bemoan their inability to change things. When I hear these complaints, I practice my one chance in life to be a conversation stopper. I casually remark that I got a change in the law introduced into the United States Senate all by myself. Of course, after dropping a statement like that, I have to explain it….so here goes.

    In 1973, I was twenty-four years old, and running a federal disaster center in St. Charles, Missouri. How I came to be in that position at such a young age is a long story and to explain it would require this entire newsletter.  So I’ll skip ahead and get right to the heart of the matter.

    In the spring of 1973, the Mississippi River overflowed its banks to the point where there were areas eleven miles from the river that were underwater.  The federal government was quite generous in those days when it came to helping people who had lost their homes. Ten thousand dollars in free money was available to flood victims, and one-percent loans to rebuild were available through the Small Business Administration.  However, the laws pertaining to this situation applied only to damaged structures, not to damaged property.  People who had houses or summer homes near the river left the disaster center pleased with the results of their visit. The farmers did not. Telling those men in overalls that we could do nothing for them when it came to their ruined crops and eroded fields broke my heart day after day.

    A new hospital happened to be opening in St. Charles and Senator Thomas Eagleton was in town for the dedication. I got myself up from behind my desk and went over there with the idea of trying to remedy this situation. I know that sounds crazy, but that’s what I thought. Because I was persistent, I managed to get a moment alone with the Senator. I didn’t immediately launch into a pitch for a change in the law, but instead invited him over to the disaster center to visit some of the flood victims. I figured, first I’d get him on my territory, and then spring my proposal. But Senator Eagleton turned down my invitation. He said he had to go to a dinner in St Louis, and didn’t have the time. He quickly walked away.  I went back to the disaster center with a dark cloud over my head. How could I have been so naïve?

    About forty-five minutes after I returned to my desk, a man carrying an overstuffed briefcase came looking for me. He asked if I was the one who had invited the Senator to visit the disaster center. I replied that I was. He said it was a great idea. The Senator would be there in half-an-hour. Sure enough, Senator Eagleton and his entourage showed up and they toured the disaster center. He got his picture on the front page of the St Charles newspaper, but it wasn’t from the hospital dedication. It was a picture of him talking with flood victims at the disaster center.

    While the Senator was on his tour of the building, his aide sat down with me and asked how things were going. That’s when I explained about the people with summer homes on the river getting access to all that money, and the farmers getting nothing. He paid close attention, and took notes.

    A little more than a week later, I was reading the St. Louis newspaper.  There was an article about Senator Eagleton introducing a bill into the Senate to change the disaster relief laws. The change was exactly as I had pitched it to his assistant. It was one of the proudest days of my life.

    Why do I tell you this story? Because this democracy works sometimes. Don’t  ever forget that. If you are passionate about an environmental cause, or any cause for that matter, never think you can’t get something done. I did.

 Gil Roscoe’s novels are available on all ebook services.

Pembrokeshire Coast Path

Mendocino’s Magnificent World by Donna Barnett

The threatened northern spotted owl is perched on a 2,000 year-old Redwood tree, 370 feet above an enchanted forest floor of moss, ferns and three-leaf clovers. Her brown eyes are surrounded by chestnut feathers with small white spots. The elegant raptor observes a magnificent world of old-growth trees where wood-peckers, salamanders, flying squirrels (dinner), and threatened species like the Marbled murrelet live. A deer enters the grove of my dream.

I fell in love with “virtual” Mendocino County when I hosted a Chasing Clean Air radio segment about saving old-growth Redwood trees in Mendocino’s Noyo River Canyon. In 2011, The Mendocino Land Trust and Save the Redwoods League raised awareness and $7 million to buy the 426-acre old growth forest from loggers in order to preserve the Redwoods and the threatened species that depend on them. Only five percent of the original 120,000 acres of the world’s tallest trees remain in Northern California and Southern Oregon. The Coastal Redwoods—1,000-2,000 years-old—reach up to 379 feet. One to two percent of these old growth trees are in Mendocino.

California was in its fifth year of drought, which meant mega-fires and climate change were accelerating. Invasive beetles and species, increasingly destroyed trees and their inhabitants.

If I didn’t see Mendocino’s old growth forests now, when?

On August 4, 2016, my friend Patricia Jordan and I left the Bay Area for coastal Mendocino. We drove Highway 101 north in her hybrid, veering left onto two-lane Highway 128. Weaving through tree-shade and sun, we passed through the lush Anderson Valley known for sustainable wineries, green trees, blue skies, and some of California’s cleanest air.

We pulled into Lula Cellars to enjoy a picnic, gold-medal 2012 Costa Pinot Noir, and a vineyard tour with owner Jeff Hansen.

I asked about sustainability. “We build up a colony of positive bugs, and bad bugs don’t have a chance,” Jeff said, sharing how his Pinot Noir grapes grew naturally. “We don’t use herbicides or pesticides. Positive predators like barn owls eat bad predators like mice.” Turned out that Mendocino winemakers led the country in organic and sustainable practices, and Mendocino County was America’s first jurisdiction to ban GMOs.

A three and a half hour drive north from San Francisco, the historic town of Mendocino situated on coastal bluffs, overlooks the Pacific.  About 900 residents and countless visitors enjoy hiking, kayaking, bike riding, bird and wildlife watching, farmers markets and the arts—including a July classical music festival. There was one traffic light, and no Starbucks, chain stores or fast food in this New England-styled town, maintaining its unique charm.

Just south of Mendocino, Pat and I checked into the elegant, “Victorian” Little River Inn, family-owned since 1863. A traditional feel permeated ocean-view rooms, a golf course and spa. Its Zagat award-winning Little River Inn Restaurant overlooked gardens and spectacular coastline. I enjoyed Alaskan Halibut pan seared over saffron couscous with toasted coconut, peanuts, raisins and mild curry sauce. Local organic vegetables and wine. Adirondack rocking chairs on the guest room’s veranda offered tranquility and Pacific sunsets. Lulled to sleep by the ocean, I woke refreshed for paddling nearby Big River.

Rick Hemmings of Catch-A-Canoe and Bicycles Too, provided a locally-handmade Redwood canoe—a stable outrigger with an efficient design that he said couldn’t tip over. At 1:30 p.m. we gently paddled with the tide up Big River’s estuary, a navigable eight-miles, passing ducks, egrets, river otter, and double crested cormorants. It was Pat’s first canoe adventure. I focused my camera while Pat steered from behind with a foot pedal. The river curved like a ribbon, inviting curiosity. What lurked beyond?

The river’s beauty was such that we didn’t notice the blue sky turn gray. A breeze picked up.  “I feel cold,” Pat said.

We turned around, hugging the river banks.

“Watch that log near the water’s surface!” I pushed my paddle into shallow waters. Pat navigated. Dock in sight, we sang, “Michael row the boat ashore… ” Some climb Everest. We paddled Big River, earning the smile of accomplishment from a lovely afternoon.

“If you love Redwoods,” a local said, “you’ve got to see Montgomery Woods State Reserve. It’s one of California’s 31 Redwood parks, and remote.” We drove the twisty, 30-mile Comptche-Ukiah road in an hour, moving aside for speedy trucks. Scenic tree-lined mountains were a reprieve from an increasingly bumpy ride due to gravelly conditions the last 15 miles.

We arrived to Montgomery Woods SR, a 2,743-acre grove and fern forest with Sierra and Coast Redwoods. In the 1940s, the grove was acquired by the Save the Redwoods League and donated to state parks. The small parking lot with an outhouse led to informative panels and picnic tables. We crossed a bridge, and climbed a steep 900-foot elevation entrance, leading to the Redwood grove of my dream.

Raw beauty.

Pat and I walked upstream along Montgomery Creek to five never logged redwood groves. Blankets of ferns and three-leaf clovers. Tall trees—to the sky!  Fallen trees with giant splayed roots. We stepped over roots, streams, and thousands of years of natural history. Trails weren’t always discernible. Daylight and a good sense of direction proved important. The three-mile loop took about an hour; the memories, surely a lifetime.

That night, we arrived to the rustic and luxurious Brewery Gulch Inn.  Overlooking Smuggler’s Cove and the Pacific, we’d enjoy nightly light buffets, featuring local, organic produce and carefully chosen wines. Hearty breakfasts, too. The communal dining room with floor to ceiling windows opened to a sloping hill with wooden chairs for scenic viewing. The open space fostered friendships. We met travelers beating the Arizona heat, and Europeans traveling scenic Highway 1. The Craftsman-style inn utilized ancient virgin redwood timbers eco-salvaged from Big River, lending a warm ambience. The night sky offered brilliant stars, and the inn a handy telescope.

The next morning, we headed 10 miles north to Fort Bragg for a whirlwind tour. There was Glass Beach with rugged ocean views but not much glass. The Pudding Creek Express Skunk Train ride through meadows and trees. Mendocino Coastal Botanical Garden with Dahlias in full bloom, and a path to the coastal bluffs. Historic downtown Fort Bragg had art galleries and book stores. Returning on Highway 1, Point Cabrillo Lighthouse—a bird and whale-watching mecca in fall and spring—and Jug Handle State Reserve and Beach, geologically rich and beautiful.

Our last day featured Hendy Woods State Park (handicap accessible), just off Highway 128. Soft leaves covered the flat Discovery and Upper Loop Trails to Big Hendy Grove. In the sanctuary of old growth Redwoods, we sat on a log. Whiffs of earthy wood. A gentle breeze rustled leaves. The Navarro river whispered. Our gaze lifted. Redwood tips touched, as one swayed like a gentle dancer. Birds sang.

The peace of a thousand years.

The gentle giants were Mendocino’s greatest gift, and our souvenir to inspire others to preserve old growth Redwoods, providing habitat to threatened creatures and life-giving oxygen to all. We started back when I felt compelled to turn: Sun rays flooded the Redwoods’ path—illuminating Mendocino’s magnificent world.

When You Go

Save the Redwoods: Learn about protecting Redwood forests www.savetheredwoods.org

Little River Inn: 7901 N. Highway One, Little River, CA (888) INN-LOVE littleriverinn.com

Brewery Gulch Inn: 9401 N. Highway One, Mendocino, CA  (707) 937-4752 brewerygulchinn.com

Visit Mendocino offers helpful information to plan your trip: visitmendocino.com

Lula Cellars: lulacellars.com 2800 Guntley Road, Philo, CA Tasting room open daily 10-6

State Parks of the Mendocino District: Learn about the 17 Mendocino California State Parks http://mendoparks.mcn.org

Catch A Canoe and A Bike Too: catchacanoe.com, (707) 937-0273

Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens at 18220 N. Highway 1, south of Fort Bragg: gardenbythesea.org (707) 964-4352

Historic Skunk Train: Reservations suggested (707) 964-6371 skunktrain.com

Donna Barnett is a long time Sierra Club member and environmental activist, who writes the blog "Chasing Clean Air."

Solstice Hike and Potluck: Cosmic Equality

Over the course of the year, the WLA Sierra Club encourages us to migrate along the Paseo Miramar fire road in Pacific Palisades to the Parker Mesa Outlook in Topanga State Park, up and down, rain or shine, winter or summer, in light or dark, every Friday evening. Speaking for myself, it never becomes easy but after a few Fridays, it does become second nature, a practiced routine, as if we’re pulled by magnetic attraction to the Outlook to check on the ocean and then drawn back down mercifully by gravitational force.  

Meanwhile on a slightly grander scale, as Earth follows its own well-worn fire road around the sun, the axis steadfastly tilted to the North Star, the direct rays of the midday sun migrate from the southern hemisphere, across the equator, to the North, and back again. Day lengths shorten and lengthen accordingly. On Friday June 21st, we celebrated the North’s longest day of the year (13 hours and 51 minutes at 340 N) and our nearest subsolar rays (striking the Tropic of Cancer) with a hike up Los Liones trail to a perfect picnic spot with sweeping views of city lights and sparking coastline. We were rewarded with clear views, good food, a pretty sunset at 8:08pm, and we were treated to music (thanks for bringing the stringed instrument), joyful singing, and even some giddy dancing. As we paraded back down the rocky trail in the dark, the bouncing beams of our flashlights and headlamps outlined the hair-pin bends and mimicked the tiny glow bugs pulsing in the undergrowth.

What more could you ask for? Well, how about 3 more potlucks please?! 

If we’re going to celebrate the longest day, it only seems fair to also recognize our longest night, winter solstice on December 21st. And while we are at it, let’s give a big shout-out to March 20th and September 22nd, the overlooked equinoxes, the two neglected underdogs. With the noon sun directly overhead at the equator, the circle of illumination cuts precisely from north pole to south pole on these two days, and regardless of location, everyone everywhere is on exactly the same page, subjected to the same solar treatment: twelve hours of light and twelve hours of darkness. Cosmic equality, natural equilibrium, earthly socialism – call it what you want – surely deserving of a song and dance too. 

-Andrea

Yosemite: A different (flat-lander’s) perspective

This was going to be a different type of Yosemite trip: no camping, no heavy backpacks, no hydrated meals, and no hiking…. unless the trails were perfectly flat and absolutely smooth and even. My friend from schooldays (we’ve known each other for 51 years) had expressed an interest in visiting Yosemite and even doing a little hiking, but I knew from past experience when she visited me in Hawaii, that she has an aversion to slippery trails, rough or uneven surfaces, and inclines, even of a modest gradient. That ruled out 99% of Yosemite, or so I thought. She’s also a 5-star hotel type of person, so my reservations at Curry Village tent-cabins were rejected and replaced with a night at the Wawona (now the Big Tree Lodge) and a second night at the Ahwahnee (now the Yosemite Majestic). I studied my dog-eared book of Yosemite hikes looking for those listed as Easy with minimum up and downs in an attempt to find suitable walks and forget how much the accommodation would cost.

After checking in at the first hotel, we set off for an ‘easy’ 4-mile hike around Wawona Meadow. It matched my friend’s requirements perfectly –flat and smooth (as well as being picture perfect, enhanced with spring flowers), until we reached a stream with a log across it. The log was worn flat from consistent use and was stable. I offered my hand to my friend, but still she sat down and refused to cross. Instead she jumped in the freezing water and waded across to the other side, preferring to walk the rest of the way with cold feet in wet shoes. Maybe this trip was going to be more challenging that I’d expected.

The next morning, entering Yosemite Valley, we stopped at ‘Tunnel View’ to take the obligatory photographs at the end of the magnificent glacial valley, only to find it blanketed in white clouds. While taking photos of my friend under a red umbrella surrounded by whiteness, the cheer leader in me announced, “On a clear day, you’d see El Capitan looming on the left, the mighty Half Dome in the distance on the right, waterfalls in the foreground”. We then met up with a group of friends we’d planned to walk with, but heavy rain diverted us instead to the Visitor Center and Ansel Adams Gallery. We made an effort to not grumble as we walked in the pouring rain to nearby Yosemite Falls which were tumbling over the rocks with peak volumes of water. And then we stood in the rain having one of those fruitless conversations: “Well, I dunno, what do you want to do?” “I don’t know, what do you think?” This is where my friend’s decisive and 5-star background come in handy. She grabbed my arm, directed me away from the group, checked in at the Ahwahnee and while waiting for the rain to pass, forced me to share a bottle of bottle of wine with her. It worked. The clouds cleared and we enjoyed a late afternoon flat hike from the hotel to Mirror Lake (albeit a little tipsy). The lake earned its name, clearly reflecting the stunning peaks and puffy clouds.

Fortunately it remained clear the next day and after indulging in an overpriced Ahwahnee breakfast, we did several sections of the valley floor trails. I realized that in all the years of visiting Yosemite, backpacking out of Tuolemne Meadows, scrambling on granite domes, that I’d never really walked along the flat floor of this most famous textbook example of a glacial trough. Past glaciation has steepened and deepened the valley, sheared off the sides and flattened the valley floor, greatly appreciated by my flat-lander companion. We stopped for a time to look up at El Capitan. Two young Norwegian rock climbers were putting equipment back in their van and they pointed out what we would have missed without their eyes and knowledge: barely perceptible were two parties of climbers making their way up the vertical rock face. Mesmerized, we remained for a long time watching the distant specks in disbelief, eating trail mix – or what someone once defined as ‘chocolate plus disappointment’. We were far from disappointed.

Our last hike –and perhaps I should call these ‘strolls’ not hikes –was to see the awesome sequoias in Mariposa Grove. In earlier visits, I’d always rushed past what I thought was a tourist trap, characterized by endless shuttle buses, postcards, visitor centers, but accommodating my friend’s requirements gave me a different perspective. There were too many people, too many cars, too many postcards, but the reason is simple: it’s simply too wonderful to miss. 

~Andrea, Apr 2019

Edna Erspamer

Edna Erspamer has the perspective of being a Sierra Club member for half a century, so when I had the opportunity recently to interview her, I was curious to know what important message she would most like to convey to new members of the Sierra Club. Her answer was simple, “Go hiking! It’s wonderful”. Edna is the author of “Getting High: Confessions of a Peak-Bagging Junkie” (published 2009 and available on Amazon), a mother of six, an artist, a trained teacher, and a self-confessed hiking/climbing addict. As we sat at her kitchen table, here is what she told me about her remarkable life:

Edna was born 1931 and raised in Western Pennsylvania, and it’s here she “took to the outdoors” and found she loved walking in the woods and hills. Her family moved around and came to California in 1946 where a few years later she attended UCLA and met her husband.  They had 6 kids and the family went car camping each summer. On one of these camping trips, in Sequoia NP, something clicked in her mind when she found she couldn’t keep her eyes off a granite cliff and was “overcome with the beauty of creation”. As she describes in her book, she vowed then and there that “I would never stop hiking as long as I was physically able; it’s the cure-all, the stress reducer, the definitive medicine for the mind as well as the body”.

After living in different parts of the country, Edna and family returned to Santa Monica 1969 (when she was in her late 30s and her kids were 4 to 14 years old) and she heard about the Sierra Club from friends. She didn’t know what the Sierra Club was–thought it had something to do with California missions–but when it was explained to her, she joined immediately and started going on day hikes in the Santa Monica Mountains while her kids were in school. It was a way of meeting new people, enjoying the outdoors, and an unexpected benefit was that it helped her quit smoking! During a rest stop on one hike, she wandered off to nearby bushes with a friend to have a cigarette. This didn’t go down well with the rest of the hikers and before long, she’d stopped smoking.

As she kicked that bad habit, a new, healthy habit emerged. Edna got thoroughly addicted to hiking, backpacking, and then to reaching the top of mountains.  It began when one of the night hike leaders told her that if she could lead her kids hiking and backpacking, that she could certainly lead Sierra Club groups on outings.  In quick succession she took the leadership training with a friend and then basic mountain training with her sons. She didn’t stop there. Edna started climbing mountains with the Sierra Peak Section (SPS), the Hundred Peak Section (HPS) and the Desert Peak Section (DPS). She is past chair of both DPS and HPS. Through her 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s Edna’s hiking boots took her on many trails, and, as she puts it, leading her to greater independence.

A year after her divorce, Edna took her first international ‘trekking’ trip in 1979 to the Atlas Mountains of Morocco where she climbed Mt Toubkal, elevation 13,655’. This led to an incurable disease called “peak bagging” and ignited her interest in exotic travel.

The first time someone said to Edna that she just had to climb a certain mountain, she dismissed the idea as ridiculous. Why did she have to climb anything? As she recalled this story to me all these years later, she grinned widely because, of course, not long after joining the Sierra Club, she developed “an insatiable zeal for completing lists” and simply had to climb.

I was surprised when Edna said that it was not unusual at this time for women to join the Sierra Club and be so keen on mountaineering and outdoors adventures. In fact, Edna conducted a survey for her book of 22 women to find out what motivated them. The primary reason was companionship as well as a desire to climb with good mountaineers and because they felt an attraction to the beauty and peace offered by mountains; a few were seeking romance too. Many of these women became good friends and remain so. Among these friends 15 out of the 22 women finished the DPS list once, two twice, and one had done them 3 times; and there were six women who were Triple List Finishers, at the time of her book printing, 2008.

In addition to climbing peaks on the SPS, HPS and DPS lists, many of them twice, Edna then heard about the Highpointers Club, and had to climb the highest point in every state. She did 45 out of 50 of them. Many were challenging as well as high, but a few like Florida were/are easy and low (345’). Judging by her smiles, I think Edna preferred the high ones! Whenever she could get away, Edna was also taking climbing trips abroad. She climbed several of the big names like Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, Kinabalu on the island of Borneo (Malaysian half), Picacho del Diablo in Baja, Mexico; she spent a month in Nepal and climbed to the base camps of Everest and Annapurna; and she climbed Mt. Kosciusko, the highest point in Australia. She went off the beaten track in Ethiopia, Rwanda, Iraq, Syria and Guyana. She didn’t sneer at lesser peaks like my favorite, Mt Snowdon, the highest mountain in Wales and England at 3560’, and the West Highland Trail of Scotland. The appreciation she felt for all mountains - the tallest, the tall and not so tall, is evident in her artwork. While in the mountains, Edna took photographs and from these she created a series of silk screen prints, beautiful depictions of the scenes she saw. Edna is clearly an accomplished artist, though it is surprising that she found the time.  Many of these prints were sold but some adorn her living room walls, so as the interview proceeded, I discovered that the artwork surrounding us added a tangible emphasis to her stories.

Another list Edna had to tackle came when someone gave her the Century Travelers List. There were over 300 countries and territories in the world on this list. By now the reader must know what Edna felt compelled to do next! Check them off, of course. She’d already visited numerous countries but now she found herself visiting remote islands and colonial territories, from Tristan da Cunha and Ascension Island to Greenland and the Isle of Man, and scored 273 out of 327. Even as hiking and climbing decreased due to a touch of arthritis, her enthusiasm and love for traveling to new places and meeting new fellow travelers remained strong.

To this day Edna remains so active that it could put a person half her age to shame. She swims twice a week, attends writing classes (SMC Emeritus), is writing her memoirs, and belongs to a singing group. She also takes trips with Road Scholar now; and she plans the annual camping get-together for her family at Kings Canyon. Her love of hiking has been passed on to her kids and grandchildren. One son is an avid mountaineer and whenever he signs the book at the top of a mountain, he gives thanks to his mom, Edna Erspamer. No doubt she is a mountain of inspiration to them all.

                                                                                                   by Andrea Ehrgott

Making of a Mountain

     Like a crooked finger with fractured nail, South America tapers to a curling tip of shattered land and broken islands pointing to Antarctica, and the Patagonian winds hint of those not-so-distant polar conditions. But on this particular day, the air was windless, the sky cloudless, and the mountains merciful. Despite the cold, the sun’s strong rays burst through the hole in the ozone layer baking the rocky highlands and burning our upturned faces as we remained motionless, soaking up the vision. Our eyes traced the outline of the towering peaks and scanned the glaciers and frozen waterfalls across the lake, while our minds tried to grasp the magnitude of geologic history and comprehend how this topography formed.         Deep below this national park, magma cooled slowly over millions of years into a massive granite batholith underground, and then, determined to touch the sky, it doggedly pushed its way up through the mud-stone mountains, puncturing the dark sedimentary layers to form a series of jagged grey towers, Torres del Paine. At the base of these imposing frost-sharpened peaks, we sat on huge boulders by the glacial turquoise lake, quietly eating our sandwiches, and looked up at the stunning sight, transfixed. It was a gratifying reward for a difficult and steep 4-hour hike.       Eyes still peeled, our thoughts were interrupted when the ice somewhere in the glaciers made loud cracking and creaking noises that continued for several nerve-wracking minutes. Unable to pinpoint the exact location from where the sounds emanated, we were alarmed and thought a rupture in the glacier might be likely, a possible avalanche, something catastrophic, but nothing happened. Nothing at all. When the cracking stopped, silence returned. We opened a bar of chocolate—the hikers’ reward—and relished each sweet square. Twenty minutes later, the cracking noises resumed, the ice groaned loudly, and again we were surprised to see no major transformation before us, no natural disaster, not even a slight rearrangement of rocks. But a small part of me, a restless, obnoxious fiend, was disappointed. Come on nature, show me what you can do, something violent, I defy you. Not satisfied with the magnificent scenery before our eyes, I wanted action demonstrating how nature had reshaped the surface and produced this massif; a movie not a snapshot. I demanded a performance of the past speeded-up with bedrock uplifting and folding, an earthquake convulsing and upturning the landscape, an exploding eruption of volcanic bombs and spewing lava, glaciers growing, moving and scouring, a huge crevasse developing, a plunging of the ruptured glacier into the lake, a massive tsunami flooding the valley, a mud and rock slide thundering down the mountainside, all this and more, again and again: breaking up land, swallowing and regurgitating it only to be reconfigured over and over into new arrangements.       As we rubbed our sore feet, patched up blisters, and put our boots back on, preparing for the long hike down the mountain, I finally came to my senses, abandoned the overactive daydream, and thanked the mountains for simply being there, being majestic and most of all, for being perfectly still … at least for now.       by Andrea Ehrgott

                                        WHY DO THEY LIVE THERE?

    We who live in urban areas watch the news about natural disasters and often marvel at people’s determination to rebuild in the same place. Areas that burn and flood regularly show us the power of nature and we wonder why the locals don’t get it.  “You live on a flood plain! What did you expect?” I once shouted at the television. That was when I was twenty years old. That was before I had direct contact with hundreds of disaster survivors. It was almost as if karma, or mother nature herself, had to eventually direct me to an understanding about that whole situation.

    Through a series of events, too complicated to explain here, I ended up running a federal disaster center when I was twenty-four years old. It was one of the most intense experiences of my life. Fourteen-hour workdays were the norm. Day after I day I dealt with people who had lost everything. Some of them had literally watched their homes, and everything in them, float down the Mississippi River.

    It was 1973, and in the spring of that year the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers produced tremendous flooding. During my days in that area I visited a flooded farm that was eleven miles from the Mississippi River. The area where the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers met had been turned into a gigantic lake. The disaster center I worked in was located in St. Charles, Missouri, just outside of St. Louis. I would return to my hotel room every night and fall into an exhausted sleep while watching the Watergate hearings on TV.  

    I had to deal with many bizarre situations. I remember one woman yelling at me on the phone after I told her the federal government would not be rowing her son’s music teacher out to her house so her son could have his saxophone lesson. I’m sure she curses the government to this day.

    One day a very tired looking older couple came into the disaster center. They had lost everything. They needed food, clothes, a place to stay and a loan to rebuild their home. I couldn’t resist the urge and I asked them if they were going to rebuild in the same place. The man’s reply was, “Of Course.” I finally had my opportunity, so I asked him why. This is what he said.

    “We love that river. On summer evenings my wife and I take our lawn chairs down to the edge and watch that beautiful river slide by. We usually bring some cold beer with us and we drink it in silence. The sun goes down, the clouds turn pink, and the birds sing their songs. Those are the best moments of our lives, and I wouldn’t give it up for anything.”

    It was like he was a poet. I just nodded my head when he was finished. I still found it hard to believe that they were willing to go through something like that again, but I finally understood what it meant to them.  

    On that day I gave up yelling at the television.

                                                                                                    ~by Gil Roscoe

 Gil Roscoe’s novels are available on all ebook services.

Highs and Lows: South Lake to Bishop Pass Trail                      

The mountain peaks are jagged, long ago sharpened by glaciation. Their rocks bake and expand during the hot days and contract during the frosty nights and frozen winters. Cracks forms, water freezes within, boulders split, loose rocks tumble down the mountainside, and glaciers and rivers wash the decomposed granite down to the valleys below while opposing forces within the earth push back, folding and faulting, lifting the land. But we four are not here long enough to see these dynamics in action; only three short days to observe the aftermath. Just long enough for sunburn and blisters to develop.

At times, my husband’s insane love of backpacking rubs off on me and I convince myself I like these trips, except, of course, for the pack on my back weighted down with tent, sleeping bag, clothes, food and camping gas. I’m thrilled that our two grown daughters want to come with us, I’m pleased with the planning of routes, equipment, and meals, I delight in the natural beauty of the mountains and I even think our dog looks quite cute with her orange doggy pack. Still, I am not a happy camper. My breath is labored, each step up the steep trail carrying my pack - albeit the lightest - is getting slower and I feel slightly sick. “Are you okay mom?” my older daughter asks playfully. She knows I’m not because despite the fact that immediately in front of us there are impressive veins of white quartz adorning the gray mountainside, I haven’t the energy to predictably inspect them and give the expected lecture. I’m tired and silent, the only one panting –well, me and the dog—as we inch our way up the mountain.

After hiking for five miles, with an elevation gain of far too many feet, beyond the red and yellow changing leaves of Aspen trees, we arrive at our campsite. I am a dusty creature, exhausted and aching. Our tent overlooks a glorious lake and the surrounding peaks pierce the bluest blue sky, all reflected beautifully in the water’s glass surface. Dinner is surprisingly not awful and my daughters laugh and chat. All this warms my heart. It’s nearly enough to compensate for the long list of emerging discomforts. The temperature has dropped now the sun has set, the dirt under my nails is stubbornly entrenched, the pad under my sleeping bag is thin, my husband snores like a trombone and I’m fretting that the bears might smell the food we left outside, too much to fit in the one bear-proof canister we brought. Whose idea was this?

The next morning, still in the same dirty clothes, I worm out of my down sleeping bag, climb out of the tent, and take in the stunning scenery. We are alone in this wonderful wilderness. A cup of coffee makes me deliriously happy. The family togetherness is gratifying. Our dog has never been more content. My daughters are beautiful, athletic and healthy.  The lake is glistening and the mountain trail beckons us for another day’s exploration. Joining in the seduction, the sun finally rises above the mountain in front of us bringing warmth to our campsite, and disappearing behind the mountain in the opposite direction at precisely the same rate, the full moon descends, a perfectly balanced heavenly seesaw.  

We start hiking again, forever up, above the tree line, thinner air, and before long the disagreeables join in: blisters, more dirt, chapped lips, pebble in my boots, sore muscles and limited toilet paper. I hate this. But then, rewarded by the view from the ridge, I look down the mountain at our two tiny tents in the far distance and am overcome by the scale and magnificence of the Sierras, proud of my old legs. I am in love with the world.

                                                                          September, 2016.  Andrea Ehrgott

Tender-footed night hiking in Pacific Palisades

The West L.A. Sierra Club invites us on a number of local hikes. I’ve been doing the Friday 6:45pm Los Liones hike for a few months, so I’m still a tender-footed, night-hike infant compared to many of the group who have been doing it regularly, rain or shine, for many years and in a few cases, decades. From Los Liones in Pacific Palisades up the fire road to the Parker Mesa Overlook in Topanga State Park and back, every Friday evening, same time, same route, sounds like it might get monotonous. But there’s always something new—shocking pink clouds reflecting the setting sun one week; gray, moody and blanketed in mist the next week; a fellow hiker who knows when the moon will rise, which planets are on show; a delightful story someone tells about very nearly meeting Paul McCartney; a tarantula patrolling the fire road; glow bugs indicating the way (I’ve lived here 34 years unaware of these blinking neighbors right here in my backyard); yucca in bloom standing tall; creatures settling for the night; and terra firma with its temperamental geology underfoot.  

Some in the group, I expect, hike to commune with nature after a busy work week, or to race along the ridges and work up a sweat after too many sedentary days, perhaps as a way of escaping gridlock on the 405 Freeway or to mend in the soothing arms of nature after an unhappy event or simply to enjoy the camaraderie. Lungs are cleared and heads recalibrated. I would guess hikers derive different pleasures—some perhaps relish the exercise, some scan the sky and bushes for birds, many admire sweeping views of the canyons and the Pacific, but strangely the one thing that captivates all of us is standing at our turning point, the Parker Mesa Overlook, and being mesmerized by the city lights of Los Angeles and the dazzling necklace of lights outlining Santa Monica Bay. The colorfully lit Santa Monica pier juts into the ocean, piercing the vast blackness, and even from here the ferris wheel beckons, albeit fruitlessly. This hike is a far more thrilling ride, free, and more fulfilling too.

From high on the mountain, the harshest characteristics of the city—asphalt, traffic, congestion, noise—take on a softer disposition, an enchanting glow. You can imagine the peace, greenery, and wildness of the Santa Monica Mountains gently flowing downhill, seeping into the urban landscape, quietly converting gray to lush green as trees take root, crack the concrete sidewalks, and push aside office blocks. Another wish I have as I peer from this dreamy lookout, is how I’d lean over, unplug the necklace to extinguish the lights, scoop up the millions of urban residents, and transport them here to be cradled in the mountains, to follow undulating trails through chaparral, to see moon rays glistening on the ocean, to hear coyotes calling, to feel the sea breezes against dusty skin, to share in the magic. As we used to, long ago before this and that detached us.

~by Andrea Ehrgott

A few months back, Culver City and Santa Monica joined LA County’s Clean Power Alliance and decided to serve their businesses and residents with 100% renewable energy beginning in early 2019.  Wow!  We’ll be saving the planet and paying only slightly more than what we currently pay Southern California Edison for 34% renewable energy.

Here’s why residents and businesses are so enthusiastic:

1.    We can choose your own rate. If you can’t afford 100% renewable energy, it’s easy to opt down to 50% or 36% renewable energy and get a lower rate than what you’re paying with Edison.

2.     We can lower your rate by becoming more energy efficient.  Among other things, you can ditch your old energy-sucking appliances by taking advantage of energy efficiency incentive programs.

3.     Reinvesting in our community. Participation in the nonprofit Clean Power Alliance means that instead of lining the pockets of Edison’s investors, all profits come back to our cities for workforce development and local job creation.  

4.     Needs based assistance.  If paying your energy bill is still a hardship, apply for a 30-35 percent discount on their electric bill through the State of California’s CARE/FERA programs and the Medical Baseline Allowance.

5.     Santa Monica and Culver City is in good company!  West Hollywood has also decided to go with 100% renewable energy.

So there’s a lot of smart ways for us to take control of our energy future.  And besides, Culver City and Santa Monica might just teach other cities how easy it is to be green.  

If you are looking forward to powering your home or business with 100% renewable energy, we need your voice!  Click HERE to pledge to stay with 100% renewable energy.

For more information, click HERE for a link to the report prepared by Culver City staff.

David Haake (with assistance from Sarah Friedman and Luis Amezcua of the Sierra Club)

A few months back, the Culver City City Council joined LA County’s Clean Power Alliance and voted to serve Culver City businesses and residents with 100% renewable energy beginning in early 2019.  We’ll pay slightly more (7%) than what we currently pay Southern California Edison for 34% renewable energy.

Here’s why Culver City residents and businesses are so enthusiastic:

1.    We can choose your own rate. If you can’t afford 100% renewable energy, it’s easy to opt down to 50% or 36% renewable energy and get a lower rate than what you’re paying with Edison.

2.     We can lower your rate by becoming more energy efficient.  Among other things, you can ditch your old energy-sucking appliances by taking advantage of energy efficiency incentive programs.

3.     Reinvesting in our community.  Culver City’s participation in the nonprofit Clean Power Alliance means that instead of lining the pockets of Edison’s investors, all profits come back to cities for workforce development and local job creation. 

4.     Needs based assistance.  If paying your energy bill is still a hardship, apply for a 30-35 percent discount on their electric bill through the State of California’s CARE/FERA programs and the Medical Baseline Allowance.

5.     Culver City is in good company!  Santa Monica and West Hollywood have also decided to go with 100% renewable energy.

So there’s a lot of smart ways for us to take control of our energy future.  And besides, Culver City might just teach other cities how easy it is to be green. 

If you are looking forward to powering your home or business with 100% renewable energy, we need your voice!  Click HERE to pledge to stay with 100% renewable energy.

For more information, click HERE for a link to the report prepared by Culver City staff.

David Haake (with assistance from Sarah Friedman and Luis Amezcua of the Sierra Club)