California is big.
Among the United States, California is #1 in population and #3 in size (behind Alaska and Texas). If it were an independent nation, California would be about #9 by economic activity and #34 by people in residence of all the countries in the world.
California is environmentally diverse.
From the rocky fog-shrouded coastline to the golden grape-vined hills to the fertile vegetable-producing valleys to the rising tree-clad slopes to the jagged snow-capped peaks and the icy-clear glacial lakes, diverse eco-systems abound and astound. The state is the most varied climatically of all the states. At some place and time within its boundaries, almost any plant will grow and thrive. And, they do. Fresh tomatoes and lettuce for your In-N-Out burger over there – perhaps the best accompanied sandwich in the land. Grapes for table and vintner up that winding road – medals dangling from the barnsides. Golden Halloween pumpkins and luscious red strawberries blink at us from their beds as our car climbs the next hill and rounds the next bend to reach and revel at a wine-country wedding.
Not all the flora is new. The trees of the state are the tallest and oldest living organisms on the surface of the planet. California redwood pines are renown for their height and girth – who can forget the Disney-like photo of a 1940’s car driving through a tunneled redwood. The old trees are today protected from such child-like antics. Today, my son texts a picture of his small son hardly distinguishable between the rough red-hued bark near the base of a forest behemoth. Over their heads, far off there, on that distant frigid peak, a scraggly straggly bristlecone pine whistles the mountain wind a lilting melody heard 5,000 years ago, when a small sprout, the seedling first broke forth from the rock.
Rocks there are assuredly and many with precious metals within. The Gold Rush of 1848 brought the nation to the California territory and paved the way for statehood in 1850. Among the prospectors was a young man from Missouri with a sense for minerals. We call him George Hearst. The Indians called him: “Boy the Earth Talks To.” And, it did. George missed that first gold rush, but in the played-out leavings of a mine, the boy saw some “blue stuff” and heard something. At a bargain-basement price, George Hearst purchased a partnership in the empty cave, which became the biggest silver strike in the West. George was rich, and he kept listening and finding more. He was now very rich. Yet, he kept his country ways – except, now he owned almost 400 square miles (1,036 square kilometers) along the coast, in the valleys and up the slopes of California.
One place, George, his wife Phoebe and their son William Randolph loved best. Camp Hill they called it. The place was close to and high above the jagged Pacific shoreline, free of the clinging ocean mists below, bright and clear in the warm California sun, a campsite of childhood wonder and memory.
Later, the only heir to a vast fortune and a wealthy media mogul in his own right, William Randolph Hearst built a castle on that hill.
On the boardwalk below, above the rocky beach, watching the flops and flips, snorts, snaps and whistles of the round long-nosed elephant seals at their slow-motion play and day, I turned, looked up and saw the white spires.
“Hearst Castle!” I exclaimed to my wife. “That’s Camp Hill!”
And, it was and is.
Later, after touring the astounding architecture and abundant art, my wife asked, “What did you like best?”
“The little boy,” I answered. “Somehow, he did it. I mean William Randolph and his architect, Julia Morgan, did. They took the best art, architecture, flora and fauna that could be found and bought anywhere in the world, and somehow they made it all into the biggest and best big-boy campsite in the universe.”
“Really?” she said.
“Really,” I answered. “I can’t imagine a greater tribute to Camp Hill and the memories it holds.”
California has a new eco-system, a new micro-climate, a new fantasyland, and a new wonderland, rising in bright white spires from the land that spoke it and helped it grow: Hearst Castle.
Like Father, Like Son: The Boys The Earth Talked To.
William Randolph Hearst was his father’s son.
He listened and imagined; it grew and rose.
A new tree sprouts there on Camp Hill.
May its song reach the far peaks,
To touch the ears of a friend,
The old Bristlecone Pine.
To brighten a life,
Long & true.
Thank you, William Randolph and George,
Grandpa Jim