Yearning for Rain

There are plenty of photos I could post of stunning sunsets and beautiful beaches at low tide, but I wanted to acknowledge another reality. We are in dire need of rain.

I spent the first half of my life in wintry places, and I know how enviable our warm gentle weather must seem from other parts of the country. I'm enjoying it too; it would be foolish not to. But believe me, there's a down side, and we are worried. Look how brown and dry the ground is.

It brings to mind the observations of William Brewer, writing of conditions he encountered in the 186os:

The hills are terribly dry, totally bare of forage, parched and brown. The scattered oaks, evergreen, seem dark—they are so tenacious of life that the drought fails to kill them. It must be a terrible year for the thousands of sheep that are kept here...

It was May of 1864, and Brewer was north of here at the time, but drought conditions had been prevalent in California for two years. He wrote:

The drought is terrible. In this fertile valley there will not be over a quarter crop, and during the past four days’ ride we have seen dead cattle by the hundreds...He wrote: The hot air trembled over the plain, and occasionally a mirage seemed to promise cool weather ahead, only to vanish as we approached. The mountains on either side were bathed in a haze and seemed all tremulous in the heated air.

The situation right here in our neighborhood during the same stretch of drought is described in The Gaviota Land by Merlyn Chesnut:

After two years of massive rainfall , the next two brought a serious drought (1863-1864). It is estimated that less than four inches of rain fell in that time, and this was disastrous. Streams dried up, and springs disappeared. The green hills of the rainy years and high prices commanded in cattle sales had resulted in overstocked ranges, and all available grass was quickly eaten or died. There were no railroads to bring in feed or to transport animals out, so weak ones fell on the hillsides, dying by the hundreds. They were too feeble to be driven elsewhere. Thousands of carcasses lay on the plains, some in heaps around dried-up water holes, and they became meals for scavengers.

Desperate measures were taken:

Majestic old oak trees were cut down so that the cattle could eat the foliage, although this did not provide sufficient nourishment. Slaughters were held to salvage hides. With overstocked herds and little food, it was even reported that animals were driven over cliffs, to become a shark smorgasbord. In the [Santa Barbara] county, an estimated 300,000 head of cattle shrank to about 5,000. Horse herds were also victim of the drought, and roundups were organized to kill wild unbranded stock to save feed for domestic animals.

The devastation led to foreclosures on the land grants and ranchos of the early Californios. This opened up opportunities for Yankee entrepreneurs (such as the Hollisters and Dibblees) to purchase land, sometimes as cheaply as $1.25 an acre. By 1866 the Hollister-Dibblee partnership owned 140,000 acres, including the Las Cruces, San Julian, Lompoc, Gaviota, Santa Anita, and Bulito ranches. So I suppose you could say that California as we know it around here was born of a drought and desperation.

But enough already. We're getting nervous. The cattle operation is suffering of course, but there are plenty of agricultural implications as well. The trees in the orchard are distressed, irrigation water is being used without back-up, plants are confused. Moths bump against the screen at night and we fall asleep with windows open to summer-like air, looking out by day onto parched brown hills. Let's not even think about fire. Or maybe we better.

So I'm just saying. It still feels heavenly to bask in this January sunshine, or to be riding my bike and strolling around wearing shorts and a t-shirt.

But rain, when it comes, will be delicious and beautiful and welcome beyond belief.

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