As I hike along the four mile stretch of trail on the bluffs overlooking the sea, I know that I hike on protected ground: the Estero Bluffs State Park. The bluffs, the beach, the wetlands, all protected by California for us to enjoy. As I continue my hike, it occurs to me that the native peoples who lived here for centuries didn’t need any special designation or protection. All the ocean, all the land were sacred to the Chumash. For the earth is as it always is…and must remain as it always is.
How could it be otherwise? Such beauty. Such goodness. Such bounty. A place where salt water meets fresh, and abundant sea life provided nourishment. Where streams supplied fresh water for the tribe. And nutrients for the rock fish and perch caught to accompany gathered acorns and seeds at meals. With their whale bone and shell spears, the best fishermen and women would take only what they needed. For this was home.
I start my hike at the southern end of the state park, just north of Cayucos. Here lies the final resting place of the wrecked fishing vessel, the Point Estero. No value in salvage, so it slowly rusts amid the sand and rocks and salt water. Navigational error and fog-shrouded rocks poked an irreparable hole in the hull where she shed oil, gas and other modern maritime detritus.
The wreck is like one of those tests where one must choose the item in the list or the picture that does not belong. The Point Estero does not belong in this picture. A place where red wood logs that drifted south after storms were hewn with stone tools, then assembled and water proofed with yop, a combination of tar and pine resin into canoe-like vessels called tomols. A place where the Chumash paddled their tomols to fish and trade. A place where tomols were cherished vessels adorned with clam and abalone shells.
No Chumash fisherman would have been caught unaware in a fog bank. And only after years of use, when the yop was worn away and the redwood planks weathered to the point of leaking, only then would all of the tomol materials be returned to the earth and sea. No gas or diesel oil, no plastic deck supplies. Just wood, shell and resin returned to their place of birth. Yes, tomols belong in this picture.
I imagine the ceremonies where tomols with bird and fish names such as Hummingbird or Salmon would be honored and thanked, and great stories told of trade and catches. Chumash fishermen telling stories of their spears and shell hooks taking food from the ocean. Stories of long voyages of exploration filled with inspirational sights, giant sea creatures and the welcoming arms of central coast trading partners.
There are no great stories for the Point Estero. No great stories of nets and long lines. Just photos taken at low tide and posted on social media. Certainly commercial fishing practices have evolved. We know we can’t overfish. We can’t destroy or pollute marine habitat. We can’t utilize fishing methods that kill protected species. Perhaps this is what we should celebrate when we see the Point Estero.
Celebrate this, and by all means, when you visit Estero Bluffs State Park, celebrate what the native Chumash knew and lived. We tread on sacred land. We swim and fish in sacred water. Here is much more than a hiking trail. Much more than bluffs and streams and rocky shore line. And so much more than a state park.
