The sand has the consistency of sugar—no pebbles, no tar.
Deep like a mattress, it invites a hiker to rest. Nobody else is here, and there is no alien sound—no automobiles or ATVs, no drone of airplanes, no yapping dogs—only the trill of gulls and the surf, crashing, dominant, primal.
Beyond the surf, two brown pelicans glide inches above the water. A sea lion pops his head out of the foam, scans his playground, and disappears. A second preens on the rocks to the south. Another, dearly departed, serves as lunch for two sparring turkey vultures.
Point Sal juts into the Pacific to the north. The state owns the coastline to the point, so at low tide a hiker could tackle the 2 1/2-mile walk out there. But why leave 400 yards of perfect beach?
“I never knew this existed,” whispers Carmen Chavez, principal of a Lompoc elementary school and a lifelong North County resident. “It’s a little piece of heaven.”
“The solitude,” adds loan officer Mike Pitts. “Where else can you go on the Southern California coast where you are totally alone?”
Point Sal State Beach was recently announced as open to the public again after 18 months of negotiation between Vandenberg Air Force Base, Santa Barbara County, and California State Parks.
But unlike most parks, here “open to the public” does not usher in platoons of SUVs packed with sunscreen and inflatable toys. Point Sal is a beach only for the hardy.
In early July, we drive Highway 1 south of Guadalupe to see Point Sal for ourselves and to say good-by to Supervising Ranger Danita Rodriguez on her last day in the field before her promotion. We pass vegetable harvesters as we turn west on Brown Road. After four miles, Brown turns into Point Sal Road, then a few hundred yards later stops at a gate. Road closed, announces a sign, though pedestrians are permitted—but no bicycles. Carloads of people took this six-mile road until a landslide hit in 1998.
In high spirits, we set out on foot at 9:30 a.m. There are six of us, median age 50. After 15 minutes of asphalt, the surface turns to dirt. “No trespassing” signs are everywhere. The wide road goes west, then turns north and switches back south as we ascend the 1,000-foot ridge. This would be perfect for a mountain bike, we think.
Along the crest line, about an hour out, we are enjoying the wide panoramas of the Casmalia Hills when we see a figure on a bicycle pedaling toward us. As he nears, we see fishing rods on his handlebars. On his bike, he was denied access by Air Force police, he says.
“They’ll take your cameras,” he warns.
We all have cameras. We think back to that sign we saw. It said “no bikes,” but made no mention of cameras.
Ten minutes later, we arrive at a shiny new chain link fence with a gate: Vandenberg AFB. The rules are posted again: no guns or weapons (fine), stay on the trail (okay), no bicycles (seems unreasonable, but we were warned), and, ominously, “no photography on federal property.” We all have cameras. We parse the wording. It does not say “no cameras.” We remember that the beach is state, not federal, property. How will military police interpret the regs? We go through the gate.
After 10 minutes more, we reach the road washout: It’s a big deal, and it would indeed take serious money to rebuild. As we pick our way across, we catch our first glimpse of the beach far below.
At 11:30 a.m., we trudge into an Air Force parking lot. No police. The gate of a gleaming new cyclone fence is securely locked to forbid access to a paved road leading south, farther into Vandenberg. It leaves open a chute at the northwest corner leading to a single-file dirt path.
In 15 minutes, our hiking deteriorates into tricky climbing and skidding on our butts intermittently down the 50-foot back wall of the beach—a challenge, but a soft landing.
We encounter solitude. Sea lions, surf, and sand. It is hard to imagine that lumber for building Santa Maria came bustling through here between 1870 and 1890, followed by gypsum and gold mining.
Despite the natural beauty, the seclusion is not surprising. It is usually cold and windy here. Today’s 70 calm degrees with near-sun is not the norm. There are no facilities. No camping is allowed. After tramping so long to get in, visitors must hurry out by sundown. And there are dangers. High tide can cover the beach rapidly. Scaling the bluffs above the sand is dicey, and there is no cell service. Rangers from Lompoc staged frequent evening rescues in the days when a drivable road attracted more visitors. And there is the ever-present chance of an unannounced missile launch at Vandenberg. At those times, base gendarmes turn back hikers with no notice—plenty of reasons not to come.
“When it reopened, I worried we’d be overrun with people,” Ranger Rodriguez mused. “But most people aren’t going to go on a six-mile hike. The reward is great, but most people won’t do it. It’s just you and whoever you’re with.”
Captain George Vancouver, the British explorer, allegedly named this spot in 1793 for the commandant of San Francisco, Hermenegildo Sal. Vancouver’s unspoiled view will likely endure.
Contact freelancer John McReynolds through the executive editor at rmiller@newtimesslo.com.
This article appears in Jul 17-24, 2008.
