The Southwest Voice

larger view larger view larger view larger view larger view larger view

How often do ordinary mountains, hills and rocks change into volcanoes, fault lines and ancient lava flows filled with geological wonders? When do chalky gray towers in dry, deserted lakebeds transform into Keepers of Time ––  venerable sentinels who whisper of a period in California’s history that was once lush and watery? 

Well, if you’ve ever driven up Highway 395 toward Mammoth Lakes, the answer is probably “Never.”

           
But don’t you wish it could be so?

           
Guess what? It can be.

I took the trip of a lifetime this August. Being a participant in a four-week geology project at Cal State Bakersfield, I was fortunate to travel with five fellow teachers and 17 local high school and college students to Mono Lake.

But here’s the kicker: Accompanying us were two CSUB geologists, Dr. Baron and Dr. Negrini, and their hired gun, paleoecologist Dr. Palacios.

As we drove along, they pulled over to the side of the road close to a dozen times and explained the geology of the landscape. My only regret was that I lost my digital voice recorder the day before we left because for several hundred miles and 48 hours, I had my very own California tour guides.

           
Our first stop was Trona Pinnacles, located in the parched, dusty lakebed of Searles Lake. The pinnacles are actually “tufa towers” formed thousands of years ago by a combination of lake and spring water. Although they suffer from weathering and erosion, their heights hint at long-forgotten lake depths because they formed under water.

           
Our next stop was Fossil Falls, a basalt-rich formation over 15,000 years old that once hosted a spectacular waterfall. Remaining today are dark cavities full of curvy holes created by the endless swirling of pebbles and rocks as the river plunged forward. Especially intriguing was a lone petroglyph (is it a jack rabbit, elk or deer?). Surrounding that and much of the area were chips of shiny, black obsidian cast aside by an early culture whose men sat along the cool edges of the waterfall and made arrowheads. This must have been one of their favorite places because the obsidian pieces were everywhere.

           
A hop, skip and a jump north of Fossil Falls was a perfectly shaped cinder cone volcano, aptly named Red Hill because of its color. Special thanks to those early activists who lobbied to prevent cinder quarrying on the highway side of the volcano. Because of them, travelers are able to enjoy its symmetrical beauty as they drive by.

           
Last stop was Owens Lake, another dried up “has been” from long ago. But we weren’t there to view the barren lakebed. Instead, nearby, we viewed a 10- to 15-foot rise of “dirt” peppered with weathered rocks, boulders and dried-up sagebrush. Turns out this “rise” of seeming nothingness is actually an uplifted part of the Lone Pine fault (called a “scarp”) created during a devastating 8.3 earthquake in 1872. Amazing.

           
We ended the day at White Mountain Research Center near Bishop where we stayed the night, resting up for our ultimate destination: Mono Lake.

(Next Issue: Mono Lake, eating flies, a mountain of glass, and the glacier-carved valleys of the Sierra Nevada.)