Hand-drawn mushrooms for my recent feature for Topanga New Times. I love observing and drawing our local Santa Monica Mountains—so many weird and wonderful colors and shapes! I drew from my collection of mushroom sketches for this piece and filled in with a few new drawings.

 


The first rains of the season arrived this weekend in the Santa Monica Mountains, initiating

the start of mushroom season. It seems like a good time to share my recent article on mushrooms

from the Topanga New Times.


Here's an excerpt from Mushroom Madness:

Fungi can cure or kill, nourish life, and also decompose it back into soil. Fossil evidence for fungi is limited, but the ability to analyze molecular data has led to revelations about the evolution of this extraordinary family of organisms. Although mycology (the study of fungi) is a discipline of botany (the study of plants), molecular research in the 1990s revealed that fungi are more closely related to animals than they are to plants. The current theory is that Fungi and Animalia are related groups that evolved from a protozoan ancestor more than 1.3 billion years ago, before going their separate ways.

It’s estimated that there may be as many as five million species of fungi, ranging from tiny yeast organisms to the massive Armillaria ostoyae, a species of long-lived fungi that is thought to be the largest living fungal colonies in the world—the largest and oldest known specimen is estimated to be 2,500 years old, and covers more than 3.4 square miles of Oregon’s Malheur National Forest, and is thought to have grown from a single spore. This “humongous fungus” is unusual, but A. ostoyae is not. It occurs in forests throughout the Pacific Northwest and parts of Asia. This is a parasitic fungi that can kill the trees it feeds on, but it is also an important recycler, converting its hosts back into compost.

This is the time of year when A. ostoyae produces fruiting bodies—the edible honey mushroom that is prized by mushroom hunters—but almost any mushroom one comes across is part of something much bigger than itself. That fairy ring of white mushrooms in the lawn, or the bright yellow sulfur mushrooms that appear like magic on the side of a tree in the garden are the fruit of unseen networks of fungi. Pick a mushroom and you are connecting with an invisible world. 

 

Click here to read the rest of the feature.

 

 

Fool's Gold: The Myth of Tiburcio Vasquez

 

 

Tiburcio Vasquez committed an impressive resume of crimes, but he would have needed several lifetimes to have stolen—and buried—all of the gold he is said to have had. His story, like that of all legends, has taken on a life of its own. This is the famous portrait taken of Vasquez while he was in prison in San Jose awaiting trial for the final time. Vasquez is said to have paid for his legal fees with money made selling autographed prints of the photo, but his popularity couldn’t save him from the hangman’s rope. Image courtesy of Bancroft Library, Berkeley University

Many of us who grew up here heard stories about how the famous highwayman Tiburcio Vasquez hid out in the Santa Monica Mountains and buried his ill-gotten gold in a canyon or a beach cave. He's especially associated with Topanga, but Calabasas and Malibu have stories about him, too—although, so does half of California! I'm one of those children who dreamed of finding that treasure, so when I had the opportunity to to research the legend of Tiburcio Vasquez for the Topanga New Times I seized it! It's a fascinating story, even if it doesn't lead to buried gold. 

 

Here's an excerpt:

 

 

 

 

 

 

This image from Topanga school teacher Theresa Sletton’s 1913 photo album has a hand-written caption that says “hideout of horse thief, one of several local locations associated with Vasquez.” The ruined building became a tourist destination for early motorists and was described as one of Vasquez’ hideouts in numerous descriptions of the sights of Topanga. While it may have sheltered horse thieves, it never housed Tibercio Vasquez, California’s most legendary highwayman. It is extremely unlikely that Vasquez ever came anywhere near the canon, but that hasn’t stopped him from taking up residence in Topangans' imagination. How did he become associated with the canyon? That’s a tall tale of its own. Photo courtesy Ernest Marquez Collection, Huntington Library, San Marino, CA

“And still of a winter’s night, they say, 

when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon 

tossed upon cloudy seas,   

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight 

over the purple moor,   

A highwayman comes riding—

Riding—riding—

A highwayman comes riding, 

up to the old inn-door.

—Alfred Noyes, “The Highwayman”

 

I was one of the children who grew up hearing about our own highwaymen. Desperados who rustled cattle in the Santa Monica Mountains or hid there after robbing stagecoaches; bandits who buried treasure in sea caves and hid it in secret places in the canyons and never returned for it. The man responsible for most of those legends was California’s own favorite legendary highwayman, Tiburcio Vasquez, who is said to have buried gold in Topanga Canyon.

When the coast route through Malibu opened to the public in 1928, newspaper accounts spoke of “Eerie tales of smugglers, pirates and bad men.” In the early years of the twentieth century there were stories of mountain men paying for their goods in town with Spanish gold or raw gold nuggets. Treasure hunters made headlines seeking gold said to be buried by Vasquez. They would surely find it along the beach between Malibu and Santa Monica, or hidden in a Topanga cave, or buried beneath a Calabasas oak tree, or buried deep among the distinctive stones of the Santa Susana Pass. They hunted, and dug, and theorized, and sometimes even lost their lives in the process, but no treasure was ever found.

When Las Tunas Road was paved in 1915, the Los Angeles Evening Express headline read: “Trail Used by Bandit Will Be Obliterated By Las Tunas Road.” The news item states that, “according to a well defined legend of [Topanga] canyon, Vasquez, a horse thief who is claimed to have made the juncture of Topanga and Garapatos canyons his headquarters, at one time used the trail going through the Trejila [sic] ranch into Las Tunas for cattle rustling. 

Vasquez wouldn’t have appreciated being described as a horse thief. He regarded himself as a gentleman highwayman, like the character in Alfred Noyes’ poem—a sort of Californio RobinHood, who stole from the invading Americans. His crimes did include stealing horses—and cattle—but he also held up stagecoaches, and ransacked stores. On one occasion, he and his gang ransacked an entire town. Vasquez had a reputation for not shooting, provided his victims cooperated—he would leave them face-down in the dust with their hands bound behind them. He went to his death maintaining that he never actually killed anyone himself, but he did shoot a man, and he committed so many other crimes that a jury had no qualms about sentencing him to death...

 To read the rest of the story, click here. 

The Goblin Harp

The Goblin Harp, my first novel, was published this autumn. Why a novel? Why not that tenth book of harp music I’ve been working on for an equally long time? Or the next book on the history and natural history of the Santa Monica Mountains that was also supposed to be finished by now. All I can say is that the idea for the story took root in my imagination and kept growing. I needed to write it down, to capture it in words. The book is part mystery, part fairy tale, the kind of adventure story for and about children that I loved when I was a child, and still love to read. That’s what most people who read it will find and maybe that’s enough, but at its heart, this is a book about the harp: its history, its lore, and what I’ve learned about playing the harp over a lifetime, because the harp isn’t quite like any other instrument. It holds magic.

The seeds of this story were planted when I was child. My big brother read me The Hobbit when I was five. In it, Thorin Oakenshield brought a harp to Bilbo Baggin’s Unexpected Party. That was the first harp I remember encountering in books, but there would be others. It was the harp “strung with the wind” in Patricia McKillip’s novel The Harpist in the Wind that crystalized my desire for a harp of my own. I was 12. Celtic harps weren’t easy find back then, but I was determined. I spent part of a never to be forgotten summer vacation in Maine with my parents scouring music shops and found a particularly memorable one in Bar Harbor Maine. We didn’t find a harp there—later that year we found one much closer to home, at Triplett Harps, here in California—but that experience in Bar Harbor planted the seeds for the Goblin Harp.

 

Those seeds were planted in soil enriched with childhood memories of summer vacations in Maine, as well as a lifelong passion for history, nature, ghost stories, and fairy tales, and the excitement I still remember vividly of receiving my first harp and beginning to learn to play it. 

 

The main character of the Goblin Harp is a young girl who has just moved to Maine with her family. She has always dreamed of playing the traditional wire-strung Irish harp and receives a very special one for her twelfth birthday. All the things that happen are a result of that gift. She finds a teacher, makes friends with other young musicians, and uncovers a deadly mystery left behind by the Puritan settlers who claimed the island in the seventeenth century. With the help of her new friends Kate is able is uncover all the clues and tools she needs to solve the puzzle, but can she and her friends prevail before this old evil claims a new victim? This is a story about history, magic, folklore, but most especially about the harp and its traditions.

I gave the protagonist of my novel an ancient Irish harp—the true cláirseach, strung with wire, carved with mysterious symbols and designs, and imbued with a bit of magic—all harps have the potential for that, don’t they? I confess that, unlike my protagonist, I will never be as proficient at the wire-strung harp as I am with nylon strung harps, but it hasn’t stopped me from trying! 

 

I write a lot. As a longtime journalist, I’ve written hundreds of features, editorials, and news stories. I’ve written two books on the history and natural history of Malibu California—the town I grew up in—and nine books of early and traditional music for the harp. Writing this novel was different. It was much more personal. I loved writing this story, and feel a little sad that its finished, complete, set free to live is own life. If you have a story to tell, I encourage you to write it down. Even if it never makes its way into print, putting those thoughts into words is an adventure of its own, and you never know where it might take you. 

Patricia McKillip famously said that she wrote fiction because the ideas were there. “I have no other excuse for sitting down for several hours a day indulging my imagination. Daydreaming, thinking up imaginary people, impossible places,” she wrote. “Imagination is the golden-eyed monster that never sleeps. It must be fed; it cannot be ignored.” 

It’s true. Once you start, it’s hard to stop. There are so many stories waiting to be told.

The Goblin Harp is available on Amazon.com as a paperback or ebook. Kindle Unlimited readers are invited to read it for free. If you would like to read a sample chapter, you can do so here. 

 

I’m currently writing a second fiction story called The Coastwatchers. It’s a period story set in Malibu in WWII, and it runs as an old-fashioned monthly serial at www.topanganetimes.com, where it can also be read it for free. There aren’t any harps in it, but music is an important theme, and the setting provided an ideal opportunity to incorproate the many stories about life in Malibu in the 1940s that I heard growing up.

 

That tenth harp music book and the third history book? They are coming, I promise!

 

Suzanne Guldimann

31 October 2024

Life in Malibu II

 

Life in Malibu II

Life in Malibu II is finally in print! Right now, it is available from Amazon, at the Adamson House Museum gift shop here in Malibu, or directly from the author—email me or use the connect form). The new book is 180 pages, and consists of 11 chapters on the history and natural history of Malibu and contains 206 original and archival photographs. It took three years to write. 

Malibu is a place that has always been in flux. Holding on to anything for more than a decade, a year, a season, is a challenge. This is arguably one of the most storied coastal towns on Earth, but its history is ephemeral. This book and its predecessor are an effort to capture some of that history and natural history in a more permanent form than newsprint.

As a local journalist, I’ve investigated and written about Malibu and the Santa Monica Mountains for more than fifteen years. As an amateur naturalist and historian, I’ve been blessed to spend a lifetime learning about life here. This is my second collection of essays and photographs on life in Malibu, and there are still so many stories to tell. 

Meet Malibu matriarch May Rindge and her legendary railroad. 

In this volume, we meet Malibu matriarch Rhoda May Knight Rindge and take a trip back in time on board her legendary railroad; spend an uncomfortable night with shipwreck survivors in 1909; and meet a rogue’s gallery of smugglers, outlaws and rum runners, along with the lawmen who pursued and subdued them. 

Spend a night shipwrecked in Malibu.

We’ll travel outside Malibu city limits for a hike on the Backbone Trail, and a short history of the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area that I originally wrote for the Los Angeles Times. We’ll also meet some strange denizens of the deep ocean, and search for the elusive sunset green flash. However, scorching the edges of everything in this book is the Woolsey Fire, which changed life in Malibu forever in 2018.

Take a hike on the Backbone Trail, and learn about the roots
 of the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area.

My first Life in Malibu book was due at the printers the week of the Woolsey Fire in 2018. I spent much of the nervous, anxious ten days of evacuation time revising the manuscript to include the fire and its immediate aftermath. I realized even then that the Malibu I grew up in and had written about in the book had changed, possibly forever. 

The Woolsey Fire raged through the neighborhood I grew up in.

But in the aftermath of the fire came a once-in-a-lifetime
season of wildflowers.

Three years later, we are still struggling to rebuild our community in the wake of a disaster that has been compounded by the coronavirus pandemic. This book starts with the fire, but it isn’t all tragedy. The aftermath included the spectacular and miraculous super bloom that followed the worst disaster most of us who live here have ever faced.

Many families who lost their homes in 2018 have moved on. Others are still in the middle of the painful, complex process of rebuilding. It’s a reminder that Malibu, like so many other places that are at the mercy of natural disasters, is impermanent and always in a state of change. The one constant is the natural beauty of the seashore and mountains, and even that constant is constantly changing. 

I grew up in "old Malibu," this is me and my big brother  Christopher on his horse Apple in the 1970s.  It's hard to see some of the changes this community has faced in recent years, especially the sudden and irrevocable changes made by the Woolsey Fire, but there are many things here that are still special and worth protecting: the beach, the rugged beauty of the mountains, dark skies at night, abundant wildlife, and a way of life that revolves around the rhythms of surf, tide, and weather.

The Santa Monica Mountains were formed from sand deposited on the ocean floor by vanished rivers from ancestral mountains that have completely worn away. As sea levels rise, beaches, houses, roads will vanish back into the ocean. Even the ghosts are short-lived, fading as their names and stories are forgotten. 

Our time here is short, but that is all the more reason to take a moment to breathe the air, enjoy the view of sea and mountain, sunset and night sky. 

No matter how much I learn about this amazing and remarkable place, there is always so much more to find out, and more to share. Thank you for joining me on this adventure!

Suzanne Guldimann

Malibu, California

November 13, 2021

What happened to the Malibu Post blog?

Writing the book meant putting many things, including the Malibu Post blog, on hold. During the three years it took to write Life in Malibu II,  Malibu has been struggling to recover from the 2018 Woolsey Fire, everyone everywhere has grappled with the challenges and changes brought by the coronavirus pandemic, and two of the newspapers I wrote for went out of business at the same time. 

It didn't seem like it at the time, but that sudden job collapse proved to be a blessing in many ways. I had the opportunity to help create the Topanga New Times in the spring of 2020, where I serve as editor for publisher Bonnie Morgan. It's a new, hybrid publication that is part newspaper, part magazine. The focus is on life in the WUI—Wildland Urban Interface,  and the biweekly magazine is entirely handcrafted by passionate local residents. 

Several of the chapters in this book had their start as TNT features. TNT is available in print or online. We have an email newsletter that includes links to our features and breaking news, and we never sell our readers personal information. Sign up at www.topanganewtimes.com.

 You can also find the Malibu Post on Instagram @MalibuPost, where I regularly post photos and original artwork. 

I enjoyed writing Life in Malibu II, I hope you will enjoy reading it. Let me know. 

Life in Malibu I is still available, too!

Whale Watching

An adult gray whale surfaces near the beach in Malibu. All photos © 2020 Suzanne Guldimanm

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.

—Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark


Every winter, California gray whales take part in an epic migration from the Arctic to the warm waters of the Sea of Cortez in Baja, and back again. The first southbound whales are usually spotted passing Malibu in December; the first northbound whales usually begin to appear in February.

One of the first northbound whales we've seen during the current 2020 season. It helps when someone else spots it first and is helpfully pointing!

On the way south the whales are traveling fast and rarely linger; on the journey north, females with new calves stay close to shore. They often travel in small groups made up of adults, calves and young whales, and are often joined by dolphins.

March is usually the peak time to look for northbound gray whales off the coast of Malibu, but numbers of northbound whales have already been spotted, and the migration usually runs through the end of April.

Even though these animals are giants it can still be hard to see them, not unlike Lewis Carroll's long-sought but perpetually elusive snark. How do you see whales? The first rule: take time out to go to the beach and look for them, and don't give up if you don't see any the first time, or the second, or the third.

Here's a closer look at the same whale. That telltale spout is the easiest way to spot a whale, but there are other clues: ripples on the surface of the water, a Loch Ness monster-like glimpse of a tail fluke, flipper, or dorsal ridge, or the presence of other animals like dolphins or gulls, in the area. We'll take a closer look at all of these indicators in this post. 

There are plenty of good options for whale watch cruises out of Ventura, Marina Del Rey and San Pedro, but I like to watch for whales from the shore. Corral, Zuma, Leo Carrillo and the small pocket beaches along PCH between Malibu and Point Mugu beaches are all good spots for whale watching, but the best spot is usually Westward, where the whales come close to shore to feed and rest.

It's worth paying to park in the Westward Beach lot at this time of year. Bring a chair and an umbrella and picnic and make a day of it; or walk up to the top of the Point Dume Nature Preserve and watch for whales from one of the viewing platforms—there are two new platforms this year, although some trails in the nature preserve have been closed for trail work and the new beach staircase that is going in later this spring.

There are no guarantees in whale watching, whether on a boat or on the beach, You may see a dozen or none at all, but an hour  or two spent watching for whales is never time wasted. In its own way, it's a form of meditation.

The first thing I look for is any kind of disturbance on the water: a gathering a birds, ripples on the surface of the water, all of these can be signs that whales and other marine mammals like dolphins and sea lions are present.

The sudden presence of a large number of gulls means a good chance there are marine mammals around. In this case it was dolphins, attracted to the same bait fish the gulls were catching.

Gulls following a dolphin, hoping for a share of lunch.

This lone dolphin caught my eye at Westward Beach. 

There was too much wake out there for just one dolphin. Something much larger was in water.

A massive gray whale surfaced a second later, one of the biggest I've ever seen.

Here's her calf, popping up to spout. 

Most gray whale sightings are of a distant spout or puff of breath far out to sea or a Loch Ness Monster-like hump. My attention was drawn by the narrow line of darker water before I saw the whales spouting.  And the bigger band of dark water in the distance?

That dark line was the wake from a mega-pod of more than 100 common dolphins swimming past, almost out of range for my telephoto lens. 

Often all you see is the puff of breath with no whale in sight. They can hold their breath for a long time and its easy to lose track of them before they surface to breathe again.

During the northbound migration in the spring the whales come closer to shore and linger in one place longer, mothers rest and nurse their calves, but even whales that don't have young may take a break and rest near the shore, offering whale watchers a closer look at the heart-shaped spout that is the classic sign of a gray whale. 

If the whale is close enough to shore, you can sometimes you can hear it before you see it.

A ring like this is produced when the whale exhales and dives. Gray whales feed on the sea floor, scooping up mud that they filter through their baleen for the amphipods, krill, worms, and other invertebrates that are their main food source.  Gray whales are more adaptable than some of their relatives, and have been known to snack on small fish and squid—prey that also attracts dolphins, sea lions and seabirds.

There were two whales here a second ago. The ring of bubbles is obvious, but the smooth oval "footprint" next to it is also evidence of a whale. 

This is what is happening under the water during a spout. By the time someone shouts, "Oh look, a whale!"  The whale has exhaled, inhaled, and vanished with a flick of its powerful tail. 

Here are the "footprints" left behind on the surface of the water.

This is a beach-level view of a whale footprint. 

A second later, all you might see are some telltale bubbles. 

A whale footprint is often really a tail-print.

The gray whale's flukes are huge—easily 12 feet across. It's no wonder the tail leaves a distinctive disturbance in the water.

The tip of one of the two fluke lobes is often all of the whale one actually sees, and it can be mistaken for a dolphin fin at first glance.

The gray whale's enormous flippers are sometimes visible when the whale is rolling over under the water.

The whale's dorsal ridge suggests the back of the classical sea monster.

This species doesn't have dorsal fins, but some gray whales have pronounced dorsal "knuckles" near the tail. 

Sometimes you get a glimpse of a whale's head, or rostrum, out of the water.

You can just see the eye of this young whale as it surfaces to breathe.

Here's the barnacle-covered back of a gray whale's head, with the twin blowholes clearly visible. 

This whale is "spyhopping," poking its head out of the water and looking around.

Here's a view from above, showing how little of the whale is actually visible when it spyhops. A mature gray whale can grow to be 45 feet long, but only a small part of the animal is ever visible to the human observer standing on the beach.

Very rarely you might see a gray whale breeching. I took this photo in 2014 from the side of the road at Corral Beach. Those white lines are the five-foot-long neck groves on the underside of the whale. That's a good 60,000 pounds of marine mammal flying through the air—an impressive sight!

Even when you know you've spotted whales it can be hard to figure out what one is looking at. There are at least three whales here: one head, two tails, and the footprint left by the tail of the first whale as it popped its head out of the water.

There are whales in water in this image—the same three in the pervious photo, but you would never know it at first glance. Whales are elusive: patience and luck are key to seeing them. Gray whales may be giants but they are also fragile. 

The Pacific population of gray whales has recovered after being hunted to edge of extinction in the 20th century, but they are still vulnerable to ship strikes, trash, fishing gear, ocean warming, and even over-enthusiastic whale watchers who sometimes get too close or harass them with boats and drones.

2019 was a dire year for gray whales. There were so many deaths that an Unusual Mortality Event (UME) was declared.  It's important to give these amazing beings space. NOAA recommends observing whales from at least 100 yards away, and never swimming or paddling out to get a closer look. As much as we love to see them, we need to give them the room and peace they need to travel  safely and undisturbed. 

It is also important to continue to fight for protections for marine mammals. The gray whale has had a reprieve, but its future is far from certain, and its fate depends on us. 

Suzanne Guldimann

23 February 2020

Three guesses where the whales are. The sight of whales inspires wonder and joy in people of all ages and backgrounds. That we have the opportunity to witness this extraordinary migration is thanks to the people who fought and continue to fight to save the whales, and the coast they swim past.  Whether one sees a whale or not, an hour or two spent on the beach in February or March watching for these ancient and amazing pilgrims is one of the blessings of the year on the California coast. 

Go and Catch a Falling Star

Padre's shooting star, Primula clevelandii: is a beautiful, ethereal and ephemeral native wildflower that blooms in winter and is one of the first harbingers of spring in Malibu and throughout the Santa Monica Mountains.

Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.


—John Donne, "Song"

In a wet year, shooting stars flourish, covering whole hillsides with delicate pink stars. 

It's easy to catch a shooting star in Malibu in February, when Padre's shooting star, a beautiful and ephemeral native wildflower, blooms, but this flowering is short-lived. Look fast to catch a glimpse of this rare beauty.

You know how they always tell you to memorize the scientific names of plants because thay remain constant? That is not also so. Padre's shooting star was recently reclassified from Dodecatheon clevelandii to Primula clevelandii. The change to primula highlight's this flower's place in the primrose family. Like garden varieties of primrose, P. clevelandii grows from a rosette of leaves. Clevelandii is in honor of San Diego civic leader and avid amateur naturalist Daniel Cleveland.

Daniel Cleveland (1838-1929) founded banks, facilitated railroads, hospitals, schools, libraries—buying 2000 books to start a San Diego library, and co-founded the Natural History Society of San Diego. In return, he is remembered in a host of scientific names for California flora and fauna, including Primula clevelandii.

Spring of 2020 isn't going to be a super bloom—early rain dried out quickly, leaving poor conditions for most wildflowers, but the shooting stars got an early start and are experiencing a moderately strong year.  I photographed this field of stars on the Conejo Valley side of the Santa Monica Mountains. This species likes the kind of north-facing hillside with rain seepage. Because it blooms early, it rarely faces competition from other plants.

Padre's shooting stars range from soft pink to cherry pink to almost white. This is the only member of the primula family in the Santa Monica Mountains, but  that pen-nib-shaped flower is a reminder that the exotic-looking cyclamens one buys at the nursery for a bit of winter color in the house are also members of the primula family.

An almost white shooting star. The only one in a vast field of pink.

You are more likely to spot this beautiful wildflower on the north side of the Santa Monica Mountains, especially in volcanic soils. This is a protected species, so please take only photographs and be careful not to step on the rosettes of leaves—this species is sensitive to soil compression and won't bloom again if it is trampled.

Shooting stars grow from a basal rosette of leaves. Like the garden variety of primrose, this plant is "spring deciduous," dying back after blooming and regrowing from its roots after the first winter rains.

The star-like flowers quickly turn into balloon-like seed capsules. When the seeds are mature, the capsule bursts open, shooting the seeds far and wide like a mini catapult.

The previous year's flower skeletons can provide a welcome clue of where to look for flowers the following year.

This year's flowers blooming among the ghosts of last year's bloom.

So, go and catch a shooting star, but hurry, because like the celestial phenomenon this beautiful flower is named for, it is a fleeting beauty, and this year's flowering will be shorter than usual due to dry conditions and drying winds. 

At the risk of jinxing myself by putting it in print, I'm hoping this post will be the first in a new series of natural history posts in 2020. If you enjoy the Malibu Post, blog please follow us on Instagram @malibupost, check out www.messengermountainnews.com, where I write biweekly articles on nature, history and the environment, and look for a second volume of my book "Life in Malibu," arriving in time for the holidays.

Thanks for reading! Hope to see you here again soon,

Suzanne Guldimann

Malibu

February 12, 2020