Halloween fell on a weekend again this year. The iron fence still stands, separating the student apartments from Isla Vista (IV). Sirens echoed day and night. Children ran around in all kinds of costumes, chanting “Trick or Treat” with no end in sight. This is a wild place—and not just for the young.
A week earlier, I’d gathered a few like-minded friends—those who prefer peace over chaos—to plan an escape from the noise. With no extended holiday in sight, we decided to return to Channel Islands National Park. The Channel Islands refer to eight islands scattered along the Southern California coast; five of them form the protected National Park. More than 2,000 species call these islands home, 145 of which are unique, found nowhere else. In order to preserve this fragile ecosystem, the islands are kept free of restrooms, trash cans, and fuel-powered vehicles. The old saying comes to mind: “Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints.” And the people here take it seriously.
The ferry schedule changes daily based on weather, so to make the most of our time, we booked the 8 a.m. departure and 5 p.m. return. Luck was on our side—only ten tickets were left when we booked, and we secured six. I groggily rolled out of bed early Saturday and drove to the dock, half-asleep but completely captivated by the peaceful beauty of the coastline bathed in soft morning light.
The ferry departed on time as the sun steadily rose. The dock remained quiet, with only the low hum of our boat’s motor breaking the silence. The sea was glassy, interrupted only by the occasional bird gliding past. In moments like this, people and nature coexist effortlessly.
On a stone wall not far from the dock, a cluster of brown pelicans were grooming themselves in the sun, warming up for another busy day of diving, hunting, and feeding their young. Unlike gulls that beg for human scraps, these skilled divers are self-sufficient. They nest nearly 30 miles from the mainland and live simply, untethered to the noise of the human world.
Nearby, a group of sea lions lay sprawled across a tiny buoy, sleeping as if nothing could disturb them. I see them like this every time I go out to sea—morning, evening, always lounging, always in the same relaxed pose.
Looking back at the coastline, the details of the harbor had already vanished from view. Sunlight drenched the shore in golden warmth. Another sunny, peaceful weekend had begun. After enduring the chaos of Halloween’s first night, I couldn’t help but wonder if people were already starting to feel worn out.
Ahead, the outline of Santa Cruz Island emerged through drifting clouds—misty, ethereal, like a scene from a dream. The peak on the island’s eastern side was our goal for the day. The roar of the ferry engine echoed across the still, deep blue sea.
The 90-minute ride was calm. We leaned over the front railing the whole time but didn’t spot any marine life. Everyone was a little disappointed, wiping their noses and blinking back imaginary tears—not out of sadness, but from the biting cold. We soon docked at the barebones “pier” of Santa Cruz Island. Over 100 passengers disembarked in an orderly flow, making room for one another as if choreographed.
Santa Cruz is the largest of the Channel Islands. However, more than 60% of it is a highly protected zone where access is strictly prohibited without a permit. One of those areas includes the well-known Pelican Bay, a vital sanctuary and feeding ground for brown pelicans in Southern California.
Rounding a bend past the pier, we reached an open plain. It’s hard to believe this was late October. Only Southern California could serve up this permanent palette of green and gold. The island was pristine. Despite hosting hundreds of thousands of visitors each year, there was not a trace of trash or pollution.
Along the trail, we came upon a line of rusted farm tools left behind by herders in the 18th and 19th centuries—relics worn by time. Now, they’re lined up on display along the path, quietly retelling stories of a bygone era.
Away from the noise of civilization, walking between golden grasses and endless blue, the mind feels at ease. The hills here aren’t steep or imposing—they’re soft, sprawling, and open. Perfect for those of us always running at full speed, now learning to slow down and breathe again.
The trail to Santa Cruz Island’s summit begins in the flat central canyon and gradually rises. The island’s appearance changes little throughout the year; at times, it’s hard to tell if the grasses before you are alive or just stubbornly clinging on. Here and there, green bursts through the yellow like strokes on a painter’s canvas—giving the scene a dreamlike quality.
At around 600 feet elevation, the land suddenly opens. In the center of a field stands an old drilling rig, now nothing more than a monument rusted to a reddish hue, transformed by time into something quietly beautiful. Like a sculpture, it stands still, watching visitors pass by.
I took a similar photo last year—same spot, same angle. Back then, the land was barren and brown. This time, a touch of green returned. Maybe it’s the season. Or maybe the island’s ecological restoration is working. A quiet reminder: humans can harm nature, but also help heal it.
Soon, the eastern side of the island stretched out before us. In the distance, we could see the silhouette of Anacapa Island. Though small, Anacapa’s surrounding waters are rich with phytoplankton and fish. The sunshine and coastlines there offer haven to many marine mammals and seabirds.
During a short break, I captured a few moody black-and-white shots. Twisted deadwood in stark contrast to the season’s spirit—it felt fitting for Halloween.
Further along the trail, brown-black shrubs dotted the yellow fields. Rainfall on Santa Cruz Island is scarce. Few broadleaf trees can survive. The success of these low-growing plants is owed to their ability to retain water and endure dryness.
Naturally, cacti make their appearance. In the wild, they grow far larger than the bonsai versions we’re used to—sometimes as tall as small trees. One cactus stood out, shaped like a little man with a topknot. That bright “bun” was its fruit—edible, sweet, and eye-catching. But a word of caution to greedy fingers: those fruits are covered in fine, nearly invisible thorns that stick everywhere and won’t let go. We didn’t pick any from the island, of course. The ones near my home? Not quite so lucky—different place, different fate.
Below 900 feet, the island is dominated by grasses, shrubs, and cacti. Trees are rare, mostly found in canyon bottoms. But around 1,000 feet, the terrain changes dramatically, revealing the island’s geological story—a reminder of the ancient volcanic forces that gave this land its shape.