Santa Cruz Island is mostly flat, with its highest point reaching just around 2,000 feet. Our destination this time was the tallest peak in the east, standing at 1,880 feet. The round-trip hike covered over 10 miles. Based on typical hiking difficulty, it’s a comfortable 3-star level—not too exhausting, not too easy. Every time I visit this island, I try to stay on foot as much as possible, hoping to take in every landscape, plant, and creature along the way. For someone like me, slightly obsessed with nature, these moments are rare and precious.
The first half of the hike was full of lighthearted conversation and laughter. Without noticing, we had already climbed over 1,000 feet. Then, looking up, a brilliant brick red appeared before us—sudden and striking. Everyone was in awe of nature’s magic, how quickly the landscape transformed without warning or transition. Walking across this open stretch of red land was an almost surreal experience.
My two German colleagues—cheerful, humorous, and my good friends—added joy to the hike.
The vegetation here was especially interesting. Most of the grasses were silvery white, quite different from the dry yellow you'd find at lower elevations. These grasses still seemed to be in their growing phase, but something about them felt... alien. They reminded me of “Martian plants.” We joked that maybe the soil was rich in iron, and the plants had absorbed a good amount of it. But what about the colors? Maybe we could just use "ferrous iron" as an excuse.
Even up close, these strange plants were hard to make sense of. Thankfully, there were still some normal-looking shrubs scattered among them—just enough to remind us that we were still on Earth.
This photo wasn’t shot in black and white—it just turned out that way naturally. The contrast between colors surprised me when I went back to edit it.
Scattered weed stems lay chaotically on the red rocks, visually clashing with the bright blue sea and sky in the background.
Manmade traces remain too. A line of rusted barbed wire, installed long ago, now blends into the scenery—an accidental ornament softened by time.
Looking out, the scene made us feel as if we were witnessing the collapse of the heavens and the cracking of the earth during some ancient volcanic eruption. The scattered hot rocks eventually settled to form the beautiful island that now rests off the Pacific coast, home to countless living things, all quietly thriving.
Standing between volcanic rock and the endless blue sky and sea, it’s hard not to feel small.
Yet human footprints are everywhere.
As we continued upward and glanced back, the view stretched out behind us like a masterful painting—from the deep blue of the distant ocean to the vivid brick red, the greens of the vegetation, and the soft yellow of the ridges. Nature knows no boundaries in its palette.
The terrain changed once more, the red slowly fading behind us.
From our new vantage point, the eastern portion of the island came into full view. Looking back at the trail we had taken—it was long, gentle, and winding. At that point, we had reached about 1,400 feet in elevation.
One of the wonders of Santa Cruz Island is the dramatic shift in landforms across elevations. As we left the volcanic zone, the “plateau” opened up, rich with new plant life. Our steps grew lighter, and our eyes scanned eagerly for rare finds. I’m no plant expert, but even simple observation brought joy.
As the saying goes, you’re admiring the scenery—but to someone else, you are the scenery.
At higher elevations, tall trees began to appear—twisted and gnarly, with no clear reason why. What caught my attention most was the vibrant light green coating on their branches, like soft fleece wrapping the trees. These organisms are lichens—a symbiosis of fungi and algae. More than 400 species have been recorded in the Channel Islands, accounting for a third of all lichen species in California. Often found on rocks and bark, lichens are incredibly sensitive to air quality and climate change. They’re known as "indicator species." The abundance of lichen here suggests just how pure the air must be. Breathing such clean air feels like a luxury in today’s world.
A wide variety of plants appeared as we walked. Even though we didn’t know most of their names, just appreciating their beauty was enough.
At around 1,600 feet, the far side of the island slowly revealed itself. We could see the vegetation becoming noticeably denser in the highly protected ecological zones. With most human activity restricted, the original ecosystems remain preserved. Somewhere along that coast lies the famous Pelican Bay—a sanctuary for brown pelicans. Thanks to conservation efforts, their population, which had plummeted in the 1970s, has now surged back to nearly a million. Expert fishers, they’ve become an iconic sight along California’s shores.
Everyone stood still, taking in the unforgettable view.
Just a few hundred feet higher, we reached our final destination—1,880 feet above sea level. Although that’s only 573 meters in metric terms, the 5-mile (8 km) hike proved how gradually the elevation had risen.
At the summit was a flat area, maybe 100 square feet wide. A solar-powered transmitter stood quietly to one side—its purpose unclear. In a corner of the clearing, we found a small iron box. Inside it was a notebook filled with signatures of those who had made it to the top. We flipped through the pages, then proudly added our own names.
On the return hike, we spotted two small figures across the ridge—an adult and a child. Framed by the clouds behind them, they appeared to be standing on the sky itself.
When the scent of sea air returned, we knew our journey was ending. Travel always feels short. All the beauty is stored on SD cards and in our memories. But no photo, no sentence, can fully express the feeling of truly being there—standing on that path, surrounded by silence, sky, and the timeless work of the earth.
