Umbellularia Californica – Or, the California Bay Laurel

Only thirty seconds up Andrew’s and my new favorite trailhead stands a majestic sprawling oak the likes of which cannot fail to transport me into fits of exultation.

This essay is not about that tree, though I’ll be shocked if by next fall I haven’t followed up with many unhinged rhapsodic lines on the matter. The moss! The lichens! The flock of red-headed woodpeckers! I’ve got to wait for its leaves to come in fresh so I can be sure of its species.

No – but today’s story begins beneath that tree, under the warming late winter sun, with me gazing through the oak’s branches, my new phone (with its new and better camera!) in my hands. I raised the camera between my face and the tree. Shook my head. Crouched down and raised the phone once more. Hesitated between portrait and landscape mode. Tried to imagine what Katrina, the photographer of the family, might do. Then looked disappointedly at Andrew.

“We’ll need to come back on a greyer day,” I said. “It won’t look right in the pictures with the sun so nice.” I rose and snapped a close-up of a gnarled scar where a small branch had once been.


“The good news is,” Andrew said, grinning at me from his position beside a tangled, natural mud-and-roots stairwell away from the main trail, hands in his windbreaker pockets, “this way looks a lot drier today.”

He was right. On previous hikes, I’d expressed curiosity about the slim descent, having seen both the path down and the hikers and their dogs squelching along a lower way paralleling the main trail. But, so far, heavy winter rains had made traversing even the upper trail such a messy business that I’d deferred exploration beyond it.

But now, down we went.

The world below the majestic oak opened into a fairytale wood full of quiet filtered light. Peculiar glittering secrecy lived here – something special, and magic, and very, very old, the way particular creeks and hideaways felt in my childhood Louisiana years. I sighed happily, looking around at all the other trees scattered around me with their stately trunks covered in thick, lush moss.


“I missed this in Vegas,” Andrew said. “All this green.”

“Mm-hmm,” I agreed, taking a deep breath of the whispering, almost-spicy emerald air.

I felt almost guilty, admitting it. I adore the stark Mojave, the cacti and boulders and stubborn parched lichens on shadowed rocks. But wooded spaces nourish me in ways the desert never could. I may be happiest split between worlds, as I am now.

As we walked along the path, I’d started taking close-ups of the lush moss coating the trees. Crouched down with my new phone, unencumbered by concerns about battery life or storage, I focused wholly on each gorgeous tree, trying to capture something of the immovable primordial gravitas I associate with their dense, verdant blankets.



I thought, at first, that they were oaks, like the elder we’d passed beneath in the first place. But I’d never seen so many oak trees with such pronounced hollows in their trunks – hollows I peered into with interest, wondering who or what might live inside.


So I looked up, focusing on leaves rather than bark – and found them: slim and smooth and flat, pointed at either end, with only the gentlest gloss to their lime-green skyward-sides.


I had absolutely no idea what kind of trees these were.

In no way do I mean to suggest I’m some sort of tree expert, though I’m tempted to become one now. But to discover, all of a sudden, that these were certainly not oaks, felt like realizing several minutes into a family event that I’d entered the wrong room and was among perfect strangers. I know oaks, and love them, and am comfortable with their personalities and humor. I’d never seen these trees before in my life.

The mystery trees were gracious enough not to mortify me for my mistake.

That evening, I uploaded several of my pictures to an app I’d seen my sister use on hikes in Red Rock (it’s called iNaturalist, for anyone interested). In response to the leaves, the app suggested I’d probably met Umbellularia californica: the California bay laurel, which naturally occurs only along the coast of California and southern Oregon, with a few instances in Washington and British Columbia, and is the sole species in its genus.

Well: no wonder we’d never met before. In my past years living in California, I’d spent essentially no time in the wild outdoors.

The California bay laurel is a member of the Lauraceae family, the laurels, a vast and ancient, far-flung and complex family including both evergreens and deciduous trees, as well as a smattering of shrubs and parasitic vines, all of which thrive in the warm, moist forests of the world. The laurels existed on this planet with the legendary fauna of the Cretaceous period: Tyrannosaurus rex, Triceratops, Pteranodon. Some paleobotanists believe laurels existed before the breakup of Pangaea.

Lauraceae genera you may have encountered include Cinnamomum, whence both cinnamon and camphor, and Persea, whence the avocado. Not to mention Laurus: the bay trees, whence the bay leaves in your pantry and mine, and the laurel wreaths of ancient Greece.

Umbellularia californica leaves may be substituted for bay leaves in cooking, it turns out – though they taste stronger, and spicier, like their Cinnamomum cousins. And unlike the smaller Mediterranean bays, the California bay laurel looms up to a hundred feet high, competing for territory among redwoods and oaks.

The more I learn of this tree, the more I like – but I’m not here to patch write from Wikipedia. You’ll have to learn about medicinal properties and musical instruments and legal tender wooden coins on your own.


Somehow I never realized hardwood trees could be evergreen – but the California bay laurel is. And I’d never thought of particular trees having such narrow natural ranges. Never realized I could meet a tree so utterly unfamiliar to me, so completely new and unabashedly ancient. Umbellularia californica existed along the California coast during the Miocene epoch – the same epoch that saw the emergence and diversification of the apes, and the dramatic growth of Mount Everest.

When next Andrew and I went walking along our favorite trail, I watched for the lance-like leaves and the rounded defensive base marking this as another tree that had learned to survive the threat of wildfire. Umbellularia californica was everywhere, tucked among the oaks, bright leaves whispering together, the air around them filled with cinnamon. Slim, straight shoots rose along established branches, stretching towards the glistening sunlight, their soft green stems just growing the thinnest, most delicate first layers of bark.

Have you discovered a new plant somewhere near you lately? Tell us all about it in the comments below!

If you’re new to the blog and like what you’ve read and want more, please follow or sign up via email—the link is in the right-hand sidebar! You can also find me on my Facebook page and Instagram!

Happy witnessing!

Lemon Trees and Second Spring

Over the past two weeks, as much of the United States prepares for crunching leaves and dormant plant life, the second spring has come to the Mojave. And with the arrival of this second spring, I found myself tending to my balcony garden and marveling that I should have loose soil in my hands during the first days of October. Such is life in the desert.

Photo by Ghislaine Guerin on Unsplash

Continue reading “Lemon Trees and Second Spring”

The Underworld and the Heavens – Or, Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, Arizona

I’d just completed the Pluto Walk: an uphill length of sidewalk stretching to the tippy-top of Mars Hill, where one finds the Pluto Telescope Dome surrounded by fragrant ponderosa pines. The walk demonstrates a to-scale approximation of the distances between the planets in our solar system, beginning with our Absurdly Bright Star at the bottom and culminating with Pluto. Each celestial body is marked on the sidewalk itself and is highlighted with panels featuring pertinent facts about the planet and its discovery.

But wait, you’ll object. I thought Pluto wasn’t considered a planet anymore. 

You’re not wrong. Pluto is now the best known of the dwarf planets, and is the namesake for plutoids (ice dwarfs) and plutinos (distant members of our solar system with funky orbital habits) found in the Kuiper belt beyond Neptune. The Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, Arizona knows this. Pluto is honored here not out of astronomical dissent, but out of pride.

You see, it was here that Pluto was first discovered.

Pluto Telescope Dome.jpg
This building houses the actual telescope commissioned to discover “Planet X.” It succeeded in capturing the first images of Pluto in 1915, and the significance of those images was recognized in 1930! (All photos by yours truly.)

Continue reading “The Underworld and the Heavens – Or, Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, Arizona”

What Strange Luck May Come – Or, The Pea Soup Capital of the World

Andersen’s Pea Soup Capital of the World,” I read out loud, staring out the passenger side window at an approaching sign. “Buellton, California – 105 miles.”

“What?” my then-spouse asked, eyes on the road.

“I keep seeing these signs for this famous split pea soup,” I said, gesturing out the window. “It’s quite a claim. I mean, pea soup’s good and all, but—?”

“Yeah, famous?”

“Kinda wish we had time to stop,” I mused. “I’d like to see if it’s worth the hype.” I paused. “It’s even on the way.”

Close-up of fresh pea pod on a wooden table. Photo by Rachael Gorjestani on Unsplash

Continue reading “What Strange Luck May Come – Or, The Pea Soup Capital of the World”

The “I Heart Beaver” Beaver in Beaver

My car holds just enough gasoline to get me from Las Vegas, Nevada to Beaver, Utah.

I first learned this when driving from my sister’s place in Vegas to Madison, Wisconsin in 2015. I was almost done with the journey’s I-15 leg, and, as one does, I pulled into the gas station that presented itself at the moment when my gas tank was empty and my bladder full.

And came face-to-face with this:

Beaver Statue 1.jpg
Six-foot beaver statue standing upright and wearing a sign saying, “I Heart Beaver.”

Continue reading “The “I Heart Beaver” Beaver in Beaver”

The Cranes Were Not the Strangers Here

For my ninth birthday, just weeks before my family left Bangkok, my best friend gave me a sheer pink sash screen-printed with cranes in flight.

This friend was Japanese, but, like me, she’d spent her entire childhood in Thailand. When you’re small, you understand too little of the world to comprehend cultural provenance. You simply absorb. You exist where you exist. You believe you belong until given reason to believe you do not. Continue reading “The Cranes Were Not the Strangers Here”

Unexpected Memento Mori – Or, The Massive Orange Moose

In the life of a melodramatic lover of roadside attractions, there’s no preparing for a massive orange moose. One moment, you’re living your life the best you know how. Suddenly the world has a massive orange moose in it, and it’s right outside your window. There’s an emotional reckoning to be had. Nothing will ever be the same. Continue reading “Unexpected Memento Mori – Or, The Massive Orange Moose”

No Dice on the Karaoke Plans

Beyond the blinking arcade lights, a blackjack dealer stood over a deserted table counting chips by flashlight. Every movement was precise, from the sorting to the notebook-jotting. Even the flashlight’s oval gleam was meticulous, which was a marvel: the dealer was holding the battery-end in her mouth.

“—gonna to get unbearably hot in here within about an hour or so,” the hostess was telling Andrew. “We’ve got the generators, but they’re just to keep the arcades running.” She gestured across the room, where the gaming machines were chirruping gleefully and lighting the room with a churning mishmash of animated dragons, mermaids, pirates, race cars, sharks, and leprechauns. Colors swam across the dark ceiling, dramatizing the cigarette haze.

Photo by Benoit Dare on Unsplash

Continue reading “No Dice on the Karaoke Plans”

Welcome to Colorful Colorado!

Prairie-land and I don’t go well together. I ascribe this to my pioneer ancestry. My DNA remembers too many meals cooked over buffalo-chip campfires, and so no matter how expansive the arched cerulean sky, I can’t help feeling trapped in the endlessness rather than freed by it. Too many heirlooms left on the side of the trail. Too many shallow graves.

I am ready for mountains. Continue reading “Welcome to Colorful Colorado!”

First, Fireflies

I survived twenty-nine years without having ever seen fireflies.

That’s not to sound ungrateful. Some things I have seen: the ruins of Ayutthaya, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the raw majesty of southeast Asian monsoons. Other things I have not seen: the northern or southern lights, the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Statue of Liberty.

Before reaching age eighteen, I’d encountered king cobras and tokay geckos and weaver ants in their native habitats, which I realized not everyone had done. So I never felt particularly put out about the fireflies until it came to my attention that some people reach adulthood without ever having seen cockroaches. Continue reading “First, Fireflies”