Imagine driving toward Carmel-by-the-Sea in the 1930s and discovering a wall or fence surrounding the village.

There is a gate across the road.

And before entering Carmel, you have to pay a toll.

It sounds like the setup for one of Carmel's more exaggerated legends.

Except this one has a remarkably solid historical foundation.

According to Carmel-by-the-Sea's official Historic Context Statement, during the 1930s longtime Carmel resident, writer and political figure Perry Newberry suggested building a fence around Carmel and charging a toll to enter.

The idea never became reality.

But understanding why someone seriously suggested it tells us quite a bit about how Carmel became the unusual village we know today.

This Wasn't Really About Keeping People Out

To understand the idea, we have to forget the Carmel we know today for a moment.

Modern Carmel-by-the-Sea is internationally known for its white-sand beach, restaurants, galleries, luxury real estate, hidden courtyards and storybook architecture.

Early Carmel was something very different.

It was a young village populated by an unusual collection of artists, writers, actors, builders, teachers and independent-minded residents.

Many of them had deliberately chosen Carmel because it wasn't San Francisco, Los Angeles or even a conventional California resort town.

They liked the trees.

They liked the beach.

They liked the cottages and dirt roads.

And many of them were deeply suspicious of anything that looked too much like “progress.”

You can see that philosophy throughout the story of Carmel's early artist colony.

Meet Perry Newberry

Perry Newberry was one of early Carmel's most colorful and influential personalities.

He was a writer, actor, theatrical producer, newspaper publisher and political figure who became deeply involved in the cultural and civic life of the village.

Newberry was closely associated with Carmel's Forest Theater and later became co-publisher of the Carmel Pine Cone.

But politically, he became especially well known for his opposition to uncontrolled growth and commercialization.

To Newberry and others who shared his outlook, Carmel's greatest asset was precisely what it had not become.

“Keep Carmel Off the Map”

Newberry became associated with one of the most memorable political slogans in Carmel history:

“Keep Carmel Off the Map.”

National Park Service historical documentation describes Newberry's campaign under that name as an important influence on Carmel's development.

The phrase shouldn't necessarily be interpreted literally.

The objective wasn't to pretend Carmel didn't exist.

It represented a broader philosophy:

Don't turn Carmel into a conventional city.

Don't let commercial growth overwhelm the residential village.

Don't automatically adopt every feature other California communities considered progress.

And don't destroy the qualities that attracted people to Carmel in the first place.

Carmel Was Already Fighting Over “Progress”

This debate wasn't theoretical.

Early Carmel residents repeatedly argued over what the village should become.

Should streets be paved?

Should commercial development expand?

Should Carmel adopt the infrastructure and conveniences found in larger cities?

Or would those improvements gradually erase the village's character?

Later historical accounts describe Newberry and City Attorney Argyll Campbell as being firmly aligned with what Newberry called Carmel's “art element,” in contrast with residents more interested in business and development.

Even paving the village's main street became controversial.

Ocean Avenue eventually was paved, of course.

But the larger disagreement did not go away.

Then Someone Suggested a Wall

This is where the Local Lore story gets particularly interesting.

Carmel's official historical timeline records that during the 1930s Perry Newberry suggested building a fence around Carmel and charging a toll to enter.

A later historical account provides a little more color.

According to that version, City Attorney Argyll Campbell suggested surrounding Carmel with a wall and limiting the points of entry.

Newberry then supposedly took the idea one step further:

Put toll gates at the entrances.

Because the City's official history describes the proposal more generally as Newberry's idea, while the later account divides the credit between Campbell and Newberry, it is safest to say this:

The wall-or-fence and toll-gate proposal is historically documented. Exactly how the idea developed between Campbell and Newberry is less certain.

Was This Actually a Serious Proposal?

That is more difficult to answer.

We know the idea existed because Carmel's own historical record preserves it.

What we do not have is evidence that the City reached the point of approving construction plans, financing a wall or preparing actual toll booths.

So this wasn't a public works project that nearly broke ground.

It was better understood as an expression of an increasingly familiar Carmel idea:

There should be limits to how much outside growth and commercialization are allowed to change the village.

The wall itself never happened.

But the philosophy behind it most certainly did.

Pebble Beach Was Right Next Door

The proposal may sound less strange when viewed in the context of the Monterey Peninsula.

Immediately north of Carmel sat the privately developed Del Monte Forest and Pebble Beach, where controlled points of entry were already part of the community's identity.

Later accounts of the Carmel proposal specifically referenced neighboring Pebble Beach as an example of controlled access.

That didn't mean Carmel was about to become another Pebble Beach.

The two communities developed very differently.

But the existence of a nearby community with defined entrances made the idea of controlling access considerably less fantastical than it sounds today.

Carmel Never Built the Wall — It Used Zoning Instead

The physical wall never materialized.

But in 1929, Carmel adopted something far more important to the village's long-term development:

Ordinance 96.

The ordinance formally declared Carmel-by-the-Sea to be primarily and predominantly a residential city, with business and commerce subordinate to that residential character.

It established a limited commercial district while keeping most of Carmel residential.

The basic concept remains central to Carmel planning today.

Carmel's current adopted Historic Context Statement describes Perry Newberry's leadership as instrumental in advocating for and passing the ordinance.

Argyll Campbell, who served for many years as Carmel's city attorney, is also closely associated with the legal framework and zoning philosophy that developed during this period.

In a Way, Carmel Built an Invisible Wall

This is the part of the story I find most interesting.

Campbell and Newberry never succeeded in physically surrounding Carmel.

But many of the principles they advocated became embedded in Carmel's laws and traditions.

Carmel preserved a tightly limited commercial core.

Residential neighborhoods remained deliberately different from conventional suburban development.

Building scale mattered.

Trees mattered.

Architecture mattered.

The beach was not converted into a commercial amusement district.

And the village continued resisting many features other communities considered routine.

National Park Service documentation specifically connects this philosophy with Carmel's longstanding lack of residential sidewalks, street lighting and traditionally numbered houses.

That last tradition survived for more than a century. You can read the full story in Why Carmel Has No Traditional Street Addresses.

The Point Wasn't to Freeze Carmel in Time

It would be easy to describe people like Newberry simply as being opposed to progress.

And at times, that is exactly how their political opponents saw them.

But the larger historical story is more nuanced.

Early Carmel residents were confronting a problem that communities throughout California still wrestle with today:

How do you allow a desirable place to grow without destroying the qualities that made it desirable?

Their answers were sometimes eccentric.

A wall and toll gate certainly qualify.

But the underlying concern was not irrational.

Carmel was a small coastal village sitting on extraordinarily desirable land.

Without limits, it could easily have developed very differently.

Imagine the Carmel That Might Have Been

Consider how many conventional development choices Carmel could have made.

Large beachfront hotels.

A commercial boardwalk.

High-rise buildings.

Wide streets designed primarily around automobiles.

Large-scale commercial development extending well beyond Ocean Avenue.

Standardized residential subdivisions.

Instead, Carmel evolved into something much smaller in scale and much harder to duplicate.

Its cottages, courtyards, narrow lanes, mature trees, residential neighborhoods and tightly concentrated business district became part of the community's identity.

That physical character is explored in more detail in our guide to Carmel-by-the-Sea architecture, cottages and storybook homes.

Why This Still Matters to Carmel Real Estate

Nearly a century later, the decisions made during this period still influence Carmel real estate.

Carmel-by-the-Sea contains a finite amount of land.

Lots are often small.

Development is closely reviewed.

Architectural character and neighborhood compatibility matter.

The commercial district remains compact.

And many buyers specifically seek Carmel because it does not resemble a conventional resort community.

In other words, the same qualities Newberry and his contemporaries were trying to protect eventually became some of Carmel's greatest economic assets.

Scarcity, character, walkability, architecture and a strong sense of place now contribute directly to the appeal — and value — of Carmel real estate.

Did Carmel Really Want to Keep the World Out?

Probably not in the literal sense.

Carmel depended on visitors, artists, businesses and newcomers from its earliest years.

And the village eventually became one of California's most celebrated destinations.

What Newberry and others wanted to control was not simply who came in.

They were trying to control what Carmel became.

The proposed fence and toll gate were an extreme — and never implemented — expression of that philosophy.

The lasting expression was zoning and preservation.

The Wall Carmel Never Built

So, did Carmel really consider building a wall and making people pay to enter?

Yes.

The proposal appears in Carmel's official historical record.

But the wall was never constructed.

The toll gates were never installed.

And in the end, Carmel found another way to draw a boundary around what it wanted to preserve.

Not a stone wall.

Not a wooden fence.

Not a toll booth.

Instead, Carmel used zoning, planning and a century of sometimes fiercely defended traditions to protect the idea that the village should remain primarily residential, human-scaled and unmistakably Carmel.

In that sense, the wall was never built.

But the boundary it represented is still very much with us.

Frequently Asked Questions

Did Carmel-by-the-Sea really plan to build a wall around the city?

Carmel's official Historic Context Statement records that during the 1930s Perry Newberry suggested building a fence around Carmel and charging a toll to enter. Later accounts describe City Attorney Argyll Campbell as suggesting a wall with limited entry and Newberry proposing toll gates. The idea was never constructed.

Were there ever toll gates at the entrances to Carmel?

No. Although toll gates were proposed, Carmel-by-the-Sea never installed them. The proposal remained an idea rather than an implemented public project.

Who was Perry Newberry?

Perry Newberry was a writer, actor, theater producer, newspaper publisher and civic figure who played an important role in early Carmel. He became particularly well known for opposing uncontrolled commercialization and was associated with the “Keep Carmel Off the Map” movement.

Who was Argyll Campbell?

Argyll Campbell served as Carmel-by-the-Sea's city attorney from 1920 to 1937 and was closely associated with the zoning and legal framework that helped protect the village's residential character. Later historical accounts also connect him with the idea of physically restricting entry into Carmel.

What was Carmel's “Keep Carmel Off the Map” campaign?

The phrase was associated with Perry Newberry and reflected a broader effort to resist excessive commercialization and conventional urban development. It did not literally mean erasing Carmel from maps, but rather preserving the village's small-scale residential and artistic character.

What was Carmel Ordinance 96?

Adopted in 1929, Ordinance 96 formally declared Carmel-by-the-Sea to be primarily a residential city, with business and commerce subordinate to its residential character. It established the basic division between Carmel's residential areas and its limited commercial district.

Did these early preservation efforts influence Carmel today?

Yes. Carmel's small-scale residential neighborhoods, compact commercial center, architectural character and longstanding resistance to conventional urban development all reflect principles that were established during the village's early decades.

For more than a century, prisoners were locked inside a small granite jail beside Colton Hall in Monterey.

According to the City of Monterey, not one of them ever escaped.

The walls were thick.

The windows were reinforced with iron.

The cells were constructed to make getting out extraordinarily difficult.

But there was one problem the builders apparently hadn't solved:

Keeping angry people from getting in.

During one of the most turbulent periods in Monterey County history, vigilante groups sometimes decided that courts were moving too slowly — or couldn't be trusted at all.

On more than one occasion, prisoners inside Monterey's supposedly secure jail discovered that the granite walls protecting society from them could not necessarily protect them from the society outside.

A Jail Built for a Rougher California

The jail still standing beside Colton Hall was constructed in 1854, only a few years after California became a state.

Monterey was then the Monterey County seat as well as an important center of government and commerce.

The Gold Rush had transformed California.

Thousands of new residents had arrived. Cattle and horse theft were serious problems. Highway robbery and violent crime were not uncommon, and law enforcement across the young state was still developing.

Monterey needed something considerably stronger than its earlier adobe lockup.

They Built It Almost Like a Fortress

The new jail was deliberately designed to be difficult to defeat.

Historical descriptions record walls built of heavy Monterey granite and ironwork brought from San Francisco.

The building contained six jail cells along with a debtor's room and a room for the jailer.

A walled yard completed the small compound.

An 1855 account in the Monterey Sentinel praised the structure for its solidity.

With the exception of the roof, very little wood was used in the secure portions of the building.

Even the cells were capped with arched stone overhead.

It worked.

The City of Monterey records that during the jail's long period of use, no prisoner ever successfully escaped from its thick granite walls.

The Jail Beside the Birthplace of California Statehood

The location makes the story even more interesting.

The jail stands immediately beside Colton Hall.

Only a few years before the jail was constructed, delegates gathered inside Colton Hall in 1849 to draft the constitution that helped bring California into the Union.

One building therefore represents the creation of California's constitutional government.

The other reminds us how difficult it could be to impose law and order in the new state.

For the larger story of Monterey's political importance, read Monterey as the Capital of Alta California.

The Problem Wasn't Always Prisoners Trying to Get Out

The Old Monterey Jail was very good at keeping prisoners inside.

But nineteenth-century Monterey County had another problem.

Vigilante justice.

During periods when residents believed sheriffs, judges or courts were corrupt, ineffective or simply too slow, groups of citizens sometimes took punishment into their own hands.

Suspected thieves and killers could face consequences before a court ever determined their guilt.

And Monterey was not immune.

Anastacio Garcia Enters the Story

One of the most feared figures associated with this period was Anastacio Garcia.

Historical accounts describe Garcia as a violent outlaw connected with a series of killings and robberies around Monterey County.

His story also intersects with another name that would become famous in California outlaw history:

Tiburcio Vásquez.

Vásquez grew up in Monterey and, according to historical accounts, became involved with Garcia as a young man before beginning the outlaw career that eventually made him one of California's most notorious bandits.

Garcia was eventually captured and placed inside the granite Monterey jail.

But imprisonment did not lead to a trial.

February 1857: The Vigilantes Come for Garcia

In February 1857, vigilantes entered the jail.

Historical accounts vary somewhat in their descriptions of exactly how the confrontation unfolded, but the outcome is documented.

Garcia was killed inside the jail.

The surviving Monterey jail register contains a stark entry recording that Anastacio Garcia, who had been charged with murder, was found strangled in his jail cell on the morning of February 17, 1857.

The building had done exactly what it had been designed to do.

Garcia hadn't escaped.

The danger came through the door.

Then the Story Reversed

About sixteen years later, the Monterey Jail became the setting for an even stranger chapter of vigilante history.

This time, the prisoner wasn't known primarily for being hunted by vigilantes.

He had been one himself.

His name was Matt Tarpy.

Matt Tarpy: The Vigilante Who Became the Prisoner

Tarpy was an Irish immigrant and Pajaro Valley rancher who became deeply involved in efforts to pursue cattle thieves and suspected bandits.

By 1870 he had become a leader of a vigilante organization known as the Pajaro Property Protective Society.

The group emerged during a period of continuing conflict over theft, violence and the effectiveness of the justice system.

But vigilante organizations often created their own cycle of violence.

Tarpy eventually found himself on the opposite side of it.

1873: A Mob Removes Tarpy From the Monterey Jail

In March 1873, Tarpy became involved in a property dispute near Watsonville that ended with the shooting death of Sarah Nicholson.

Tarpy turned himself in and was transferred to the Monterey jail to await trial.

He would not remain there long.

Two days later, an armed group surrounded the jail, restrained law enforcement officers and removed Tarpy.

He was placed in a buggy and taken inland from Monterey.

The group eventually stopped along what is now the Highway 68 corridor.

There, Tarpy was lynched from a pine tree.

The surrounding area became known as Tarpy Flats — a name that survives in local geography today.

The irony was difficult to miss.

A man who had participated in extrajudicial vigilante justice was himself killed by vigilantes before his own trial could take place.

No Escape Doesn't Mean Everyone Stayed Inside

This is why the familiar claim that nobody ever escaped the Old Monterey Jail is both true and incomplete.

Prisoners apparently couldn't break through the granite, iron and stone.

But some didn't leave through an escape.

They were forcibly removed or killed by people who believed they had the right to bypass the legal system entirely.

That distinction tells us something important about nineteenth-century Monterey.

The problem was not simply crime.

It was the struggle to establish public confidence in courts, sheriffs and government during a period of extraordinary social change.

The Prison Register Still Exists

One of the most remarkable surviving pieces of this history is not the building itself.

It is a book.

The Monterey Public Library's California History Room preserves the Monterey Jail Register covering 1850 through 1872.

The register contains 644 prisoner entries.

Names, charges, dates of confinement, discharge information and remarks were recorded by jail officials.

The earliest entries relate to Monterey's older adobe jail. Later entries document prisoners held in the granite jail beside Colton Hall.

That means the surviving register provides an unusually direct record of Monterey's transition from the Mexican and early American periods into California statehood.

The Old Jail Survives

Unlike many buildings associated with California's frontier-era criminal justice system, Monterey's old jail is still here.

It stands beside Colton Hall at 570 Pacific Street in the historic heart of Monterey.

The building is small enough that someone passing along Pacific Street could easily overlook it.

But its scale is part of what makes it so interesting.

This isn't a reconstructed movie-set jail or a massive prison complex.

It is the actual granite building that confined prisoners during some of Monterey County's most turbulent years.

Is the Old Monterey Jail Haunted?

Not surprisingly, a building associated with confinement, violence and nineteenth-century vigilante killings has accumulated ghost stories.

Visitors and paranormal investigators have reported unexplained sounds, footsteps and other experiences around the jail and neighboring Colton Hall.

Those stories belong firmly in the lore category.

We have historical documentation for the jail, its prisoners and the vigilante episodes.

We do not have historical evidence that establishes paranormal activity.

As with the best Local Lore stories, separating the documented history from the legend actually makes the real story more interesting.

Why This Story Matters

Old Monterey is filled with buildings that tell California's political story.

The Custom House recalls international trade and the American takeover of California.

Colton Hall tells the story of the 1849 Constitutional Convention.

The surviving adobes reflect Spanish, Mexican and early American Monterey.

The Old Jail tells a different story.

It reminds us that creating laws and creating a society in which people trusted those laws were two very different things.

California's constitution was drafted only a few steps away.

Yet within a decade, vigilantes were still breaking into a granite jail to impose their own version of justice.

For a building that no prisoner supposedly escaped, the Old Monterey Jail has a surprisingly complicated history of people getting through its doors.

Frequently Asked Questions About the Old Monterey Jail

When was the Old Monterey Jail built?

The granite jail beside Colton Hall was constructed in 1854, and prisoners began being housed there during the following year.

Did anyone ever escape from the Old Monterey Jail?

According to the City of Monterey, no prisoner successfully escaped from the jail during its roughly century-long period of use.

How long was the Monterey Jail used?

The building served as a jail until 1956, approximately a century after it was constructed.

Were prisoners really taken from the jail by vigilantes?

Yes. Historical records document vigilante activity involving prisoners held there. Anastacio Garcia was killed inside the jail in 1857, while Matt Tarpy was forcibly removed by a mob in 1873 and lynched outside Monterey.

Is the Old Monterey Jail the same as the old Monterey County Jail in Salinas?

No. The Old Monterey Jail discussed here is the small nineteenth-century granite building beside Colton Hall in the City of Monterey. It should not be confused with the much later former Monterey County Jail in Salinas.

Where is the Old Monterey Jail?

It stands beside Colton Hall at 570 Pacific Street in Old Monterey, within walking distance of downtown and other landmarks along Monterey's historic district.

By Monterey Peninsula Home Team · Published October 19, 2026

And before Paddonville, there was Locke-Paddon Colonies.

And before that, at least one map simply called the area Bardin.

Today Marina is one of the fastest-changing communities on the Monterey Peninsula, with new neighborhoods, California State University Monterey Bay, the former Fort Ord, Marina Municipal Airport, established residential areas and thousands of acres of protected coastal landscape nearby.

But the city's beginnings were considerably more modest.

The original vision was essentially a farming colony carved out of sandy coastal land.

Its settlers grew vegetables, lived in primitive wooden shelters and depended upon a railroad flag stop to connect their isolated community with the outside world.

And the man behind much of it wasn't originally from Marina at all.

Before Marina, There Were Jacks and Bardin

The story starts well before William Locke-Paddon arrived.

Long before the ranching and subdivision era, Indigenous communities lived throughout the area. The City of Marina's Downtown Vitalization Specific Plan identifies Ohlone settlements in the region, including the village of Wacharon between present-day Marina and Moss Landing. The story of Paddonville represents a much later chapter in the history of this landscape.

By about 1868, roughly 9,000 acres stretching along Monterey Bay and toward the Salinas River were associated with two names that appear repeatedly in early Monterey County land history:

David Jacks and James Bardin.

During the 1880s, this enormous landholding began to break apart.

The Bardin heirs sold large sections for farming and grazing. Other acreage became known as Sand Hill Ranch.

A portion near the coast was eventually acquired by the San Francisco Sand Company, which built a sand plant in 1906.

The landscape that would become modern Marina was beginning to divide into farms, industrial land and potential development tracts.

For a Brief Time, It Was Bardin

According to the City of Marina's historical chronology, a 1913 land map identified the general area as:

Bardin.

The name didn't last long.

Within only a few years, another name appeared:

Locke-Paddon Colonies.

And then came the name residents apparently found much easier to use:

Paddonville.

Who Was William Locke-Paddon?

William Locke-Paddon was a San Francisco real-estate businessman who specialized in subdividing land into small parcels and marketing them to prospective settlers.

His projects were promoted under the name Locke-Paddon Colonies.

In 1915, he saw an opportunity on the sandy coastal land north of Monterey.

On May 29 of that year, he purchased approximately 1,500 acres identified as Pueblo Tract No. 1, City Lands of Monterey.

His idea was straightforward:

Break the land into small farms and create a new agricultural community.

Five Acres and a Dream

Locke-Paddon divided the property into roughly five-acre parcels.

The City of Marina's historical account records an asking price of approximately $75 per acre.

It sounded like an opportunity to own land and establish a small farm near the Monterey coast.

But there was a problem.

This was not the lush agricultural soil most buyers might picture when imagining Monterey County farming.

Much of the area consisted of coastal sand and prairie.

Settlement came slowly.

Early Marina Wasn't Easy Living

This may be my favorite part of the story because it makes early Marina feel less like an abstract subdivision map and more like a real frontier community.

According to the City's history, many of the first settlers weren't experienced farmers.

Still, they managed to grow crops including:

• Peas
• Potatoes
• Turnips
• Cabbage

Rabbits were plentiful.

The historical account even describes settlers supplementing what they could grow with rabbit stew and homemade sourdough bread.

That is a very different picture of Marina than today's neighborhoods, shopping centers and newer communities.

Some of the First Homes Were Barely Homes

Housing could be just as primitive.

The City's history describes early shelters as simple, unpainted wooden shacks.

Some were covered with tar paper on the outside.

Cardboard lined the interiors.

Burlap sacks were sometimes used as room dividers.

These weren't vacation cottages.

They were inexpensive shelters built by people trying to establish themselves on newly subdivided land.

The Railroad Changed Everything

Fortunately for Locke-Paddon, Southern Pacific's railroad already crossed through the area.

That gave him an idea.

He persuaded the railroad to establish a flag stop so prospective buyers and residents traveling from the San Francisco area could get off near his development.

Unlike a major railroad station, a flag stop was a small stop where trains halted when passengers needed to board or leave.

The stop was initially associated with Mile Post 117 and later became known as:

Paddonville.

There Was Just One Problem: Locke-Paddon Didn't Like “Paddonville”

Paddonville may have been an obvious nickname for a community developed by Locke-Paddon.

But apparently he wasn't particularly fond of it.

He preferred something that sounded more appealing for his coastal settlement.

By 1918, the community had a new name:

Marina.

It was a remarkably appropriate choice for a place sitting alongside Monterey Bay.

Building a Community, Not Just Selling Lots

Locke-Paddon seems to have understood that a collection of five-acre parcels wasn't enough to create a lasting town.

Land was set aside for community needs including a school and church.

When a permanent school building wasn't immediately available, part of Locke-Paddon's former sales office — a small cottage on Elm Street — became the community's first school in 1916.

The beginnings were modest, but the basic pieces of a town were appearing.

The Post Office Made “Marina” Official

In April 1919, Marina received its own post office.

Like many small communities of that era, the post office didn't initially occupy a large government building.

It operated alongside a general store and gasoline pump.

By then, Marina was replacing Paddonville not merely as a developer's preferred name, but as the identity of the growing settlement itself.

By 1926, Marina Had About 70 Families

Growth remained gradual.

According to the City's historical account, the community had reached roughly 70 families by 1926.

Marina was still small.

It was still rural.

And its future was about to be shaped by something much larger happening immediately next door.

Then Came Fort Ord

Military activity in the surrounding area would eventually transform Marina.

In 1917, the U.S. Army purchased land for the Gigling Reservation, a training area that later became Fort Ord. The military installation expanded considerably before and during World War II.

As Fort Ord expanded, particularly during the years surrounding World War II, the need for housing, businesses, schools and services grew dramatically.

Marina's original identity as a small agricultural colony gradually gave way to its role as a community closely connected to one of the largest military installations on the West Coast.

The Little Colony Eventually Became a City

Marina continued growing through the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s.

But here's another surprising part of the story:

Marina wasn't incorporated until 1975.

That means the community existed under the Marina name for more than half a century before becoming an incorporated city.

William Locke-Paddon lived almost long enough to see it happen.

He died in 1972.

Three years later, Marina voters approved incorporation.

The Locke-Paddon Name Never Disappeared

Paddonville may have vanished from everyday use, but the founder's name remains very visible in Marina.

One of the best examples is Locke-Paddon Wetland Community Park near Reservation Road and Del Monte Boulevard.

The park protects a portion of Marina's distinctive seasonal wetland landscape and keeps the Locke-Paddon name connected to the city more than a century after his development venture began.

Even more interestingly, the Marina Foundation's Historical Committee reports that its archive contains an original map drawn by William Locke-Paddon.

So the paper plans behind the colony still survive.

Marina Has Reinvented Itself More Than Once

This early story also helps explain something about Marina today.

Marina has repeatedly changed identities.

After centuries of Indigenous history, the area entered a period of ranching and agricultural settlement.

Then came Bardin.

Then Locke-Paddon Colonies.

Then Paddonville.

Then Marina.

Fort Ord transformed the community again.

And after Fort Ord closed in 1994, Marina entered yet another period of reinvention.

Former military land is now home to CSUMB, new housing, commercial development, parks, trails and communities such as The Dunes and Sea Haven.

Marina Station is adding another new chapter today.

From Five-Acre Farm Lots to Today's Marina

The contrast is remarkable.

The original buyers were being offered five-acre farming parcels on sandy coastal land.

Today's Marina housing market includes mid-century neighborhoods, former military housing, contemporary subdivisions, townhomes, condos and large-scale new-home communities.

Yet the city's unusual beginnings still matter.

Some of the street patterns, older neighborhoods and public spaces grew out of that early settlement era.

And knowing the story makes modern Marina easier to understand.

Why This Story Matters

It's easy to think of Marina primarily through Fort Ord or its current wave of new construction.

But Marina's story started before either one.

It began with ranch land, sand, speculative subdivision maps, small farms and people willing to take a chance on a new community.

Those early settlers weren't arriving at a finished town.

They were creating one.

And for a brief period, the place we now call Marina answered to a much stranger name:

Paddonville.

Ask most children how Santa Claus gets around and the answer is obvious.

A sleigh.

Reindeer.

Maybe a chimney or two.

But generations of children growing up in Carmel Valley learned that Santa had another mode of transportation.

He flew in.

For decades, families gathered at the old Carmel Valley airfield in December and looked toward the western sky, waiting for an airplane carrying Santa and Mrs. Claus to appear over the Valley.

Later, the airplane became a helicopter.

The arrival became a parade.

Children who once waited for Santa eventually returned with children of their own.

And what began as a small community idea in 1959 became one of Carmel Valley's most beloved traditions.

Why Was There an Airport in Carmel Valley?

To understand the Santa Fly-In, you first have to understand one of the more unusual chapters in Carmel Valley Village history.

The Village was once closely connected with aviation.

During the 1940s, developer Byington Ford envisioned something remarkably ambitious for what was then a much more rural Carmel Valley:

A community where pilots could live beside an airport and taxi their airplanes almost to their homes.

Ford and his brother Tirey became involved in developing the Carmel Valley airfield and the nearby commercial center that became known as Airway Village.

The larger residential aviation concept never developed on the scale originally imagined.

But the airport survived.

So did the commercial village around it.

Over the decades, Airway Village gradually evolved into the Carmel Valley Village we know today.

You can read the broader story in our history of Carmel Valley Village and Airway Village.

A Small Airport Becomes Part of Valley Life

The airfield became more than simply a place to land an airplane.

Pilots stored aircraft there.

Residents became accustomed to seeing airplanes coming and going.

The field became part of the visual landscape of Carmel Valley Village.

And, as often happens in small communities, somebody eventually came up with an idea.

Why not bring Santa Claus in by airplane?

The First Carmel Valley Santa Fly-In

The tradition began in 1959.

Local community leaders and volunteer firefighters worked with pilots associated with the Carmel Valley airport to create something special for local children.

Instead of waiting for Santa to arrive in a sleigh, children would watch him descend from the sky in an airplane.

The earliest events were modest compared with what followed.

Only a relatively small crowd attended.

But the idea worked.

Children loved it.

Families returned.

And the Santa Fly-In became part of the Carmel Valley holiday calendar.

Imagine Seeing This as a Child

Part of the appeal is easy to understand.

Carmel Valley Village is surrounded by hills.

The airfield occupied a broad, open piece of relatively level ground in the center of the community.

Families could gather near the runway and look west toward the opening of the Valley.

Then a small airplane would appear.

It would grow larger.

Circle toward the field.

Land.

And out stepped Santa Claus.

For a child, the distinction between aviation and magic probably wasn't especially important.

Santa Didn't Come Alone

Over the years, the event expanded well beyond the landing itself.

Mrs. Claus joined the arrival.

A parade carried the celebration through Carmel Valley Village.

Community organizations, volunteers and local businesses became involved.

Children could visit Santa, enjoy food and activities, and participate in what became a genuine community festival rather than simply an airplane landing.

The Fly-In became one of those small-town traditions where participation passed from one generation to another.

Adults who remembered waiting beside the runway as children began bringing their own sons and daughters.

Eventually, some came with grandchildren.

The Delfino Family and the Airfield

The airfield's history eventually became closely associated with the Delfino family.

Mary Delfino, one of Carmel Valley's longtime residents, became particularly connected with both the property and the Fly-In.

The City of Carmel's oral-history collection describes Delfino as a former owner of the Carmel Valley airfield who supported the Santa Claus Fly-In for many years.

Her story is important because the continued existence of community traditions often depends less on institutions than on individual families who allow them to continue.

For decades, the former airport property remained privately owned while also functioning informally as a community open space.

Residents walked there.

People rode horses.

Emergency crews used the property.

And each December, Santa still had somewhere to land.

When Santa Traded the Airplane for a Helicopter

Eventually, the aviation portion of the story changed.

Fixed-wing operations at the Carmel Valley airfield came to an end around the turn of the twenty-first century, with the airport formally closing to commercial aviation in 2002.

For many traditions, losing the airport might have meant losing the event.

Carmel Valley found another solution.

Santa switched aircraft.

Beginning around 2000, organizers began bringing Santa and Mrs. Claus into the Valley by helicopter.

The new arrival may even have made the event more dramatic.

Children could watch the helicopter appear as a distant speck over the Valley, approach the field, circle the crowd and descend with Santa visible through the window.

No reindeer required.

A Flyover Before Landing

One of the traditions associated with the helicopter era was the flyover.

Before landing, the aircraft could circle the waiting crowd while Santa waved from inside.

Only then would the helicopter descend.

For children waiting below, the anticipation became part of the event.

Santa wasn't suddenly appearing from behind a building.

Everyone could see him coming.

Why This Tradition Fits Carmel Valley So Well

The Santa Fly-In probably could not have developed quite the same way in Carmel-by-the-Sea, Pacific Grove or downtown Monterey.

It belongs to Carmel Valley.

The Valley historically had room.

It had an airfield.

It had volunteer firefighters, pilots, ranch families, local merchants and community organizations accustomed to working together.

And Carmel Valley Village had the kind of small-town scale where a local holiday event could become a tradition people identified with personally.

That community character still distinguishes Carmel Valley Village from the more urbanized coastal communities of the Monterey Peninsula.

The Airfield Was Never Just an Airport

Another interesting part of the story is what happened after normal aviation operations stopped.

The old airport did not simply disappear from community life.

The broad open property continued to function informally as a place for walking, jogging, horseback riding and community activities.

It also took on another important role.

Emergency crews have used the property as a staging area during major wildfire responses.

During the 2016 Soberanes Fire, for example, helicopters and firefighting operations used the former airfield.

That makes the property unusual.

Its original aviation purpose faded, but its open space and central location continued to make it useful to Carmel Valley.

The Santa Fly-In Survived the Airport

Perhaps the best evidence of the tradition's strength is that the Santa Fly-In continued even after airplanes stopped regularly using the field.

The airport closed.

The runway deteriorated.

The pilots moved elsewhere.

But Santa kept coming.

Monterey County records from recent years still show permits associated with the Santa Fly-In, landing area and community celebration.

And in 2026, local reporting continued to describe the Fly-In as a decades-old Carmel Valley tradition.

From Airway Village to Wine Country

One of the reasons the Fly-In story is so interesting is how different today's Carmel Valley Village appears from the community that created it.

The early Village grew around an aviation-oriented development concept.

Today, people are far more likely to associate Carmel Valley Village with:

• Wine tasting rooms
• Restaurants and cafés
• Galleries
• Local shops
• Country homes
• Vineyards
• Hiking and outdoor recreation

The airplanes are mostly gone.

But pieces of the aviation story remain.

The old airfield is one.

The Santa Fly-In is another.

And even the Village's development history traces back to Byington Ford's unusual vision for an aviation community.

Why the Story Matters to Carmel Valley Real Estate

This isn't a story about property values.

But it does help explain why Carmel Valley Village looks the way it does.

Unlike a master-planned suburban community built all at once, the Village evolved gradually from ranch land, aviation development, small commercial buildings, country homes and later residential neighborhoods.

The result is an unusually varied real estate market.

Within a relatively small area, buyers can encounter older cottages, mid-century ranch houses, hillside homes, level residential lots, acreage, horse properties and substantial estates.

Some properties are close enough to the Village to walk to restaurants or tasting rooms.

Others sit only minutes away but feel distinctly rural.

Understanding how the Village developed helps explain why its real estate is so much less uniform than a conventional subdivision.

What Can You See Today?

The former airfield property remains in Carmel Valley Village near the community center and residential streets that grew around the old airport.

The Village surrounding it is very different from the aviation-centered community imagined generations ago.

Yet the open land still provides a visual reminder that airplanes once routinely landed here.

And when the holiday season arrives, that aviation history comes back to life in a way few communities can match.

A Tradition Born From a Place

The best local traditions aren't manufactured by a marketing department.

They grow naturally from the place where they happen.

Pacific Grove's early tent camps make sense because Pacific Grove began as a seaside religious retreat.

Pebble Beach's Witch Tree and Ostrich Tree make sense because 17-Mile Drive was built around extraordinary natural landmarks.

Monterey's whalebone sidewalk makes sense because Monterey once supported a shore-whaling industry.

And Carmel Valley's Santa Fly-In makes sense because there really was an airport sitting in the middle of the Village.

Someone simply looked at it and thought:

Why shouldn't Santa land here?

Why Locals Still Tell This Story

Carmel Valley has changed tremendously since 1959.

Ranch land became neighborhoods.

Airway Village became wine country.

The airport closed.

The Monterey Peninsula grew around it.

But every December, one of the Valley's oldest modern traditions reminds people of a more intimate Carmel Valley.

A community where volunteer firefighters, local pilots, families and merchants could come together and create something memorable simply because it sounded like fun.

More than six decades later, Santa is still flying in.

That's exactly the kind of story we want to preserve through Stories, Legends & Local Lore of the Monterey Peninsula.

AI-generated historical recreation inspired by archival views of Seaside Lake, now Roberts Lake. This is not an original historical photograph.

If someone told you that Seaside once had natural hot springs and was being developed as a resort town, would you believe them?

Probably not.

Today's Seaside is much better known for its connection with Fort Ord, its diverse residential neighborhoods, Broadway Avenue, Monterey Bay views and the postwar military families who helped shape the modern city.

Hot springs don't really fit the picture.

Except they were real.

Not only did naturally heated sulfurous water exist beneath early Seaside, but the City's own historical record says a hot-springs resort was part of the community during its earliest years.

And more than a century later, another clue remains hidden in plain sight.

Some Seaside properties are still legally described as being located in the:

Hot Springs Tract.

Seaside Was Originally Supposed to Be a Resort Town

To understand the hot springs, we need to go back to a Seaside that would be almost unrecognizable today.

In 1887, a young New York physician named Dr. John L.D. Roberts saw development potential in land east of Monterey and close to the fashionable Hotel Del Monte.

Roberts purchased roughly 150 to 160 acres and began dividing the property into residential lots.

His vision was not initially a military town or a working-class suburb.

It was a resort.

Early promotional material emphasized Seaside's mild climate, proximity to Monterey Bay, boating, bathing, fishing and recreation.

Roberts believed the community could attract people looking for summer homes and a healthy coastal environment.

He was selling a lifestyle.

The Original Seaside Was Near Roberts Lake

Early development clustered around what was then known as Laguna del Rey, today's Roberts Lake.

The lake and nearby Monterey Bay were important parts of the original resort concept.

Visitors could imagine boating on the lake, bathing along the coast and enjoying a temperate climate only a short distance from Hotel Del Monte.

At first, the developing community was sometimes known as East Monterey.

By the early 1890s, however, the name Seaside had taken hold.

The community had a post office, schools, churches and transportation connections.

And according to the City of Seaside's historical account, it also had a hot-springs resort.

So Were There Really Hot Springs in Seaside?

Yes.

And this is where the historical evidence becomes particularly interesting.

A United States Geological Survey study of groundwater in the Seaside area documented unusually warm groundwater associated with the buried Seaside Fault.

One well drilled in 1902 into the Monterey Shale produced water with a sulfurous odor at approximately:

120 degrees Fahrenheit.

Researchers also documented a sulfur hot spring in the same general area producing water at approximately:

100 degrees Fahrenheit.

Those aren't slightly warm groundwater temperatures.

That's legitimately hot water.

The USGS concluded that the Seaside Fault likely provided a pathway allowing heated groundwater to rise toward the surface.

The Hot Springs Tract

Perhaps the most tangible surviving piece of the story isn't a spring at all.

It's a subdivision name.

Early maps of the area east of Monterey identify several subdivisions around Laguna del Rey and the future Seaside area.

Among them were:

• East Monterey
• Vista Del Rey
• Lake Side Tract
• Del Monte Heights
• Hot Springs Tract

That name wasn't simply forgotten when modern Seaside developed over the old subdivision.

It remains embedded in Monterey County property records.

Legal descriptions for modern properties along streets including Olympia Avenue, Palm Avenue, Terrace Street and Fremont Boulevard still reference the Hot Springs Tract.

A homeowner may have no obvious sign of a nineteenth-century resort nearby, yet the property's legal description can preserve the story.

A Clue Hidden in Real Estate Records

This is one of the things that makes local real estate history so interesting.

Old subdivisions don't necessarily disappear when a neighborhood changes.

Their names can survive for generations in deeds, assessor records and legal descriptions.

The person living on the property may call the neighborhood Seaside.

The MLS may place it within a modern neighborhood area.

Google Maps may use a street address.

But buried in the title record may be a much older name:

Hot Springs Tract.

It's essentially a historical breadcrumb preserved by real estate.

What Did the Seaside Hot Springs Resort Look Like?

Here the story becomes less certain.

The City of Seaside clearly identifies a hot-springs resort as part of the early community.

Historic mapping identifies a Hot Springs Tract.

Geological records confirm actual thermal water.

What we have not found is the same rich collection of photographs, advertisements and architectural descriptions that survives for places such as Hotel Del Monte or Tassajara Hot Springs.

We therefore don't want to turn a documented story into something more elaborate than the evidence supports.

Was there a grand Victorian spa hotel?

We have not found evidence establishing that.

Were there formal bathhouses or pools?

Possibly — but the historical sources we've reviewed so far don't give us enough detail to say confidently what facilities were ultimately constructed.

That missing information is part of the Local Lore.

The Water Was Real Even If the Resort Has Faded From Memory

What we can say with much more confidence is that this was not simply a nineteenth-century real-estate promoter inventing a “hot springs” name to sell lots.

The geology supports the story.

The area contains a buried fault.

Warm sulfurous groundwater was documented.

A well produced 120-degree water.

A nearby spring produced approximately 100-degree water.

And residents remembered hot water flowing at the surface decades later.

There really was something hot beneath Seaside.

Why Would Hot Springs Have Mattered in the 1890s?

The timing is important.

In the late nineteenth century, mineral springs and hot-springs resorts were extremely fashionable destinations.

People traveled to springs for relaxation, recreation and supposed health benefits.

California communities such as Calistoga, Paso Robles, Paraiso Springs and Tassajara built tourism identities around naturally heated mineral water.

So imagine the sales pitch for early Seaside:

A mild coastal climate.

Monterey Bay.

A lake.

Rail transportation.

Nearby Hotel Del Monte.

Beaches and fishing.

And natural hot water.

From a nineteenth-century developer's perspective, the resort concept made a lot of sense.

Dr. Roberts Had Big Plans for Seaside

Dr. Roberts was not thinking small.

Historical promotional material described Seaside as having an exceptional climate and promoted it as a place for summer homes.

He emphasized Monterey Bay for bathing and fishing and Laguna del Rey for boating and hunting.

His goal was to establish Seaside as a desirable destination rather than simply another subdivision outside Monterey.

And Roberts himself went on to become one of the most influential people in the early development of the area.

He served as postmaster, school trustee and Monterey County supervisor.

He also played an important role in advocating for the military training lands that would eventually become associated with Fort Ord.

Ironically, that military connection would help transform Seaside into something very different from the resort community he initially envisioned.

The Resort Town Became a Working People's Town

The City of Seaside summarizes the transition well.

Although the community began through resort development, it gradually became a town of working people.

The Depression accelerated that evolution.

Lots were inexpensive.

Families arrived looking for affordable places to live.

And then Fort Ord changed everything.

Fort Ord Rewrote Seaside's Future

The military presence north of Seaside expanded dramatically during the twentieth century, particularly during World War II.

Thousands of soldiers and civilian employees needed housing and services.

Seaside was immediately adjacent to the base.

Its future was no longer primarily tied to attracting vacationers.

It became tied to the people working and serving at Fort Ord.

After the U.S. Army integrated in 1948, Seaside also became an important residential community for Black military families who faced housing discrimination elsewhere on the Monterey Peninsula.

That helped shape the city's unusually diverse population, businesses, politics, music and culture.

The resort town envisioned in the 1880s evolved into something far more socially significant.

Where Did the Original Resort Seaside Go?

Another reason Seaside's earliest history is difficult to recognize today is that modern municipal boundaries don't perfectly match the community's original geography.

When Seaside incorporated in 1954, it did not retain all of the area associated with its earliest development.

The City notes that portions of the oldest Seaside area ultimately became part of Monterey, while much of the shoreline became associated with Sand City.

Modern highways, commercial development and residential construction also transformed the landscape around Roberts Lake.

The geography of the resort-era community became fragmented.

The Hot Springs Are Still Under There Somewhere

Unlike the Witch Tree of Pebble Beach or Pacific Grove's old tent camps, the physical feature behind this story didn't necessarily disappear.

The geothermal system is part of the geology.

The Seaside Fault still exists beneath the city.

Warm groundwater has been scientifically documented there.

What changed was the way people used — or stopped using — that water.

Today, there is no famous Seaside spa district and no public hot-springs resort drawing visitors off Highway 1.

Most people living in or driving through Seaside would probably never guess that naturally hot sulfur water helped give an early subdivision its name.

The Hot Springs Tract Still Exists on Paper

For me, this may be the most interesting part of the entire story.

A resort can disappear.

A spring can stop flowing visibly.

A neighborhood can be completely rebuilt.

But real estate records have very long memories.

More than a century later, properties in modern Seaside still carry legal descriptions referring to the Hot Springs Tract.

It's a reminder that today's neighborhoods are layered over earlier versions of the same place.

And sometimes the most interesting local history appears not on a historical marker, but on a preliminary title report.

What Can You See Today?

There isn't a restored Victorian hot-springs resort waiting to be visited.

Instead, the surviving clues are subtle.

You can visit the area around modern Roberts Lake and imagine the much less developed landscape that early resort promoters saw.

You can drive through older Seaside neighborhoods and streets laid out during successive waves of early subdivision.

And if you look at historical maps or certain property records, you can still find the words:

Hot Springs Tract.

The resort itself may be largely forgotten.

Its name isn't.

A Different Way to Think About Seaside

One reason I like this story is that it challenges the simplified version of Seaside history.

Seaside is often described primarily through Fort Ord.

That chapter is enormously important.

But Seaside existed for decades before the Army transformed the community.

Before the military town was the resort town.

Before the postwar neighborhoods were dunes, scattered holiday homes and speculative subdivisions.

Before Broadway became the commercial heart of the community, developers were talking about beaches, boating and hot springs.

Knowing that earlier story gives modern Seaside another layer.

The Resort Idea Never Completely Disappeared

There is also an interesting historical echo here.

More than a century after Roberts first promoted Seaside as a destination, parts of the city are again associated with resort development, recreation and golf around the former Fort Ord lands.

History rarely repeats itself exactly.

But sometimes an old idea returns in a completely different form.

Seaside began with aspirations of becoming a resort community.

Then history took it somewhere else entirely.

Why Locals Should Know This Story

The Hot Springs story isn't important because Seaside should somehow recreate an 1890s spa.

It's important because it reminds us how dramatically communities can evolve.

The founders imagined one Seaside.

Fort Ord helped create another.

Civil rights, immigration, economic change and redevelopment created still more versions.

The modern city contains pieces of all of them.

And somewhere beneath today's streets is naturally heated water that helped inspire one of Seaside's earliest dreams.

That's exactly the kind of story we want to preserve in Stories, Legends & Local Lore of the Monterey Peninsula.

Drive 17-Mile Drive today and one tree receives more attention than all the others.

The Lone Cypress has become one of California's most recognizable natural landmarks, standing alone on its rocky perch above the Pacific and serving as the symbol of Pebble Beach for generations.

But it wasn't the only unusually shaped Monterey cypress that early visitors came to see.

Long ago, two other trees became famous attractions along the route.

One was called the Ostrich Tree.

The other was the Witch Tree.

Both appeared in photographs and postcards. Both became landmarks along the evolving 17-Mile Drive.

And both are gone.

Before Pebble Beach Was Pebble Beach

The story begins before world-famous golf courses, luxury estates and The Lodge transformed Pebble Beach into the community people recognize today.

The original 17-Mile Drive opened in 1881 as a scenic excursion associated with Monterey's Hotel Del Monte.

Visitors traveled by horse-drawn carriage through forest, dunes and rugged coastline, stopping at distinctive natural formations along the way.

These weren't merely viewpoints.

Individual rocks, coves and trees became named attractions.

Early photographs and postcards turned them into recognizable destinations in much the same way social media photographs identify scenic landmarks today.

Two of those attractions were unusual Monterey cypress trees whose shapes inspired memorable names.

Greg Henderson's post card collection., Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The Ostrich Tree Near Cypress Point

The Ostrich Tree was one of the early attractions along 17-Mile Drive.

Pebble Beach historical records describe it as a unique pairing of Monterey cypress trees that had grown together near Cypress Point.

Historic postcards show the tree standing above the rocky coastline, its windswept form creating the kind of natural silhouette that made the early scenic drive so memorable.

Its unusual appearance earned it the name Ostrich Tree.

Exactly who first coined the nickname is not clearly identified in the modern historical record we reviewed, but the name was firmly established by the early twentieth century.

In fact, surviving postcards show that tourists were already being introduced to the Ostrich Tree as one of the recognized sights of 17-Mile Drive.

The Storm of 1906

The Ostrich Tree did not survive long into the automobile age.

According to Pebble Beach's historical archives, a storm blew the landmark over in 1906.

That date is striking for another reason.

Pebble Beach had not yet become the golf and residential community we know today.

The original Lodge would not open until 1909. Pebble Beach Golf Links would not open until 1919.

The Ostrich Tree belonged to an earlier chapter — when this landscape was known primarily to visitors as part of an extraordinary scenic carriage excursion through the Del Monte Forest.

Its disappearance also illustrates something that would become a recurring theme along this coastline:

The same wind and weather that sculpt Pebble Beach's famous trees can eventually destroy them.

EditorASC at English Wikipedia, CC BY 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Then There Was the Witch Tree

Unlike the Ostrich Tree, the Witch Tree survived well into the modern Pebble Beach era.

It stood at Pescadero Point, the dramatic stretch of open-Pacific coastline now associated with the Ghost Trees stop on 17-Mile Drive.

The location is exposed.

Wind, salt spray and storms have shaped generations of Monterey cypress into twisted, bleached and sometimes almost sculptural forms.

The Witch Tree was one of the most memorable.

Pebble Beach's historical account explains that, when viewed from the right direction, the tree's remaining green growth resembled the silhouette of a witch riding a broom.

The resemblance was strong enough to give the Pescadero Point landmark its lasting nickname.

Was the Witch Tree Really Famous?

Very much so.

Vintage photographs and postcards preserve numerous views of the tree, showing how recognizable it had become to travelers along the Monterey Peninsula.

By the twentieth century, 17-Mile Drive was evolving from a Hotel Del Monte carriage excursion into one of California's best-known scenic roads.

The Witch Tree became part of that visual identity.

People photographed it for essentially the same reason visitors photograph the Lone Cypress today:

It looked like it belonged nowhere else.

The tree's twisted form, exposed location and Pacific backdrop created an image that immediately communicated the wild side of the Del Monte Forest coastline.

What Happened to the Witch Tree?

Eventually, the Pacific won.

A storm brought down the Witch Tree in 1964.

By then, Pebble Beach had changed dramatically from the landscape that greeted nineteenth-century carriage passengers.

Pebble Beach Golf Links had become internationally known.

The Lodge had been part of the community for decades.

Residential development had spread through portions of the Del Monte Forest.

17-Mile Drive had become an attraction in its own right.

Yet one of the route's old natural landmarks disappeared in much the same way the Ostrich Tree had nearly six decades earlier:

A coastal storm.

Why Are Pebble Beach's Cypress Trees So Unusual?

Part of what made these trees special is the remarkable natural environment in which they grew.

Pebble Beach contains one of only two naturally occurring native Monterey cypress forests in the world.

The other lies across Carmel Bay at Point Lobos.

Along the exposed coastline, Monterey cypress can be dramatically shaped by wind and salt.

Rather than growing vertically into the symmetrical form people might expect from an inland tree, coastal specimens can become twisted, flattened or swept sideways.

That interaction between tree and weather helped create the remarkable forms behind names such as the Witch Tree and Ostrich Tree.

It also helps explain why the trees and forest remain such an important part of Pebble Beach's identity today.

The Lone Cypress Survived

The most famous survivor, of course, is the Lone Cypress.

Early travelers knew its location as Midway Point on the original 17-Mile Drive.

Pebble Beach estimates the tree to be more than 250 years old, and it has served as the Pebble Beach symbol since 1919.

That means today's best-known tree was already part of the landscape while visitors were also stopping to photograph the Ostrich Tree and, later, the Witch Tree.

Over time, however, the Lone Cypress became the enduring survivor.

The Ostrich Tree disappeared.

The Witch Tree disappeared.

The Lone Cypress remained.

That survival may be part of what gives the tree so much meaning today.

It isn't simply scenic.

It represents continuity along a coastline where famous landmarks can vanish in a single storm.

What Can You See Today?

You cannot visit the original Ostrich Tree or Witch Tree.

But you can still experience the landscapes that made them famous.

The modern 17-Mile Drive passes through the same extraordinary combination of native forest and rocky Pacific coastline that created these landmarks.

At Pescadero Point, visitors can stop at today's Ghost Trees area, where sun-bleached cypress and rugged coastline still demonstrate the forces that shaped the Witch Tree.

Near Cypress Point, the relationship between native forest, rock and ocean still provides some of the most dramatic scenery in Pebble Beach.

And at the Lone Cypress, visitors can see the most famous surviving representative of this remarkable coastal landscape.

The Ghost Trees Carry On the Tradition

Pescadero Point didn't stop being atmospheric when the Witch Tree disappeared.

Today, the area is known as Ghost Trees.

Weathered, pale cypress forms stand against the Pacific, continuing the same visual tradition that made the Witch Tree such a memorable landmark.

The name feels almost inevitable.

These trees often look less like conventional landscaping and more like sculptures created by wind, salt and time.

It is one reason the coastline around Pescadero Point feels very different from the protected environment of Stillwater Cove only a short distance away.

A Landscape That Also Shapes Pebble Beach Real Estate

The trees in this story are not simply historic curiosities.

They help explain the character of the surrounding community.

The western side of Pebble Beach around Pescadero Point and Cypress Point is one of the places where forest, rocky coastline, open-Pacific exposure and residential property come together in an unusually dramatic way.

Homes in this part of the Pebble Beach Lodge Area can feel very different from properties near Stillwater Cove or farther inland.

Some settings emphasize mature native forest and privacy.

Others capture open-Pacific views, whitewater and rugged coastal scenery.

That landscape is part of the property's identity, not merely the backdrop behind it.

Our guide to Pebble Beach oceanfront homes explains how the Pescadero Point and Cypress Point coastline differs from other coastal environments within Pebble Beach.

Why the Lost Trees Matter

It would be easy to dismiss the Witch Tree and Ostrich Tree as curiosities from an old tourist route.

But they tell us something important about how Pebble Beach became Pebble Beach.

Before championship golf, famous resorts and multimillion-dollar homes, people were already traveling here because the landscape itself was extraordinary.

17-Mile Drive gave individual places names.

Those names created stories.

Photographs and postcards spread those stories beyond the Peninsula.

And eventually a collection of unusual natural landmarks helped establish the identity of a place that would become known around the world.

To explore that larger story, read our History of 17-Mile Drive.

Local Lore Is Sometimes About What Isn't There Anymore

One of the fascinating things about local history is that some of the most memorable places no longer exist.

Buildings burn.

Roads move.

Businesses close.

Trees fall.

Eventually, the story may be all that remains.

The Ostrich Tree disappeared in 1906.

The Witch Tree disappeared in 1964.

Yet more than a century after one was lost and generations after the other came down, their names are still part of the story of 17-Mile Drive.

That's exactly why we're collecting Stories, Legends & Local Lore of the Monterey Peninsula.

Sometimes understanding a place means knowing not only what is there today, but what used to be there.