The legend of rural California's ancient buttonwillow tree
As a state reporter who often writes about rural communities, I pride myself on getting obscure datelines from far-flung towns and census-designated places here in the Golden State.
Until this week, I had never been to Buttonwillow, an unincorporated farm town of about 1,200 people in Kern County.
While plotting a drive north on the 5 Freeway for another story — I can't give that one away just yet — I was drawn to a location marker on Google Maps that read: 'Buttonwillow Tree-Kern CHL #492.' It stands for California Historical Landmark 492: An ancient buttonwillow tree for which the town is named.
I pulled off the freeway early Tuesday morning and onto a small, dusty clearing in front of the bushlike tree, which is surrounded by a short concrete wall. The buttonwillow grows next to a drainage ditch. In front of it is an unadorned rock bench, a utility pole, and, on this morning, a discarded plastic jug on the ground.
It might not look like much. But the tree has a fascinating history.
According to the bronze historical marker placed in front of the tree by the Kern County Historical Society in February 1952, the tree was an 'ancient Yokuts Indian meeting place' along a trail that cut across the Central Valley.
'The tree stood all alone and clearly visible for many miles almost in the center of a vast plain,' the Reedley Exponent newspaper reported in October 1952, noting that Indigenous people in the region met at the buttonwillow for 'every social or tribal event of importance,' including dances.
Later, the newspaper reported, white cattle drivers turned the tree into a makeshift post office, affixing letters to it for those who followed. They also held rodeos at the site. It was hard to believe this tree — currently boasting ball-shaped white flowers that look like little pincushions — has survived so much: drought, extensive groundwater pumping, the transformation of the arid plain around it into farmland. I was glad I made the stop.
Here are a few of my other favorite datelines from across this endlessly fascinating state.
— Volcano: A town of about 100 people in Amador County that sits in a bowl-shaped valley Gold Rush miners thought might be the crater of a dormant volcano. It is home to a thriving, all-volunteer theater company.
— Weedpatch: In Kern County, this was home to the former Weedpatch Camp, the federally run camp for migrant laborers — many of them Okies — immortalized in John Steinbeck's 'The Grapes of Wrath.'
— Blackwell's Corner: James Dean made his last stop at this gas station — and census-designated place, hence the dateline — in rural Kern County. The convenience store has become a roadside shrine to the 'Rebel Without a Cause' actor, who died in a car crash 26 miles west of there.
— Cool: In early 2020, I reported from this tiny town in El Dorado County where residents tried to fight a planned Dollar General store, fearing it would gentrify the place. That was just before pandemic lockdowns began. The store eventually was built.
— Peanut: This speck on a map in Trinity County is said to have been named by a postmaster who was snacking on a bag of goobers when he proposed the moniker for the Peanut post office, which became the town name.
Cynthia says: 'Pismo Beach.'Terri says: 'Morro Bay.'
Email us at essentialcalifornia@latimes.com, and your response might appear in the newsletter this week.
On May 29, 1973, Tom Bradley became the first Black mayor of Los Angeles as well as the first Black mayor of a major U.S. city. He went on to serve an unprecedented five terms from 1973 to 1993.
Hailey Branson-Potts, staff reporterKevinisha Walker, multiplatform editorAndrew Campa, Sunday writerKarim Doumar, head of newsletters
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National Geographic
7 hours ago
- National Geographic
Meet the cowboys of the Andes
German explorer Alexander von Humboldt coined the grand name 'Avenue of Volcanoes' when he toured Ecuador at the start of the 19th century — but locals have viewed the country's rumbling giants with reverence for far longer. 'The Incas called the mountains Apus ['lord' in the Quechua language], as they believed them to be gods,' says my guide Luis Chinchín, on our drive south from Quito to Cotopaxi National Park along the avenue. The volcano-gods Pichincha, Rumiñahui and Iliniza are bearing down on us through a grey haze, magnified by the curve of the windscreen. A little further south is Chimborazo, Ecuador's highest peak at 20,550ft. This is the land of the chagras: the cowboys of the Andes, who have been herding cattle on horseback across Ecuador's highlands for centuries. Today, some chagras communities invite travellers to learn about their way of life, and we're on our way to meet one of them. Chagras have been herding cattle in the highlands of Ecuador for centuries, and many of their traditions remain intact. Though their ancestors were Indigenous, the chagras' culture is intertwined with the history of Ecuador's Spanish colonisers. Before the Spanish arrived in the 16th century, the chagras were farmers, who lived high in the mountains and planted corn, beans and tubers on fields they called chakras. When the Spanish brought over bulls and horses to help cultivate the land, it was these Indigenous peoples who taught them how to do it in the highlands. Over time, chakra became chagra, and the word was used to describe people who had become mestizo. This mixed Spanish and Indigenous heritage gave them a higher social ranking than those who were purely Indigenous; around the 17th century, they were taught to ride horses and handle bullfighting bulls. Yet they were never considered full equals to the Spanish colonisers, an attitude that persists in Ecuador to this day. The word chagra is still used by some to imply a person who is rustic or uneducated. Perhaps this misconception comes from the fact that more than 200 years after Ecuador's independence, the chagras retain much of their traditional farming lifestyle. We meet our hosts, including local community coordinator Rafael Changoluisa, and their horses, at Rumicorral. It's a small wooden corral with a corrugated iron roof within Cotopaxi National Park, 11,8110ft above sea level. Rafael wears a royal blue poncho and wide-brimmed felt hat. In preparation for a ride through the national park, he invites me to join him in wearing the chagras' uniform. I'm given tasselled cowhide zamarros (chaps) and a green wool poncho, over which I pull on a waxed leather rain poncho to combat the fat drops of rain that have just started to patter onto the roof. The colours of the ponchos chagras wear historically carried meaning, often reflecting their community roles and identities. Their horses are adorned with traditional woven bridles, intricately made by hand. Rafael tells me that, historically, poncho colours had significance — representing, say, red blood or the gold of barley fields — but these days, the colours simply reflect personal preference. Yet the leather betas (lassos) the chagras carry are the same as they were in colonial times, and they are keen to show me their wood stirrups, still traditionally carved with horses, flowers and leaves. Maintaining the chagras' way of life is a challenge, says Rafael, as fewer young people are taking up the reins. 'My father was also a chagra, but my children aren't really interested; they prefer the city,' he says. This is why he persuaded his community to open up their lives to travellers. 'I'd like this tradition not to be lost.' It's an unconventional method, yet one he believes strongly in. 'It's important to show foreigners how we live here, day by day with the animals, the horses and nature, and to keep this style of life alive.' Life in the saddle My Andean steed, a 10-year-old stallion called Fritada, can smell my inexperience on horseback. He ignores my heel kicks and tugs on the leather reins as we set off on our horse trek. He swerves, resisting all my efforts to make him ford the first river. Rafael, on the other hand, manages to guide his horse with the barest touch of the reins. It's as if he were born in the saddle, which is unsurprising — he tells me all children in chagras communities learn to ride from a young age. Once we've had a quick horse-riding lesson, Fritada and I settle into a rhythm and it becomes easier to take in my surroundings. The terrain we're travelling through is known as the páramo: the part of the Andes found roughly between 10,000 and 16,400ft above sea level, which sits higher than the trees and below the snow. It's named for the tall, yellowish paja grasses that brush against my shoes as Fritada ambles along. It coats the hills all the way to the mountains, rippling like llama wool. This is a place both macro and micro in the extreme. The near-perfect cone of Cotopaxi, which rises to 19,350ft at the centre of the park, is as fickle as my horse, teasing us with glimpses then vanishing into mist. The flowers are as tiny as the mountains are giant — an adaptation that protects them from sub-zero temperatures, wind and solar radiation at the park's high altitude. Many are still used in traditional chagra medicine, according to Rafael. Yellow ñachag and cottony-white achicoria flowers — pinpoints of light under the increasingly gloomy skies — are used by chagras as treatments for liver and kidney disease. On a clear day, the snow-capped cone of Cotopaxi Volcano is visible from Quito. There's something biblical about the landscape as the rain intensifies, splattering off the chagras' hats. Yard-wide lightning knifes down, turning the paja to silver filigree. Thunder rumbles like the voices of the Apus. Fritada's musky scent funnels up through the ponchos and warms my face. After a few hours, we arrive at Tambopaxi Lodge — a former mountain climbers' hut, now upgraded to a hotel with private rooms and a corral. At the restaurant, I sit down for a coffee with Rafael, his brother William and fellow chagra Odalis Velozo. A skilled rider at just 13, she'd raced to the front shortly after we set off on our ride. Her outfit is a more stylish, curated version of her elders' — her black felt hat more angular, her striped beige poncho complemented by an ivory scarf. Odalis attends school in Machachi, a town around 30 miles from the national park that's known as the chagras' capital. Though it has a population of just 24,000, it's the largest town in Mejía Canton and has long been a centre for chagras' markets and festivals. Unlike Rafael's kids, she says that's as close to city life as she ever wants to get. 'I prefer the freedom we have in the grasslands,' she says. 'It's not the same in the big cities like Quito; there isn't the freedom we feel in an open space like this.' I cradle my coffee close to my cold face and look out the window; the storm is breaking up, and the park's fauna is emerging from hiding. Tiny violetear hummingbirds flit by, the growing light dancing over their blue and emerald feathers. Llama and white-tailed deer munch on the paja; Andean gulls soar in the oxygen-starved heights. Condors and Andean foxes are also occasionally spotted here, though none are visible today. Balancing act Cotopaxi National Park was founded in 1975 to protect this unique environment. However, Rafael says the increasing enforcement of national park preservation orders has created frustrating conflicts for the chagras who live off the land. 'A long time ago, we just let the animals roam free on the páramo,' he says. 'Nowadays, there are restrictions. It's to take care of the ecosystem, but life in the park isn't just the ecosystem — it's us, too.' But what challenges the chagras' traditions may also protect them. Under national park rules, they're the only people allowed to work the land, meaning that industrial farmers can't turn it over to monocultures. 'La naturaleza y la libertad — nature and freedom,' Rafael says, when I ask him what he loves most about his life on the páramo. In modern times, preserving the first means compromising the other; it's a delicate balance that the chagras must come to terms with. On leaving the chagras, Luis and I drive to Chilcabamba, a mountain lodge hotel with cabin-like rooms ringed by twittering, bird-filled gardens. Sinking into a bean bag by the window, I see the day's last golden rays finally pierce the grey veil to reveal the chiselled face of Cotopaxi, both sparkling and stern, his white brow furrowed with wisps of cloud. Chilcabamba is unique in that the hotel is integrated into the chagras' community. 'Here, you get to see the way they really live, in their own territory,' says general manager Cristina Coronel. I'm staying here so I can try out a new experience offered by the hotel — the opportunity to see a chagras rodeo. It's not a rodeo in the North American sense: there are no bucking broncos or wrestling steers. It's a display of their traditional culture through activities such as rounding up cattle, lasso tricks and bullfighting. The next morning, I arrive at the mountainside pen where the rodeo will take place. Rafael, William and half a dozen more chagras are already there fitting spurs to their boots. Scattered cattle chew slowly with blank-eyed stares, unaware they're about to be rudely awakened by Omar Cumbaiin and his 13-year-old son Matteo. The boy is too shy to talk; his father does the boasting for him. 'When he was eight, he won a lassoing competition in which there were 100 participants,' he tells me. 'He won in every category.' Matteo wears an identical black hat and scarlet poncho to his father and, from a distance, it's impossible to tell them apart. They gallop out to the fringes of the cattle herd and start chasing them into the pen. This is a smaller, more intimate version of what travellers could see at El Paseo del Chagra — one of Ecuador's biggest festivals, held each July in Machachi. There, hundreds of chagras parade through the streets, show off their skills and take part in bullfights — no-kill events, since the tradition was banned in 2011. A cow clatters past me; Matteo barrels after it, whirling a lasso. It's hard to believe this is the same kid who was hiding from us minutes ago. He shouts, digs in his spurs and thunders over the crest of the hill. Perhaps with the help of tourism and the next generation led by young chagras like Odalis and Matteo, their traditional culture will be reinvigorated and passed on for many generations to come. Flights from London to Mariscal Sucre Quito International Airport typically connect through major hubs such as Amsterdam, Madrid or Miami. From Quito, visitors can catch a bus to Chimborazo or opt to rent a car for a more flexible journey through the highlands. For more information, visit This paid content article was created for Ecuador Tourism. It does not necessarily reflect the views of National Geographic, National Geographic Traveller (UK) or their editorial staffs. To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
Condé Nast Traveler
a day ago
- Condé Nast Traveler
These Are the Top State Parks of 2025, According to Google Maps Data
The United States is home to some incredible stretches of nature—from expansive coastlines to vast canyons to sparkling waterfalls, there are so many different types of landscapes to explore. Sure, national parks like Yellowstone, Zion, and Acadia are more than worth a visit, but if you're looking for something a bit less crowded, easier to access, more affordable, and in close proximity to some of the coolest cities in the country (day trips from NYC, Portland, and Las Vegas are all possible), it's worth taking a deeper dive into our country's best state parks. To help, we've compiled a list of the most popular state parks in the country in 2025 based on data from Google Maps, and have included the best places to stay near each to help you plan out your next trip. This data is compiled from information on the state parks with the most Google Maps direction requests from January 1, 2025, through early August 2025. From hiking through the red Aztec sandstone formations in Nevada's Valley of Fire to spotting manatees in Florida's Blue Springs to glimpsing the Statue of Liberty in New Jersey's Liberty State Park, these are the most popular state parks in the United States in 2025. benedek/Getty Valley of Fire State Park Location: Southeastern Nevada Less than an hour outside of Las Vegas, Valley of Fire State Park is home to gorgeous red Aztec sandstone formations that are especially worth viewing during sunrise and sunset when they give the appearance of being on fire (hence the name). The park itself is somewhat small, so it's ideal for a day trip from Vegas—which is perfect since there aren't many places to stay that are any closer. There are a number of hikes worth enjoying, as well as scenic drives you can do without ever having to leave the comfort of your car. Fold it into a trip you're planning to Las Vegas to truly get the best of both worlds—stay at a luxe Las Vegas resort for a few nights and then swap over to a Valley of Fire campground for a bit of outdoor adventuring under the stars. Where to stay near Valley of Fire State Park: Liberty State Park Location: Eastern New Jersey
Associated Press
2 days ago
- Associated Press
How do you move a beloved Swedish church down the road? With prayer, engineering and some Eurovision
KIRUNA, Sweden (AP) — How do you move one of Sweden's most beloved wooden churches down the road? With a little bit of engineering, a lot of prayer — and some Eurovision for good luck. The Kiruna Church — called Kiruna Kyrka in Swedish — and its belfry are being moved this week along a 5-kilometer (3-mile) route east to a new city center as part of the town's relocation. It's happening because the world's largest underground iron-ore mine is threatening to swallow the town. This week, thousands of visitors have descended upon Kiruna, Sweden's northernmost town at 200 kilometers (124 miles) above the Arctic Circle. It's home to roughly 23,000 inhabitants, including members of the Sami Indigenous people, spread over nearly 19,500 square kilometers (7,528 square feet). Lena Tjärnberg, the church's vicar, is set to kick off the move with a blessing on Tuesday morning. The journey is scheduled to end Wednesday afternoon. The church was a gift from the mining company In 2001, the Swedish people voted the wooden church the 'best building of all time, built before 1950' in a poll connected to the Ministry of Culture. Built on a hill so worshippers could overlook the rest of Kiruna, the Swedish Lutheran church was designed to emulate the Sami style as a gift from LKAB, the state-owned mining company. The Kiruna mine itself dates back to 1910 and the church was completed in 1912. Its neo-Gothic exterior is considered the town's most distinctive building and tourists regularly traveled there before it was closed a year ago to prepare for the relocation. It's set to reopen in the new location at the end of 2026. Tjärnberg said the final service in the old spot was bittersweet. 'The last day you go down the stairs and close the church door, you know it's going to be several years before you can open it — and in a new place,' she said. 'We don't know how it's going to feel to open the door.' The spectacle This week's move has turned into a two-day highly choreographed media spectacle, run by LKAB and featuring an appearance by Swedish King Carl XVI Gustaf. Musical performances will include a set from KAJ, Sweden's 2025 Eurovision entry that was the bookies' favorite to win this year's contest but lost out to classically trained countertenor JJ of Austria. SVT, Sweden's national broadcaster, is capitalizing on the showcase and will livestream the move both days, billing it as 'The Great Church Walk' to play off its success with the spring showing of 'The Great Moose Migration' that has enthralled millions of viewers annually since 2019. Known for both the Midnight Sun and the Northern Lights, Kiruna and the surrounding area is a major draw year-round for visitors to Swedish Lapland. The region also features the Aurora Sky Station, the Icehotel and Kebnekaise, the Nordic country's highest mountain. British tourists Anita and Don Haymes had already trekked to Kiruna twice before this year's trip. When they heard about the church's move, they changed their itinerary to ensure they'd be here for it. They took photographs of it propped up on beams and wheels this week before the move. 'It's an amazing feat that they are doing,' Anita Haymes said Sunday. 'It'll be interesting to see it moving, unbelievable.' But not everyone is thrilled about LKAB's extravaganza. Lars-Marcus Kuhmunen, chairman of one of the Sami reindeer herding organizations in Kiruna, said LKAB's plans for a new mine could threaten reindeer migration routes and imperil the livelihood of herders in the area. The mechanics behind the move The move of Kiruna's town center, including the church, has been in the works since 2004. As the mine expanded deeper underground, residents began seeing cracks in buildings and roads. In order to reach a new depth of 1,365 meters (4,478 feet) — and to prevent Kiruna from being swallowed up — officials began moving buildings to a new downtown at a safe distance from the mine. As of July, 25 buildings had been lifted up onto beams and wheeled east. Sixteen, including the church, remain. At approximately 40 meters (131 feet) wide with a weight of 672 metric tons (741 tons), the church required extra effort. Engineers widened a major road from 9 meters to 24 meters (30 to 79 feet) and dismantled a viaduct to make way for a new intersection. A driver, using a large control box, will pilot the church through the route as it travels roughly 12 hours over Tuesday and Wednesday — with a pause each day for fika, the traditional Swedish afternoon coffee break. It's expected to move at a varying pace between 0.5 and 1.5 kilometers per hour (0.31 and 0.93 miles per hour). Stefan Holmblad Johansson, LKAB's project manager for the move, would not say how much it has cost the mining company. ___ Associated Press journalist Pietro De Cristofaro in Kiruna, Sweden, contributed to this report. ___ Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
