miles farther, at the Universal City Overlook, travelers are rewarded with a new perspective, this time to the north. Once Errol Flynn, whose ranch lay nearby, might have stood at this windy eerie surveying the San Fernando Valley. But it’s a different view now—developed to the very brink of the surrounding mountains, crowded with malls, gas stations, and TV studios, and crisscrossed by boulevards.
Their very names tell a tale that’s pure L.A., about a handful of wealthy Angelinos like J. B. Lankershim and I. N. Van Nuys who owned property in the Valley at the close of the 19th century. In a move that would have fatally dehydrated the city, they claimed the right to the water in the Los Angeles River—despite the fact that on most days it looks like one of those California streams Mark Twain said you could fall into and emerge from “all dusty.”
The Supreme Court settled the dispute in favor of the city, but as you contemplate the valley, water is never far from mind. The highway you’re traveling was the inspiration of William Mulholland, an Irish ditch digger who taught himself enough engineering to serve as superintendent of the L.A. Water Department from 1886 to 1928. His best known project was the 250-mile long Owens Valley Aqueduct, which turned the dry San Fernando Valley as green as any well-tended suburban lawn. Today, many view its construction as a crime, since underhanded means were used to gain control of Owens River water while a number of leading citizens cut lucrative, if shady, Valley real estate deals. But in 1913, the city lionized Mulholland, even wooed him to run for mayor, with one councilman claiming that, “His name should be engraved on every water faucet in the city of L.A.” He got a highway instead. At the opening of Mulholland Drive on December 27, 1924, bands played, airplanes buzzed, and a ballroom dance champion danced the Spanish tango.
Before abandoning the Universal City way station, turn around and look up. Pinioned by one slender column to a near vertical cliff is an octagonal house known as Chemosphere. Designed in 1960 by John Lautner, it looks like a flying saucer frozen in the process of touching down; very striking, but one wouldn’t relish bringing the groceries in.
Two miles beyond Chemosphere, Laurel Canyon Boulevard crosses Mulholland, and it’s here that one begins to notice the preponderance of wagging tails in the front seats of cars. Most of them are headed a mile west to Laurel Canyon Park, where dogs, not people, are sovereign, allowed to run free before ten and after three. There, one dog owner told me that her Westie, Bam Bam, always comes home from the park with fleas. But the place is a human, as well as a canine, scene where movie producers are said to hit on pretty women and an ice cream truck dispenses Italian ices.
The San Fernando Valley reveals itself again at the Fryman Canyon Overlook, a mile down the road, this time in a direct headshot, with a backdrop of the San Gabriel Mountains, Santa Susanas, and Simi Hills (from right to left). Off to the northwest too far away to see, some 20 miles over the Ventura County line, lies another piece of the Mulholland story, this one tragic—the ruins of the St. Francis Dam, which collapsed on March 12, 1928, killing 450 and costing the city of L.A. $5 million in damage reparations. This was the last of “the Chief’s” 19 dams, and ironically, he visited it on the very day it gave way, pronouncing it sound. Afterward, he took full responsibility for the catastrophe, retiring from the water department, a broken man. The 1974 movie Chinatown, in which a character based on “the Chief” is murdered by nefarious water diverters, commenced the refurbishment of Mulholland’s reputation. More recently, J. David Rogers, a geological engineer who spent 15 years studying the St. Francis Dam site, reported that a landslide no one could have predicted was the true cause of the disaster.
The highway narrows perceptibly between Fryman Canyon Overlook and Coldwater Canyon Drive so that it seems you’re tightrope walking along the very backbone of the mountains, rubbernecking toward the valley at one hairpin turn, and L.A. at the next. Up here, where the rich lust to live, home building continues apace—real estate crunch and all—much to the dismay of the conservationists who are trying to preserve the scenic integrity of the road. Bulldozers eat away whole hillsides in a procedure known as mountain cropping, which provides level space for foundations. Still, there is green up ahead at Coldwater Canyon and Franklin Canyon Parks, which together provide a walking route all the way over the mountains from the Valley to Beverly Hills.
Coldwater Canyon is the enclave of a group of nature-loving volunteers called TreePeople, dedicated to making the world more arborous. I sat in on a session during which an instructor explained planting techniques to a group of school-children, each clutching his or her own sapling. “Don’t put them under a telephone pole,” she told them, “or next to your swimming pool.”
Minutes down the road is the entrance to Franklin Canyon Park, surrounding what was a reservoir, until the earthquake of 1971 convinced the Department of Water and Power that it didn’t want to be blamed if a dam busted above Beverly Hills. Now the upper section is the domain of the William O. Douglas Outdoor Classroom, which offers nature appreciation classes for kids and stress relief walks for adults. You can drive all the way down Franklin Canyon, passing through a section of greenbelt where Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable tested their hitchhiking skills in It Happened One Night. At the time, the area was owned by oilman Edward L. Doheny, who used to ride up the canyon on horseback from Greystone, his mock Tudor palace below.
Actually, it makes sense to come down off Mulholland at this point for a little replenishment. Coldwater and Franklin Canyon Drives, and Beverly Glen Boulevard a bit farther on, dump you out of the mountains within striking distance of the Beverly Hills Hotel and the equally ritzy, if somewhat more retiring, Hotel Bel Air. But those with a macabre bent should take Benedict Canyon Drive, winding past hedge-shrouded homes that do not want to make your acquaintance; signs on the fences outside proclaim the virtues of their security systems and guard dogs. A little more than halfway down on the right is Cielo Drive, where one August morning in 1969, a cleaning woman discovered the grisly remains of the Manson family killing spree at #10050.
If you still have an appetite after that, and prefer picnics to power lunches, stop for provisions at the little shopping center just south of where Mulholland crosses Beverly Glen. There’s another overlook on Mulholland a mile west of this intersection with a bench placed high up like a throne, where you can break into lunch, contemplate Stone Canyon Reservoir, and possibly catch your first sight of the Pacific.
You have now covered only a third of Mulholland—the dense, civilized section. But just as the Santa Monicas widen and rise and you prepare to step on the gas, the pavement stops at Encino Hills Drive about a mile beyond the San Diego Freeway. Happily, even without four-wheel drive, you can rumble on across dirt Mulholland, because it’s navigable, except in foul weather. And you should, because here the mountains begin to reveal their wild side, as well as their controversial nature. For years, community groups and the Santa Monica Mountains conservancy have worked to head off development at every pass with the ultimate goal of creating a national park.
One of the parcels of land the Conservancy bought lies about a mile past the end of the concrete, on San Vicente Mountain. There, perched high above Mandeville, Rustic, and Sullivan Canyons, is an old lookout station for the Nike Missile System, boldly commanding a view of the Pacific. The lookout hasn’t been restored and is off limits, but even from its stanchions, the sights are terrific in all directions, including backwards along the winding course of Mulholland. From this point, mountain bikers and walkers take off on a network of paths and fire roads that lead down into Topanga Canyon Park. On the other side of the road is the bright blue surface of Encino Reservoir, looking very much like the one in which the water-logged body of the fictional William Mulholland was found in Chinatown.
Dirt Mulholland rambles on, passing a number of dusty new subdivisions, to emerge in concrete near Topanga Canyon Road. There, you must watch the signs closely to make sure that you stay on Mulholland Highway, as opposed to Mulholland Drive, which strikes off toward the Ventura Freeway. It’s about 10 miles to 6,000-acre Malibu Creek State Park. It runs all the way down to the Pacific, with a network of trails that take hikers to Castro Crest,
