In the summer of 1769, a small band of Spanish soldiers and Franciscan friars set off from the modest outpost of San Diego, bound for a place most had only heard about in stories. The map told of a fabled bay at Monterey, first recorded by Sebastián Vizcaíno more than a century and a half earlier. But Spain’s grip on these distant lands was tenuous, its hold threatened by the ambitions of other European powers. The viceroy in Mexico City and the governors in far-flung presidios knew well that unless Monterey were claimed, someone else—Russian, English, or another rival—would do it first.
It was, in truth, an expedition born of necessity and faith. The Spanish had arrived in San Diego with high hopes, expecting supply ships that never came, reinforcements that never arrived, and relief from the ailments that had already claimed lives. Scurvy and hunger took their toll. Even so, when the prayers went unanswered, the leader of the enterprise, Governor Gaspar de Portolá, made a fateful decision: they would march north in search of Monterey or perish in the attempt. Spain’s mission—to spread Christianity and secure its claim—hung in the balance.
Among the company of men who would make up the first Portolá Expedition was Fray Juan Crespí. In his daily entries, Crespí noted the streams, valleys, and the people whose lands they were traversing. Where a soldier looked for a defensible pass or a potential ambush, Crespí looked for the hand of God in creation. Through the pages of his diary, he offered posterity a faithful witness to a land that European hands had scarcely touched.
California then was a wonder: vast forests, wide plains teeming with wildlife, rivers unpolluted and abundant with fish, and native peoples whose customs confounded and fascinated the newcomers. Yet it was also unforgiving, prone to drought, earthquakes, and climate. The journey would test every ounce of their resolve.
Departure from San Diego
By July 14, 1769, the men were gaunt and weary. Some had scurvy, others fevers. Supplies ran perilously low. Still, Portolá’s order was final: they must move forward. They had prayed for salvation, but no such aid came from the sea. They left at morning light, setting out across rolling hills that initially seemed inviting. As Crespí recorded:
"At eight in the morning after Mass, we set out, following the plain in a westerly direction, and traveling on level land between the mountains and some hills which extend along the coast. It is all good land, with much grass, and well grown with live oaks, alders, and willows, and many Castilian roses."
For the first few days, the land was kind. They found fresh water, meadows filled with grass enough to sustain the mules and horses, and a moderate climate that emboldened their hopes. Great flocks of geese and ducks rose from the estuaries in clouds, and the sight brought joy to men starved for anything besides dried cornmeal. But California’s blessings could be fleeting.
On July 20, the ground seemed to speak, delivering a warning none could ignore. Crespí’s diary notes the sudden upheaval. A sharp earthquake was felt on the Santa Ana River. Crespí said, "It lasted about half as long as an Ave Maria, and about ten minutes later it was repeated, though not violently." Because of this, the Santa Ana River was long called the Rio de los Temblores. Other aftershocks occurred over several days. When they arrived in Los Angeles, they continued to feel earthquakes shaking.
"We pitched camp near the water. This afternoon we felt new earthquakes, the continuation of which astonishes us. We judge that in the mountains that run to the west in front of us there are some volcanoes, for there are many signs on the road which stretches between the Porciuncula River and the Spring of the Alders..."
An earthquake in these unexplored wilds was more than unsettling. It reminded them they were strangers in a land of unseen forces. The men crossed themselves and murmured prayers. Was it an omen? Or merely nature’s stirring? Either way, Crespí did not pronounce judgment; he wrote it down, leaving the reader centuries later to wonder as he did, and once the Los Angeles River was crossed, the earthquakes subsided.
Dangers of the Journey
As the Portolá Expedition moved northward, the expedition discovered they were not alone. One of the first groups they encountered was the Tongva near what is now Los Angeles. People with deep roots in those valleys demonstrated a generosity that proved lifesaving:
"In a little while the heathen from the towns came with roasted and fresh fish, seeds, acorns, atole, and other kinds of food; they urged us to eat, showing in their faces the pleasure that our coming and stay in their land caused them."
For the Spaniards, the gift of nourishment was more than an act of hospitality; it was deliverance at a moment of genuine need. Yet, as they soon learned, not every encounter would be so peaceful.
When the expedition reached the territory of the Chumash near Point Conception, the welcome was far less cordial. One night, arrows rained down on the camp without warning. A soldier was struck in the leg, and the assailants melted away into the darkness.
No one knew why the Chumash had attacked. Had some Spaniard committed a prior slight? Or was it simply a defense of sacred ground? Crespí, ever the observer, was keenly aware that Alta California was not Spain’s for the taking—and the native inhabitants would prove it through force if necessary. The Indigenous were not the only living beings that were to be feared.
By early September, the travelers reached a region known as Los Osos, the Valley of the Bears, a few miles west of San Luis Obispo. They found plenty of the creatures roaming freely, uprooting the ground in their search for edible roots:
"In this valley we saw troops of bears, which kept the ground plowed up and full of holes which they make searching for roots which constitute their food, and on which the heathen also live, for there are some which have a very good flavor and taste."
To the Natives, bears were part of the natural order, something to be respected—or perhaps avoided. But for the Spanish, half-starved and mindful of every opportunity, these great beasts were another source of sustenance. A hunting party was quickly formed. With muskets at the ready, the soldiers rode into the valley.
Their first encounter taught them the bears of California were not to be trifled with:
"They do not yield until they get a shot in the head or the heart. This one that they killed received nine balls before he fell, which did not happen until one struck him in the head. Some of the soldiers were fearless enough to chase one of these animals mounted on poor beasts. They fired seven or eight shots, and I have no doubt he would die from the balls; but the bear upset two of the mules, and it was only by good fortune that the two mounted on them escaped with their lives. This valley they named Los Osos, and I called it La Natividad deNuestra Senora."
Yet if the valley offered a fleeting respite from hunger, it also delivered a profound reminder of nature’s unyielding power. In that confrontation with California’s great bears, the Spaniards glimpsed both bounty and peril, discovering anew that this abundant land owed them no easy passage. They would carry the memory of that ferocious encounter with them, a sobering lesson in the fragile line between survival and calamity in the vast and uncharted wilds they had come to claim.
Beauty of Nature
As the expedition pushed on, October 10 found them again in unfamiliar terrain. The trees soared to heights beyond anything the Spaniards knew from Europe’s forests. These were the redwoods, majestic and ancient:
"We could not make the march as long as was intended, because the sick men were worse, and each day their number increased, so we must have traveled but little more than one league, over plains and low hills, well forested with very high trees of a red color, not known to us."
Despite dwindling rations and the relentless toll of illness, Crespí still took a moment to marvel at the splendid reach of these giants. Crespí continued,
"They have a very different leaf from cedars, and although the wood resembles cedar somewhat in color, it is very different, and has not the same odor; moreover, the wood of the trees that we have found is very brittle. I n this region there is a great abundance of these trees and because none of the expedition recognizes them, they are named redwood from their color."
With Monterey still elusive as October waned, hopes began to fade. Many had fallen ill; some wondered if they had somehow passed the bay unawares. Then, on October 30, the expedition made a discovery that would echo through history:
"In a word, it is a very large and fine harbor, such that not only all the navy of our most Catholic Majesty but those of all Europe could take shelter in it."
They had not found Monterey—they had come upon San Francisco Bay. In their failure to locate one harbor, they had found another that would eventually become the great gateway to the Pacific. Crespí meticulously noted the vastness of the bay, the currents, and the land formations around it.
Still uncertain whether or not they had overshot their objective, the party realized they had uncovered something of monumental importance. It would be years before the true significance of this bay was fully understood, but the friar’s words would live on as a precious record of discovery.
They had journeyed hundreds of miles—on foot, on mule, and by sheer force of will. They had lost men to sickness and faced earthquakes, hunger, hostile arrows, and a Thanksgiving exchange. For the first time, Europeans had seen California unveiled in its raw and breathtaking splendor. The expedition had set out to find Monterey, and that original goal still lay before them, beckoning them farther along the coast.
But no matter the challenges awaited, the land would never be the same again. The moment Portolá’s weary band trudged north from San Diego, a new chapter in this uncharted world's history began. Through the vivid dispatches of Fray Juan Crespí, we glimpse a time before missions, presidios, and roads when California was an immense puzzle with countless pieces yet to be placed.
They were the first, the vanguard of an empire’s grand ambition—but also men of flesh and blood, subject to nature’s extremes, reliant on both Providence and their fortitude. And through it all, Crespí wrote it down, capturing not just the facts and figures but the heart and soul of land on the cusp of monumental change.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Crespí, Juan. Diario del Viaje de la Expedición de Portolá. Translated in Herbert Eugene Bolton, Fray Juan Crespí: Missionary Explorer on the Pacific Coast, 1769-1774. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1927.