"These heathen seem to be very well supplied with everything, especially with plenty of fish of all kinds; in fact they brought to the camp so much that it was necessary to tell them not to bring any more, for it would eventually have to spoil." — Fray Juan Crespi, encamped near Santa Barbara, August 20, 1769
Cortés
For the Spanish, California was more than just another conquest. It was a distant, stubborn land—untamed and unyielding in ways that set it apart from the empires they had already crushed. The Aztecs had been mighty, but they were centralized, their capital within reach of New Spain’s bustling Mexico City. With its harsh deserts and roaring seas, California was a world away. The Spanish first heard of it through the tortured confessions of Aztec nobles, but what they learned was vague, distant, and filled with more myth than reality. It was not the gold-strewn Tenochtitlán that Hernán Cortés had brought to its knees; it was a land protected by miles of emptiness, mountains that scraped the sky, and seas that swallowed whole ships.
And yet, the Spanish couldn’t help but be drawn to it. They were a people hooked on conquest, each new territory promising something greater than the last. Cortés himself, after toppling the Aztec Empire, had his eyes set on the north, lured by tales of unimaginable riches—El Dorado, the land of gold. His men whispered of a mythical place, a land of Amazons and black-skinned warrior women, as chronicled in Garcí Ordóñez de Montalvo’s Las Sergas de Esplandián. They believed California was a place of legends, an island of wonder that beckoned the brave and the foolish alike.
By the 1530s, Cortés had grown restless. His conquest of the Aztecs had earned him riches and fame, but his relationship with the Spanish crown had soured. Returning to Spain, he found himself unwelcome at court, a fallen hero in the eyes of those who had once cheered his victories. To reclaim his standing, Cortés looked again toward the north. He founded Santa Cruz at La Paz on the Baja Peninsula, hoping it would serve as a stepping stone toward something more significant. But the land was unforgiving, the people hostile, and the settlers mutinous. Starvation gnawed at the colony, and the once-victorious Cortés found himself tangled in a web of failure and disappointment.
Meanwhile, Francisco Pizarro had struck gold, conquering the Inca of Peru and sending ships laden with treasure back to Spain. Cortés could only watch as his dreams of a second glory slipped further out of reach. In 1536, he passed the baton to Francisco de Ulloa, sending him north with orders to find anything rivaling Pizarro’s plunder. Ulloa was no stranger to these waters; he had sailed with Cortés before and survived the Pacific’s perils. But this time, the sea took its toll. Ships were lost, men drowned, and the expedition floundered as it pushed up the Gulf of California. However, Ulloa made one important discovery: Baja California was not the island of legend. It was a peninsula, tethered to the mainland, as real and solid as the mountains lined its shores.
Ulloa
Ulloa’s voyage, documented in journals later discovered in Seville, tells a story of struggle and survival. On July 8, 1539, his three ships—Santa Agueda, Trinidad, and Santo Tomás—set sail from Acapulco, ravaged by storms and hunger. By the time they reached La Paz, the Santo Tomás had vanished into the sea, never to be seen again. Ulloa and his men pressed on, navigating the treacherous waters of the northern coast, where the Colorado River spilled its sandy delta into the Gulf. There, at the edge of the known world, they stood before the furious clash of river and ocean, marveling at the force of nature that barred their path. The land, it seemed, was as untamable as the sea.
Ulloa’s fate remains a mystery. Some say he died on the shores of southern California, while others claim his men murdered him in a mutiny. Whatever the truth, his name faded into the fog of history, and his discoveries, like those of so many before him, failed to bring the riches the Spanish had hoped for.
Coronado's Men
Yet the allure of California persisted. Not long after, Francisco Vázquez de Coronado embarked on his journey, searching for the fabled Seven Cities of Cibola. His expedition took him deep into the heart of the American Southwest through lands that would one day become Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and beyond. Coronado’s men saw the towering cliffs and expansive plains of the north and marveled at the people who lived there—tall, strong, armed with bows and arrows, their faces painted with coal, their heads adorned with feathers. These people of the land were untouched by the European steel that had carved up so much of the world.
Hernando de Alarcón, who sailed alongside Coronado, was the first European to navigate the Colorado River. His boats pushed upriver as far as Yuma, Arizona, where he encountered Native people who gazed at him with curiosity and fear. Pale-skinned, bearded, and balding, Alarcón must have seemed like a creature from another world. He played his part well, claiming to be a messenger from their god, the “Son of the Sun,” hoping to gain their trust. And for a time, it worked. They exchanged gifts—shells for beads—and shared cautious smiles. But the ground beneath their feet was shaking. The world was changing, and the Spanish and the Native people felt it in their bones.
As time passed, the Spanish crown grew disillusioned with its northern expeditions. The riches they had envisioned—the gold, the land, the glory—remained out of reach. The names of explorers like Cortés, Ulloa, and Coronado would be remembered in history, but the land they sought to conquer remained wild, untamed, and beyond their grasp.
Another story is that of Melchior Díaz, another member of the Coronado Expedition, which stands as a compelling and enigmatic chapter in the early chronicles of California. Coronado tasked Diaz with locating Hernando de Alarcón’s supply train along a predetermined latitude. Díaz led an expedition consisting of 25 soldiers, 80 horses, Native allies, African men—likely slaves—and a greyhound dog. Their route was beyond the Sonora River and Corazones along the treacherous Camino del Diablo.
Crossing the Colorado River, which Díaz named the Río del Tizón (River of Firebrands) after observing Native people carrying torches at night, the expedition encountered extreme hardships. The mountainous terrain damaged the hooves of their livestock, forcing them to abandon some sheep. Many African slaves, Native allies, and horses perished from exhaustion.
Upon discovering a wooden cross and letters left behind by Alarcón, Díaz realized he and his crew could not rendezvous with the supply train. Turning his attention to disproving Francisco de Ulloa’s claim that California was a peninsula, he pressed on. However, the previously friendly Native people who had welcomed Alarcón turned hostile, forcing Díaz to retreat to avoid further conflict.
One of the most intriguing aspects of Díaz’s journey is the later account by Spanish narrator Captain Pedro Monge, who claimed that Díaz’s patrol encountered “men with kinky hair.” However, their significance lay not in their appearance but in the metal they were working, which was said to be steel smelted from an unknown interior source. These mysterious men communicated with Díaz’s party through signs indicating they were from Asia. They also claimed to have arrived in an exotic vessel adorned with “carved golden pelicans as figureheads.” Due to the pursuit of hostile Natives, Díaz never documented this encounter himself, leaving its details shrouded in uncertainty. The “men with kinky hair” story remains a fascinating mystery. Some historians suggest these individuals were of Asian descent, possibly Chinese, who had reached North America before Spanish exploration.
Continuing their expedition, Díaz and his men stumbled upon mud volcanoes and hot springs near what is believed to be the Cocopa Mountains in Baja California. While momentarily escaping pursuit, Díaz’s greyhound chased after one of their few remaining sheep. In his attempt to stop his dog, Díaz suffered a catastrophic injury when his horse lost footing on the slippery lava rock, causing him to impale himself through the leg with his own lance.
Despite his grave injury, Díaz continued fleeing his pursuers and survived for another 28 days before succumbing to infection. He died on January 18, 1541, and was buried somewhere between the Sonoran Valley and the Gulf of California, taking his secrets with him. Some historians speculate that Díaz’s death may not have been accidental but the result of a mutiny. The long delay in his men reporting his death raises suspicion, as mutiny was a persistent threat among conquistador expeditions.
Cabrillo
Attempts did not stop, and in the early 16th century, Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo, a Portuguese conquistador renowned for his skills as a navigator, crossbowman, and horseman, embarked on an ambitious journey to reach the west coast of North America. His expedition, fraught with danger and uncertainty, culminated in his arrival at present-day San Diego. Despite the perils of the voyage, Cabrillo remained undeterred, driven by an insatiable thirst for adventure and the lure of wealth and glory—hallmarks of his career as a conquistador.
Before setting out on this journey, Cabrillo had participated in the ill-fated 1520 expedition led by Pánfilo de Narváez, dispatched by the Governor of Cuba to confront Hernán Cortés, who was already plundering the gold-rich Aztec Empire. However, Cortés and his allied Native warriors launched a surprise nighttime attack, decisively defeating Narváez’s forces. Many of Narváez’s men, including Cabrillo, switched allegiance to Cortés, lured by promises of gold, land, and power.
Following Narváez’s defeat, Cabrillo became part of Cortés’s efforts to consolidate power in the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlán. However, tensions escalated under Pedro de Alvarado, who imprisoned and executed key Aztec leaders. During the festival of Huitzilopochtli, Alvarado’s forces massacred unarmed celebrants, triggering a full-scale Aztec revolt.
The Spanish were soon besieged, culminating in the infamous Noche Triste (Sad Night) on June 30, 1520. With their escape routes cut off, Cortés and his men attempted to flee under the cover of darkness, but the Aztecs counterattacked, overwhelming the retreating Spaniards. Montezuma, whom the Spanish had tried to use as a political puppet, was killed in the chaos. As they fled, many conquistadors drowned, weighed down by stolen gold. Of the roughly 1,200 Spaniards, about 800 perished.
Despite the massacre, Cabrillo survived. He later played a key role in founding Guatemala’s first capital. He married an indigenous woman and had children before later remarrying a Spanish woman, as mandated by Spanish law. His career remained closely tied to the Spanish Empire’s colonial ambitions, and he became instrumental in shipbuilding efforts that facilitated trade with the Philippines. When Governor Pedro de Alvarado sought to build a fleet for a voyage to California, he turned to Cabrillo. However, Alvarado’s sudden death in an indigenous uprising led to Cabrillo being appointed to lead the expedition.
In June 1542, Cabrillo set sail from Puerto de Navidad with two ships, San Salvador and Victoria, seeking the legendary Northwest Passage and a faster route to the lucrative trade hubs of Asia. The expedition was grueling; the ships advanced only 15 to 20 miles daily, guided by crude maps and scant information. On September 28, Cabrillo’s expedition arrived in what is now San Diego Bay. They named it San Miguel (later renamed San Diego by Sebastián Vizcaíno nearly six decades later). The Natives, likely the Kumeyaay, observed the strangers warily. Many fled, but those who remained displayed “signs of great fear.” Cabrillo attempted diplomacy, offering gifts to ease tensions.
However, the evening took a violent turn. Some expedition members went ashore to fish and were attacked by Native warriors. Arrows wounded three men. The Kumeyaay had a history of fierce resistance and revenge against foreign intruders. According to Spanish records, the Natives had prior knowledge of Europeans, having a name for the conquistadors—Guacamal. The expedition’s journal recorded their reaction:
“…men like us were traveling about, bearded, clothed, and armed like those of the ships. They made signs that they carried crossbows and swords; and they made gestures with the right arm as if they were throwing lances, and ran around as if they were on horseback. They made signs that they were killing many native Indians, and that for this reason they were afraid.”
Undeterred, Cabrillo continued mapping the California coast. On October 3, he landed on San Miguel Island (now part of the Channel Islands) and encountered the Chumash people. Unlike the Kumeyaay, the Chumash initially welcomed the Spaniards. Juan Paez, a member of the expedition, noted the Chumash wore long hair interwoven with strings adorned with flint, bone, and wood. The expedition likely reached as far north as Monterey, but storms obscured their passage, and they missed both Monterey Bay and San Francisco Bay.
By December 1542, the expedition chose to winter on San Miguel Island. The initially friendly Chumash had grown weary of the Spaniards' continual demands for food, water, and supplies. Francisco de Vargas, a crew member, recalled, “The Indians never stopped fighting us.”
On Christmas Eve, Native warriors launched a relentless nighttime assault on the Spanish encampment. Cabrillo, aboard the ship, rushed to aid his men but suffered a catastrophic fall, reportedly splintering a shinbone. Some accounts also mention a broken arm. Despite his injuries, the expedition pressed on until Cabrillo succumbed to infection on January 3, 1543. His crew buried him on San Miguel Island.
With their leader gone and their hopes of finding the Northwest Passage dashed, Cabrillo’s men continued northward, possibly reaching Oregon. Still, they found no riches, mythical passage, or Amazonian warrior queens. Disheartened, they abandoned their quest and returned south. Cabrillo’s legacy faded into obscurity, and his properties were seized by rivals even before his death. The Spanish, meanwhile, turned their attention to other regions, and their ambitions for California lay dormant for over a century.
Drake
The Spanish were not alone in their thirst for conquest. Across the seas, the English prowled like wolves, hungry for riches and revenge. No Englishman was as notorious—or celebrated, depending on the perspective—as Sir Francis Drake. Historian Donald Cutter put it plainly: between 1578 and 1579, “Francis Drake, English gentleman or heretic pirate, depending on the point of view, entered what the Spanish had considered a Spanish lake—the Pacific Ocean.” Drake was a contradiction: a man of charm and honor when it suited him, yet a ruthless pirate when gold was on the line. His name alone sent shivers down a Spanish captain’s spine.
Drake’s raids on Spanish settlements along the Americas became legendary, and for good reason. His haul was enormous, enough to make even a seasoned pirate gape. Some say he took over 30 tons of treasure, plundered from two continents, and the weight of it all was too much for even his ship, the Golden Hind, to bear. He needed to stop, repair his vessel, and rest. So, he anchored along the sun-drenched shores of what is now Marin County in California, either in Drake’s Bay or Bodega Bay. Here, far from the watchful eyes of the Spanish, Drake and his crew paused, leaving an indelible mark on the land and its people.
On June 17, 1579, Drake’s ship slid into the quiet bay. The local Coast Miwok people watched the strange vessel from afar for days. At first, a lone man in a canoe called out to the Englishmen from across the water, but soon, more gathered. By June 23, a great assembly of men, women, and children stood near the English camp, watching—curious yet wary. Then, on June 26, the great chief, or Hioh, arrived. He came with his guard of 100 tall and warlike men, their eyes taking in the strangers and their ship, as big as any bird but made of wood and metal.
The two groups exchanged gifts. The Miwok placed a crown of feathers on Drake’s head, a gesture of honor and recognition, but something unsettling happened. The Miwok began to cry, tearing at their cheeks until blood flowed down their faces. It was a ritual of mourning, their way of expressing sorrow and loss. They believed these pale-skinned men were their long-lost relatives, returned from the dead—the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy. But it was a dark prophecy that foretold a future of pain and loss, not reunion.
To the Miwok, the sight of Drake’s ship was an omen of doom. They made offerings, held dances, and prayed, hoping to stave off whatever disaster the strangers might bring. But Drake wasn’t there to conquer or to stay. His mission was simple—patch up the Golden Hind and move on. Drake’s time in California was brief, and though it left ripples in the lives of the Miwok, he soon vanished northward, leaving behind a story that would be retold for generations.
Not long after Drake’s departure, another figure stepped onto the shores of California, this time under the flag of Spain. Sebastián Rodríguez Cermeño was a veteran sailor; his ship, the San Agustín, was heavy with treasure from the Manila galleons—silk, porcelain, and other luxuries from China. But like so many before him, Cermeño found the waters of the California coast unforgiving. A storm battered his ship, and he ran aground in what is now known as Bodega Bay, though he named it Bahía de San Francisco. Stranded, Cermeño and his men scrambled to survive, building a smaller ship to take them south while mapping the coast.
The Coast Miwok people, who had seen Drake’s ship just 16 years earlier, now watched as Cermeño and his crew set to work. They approached the Spaniards in small boats, curious but cautious. Cermeño described them as “well-disposed and robust people,” with long hair and naked bodies, except for the women, who wore deerskins and grass for modesty. For over a month, the two groups coexisted, though tensions rose when the Miwok took wood from the wreck of the San Agustín for their fires. A skirmish broke out, arrows flew, and the Spaniards fled, salvaging what they could of their broken ship.
The Others
Cermeño’s journey was one of survival rather than exploration. He built a new vessel, the San Buenaventura, and sailed for Acapulco, but his mission was deemed a failure. Francisco Bolaños, a critic of Cermeño’s leadership, later wrote of the wreck of the San Agustín, “The loss was caused more by the man commanding her than by the force of the wind.” It was a harsh judgment that marked the end of Cermeño’s career.
As the years passed, the Spanish crown’s interest in California waned. Sebastián Vizcaíno would be the last great explorer to land on its shores for over a century. In 1602, Vizcaíno and three ships—the San Diego, Santo Tomás, and Tres Reyes—set out to map the coast, landing in the San Miguel harbor, which he renamed San Diego in honor of his flagship. The voyage was grueling. Men died of scurvy, ships were lost, and only a handful of sailors remained when Vizcaíno reached Carmel Bay. The expedition had accomplished little beyond updating maps that would aid future explorers.
The light of Spanish exploration in California flickered out. For the next 170 years, Alta California would remain untouched by European hands, left to the Native peoples who called it home. Dreams of gold, glory, and conquest would wait until the Sacred Expedition of 1769, when Junípero Serra and Gaspar de Portolá arrived to plant the seeds of colonization. But for now, California remained wild and free, its people gazing out to sea, waiting for the next ship to appear on the horizon.
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