Of course there is the matter of the mountain’s name itself. Mt Diablo. It is easy to tell what impact that has on our life – just look around you as you pass through the towns ringing the mountain. See how many street names, business names, event names you can identify that are based on the mountain’s name – you can make a little game out of it. Diablo Chimney Sweeps, Diablo Respite Center, Diablo Symphony and Diablo Light Opera, Mt Diablo Beekeepers Association. Even a fine Devil Mountain Jazz Band.

But why would anybody want to name a mountain after the devil? Unless it is a volcano – which it is decidedly not – or someone really got mad at it. It turns out that the name was a big mistake. When California was still part of Spanish Mexico, the Spaniards called the mountain Cerro Alto de los Bolbones (after the local Indians). On their rather crude maps they placed a dot not far from its location and marked it Monte del Diablo. Early American settlers and explorers thought this referred to the mountain and the name stuck, becoming official on Fremont’s 1848 map. But the "monte" did not refer to the mountain; the word "monte" also meant a "thicket" in the Spanish of the time and the crude map was referring to a willow thicket in what is now downtown Concord.

Nobody really knows why the Spanish put a willow thicket on their maps and why they associated it with the devil. General Vallejo created a legend by claiming that the thicket was the site of an Indian village raided by soldiers from the San Francisco Presidio attempting to kidnap candidates for conversion and forced labor at San Francisco’s Mission. A pitched battle ensued, until suddenly the village shaman, decked in exotic plumage, jumped into the fray. The Spaniards, thinking it was the devil, turned and fled in terror. Had all this happened, you could be sure the Indians would have wound up rolling on the ground, slapping their thighs in helpless laughter.

Most of us now accept the devil moniker and delight in it as another instance of a name reflecting the colorful, rough and ready history of California. It has not always been so; at one time during the 19^th century the California Legislature debated a proposal to change the mountain’s name into something more genteel, perhaps more Christian. The proposal found little support.

And so, with the name origin firmly implanted in mind, let us start our tangible history exploration at the tip-top, the summit. Right away we run into something very weird, for the summit is inside a building. Do you know of any other mountaintops that are inside a building? There it sits inside the rotunda and you can touch it, even stomp on it. But look at it closely. Notice that a sort of little bowl seems to have been chiseled out. Leander Ransom, a surveyor who established the Mt Diablo base meridian from which property lines in much of California and Nevada are measured, did that in 1851. He dug that little hole to form a firm base for the tripod on his surveyor’s transit. Now, that’s solid history. (Ed. Also see The Mt. Diablo Initial Point: Focus on Land Surveying (Spring 1998))

Take a closer look at the building itself. The Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), a Federal agency created to give construction jobs to unemployed young men, built it in 1939 as a Visitor Center. The sandstone blocks were quarried on Fossil Ridge, not far from Rock City; they come from a Miocene epoch formation, and you will note the presence of many shellfish fossils. No dinosaurs. The use of sandstone for the structure was another bad mistake for it turned out that water went through the stones like a sieve. During those famous summit winter storms you would have little waterfalls cascading down the inner walls. Not much of a place for a visitor center. But a decade or so ago modern technology allowed the sandstone to be sealed and the building was finally dedicated to its original purpose on October 16^th, 1993. You can explore and possibly locate the spots where the rock was quarried by climbing the steep, badly paved road from the Upland Picnic Area, adjacent to the South Gate Road.

The top of the building rotunda houses a rotating beacon that originally stood on a 70-foot platform on the same spot. It was first installed in 1928 and was activated for the first time by no other than Charles Lindbergh, by remote control from Denver. It was meant at the time to be a guiding light for nighttime air travel but, after its incorporation into the summit building, it became obsolete due to modern aviation instrument developments. These days it is lit just once a year, on December 7^th, to commemorate those who lost their lives at Pearl Harbor in 1941. The early evening lighting is part of a ceremony attended by a sadly diminishing group of dedicated Pearl Harbor survivors. By now the beacon is very old, very temperamental, and victimized by the vagaries if time. One of the people who still knows how to operate the light is Burt Bogardus, a retired Mt Diablo State Park ranger who possesses the magic touch. A few days ahead of time he fiddles around with all the switches, contacts and bearings and on Pearl Harbor Day the light goes on.

Next December 7^th, at dusk, cast your eyes to the summit of Mt Diablo and look for the bright light that reminds us of a fateful day in our history. Give a big cheer for the heroes of Pearl Harbor and give a little cheer for Burt.