When the iconic Cliff House, perched on San Francisco’s western edge, shut down at the end of 2020, it still held a museum’s worth of artifacts gathered across decades. The local historians of the Western Neighborhoods Project raised more than $150,000 and bought dozens of items, including swimsuits from the Sutro Baths, Cliff House wait staff attire, and a wooden cowboy statue from the Playland-at-the-Beach amusement park.
But the biggest — or at least tallest — purchase was the wooden totem pole, originally 58 feet high and carved from a single cedar log, that has stood outside the Cliff House since 1949.
After the artifact auction, the National Park Service, which has owned the Cliff House since 1977, allowed WNP to use the building as a temporary museum. But when the stint ended a year ago, WNP had to remove its curios from the premises. Most are being stored or displayed at the nonprofit’s small Richmond District office, but not the totem pole, which remains moored to the ground along Point Lobos Avenue. (The Park Service has said a new unnamed tenant could soon reopen the restaurant, prompting much speculation.)
The pole needs to go, but where? WNP executive director Nicole Meldahl had hoped the Park Service would accept it as a donation to the Park Archives and Record Center, where she worked for over a decade. No thanks, said NPS.
Now others are getting involved. “The pole is a cultural and historic resource, and this is an arbitrary decision to remove it,” says Nancy DeStefanis, who runs SF Nature Education and is better known as Golden Gate Park’s heron lady. The pole was carved by a First Nations tribal member from Canada, and it is worth preserving on the Park Service’s lands, she adds.
Indigenous or not, the pole has nothing to do with the Yelamu Ohlone, who lived on the SF peninsula before Europeans arrived, and that’s a nonstarter for the Park Service. Among the reasons for the pole to vamoose, it “does not fit with the interpretive themes that the park is currently focusing on at that site,” according to a letter that an agency representative sent to Meldahl in February. There’s also concern the pole “could be misinterpreted as a derogatory statement by the park about tribal art or ceremony.”
It also “seems not a great art piece.”
“The Park Service understands that it’s a tall order to move it, and everyone is trying to figure something out,” Meldahl tells The Frisc.
Squamish, not Ohlone
In this corner of San Francisco, many beachfront attractions have come and gone. Playland, once a top draw and the setting for the end of one of Orson Welles’s best films, faded into seediness and closed in the early 1970s. The Sutro Baths are a ruin that now serve as a rare urban wetland — with the occasional surprise visitor.
The current Cliff House is the third iteration and has been renovated several times over the years. George Whitney, whose family ended up owning all the attractions along this stretch, bought the restaurant in 1937 and remodeled it 10 years later. He wanted an outdoor feature to complement it, and commissioned the pole.
‘We’re knocking on doors and hoping some savior steps in.’ — Western Neighborhoods Project executive director Nicole Meldahl
Various accounts say Whitney wanted the pole to pay tribute to the Ohlone people. Yet the carver he chose, Chief Mathias Joe Capilano, was a member of the Squamish First Peoples in Western Canada, and the images on the pole depicted Whitney and his family members. Many San Franciscans would probably agree they deserve a shout-out: They invented the It’s It.
Neither the First Nations connection nor the ties to a beloved local tasty treat is enough for the Park Service. “The park does not consider it a cultural or historical resource and has requested the WNP to remove it as previously agreed,” NPS spokesperson Julian Espinoza tells The Frisc. (The Park Service’s long-term plan to interpret the area’s history doesn’t include a mention of the Whitney family.)
The Lands End Visitor Center, a few steps uphill from the Cliff House, includes illustrations of Ohlone homes and a few artifacts — a Chert spear point, a soaproot brush, and a basket start — recreated by contemporary Ohlone people. On the Lands End Coastal Trail, a plaque marks a shell mound and describes how the Ohlone made seasonal camp along the foggy bluffs.
Half a pole
The totem pole definitely needs TLC. It was cut in half around 1958, according to WNP, and the bottom part went missing around 2000. No one knows what happened to it. The top half sits near the steps to the Camera Obscura, held up by a metal beam mounted on cement that’s been tagged with graffiti and is surrounded by weeds.
The Western Neighborhoods Project paid $6,000 for the pole and is also paying liability insurance, and now Meldahl is resigned to finding a new home for it. She is reaching out to arts organizations and local businesses, including the Beach Chalet, and has asked the Richmond’s District One supervisor Connie Chan for help. “We’re knocking on doors and hoping some savior steps in,” says Meldahl, adding that the experience with the pole “has exposed a weakness in how the city preserves artifacts.” There are nonprofits like the WNP, but no single entity with a broad view and authority over historical items.
The goal is to keep the pole as close as possible to its original location, but not on Park Service land. It’s fine outside, as it has acclimatized to the gusty winds and sea salt air. With no move on the near horizon, however, Meldahl offers this piece of advice: “Don’t buy a totem pole.”
Kristi Coale covers streets, transit, and more for The Frisc.