Dancing at the End of the World
Gracious fun in Piru. Also, what you find in the space between novelty and nostalgia
The Party Ain’t Over
By 7:00 PM, the wine tasting and dinner were over. So, too, were the hotel tours, led by owner Ken Wiseman. Most of the guests had left for the evening. The sun was riding low over the horizon, turning the landscape golden. Only our belongings were still cluttering one of the four-top tables on the patio. It was time to pack up.
Dale and I looked at each other. We knew we weren’t ready for the party to end just yet.
“Wanna head over to the bar?” I asked.
He grinned.
Across from the hotel, at the quiet corner of Main and Center, the Mountain Inn’s sister business, Corazón de Piru, waited. Coffee shop by day, bar by night. Actually three rooms in total, joined by open doorways, with the main bar area bookended by the coffee shop on one side and a pool room on the other. It’s a cozy neighborhood hang, the kind of place you’d find sanctuary in a storm. It’s also, like Piru itself, an alternate universe, a charmed world discovered through the proverbial wardrobe.
Getting There
As you head east on the 126, the cities of Ventura, Santa Paula, and Piru become smaller and smaller, with Piru being the smallest at roughly 3,000 residents. It’s the last town before you hit the L.A. County line, scrunched up against the mountainsides amid acres of chaparral and agricultural fields. It’s still unincorporated county land, patrolled by the Ventura County Sheriff’s Office.
Downtown Piru recently received a makeover during a four-month shoot for the “Lanterns” superhero TV series (set to be released in early 2026). Its weathered frontier brick-fronts were made to look battle-scarred and war-torn. It even saw the building of new facades, and some fully functional sets, including a diner and a sheriff’s station. Were it not for the paved roads and bright street lamps, you might expect to see a horse-drawn carriage rattling down the street. In the evenings, the trill of crickets is often the loudest sound you’ll hear.
Originally born out of California’s “rancho” era as “Rancho Camulos,” Piru was instrumental to the settling of this part of the “Old West” and has since become a historic Southern California locale. Even so, it’s now often overlooked as just “that ARCO station on the 126.”
Look Closer
Piru is being reborn, and it represents a novel space for us to explore. New housing developments are being built. The Mountain View Inn and Restaurant have revitalized a historic landmark and are bringing the curious to check out its complimentary wine tastings, as well as its L.A.-level epicurean delights.
At the wine tasting that afternoon, we talked with Ken and his wife, Betty-Lou, and with general manager, Rick McDaniel, some of the loveliest and liveliest people you’ll ever meet. We met savvy folk who seemed well-versed in everything from geology to the military to winemaking. Several were first-time attendees — fellow explorers. We chatted with Sam, the winemaker for The Naturalist, a soft-spoken man with whom Ken will soon be partnering in the making of Heritage Valley Wines. Our friends, first-timers themselves, marveled that the wine tasting was completely free, with generous re-pours upon request.
And then there was the dinner service. Oh, the dinners! Dale and I split the short rib platter. Our friends ordered the chicken Milanese. We swapped bites of each other’s meals. When Ken asked how they were, I told him, “Oh my God, I need a cigarette after that!” Their chef layers flavor and texture so that each bite reveals something even more delectable than the last.
After dinner, Ken took our friends and us on a tour of the hotel, letting us explore its halls and rooms, sharing with us the history, literature, and art that have made the Inn what it is. By then, I was admittedly buzzed, so when we entered Room 8, the “Pickford Room,” which is supposedly haunted by the ghost of film star Mary Pickford, I greeted the room with a glib, “Hi, Mary!”
I stepped aside to make room for our friends and stood with my back to one of the corners near the bathroom. Though the room felt warm and stuffy, and I had been sweating only a few minutes before, I felt my back go cold and electric. The kind of spine tingle you get in rare moments — say, listening to a particularly moving piece of music.
This is the room with a window that overlooks the back patio area. It’s the room from which I felt I was being watched the first time we visited the Inn back in April — before I knew this was a “haunted” room.
I tried to write off the spine tingles as just my imagination — and maybe one too many refills of Merlot. We left the room, and my spine returned to its usual creaks and groans.
Ghosts and Legends
I regard the paranormal much like Agent Mulder on The X-Files: “I Want to Believe.” When I shared an apartment with another woman in L.A., she once asked me how I could stand to watch all the paranormal and ghost hunting shows on The Travel Channel.
“Aren’t they scary?” she asked.
“Only if you believe in that stuff,” I told her.
I can watch paranormal investigators open supposed portals to Hell — and still get a good night’s sleep. I love horror and am, in fact, writing a horror novel of my own. My interest in myth and folklore, ghosts and legends, has grown largely out of my love of a good story.
It started with research into true crime, and gradually, true crime dovetailed with stories of ghosts and hauntings. It’s a natural progression, if you think about it. Someone has died an unnatural death, and we long for answers. Perhaps their energy remains. Perhaps we can communicate with it. Ghosts (or the idea of them, anyway) provide a link between the known and the unknowable, a bridge between the present and the past. They occupy a moral nether-realm in which past wrongs can be brought to light and eventually — hopefully — corrected. They help give clarity to the ambiguities and devastation of death. Ghosts are the black shadows that fill in the gray areas.
By now, I’ve accumulated quite a few ghost stories, and since moving to Santa Paula, I’ve been collecting the area’s tales. I’m hoping to research and share them in more depth.
Have I had any personal experiences? The most honest answer I can give is, I don’t know. I’ve experienced things I can’t explain, but I’ve never let them send me running for the hills. I mentally file them away as, “Huh, that was weird.”
If there are such things as ghosts, maybe I’ve simply made my peace with them.
Corazón de Piru
Dale and I ordered a bottle of wine, opened a tab, and settled in at a table near the windows. It was a live music night. Manny M. was performing. He’s a local singer/instrumentalist who’s worked as a studio musician. He fired up his electric guitar and launched into a setlist of “Oldies” — classics from the '60s and ’70s.
Our mouths fell open. To say he’s talented is an understatement. His presence is unassuming and unpretentious but his voice grabs you by the collar and makes you reassess the meaning of life. A minute or so into “In My Life” by The Beatles, I felt tears well up. I have no particular associations with the song. Listening to The Beatles’ version conjures no sense memories. And yet, I couldn’t help myself — tears splashed down my cheeks. Blame it on the Merlot, sure. But I also blame it on weeks of stress and worry and fatigue. Some days, it feels like the world is teetering toward its own end, like everything and everyone we’ve come to love is turning to ash. (RIP, Ozzy.) Sitting there in that bar, I was overwhelmed by memories of easier days, listening to the radio on summer afternoons, riding in the car with my father. I was overwhelmed, too, by the generosity of people we’re only getting to know. We were in a space where locals come to relax, connect with each other, and take in the music. A patron kicked off his sandals and danced barefoot with an off-duty barkeep. We, too, danced on a bit of open floor. Strangers offered to buy us a round of drinks. The whole day had been shaped by an unguarded friendliness that we’re not used to. Strangers approach you, introduce themselves, and tell you their story.
In a world that feels like chaos, we had found a small corner of grace.
Soon, night painted the windows a deep bluish purple. The street lamps winked on. Around 9:30, in the middle of Manny’s set, a bright flash lit up the street and blinked a bright white against the windows.
Everyone gasped. “What was that?”
Ken and a few other patrons jogged into the street to check it out. Faces tilted skyward. Manny paused briefly to ask what was going on. Some thought it was a meteor — which, in the ancient world, might have heralded the “End Times.” These days, I think many of us half expect to see such a sign.
This morning, a quick check of the internet confirmed what it actually was. *
But I prefer the romance of a meteor streaking through our lovely bar scene. My writer’s mind thinks it works better on the page: Locals in a small-town bar witness a heavenly sign and realize they’re dancing at the end of the world.
The world, though, spins madly on. And like kids on a playground, hanging on to the rails of the merry-go-round for dear life, we’ll cling to our truths, to science and logic, to keep us from spinning out of control.
And yet, my imagination will still invite in the ghosts and superstitions. After all, they make for a better story. I think we could all use a better story. Perhaps we can find it in the haunted rooms and quiet corners of the world. Turn out the lights, tune out the world, and slip into the liminal space between novelty and nostalgia, where magic is born.
Good night, Mary. See you in the morning.
* Southern California residents are pretty used to seeing these by now.