Salinan Indians

Jose Maria Carabajal was toiling for the friars at Mission San Antonio on California's Central Coast when he first heard the exalted strains of a violin. His people — the Salinan Indians — had been making music for thousands of years, but he'd never heard anything like the sounds soaring from the priest's polished chunk of wood and gut. Intrigued, Carabajal decided to make his own. The instrument he crafted in 1798 from bay laurel and other native woods was solid enough to last more than two centuries and sweet enough to build a reputation of its own. The Carabajal, as it came to be known, was handed down through generations.

Jose Maria Carabajal was toiling for the friars at Mission San Antonio on California's Central Coast when he first heard the exalted strains of a violin. His people — the Salinan Indians — had been making music for thousands of years, but he'd never heard anything like the sounds soaring from the priest's polished chunk of wood and gut. Intrigued, Carabajal decided to make his own. The instrument he crafted in 1798 from bay laurel and other native woods was solid enough to last more than two centuries and sweet enough to build a reputation of its own. The Carabajal, as it came to be known, was handed down through generations.

The earthly prospects for Mission San Miguel looked bleak. After an earthquake days before Christmas in 2003, the tottering 1818 church was declared unsafe to enter. The Diocese of Monterey and the Franciscan order were preparing to close it permanently, saying they couldn't afford to pay for crucial repairs. Outside, the 16th of California's 21 missions was surrounded by a locked chain-link fence. Inside, the moment of the San Simeon earthquake was frozen for more than a year, memorialized by shattered statues, sheared-off chunks of plaster and two withered, still-decorated Christmas trees.

The earthly prospects for Mission San Miguel looked bleak. After an earthquake days before Christmas in 2003, the tottering 1818 church was declared unsafe to enter. The Diocese of Monterey and the Franciscan order were preparing to close it permanently, saying they couldn't afford to pay for crucial repairs. Outside, the 16th of California's 21 missions was surrounded by a locked chain-link fence. Inside, the moment of the San Simeon earthquake was frozen for more than a year, memorialized by shattered statues, sheared-off chunks of plaster and two withered, still-decorated Christmas trees.

To Pilulaw Khus, a Chumash Indian spiritual leader, the weed-covered knoll near Niblick Road is a sacred place. She believes that buried in the mound are the remains of her ancestors, who lived here along the Salinas River for countless generations. But to Wal-Mart, the nation's largest retail chain, the knoll is an annoyance. Left alone, the little hill would obscure motorists' view of a planned Wal-Mart store and shopping mall.

When shoppers come to the new Wal-Mart in Paso Robles, they will be greeted by an unusual monument: a 1 1/2-acre knoll containing the remains of an ancient American Indian village and burial ground. In an unusual compromise involving Indian activists, Wal-Mart and a Pasadena developer, the planned shopping mall will save one of a dwindling number of sacred Indian sites in California.

California's 21 Spanish missions, crumbling from age and neglect, would receive $10 million for repairs under a bill approved Wednesday by the U.S. House of Representatives. President Bush is expected to sign the legislation despite protests from one civil rights group, which argues that public funds should not be used for religious structures. Supporters of the missions said the money would help them move forward with a long-delayed campaign to fix the structures.

SECRET SPOTS OF THE WEST We asked you to nominate your favorite vacation places in the West -- your travel touchstones, so to speak -- and you came back with a satchel full of suggestions. We sifted and sorted and chose six to explore for ourselves. Marvelous or mundane? You be the judge. -- "This is a unique destination where you are allowed on a military post, visit [one] of the 21 missions and stay overnight at Hearst's private lodge," says reader Lloyd van Horsen of Santa Barbara, in recommending Ft. Hunter Liggett.

Peeling off plastic gloves encased in heavy mud, Susan Coats was more focused on her heart than her hands. "I prayed over this,"' she said. "I was passing by last week and when I saw the mission in such bad shape, it broke my heart, both as a Californian and as a Christian. Then when I saw the flier asking for help -- well, here I am."

Walls pulled apart, statues broke into pieces and a crack appeared that runs the length of the church, but the state's most dilapidated mission, San Miguel Arcangel in Central California, surprised experts by surviving the Paso Robles earthquake Dec. 22. The estimated cost of repairing the mission, parts of which date to 1818, has doubled as a result of the 6.5 quake, and the very process of shoring up its walls could threaten the integrity of priceless wall paintings dating to 1824.

To Pilulaw Khus, a Chumash Indian spiritual leader, the weed-covered knoll near Niblick Road is a sacred place. She believes that buried in the mound are the remains of her ancestors, who lived here along the Salinas River for countless generations. But to Wal-Mart, the nation's largest retail chain, the knoll is an annoyance. Left alone, the little hill would obscure motorists' view of a planned Wal-Mart store and shopping mall.

Since the San Simeon earthquake in 2003, the tottering old church at the mission in this tiny Central Coast town has been off-limits to just about everyone, including the congregation that used to worship in it. A chain-link fence seals off the entrance. Deep cracks scar the facade. Warning signs are everywhere. Officials fear the 6-foot-thick walls of California's most dilapidated mission could come tumbling down with the next tremor, destroying two centuries of art, artifacts and history.