Claudia Walker's family bought a home on the 10400 block of the street, a quiet, neatly manicured tract in Scripps Ranch near where the northeastern edge of the city shares its border with Poway, in 2004. Upon meeting longtime residents, she says street repairs were one of the first things to come up.
Scripps Ranch does have a bus route that operates on weekdays from 6 am to a little after 8 pm. The route starts at Alliant University south of Pomerado Road and winds up the east side of the 15 until Mira Mesa Blvd., where it crosses the freeway westbound and arrives at the Miramar College transit station. It continues north through Mira Mesa. And it doesn’t run on weekends.
In May 1982, I met and fell in love with a woman who lived there. An elementary-school teacher, she’d just bought a condo off Pomerado Road. I’d never heard of the place before. We had a torrid but brief affair, and I recall that, on my drives north from Mission Valley to see her, I’d mentally refer to her as “the girl on Pomerado Road.”
At the junction of Carroll Canyon Road and Interstate 15 is a 9.5-acre parcel where Pacific Southwest Airlines used to train its employees. Bought in 2006 by the Horizon Christian Fellowship, the buildings at the site have stood unoccupied for 15 years, one of a myriad of tenant-bereft business parks that dominate the southern reaches of Scripps Ranch.
After parts of Scripps Ranch were burned in the 2003 Cedar Fire, it seems natural that some residents would blame the eucalyptus. “When the firestorm hit our community,” Dingeman tells me, “and we lost so many houses, it seems someone spread the rumor that the eucs had flared, flamed, and burned. This was a patent lie, as none — repeat none — were reported or documented.
While hardly Death Valley, Scripps is hot in August, with any errant ocean breezes conditioned by their journey over industrial parks and tract homes on the intervening mesas. And no matter the season, Scripps is prosaic in its tightly controlled, residential regularity, its kingdom of homeowners’ associations and glad-handing realtresses. There wouldn’t be much mystery or romance in running these suburban streets.
Little white box condo in Scripps Ranch, the starter home among all the other starter homes. We bought at the height of the boom. Everybody's on ARMs, and a black cloud of negative amortization follows us around. Men emotionally stiff-arm each other by waving across the parking spots that smell of fresh white paint, like cancer.
Whenever I found out one of my classmates lived in Scripps Ranch, I always thought "rich kid." And if I went to his house, through the winding streets lined with trees, I would be surprised that some of the houses didn't look much different from those in Mira Mesa, although others were gigantic and beautiful, especially the ones that lined Lake Miramar.
When San Diego city employee Marcus Arenas pulled down his pants and mooned Harold Pearce, Pearce knew something was up. Pearce had been photographing Arenas and other city workers as they hoisted a beer keg up a flagpole during a raucous party at a Scripps Ranch water-treatment plant.
Rust applied in the early Sixties to the federal General Services Administration for 350 acres of the dismantled Camp Elliot marine base in Scripps Ranch. In 1964 it was granted to the university, and a year later another fifty acres were added — all free of charge, with the condition that the land be used for educational purposes.