TRAIL TRIPS IN THE TAHOE REGION
To nature-lovers, more or less active, the trails all around and about
Lake Tahoe are a source of perpetual surprise and delight. I know of
no region in California that possesses such a wealth of trails--not
even the Yosemite or Mt. Shasta regions. The Lake is an ever-present
friend. From ridges, peaks, summits and passes, near at hand or scores
of miles away, it never fails to satisfy the eye. Again and again,
when one is least expecting it, a turn in the trail, or a few steps
forward or backward on a summit ridge brings it into sight, and its
pure blue surface, now seen smooth and glossy as a mirror, again
shining in pearly brilliancy in the sun, or gently rippled by a calm
morning or evening zephyr, or tossed into white caps by a rising
wind-storm, pelted with fierce rain or hail, or glimpsed only through
sudden openings in a snowstorm, at sunrise or sunset, each with its
own dazzling brilliancies--it always gives one a thrill and warming
sensation at the heart.
Then, too, the number of peaks to the summits of which trails have
been cut, so that the walker, or the horseback rider may have easy
access, are many and varied. In all there are not less than forty
peaks, each of which is well worth a trip, each presenting some
feature of its own that renders its personality worth cultivating.
In this and other chapters, I present my own experiences as
illustrative to give the general reader an idea of what may be
expected if he (or she) is induced to try one of the chief delights of
a sojourn in this scenic region.
WATSON'S PEAK AND LAKE
Leaving Tahoe Tavern, crossing the bridge to Tahoe City, the trail
leaves the main road on the left about a mile and a half further on,
passing the horse pasture on the right. Near Tahoe City is the Free
Camping Ground owned by the Transportation Company. This has a mile
frontage overlooking the Lake, and scores of people habitually avail
themselves of the privilege, bringing their own outfits with them, as,
at present, there are no arrangements made for renting tents and the
needed furnishings to outsiders.
The slope up which the trail now ascends with gradual rise is covered
with variegated chaparral, making a beautiful mountain carpet and
cushion _for the eye_. To the foot and body it is entangling
and annoying, placing an effectual barrier before any but the most
strenuous, athletic and determined of men.
Now the white firs, with their white bark, and the red-barked yellow
pines begin to appear. They accompany us all the rest of the way to
the peak and lake.
Soon we cross Burton Creek, a mere creek except during the
snow-melting or rain-falling time. It empties into Carnelian Bay.
Burton was one of the old-timers who owned the Island ranch near the
Lake shore, and who came to the Tahoe region at the time of the Squaw
Valley mining excitement. When the "bottom fell out" of that he did
a variety of things to earn a living, one of which was to cut bunch
grass from Lake Valley and bring it on mules over the pass that bears
his name, boat it across to Lakeside at the south end of the Lake, on
the Placerville and Virginia City stage-road, and there sell it to the
stage station. Hay thus gathered was worth in those days from $80 to
$100 per ton.
About two and a half miles from the Tavern we come to a wood road,
which is followed for half a mile. Years ago all these slopes were
denuded of their valuable timber, which was "chuted" down to the Lake
and then towed across to the sawmills at Glenbrook. The remnants
are now being gathered up and used as fuel for the hotel and the
steamboats.
Here and there are charming little nurseries of tiny and growing
yellow pines and white fir. How sweet, fresh and beautiful they
look,--the Christmas trees of the fairies. And how glad they make the
heart of the real lover of his country, to whom "conservation" is not
a fad, but an imperative necessity for the future--an obligation felt
towards the generations yet to come.
Of entirely different associations, and arousing a less agreeable
chain of memories, are the ruined log-cabins of the wood-cutter's and
logger's days. Several of these are passed.
As we re-enter the trail, Watson's Peak, 8500 feet high, with its
basaltic crown, looms before us. At our feet is a big bed of wild
sunflowers, their flaring yellow and gold richly coloring the more
somber slopes. Here I once saw a band of upwards of 2000 sheep, herded
by a Basque, one of that strange European people who seem especially
adapted by centuries of such life to be natural shepherds. Few of them
speak much American, but they all know enough, when you ask them how
many sheep they have, to answer, "About sixteen hundred." The limit
allowed on any government reserve in any one band is, I think,
1750, and though a passing ranger may be sure there are more, he is
nonplussed when, on his making question, the owner or the shepherd
shrugs his shoulders and says, "If you don't believe me, they're
there. Go and count 'em!"
Before the officials treated some of the Basque shepherds with what
seemed to be too great severity there were numerous forest fires on
the reserve. These men were generally both self-willed and ignorant,
and we passed by at this spot a clump of finely growing firs, which
had been destroyed by a fire started by a shepherd the year before.
Watson assures me that he has personally known many cases where a tree
had been blown across a trail, and the shepherd would stop his sheep,
set fire to the "wind-fall" and then leave it to burn--sometimes
allowing it to smolder for months, to the infinite peril of the forest
should an arousing wind blow the fire into life and make it spread.
Fire notices, however, now are everywhere, and a few severe
punishments have largely put a stop to all carelessness on the part of
shepherds, let alone their culpable neglect. There are still campers
and automobilists and others, of the so-called superior and educated
race, who need as severe lessons as some of these ignorant Basque
shepherds. They knock down the forest-service placards, throw down
matches, cigar and cigarette stumps, and often go off and leave a
campfire burning. The time is rapidly coming when severer and swifter
penalties will be meted out to this class of culprits, for not only
are their actions against the law, but they jeopardize all property
in and near to the forests, as well as the lives, sometimes, of many
innocent men, women and children, besides destroying the value of the
mountain slopes as watersheds.
As our trail winds and ascends, the rotting stumps of trees cut years
ago meet the eye on every hand, until at length, when at about 7000
feet altitude we see no more. The indications are clear that, though
the timber is abundant above this elevation, for some reason or other
cutting ceased. Careful observation reveals a possible reason for
this. From this point on up the soil is both thin and poor, and though
the trees seem to have flourished they are, in reality, gnarled,
twisted, stunted and unfit for a good quality of lumber. Many of them
are already showing signs of decay, possibly a proof that they grew
rapidly and are rotting with equal or greater speed.
[Illustration: Pleasure Party on the 'Wild Goose', Lake Tahoe]
[Illustration: Looking Toward the Casino, Tahoe Tavern, Lake Tahoe]
[Illustration: A Trail Party About to Leave Tahoe Tavern]
[Illustration: On the Trail Returning from the Summit of Mt. Tallac]
At this elevation, 7000 to 8000 feet, the red fir begins to appear. It
is an attractive and ever-pleasing tree, its dark red bark soon making
it a familar friend.
How remarkably a woodsman can read what would be an unintelligible
jumble of facts to a city man. Here on one trip we found a tree. Its
top was smitten off and removed a distance of forty to fifty feet.
Parts of the tree were scattered for a distance of two hundred yards.
What caused it? The unobservant man would have passed it by, and the
observant, though untrained and inexperienced, would have wondered
without an answer. And yet a few minutes' observation, with the
interpretation of Bob Watson, made it as clear as the adding of two
to two. The lightning had struck the tree, and shot the top off as if
lifted and carried away bodily, at the same time scattering the pieces
in every direction. Then, it had seemed to jump from this tree to
another, out of the side of which it had torn a large piece, as if,
like a wild beast in angry fury, it had bitten out a giant mouthful of
something it hated. It had then jumped--where? There was no sign. It
simply disappeared.
Near by we found quite a nursery of graceful, dainty and attractive
young firs; "Noah's ark trees," I always feel like calling them, for
they remind one constantly of the trees found in the Noah's arks of
childhood days, made by the Swiss during the long winter nights in
their mountain chalets, where the trees are of a similar character to
those of the Sierras.
Near to the point at which we turn to the left for Watson's Peak, and
to the right for Watson's Lake, is a delicious, cool, clear spring,
which I instinctively called, "the Spring of the Angels." When Bob
asked the _why_ of the name, the answer quickly came: "It is up
so high and is so pure and good." The elevation is about 8000 feet. We
take to the left.
Here also is found the mountain pine, its fine, smooth, black bark
contrasting markedly with that of the firs and pines further down. It
is generally found not lower than this elevation around Lake Tahoe.
Near by are some scattered hemlocks. This tree is found even higher
than the mountain pine, and is seldom found lower than 8000 feet. In
these higher elevations one sees what a struggle some of the trees
have for mere existence. Again and again a mountain pine will be
found, a tree perhaps fifty feet high, bowed over almost to the
ground. This was done by snow. Given the slightest list from the
perpendicular when the heavy, wet snow falls upon it, it is bound
slowly to be forced over. If it is a tough, strong tree it may sustain
the weight until melting time comes, when it is released. But it never
becomes upright again. On the other hand if a cold snap comes after
the snow has bent it over, it is no uncommon thing for it to snap
right in two, eight, ten or more feet from the ground.
Now we stand on the summit. This peak and its attendant lake were
named after my incomparable guide, Robert Watson, and it is well
that the name of so admirable a man should be preserved in the
region through which he has intelligently and kindly guided so many
interested visitors. The elevation is 8500 feet.
What a wonderful panorama is spread out before us. Close by, just
across the valley in which nestles Watson's Lake, 7900 feet elevation,
is Mt. Pluto, 8500 feet, the sides of which are covered with a dense
virgin forest, thus presenting a magnificent and glorious sight. There
is no trail through this forest though sheep are taken there to graze
in the quiet meadows secluded on the heights.
Further to the east and north is Mt. Rose, 10,800 feet, on which is
perched the Meteorological Observatory of the University of Nevada.
Beyond is the Washoe Range.
Even before reaching the summit we gain a fine view, through the
trees, of Castle Peak, 9139 feet, while further north is Mt. Lola,
9167 feet. Close at hand is a glorious specimen of red fir, fully four
and a half feet in diameter. Below us to the west is a patch of vivid
green, known as Antone Meadows. It was named after a Switzer who lived
there years ago and whose children now own it. Not far away is Round
Meadow, locally known as Bear-Trap Meadow, for one may still find
there an old bear-trap that hunters were wont to use thirty or forty
years ago. In this meadow is the cabin of the Forest Ranger, which we
shall see on the return trip.
Looking now over Lake Tahoe to the western horizon we see, over Tahoe
Tavern, and a little west of north, Needle Peak (8920 feet), to the
right of which is Lyon Peak (about 9000 feet). A trifle to the south
of Needle Peak is Granite Chief, followed by Squaw Peak (8960 feet),
Ward Peak (8665 feet), and Twin Peak (8924 feet) the one to the right
having the appearance of a buffalo feeding.
While these peaks appear in a line, and as if belonging to the same
range, a glimpse at the map will reveal that they are some miles
apart.
As we look further south, across the head of Ward and Blackwood Creek
Canyons, the mountains do not seem so high, though we discern Barker
Peak (over 8000 feet).
Still further southward is Ellis Peak (8700 feet) apparently well
timbered. It was named after Jock Ellis, who, on the further side, had
a dairy ranch for a while. But when he found the cream would not rise
in the colder periods of the year, he gave up his dairy, and went to
raising sheep. In the summer months, however, he had no trouble in
disposing of all the butter he could make, or milk and cream he
cared to sell, for he was on the road from Georgetown which passed by
Rubicon Springs to McKinney's on the Lake.
On the ridge to the left are the Rubicon Peaks (9199 feet) three of
them apparently, all closely overlooking Lake Tahoe, and leading the
eye down to Sugar Pine Point, which is at the south end of McKinney's
Bay.
To the west of Rubicon Peaks is Phipps Peak (9120 feet), and a little
farther back Mt. Tallac (9185 feet), while farther to the south is
Ralston Peak (about 9500 feet), at this angle and distance appearing
not unlike one of the domes of the Yosemite Valley. Near by, to the
right, is Pyramid Peak (10,020 feet), though from here it presents
a very different appearance from that it holds when viewed from
Mt. Tallac. Still farther to the right is Tell's Peak (9125 feet),
apparently at the end of a richly timbered ridge. Tell was an old
Switzer who used to keep a dairy ranch on the slopes of the mountain
bearing his name.
At the extreme south of Lake Tahoe stands Round Top (10,130 feet),
to the left of which are the three great peaks of the Tahoe region,
Freel's (10,900 feet), Job's (10,500 feet) and Job's Sister (10,820
feet). Freel was one of the old timers who used to have a cattle-range
on the slopes.
Then, allowing the eye to follow along the southeastern curve of
the Lake up to the mountains on the eastern side, the first great
depression is the pass over which the Placerville road goes down the
Kingsbury grade to Genoa. At the foot of the grade, at the entrance
to the Carson Valley is Van Sickle's old place, one of the early day
stage-stations on the Placerville road.
Van Sickle was a noted character, a fearless, rude pioneer, but well
liked and highly respected. His fame was materially enhanced when he
killed Sam Brown, one of the noted desperadoes of the Tahoe region in
the days of the Virginia City mining excitement. Tradition says that
Brown was a fire-eating southerner, from Texas, a man proud of his bad
record of several murders. He was notorious in Virginia City, and when
the war broke out was one of the outspoken heralds and advocates of
secession. He had trouble with Van Sickle and had threatened to kill
him on sight. Coming to the place for this purpose he himself was
killed, for Van Sickle secured a shot-gun, "laid for him," and shot
him. A great sense of relief was felt by many people at this, what was
then considered not only a justifiable but highly laudable act, for
Brown was seeking to raise a body of men to go South and fight in
the Civil War. This event had much to do with stopping too vigorous
advocacy of the claims of the South from that time on in Virginia City
and the immediate neighborhood.
The road around the Lake forks at a place originally known as
Edgewood's, the branch to the left continuing along the eastern shore
of Lake Tahoe, past Round Mound and Cave Rock to Glenbrook, where it
swings over the grade to the east and over the summit, divides, one
branch going down Clear Creek Canyon, and the other down King's Canyon
to Carson City. It is thirteen and a half miles from Glenbrook to
Carson by way of King's Canyon, and automobiles use this route, while
stages run regularly over the other route via Clear Creek Canyon which
is only fourteen and a quarter miles to Carson.
It was during the lumbering days at Glenbrook that the railway ran
from the mills to the summit, nine miles, carrying carloads of lumber
there, which were then unloaded and shot down the water-flume to
Carson City.
Letting the eye still follow the eastern shore of Lake Tahoe
completing the circuit, northward, Snow Valley Peak and Marietta Peak
are reached. Under the latter, to the southwest, is Marlette Lake,
largely an artificial body over a mile long and half a mile wide,
which is the reservoir for the water supply of Virginia City. The
course of the conveying flume may distinctly be traced, for part of
its twenty-four miles of length. Both peak and lake were named after
S.H. Marlette, once Surveyor-General of Nevada, and a well-known
character of the earlier mining days.
Just below Marlette Lake, almost directly facing Tahoe Tavern, are
several scarrings, running almost parallel to each other and going in
the most direct fashion to Lake Tahoe. These denote where the flume
broke and the water made its own rude channels to the Lake beneath.
From this inadequate and imperfect description it can readily be
imagined what a sublime and comprehensive view is afforded from
Watson's Peak. Every visitor to Tahoe should take the trip, especially
those who stay for a few days or longer at Tahoe Tavern.
* * * * *
WATSON LAKE
About half a mile northwest from the summit of Watson Peak is Watson
Lake, 7900 feet. It is about 300 yards long by 250 yards broad, hence
rudely oval in shape. While about fifty feet deep in the center, it
shallows toward the edges, where lilies abound, and then becomes mere
marsh. Practically it is surrounded by trees. Restocked with a variety
of fish (trout) in large numbers each year, it is one of the best
fishing lakes at the northern end of Lake Tahoe, and a most enjoyable
day to the angler is to start early, take his lunch along, and spend
the day there.
To those who are not anglers this same day can be spent in the quiet
enjoyment of the trees, flowers, lake and sky.
The outlet from the lake is by Deer Creek, and thence into the Truckee
not far from the site of the old mining-camp of Knoxville.
The return trip to Tahoe Tavern is made through a virgin forest, on
a ridge between Watson Lake and the Truckee Valley, the trail having
been outlined only about five years ago. Later the Forest Rangers
considerably improved it, until now it is a very easy and comfortable
trail to traverse. One notices here the especial "blaze" on the trees,
of the rangers. It consists of a perpendicular parallelogram with a
square above, thus
[Illustration: 'Ranger's Blaze']
Wherever this blaze is found everybody in the region knows it for a
ranger's blaze, denoting a trail leading to a ranger's cabin.
On this ride one has a wonderful illustration of the popular fallacy
in woodcraft that moss is always found on the north side of the trees.
Here the moss is mainly on the west. The fact is the moss is generally
found on the side from which the rain-storms come, and here they are
mainly from the south and southwest. A mile or so away on the trail to
Watson's Lake the moss is all on the southwest side of the trees.
Most of the trees here are red fir and mountain pine, some of them
being of large size, and noble specimens.
A little further on a fine opening reveals Deer Creek, through which
the waters of Watson Lake flow to the Truckee. It was nearing the hour
of sunset when I reached this point, and the trees were glowing
with flaming gold, reminding one of the pictures John Enneking, the
wonderful Boston artist, so loves to paint, while below the water
gleamed like dazzling diamonds.
Along here the side of the ridge below the trail seemed as if plowed
into a number of rudely parallel lines. These were sheep-trails made
as the sheep followed each other over the softer soil of the mountain
side.
A mile and a half from Watson Lake we came to a telephone box. This
was the signal box of the Forest Rangers connecting with Lake Tahoe,
five miles away, Truckee, eight miles, Shaffer's Mills, five miles and
thence to Brockway, six miles. In the direction we were going it was
but one mile to the ranger's log-cabin in Round Meadow.
In the winter time the ranger often finds it difficult to keep the
line in operation. The damp snow falling upon the wire, clings to it,
freezes and keeps receiving additions until it is bigger than a man's
arm, and the weight breaks it down.
As we rode along we saw a fat porcupine, weighing full twenty-five
pounds and deliberately walking up the slope near by, as if going to
its den in the rocks, but, though we yelled and shouted, it scorned
to notice us and indifferently went its way. A horned owl now and then
hooted and bade us begone, while a badger came out from his hole, but
hurried back when he saw or smelled who we were.
Now and again we caught marvelous sunset reflections on Lake Tahoe
through the trees, and on the eastern mountains was a peach glow more
soft and beautiful than the famous Alpen glow.
Soon the sun was gone, and then, as we rode through the' dark aisles
of the trees the stars came out and shone with dazzling splendor
overhead. Just as we left the ranger's cabin a long dark corridor of
majestic trees framed in a patch of black velvet in the upper sky, and
there, in the very center, shining in resplendent glory, was Venus,
the evening star.
The wind began to blow a regular cyclone from the north, so the
roaring of the trees told us, but we were largely sheltered, and as we
looked up through the dancing and whirling tree-tops there was not a
cloud in the sky.
Thus we returned to the Tavern, dramatically and gloriously bringing
our delightful and easy trip to an end.
I have been rather prolix, and have entered much more fully into
detail than some may deem necessary in the account of this trip, for
two important reasons. It is a trip that none should fail to take, and
I have made it a sort of general account, giving in broad outline what
the visitor may expect of any of the peak trips in the vicinity of
Tahoe Tavern. It goes without saying that, constantly, from a score or
more outlook points, the eye finds its resting place upon Lake Tahoe,
each view being different and more charming than the one that preceded
it.
* * * * *
TO SQUAW VALLEY, GRANITE CHIEF PEAK, FIVE LAKES AND DEER PARK SPRINGS
Leaving Tahoe Tavern we cross the Truckee River and ride down on the
north side. The flowing Truckee is placid and smooth, save where eager
trout jump and splash. The meadows are richly green and the mountain
slope on the further side is radiant with virgin tree-life in joyous
exuberance. Jays are harshly calling, chipmunks are excitedly running,
the pure blue of the sky over-arches all, the wine of the morning is
in the air, and we are glad we are alive. A spring of pure cold water
on the right, about a mile out, tempts us to a delicious morning
draught.
A little further down is "Pap." Church's "Devil's Playground,"
"Devil's Post," and devil's this, that and the other, out of which
he gained considerable satisfaction while driving stage-coach between
Truckee and Tahoe in the days before the railroad.
It is well carefully to observe these singular lava puddingstone
masses, for, according to the theory of John Le Conte, the eminent
physicist, recounted in another chapter, these were the restraining
masses that made the Lake at one time eighty or a hundred feet higher
than it is to-day.
Four miles from the Tavern we pass Engineer Von Schmidt's old dam, for
the history of which see the chapter on "The Truckee River."
Near Deer Park Station is another spring on the right. In the old
stage days "Pap." Church always stopped here and gave his passengers
the opportunity to drink of the water, while he made discourse as to
its remarkable coldness. Five years ago a land slide completely buried
it, and the road had to be cut through again. Ever since the spring
has been partially clogged and does not flow freely, but it is cold
enough to make one's teeth ache.
In the winter of 1881-2 a land-and-snow-slide occurred a little beyond
Deer Park Station. Watson was carrying the mail on snow-shoes at the
time and saw it. There had been a five foot fall of snow in early
March, and a week or two later came a second fall of seven feet.
Something started the mass, and down it came, rushing completely
across the river and damming it up, high on the other side, and the
course of the slide can clearly be seen to-day. It is now, however,
almost covered with recent growth of chaparral, and thus contributed
to one of the most beautiful effects of light and shade I ever saw.
The mountain slope on one side was completely covered with a growth of
perfect trees. Through these came pencillings of light from the rising
sun, casting alternate rulings of light and shadow in parallel lines
on the glossy surface of the chaparral beyond. The effect was enhanced
by the fleecy and sunshiny clouds floating in the cobalt blue above.
Near the mouth of Bear Creek the river makes a slight curve and also
a drop at the same time, and the road, making a slight rise, presents
the view of a beautiful stretch of roaring and foaming cascades.
Here the canyon walls are of bare, rocky ridges, of white and red
barrenness, with occasional patches of timber, but very different from
the tree-clad slopes that we have enjoyed hitherto all the way down
from the Tavern.
Beyond is a little grove of quaking aspens. Their leaves, quivering
in the morning breeze, attract the eye. Crossing the railway, the road
makes a climb up a hill that at one time may have formed a natural dam
across the river. Here is a scarred tree on the left where Handsome
Jack ran his stage off the bank in 1875, breaking his leg and
seriously injuring his passengers.
Crossing the next bridge to the left at the mouth of Squaw Creek, six
miles from the Tavern, on a small flat by the side of the river is
the site of the town of Claraville, one of the reminders of the Squaw
Valley mining excitement.
Just below this bridge is an old log chute, and a dam in the river.
This dam backed up the water and made a "cushion" into which the logs
came dashing and splashing, down from the mountain heights above. They
were then floated down the river to the sawmill at Truckee.
At Knoxville we forded the river at a point where a giant split
bowlder made a tunnel and the water dashed through with roaring speed.
Retracing our steps for a mile or so we came to the Wigwam Inn, a
wayside resort and store just at the entrance to Squaw Valley. To the
right flows Squaw Creek, alongside of which is the bed of the logging
railway belonging to the Truckee Lumber Co. It was abandoned two or
three years ago, when all the available logs of the region had been
cut. Most of the timber-land between Squaw Creek and Truckee, on both
sides of the river, was purchased years ago, from its locators, by the
Truckee Lumber Company. But Scott Bros., purchased a hundred and
sixty acres from the locators and established a dairy in Squaw Valley,
supplying the logging-camps with milk and butter for many years past.
For forty years or more this region has been the scene of active
logging, the work having begun under the direction of Messrs.
Bricknell and Kinger, of Forest Hill. The present president of the
Truckee Lumber Co. is Mr. Hazlett, who married the daughter of
Kinger. This company, after the railway removed from Glenbrook and was
established between Tahoe and Truckee, lumbered along the west side of
Tahoe as far as Ward Creek.
Entering the valley we find it free from willows, open and clear. The
upper end is surrounded, amphitheater fashion, by majestic mountains,
rising to a height of upwards of 9000 feet. Clothed with sage-brush at
the lower end and rich grass further up, even to the very base of the
mountains, it is, in some respects, the prettiest valley in the whole
of this part of the Sierra Nevadas.
The upper meadows are full of milk cows, quietly grazing or lying down
and chewing their cuds, while just beyond the great dairy buildings
is the unpretentious cottage of the Forest Ranger. Remnants of old log
chutes remind one of the logging activities that used to be carried on
here.
One of the most observable features of Squaw Valley is its level
character. This is discussed in the chapter on glacial action.
On the right the vein of quartz which out-crops at Knoxville is
visible in several places and the various dump-piles show how many
claimants worked on their locations in the hope of finding profitable
ore.
Half way up the valley is an Iron Spring, the oxydization from which
has gathered together a large amount of red which the Indians still
prize highly and use for face paint.
How these suggestions excite the imagination--old logging chutes,
mining-claims and Indians. Once this valley rang with the clang of
chains on driven oxen, the sharp stroke of the ax as it bit into the
heart of the tree, the crash of the giant trees as they fell, the rude
snarl of the saw as it cut them up into logs, the shout of the driver
as he drove his horses alongside the chute and hurried the logs down
to the river, the quick blast of the imprisoned powder, the falling
of shattered rocks, the emptying of the ore or waste-bucket upon the
dump--all these sounds once echoed to and from these hillsides and
mountain slopes.
Now everything is as quiet and placid as a New England pastoral scene,
and only the towering mountains, snow-clad even as late as this in the
fall, suggest that we are in the far-away wilds of the great West.
But Squaw Valley had another epoch, which it was hoped would
materially and forever destroy its quiet and pastoral character. In
the earlier days of the California gold excitement the main road
from Truckee and Dormer Lake went into Nevada County and thus on to
Sacramento. In 1862 the supervisors of Placer County, urged on by the
merchants, sent up a gang of men from Placerville to build a road from
Squaw Valley, into the Little American Valley, down the Forest Hill
Divide, thus hoping to bring the emigrant travel to Forest Hill,
Michigan Bluff, and other parts of Placer County.
It was also argued that emigrants would be glad to take this new road
as all the pasture along the other road was "eaten off." Over this
historic road we are now about to ride.
As we look up it is a forbidding prospect. Only brave men and sanguine
would ever have dared to contemplate such a plan. The mountain cliffs,
separated and split, arise before us as impassable barriers. Yet one
branch of the old trail used to pass through the divide to the right,
over to Hopkins Springs, while the one that was converted into the
wagon road took the left-hand canyon to the main divide.
We now begin to ascend this road at the head of Squaw Valley, and in
five minutes, or less, are able to decide _why_ it was never a
success. The grade is frightful, and for an hour or more we go slowly
up it, stopping every few yards to give our horses breath. All the way
along we can trace the blazes on the trees made over sixty years
ago. It is hard enough for horses to go up this grade, but to
pull heavily-ladened wagons--it seems impossible that even those
giant-hearted men, used to seeing so many impossible things
accomplished, could ever have believed that such a road could be
feasible. What wonderful, marvelous, undaunted characters they must
have been, men with wills of inflexible steel, to overcome such
obstacles and dare such hardships. Yet there were compensations. Squaw
Creek's clear, pellucid, snow-fed stream runs purling, babbling or
roaring and foaming by to the right. These pioneers with their women
and children had crossed the sandy, alkali and waterless deserts.
For days and weeks they had not had water enough to keep their faces
clean, to wash the sand from their eyes. Now, though they had come
to a land of apparently unscalable mountains and impassable
rock-barriers, they had grass for the stock, and water,--delicious,
fresh, pure, refreshing water for themselves. I can imagine that when
they reached here they felt it was a new paradise, and that God was
especially smiling upon them, and to such men, with such feelings,
what could daunt, what prevent, what long stay their onward march.
As we ascend, the mountains on our right assume the form of artificial
parapets of almost white rock, outlined against the bluest of blue
skies. There is one gray peak ahead, tinged with green. The trail is
all washed away and our horses stumble and slide, slip and almost
fall over the barren and rough rocks, and the scattered bowlders, a
devastating cloud-burst could not wash away.
Here is a spring on the left, hidden in a grove of alders and willows,
and now new and more fantastic spires arise on the right. Higher up we
see where those sturdy road-builders rolled giant rocks out of their
way to make an impassable road look as if it could be traversed.
Reaching the point at the foot of Squaw Peak at last we look back over
Squaw Valley. In the late summer tints it is beautiful, but what must
it be in the full flush of its summer glory and perfection? Then
it must be a delight to the eye and a refreshment to the soul. How
interesting, too, it is to rehabilitate it as a great glacial lake.
One can see its pellucid waters of clear amethystine blue and imagine
the scenes that transpired when the ancestors of the present Indians
fished, in rude dugouts, or on logs, or extemporized rafts, upon its
surface. Now it is covered with brown, yellowish grass, with tree-clad
slopes rising from the marge.
Turning to the right we find ourselves in a country of massive
bowlders. They seem to have been broken off from the summits above and
arrested here for future ages and movements to change or pass on.
The road grows severer than ever, and we cannot help again picturing
those old heroes driving their wagons up, while the women and children
toiled painfully on foot up the steep and rocky slopes. Could anything
ever daunt them after this? any obstacle, however insurmountable,
discourage them? any labor, however severe, compel them to turn back?
Though there is a deep pathos in all these memories, the heroism of it
makes our blood tingle with pride that such men and women belonged to
us, that we are privileged to live in the land their labors, loves and
lives have sanctified.
We turn to the right; a tiny waterfall, which in the season must be
quite a sight, trickles down near by; we are now advancing directly
upon the serrated ridge of fantastic spires that have long accompanied
us. We now find those white-seeming pinnacles are of delicate pinks,
creams, blues, slates and grays. In one place, however, it seems for
all the world as if there were a miniature Gothic chapel built of
dark, brownish-black lava. Another small patch of the same color and
material, lower down, presents a gable end, with windows, reminding us
of the popular picture of Melrose Abbey in the moonlight.
Now we are lined on either side by removed bowlders, but the road! ah
the road! who could ever have traveled over it? Trees twenty feet high
have now grown up in the roadway. To the left Squaw Peak (8960 feet)
towers above us, while we make the last great pull through the rocky
portion ere we come to the easier rise to the shoulders of Granite
Chief. Here the road was graded out from the side of a granite
mountain, blasted out and built up, but it is now sadly washed out.
Further up, a broad porphyritic dyke crosses our path, then more
trees, and we come to the gentle slope of a kind of granitic sand
which composes the open space leading to the pass between Granite
Chief on the right, and a peculiar battlemented rock, locally known
as Fort Sumpter, on the left. This was named by the Squaw Valley
stampeders who came over the trail in the early days of the Civil War,
when all patriots and others were excited to the core at the news that
Fort Sumpter had been fired upon. On one of the highest points stands
a juniper on which a big blaze was cut by the early road-makers, so
that there need be no doubt as to which way the road turned. Other
nearby trees, in their wild ruggedness and sturdy growth, remind us
of a woman whose skirts are blown about by a fierce wind. Their
appearance speaks of storms braved, battles of wind and snow and ice
and cold fought and won, for they have neither branch nor leaf on the
exposed side, and on the other are pitiably scant.
As we cross the sandy divide, over which a wagon could drive anywhere,
we find white sage in abundance. Expansive vistas loom before us,
ahead and to the right, while Squaw Peak now presents the appearance
of a vast sky-line crater. We seem to be standing on the inside of it,
but on the side where the wall has disappeared. Across, the peak has a
circular, palisaded appearance, and the lower peaks to the right seem
as if they were the continuation of the wall, making a vast crater
several miles in diameter. The plateau upon which we stand seems as
if it might have been a level spot almost near the center of the bowl.
Fort Sumpter is a part of this great crater-like wall and Granite
Chief is the end of the ridge.
As a rule there is a giant bank of snow on the saddle over which the
trail goes between Ft. Sumpter and Granite Chief, but this year (1913)
it has totally disappeared. It has been the driest season known for
many years.
Looking back towards the Lake a glorious and expansive view is
presented. Watson Peak, Mt. Rose, Marlette Peak, Glenbrook and the
pass behind it, are all in sight and the Lake glistening in pearly
brilliancy below.
At the end of the Squaw Peak ridge, on the right, is a mass of
andesite, looking like rude cordwood, and just above is a mass of
breccia very similar to that found in the Truckee Valley a few miles
below Tahoe Tavern.
Below us, at the head of Squaw Creek is a small blue pond, scarcely
large and important enough to be called a lake, yet a distinctive
feature and one that would be highly prized in a less-favored
landscape.
On the very summit of the ridge we get fine views of Mounts Ralston,
Richardson, Pyramid Peak and the whole Rock Bound Range, while close
at hand to the north is Needle Peak (8920 feet), and to the south,
Mt. Mildred (8400 feet). To our left is Fort Sumpter, to the right the
Granite Chief, and between the two a stiff breeze is blowing.
Have you ever stood on a mountain ridge or divide when a fierce gale
was blowing, so that you were unable to walk without staggering, and
where it was hard to get your breath, much less speak, and where it
seemed as if Nature herself had set herself the purpose of cleansing
you through and through with her sweetening pneumatic processes? If
not, you have missed one of the blessed influences of life.
Rough? harsh? severe? Of course, but what of that, compared with the
blessings that result. It is things like that that teach one to
love Nature. Read John Muir's account--in his _Mountains of
California_--and see how he reveled in wind-storms, and even
climbed into a tree and clung to its top "like a bobolink on a reed"
in order to enjoy a storm to the full.
Immediately at our feet lie the various mazes of canyons and ravines
that make the diverse forks of the American River. In one place is
a forbidding El Capitan, while in another we can clearly follow for
miles the Royal Gorge of this many branched Sierran river. To the
right is Castle Peak (9139 feet) to the north and west of Donner Lake,
while nearby is Tinker's Knob (9020 feet) leading the eye down to
Hopkins' Soda Springs. Beyond is Donner Peak (8135 feet) pointing
out the location of Summit Valley, just to the left (west) where the
trains of the Southern Pacific send up their smoke-puffs and clouds
into the air.
At our feet is the Little American Valley, in which is the road, up
the eastern portion of which we have so toilsomely climbed. With a
little pointing out it is possible to follow the route it followed on
the balance of its steep and perilous way. Crossing the valley beneath
it zig-zagged over the bluff to the right, through the timber to the
ridge between the North and Middle Forks, then down, down, by Last
Chance to Michigan Bluff. The reverent man instinctively thanks God
that he is not compelled to drive a wagon, containing his household
goods, as well as his wife and children, over such roads nowadays.
Just before making the descent we succeed in getting a suggestive
glimpse of what is finely revealed on a clear day. Slightly to the
south of west is Mount Diablo, while northwards the Marysville Buttes,
Lassen's rugged butte, and even stately Mt. Shasta are in distinct
sight. At this time the atmosphere is smoky with forest fires and the
burning of the tules in the Sacramento and other interior valleys,
hence our view is not a clear one.
It did not take us long to reach the old stage-station in the Little
American Valley. Here Greek George--he was never known by any other
name--had a station, only the charred logs remaining to tell of some
irreverent sheep-herder or Indian who had no regard for historic
landmarks. The pile of rocks which remain denote the presence of
the chimney. When the new stage-road was built and travel over this
road--always very slim and precarious--completely declined, Greek
George removed, but his log hotel and bunk-house remained until a few
years ago.
We lunch by the side of the old chimney and ruminate over the scenes
that may have transpired here in those early days.
On our way back we pass the stumps of two large firs which were
undoubtedly cut down to supply George's houses with shakes. At the
base of Ft. Sumpter we leave the trail down which we have come, with
the intention of going--without a trail--down Whisky Creek, over
several interesting meadows to Five Lake Creek, and thence up by the
Five Lakes, over the pass into Bear Creek Canyon, past Deer Park to
the Truckee River and thus to the Tavern.
With such an excellent guide as Bob Watson we have no hesitation in
striking out in any direction and in a short time Mt. Mildred (8400
feet) is on our right.
Great groves of willows and alders cover immense areas of the canyon's
sides, while we pass a giant red fir with a diameter of fully six
feet.
When about half a mile from Five Lake Creek the largest portion of
the canyon is taken up with irregular masses of granite over which a
glacier, or glaciers, have moved. The striation and markings are down
the valley, and looking up from below the canyon for a mile or more
it has the appearance of a series of irregular giant steps, each step
gradually sloping back to the step above. From above the course of
the glacier seems clear. It must have flowed downwards, polishing and
smoothing each step in turn, then falling over the twenty, thirty
or fifty feet high edge to the next lower level, to ascend the next
slope, reach the next precipice, and so on.
At the point where we strike Five Lake Creek, in a large expanse of
meadow, we pass a camp, where in the distance we can clearly see three
men and a woman. Deer hunters probably. We give them a cheery Halloo!
and pass on.
Five Lake Creek here makes a sharp bend into the canyon which is a
continuation of the canyon down which we have been traveling, and
enters the Rubicon River at Hell Hole. We, however, turn _up_
the Creek to the northeast, here striking the regular Hell Hole trail
built a few years ago by Miss Katherine Chandler, of Deer Park. Just
ahead of us, appearing through a grove of trees near to where the Five
Lakes are nestling, is a perfectly white cloud, absolutely startling
in the vividness of its contrast to the deep blue of the sky and the
equally deep green of the firs and pines.
A wilderness of bowlders compels the winding about of the trail, but
we hear and see Five Lake Creek, roaring and dashing along, for it
has a large flow of water and its course is steep and rocky. We pass
through groups of willows, wild currants and alders, enter a sparsely
wooded meadow and in a few moments see the first of the Five Lakes.
There is but little difference in their levels, though their sizes
vary considerably. The first one is the largest. Here is a log cabin
and two or three boats. These are owned by the Deer Park Springs
resort, and are for their fishing and hunting patrons. They also own a
hundred and sixty acres here, which include the area of the lake. The
two first or lower lakes are the largest and the deepest. It is their
flow which makes Five Lakes Creek. The three upper lakes are smaller
and shallower. It is said that a divide used to separate the two lower
from the three upper lakes, and the flow from the latter descended
through Bear Creek, past Deer Park, into the Truckee River and thence
into far-away Pyramid Lake in Nevada.
From this point the trail is clear and well defined, being traveled
constantly during the season by guests of Deer Park Springs. Passing
through a fine nursery of beautiful and exquisite red firs we drop
into the canyon of Bear Creek. To the left are great andesite crowns
on the mountain tops. Here also are more glacially polished masses and
cliffs of granite, clearly indicating great glacial activity in the
upper part of this canyon. The trail is ticklish in a few places, with
steps up and down which our horses take gingerly, but nothing which
need excite an extra heart-beat to one used to mountain trails.
In less than half an hour we are at Deer Park Springs, drinking its
pleasant waters, and while we still have six and a half miles to go
to the Tavern it is over easy and ordinary road, and therefore our
pleasant trip is practically at an end.
* * * * *
TO ELLIS PEAK
Homewood is the natural starting point for Ellis Peak (8745 feet) as
the trail practically leaves the Lake high-road at that point, and
strikes directly upon the mountain slope. Hundreds make the trip on
foot and it is by no means an arduous task, but many prefer to go
horse-back or burro-back. In its upward beginnings the trail follows
the course of an old logging chute for a distance of some two miles,
the lake terminus of which is now buried in a nursery of white fir and
masses of white lilac. There are a few cedars and pines left untouched
by the logger's ax, but they are not prime lumber trees, or not one of
them would now be standing.
To the right is Dick Madden Creek, which, like all the streams on the
eastern slopes of the great western escarpment of Lake Tahoe, comes
dashing and roaring down steep and rocky beds to the Lake.
When at about 7000 feet we find few other than red firs and mountain
pines. Here is a wonderful nursery of them that have secured a firm
hold upon life. Throughout the whole region the year 1913 seems to
have been a most kindly one for the untended, uncared for baby-trees.
There has been comparatively little snowfall for three successive
years, and this has given the young trees a chance. As soon as their
heads appear above the snow and they are not battered down by storm
they can make their way, but if the heavy snow falls and remains upon
them too long, they are either smothered, or so broken down, that life
becomes a fearful struggle and scores of them succumb. Yet in spite
of this fact hemlocks and red firs seem to prefer the north or shady
slopes of the mountains and invariably thrive much better there than
where there is sunnier exposure.
When about three miles up from the Lake we reach a richly-grassed
meadow, about five acres in extent, confined in a bowl-shaped rim,
broken down at the east side, through which a rivulet, which flows
across the meadow, finds outlet. This is undoubtedly one of the many
mountain lakes of the region, too shallow and with too sluggish a flow
of water into it to clear itself of the detritus washed down from the
disintegrating slopes above, hence it ultimately filled up and entered
upon a new life as a meadow.
On the upper side of the meadow the trail passes through a glorious
grove of hemlocks, the clean and clear "floor" of which leads one to
the observation that hemlocks generally seem to be hostile to other
and lesser growth coming in to occupy the ground with them.
Sierran heather of purple color now appears here and there in patches
and we find quantities of it further along. There are also several
peculiar puff-balls, and close by a remarkable fungus-growth like a
cauliflower, fully a foot in diameter.
Nearing the summit we come to another meadow followed by another
grove, where scarcely any trees but hemlocks are to be seen. Here
also we see great beds of the California primrose which grows with a
straight upright stem crowned with blood-red or deep scarlet flowers
above a rich duster of leaves. These flowers generally can be found
blooming quite late in the season, following the snowline as the
summer's sun makes it climb higher each day. When the winter's snows
have been extra heavy the plants are covered and no flowers appear, as
the snow melts too late, but when there is a lesser amount they bloom
as freely as ever, apparently none the worse for their dormant period.
Over the peak billowy white clouds are tossing, like giant cradles
built of the daintiest and most silvery cloud-stuff to be found in the
heavens for the rocking of the cloud-babies to sleep.
On a sister peak to Ellis Peak, just to the south, is to be seen
a remarkable and strikingly picturesque cluster of hemlocks. It
is almost circular in form, with eight trees in the center, and
twenty-three on the outer rim, which is over a hundred feet in
circumference. Seldom does one see so interesting a group of trees
anywhere, even when planted, and these, of course, are of native
growth.
The summit itself is of broken and shattered granite, which has
allowed a scraggly mountain pine to take root and grow close to the
U.S. Geological Survey monument. A fierce gale was blowing from the
west, and turning toward the tree-clad slopes of the east, we stood
in the wind, with the everlasting blue above and the glorious and
never-failing green beneath. Unconsciously there sprang to my lips
Joaquin Miller's lines:
And ever and ever His boundless blue,
And ever and ever His green, green sod,
And ever and ever between the two
Walk the wonderful winds of God.
Braving the wind and looking over the steep precipice to the west we
see, some four hundred or five hundred feet below us, so that it seems
that we might almost throw a stone into it, a small lake. This is
Bessie Lake, named after Mrs. C.F. Kohl, of Idlewyld. It discharges
its surplus waters into Blackwood Creek, and has several times been
stocked with fish. In the mid-distance is Loon Lake, which is the
head-waters of the California Ditch, which follows over the Georgetown
Divide, carries water some forty to fifty miles, and is distributed
by its owners, the Reno Water and Electric Power Co., for mining,
irrigation and domestic purposes.
East of Loon Lake are Spider and Pleasant Lakes, all of which we
are told are connected with one another and controlled by the same
company. Another lake, Bixly or Bixby, slightly to the north of
Pleasant, is also connected.
To the east of Pleasant Lake, Buck Island and Rock Bound Lakes were
dazzlingly brilliant in the mid-day sun.
One has but to look at the map to realize what a comprehensive survey
is possible in every direction from Ellis Peak. There is no wonder
that it is so popular. The panorama is unobstructed--the outlook
practically complete and perfect. Though the whole of the Lake is not
revealed, there is sufficient of it to make a transcendent picture.
Every peak to the north and on the eastern side is in sight, while the
Tallac range, and the near-by mountains make one long for an aeroplane
that he might step from peak to peak without the effort of journeying
by land to their elevated summits.
On the left side of Tinker's Knob is a peak, unmarked on the map, to
which the name of Lion Peak has been given, for the following reason:
Some years ago former Governor Stanford's nephew, who has been a
visitor for many years at Hopkins' Spring, was climbing, together with
a companion, over this peak, when they came to a cave. Lighting a rude
torch they thoughtlessly entered it and had barely got well inside
before they saw the two fierce eyes of a mountain lion glaring at
them. Surprised and startled, they were about to turn and run, when
the astonished animal sprang past them and disappeared before they
recollected they had a gun.
It should not be overlooked that Ellis Peak is the most eastern
mountain of the Sierran divide. East, its drainage empties into Lake
Tahoe and thus eastward into the Big Basin; west, into the Rubicon,
thence to the American, the Sacramento and finally out by the Golden
Gate to the Pacific.
To the west of the Rubicon Peaks is a chain of lakes in the valley
below known as the Rock Bound Lakes. There are nine of these in all,
though several of them are practically unknown except to the few
guides and the sheepmen who range over the surrounding mountains.
As far as the eye can see, westward, there are distinct glacial
markings, a wonderful revelation of the widespread and far-reaching
activity of these glaciers borne on the highest crests of the Sierras.
The canyon in which the Rubicon River flows is definitely outlined, as
is also the deep chasm known as Hell Hole. Near by is Bear Lake, about
the same size and appearance as Watson Lake, its overflow emptying
into the Rubicon.
Close at hand to the north and west are Barker's Peak, Barker's Pass,
and Barker's Creek, and these decide us to go home by way of Barker's
Pass instead of the way we came. Accordingly we drop down, returning
a short distance to the south, over the western slope of Ellis Peak to
Ellis Valley. Both peak and valley receive their name from Jock Ellis,
a Squaw Valley stay-behind, who entered the cattle and sheep business,
and pastured his animals in this rich and well-watered region.
On our way we pass through the most remarkable white fir nursery we
have yet seen. Not far away were a few hoary monarchs from the still
hanging but burst open cones of which winged seeds were flying before
the breeze. These potential firs were carried in many cases over a
mile before they found lodgement. It was a beautiful and delightful
demonstration of Nature's lavish method of preserving this useful
species of tree alive.
Sweeping now to the north and east we make a rapid descent of some six
hundred or seven hundred feet to Barker's Pass, the elevation of which
is about 7000 to 7500 feet, the nearby Peak having an elevation of
about 8500 feet. It is a round, bare mountain, and seems as if it
ought to be marked higher (on the map) than it is.
Rapidly dropping we come to a peculiar mass of stratified rock,
acutely tilted, unlike any found elsewhere in the region except
on Five Lake Creek on the way to Hell Hole. Just before reaching
Blackwood's Creek the trail passes through rude piles of breccia
similar to that of the Devil's Playground near the Truckee River. It
may be perfectly possible that one of the volcanic flows that covered
large portions of the High Sierras, after the Cretaceous degradations
had taken place, came from a vent, or volcano, near by, and slowly
flowed down Blackwood Creek, leaving vast masses behind which have
rapidly disintegrated until these are all that remain.
These conjectures occupy our brain until we reach the Lake again,
alongside of which the road soon brings us back to our starting point,
after another most enjoyable, instructive, healthful and delightful
day.
The foregoing are but samples of a hundred similar trail trips that
can be taken from every part of the Lake, and from all the resorts.
Each place has its chosen trips, and though, of course, there are many
points of similarity, there are enough individualities to make each
trip distinctive.
My friends often ask me what food and drink I take along on such
hiking or riding trips. Generally the hotel provides a luncheon, but
personally, I prefer a few Grant's crackers (a thick, hard cracker
full of sweet nutriment, made at Berkeley, Calif.), a handful of
shelled nuts--walnuts, pecans, or almonds, a small bottle of Horlick's
Malted Milk tablets, a few slabs of Ghirardelli's milk chocolate, and
an apple or an orange. On this food I can ride or walk _days at a
time_, without anything else. Grant's crackers, Horlick's Malted
Milk tablets, and Ghirardelli's chocolate are the best of their kind,
and all are nutritious to the full, as well as delicious to the
taste. For drink I find Horlick's Malted Milk the most comforting and
invigorating, and it has none of the after "letting-down" effects that
accompany coffee drinking.