CAMPING-OUT TRIPS IN THE TAHOE REGION
There are many trips in the Tahoe Region which can be made, with
greater or lesser ease, on foot or horseback, in one day, so that one
can sleep in his hotel each night. On the other hand there are some
highly desirable trips that can be taken only by camping-out, and
to these I wish to commend those of my readers of both sexes who
are strong enough to care for such intimate contact with God's
great-out-of-doors.
To me one of Life's greatest delights, appealing alike to body, mind
and soul, is a camping-out trip. Breathing day and night the pure air
of mountain and forest,--occasionally swept by breezes from desert and
ocean,--exercising one's body into vigorous healthfulness, sweating
in the sun with life-giving labor,--even though it be only tramping
or riding up and down trails,--sauntering over meadows, rambling and
exploring untrailed spaces, under giant sky-piercing trees; lying down
at night on the restful brown Mother Earth; sleeping peacefully and
dreamlessly through delicious star-and-moon-lit nights, cooled and
refreshed by the night winds, awakening in the morning full of new
life and vigor, to feel the fresh tang of the air and the cool
shock of the wash (or even plunge) in the snow-or-spring-fed stream;
companioning with birds and bees, chipmunks and squirrels, grouse and
quail, deer and antelope, trees and plants, shrubs and flowers, lava
and granite, lakes and creeks, rivers and ponds; smelling the sweet
fragrance of the trees, shrubs, plants and vines; bathing in an
atmosphere of calm and quiet that seems almost Divine; covered with
a sky as cloudless and pure blue as the dome of heaven itself, and
which, at night, changes into a rich blue-black velvet, studded with
silvery emblazonments, that dance and dazzle in the pellucid air;
listening to the varied voices of Nature, each eager to give tongue
to its joy; eating healthful, simple food with appetite and relish;
absorbing the assurance that Nature means good and nothing but good to
man, thus coming nearer to the heart of God; losing the fret and
worry of money-getting and all other of Life's lower ambitions and
strivings; feeling the inflow of strength,--physical, mental and
spiritual; gaining calmness, serenity, poise and power;--is there any
wonder that a man so blessed should speak and write with radiant and
exuberant enthusiasm of that which has been so lavish to him. This is
what camping-out (in part) means to me.
Hence, when I leave home for a mountain trip I always put into my
_Indestructo_[1] an extra blue flannel shirt, riding boots and
breeches (or a pair of overalls), a cap, and a bottle of Vaseline. The
hunter and fisherman, of course, will bring his especial equipment,
as, also, will the geologist or botanist.
The first essentials of a successful camping-out trip are personal.
One must have the receptive and acceptive spirit. No matter what
comes it is for the best; an experience worth having. Nothing must be
complained of. The "grouch" has no place on a camping-trip, and one
who is a "grouch," a "sissy," a "faultfinder," a "worrier," a
"quitter," or who cannot or will not enter fully into the spirit of
the thing had better stay at home.
[Footnote 1: _Indestructo_ is the name given to a trunk that has
been such a delight to me for its enduring and useful qualities, that
I cannot refrain from "passing it on." A poor trunk, to a constant
traveler, is a perpetual nuisance and worry. My trunks always gave
me trouble until I got an _Indestructo_. Since then I have had
freedom from all such distress. It is fully insured for five years.]
If experiences are met with that are disagreeable, meet them as a man
should; a woman always does,--or always has on trips taken with me.
The "self-pitier," the "self-indulgent," the "fearful" also had better
stay at home.
The next essentials are a good guide--such as is suggested by the
Dedication of this book--and good saddle-and-pack-animals, good
bedding, good food and the proper season. Then if the spot you have
chosen contains anything worth while, you cannot fail to have an
enjoyable, interesting, educative, health-giving and generally
profitable time.
In outfitting for such a trip always put into your pocket (and in the
pack a reserve supply) a few Grant's crackers, a handful of Horlick's
Malted Milk tablets, and a cake of Ghirardelli's chocolate. With
these you are safe for a whole day or two, or more, if anything should
happen to separate you from your pack animal, or you should desire to
ride on without stopping to prepare a noon, or later, camp meal.
The Tahoe Region offers scores of just such trips, where for one or
two months each year for a dozen years a visitor may camp-out in some
new region. For instance, every student of God's handiwork should go
up to Deer Park, camp-out at Five Lakes, and study the evidences of
lava flows at the head of Bear Creek. Go to the Lake of the Woods and
spend a week there, tracing the glacial movements that made Desolation
Valley. Take such a trip as I enjoyed to Hell Hole on the Rubicon,
but take more time for it than I could give; cross the range to the
Yosemite, and thus link the two sublimest parts of the Sierras in
your memory; follow the old trails that used to echo to the voices of
pioneers from Michigan Bluff, Last Chance, Hayden Hill, etc.; go out
with one of the Forest Rangers and get a glimpse into his wonderful
life of activity, independence and solitude. Thus you will come in
contact with larger conceptions, fuller ideas, deeper sympathies,
higher aspirations than is possible where you follow the ordinary
routine of the ordinary, mediocre, self-contented man. Thank God for
the spark of discontent, of ambition, of aspiration, of desire to
see beyond, to know more, to climb higher, to solve the mysteries, to
abolish the unknown.
Then, if you dare the perils and joys of winter, get Bob Watson,
or some other expert on snow-shoes to go with you over Tahoe's wild
wastes of snow. Emulate Snow-shoe Thompson, a short sketch of
whose life and adventures will be found in my book, _Heroes of
California_, and henceforth the days and nights of spring, summer,
fall and winter will never seem quite the same to you.
Merely as a sample, the balance of this chapter is devoted to the trip
made in the fall of 1913 with Watson from Tahoe Tavern.
* * * * *
TO HELLHOLE AND THE RUBICON RIVER
I certainly think I can conjecture with accuracy the way it received
its name. The trails in and out were first made and used by the wild
animals--bear, deer, antelope, mountain lions, etc., then by the first
Americans--the Indians, and at last, by the white man. Undoubtedly the
first whites to come over the trails were miners from the Georgetown
and Placerville districts, lured by the marvelous discoveries of the
Comstock lode in Virginia City. Then in 1862-3 came the Squaw Valley
stampede and this "strike" being so much nearer than the Comstock
naturally attracted much attention, especially as the California mines
of the Sierra Nevada were becoming less profitable. One of these old
miners, whose language was more luridly picturesque than refined, on
coming into the region or going out of it,--when he struck the rough,
rugged, uncertain, rocky, and exceedingly steep grade, must have
called it a "hell of a hole" to get into or out of, and in future
references the name stuck until, at last, it was passed down to future
ages on the maps of the U.S. Geological Survey as the true and correct
name.
[Illustration: Angora Lake, near Lake Tahoe, Calif.]
[Illustration: GLENBROOK ON THE NEVADA SIDE OF LAKE TAHOE]
[Illustration: THE STEAMER _TAHOE_, AT THE WHARF, JUST BEFORE
STARTING AROUND THE LAKE]
But if the reader thinks the name in the slightest degree
characteristic of the place itself he never made a greater blunder.
Instead, it is a paradise of delightful surprises. A large, fairly
level area--hundreds of acres at least--through which runs the clear
and pellucid waters of the Rubicon River on their way to join those of
the American, and dotted all over with giant cedars, pines, firs and
live oaks, with tiny secluded meadows, lush with richest grasses,
it is a place to lure the city-dweller for a long and profitable
vacation. Whether he hunts, fishes, botanizes, geologizes or merely
loafs and invites his soul, it is equally fascinating, and he is
a wise man who breaks loose from "Society"--spelled with either a
capital or small letter--the bank, the office, the counting-house,
the store, the warehouse, the mill, or the factory, and, with a genial
companion or two, buries himself away from the outer world in this
restful, peaceful, and God-blessed solitude.
When I first saw it I exclaimed: "Hell Hole? Then give me more of it,"
and instead of hastening on to other places of well-known charm,
I insisted upon one day at least of complete rest to allow its
perfection to "seep in" and become a part of my intimate inner life of
remembrance.
It was under Bob Watson's efficient guidance I left Tahoe Tavern, for
a five day trip. We took a pack-horse well laden with grub, utensils
for cooking and our sleeping bags. Riding down the Truckee, up Bear
Creek, past Deer Park Springs, I was struck more forcibly than ever
before by the marvelous glacial phenomena in the amphitheater at the
head of the canyon through a portion of which the trail passes, and
also with the volcanic masses that rest upon the granite, mainly on
the right hand side of the pass. Its first appearance shows a cap
of from two hundred to three hundred feet in thickness; later on two
other patches of it appear, the upper one presenting the granite and
superposed granite on the same level, clearly indicating a channel of
early erosion filled up by the later flow of volcanic matter.
Passing by Five Lakes and down Five Lake Creek to its junction with
the canyon down which we had come from the Little American Valley, we
were soon headed down the creek for the Rubicon. To the right towered
Mt. Mildred (8400 feet), on the other side of which is Shank's Cove.
Shank was a sheep-man who for years ran his sheep here during the
summer, taking them down to the Sacramento Valley in winter. After
passing several grassy meadows, cottonwood groves, and alder thickets
we reached Bear Pen Creek, a rocky, bone-dry crossing, nine miles from
the divide. To the left, Powder Horn Creek comes in, which heads on
the northwestern slope of the ridge, on which, on the southern side,
Barker Creek has its rise. It received this peculiar name from the
fact that General Phipps, from whom Phipps Peak is named, was once
chasing a bear, when suddenly the infuriated animal turned upon him,
made a savage strike at him with his paw and succeeded in knocking the
bottom out of his old-fashioned powder-horn.
Further down we came suddenly upon a hawk who had just captured a
grouse, and taken off his head. As the bird dropped his prey on our
approach we took it as a gift of the gods, and next morning, with two
or three quail, it made an excellent breakfast for us.
Nearing the descent into Hell Hole we gained striking glimpses of a
great glacially-formed valley in the mountains on the farther side,
while a ridge to our left revealed a cap of volcanic rock apparently
of columnar structure and extending from the eastern end half way the
length of the ridge.
Watson assured me that here he has found herds of sixteen and nineteen
deer, on separate occasions. They seem to follow, in the early spring,
the line of the melting snow. At this time they are tame and fearless,
and will stand and look at you with surprise and impatience. They
seldom run away. On one occasion he came upon a doe and two fawns
not far from the brink or ridge of Hell Hole. He was close upon
them before he was aware, but stopped suddenly. The doe saw him, but
instead of turning to flee she stood and impatiently stamped her
foot several times. Then as he seemed to pay no attention and to
be harmless, she and her young began to graze again, and shortly
disappeared.
Before long we arrived at what may be called the "jumping-off place."
In reality it is a steep descent into the depths of a wide canyon,
but earth has so lodged in the rocky slopes that they are covered with
dense growths of trees and chaparral, so that it is impossible to
see very far ahead. Down, down, down we went, winding and twisting,
curving around and dodging, but getting deeper with every zig-zag
until almost as suddenly as we began the steep descent we found
ourselves on a fairly level platform. Hell Hole was reached.
The day spent here was a delightful one. While Watson fished I wrote,
loafed, rambled about, studied the rock formations, and wished for a
week or more instead of a day.
Next morning we struck into the canyon of the Rubicon River, for Soda
Spring, half a mile away, where salt and soda exude in such
quantities as to whiten the rocks. Here the deer, bear, grouse, quail,
ground-hogs, and other creatures come for salt. Indeed, this is a
natural "salt lick," and there are eight or ten piles of rock, behind
which Indian and white hunters used to watch for the coming of the
game they desired to kill. Twenty years ago one could get game here
practically every day. The Washoes used to descend the western slope
as far as this; the men for deer, the women for acorns, though they
had to be on the alert as the Sierra Indians resented their intrusion.
Right and left as we rode on there were great "islands" of granite,
fifty to one hundred feet high, masses that either had been hurled
from the heights above in some cataclysm, or planed to their present
shape by long-forgotten glaciers. These granite masses alternate with
flower and shrub-bestrewed meadows that once were glacial lakes.
At times we found ourselves in a dense forest where the trees were
ancient monarchs, whose solitudes had never been disturbed by stroke
of ax, or grate of saw. Clumps of dogwood and chaparral of a dozen
kinds confuse the tyro, and he loses all sense of direction. Only the
instinct that makes a real mountain and forest guide could enable
one successfully to navigate these overgrown wilds, for we were now
wandering up a region where trails had been abandoned for years. Here
and there, when we came to the rocky slopes "ducks"[2] in confusing
variety were found but scarce a sign of a trail, and the "blazes"
on the trees were more confusing than if we had been left to our own
devices.
Yellow jackets' nests hung from many branches, and we were now and
then pestered by the flying creatures themselves. Then we had a good
laugh. Our pack-horse, Shoshone, got between two trees. His head could
pass but his pack couldn't, and there he stood struggling to pull
through. He couldn't do it, but stupidly he would not back up.
Talk about horse-sense! A burro would have backed up in a minute,
but most horses would struggle in such a place until they died.
[Footnote 2: _Ducks_ are small piles of stone so placed as to
denote the course of the trail.]
Near here there came into sight a granite ridge between the Rubicon
and Five Lake Creek. This grows higher until it becomes quite a
mountain, between Five Lake Creek and Barker Creek. On the right
McKinstry Peak (7918 feet) towered up, with its double top, leading
the eye along a ridge of red granite rock to Red Peak.
About three miles up the canyon we found a number of rocky basins in
the course of the Rubicon with water, eight, ten and more feet deep in
them, temptingly suggesting a plunge. I didn't need much tempting,
and as quickly as I could disrobe I had plunged in. What a cold,
invigorating shock it was. There's nothing like such a plunge for
thoroughly arousing one and sending the blood quickly coursing through
his veins.
Nearby were great beds of brake-ferns, four and five feet high, groves
of immense alders, sugar pines, some of which were fully eight feet
through and the trunks of which were honeycombed with woodpecker
holes. I saw and heard several woodpeckers at work. They had red
top-knots, and the noise they made echoed through the woods more as if
a sledge hammer had struck the tree than the bill of a bird. How they
climb up the trunk of the trees, holding on in a mysterious fashion
and moving head up or down, as they desire, with jerky little pulls,
bobbing their heads as if emphasizing some remarks they were making to
themselves.
And what ideal spots for camping-out we passed, shady trees, nearby
meadows, to give abundant feed for the horses, the pure waters of the
Rubicon close by, with scenery, trees, flowers, animals, birds--all
the glory of nature--surrounding one with objects of delight, interest
and study.
One large area was strewn with hundreds of thousands of the big
long cones of the sugar pine. When one wishes to pack and ship home
specimens of these and other cones, it is well to soak them in water.
They then close up and carry safely, opening up as before, as they dry
out.
Then we passed some giant "wind falls," mainly spruces. The roots of
these monarchs of the forest had twined themselves around rocks of
every size and shape, some of them massive bowlders, but when the
storm came, the purchase, or leverage of the tall trees was so great
that these heavy rock-masses were pulled out of place and lifted up as
the trees crashed over to their fall.
Now we came to a stretch of perfect virgin forest. No ax, no saw, no
log chutes, no wagons, no dragging of logs, no sign of the hand of
man. Nature was the only woodsman, with her storms and winds, her
snows and rains, to soften the soil and uproot her growing sons and
daughters. There was confusion in places, even rude chaos, but in
and through and above it all a cleanness, a sweetness, a purity, a
grandeur, harmony, glory, beauty and majesty--all of which disappear
when destroying man comes upon the scene.
About five miles up, we left the Rubicon and struck up toward Barker
Creek. Here was another of the great, tempting granite basins, full of
clear cool water. We also passed patches of belated scarlet larkspur,
shooting stars, and glaring golden-rod.
Half a mile up we reached Barker Creek, now a bowlder-strewn arroyo
which aroused my covetousness to high degree. How I would love to
build, with my own hands, a cottage, bungalow or house of some kind
with these great bowlders, of varied sizes and colors, shapes and
material.
Just above the junction of Barker Creek and the Rubicon is "Little
Hell Hole," a camping-place almost as famous as its larger namesake,
and noted for the fact that half a mile away is a small canyon full of
mineral springs--sulphur, iron, soda, magnesia, etc. Naturally it is a
"deer-lick," which makes it a Mecca during the open season to hunters.
The springs bubble up out of the bed of the stream, the water of which
is stained with the coloring matter. When the stream runs low so that
one can get to the springs he finds some of them as pleasant to the
taste as those of Rubicon and Glen Alpine.
As we got higher we left the spruces behind, and the junipers, covered
with berries, began to appear. Then we came to open spaces where the
wind began to sing in the tops of the pines.
About a mile up Barker Creek, Watson showed me the course of one of
his trails back to the Tavern. It ascends a formidable ridge and leads
quickly to Idlewyld, but we were bound for Rubicon Springs. The old
trail was inaccessible, but Mr. Colwell of the Springs had lately
marked out a new trail, so we took our chances on finding our way
somehow. Over windfalls, up and down and around rocky promontories,
we came to West Meadow Creek Wash, its rude bowlder-strewn course
striking directly across our path. Here we struck beds of brakes
nestling in the shade of giant trees. On the left side of the creek
where we were, we ran into dense clumps of wild-cherry which prevented
further progress. Scouting found us an outlet on the other side of
Barker Creek. The divide on the left towered up with rugged majesty,
reddish in color, and split into gigantic irregular terraces, the
taluses of which were all crowded with dense chaparral growths.
On this side the slopes were all more open, nothing but rugged
bowlders clinging on the bare surfaces.
How enjoyable was this forcing our way along through these solitary
wilderness places, so that I was really sorry when we finally dropped
over a forested slope into the Rubicon Springs and McKinney's Road. A
mile away we found the hotel, with Mr. and Mrs. Colwell. The buildings
are old but all nature is gloriously grand and beautiful.
Though cordially invited to stay overnight, we pushed on over the
Rubicon River, up the hill on part of the Georgetown road for a
mile and a half,--from which we had a fine view of Buck Island
Lake,--struck the trail for another mile and in the early afternoon
made camp at Rock Bound Lake. Here we rowed and swam, studied the
country from the nearby hills, and then slept the sleep of the
healthfully weary under the blue vault of heaven.
Though Rubicon Springs was not far away there was such an air of
quietude in this spot that we felt as if we were in one of Nature's
choicest retreats.
Returning to Rubicon we followed the road back to where we had struck
it the day before. The old trail from McKinney's used to come over the
divide from the east and strike the Rubicon near where we then stood,
pass by the Springs and then follow the river, but to avoid the steep
grades the road had to be constructed around by Buck Island Lake.
Those who ride into Rubicon Springs from McKinney's, just as they make
the last descent, have a wonderful view of Georgetown Mountain before
them. Its sloping side is glacially planed off at a steep angle, and
it reveals the vast extent the great ice field must have covered in
the days of glacial activity. Many bowlders near the Springs are very
strongly marked by glacial action.
About a mile from the Springs we came to a tree on which a "cut-off"
sign was placed. When the road was being constructed the builders
started a new grade at this point and after going for a mile or so
found it was so steep that it had to be abandoned and a lesser grade
found by going around.
From the summit we could clearly follow the course of the Little
Rubicon, and also secured an excellent view of the sharp point of
Rubicon Peak (9193 feet).
A stiff and cool breeze was blowing from the west so we were not sorry
to find shelter from the wind as we entered a wooded park, where the
song of the pines cheered us on our way. Soon we struck the road and
followed it until we came to the headwaters of Miller's Creek on the
right. Miller used to run sheep up in the meadows, which afford a
smooth grade for the road for some distance. There are many alders
here, which bear mute though powerful testimony, in the shape of their
gnarled and bent over ground-groveling trunks, of the heavy winters'
snows.
These meadows clearly were once glacial lakes, now filled up, and
Miller's Creek was the instrument of their destruction. Crossing the
last of the meadows we came to Burton's Pass, so called from H.D.
Burton, another Placerville pioneer who used to cut hay here, pack it
on mules to McKinney's, and then ship it across to Lakeside, where he
sold it for $80 to $100 a ton. We then passed McKinney's old cabin,
the place he built and occupied in 1863, before he went to live at the
Lake. Only a few fragments now remain, time and storms having nearly
completed the work of destruction.
Nearby was a beautiful lily pond, soon to be a meadow, and just beyond
this we stood on the actual divide between the Great Basin and the
Pacific. We were at the head of Phipps Creek, named on the map General
Creek, from General Phipps. At the mouth of the creek this pioneer
located on 160 acres, which, when he died about 1883, was sold to M.H.
de Young, of the _San Francisco Chronicle_. After holding it for
many years he sold it in turn to I. Hellman, the banker, who now uses
it as his summer estate, having built a fine residence upon it.
Near here we lunched at a sheep-herder's camp and heard an interesting
story of the relocation of an old mine that had helped create the
Squaw Valley excitement forty years before. Owing to new and improved
methods of extracting the precious metal it is now deemed that this
may soon develop into a paying property.
Returning to the road we passed Jock Ellis's cabin, in a similar state
of ruin to that of McKinney. Ellis Peak (8945 feet) is named after
him. He was a Squaw Valley stampeder. Nearby we saw the largest
tamarack I have yet found in the Sierras. It was fully five feet
through and fluted in an interesting and peculiar fashion.
From here we made a mile detour to visit Hank Richards Lake, a
beautiful crystal jewel in an incomparable wooded setting. Then
back to Phipps Creek, over a perfect jumble of granite bowlders and
tree-clad slopes until we finally struck the trail and followed it to
the Lake, and thence home to the Tavern.
The reader should observe that in this, as in the chapter on "Trail
Trips," only a sample is given of a score or more of similar trips.
His host at any of the hotels can suggest others equally interesting.