Leaving San Francisco, a sail of twenty-five miles brings us to the
grimly fortified island of Alcatraz, the watch dog of the Golden Gate.
Forty miles inland lies the beautiful Napa Valley. Farm houses and
villages dot the landscape. Orchards, vineyards and fields of waving
grain heighten the natural beauty of this Rasselas Valley, rich in
groves of oak trees from which depend festoons of mistletoe, meadows
and running brooks.
At the head of this valley stands Mount St. Helena, once a center of
volcanic action. Wasnossensky, the Russian naturalist ascended to its
summit in 1841, and named it in honor of his empress, leaving on the
summit a copper plate bearing the name of himself and his companion.
The Russians, with a view to commercial and political aggrandisement,
did a great deal of exploring in California in the early days of her
history.
By stage we travel through the Napa Valley to the geyser fields.
On either hand are groves of redwood trees, cousins of the Giant
Sequoias. In the springtime the odor of the buckeye fills the delicious
morning air, just now the handsome eschscholtzias, commonly called the
California poppy, brighten the meadows. Here and there lichen stained
rocks lend a deeper tone to the landscape.
Through this valley of strange wild beauty we arrive at the Devil’s
Cañon. The nomenclature of this weird place is something audacious and
one wishes that he might change it. Here the hero of the cañon has his
kitchen, his soup bowl, his punch bowl, and his ink pot. In this spring
you might dip your pen and write tales of magic that would rival those
of India.
Here, one dreary night, a lonely discouraged miner who had lost
his way, sat in meditation, when presently a strangely clad figure
approached him. The dark face wore a sinister expression, black eyes
sparkled under villainous brows.
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the stranger when he discovered the miner.
“What would’st thou? Riches? Sign here and they are thine, or thou
may’st toss me into yon caldron.”
Flinging aside the long black cloak that enveloped his figure he stood
forth, his scarlet robes gleaming a fiery red in the black night.
“Sign here,” and dipping his fire tipped pen into the ink pot he thrust
it into the hand of the astonished miner, presenting a scroll of
parchment for the signature.
“Ha, ha, ha,” came in tones diabolical, as the fortune hunter seized
the pen in his eager grasp. Knowing better how to wield the pick than
the pen he seized the scroll and--made the sign of the cross.
His Satanic Majesty gave an unearthly yell, seized the pen and scroll,
and disappeared leaving his ink-pot behind.
The prevailing rocks are metamorphic, sandstone, silicious slates and
serpentine. The stratification dips sharply to the bed of Pluton Creek.
There are no spouting geysers here, only bubbling springs, but springs
of beauty and interest. Here lies one, its waters a creamy white, and
yonder another whose waters are deeply tinged with sulphur, while
those of its neighbor are as black as the contents of that bottle
the undaunted Luther flung at the head of his Satanic Majesty on that
memorable day.
The waters of these springs boil over and mingle as they flow away.
Steam jets hiss and sputter continually. Of the many strange springs,
pools and caverns, the Witch’s Caldron is perhaps the most remarkable.
A very pit of Acheron, this huge cavern in the solid rock, seventy feet
in diameter, is filled to an unknown depth with a thick inky fluid,
that boils and surges incessantly. The waters of these springs, rich
in sulphur, iron, lime and magnesia are said to rival in medicinal
qualities those of all the famous German Spas.
The geysers are due to both chemical and volcanic action; to water
percolating down through the fissures of the rocks until it comes in
contact with the heated mass of hot lava; and to water percolating
through the mineral deposits.
Suffice it to say that you have not seen California until you have seen
the Napa Valley, and taken the trail to Mount St. Helena and the geyser
fields.
The very air of this delightful country is rife with bear stories.
Stories in which the bear quite as often as the hunter comes off
victor.
A cowboy, newly arrived in California, went out on a bear hunt. He went
alone. He wanted to kill a grizzly.
He soon found his bear and lassoed him, but Bruin, contrary to his
usual custom of showing fight, took a header down a cañon, horse and
rider in full pursuit.
Upon nearing the foot of the ravine the bear fell down. The horse fell
down and the man tumbled down on top of the grizzly which so frightened
him that when the three untangled themselves he set off up the cañon,
and the man let him go. Glad, glad to the heart that he was gone.
Assyria had her winged bull, Lucerne has her lion, and California has
her grizzly.
The grizzly stands for California, and only awaits some future
Thorwaldsen to perpetuate him on the walls of his own rock-ribbed cañon.
The Indians of California were possessed of many strange superstitions
when the Franciscan Fathers established missions among them.
The Fathers called it “devil worship,” but to the simple childlike mind
of these primitive people it was a sort of hero worship, and the wild
child worshiped on despite the Fathers.
The worship of a god known as Kooksuy was one to which the Indians held
with great tenacity. The monks had forbidden the worship of this deity,
so Kooksuy had to be worshiped in secret.
A lonely, unfrequented place in the mountains was chosen, and a stone
altar was raised to Kooksuy. This consisted of a pile of flat stones
five or six feet in height.
It was the duty of every worshipper to toss something onto the altar as
an act of homage. This act was called “poorish.”
A Kooksuy altar was a curious affair. The foundation of stone was
frequently hidden under a mass of beads, feathers and shells. Even
garments and food found their way to the throne of this strange deity.
Thus the altar continued to rise for no Indian would dare touch a
“poorish” offering.
The priests destroyed the altars and punished the worshipers, but that
did not destroy their faith in their god.
At the missions every Indian retired when the evening bell rang. When
the good alcalde made his rounds they had counted their beads and shut
their eyes. Ten minutes later half a dozen dusky forms might be seen
creeping stealthily along in the shadows of the buildings. Arriving at
the chosen spot a big fire was built around which the faithful Indians
danced calling on their god in a series of weird whistles.
Kooksuy never failed to appear in the midst of the fire in the form
of a huge white dragon, but with the destruction of his altars, the
neglect of his worshipers and fear of the white man Kooksuy appeared
less frequently and finally his visits ceased entirely.
According to the Indians the Great Manitou threw up the Sierra Nevada
range with his own hands. Then he broke away the hills at the foot of
the lake and the waters drained into the sea through the Golden Gate.
The clouds rested on the water and the setting sun lit up the Golden
Gate with the glory of the sea as we steamed across the bay and bade
adieu to the land of Pomona and her citron groves.