STOCKTON TO THE YOSEMITE.
Here at Stockton, I had expected to find friends from San Francisco,
to go through to the Yosemite with me, and return. (_Yo-Sem-i-te_,
big-grizzly bear.) But, instead, I found letters, begging off, on
the plea, that it was yet too early in the season to venture there.
It was, indeed, rather later than usual; but the previous winter
had been a severe one, and in San Francisco, they said, the snow
was still too deep on the mountains, to reach the far-famed valley.
This was all very well for them, being residents on the Coast. But
my official duties there were now substantially over; there was only
about a fortnight or so left, before the steamer sailed on which I
had engaged passage; and the question with me was, whether now, or
perhaps never, to see California's (if not the world's) chiefest
wonder. I inquired at the Stockton hotels, but could find no one _en
route_ to the Yosemite; and finally concluded I must go alone, or
not at all.[27] At last, however, I heard of two Englishmen who had
just returned, declaring the route practicable _via_ Coulterville;
but alleging they were the only ones, who had been in and out that
season. This decided me, especially as I preferred to be on the
move, rather than idling in San Francisco until my steamer sailed.
Accordingly, I took the stage early next morning (May 25th) for
Coulterville, and reached there the same evening. My design was to go
in by the Coulterville route, and come out by the Mariposa, so as to
visit the Mariposa Grove of Big Trees also, if possible; but, failing
that, to return by Coulterville. The first twenty-five miles of the
road from Stockton was through a sea of lordly wheat-fields, like
the ride from Sacramento; but, after that we struck the more barren
foot-hills, and settlements soon became fewer and poorer. Our general
course was up the valley of the San Joaquin and its tributaries--the
Stanislaus and the Tuolomne--with the country gradually rising, and
the Coast Range looming always grandly against the west. The latter
half of the way was dreary and desolate, the arid hills and plains
stretching on all sides around; and we hailed with joy the lovely view
of the Merced Valley, that betokened our approach to Coulterville. We
had several passengers thus far, evidently men intent on mines or other
local business, and Coulterville gave us a kindly evening welcome.
The next morning a guide was found, who guaranteed to take me into
the valley and back, if I could stand a little rough riding and
walking; and after an early dinner we set cheerily out. He could
not promise to bring me out by the Mariposa trail, but he would do
the best he _could_, and in this I had faith. The distance to the
Yosemite was still some fifty-five miles, too much for one day's
journey, and we decided to go no farther than Black's, some eighteen
miles on, the first day. The wagon-road terminated practically
at Coulterville, and from here we proceeded on horseback, over a
wandering mountain trail, that seemed specially designed to bring
out all the finest views in the country. My horse was a mustang
pony, named Punty, small but sure of foot, and as brave and faithful
a little creature as ever lived. The day was glorious. The sky was
without a cloud. The atmosphere seemed, indeed, like "wine of airy
gold." The pines of the foot-hills and mountains perfumed every
breeze, and every sense seemed satisfied and full. As we had ample
time, we allowed our horses to take their "own sweet will," and
whiled the afternoon away in chat and song. My guide, Capt. Coulter,
was a companionable young fellow, who had seen something of army life
among the California Volunteers, and we got on together very well.
At Bower Cave, halfway or so along, we halted to give the horses a
brief rest, and meanwhile explored the little bijou of a cave there,
which is quite perfect in its way. It is a natural cave, several
hundred feet in extent, in a limestone bluff there, with a pool of
water in one corner, forty feet deep, and clear as crystal. At the
bottom of the cave are several petrified trees, while from its mouth
uprises a group of stately maples, that spread their umbrageous
branches like a canopy over all. At a little distance, they quite
conceal the entrance to the cave; but down in the cave, looking up,
the light breaks through their multitudinous leaves, and illuminates
the cave and pool to the very bottom. Thence, we proceeded on to
Black's, in a sheltered nook, well among the mountains, where we
found plain but excellent entertainment, and went early to bed, with
the roses crowding about our windows, and the irrigating streams
that gave life to them murmuring in our ears. Here, as elsewhere in
California, irrigation was still essential; but Mr. Black had caught
and tamed a mountain rivulet--led it indeed everywhere--and wherever
it went, it worked wonders, in that virgin soil and matchless climate.
The next morning, we were up bright and early, though withal a little
stiff and sore, and at 6 A. M. were off for the Yosemite again. Like
the day before, only hourly more and more so, the trail still wound
up, and along, and over the ridges and mountains--now through deep
forests of primeval pines, that would be monsters anywhere else,
where our horses sank to their fetlocks in mosses of emerald green,
and now along some rocky bluff, naked and barren, whence we could
gaze for miles on miles across ravine and ridge, wooded mountain
and arid plain, to the purple Coast Range beyond. Often I reined
Punty in, and gazed with delighted eyes over such glorious scenes
and far-away landscapes, as we are never permitted to see East.
There was a purity and clearness about the air, that lent long range
to the vision; and besides, our elevation above the sea had now
become so great, that the foot-hills seemed merged into the plains.
At times, there came a feeling of loneliness--only two of us thus
together, adrift among the Sierras; but the ever-changing landscape
soon banished this again, and throughout the day every sense seemed
filled to the utmost. This magnificent horseback ride, through the
foot-hills and up the Sierras, over and along their flanks and
summits, alone repaid me for all the toil and fatigue of the trip;
and then, there was the Yosemite, and other experiences besides.
When we got within five or six miles of the Yosemite, however, we
struck the snow, and the remainder of our ride became chiefly a
plunge and flounder. The snow still lay several feet in depth, over
most of this distance, completely hiding the trail in many places, so
that my guide frequently became lost. A pocket-compass, and his own
keen eye for topography, however, usually soon put us right again,
and so we floundered on--determined to get through, if possible. In
places, the snow had a stout crust, which bore both us and the horses
up, and here we would mount and ride along quite gayly. But, in an
unguarded moment, when we were thinking the worst was over, or that
we were almost out of the snow-limit, suddenly our mustangs would
go in to their saddle-girths; and then, there was nothing left for
us but to dismount (if we were not already sprawling in the snow),
and coax them forward the best we could. This kind of travelling
told quickly upon our animals, and severely; however, we got along
better than we expected, and late in the afternoon, emerging
from the snow and pines, we rounded a rocky bluff, and before us
in a moment--yawned the Yosemite. At our feet lay the wonderful
valley--how sublime and glorious! Before us swayed the Bridal Veil,
in all its grace and beauty. To the left was El Capitan, looming up
in solemn grandeur. Beyond stood Sentinel Peak, piercing the clouds;
and still beyond, the great South Dome, propping the very sky. We
reined our horses in for a while, feasting our eyes on the general
view; but soon hastened on again, as the day was waning, and the
descent into the valley yet to be accomplished.
Soon we struck a brace of foaming torrents, that shot across our
pathway like feathery arrows, and sped to join the lovely Merced in
the far valley below. Ordinarily, these were but mountain rivulets;
but now they were fierce and swollen, because of the melting snows,
and as they were unbridged, the only way was to ford them. We tried
the usual ford, but found it so deep and swift, and rocky withal,
that we were afraid to venture it. Finally, Capt. Coulter suggested,
that if I would cross by some fallen trees farther up, that nearly
met and made a sort of foot-bridge there, he thought he could
make Punty swim the streams, swollen and rocky as they were, when
the other horse would be likely to follow suit. So, taking off his
saddle and bridle, and shouldering these and my roll of blankets,
I cautiously made my way over the tangled trees, and presently
succeeded in reaching the other side in safety. From here, I called
to Punty to come over, while Capt. C. urged him in. At first, he
whinnied, as if he knew what was wanted of him; then ventured into
the icy water, and shrank out again, as if uncertain of himself.
But, finally, with more coaxing and urging, the plucky little fellow
plunged courageously in, and though the current bore him considerably
down, and the rocks bruised him cruelly, at length he reached my side
in safety. He walked up to me, a wet and dripping thing, but eager
for the biscuit with which I rewarded him; and, as he munched it,
rubbed his nose familiarly against my shoulder, as if to testify his
goodwill. An exchange of whinnies, now, soon brought the other horse
over, after a little urging; and Capt. C. crossing also by the trees,
we quickly saddled up, and were off again. A long and rather perilous
descent, over a rocky and precipitous trail, not yet repaired after
the spring washings, brought us at last down into the valley; and
soon after 6 P. M. we reached Hutchings'. In truth, it was a hard
day's ride, after all. We had been twelve hours in the saddle, first
and last; but had come thirty-seven miles, over an ugly road, and
were the first Americans of the season in the Yosemite.
Here, at Hutchings', I spent three days in the Yosemite; but scarcely
know where to begin, or how to speak about it. They were all perfect
days in point of weather, and with Mr. Hutchings usually as guide,
I made the most of them. He was then one of the only two settlers
in the Yosemite, and his house the only real place of entertainment
there. An artist and an author himself of considerable merit, more
than a man of business, he had chosen the Yosemite out of all the
Pacific Coast, as the best place to live and die in; and was content
to be shut up here, from October to June of each year, without even a
newspaper or a word from the outside world, during that period. From
June to the last of September, he always had more or less company,
the influx of sightseers being pretty steady and constant; but,
after that, the snows interfered with travel, and with his family
he hibernated there the rest of the year. With rare taste for the
picturesque and the sublime, he had located his house--only a rough
shanty then, but meant to grow into something better--in the very
heart of the valley, with huge and massive El Capitan in front, the
incomparable Yosemite Falls to the right, and the spire-like Sentinel
Peak just off to the left. Standing on his lawn, you take all these
grand and majestic features in at one view, and at the same time
obtain a general view of the valley from there, I think, unsurpassed
elsewhere down in it.
The first day, we took horses and rambled leisurely through the
valley, crossing and recrossing from side to side, as the views
were finest; and, much as had been anticipated, I confess, I was
overwhelmed with admiration and delight. The valley itself, running
about east and west, is some five miles long by a half-mile wide, and
seems to be a fissure or crevice in the heart of the Sierras there;
or rather, as if the bottom had here dropped out of the mountains,
and the lofty Sierras had sunk to a level with the plain. The sharp,
almost perpendicular, sides of the valley give you this impression
further, and it is hard to account for its features otherwise, though
some claim it all as the work of erosion, like the glen at Watkins,
or the gorge at Niagara. Its walls are often quite perpendicular,
half a mile or more in height; and its wonderful South Dome, rearing
its crest six thousand four hundred feet above the level of the
valley, or a mile and a quarter high, seems split half in two, as if
one half had suddenly disappeared, with its northern face so sharp,
that a stone dropped from its edge would fall to the bottom without
striking. This had never yet been ascended, and probably never will
be--its remaining half-dome is so smooth and globular.
The general color of the walls is a grayish yellow, but here and
there they are mottled with green and black; and usually in every
niche and crevice, where a tree can gain a foothold, great spruces
and pines grow luxuriantly. In many places, however, its walls stand
sheer and bare, great masses of honest granite, from half a mile to a
mile perpendicularly; and, perhaps, I can't give a better impression
of them, than by saying, that if either of them was toppled over, in
many instances it would fill the valley and more. Up above, on the
summit of the range, snow lies more or less the year round; but down
below, in the heart of the valley, you have the general climate of
California outside, but without its aridity, for here showers prevail
in summer, as in the East. When I was there, the snow still lay five
and six feet deep on top of the walls and domes; but below, the
valley was a June meadow, rich with herbage, with groves of pine and
fir scattered here and there, shooting up two and three hundred feet
into the air, but dwarfed into saplings apparently by the majestic
walls. Birch, willow, and dogwood lined the streams; the primrose,
violet, and other early flowers dotted the lawns; the bluebird, the
robin, and the bobolink--
"June's bridesman, poet o' the year,
Gladness on wings--"
twittered among the trees; and on every side, wherever we walked or
rode, the wild strawberries were ripening in the grass, and perfuming
the breeze.
Here and there, plunging over the lofty walls, were waterfalls of
surpassing beauty, some a mere line of mist, tossed hither and yon
by the passing wind, like a veil of gauze, and others thundering
down with a voice approaching even Niagara's. Later in the season,
when the snows measurably disappear, these falls of course become
much shrunken in size, and visitors behold them then shorn in part
of their beauty and sublimity. But just then, so early in the
season, they gave one full greeting, and I counted a score or more
from different points thundering in chorus. We rode to the foot of
the Bridal Veil, usually a sheet of misty gauze, but now a roaring
cataract, and gazed up nine hundred feet, to where it leaped from
the southern wall. Then we crossed to El Capitan, a massive bastion
or angle in the northern wall, of solid granite, rising sheer into
the air for three-quarters of a mile without a break, except a niche
one-third of the way up, where a tall fir has gained a foothold, and
will never be molested by hand of man. Thence, we turned and rode
up the valley, to where the Yosemite Fall plunged boldly out from
the northern wall, like a thing of life, and thundered headlong down
twenty-six hundred feet, or fifteen times the height of Niagara.
Above, where it leaped from the cliff, and afterwards, it seemed a
goodly river; but long before it reached the bottom, it became a
column of mist, which the wind swayed to and fro at will, but whose
thunder yet shook the valley. From there, we rode back to Hutchings';
and that night, when the moon rose and from a cloudless sky flooded
the valley with her silver light, Nature seemed to be endeavoring to
out-do herself in our behalf.
The next day, we rode up the Merced River, which winds through the
valley and drains it--a stream ten or twelve feet deep by twice as
many yards in width, so pure and clear you may everywhere count the
pebbles at the bottom--to the Lake, and Domes. The former is a small
sheet of water, of wonderful clearness, that reflects the surrounding
mountains and falls, like a mirror; the latter are dome-like masses of
naked rock, peculiar to the Coast scenery, crowning the Sierras just
there. Of the South Dome, I have already spoken; the North Dome is
inferior in size and height, but is complete as a dome, and wonderful
to behold. A dozen such domes as crown the capitol at Washington could
readily be put inside of it, and there would be room for several more.
From here, turning an angle of the South Dome, we caught a superb view
of the South Fork of the Merced, as it came tumbling over the mountain
wall, a mile or more away, an unbroken mass of foam. At that distance,
it seemed a sheet of fleecy whiteness--purest lamb's wool--hundreds
of feet in height, and the rocks and trees framed it in as a picture.
Returning, we rode again to the grand Yosemite Fall, and tying our
horses, started to climb to the foot of the fall, which seemed not very
far above us; but again California air deceived us, and after toiling
for two or three hours up the mountain-side, from bush to bush and rock
to rock, without reaching it, we were forced to retrace our steps by
the approach of evening.
The next morning, we saw a thin smoke curling above the trees in
the lower part of the valley, and after breakfast had the pleasure
of greeting Professor Whitney and party, of the State Geological
Survey. They had been out for weeks, geologizing along the Sierras
south of the Yosemite, and had entered the valley the evening before
by the Mariposa trail, to repeat some triangulations and surveys
they were not quite certain of. They reported the Mariposa route as
rather rough, but practicable, and this was good news, as they were
the pioneers of the season that way. There were five or six in the
party, all active, athletic men, as keen to walk and climb as to
analyze and cipher. They travelled with a pack-train, and "camped
out" invariably, and their Bedouin habits had made them all as brown
as berries. Greetings over, our horses were soon at the door, and
presently, we all set off together for the Vernal and Nevada Falls.
A mile or so above Hutchings', we struck the main branch of the
Merced, and turning up its bank soon found the ascent too difficult
for horses. Dismounting and turning our animals loose to graze,
we proceeded on foot by a narrow trail, that wound along beneath
umbrageous pines and firs, just on the margin of the river, which
here foamed and roared at our feet a rushing cascade for a mile or
more. Rounding a shoulder of the cañon, the spray from the Vernal
Fall suddenly wet us to the skin; but exquisite rainbows, perfect in
form and color, began to flame and circle around us, until it almost
seemed as if you could put their many-colored ends in your pockets.
Rainbows--quadrants and semi-circles--may often be seen elsewhere;
but these were perfect circles, whirling around and about us, and
most intense in color. Moist as we were, we all stopped to enjoy the
scene, and were reluctant to move onward.
Here, at the Vernal Fall, the whole mass of the Merced drops 350 feet,
without a break, and the volume of water just then was very great.
Stairways and ladders carry you to the top, and here a natural wall or
breast-work of solid granite enables you to lean out and overlook the
Fall, and Cascades, and wild cañon beyond, without a tremor. Above,
the river comes shooting like an arrow, over half a mile of polished
granite, from the base of the upper or Nevada Fall. There the Merced
makes another leap, of seven hundred feet in all; but half-way down,
the rock shelves just sufficiently to keep the water on the flow,
whence it pours in hurrying sheets of lace-like foam to the bottom.
The water here seemed really instinct with life and motion; the long
lines of gauzy foam circled ever downward and onward; and the whole
seemed like one vast drapery of living lace, which Nature was here
ever weaving to deck the Yosemite. Valenciennes and point-lace capes
and collars, were never so airy and exquisite; but here they fell, and
flowed, and circled, in snowiest tracery, by the million.
Returning by Mt. Broderick, we rode down to Sentinel Peak and
Cathedral Rock, with Prof. Whitney and party, having much interesting
and delightful talk by the way, and reached Hutchings' again at
nightfall. The day had been a fatiguing one, so much of the route
was wild and rocky; and I retired early, foot-sore and leg-weary.
Altogether, however, the day was very rich and enjoyable; and I
look back upon it now, as one of the noblest and best I spent on
the Coast. The views of the Yosemite were everywhere sublime and
picturesque; and at sunset, we beheld "parting day" still playing
among the Sierras, while the Merced and meadows down below were
already in shadowy twilight. In fact, down in the valley, looking up,
you never see but a mere ribbon-like line of sky at best, flanked
on either side by mountains; and in winter, for half the morning
and half the afternoon, the sun is never visible from Hutchings'
at all. The Yosemite is simply an open tunnel, so to speak, half a
mile or more deep, in the heart of the Sierras, and in winter-time
the sunlight cannot have much chance there, except about mid-day.
Doubtless the snow and ice there then must be something gorgeous, and
sublime--glaciers trailing from the walls, and avalanches now and
then thundering from the heights above, to the far depths below.
FOOTNOTE:
[27] Perhaps I should add, my friend Dr. M. had already returned
East, _via_ Hong Kong and Calcutta, around the world; and L. was in
San Francisco, suffering from the ague.