THE YOSEMITE TO SAN FRANCISCO.
The next morning (May 31st), I bade good-bye to Mr. Hutchings, most
hospitable of hosts and gracious of guides, and started to return _via_
Mariposa. In addition to Capt. Coulter, I now had Mr. Galen Clark
also, who had piloted Prof. Whitney in from the Mariposa Grove of Big
Trees. Trotting down through the meadow-like valley, we reached the
Professor's camp, and found them just packing up, for their return
_via_ Coulterville. With a hearty hand-shake all around and mutual
promises to meet again at Stockton, if possible, we parted, and
continued on down the valley, past El Capitan, sublimest of mountains,
the Three Brothers, and Bridal Veil Fall; and, at length, turning to
the left, struck the Mariposa trail. One would naturally suppose, that
an exit might be found by following the river down; but the Merced
passes out between perpendicular walls of vast height, miles in extent,
so that the only way into or out of the valley then was by the old
Indian trails to Coulterville or Mariposa.[28]
The Mariposa trail runs by sharp zigzags up the southern wall,
taking advantage of every rock and bush where an Indian could find a
foot-hold, and we found it a long and toilsome climb, before we got
to the top. We were over an hour by the watch; but when, at last,
we rounded the last bend, and stood perspiring and breathless on
the jutting ledge of Inspiration Point, what a view opened before
us! From here, you get, perhaps, the best general view of the
Yosemite, as a whole, that can be had; and as the eye sweeps over
its peaks and domes, its battlement and towers--its massive walls,
its flashing streams, its foaming cataracts--its fragrant groves and
sleeping meadows--the soul swells with unutterable joy; or, rather,
your whole being bows down in reverence and awe. To the right, the
exquisitely beautiful Bridal Veil Fall descends, wreathed in mists
and rainbows. Beyond, the Three Brothers and Sentinel Peak pierce
the heavens. To the left, in solemn and awful grandeur, stands El
Capitan, severe and self-centred--monarch of the vale--dominating
all. Beyond, the incomparable Yosemite Fall, as if pouring from the
clouds, leaps and sways and thunders--its mist at times streaming
like a gorgeous pennon, its deep-toned base a perpetual _Te Deum_.
While farther still, towering above all, clear cut and distinct
against the sapphire sky, the great South Dome rears its awful front,
as if the visage of the Almighty, and bids the universe bow down and
worship. Clinging to a gnarled and stunted tree, out-grown from the
very granite, we crept far out upon the rocky ledge, and there seemed
literally enfolded by the Infinite.
The overwhelming sublimity, the awful loneliness and desolation of
the scene--its solemn beauty and grandeur--were simply unutterable.
It was a place to make one feel the littleness of all human
achievements, and to lead a man out of himself up to God. It was the
confrontal of God, face to face, as in moments of great danger, or
in solemn and sudden death. It was the perilous edge of battle. It
was storm and shipwreck. It was Niagara, many times magnified. It
was Switzerland, condensed into a _coup d'œil_. I had stood on the
Rocky Mountains; I had descended the Columbia; I had crossed the
Sierras. But the Yosemite was all of these, and more, compressed into
one view; and, surely, our planet has not its equal. Most fittingly
has Congress set the Yosemite apart from the public domain, and
consecrated it to mankind, as a National Park and pleasure-ground
forever. Let it never be degraded to lower uses. So far it was yet
free from debasing associations, and California, as its natural
guardian, must keep it so. Beyond the necessary paths and bridges, it
had so far escaped our so-called "improvements;" and hereafter, as
heretofore, it is to be hoped, Nature will be allowed to work her own
sweet will there, unchecked by the hand of man.
But our stay there was over, and lifting our hats we bade the Yosemite
a reverent good-bye, and mounting our horses, turned our faces towards
Mariposa. A short ride along the well-defined trail, over crackling
pine leaves and gigantic cones, brought us to the Hermitage--a huge
sugar-pine, ten or twelve feet in diameter, hollow in the centre, where
a Californian aforetime had made his home, closing the entrance with a
rude door. It afforded him a goodly-sized room, much better than many
of the border cabins; and here, in the midst of the gigantic pines,
miles away from any human habitation, as he swung his axe or boiled his
pot, he must have had Solitude to his heart's content.
Passing on, we soon struck the snow, and for five or six miles again,
as when coming into the valley, we again had a decidedly "hard road
to travel." To plunge and flounder along so, through snow-field
after snow-field, was tedious and toilsome in the extreme; but
there was no help for us, and we struggled on. A mile or so from
Inspiration Point, in crossing an open glade, where the snow had
melted into a pool, we caught sight of grouse and deer; but they
were off before Clark, an experienced hunter, could get a shot at
them. Some two miles farther on, we came out into a larger opening,
and as we lifted our eyes from the blinding snow saw, right across
our trail, a hundred yards or so ahead, a huge she-grizzly and two
young cubs. We were all on foot, leading our horses over the snow
the best we could--Capt. Coulter behind, Clark and I some yards
ahead abreast of each other--our only weapons our trusty revolvers,
and a long single-barrelled rifle of Clark's. My own good Spencer
carbine (seven-shooter), that I had carried so faithfully across the
continent, and through Arizona, without occasion to use it, I had
left in San Francisco, not thinking it necessary in California. How I
wished for it now, with its seven good balls ready for instant use!
Simultaneously with our sight of her, Madame Grizzly also descried
us, and Clark at once frankly said we were in great danger, if
she showed fight. For a minute or two, she stood with her head
raised, snuffing the air, as if calculating the chances, and
then deliberately wheeling in her tracks, shuffled off into the
forest--her cubs gambolling by her side, like clumsy kittens. Clark
instantly threw me his bridle, and decided to try a shot, if he
could sight her heart; but she kept herself well under cover, as she
moved off, and he was afraid to fire, unless certain of killing her.
He said if he missed or only wounded her, we would have to take to
the trees, as the attack would make her savage and ferocious; and
also, that if her cubs happened to turn and run toward us in play, as
they often did, we would have to run or climb for it, as she would
take this also for a hostile movement, and assault us fiercely.
Under the circumstances, clearly discretion was the better part of
valor; nevertheless, Clark wanted the brace of cubs, and when she
waddled off through the slush and snow, he followed cautiously after,
resolved to try his luck, if she gave him a decent chance. From
bush to bush, and tree to tree, for quite a considerable distance,
he dodged along after her; but presently returned, without firing,
declaring the risk was too great for such a venture, and we were not
sorry to be well rid of her. She was, in truth, as big as a small
cow, and altogether would have been an ugly customer to deal with, if
not killed at the first shot.
Clark said, grizzlies were now rare on this route, although formerly
frequently encountered. And indeed on both routes, and in all our
travel among the Sierra Nevadas, I was struck with the general absence
of animal life--as I had also been among the Rocky Mountains. I doubt
whether in either of these ranges, there is anywhere such variety and
extent of animal life, as we always find East, in unfrequented forests
and mountains. The solemn stillness, the glad silence, the perfect
peace and rest of the Sierras, seemed everywhere profound; and nowhere
and never more so, than during this day's ride in general.
Once well out of the snow, we remounted our gamey little steeds, and
the rest of the day the trail led down and over the ranges--through
magnificent forests of pine and spruce, cedar and fir--where to ride
along was itself a luxury and delight. The prevailing tree was the
California sugar-pine, so called because the Indians obtain a rude
sugar from boiling down its sap. These sugar-pines frequently grow ten
and twelve feet in diameter, and shoot up two hundred and fifty, and
three hundred feet in height. They bear a gigantic cone, four inches
in diameter, by sixteen inches in length usually; and lest this may
seem like a "California story," perhaps I should add, I myself picked
up one, as we rode along, measuring over eighteen inches in length,
and have it now in my private cabinet. Their dead leaves carpeted
the ground thickly under foot, and often our horses ambled almost
noiselessly along. Overhead, their dense shade excluded the sun, which
hourly became more uncomfortable, as we descended the range; while the
mountain air was everywhere resinous with their perfume.
Late in the afternoon, we crossed the last ridge, and, descending
into the valley of the South Merced, halted at "Clark's," the
house of our new guide. We had come twenty-two miles since leaving
Hutchings'; and here found excellent accommodations for the night.
Mr. Clark himself was from the East, I believe Pennsylvania, but was
now an enthusiastic Californian. He said he had come to California
years before, a confirmed consumptive; but once among the Sierras,
inhaling their resinous breath, his lungs soon healed, and here now
he meant to abide the remainder of his days. He could not live in San
Francisco at all, the air was so raw and sharp there; but here among
the Sierras, he was well and strong, and he looked indeed as rugged
as the mountains themselves. His house contained several comfortable
rooms, and already the tide of Yosemite travel was setting that way,
and paying him well.
Six miles from Clark's, on the border of Mariposa and Fresno
Counties, is the Mariposa grove of Big Trees. We visited them
next morning (June 1st), under the guidance of Clark himself, who
regards them as his special wards. They number in all some five or
six hundred, scattered over perhaps a mile square, but usually in
clumps together. You ride up to them, through an open forest of huge
sugar-pines and cedars, that would be regarded as sylvan monsters
elsewhere--ten and twelve feet over; but these Big Trees dwarf even
such giants, into pigmies. Many of them, indeed, measure twenty-five
and thirty feet in diameter, and run up three hundred feet or more
in height--the first hundred feet or so without a limb, and scarcely
diminishing in size. Six of them are over thirty feet in diameter,
and from ninety to a hundred feet in circumference; fifty are over
sixteen feet in diameter; and two hundred over twelve feet. The
"Grizzly Giant," the largest, is thirty-three feet in diameter, and
its first limb--ninety feet from the ground--is itself six feet
through. Another, still standing erect and vigorous, but hollowed out
by fire, three of us rode _into_ on horseback, one behind the other,
and there was still room for more. Another, prone on the ground, and
with its heart eaten out by fire--reduced to a huge shell--we rode
_through_ on horseback, for a hundred feet or more, and then passed
out--by a small knot-hole!
Among them were some young trees, still coming forward, mere
saplings; but as a rule, these Big Trees (_Sequoia Gigantea_, I
believe the botanists call them) impress you with their great age,
and hoary venerability. With many the mountain-fires in other years
have made sad havoc, scarring and half-consuming some of them; but
these are now stopped, the Mariposa Grove being also included in the
Congressional grant, which sets apart the Yosemite as a National Park
and pleasure-ground forever. Their bark, often eighteen and twenty
inches thick, is of a pure cinnamon-color, and fluted up and down
like a Corinthian column. Their wood is of a deep red, and much
resembles that of the great red-wood trees, that are found everywhere
in the Coast Range. Their foliage and cones are much like those of our
ordinary yellow-pines East, though their leaves are somewhat smaller.
[Illustration: A BIG TREE.]
The trees here are of the same species as those in the Calaveras
Grove, though I believe a few of the latter are rather bigger. They
are also found elsewhere, along the western slope of the Sierra
Nevadas, in scattered groves or clumps; but the whole number is not
large. Evidently, they are the lingering survivors of some former
geologic period, and no doubt will soon become extinct. Many of
them are regarded, as already two thousand years old--some say six
thousand; but Professor Whitney assured me, that he had made a
very careful inquiry into their age, counting their annual rings
and otherwise, and he doubted if any were older than the Christian
era. But, at least, here are trees, that were wooing the air, and
rejoicing in the sun, when the babe was first laid in the manger at
Bethlehem. They have been growing in beauty and majesty ever since,
through all the sunshine and storms of nineteen centuries. And
to-day, they stand as matchless pillars in God's great temple, to
testify of His skill and power--a fit part of
"That cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply;
Its choir, the wind and waves; its organ, thunder;
Its dome, the sky."
Truly marvels in themselves, in one sense these Big Trees of
California are the greatest natural curiosity in the world, because
no other country possesses any trees like them. If not really _sui
generis_, their like, at least, I believe, has not yet been found.
California, at her own request, has been appointed their lawful
guardian; and the nation and mankind expect, that she will watch
them well. It would seem like sacrilege, indeed, to raise one's
hand against them; and the penitentiary, surely, would be small
punishment, for such a miscreant.
Returning to Clark's, we left there at noon, and the same evening
reached Mariposa, twenty-five miles distant. The scenery most of the
way was superb, vista after vista opening constantly before us, as
we descended the mountains; but the sun had already acquired a June
fierceness, and the heat seemed doubly oppressive to one just fresh
from the snows of the Sierras. We rode up to the Mariposa House, dusty
and jaded, travel-stained and weary; but it was now Saturday night, and
the most inveterate cynic will concede, the week had been well spent.
We found Mariposa to be a straggling village, of a few hundred
inhabitants, with uncertain prospects. It is the centre of what was
once Gen. Fremont's magnificent estate--seventy miles square, in
the heart of Mariposa County--and formerly was much noted for its
mining operations. But its placer-mines were now mostly abandoned,
except by John Chinaman; and its famous quartz-mill, that cost over
one hundred thousand dollars--perhaps the finest in California--was
standing idle. The Mariposans, however, had great faith in their
mining resources still, and were expecting their fine mill to resume
operations soon. In the interim, the town dozed along, in the
Micawberish way common to stagnant mining centres; and welcomed my
arrival, as the advance guard of the Yosemite travel, for that summer.
Here, I bade good-bye to Punty, ever-faithful pony, and kindly Capt.
Coulter, my companions for a week (good luck to them both!), and took
the stage for Stockton again, _via_ Honitos. This was a ride of a
hundred miles, through varying landscapes--across the divides and
down the valleys of the Merced, Tuolomne, Stanislaus, and San Joaquin
rivers--and, though hot and dusty, was yet thoroughly enjoyable. In
crossing the ridge at Bear Valley, you catch a superb view of the
Coast Range and Mt. Diabolo, a hundred miles away; and for the rest
of the ride, Diabolo's lofty crest is almost always in view. Much of
the way was barren and uncultivated, but the ranches and settlements
were yearly pushing farther and farther into the foot-hills; and
as we neared Stockton again, the illimitable wheat-fields were
everywhere about us.
At Stockton, I had the pleasure of again meeting Prof. Whitney and
party, and further comparing notes about California and the Coast
generally. Thence, taking the steamer together for San Francisco, we
reached there again June 4th--myself somewhat jaded and dilapidated,
indeed, but richly repaid for all my toil and fatigue in going to the
Yosemite. Kind friends welcomed my arrival, and the fine fare and downy
beds of the _Occidental_ seemed doubly luxurious. Its proprietor, of
course, was a Leland--one of that family of brothers, who beyond all
other Americans, know excellently well "how to keep a hotel;" and his
thoughtful attentions, his genuine kindness and courtesy to everybody,
were the constant remark of strangers on the Coast.
FOOTNOTE:
[28] Now, I believe, a carriage-road has been blasted out, following
the Merced. But what it adds in comfort, it must lose in scenery.