Tuolumne to Placerville. Charm of Sonora and Fascination of San Andreas
and Mokelumne Hill.
[Illustration: Sonora Plate13]
Sonora is nine miles distant from Tuttletown, and I reached it in the
early afternoon. Perhaps of all the old mining towns, Sonora is the
most fascinating, on account of the exceeding beauty of the surrounding
country. No matter from what direction you approach it, Sonora seems to
lie basking in the sun, buried in a wealth of greenery, through which
gleam white walls and roofs of houses. Even its winding streets are so
shaded by graceful old trees that buildings are half hidden. The
bustle and excitement of the mining days are passed forever, in all
probability, for old Sonora; but in their place have come the peace
and quiet that accompany the tillage of the soil; for Sonora is now the
center of a prosperous agricultural district and the town maintains a
steady and continuous growth.
[Illustration: Sonora Plate14]
Here I had the pleasure of an interview with Mr. John Neal, a
prominent and respected citizen of Tuolumne County, who as Commissioner
represented his county at the San Francisco Midwinter Fair. Mr. Neal is
over eighty, but still hale and hearty. He was the first person I had
thus far encountered who had known Bret Harte in the flesh. He had
also known and frequently met Mark Twain, "Dan de Quille" and Prentice
Mulford. Of the four, it was evident that Mulford had left by far the
most lasting as well as favorable impression on his mind. Of him he
spoke in terms of real affection. "Prentice Mulford," he said, "was a
brilliant, very handsome and most lovable young man." I asked him how
these young men were regarded by the miners. He said: "In all the camps
they were held to be in a class by themselves, on account of their
education and literary ability. Although they wore the rough costume of
the miners, it was realized that none of them took mining seriously
or made any pretense of real work with pick and shovel." Mr. Neal knew
James Gillis intimately and admitted he was a great story-teller. In
fact, at the bare mention of his name he broke into a hearty laugh. "Oh,
Jim Gillis, he was a great fellow!" he exclaimed. He said unquestionably
Mark Twain got a good deal of material from him, and feels certain that
Bret Harte must have met him at least on several occasions. Mr. Neal
stated that up to the time of the Midwinter Fair, the output of gold
from Tuolumne county reached the astonishing figures of $250,000,000!
What it has amounted to since that time, I had no means of ascertaining.
It is only twelve miles from Sonora to Tuolumne. From the top of the
divide which separates the valleys there is a beautiful view of the
surrounding country, the dim blue peaks of the Sierra Nevada forming the
eastern sky-line. One of the chief charms of an excursion through
these foothill counties is the certainty that directly you reach any
considerable elevation there will be revealed a magnificent panorama,
bounded only by the limit of vision, range after range of mountains
running up in varying shades of blue and purple, to the far distant
summits that indicate the backbone of California.
Tuolumne is situated in a circular basin rather than in a valley, and
thus being protected from the wind, in hot weather the heat is intense.
If there are any mining operations in the immediate vicinity, they
are not in evidence to the casual observer. It is, however, one of the
biggest timber camps in the State. In the yards of the West Side Lumber
Company, covering several hundred acres, are stacked something like
30,000,000 feet of sugar pine. The logs are brought from the mountains
twenty to twenty-five miles by rail, and sawn into lumber at Tuolumne.
I was told that the bulk of the lumber manufactured here was shipped
abroad, a great deal going to Australia.
Tuolumne, in Bret Harte's time, was called Summersville. It was
destroyed by fire about fourteen years ago, but the new town has already
so assimilated itself to the atmosphere of its surroundings, that its
comparative youth might easily escape detection. Altogether, I was
disappointed with Tuolumne, having expected to find a second Angel's,
owing to its prominence in Bret Harte's stories. A lumber camp, while
an excellent thing in its way, is neither picturesque nor inspiring.
I spent the night at the "Turnback Inn," a large frame building,
handsomely finished interiorly and built since the fire. It is, I
believe, quite a summer resort, as Tuolumne is the terminus of the
Sierra Railway, and one can go by way of Stockton direct to Oakland and
San Francisco.
Returning to Angel's the next day, I lingered again at Tuttletown. There
is a strange attraction about the place--it would hold you apart from
its associations, The old hotel, fast going to decay, surrounded by
splendid trees whose shade is so dense as to be impenetrable to the
noon-day sun, is a study for an artist. And as I gazed in a sort of
day-dream at the ruins of what once was one of the liveliest camps in
the Sierras--with four faro tables running day and night--the pines
seemed to whisper a sigh of regret over its departed glories. Jackass
Hill is fairly honeycombed with prospect holes, shafts and tunnels. I
was surprised to see that even now there is a certain amount of prospect
work going forward, for I noticed several shafts with windlasses to
which ropes were attached; and, in fact, was told that the old camp
showed signs of a new lease of life.
Musing on Tuttletown and its environment later on got me into serious
difficulty. Having crossed the Stanislaus River and cleared the canon,
I abandoned the main road for an alleged "cut-off." This I was following
with the utmost confidence, when, to my surprise, it came to an abrupt
end at the foot of a steep hill. In the ravine below was a house, and
there fortunately I found a man of whom I inquired if I was in "Carson
Flat." "Carson Flat? Well, I should say not! You're 'way off!" "How
much?" I asked feebly. "Oh, several miles." This in a tone that implied
that though I was in a bad fix, it might possibly be worse. However,
with the invariable kindness of these people, he put me on a trail
which, winding up to the summit of a ridge, struck down into Carson
Flat and joined the main road. And there I registered a vow: "The
hard highway for me!" As a consequence of this deviation, I materially
lengthened the distance to Angel's. It is thirty miles from Tuolumne by
the road, to which, by taking the "cut-off," I probably added another
three!
It is surprising how these towns grow upon one. Already the Angel's
Hotel seemed like home to me and after an excellent dinner, I joined
the loungers on the side-walk and became one of a row, seated on chairs
tilted at various angles against the wall of the hotel. And there I
dozed, watching the passing show between dreams; for in the evening when
the electric lights are on, there is a sort of parade of the youth and
beauty of the town, up and down the winding street.
On account of the great heat that even the dry purity of the Sierra
atmosphere could not altogether mitigate, I decided the next day to be
content with reaching San Andreas, the county seat of Calaveras County,
fifteen miles north of Angel's.
Apart from its name, there is something about San Andreas that suggests
Mexico, or one's idea of pastoral California in the early days of the
American occupation. The streets are narrow and unpaved and during the
midday heat are almost deserted. Business of some sort there must be,
for the little town, though somnolent, is evidently holding its own;
but there seems to be infinite time in which to accomplish whatever the
necessities of life demand. And I may state here parenthetically, that
perhaps the most impressive feature of all the old California mining
towns is their suggestion of calm repose. Each little community seems
sufficient unto itself and entirely satisfied with things as they are.
Not even in the Old World will you find places where the current of life
more placidly flows.
[Illustration: San Andreas. Plate 15]
On the main street--and the principal street of all these towns is "Main
Street"--I had the good fortune to be introduced to Judge Ira H. Reed,
who came to Calaveras County in 1854, and has lived there ever since. He
told me that Judge Gottschalk, who died a few years ago at an advanced
age, was authority for the statement that Mark Twain got his "Jumping
Frog" story from the then proprietor of the Metropolitan Hotel, San
Andreas, who asserted that the incident actually occurred in his
bar-room. Twain, it is true, places the scene in a bar-room at Angel's,
but that is doubtless the author's license. Bret Harte calls Tuttletown,
"Tuttleville," and there never was a "Wingdam" stage.
[Illustration: Hotel of the "Jumping Frog". Plate16]
That evening as I lay awake in my bedroom at the Metropolitan Hotel,
wondering by what person of note it had been occupied in the "good old
days," my attention was attracted to the musical tinkle of a cow-bell.
Looking out of the window, I beheld the strange spectacle of a cow
walking sedately down the middle of the street. No one was driving her,
no one paid her any attention beyond a casual glance, as she passed. The
cow, in fact, had simply come home, after a day in the open country; and
it became plain to me that this was a nightly occurrence and therefore
caused no comment. Unmolested, she passed the hotel and on down the
street to the foot of the hill, where she evidently spent the night; for
the tinkle of the bell became permanent and blended with and became a
part of the subtle, mysterious sounds that constitute Nature's sleeping
breath.
This little incident in the county seat of Calaveras County impressed
me as an epitome of the changes wrought by time, since the days when
in song and story Bret Harte made the name "Calaveras" a synonym for
romance wherever the English language is spoken.
From San Andreas my objective point was Placerville, distant about
forty-five miles. The heat still being excessive, I made the town by
easy stages, arriving at noon on the third day. Mokelumne Hill, ten
miles beyond San Andreas, also lends its name to the little town which
clusters around its apex and is at the head of Chili Gulch, a once
famous bonanza for the placer miners. For miles the road winds up the
gulch, which is almost devoid of timber, amid piled-up rocks and debris,
bleached and blistered by the sun's fierce rays; the gulch itself being
literally stripped to "bedrock." I had already witnessed many evidences
of man's eager pursuit of the precious metal, but nothing that so
conveyed the idea of the feverish, persistent energy with which those
adventurers in the new El Dorado had struggled day and night with
Nature's obstacles, spurred on by the auri sacra fames.
A little incident served to relieve the monotony of the climb up Chili
Gulch. A miner, who might have sat for a study of "Tennessee's Partner,"
came down the hillside with a pan of "dirt," which he carefully washed
in a muddy pool in the bed of the gulch. He showed me the result, a few
"colors" and sulphurets. He said it would "go about five dollars to the
ton," and seemed well satisfied with the result. I shall always hold him
in grateful memory, for he took me to an old tunnel, and disappearing
for a few moments, returned with a large dipper of ice-cold water. Not
the Children of Israel, when Aaron smote the rock in the desert and
produced a living stream, could have lapped that water with keener
enjoyment.
[Illustration: Mekolumne Hotel. Plate17]
The terrific heat in Chili Gulch made the shade from the trees which
surround Mekolumne Hotel doubly grateful. Mokelumne Hill is, in fact,
a mountain, and commands a view of rare beauty. At its base winds the
wooded canon of the Mokelumne River, on the farther side of which rises
the Jackson Butte, an isolated peak with an elevation of over three
thousand feet, while in the background loom the omnipresent peaks of the
far Sierra.
[Illustration: Mokelumne River. Plate03]
The Mokelumne Hotel is regarded as modern, dating back merely to 1868,
at which time the original building was destroyed by fire. The present
structure of solid blocks of stone, should resist the elements for
centuries to come. I was surprised at the excellent accommodations
of this hotel. In what seemed such an out-of-the-way and inaccessible
locality, I was served with one of the best meals on the whole journey,
including claret with crushed ice in a champagne glass! What that
meant to a tramp who had struggled for miles through quartz rock and
impalpable dust, up a heavy grade, without shade and the thermometer
well past the hundred mark, only a tramp can appreciate. I fell in love
with Mokelumne Hill and, after due consultation of my map, resolved
to pass the night in this picturesque and delightful spot. I was also
influenced by its associations, as it figures prominently in Bret
Harte's stories.
Of the four famous rivers--the Stanislaus, Mokelumne, American and
Cosumnes--which I crossed on this trip, the Mokelumne appealed to me the
most. Whatever the meaning of the Indian name, one may rest assured
it stands for some form of beauty. Jackson, the county seat of Amador
County, is but six miles from Mokelumne Hill and a town of considerable
importance, being the terminus of a branch line of the Southern Pacific
Railway. It is situated in an open country where the hills are at some
distance, and presents a certain up-to-date appearance. About a mile
from Jackson the Kennedy mine, running a hundred stamps, is one of the
greatest gold producers in the State.
Sutter Creek, erroneously supposed by many to be the spot where gold
was first discovered in California, four miles north of Jackson, is
picturesque and rendered attractive by reason of the vivid green of the
lawns surrounding the little cottages on its outskirts. This town, too,
has a flourishing look, accounted for by the operation of the South
Eureka and Central Eureka mines. A gentleman whom I met on the street
imparted this information, and asked me if I remembered Mark Twain's
definition of a gold mine. I had to confess I did not. "Well," said he,
"Mark Twain defined a gold mine as 'a hole in the ground at one end,
and a d--d fool at the other!'" The appreciative twinkle in his eye
suggested the possibility that this definition met with his approval.
Amador, two miles beyond Sutter Creek, did not appeal to me.
"Stagnation" would probably come nearer than any other term to conveying
to the mind of a person unfamiliar with Amador its present condition.
One becomes acutely sensitive to the "atmosphere" of these places, after
a few days upon the road, for each has a distinctive individuality in
spite of the fact that it was mid-day in midsummer, gloom seemed to
pervade the streets and to be characteristic of its inhabitants. With
the exception of an attempt to get into telephonic communication with a
friend at Placerville, I lost not a moment in the town.
On reaching Drytown, three miles north of Amador, I noted the
thermometer stood at 110 degrees in the shade on the watered porch of
the hotel, and deciding there was a certain risk attendant on walking
in such heat, determined to make the best of what was anything but
a pleasant situation, and go no farther. Drytown, in the modern
application of the first syllable, is a misnomer, the "town" consisting
chiefly of the hotel with accompanying bar, and a saloon across the way!
Drytown was in existence as early as 1849, and was visited in October of
that year by Bayard Taylor. He says: "I found a population of from two
to three hundred, established for the winter. The village was laid out
with some regularity and had taverns, stores, butchers' shops and
monte tables." One cannot but smile at the idea of "monte tables" in
connection with the Drytown of to-day; pitiful as is the reflection that
men had braved the hardships of the desert and toiled to the waist in
water for gold, only to throw it recklessly in the laps of professional
gamblers.
The Exchange Hotel, a wooden building dating back to 1858, stands on the
site of the original hotel, built in 1851 and burned in 1857. Upon the
front porch is a well furnishing cold, pure water. I found this to be
the most acceptable feature of several of the old hostelries. The well
and the swinging sign over the entrance suggested the wayside inn of
rural England; more especially as the surrounding country carries out
the idea, being gently undulating and well timbered.
The following evening I put up at Nashville, on the North Fork of the
Cosumnes River and well over the borders of El Dorado county, passing
Plymouth en route. Plymouth, on the map, appeared to be a place of some
importance, but a closer inspection proved that--in spite of its breezy
name--it would take the spirits of a Mark Tapley to withstand its
discouraging surroundings. Plymouth is "living in hopes," an English
syndicate having an option on certain mining properties in the vicinity;
but Nashville is frankly "out of business."
At Nashville, in fact, I had some difficulty in securing "bed and
lodging." There appeared to be only three families in this once
flourishing camp. Strange as it may seem, money appears to be no object
to people in these sequestered places. You have "to make good," and in
this instance it required not a little tact and diplomacy.
I arrived at Placerville the following day. Due to taking a road not
shown on my map, I went several miles astray and for some few hours was
immersed in wild, chaparral-covered mountains, with evidences on all
hands of deserted mines; finally crossing a divide at an elevation of
two thousand feet and descending into the valley where slumbers
the little town of El Dorado, formerly bearing the less attractive
designation "Mud Springs." This title, though lacking in euphony, was
more in keeping with actual conditions, since the valley is noted for
its springs, and Diamond Springs, a mile or two north, is quite a summer
resort. Nor is there any indication of the precious metal anywhere in
the immediate vicinity.
[Illustration: Placerville. Plate18]
In Placerville--known as "Hangtown" in the Bret Harte days--I registered
at the Cary House, which once had the honor of entertaining no less a
personage than Horace Greeley. It was here he terminated his celebrated
stage ride with Hank Monk. I found that my friend Harold Edward Smith
had gone to Coloma, eight miles on the road to Auburn, and had left a
note saying he would wait for me there the following morning.
[Illustration: Cary House. Plate19]