continually, winding through pine forests that crowd closely on either
hand. Here is one of the wildest sections of the Sierras accessible
to motor cars, and the weird beauty culminates at Emigrant Gap, a
great natural gash in the Sierras which in early days gave its name
to the road by which the great majority of overland emigrants entered
California. Near this point, a little distance to the right of the
road and some two thousand feet beneath, lies Bear Valley, one of
the loveliest vales of the Sierras--in early summer an emerald green
meadow--lying between Yuba River and Bear Creek, shut in on every hand
by tree-clad slopes. From Emigrant Gap to the summit of the divide, a
distance of twenty-seven miles, the road mounts steadily through the
pines, winding around abrupt turns and climbing heavy grades--the last
pitch rising to thirty per cent, according to our road book, though
we doubt if it is really so steep. Crystal Lake and Lake Van Orten
are passed on the way, two blue mountain tarns lying far below on the
right-hand side of the road. From the summit, at an elevation of a
little over seven thousand feet, we have a wonderful view both eastward
and westward. Behind us the rugged hills through which we have wended
our way slope gently to the Sacramento Valley--so gently that in the
one hundred miles since leaving the plain we have risen only a mile
and a half. Before us is the sharper fall of the eastern slope and far
beneath, in a setting of green sward and stately pines, the placid blue
waters of Donner Lake, beautiful despite the tragic associations which
come unbidden to our minds.
The Donner party of thirty-one people set out from Illinois in April,
1846, and after almost unbelievable hardships, which caused the death
of many of them, arrived in the vicinity of Truckee in October. Here
they were overtaken by a terrific snowstorm that made farther progress
impossible and they camped on the shores of Donner Lake until the
following February. Many other emigrants had joined the party on the
way and in spite of the numerous deaths while enroute, eighty-three
were snowed in at this camp. Forty-nine of these perished before relief
arrived and only eighteen finally survived to reach California. The
first crossing by emigrants over this route was made in 1844 and the
fate of the Donner party was due to being caught by the early winter
rather than the difficulties of the road. Snow fell during that winter
to the depth of twenty-two feet, as proven by a stump of a tree cut by
the emigrants; and a fall of from ten to twenty feet is not uncommon
even now in this vicinity.
Crossing the mountains, one is appalled by the thought of the
difficulties encountered by the pioneer who had neither road nor
signboard, but must make his way over rugged hills and deep valleys,
across wide rivers, and through virgin forests with only a dimly blazed
trail to guide him--and even this was often wanting. If a motor trip
across the continent even now is not without its difficulties and
discomforts, what hardships must the pioneers with the ox-drawn
wagons have endured in that far-off day when neither railway nor wagon
road entered the savage wilderness and the only inhabitants were
hostile Indians and wild beasts.
[Illustration: ACROSS LAKE TAHOE
From painting by H. H. Bagg]
The descent from the summit of the divide to Truckee is gradual, some
twelve hundred feet in nine miles, though there are a few short, steep
grades of from fifteen to twenty per cent, according to our authority.
It was dark when we reached Truckee, but as there was no chance of
going astray on the road to Tahoe Tavern, we determined to proceed.
The road for the entire distance of fifteen miles closely follows the
Truckee River, a swift, shallow stream fed from the limpid waters
of Lake Tahoe. It was a glorious moonlight night and the gleaming
river, the jagged hills on either hand, and the dark pine forests, all
combined to make a wild but entrancingly beautiful effect. As we later
saw the Truckee Canyon by daylight, we have every reason to be glad
that we traversed it by moonlight as well.
Tahoe Tavern, with its myriad lights, was a welcome sight, none the
less, after an exceedingly strenuous trip, the personal details of
which I have forborne to inflict upon the reader. We were given rooms
in the new annex, a frame-and-shingle building, and were delighted to
find that our windows opened upon the moonlit lake. The mountain tops
on the opposite shore were shrouded in heavy clouds through which the
moon struggled at intervals, transmuting the clear, still surface of
the lake from a dark, dull mirror to a softly lighted sheet of water
with a path of gleaming silver running across it. Directly a thunder
storm broke over the eastern shore--very uncommon in summer, we were
told--and we had the spectacle of clouds and lake lighted weirdly by
flashes of lightning. The thunder rolling among the peaks and across
the water brought vividly to our minds Byron’s description of a
thunderstorm on Lake Geneva in the Alps. For a short time it seemed as
if “every mountain peak had found a tongue,” but the storm died away
without crossing the lake.
We may as well admit that we failed to carry out our resolution to see
sunrise on the lake, for we did not waken until the sun was shining
broadly into our window, to which we hastened for a first impression of
Tahoe by daylight. We beheld a smooth, steel-blue sheet of water with
a sharply defined mountain range in the distance--no suggestion of the
color miracle we had heard so much about; we learned that you must see
Tahoe from many viewpoints and at many periods of the day to know a few
of the myriad phases of its beauty.
Tahoe Tavern, a huge, brown, rambling building in a fine grove of
pines, fronts directly on a little bay and commands a glorious outlook
of lake and distant mountains. It is a delightfully retired and quiet
place, ideal for rest and recuperation, while the surrounding country
is unmatched in scenic attractions for those inclined to exploration,
whether by steamer, motor, on horseback, or afoot. We found the service
and the cuisine equal to the best resort hotels in California--and
that is saying a great deal, since California in this particular leads
the world. The Tavern’s popularity is evidenced by the fact that the
main building, capable of accommodating several hundred guests, has
been supplemented by the large annex and even then in season it is
well to engage rooms in advance of arrival. Here we found a quiet yet
exhilarating spot, the toil and tumult of the busy world shut out by
impregnable mountain barriers, where one may repose and commune with
nature in her grandest and most enchanting aspects.
After making the acquaintance of the friendly chipmunks about the
inn--which have so far overcome their natural timidity as to take
morsels from your fingers or even to rifle your pockets in search
of peanuts--and laughing at the antics of the blue jays, almost as
fearless, we decided to board the excursion steamer, which makes a
daily round of the lake. Once out from the shore and well started on
our southward journey, we began to realize something of the wonderful
colorings that no one who has seen Tahoe can ever forget. About us
the water was of the deepest, clearest, ultra-marine blue, shading by
many gradations into emerald green near the shores. The colors were
more intense than we had ever seen before in any body of water and
cannot be entirely due to great depth, for though the bottom of Tahoe
in places is nearly two thousand feet below the surface, the hue is
deeper than that of the ocean. It is more like liquid, transparent
lapis-lazuli, if we may imagine such a thing, than anything else I can
think of. No doubt the depth of the water and the deep azure of the
skies are the chief elements in producing this glorious effect. Yet,
for all its blueness, we could see the bottom of the lake as we steamed
along--indeed, they told us that only in the deepest places is the
bottom invisible on clear, still days.
We followed the coast at a little distance, stopping at the different
stations, chiefly camps and resorts of various degrees. Most of these
are along the west side of the lake between Tahoe and Tallac, and
scattered between them are many summer villas, chiefly of San Francisco
people. This part of the shore is the most picturesque, being well
wooded, while much of the eastern side is lined with barren and rocky
mountains. At Rubicon Point, mighty cliffs rise high above the lake
and their sheer walls extend far beneath the water that laves their
base. Here is the deepest, bluest water that we cross, and they tell
us one of the best fishing spots. Passing from the ultramarine deeps
of the Rubicon Point, we round a sharply jutting promontory and glide
into the jade-green waters of Emerald Bay, a long, oval-shaped inlet
at the southern end of the lake. Surely, it is rightly named, for here
green predominates, from the steep sides of the encircling hills to the
very center of the shallow bay. At the upper end of the bay, rising
almost sheer from the green water, is a rocky, scantily-wooded island
where for many years an eccentric Englishman made his home. Nearly
opposite on the shore is Emerald Bay Camp, perhaps the most popular of
the many permanent camps around the lake. At Tallac the steamer stops
for an hour to give opportunity for luncheon at the huge wooden hotel
built many years ago by the late “Lucky” Baldwin. It stands in a grove
of splendid pines and on a site in some ways superior to that of the
tavern. Certainly the surrounding country is more picturesque and has
more to interest the tourist. Just over the hills is the beautiful
Fallen Leaf Lake and there are several other jewel-like tarns set in
the hills a little to the west, while Cascade Lake and Emerald Bay are
within walking distance. During luncheon one of our party expressed
disappointment that the coloring of the lake hardly measured up to
expectations formed from the enthusiastic descriptions of guidebooks
and railroad literature.
“You can never see the color beauties of a lake at their best from a
boat,” I declared. “We once had the opportunity of making the Great
Glen trip by steamer and a year later of following these splendid
Scotch lakes with our car; the effects of color and light which we saw
on the latter trip were indescribably the more glorious.”
“Then let’s abandon the boat and hire a car for the return trip to the
Tavern,”--a proposition to which all agreed. The car, a good one, was
easily secured and we were soon away on what has been described as the
most beautiful twenty-five mile drive in the world--a true claim so far
as we know; the Columbia River Boulevard or Crater Lake road may rival
it for scenic beauty, though these are perhaps too different for fair
comparison.
The day was perfect, crystal clear except for a few white clouds
drifting lazily across the sky or resting on the summits of the
mountains beyond the lake; a day which our driver, an agreeable and
intelligent young fellow, declared ideal for seeing Tahoe at its best.
For a few miles out of Tallac we ran through a pine forest, catching
fugitive glimpses of the blue water through the stately trunks. As we
ascended the ridge overlooking Emerald Bay, exclamations of delight
were frequent and enthusiastic as the magnificent panorama gradually
unfolded to our view. The climax was reached when our driver paused at
the summit of the ridge, where the whole of Tahoe spread out before us.
Just beneath on one hand lay Emerald Bay; on the other gleamed Cascade
Lake--a perfect gem in glorious setting of rock and tree. And the glory
of color that greeted our eyes! Exaggerated in descriptions? No mortal
language ever conveyed a tithe of its iridescent beauty and never
will. One of the ladies exclaimed, “It is like a great black opal,”
and knowing her passion for that gem, we recognized the sincerity of
her tribute. And, indeed, the comparison was not inapt. There were the
elusive, changeful greens and blues, the dark purples, and the strange,
uncertain play of light and color that characterizes that mysterious
gem. Near the shore line the greens predominated, reaching the deepest
intensity in Emerald Bay, just below. Passing through many variations
of color, the greens merged into the deep blues and farther out in
the lake purple hues seemed to prevail. Along the opposite shore ran
the rugged mountain range, the summits touched by cloud-masses which
held forth the slightest threat of a summer shower--and, indeed, it
came just before we reached the tavern. Overhead the sky was of the
deepest azure and clear save for a few tiny white clouds mirrored in
the gloriously tinted water. Altogether, the scene was a combination
of transcendent color with a setting of rugged yet beautiful country
that we have never seen equalled elsewhere and which we have no words
to fittingly describe. Even the master artist fails here, since he can
but express one mood of the lake--while it has a thousand every day. We
have seen the Scotch, Italian and English lakes; we sailed the length
of George and Champlain; we admired the mountain glories of Yellowstone
Lake; we viewed Klamath and Crater Lakes from mountain heights, but
none of them matched the wonderful color variations of Tahoe.
But we are on our way again, descending and climbing long grades
which pass through pine forests and come out on headlands from which
we gain new and entrancing views of lake and mountains. The road was
completed only recently, but it is good in the main, though there are
steep pitches and some rough and dusty stretches. At times it takes us
out of sight of the lake, but we are compensated by wild and rugged
scenery--towering crags and massive walls of gray stone--rising above
us on every hand. The road must have presented considerable engineering
difficulties; our driver points out a place where a mighty rock of
a thousand tons or more was blasted to fragments to clear the way.
Far above us on the mountain crests we see gleaming patches of snow
which the late summer sun has not been able to dispel. We cross clear
mountain streams and wind through groves of pine and spruce. Often as
we climb or descend the long grades we come upon new vistas of the lake
and mountains and occasionally we ask for a moment’s delay to admire
some especially beautiful scene. Then we descend almost to the level
of the water, which we see flashing through stately trunks or rippling
upon clear, pebbly beaches. We pass various resorts, each surrounded
by pines and commanding a beautiful view of the lake. As we approach
the Tavern the summer shower that has been threatening begins and to
the color glories of sky and lake are added the diamond-like brilliance
of the big drops, for the sun is unobscured by the clouds. Beyond a
stretch of smooth water, dimmed to dull silver by the blue-gray vapor
hanging over it, a rainbow hovers in front of the dim outlines of the
distant hills. It was a fitting climax to the most inspiring drive in
the many thousands of miles covered by our wanderings.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon and the evening about the
Tavern. Especially we admired the casino with its arcade fronting
directly on the lake; here amusements of every description tempt the
guest who finds time heavy on his hands, but we found more enjoyment
in the beautiful scenes from the wide arches. Near by we found a
photograph shop in charge of our friend, Valentine of Los Angeles, some
of whose splendid pictures adorn this book. He had come to Tahoe before
the roads were clear and told us of some desperate work in getting
through, spending the night in his car while stuck in a snowdrift.
Circumstances made it impracticable that we remain longer at the Tavern
and we left the next morning for Sacramento with the mental resolution
that we would come again at our earliest opportunity. That opportunity
came a little more than a year later. We again found ourselves in
Sacramento on the beginning of the northern tour covered by this book.
We had discarded our trouble-making hired car for our own machine,
long, low, and heavy, so solidly built that not a single part gave way
under the terribly severe conditions of the tour.
Out of Sacramento we followed the new state highway, then almost
completed to Placerville. On the way to Folsom we saw much of gold
mining under modern conditions. Monstrous floating steam dredges were
eating their way through the fields and for miles had thrown up great
ridges of stones and gravel from which the gold had been extracted
by a process of washing. Something less than two million dollars
annually is produced in Sacramento County, mainly by this process, and
the cobblestones, after being crushed by powerful machinery, serve
the very useful purpose of road-building. Beyond Folsom the highway
winds through uninteresting hills covered with short brown grass and
diversified with occasional oak trees. We kept a pretty steady upward
trend as we sped toward the blue hill ranges, but there were no grades
worth mentioning west of Placerville. Before we reached the town we
entered the splendid pine forest which continues all the way to Tahoe.
Placerville has little to recall its old-time sobriquet of Hangtown,
the name by which it figures in Bret Harte’s stories. Here, indeed, was
the very storm center of the early gold furor--but five miles to the
north is Coloma, where Marshall picked up the nugget that turned the
eyes of the world to California in ’49. Over the very road which we
were to pursue out of the town poured the living tide of gold seekers
which spread out through all the surrounding country. To-day, however,
Placerville depends little on mining; its narrow, crooked main street
and a few ancient buildings are the only reminders of its old-time
rough-and-tumble existence. It is a prosperous town of three thousand
people and handsome homes, with well-kept lawns, are not uncommon. We
also noted a splendid new courthouse of Spanish colonial design wrought
in white marble, a fine example of the public spirit that prevails in
even the more retired California communities. The site of the town is
its greatest drawback. Wedged as it is in the bottom of a vast canyon,
there is little possibility of regularity in streets and much work
has been necessary to prepare sites for homes and public buildings.
A certain picturesqueness and delightful informality compensates for
all this and the visitor is sure to be pleased with the Placerville of
to-day aside from its romantic history. Two fairly comfortable hotels
invite the traveler to stop and make more intimate acquaintance with
the town, which a recent writer declares is noted for its charming
women--an attraction which it lacked in its romantic mining days.
Beyond Placerville the road climbs steadily, winding through the giant
hills and finally crossing the American River, which we followed for
many miles--now far above with the green stream gleaming through the
pines and again coursing along its very banks. There are many deciduous
trees among the evergreens on these hills and the autumn coloring lent
a striking variation to the somber green of the pines. We had never
before realized that there were so many species besides conifers on the
California mountains. Maples and aspens were turning yellow and crimson
and many species of vines and creepers lent brilliant color dashes
to the scene. There was much indeed to compensate for the absence of
the flowers which bloom in profusion earlier in the season. We passed
several comfortable-looking inns and resorts whose names--Sportsman’s
Hall, for instance--indicated retreats for hunters and fishermen.
Georgetown, some forty miles above Placerville, is the only town
worthy of the name between the latter place and Tahoe. Beyond here we
began the final ascent to the summit of the divide over a road that
winds upwards in long loops with grades as high as twenty-five per
cent. There were many fine vistas of hill and valley, rich in autumn
colorings that brightened the green of the pines and blended into the
pale lavender haze that shrouded the distant hills. From the summit,
at an altitude of seventy-four hundred feet, we had a vast panorama
of lake, forest, and mountain--but I might be accused of monotonous
repetition were I to endeavor to describe even a few of the scenes that
enchanted us. Every hilltop, every bend in the road, and every opening
through the forests that lined our way presented views which, taken
alone, might well delight the beholder for hours--only their frequent
recurrence tended to make them almost commonplace to us.
[Illustration: CAVE ROCK, LAKE TAHOE
From photo by Putnam & Valentine, Los Angeles, Cal.]
The descent to the lake is somewhat steeper than the western slope,
but the road is wide with broad turns and we had no trouble in passing
a big yellow car that was rushing the grade with wide-open “cut-out”
in a crazy endeavor to get as far as possible on “high.” Coming down
to Myers, a little supply station at the foot of the grade, we learned
that the Tavern and many other resorts were already closed and decided
to pass the night at Glenbrook, about midway on the eastern shore
of the lake. For a dozen miles after leaving Myers, our road ran
alternately through forests and green meadows--the meadows about Tahoe
remain green the summer through--finally coming to the lake shore,
which we followed closely for the twenty miles to Glenbrook. Most of
the way the road runs only a few feet above the water level and we
had many glorious vistas differing from anything we had yet seen. In
the low afternoon sun the color had largely vanished and we saw only
a sheet of gleaming silver edged with clearest crystal, which made
the pebbly bottom plainly visible for some distance from the shore.
Here an emerald meadow with sleek-looking cattle--there are many cattle
in the Tahoe region--lay between us and the shining water; again it
gleamed through the trunks of stately pines. For a little while it was
lost to view as we turned into the forest which crowded closely to
the roadside, only to come back in a moment to a new view--each one
different and seemingly more entrancing than the last, culminating in
the wonderful spectacle from Cave Rock. This is a bold promontory,
pierced beneath by the caves that give its name, rising perhaps one
hundred feet above the water and affording a view of almost the entire
lake and the encircling mountains. On the western side the mountains
throw their serrated peaks against the sky, while to the far north they
showed dimly through a thin blue haze. The lake seemed like a great
sapphire shot with gold from the declining sun--altogether a different
aspect in color, light and shadow from anything we had witnessed
before. We paused awhile to admire the scene along with several
other wayfarers--pedestrians, cyclists, and motorists who were alike
attracted by the glorious spectacle.
Two or three miles farther brought us to Glenbrook, a quiet nook at
the foot of mighty hills, pine-clad to the very summits. The hotel
is a large but unpretentious structure directly by the roadside and
fronting on the lake. In connection with the inn is a group of rustic
cottages, one of which was assigned to us. It had a new bathroom
adjoining and there was a little sheet-iron stove with fuel all laid
for a fire--which almost proved a “life-saver” in the sharp, frosty air
of the following morning. The cottage stood directly on the lake shore
and afforded a magnificent view of the sunset, which I wish I were able
to adequately describe. A sea of fire glowed before us as the sun went
down behind the mountains, which were dimmed by the twilight shadows.
Soon the shadows gave place to a thin amethyst haze which brought out
sharply against the western sky the contour of every peak and pinnacle.
The amethyst deepened to purple, followed by a crimson afterglow which,
with momentary color variations, continued for nearly an hour; then the
light gradually faded from the sky and the lake took on an almost ebony
hue--a dark, splendid mirror for the starlit heavens.