the most perfect boulevard of our tour--a wide, perfectly level, hard,
smooth, dust-free surface, yet a road which cost nothing per mile and
never had an hour’s work expended upon it by any man. It was the hard,
firm, ocean beach which we traversed, so close to the sullen gray water
that it lapped our wheels as we glided onward. And lo, we beheld,
skipping joyously along on this same beach our unwelcome passenger of
the previous day. He had evidently begged or bought transportation from
Patrick’s Creek to Crescent City and was now away on a hundred-mile
hike to Eureka, unless he could work his nerve on some passing car
as he did on us. Nothing daunted by his rebuff at our parting, he
cheerfully signified his desire to continue with us for the day, but we
bade him hail and farewell without slackening the car’s sharp pace.
Our fine beach road ended all too soon in a wild plunge through the
soft deep sand to the mainland, where we almost immediately began the
ascent of a stiff, long grade, winding with many sharp turns through
the closely standing pines. About midway a large car was parked with
a broken axle, leaving barely room to squeeze past. Time and again as
we ascended the mighty slope we came out upon bold headlands which on
clear days afford endless views of the ocean a thousand feet or more
below. We could hear the angry swish of the sea among the broken rocks
at the base of the cliff, but the gray mist hid it from our eager
eyes. It was, indeed, a disappointment, but we found some compensation
as we climbed still higher on the fern-banked road. Near the summit
we again entered the mighty redwoods which towered hundreds of feet
above us. We were rising above the fog and the weirdly glorious effect
of the sun’s rays as they shot through the thin vapor among the hoary
trees was as fascinating as it is indescribable. The forest monarchs
seemed literally ablaze with pale fire. The dull gray fog merged into
a silvery vapor which floated among the titanic trunks and branches
and long shafts of light radiated from their tops like a mighty halo.
As we continued to ascend the air gradually cleared and a sky of the
intensest blue shone above the trees--but it was only due to the
altitude, for, coming out on a headland, we beheld the envious fog
still shrouding the ocean far below. The sullen booming of the surf and
the screams of sea birds came weirdly mingled from the unseen deeps,
giving a strange sensation of mystery.
Back into the mighty forest we turned and for many miles followed the
winding road, closely bordered by the giant trees. The corduroy on
this road was in much better repair, some of it being new and made of
closely laid square slabs. Here, again the riotous greenery beneath the
trees delighted and amazed us. Fern fronds six feet long were common
and moss, shrubbery, and vines flourished in wild profusion everywhere.
We emerged on an open headland covered with bronzed fern and scattered
shrubs, and strained our eyes for a glimpse of the silver sea through
the lightening mass of vapor and we were rewarded with a faint shimmer
here and there. Then came more miles of redwoods crowding the road so
closely that we found difficulty in passing another car which met us
here. The forest was strangely silent; we saw nothing of bird or animal
life and only the boom of the ocean when we happened to come near the
coast broke upon the uncanny stillness.
Again we came abruptly into the open and a long, sinuous descent
brought us to Requa, a forlorn-looking little hamlet on the broad inlet
of the Klamath River. They told us that half the people of the village
were Indians and those whom we saw wore white man’s clothes and had
the appearance of modest prosperity. Salmon fishing and two canneries
employ the population during the fishing season. The wide, still river
is crossed by ferry, a rude barge propelled by a gasoline launch,
lashed alongside and capable of carrying three or four cars.
During our crossing our interest was centered on the ferryman’s
daughter, a little miss of seven or eight summers, who swung on the
chain at the bow of the boat. Utterly unconscious of her picturesque
beauty or that she was being observed, she made one of the most
delightful studies we had seen in many a day and made us long for the
skill to execute a rapid sketch. Her dark olive, oval face was regular
and pleasing in features and her cheeks were tinged with red roses from
the fresh sea air. Her heavy black hair was woven in a long braid and
coiled about her head. She wore a plain slip of a dress and her deft
little fingers were working on a head-dress of red and green cambric,
which at times she fitted over her raven tresses with the air of a
Fifth Avenue belle judging the merits of the latest Parisian creation
in millinery. Then she removed it and eyed it critically; evidently it
did not meet her artistic ideals, for she ripped it to pieces and began
rearranging the brightly colored scraps.
We were so much interested in her beauty and unconscious antics that
we forgot all about the broad, green river we were crossing and
therefore paused when we had scrambled up the opposite bank to gaze
up the valley. We saw a noble stream, gleaming through the thin vapor
that hovered above it and sweeping far up the canyon until it vanished
in the densely wooded hills. The picturesque valley is included in
the proposed Redwood National Park, which the citizens of Northern
California hope to see established before the wholesale slaughter of
these forests is begun.
We ran for a good many miles through a flat, swampy country dotted with
reedy lagoons, re-entering the redwoods near the Humboldt County line.
We encountered a long, steady ascent with grades up to twenty per cent,
which ultimately brought us to the ocean, which we had left for a time.
The road, with occasional bends to the inland, followed the shore for
the remainder of our day’s run and presented a continual panorama of
delightful scenery. The sun was still tempered by the soft white mists
and the ocean shone like burnished silver in the subdued light. The
shore is exceedingly rugged and in many places out in the ocean were
mighty detached rocks upon which the incoming waves broke into white,
foaming masses.
The redwoods continued for many miles--mighty, symmetrical trees whose
dimensions were hard to realize, but many were twenty feet in diameter
and upwards of two hundred and fifty feet in height. It was only by
comparison with some small object that their colossal size could be
realized; we had grown so used to the gigantic that it palled upon
our senses. Often they grew in groups, two, three, or more stems from
a single base whose dimensions were simply staggering. We could not
contemplate the majesty and beauty of these forest giants without a
tinge of sadness--we know that the railroad is daily creeping nearer
and that unless prompt measures are taken to protect them the time is
not far away when only burned and blackened stumps will show where they
stood, as we saw nearer Eureka. We parted company with them as one who
leaves a very old and wise friend whom he feels that he may never see
again, breathing meanwhile the prayer:
“O, forest Titans, may it be
Long, long, ere man with steel and fire
Comes hither on his errand dire
To end your centuried reverie.”
There were gayer colors on our road than the dull browns and dark
greens of the redwoods, for along the creeks the maples flamed in
autumnal scarlet or glowed with yellow gold in the dark forest aisles.
We passed through occasional open spaces, where we found belated wild
flowers in full bloom--the purple foxglove, daisies, asters, and, more
rarely, wild roses or azaleas smiled on us from the roadside. Not all
the trees were redwoods, for we passed through closely standing groves
where spruce, hemlock, and other varieties predominated.
The road came close to the shore just before we reached Orick, a small
village whose inn is a famous resort for hunters and fishermen, and
from a considerable eminence we looked down on Freshwater Lagoon, a
fine body of water a mile long, literally alive with wild fowl. It is
famous for its fishing, as are Big Lagoon and Stone Lagoon, a few miles
farther on. Here the sportsman may take cut-throat and steel-head trout
to the law’s limit, often in an hour or two, and all kinds of water
fowl are plentiful in season. In this vicinity also, they told us, is
the best quail shooting on the Pacific Coast--quite enough to distress
a devotee of rod and gun whom circumstances forced to hurry onward.
There are splendid camping sites galore along this road, sites which
appealed even to ourselves, who were never strongly predisposed to camp
life.
Trinidad, the next hamlet, dates from Spanish days, when it had the
prefix of Puerto--for it is located on a small but deep harbor, where
the early seafarers occasionally took shelter. Remains of the old
landing-place may still be seen, but no ships disturb the quietude of
Trinidad to-day. There is a rustic resort inn here which caters to
summer visitors and sportsmen.
So far the road has been natural dirt, ranging from fair to good, and
the grades, though often considerable, have not been at all troublesome
to the big car. At Trinidad we caught up with the stage which left
Crescent City some time ahead of us, and were interested to find that
the cars which make this trip nearly every day in the year were of the
same manufacture as our own.
Beyond Trinidad the road had mostly been surfaced and some of it was
really excellent. The country, however, for some miles was dismal,
indeed. Here was every evidence of a great forest fire of comparatively
recent occurrence. Great blackened trunks were still standing,
interspersed with stumps which showed that the country had been at
least partially lumbered before the fire. The effect was melancholy and
depressing, indeed, and brought to mind passages of Dante’s Inferno.
A few poor little houses, many of them deserted, were scattered at
intervals among the blackened stumps, and there were occasional
cultivated patches of ground. No doubt the soil is excellent, but it
will be many years before the giant stumps can be cleared away and
the great holes left when they are burned or dynamited, filled up.
We noted on our maps that we were to cross Mad River and imagined a
dashing cataract in keeping with the name. We found the most prosaic of
tide-water streams, level and almost stagnant, and the name, we were
told, only referred to a quarrel between some early settlers in the
section.
As we approached Arcata, fourteen miles by road from Eureka, though
only half that distance directly across the bay, the country took on
a much more prosperous look. The farm houses were neat with carefully
kept lawns, and the well-cultivated fields ran down to the seashore.
Arcata is a clean, bright-looking town, due to free application
of paint to the wooden buildings, for wooden buildings are almost
universal. A new eighty-thousand-dollar hotel was pointed to with due
pride and one might do quite as well to stop here as in Eureka.
Beyond Arcata fine, level, dairy land prevails, fit for grazing the
greater part of the year, and Humboldt County butter is quite as famous
as that of Del Norte. Much of this land was originally forested with
redwoods, and its splendid state of reclamation at present indicates
that the forlorn, fire-blackened section we passed some miles back may
have a future before it, after all. Huge redwood stumps remained along
the road, each of them bearing a little garden of greenery flourishing
upon the decay. The heavy rainfall of winter and the continual fogs of
summer keep vegetation thrifty and green almost the entire year.
The road from Arcata skirts the shores of Humboldt Bay, which is
nearly land-locked by a slender spit of sand. It is a good-sized body
of water, some fourteen miles long and deep enough for ocean-going
vessels, but an exceedingly treacherous coast in the vicinity militates
against it as a harbor. A few days before our arrival a large steamer
had gone to pieces on the rocks near by and a few months later a
submarine and the cruiser Milwaukee, which undertook to rescue it, were
both destroyed in this neighborhood.
Our first impression on coming into the business part of Eureka was
of surprise to see a city of its size and importance almost wholly
constructed of wood. The business blocks were nearly all of redwood,
sometimes painted and carved to resemble stone, and the hotels,
including the Vance, where we stopped, were of the same material. Of
course, this is not so strange when one considers that redwood is by
far the cheapest and most accessible building stuff in this region, but
it is hard to associate permanence and substantial construction with
huge wooden blocks in the business section of the city.
We reached our hotel about four o’clock, having been just eight hours
in covering the ninety-four miles from Crescent City, including the
half-hour we stopped for lunch--practically the same time occupied by
the stages in making the trip. This may seem pretty slow, but it is all
one should expect on this road if he adheres to sane and conservative
driving.
The Vance, despite the rather unfavorable impression made by its wooden
exterior, proved well-appointed and comfortable inside. A large, cozily
furnished, steam-heated room proved a pleasant haven after a chilly
ride--for the wind had blown strongly all day from the sea, and when
out of the shelter of the forest, it brought our whole supply of wraps
and robes into use. The Vance was the only commercial hotel which we
found operating on the “American plan” since leaving San Francisco, and
its service throughout was very satisfactory, though its rates could
not be classed as cheap. We should say, however, that a thoroughly
modern hotel of approved construction would find a fine opening in
Eureka.
We found time before dinner to look about the city, which was gaily
decorated in bunting and evergreens for an Elks’ Convention to begin
the next day. In fact, we had been warned that our lease on our room at
the hotel could continue only for the night and our plan of taking a
full day’s lay-off at Eureka was thus frustrated. As usual in isolated
California towns of any size, the shops and mercantile establishments
generally seemed entirely to outclass the population figures, which in
case of Eureka are not claimed to exceed fifteen thousand. Like our
hotel, the interior of the business buildings was usually much more
attractive than the exterior, and it was apparent that the merchants
of the town were prepared to take care of all reasonable needs of
the inhabitants as well as of transitory visitors. The necessity
of this is easily apparent when we recall that San Francisco, the
nearest city larger than Eureka, is two hundred and eighty-five miles
distant--twelve hours’ ride over the recently completed railway. For
Eureka at last has a railway, after having for many years enjoyed--or
rather endured--the undesirable distinction of being the largest town
in the United States without railroad service. The Northwest Pacific
“Scenic Route” reached the town in 1915 and has the distinction, it is
said, of being by far the costliest railroad of its length in America,
an average of one hundred and thirty thousand dollars per mile having
been expended in its construction. For nearly half its length it
threads its way through the gigantic canyon of the Eel River, following
the stream so closely that it is seldom out of sight. The scenery along
this road, a local authority insists, is hardly to be surpassed in the
whole country.
“As the train passes over the Eel River Divide, the Pacific, thirty
miles distant, is seen, shimmering in the sunlight across a stretch of
mighty wooded hills. As the descent along the upper Eel River Valley
begins, the views become more and more entrancing. No mountain scenery
in the foothills of the Swiss Alps is more beautiful than that which
greets the traveler’s eyes along the Eel River.”
Perhaps such a digression on the scenery from a railroad train is out
of place in a motor-travel book, but it may be permitted, possibly, in
view of the fact that a far greater number of people go to Eureka by
train than motor. And those who come by motor, if they pursue the Bell
Springs route, will see the same Eel River scenery from even grander
viewpoints, since in places the wagon road rises thousands of feet
above the railway.
Greater numbers of motor cars will come to Eureka when the new state
highway is completed, since the two old roads from the south are as
difficult and dangerous as any in California and are considered quite
impassable, even for horse-drawn vehicles, when the rains set in.
Hence, before the completion of the railroad Eureka was quite cut off
from communication with the rest of the world except by the sea and
often violent storms rendered even that route precarious. Under such
conditions it is marvelous that such an energetic, thriving city could
have sprung up. One of the present roads closely follows the coast
through Fort Bragg and Garberville, a poorly-kept and little used
trail, and the other, farther inland, roughly follows the railroad,
crossing the famous Bell Springs grade, which the state highway
commission describes as “long the terror of motorists.” The new highway
avoids this and will afford a year-round access to the city over safe
and easy grades. It will also continue to Crescent City, placing the
Humboldt and Del Norte redwoods within easy reach of motorists, all of
whom should exert their influence to secure the proposed national park
in this section.
Eureka was founded in 1850 by American settlers. The Spaniards appear
to have overlooked this harbor and so far as known no ship entered
it prior to 1806, when Captain Winship, a fur trader, who learned of
the existence of the bay from the Indians, anchored his ship in its
sheltered waters. The career of the town has been a quiet one, not even
the customary Indian wars disturbing its serenity. There are memories,
however, of two distinguished Americans, for Lieut. Ulysses S. Grant
was at one time stationed at old Fort Humboldt, slight remains of which
may still be seen. It was also in Eureka where the youthful Bret Harte
began his career as a journalist--officiating as compositor, printer’s
devil, and assistant editor of the “Northern California,” then
published in the town. Here he had a rather thrilling experience which
might have cost the world one of its rarest literary geniuses--and
actually cost him his job on the paper.
During the absence of the editor, he was left in charge of the
paper--like Mark Twain under similar circumstances--and, like Mark, he
at once proceeded to break over conventions. Outrages of the Whites
against the Indians of the surrounding country were then common and
were usually winked at by the editor, who thought more of the support
of the citizens than the rights of the red man. A particularly cowardly
massacre was perpetrated while Harte was in charge of the paper. Just
how cowardly may be judged from a letter of one of the offenders, who
declared, “We have been searching the mountains, destroying villages,
killing all males we could find, and capturing the women and children.
We have killed about thirty altogether and now have twenty-eight
captives in camp.” No one hated injustice and cruelty more than Bret
Harte and in an editorial he scathingly condemned the murderers. This
roused the anger of the community and a mob gathered with the avowed
purpose of wrecking the newspaper plant and hanging the youthful
scribe. Harte showed himself game to the last degree and held the mob
at bay with two cocked pistols during probably the longest evening of
his life. The timely arrival of a few cavalrymen from the fort probably
saved his life, but his love of justice brought him a quick dismissal
on the return of the owner of the paper. Perhaps this experience, after
all, was a God-send to Harte’s budding genius. Had things gone too
smoothly in his first essay at journalism he might have missed the rich
experience that came of his nomadic career among the pioneer mining
camps and settled down into the quiet ways of a backwoods editor.
IX
EUREKA TO CLOVERDALE
A very dull morning with streets and walks wet from a light, drizzling
rain greeted our dismayed vision as we hastily glanced from the hotel
windows on rising. The hotel people had duly warned us that they hadn’t
a corner left for us for the coming night and we counted it very likely
that every hotel and lodging house in Eureka was just as “full up,” as
the English say. Furthermore, there was no assurance if it once began
to rain that it would let up for a week, for week-long rains are to be
expected in Humboldt County in season. And from all we could learn, a
long-continued rain meant no thoroughfare for heavy cars through the
mountains to the south.
[Illustration: SAND DUNES ON THE NORTH COAST
From painting by N. Hagerup]
We had a little official information concerning the road over which
we must pass, for a bulletin of the California Highway Commission
declared, “Eureka can be reached during the summer months only under
the most strenuous conditions by means of the road from San Francisco
over the summit of the Bell Springs Mountain, elevation 4100 feet
above the sea level. After the first rains the road is impassable
for motors and even horse-drawn vehicles, traffic on the route being
limited to saddle and pack animals. At Dyerville an ascent of 3937 feet
begins up and down grades as high as thirty per cent to the summit, a
distance of forty-six miles. The descent, up and down grades exceeding
twenty per cent, occupies a distance of twelve miles and ends at the
foot of ‘Rattlesnake Grade,’ 2686 feet below. The high altitudes on
the route afford magnificent views of the surrounding country in all
directions, though the average tourist would no doubt gladly forego
the scenic advantages of the Bell Springs Mountain to travel a less
strenuous route. The terror of the Bell Springs Mountain, however, in
the near future will exist only in memory; the pioneer road of Northern
California will be superseded by the Coast Line of the new highway
system.”
But all this cheerful prospect for the future could not shorten the
Bell Springs road one foot or reduce its frightful grades a single inch
so far as we were concerned. It lay before us with all its terror and
mystery and it was an even gamble whether the heavy clouds would break
away or the drizzle settle down into a steady rain. We tried to realize
what a thirty per cent grade was really like; we had passed twenty and
possibly twenty-five per cent slopes on our trip. “But a thirty per
cent grade,” said the dismayed lady member of the expedition, “that’s
one third of straight up. Will any car do that?” She was assured
that most cars could accomplish this feat if working well and under
favorable conditions, but in a rain--the possible consequences were not
pleasant to contemplate.
We descended to breakfast in a mood of gloomy indecision. It seemed
imperative for us to leave Eureka in any event. We had instructed our
driver to be ready at eight o’clock and he was on hand with his usual
promptness.
“Will she do a thirty per cent grade?” I asked jokingly, knowing his
unwavering faith in the Pierce.
“She’ll do anything she can get traction on,” he said, “but in the
mud--” So his thought was the same as our own, but what was the use
pursuing an unpleasant subject?
“We’ve four wheel chains, in any event,” I said and the big car glided
forth as calmly as if an unbroken boulevard stretched to the metropolis.
As I look back at it now, I must admit that we committed an act of
egregious folly in setting out on this trip in face of what looked like
an all-day rain. If it had been an all-day rain we might have been
marooned many days in these mighty hills, if, indeed, we had not met
with deadly disaster of some sort. Even as it was, we had occasion for
real anxiety more than once, as will appear in due course of my story.
We felt that if the outlook grew more threatening we could stop at
Fortuna, another small wooden town twenty miles distant, where fair
accommodations may be had.