well-improved country, and when we drove down the main street of the
village we were rejoiced to see that the sky had lightened somewhat
and the rain almost ceased. A garage man still farther reassured us.
“Going to clear off,” he declared in response to our query on weather
probabilities as our gasoline tank was being filled to the limit. “O,
yes, it would be an ugly job if it should rain, but it ain’t going
to rain,” which cheerful assurance we accepted and following his
directions proceeded on a road which, besides its real danger in wet
weather, proved to afford no decent accommodations for over fifty miles.
Just beyond Fortuna we passed a large, deep pool in the Eel River
which is said to afford unequalled sport for fishermen, King Solomon,
steel-head, and mountain trout being taken in large numbers even by
inexperienced anglers. A number of summer cottages have been built
here and the place shows increasing popularity as a summer resort.
We found the new state highway usable between Alton, four miles farther
on, and Dyerville, thus enabling us to avoid the hills via Rio Dell and
Pepperwood, which have some heavy grades ranging up to twenty-five per
cent. The new road was pretty rough and soft in places, as no surfacing
had yet been done. A fine new bridge across the Eel was building near
Alton, but it was not yet open and a very tortuous detour through
deep sand was necessary. Beyond the river we continued for many miles
through closely standing redwoods--great columnar trees which would
have excited our wonder and admiration to a greater degree had we not
seen the more imposing forests of the north.
At Dyerville, a wretched-looking little hamlet of half a dozen
buildings, we bade farewell to the new highway. It had been completed
some distance beyond this point, but a gap of thirty miles remained
to be bridged before it could supersede the Bell Springs road. The
new highway follows the south fork of the Eel River and gradually
rises until it joins the present road at Cummings, elevation 1414
feet, sixty-nine miles from Dyerville. This will entirely avoid the
Bell Springs Mountain and eliminate a climb and descent of nearly
three thousand feet. Construction was in progress at the time of our
visit and the new bond issue insures the completion of the work, which
may be accomplished before my book sees the light. Tourists of the
future, with rarest exceptions, will speed over the new boulevard and
the Bell Springs road will fall into disuse. We shall always be glad,
however--now that it is safely over--that circumstances forced us to
climb the rugged mountain, since from its slopes and summit we beheld
some of the wildest and most beautiful panoramas to be seen in all
California.
Heavy work began immediately after we crossed the river at Dyerville.
A long grade zigzagged up the slope of the mountain, closely following
the Eel for several miles and affording many magnificent panoramas of
the river and rugged ranges of wooded hills that guard it on either
hand. Splendid pines crowded closely up to the narrow road and did much
to lessen the nervous effects of the long, sharp slope at our side.
At the turns of the road, however, there were frequent open spaces
which allowed views of ever-increasing grandeur as we ascended; the
river, far below, lay in still, green pools or dashed in foaming rapids
among the lichen-covered boulders. Beyond were endless hill ranges,
cloud-swept here and there, for, though the rain had ceased, the sky
was still threatening.
A long descent brought us to the railroad; then the road swung away
from the river and followed the crest of the ridge between the Eel and
South Fork for the remainder of the day. Another long, heavy grade
confronted us with two sharp “hairpin” turns which some facetious
wayfarer has dubbed “The Devil’s Elbow,” and we recalled that we had
passed a hill in the Scotch Highlands where a like honor had been paid
to His Satanic Majesty. We thought the latter bad enough at the time,
but it was tame when compared with the twists and grades of this far
western trail. The long wheel base of our car made it necessary to back
up at several of the turns, an operation which excited lively anxiety
on part of our lady passenger. It was disquieting, indeed, to see the
rear wheel of the car approach within a foot or two of the high bank at
the side of the turn with a twenty per cent slope looming ahead, but
the car responded so beautifully to the skill of the driver that she
gradually became reassured.
The forest gradually dwindled and beyond Fruitland--there was little
except the name on the map to indicate the existence of such a
place--we came into a barren, desolate-looking region with little
vegetation except scrub trees and shrubs, through which the road kept
a general ascent, though there were occasional downward dips. At the
foot of one of these we ran on to a most disconsolate party in a Ford
which had been stalled for some hours for lack of gasoline. Only one
car had passed and the occupants had declined assistance on the ground
that they feared a shortage of the very necessary fluid themselves.
“Then I hired a horse,” said the driver, “of the man on the hill yonder
and one of our ladies visited the three other houses in this little
valley, but couldn’t scare up a pint of gas at any of them. I’ll pay
you any price you ask for a gallon or two.”
We freely confessed that price wasn’t the consideration--we feared
a shortage ourselves on some of the hills before us. Our car was
gravity-fed and it might fail on a steep grade with several gallons in
the tank. Still, the obligations of the Golden Rule weighed heavily
upon us in such a case and we granted our friend in distress the two
gallons he so earnestly prayed for. We declined the dollar he tried
to force upon us on the ground that we were not helping him out for
worldly gain--we only hoped we wouldn’t run short ourselves.
He assured us that it was only ten miles over a level road to Harris,
where he had carelessly neglected to replenish his supply, but I fear
that his predicament warped his judgment of distance. It proved a full
twenty miles with many steep pitches which caused us no little anxiety
and which continually increased, for Harris seemed constantly to recede
as we cautiously proceeded over a road that varied from fair to very
bad. There were many stony stretches where the car scrambled over
good-sized boulders still wet from the mists that at intervals swept
across the mountains. It was a wild and lonely road, with no sign of
human habitation for many miles; only the long views across the rugged
hills redeemed it from dreary monotony.
At one point four fine does contemplated us curiously and with little
sign of fear, at a distance of perhaps sixty yards; they, too, seemed
to realize that woman’s rights in California are even extended to
deer--there is a heavy fine for killing a doe. We were told that these
hills are alive with deer, but the exceedingly rugged nature of the
country makes hunting very difficult. The road constantly grew more
tortuous and arduous and we made many remarks about the tendency of
Harris to recede as we advanced--we even began to wonder if we might
not have passed it unaware. It was, therefore, with no small relief
that we beheld Harris finally heave in sight, but our reviving spirits
dropped when we saw a sign posted on the hotel, which is all there is
of Harris, “Positively closed for the season,” and could detect no sign
of life about the place. Was our expected gasoline supply to fail here
with the Bell Springs Mountain now directly before us? A reconnoissance
of the place, however, discovered the man in charge, who gleefully
filled our tank with forty-cent gas and our apprehensions vanished into
thin air.
While we were engaged in this transaction, a Ford car paused and
began to disgorge its contents under a group of trees near by--said
contents consisting of six people and two dogs, and an endless array
of camping and other impedimenta was strapped to the machine at every
available projection, almost concealing it from view. An old-fashioned,
tin-covered trunk was fastened at the rear and several grips were piled
about the engine hood. The wonder of it was that the flimsy-looking car
could stand up under it all, even though two of the passengers were
rather small children and the dogs not very large. The party proceeded
at once to build a fire; a warm dinner and hot coffee were evidently
on the program--which reminded us that we had neglected to provide
ourselves with our usual lunch on leaving Eureka. The man who supplied
gasoline assured us that we would find an excellent hotel still open
at Bell Springs, twelve miles farther on; we ought to reach it in an
hour, he thought.
“O, yes, some pretty stiff going, to be sure, but nothing to worry that
wagon of yours, I guess,” he said.
It proved a steep, stony, winding, wicked dozen miles with one thirty
per cent pitch, according to our road maps, all of which drawbacks
were mightily accentuated in our minds when the rain commenced again
shortly after we left Harris. Tire chains were brought into requisition
and after a steady grind of an hour and a quarter, enlivened by no
end of nervous thrills, we paused with steaming radiator in front of
the attractive-looking Bell Springs Inn. It was about two o’clock
and twenty-three miles from Laytonville, where we proposed, rather
dubiously, to stop for the night.
“Here’s our only chance for luncheon,” I announced--a matter which a
very early and very light breakfast at Eureka no doubt served to keep
in my mind.
“I don’t want any lunch,” came from the rear seat. “I want to get out
of these terrible hills just as quickly as we possibly can. Whatever
induced you to choose this awful road? You always seem to find the
worst possible.” To all of which no adequate answer came to my mind.
With a lingering look at the hotel, I gave the word to proceed, not
without considerable misgiving, for it was still raining and the
information which we had of the road was far from reassuring. True,
it was down hill most of the way, but my experience was that it is
easier to climb a muddy grade than to descend one. The descent began
shortly after leaving the hotel and for some miles we proceeded with
extreme caution down narrow switchbacks with sharp turns, some of which
required backing. The scenery was magnificent, rugged slopes covered
with gigantic pines which often came up to the roadside--but I confess
that we did not pay enough attention to the scenery to warrant much
descriptive writing. The road grew muddier with the incessant rain and
as we came to the steep pitches of Rattlesnake Grade, the car showed an
unmistakable tendency to skid, despite the chains on the rear wheels.
Few things are so likely to make one’s heart sink as the feeling that a
heavy car is not entirely under control on a steep grade, barely wider
than the wheels, with a sharp turn on the verge of a precipice every
few rods. We stopped and applied chains to the front wheels as well,
but even then a tendency to slide on the grades was still noticeable
and extreme caution was necessary. And yet the showers had only
“greased” the road; I do not believe any car could negotiate these
grades in a heavy rain.
Fortune, however, favored us for once, since the rain ceased just as
we were wondering if we might not have to spend a supperless night
on the road--which we certainly should have been compelled to do had
conditions grown much worse. There was a rustic hotel at Cummings, at
the foot of Rattlesnake Grade, but in order to carry out our plans for
the following day, we felt it advisable to push on to Laytonville,
though we realized that night would overtake us before we arrived.
We had consumed nearly three hours in covering the twelve miles from
Bell Springs, but we hoped to make better time over the thirteen miles
still remaining--which we did, as the road was quite dry, though
excruciatingly stony and rough. There was one heavy grade, but in the
main we followed a canyon with a gradual descent. The road was so
narrow that we found great difficulty in passing a belated car which we
met, and so rough that a snail’s pace was enforced much of the way.
The canyon was heavily wooded; vines and shrubbery, rich with autumn
colorings, grew in rank profusion. Despite the lateness of the season,
there were occasional blooms. We saw dogwood and wild rosebushes
bearing both blossoms and bright red berries. Huckleberries were
common, as were also the pale red clusters of the honeysuckle, and
manzanitas. The air was fragrant with the odor of balsam pine and we
felt that it would be a delightful run had we not been tired, cold,
and hungry. But very tired, cold, and hungry we were and the last few
miles done in the dark before we reached Laytonville were long ones,
indeed. It was a time when a truly comfortable inn would be as welcome
as ever in our wanderings, but we did not hope for such a blessing in
Laytonville, an isolated little village of about a hundred people.
The hotel proved a large, wooden building, much larger than the size
of the place would lead one to expect, but comforts and conveniences,
besides bed and board, were not to be found in its brown, clapboarded
walls. No private bath was to be had and no heat in the rooms, though
the night was frosty cold. There was a big wood-stove in the public
room which was surrounded three or four deep by a crowd made up, I
should judge, of village loafers, though there were a few commercial
men among them. It was certainly not very inviting for a lady guest
and the moving-picture show with which we usually beguiled away dull
evenings, was non-existent in Laytonville. Evidently the best program
for us was to eat our supper and go to bed. The evening meal, served at
a common table in country style, proved far better than we expected.
In fact, the pastry was so excellent that our lady manager must needs
have the recipe, which the flattered cook was delighted to supply.
After supper I stumbled along the unlighted street to a little general
store, hoping to find a hot-water bottle to mitigate the rigors of the
climate a little, but the queer old backwoodsman storekeeper declared,
“I’ve heern of them things, but I never had no call for one.”
The store was the queerest jumble I ever saw, groceries, clothing,
dry goods, hardware, patent medicines--just a little of each--and
endless odds and ends that looked as if they had been twenty-five years
accumulating, were piled in hopeless confusion--there seemed a chance
of finding anything but what you wanted.
“Yaas,” the old fellow admitted, “thar’s another store in the town,
just down the street--just down the street.”
The other store was closed, but the next day we found it a large,
well-stocked mercantile concern which evidently did a big volume of
business.
Returning to the hotel, I lounged half an hour about the lobby,
listening to the conversation, which I soon found was almost wholly
made up of humorous anecdotes of the old storekeeper whom I had just
visited and who appeared to be a character of considerable local
notoriety--an honest, simple-minded old fellow fitter for almost
anything than managing a business.
If it was hard to get into the chilly bed at the Laytonville, it
was still harder to get up by twilight in the frosty air of the
room and wash in ice-cold water--for there was no call bell and we
neglected to leave orders for hot water. We rushed through with the
process, however, thinking we would hurry down and thaw out by the big
wood-stove, but we found it stone cold and the room deserted--and it is
safe to say that thousands of cords of wood were rotting within a mile
of the inn. The lady indignantly marched into the kitchen, somewhat to
the consternation of the powers that presided there--but it was not
long until a big fire was roaring in the lobby stove.
A sign above the counter admonished the wayfarer thirsting for
information to “Ask Dad--he knows,” referring to the portly landlord,
whom we found very jovial and accommodating. He apologized for lack of
fire in the morning with some remark about the unreasonable “stumpage”
charge of the people who owned the forest about the place and he also
deprecated the unwillingness of the owner of the building to do a
number of things that would conduce to the comfort of the guests.
When we asked “Dad” about the road to Westport and from thence along
the coast, we found he did “know,” all right, for he assured us that it
was far better than the main highway to the south. And so we resolved
to get back to the sea, for the morning had cleared beautifully and
gave promise of a day full of light and color. It is twenty miles to
Westport and the road runs through a fine forest all the way, though
the redwoods, which are quite common, are only saplings five or six
feet in diameter. There is only one grade of consequence--the long
descent to the coast, which affords many glorious views of the ocean
through occasional openings in the trees.
Westport is a small, bleak-looking lumber town, evidently in a state
of decline; there was nothing to detain us there and we were quickly
away on the road to the south, which keeps in sight of the ocean for
more than one hundred miles, though we were told that it was not then
practicable for motors for more than half that distance. The excellence
of the road for perhaps thirty miles was an agreeable surprise, a
smooth, well graded natural dirt surface very much like a well-dragged
Iowa road at its very best--fine in dry weather, but to be avoided when
it rains.
We skimmed merrily along, enjoying the salt tang of the breeze and
the beauty of Old Ocean in one of his happiest moods. We ran along
rather barren-looking headlands, which at times carried us to wonderful
vantage-points from which we beheld indescribably glorious views of the
sea, resplendent under the pale blue sky of a perfect day. The breeze
had swept away the lingering ghosts of yesterday’s fog, revealing a
shimmering expanse of water, jade-green near the shore and running
through all the shades of green and blue into a deep violet in the far
distance. Looking toward the sun it shimmered and coruscated like a
sea of molten silver, while along the whole irregular shoreline around
the detached rocks and beneath the bold, rugged headlands it rippled
in long white breakers or dashed into wind-swept spray. The air was
redolent with the fresh, pungent smell of the sea--how we enjoy it when
on land and detest it when on shipboard!--and everything conspired
to make us glad that we had made the necessary detour to catch this
glorious stretch of Mendocino coast.
Fort Bragg, of some three thousand people, seventeen miles from
Westport, is the largest and best-appearing town, with handsome public
buildings and good-looking shops--clearly the chief business and
trading center of this section. It is the terminus of a branch of the
Northern Pacific Railroad leading to the main line at Willits, which
is doubtless the secret of its superiority to the other coast towns
we passed through. It is larger than Ukiah, the county seat, which
probably holds the distinction because of its more central situation.
Beyond Fort Bragg we crossed several shallow, emerald-green inlets
at the mouth of creek or river, both the descent and the climb a
sharp scramble. Three or four of the larger inlets were dammed to a
considerable depth and logs were floated from the interior to a busy
sawmill near the sea. The coast, however, with the exception of a few
picturesque little groves near the sea, is quite denuded of timber.
There are a good many farm-houses, some of very comfortable appearance,
but the agricultural resources of the country did not impress us as
very great. The reddish brown soil did not give any special indication
of fertility and live stock was not much in evidence. Directly on the
coast in places there is a wide belt of sand dunes which are slowly
shifting landward and encroaching on the farms a little each year.
[Illustration: THE MENDOCINO COAST
From painting by N. Hagerup]
Mendocino City, the next place of any size, is a rather bleak,
un-American-looking village of a thousand people. Here we paused for
lunch at a large, rambling, wooden hotel which must have been a
lively place in the old lumbering and stage-coach days. Now it seemed
almost deserted and the well-worn floor of its dismantled bar-room
told of the loss of a goodly number of patrons who were formerly wont
to come here to assuage their thirst. It was with some misgivings
that we entered the place, but the sight of the cleanly, kindly-faced
landlady reassured us; and we fared far better than we hoped for in
the scrupulously clean dining-room--which led us to again remark on
the extremely rare instances where we have found slovenly service or
niggardly meals in even the lesser California hotels. The young man who
acted as clerk, when he heard that we expected to reach Cloverdale for
the night, advised us not to go as far on the coast road as Greenwood,
which we planned, but to turn inland at Navarro, six miles north--a
change which he declared would save us some bad road.
We had not gotten far from Mendocino when we agreed that it was
not especially desirable to pursue the coast road any farther than
necessary, for we found it quite unimproved, dusty, and rough, with
very steep grades--especially the one leading out of the deep canyon
just south of the town. After that, every few miles we met with sharp
plunges into deep, narrow canyons, and steep, dusty scrambles out of
them, with some very rough going between.
At Little River and Albion, large sawmills were in operation. The
former village is a pretty little place, with rose-embowered cottages
and apple orchards laden with red and golden globes. The schoolhouse is
situated in a group of fragrant pines and everything combined to give
the village an air of Arcadian quiet and contentment. Perhaps much of
this was only in our imagination, but we did not disturb our pleasant
impressions by making useless inquiries.
The coast beyond the village was exceedingly rugged but beautiful and
inspiring. Bold, wooded headlands rose above us, a deep violet sea lay
in quiet beauty beneath, and we even had to admit that the inlets, with
their steep plunges and rattle-trap bridges, were beautiful. Here is,
indeed, a country for our artists to discover; they will find the color
and rugged beauty of Monterey on a wilder and vaster scale. In fact, we
often remarked that the whole coast from Greenwood to Crescent City,
with its colorful ocean, its rugged, rock-bound shoreline, its giant
forests, and a thousand other sights of beauty and grandeur, offers a
field for the landscape painter such as scarcely exists elsewhere in
the world.
Albion seems the busiest place we have yet discovered. Its excuse for
being is a great sawmill which employs several hundred men and which
is supplied with logs by the river and a railroad extending twenty
miles into the hills. The shriek of the saws, the hiss of steam, and
the rumble of the locomotive, reached us before we descended the steep
slope to the inlet upon which the mill is located, and gave us an
intimation of the principal activity of the town. There is a pretty
little bay into which the river flows and a substantial wharf from
which the finished lumber is shipped by schooner. In crossing the river
we passed directly through the sawmill yards and had a near view of its
giant band-saws traveling through the mighty logs at an astonishing
rate.