a “deserted village,” indeed, for not a human being could be found
about the few gray, weatherbeaten shacks to give us the information
we desired about the road. A little farther on, however, a friendly
signboard made it clear that this was the point where the hotel
clerk had advised us to turn inland. The coast road had been growing
continually more wretched and the deep canyon before us did not look
very inviting. Besides, it was getting late and to go on to Greenwood
would bring us to Cloverdale after dark. We therefore bade a reluctant
farewell to the glorious ocean--it seemed as if we could never tire of
it--and struck the sandy trail that led sharply into a jungle of small
trees and shrubbery. The deep sand and the apparent disuse of the road
caused us some apprehension. The road, however, gradually improved as
it descended to the Navarro River, passing several poor-looking fruit
ranches on the way.
The grade out of the canyon is one of the longest and heaviest that
we covered during our entire tour. It has few turns, climbing the
canyon side in a straight slope several miles long, at places the
rise exceeding twenty-five per cent. It seemed as if it would never
end and we grew very apprehensive of our gasoline supply, which we
expected to replenish at Greenwood, now eliminated from our route. I
confidently looked for the engine to stall for lack of fuel on some of
these appalling grades, and whiled the time in imagining what course
we should pursue if this happened. I did not reach any satisfactory
conclusion, nor have I yet, for we did not meet another car on this
road and the nearest gas station was twenty miles away. But it didn’t
happen and we replenished our supply at one of the little towns. There
were three or four villages on the fifty-mile stretch between the
coast and Cloverdale, all of them rather dilapidated and forlorn,
though there was much activity at Boonville, where a huge sawmill was
in operation. None of the numerous ranches along the road looked very
prosperous and perhaps half of the houses were deserted and falling
into ruin. This, we were told, did not necessarily mean that the owner
had starved out. A great many of them, after “proving up” their claims,
had sold out to the large ranchers, who were buying immense tracts in
this country.
There was much pretty scenery along the way, rich with autumnal
colorings which we might have admired more had we been more comfortable
ourselves. But the road was rough and dusty and the wind had risen to
a perfect gale which chilled us for all our wraps and blankets. A car
was ahead of us for the last several miles and almost strangled us with
dust clouds so dense that even trying to pass was out of the question.
We rejoiced with exceeding joy when eight miles from Cloverdale we came
into the new state highway, smooth and dust-free. Our chance friend at
Crater Lake Lodge had especially admonished us to stop at McCray’s when
we reached Cloverdale, and had noted on our maps, “Very comfortable
country inn two miles out of Cloverdale.” So we kept a sharp lookout,
for a “very comfortable inn” seemed about the acme of our earthly
desires at that particular time. We had no difficulty in finding our
proposed haven, for a huge, rambling frame building bearing the legend,
“McCray’s,” loomed up directly by the roadside and we were received
more like expected guests of the family than commercial patrons.
There was a decided atmosphere of home about the rambling old
place--originally the McCray Homestead--and one very quickly falls in
with the mood of good fellowship that rules everybody connected with
the inn. We were ushered into the family sitting-room with its roaring,
open fireplace--welcome, indeed, after our ride in the piercing
wind--and were cordially greeted by Father McCray, a six-foot-two giant
whom the younger generation designated as “Pap.” He introduced us to
the other guests, mainly members and close friends of the family, for
the season was over, though the inn is kept open the year round. They
all proved very pleasant, jovial people and we soon learned how very
different are the relations between the McCray’s and their guests from
those between the ordinary hotel and its patrons. The inn, we learned,
is conducted on quite an extensive scale during the summer, when two
hundred people can be entertained in the main building and adjacent
cottages. There is a large, well-appointed club-house just across the
road, where the guests may pursue dancing and other amusements to their
hearts’ content, and there is usually enough going on to thoroughly
dispel ennui on part of anyone.
But the crowning feature of McCray’s is the meal service; verily, it
brought back recollections of mother at her best in boyhood days on the
farm. The delicious conserves, never found in any mere hotel, are made
from California fruit right on the premises and nearly everything used
is grown on the farm under Pap’s watchful supervision. A few words with
Pap are all that is necessary to convince you that no detail of service
or entertainment escapes him and that he has more pride in earning
the approval of his guests than a mere desire to get their money. We
liked McCrays of all degrees and already have plans for a trip in
that vicinity again, with the inn as one of our stopping-places. Our
only suggestion for improvement is that a locked garage will make the
average motorist feel easier than the open shed in which our car was
stored during our visit.
The next morning we were away on an easy run to the metropolis through
the famous Santa Rosa Valley, with its endless vineyards now laden
with their purple harvest. Everywhere were signs of activity on part
of the vineyard people and we met many loaded wagons and motor
trucks carrying the grapes to the numerous wineries in this vicinity.
But I will not write in detail of our last day’s run, since I have
covered this country fully in my previous book, “On Sunset Highways.”
We reached San Francisco in the early afternoon, having been absent
from the golden gate city for nearly a month and our strenuous but
delightful and inspiring pilgrimage through the mighty hills and lovely
vales of Northern California and the Oregon country was at an end.
Into Yosemite
by Motor
[Illustration: EL CAPITAN, YOSEMITE
From painting by H. H. Bagg]
Into Yosemite by Motor
When the writer of this book first visited Yosemite a few years ago,
no motor car was allowed to intrude in its sylvan solitudes and it was
freely alleged by the stage drivers that the time would never come
when this noisy, dust-raising demon would be permitted to frighten
their horses and disturb their equanimity. Their attitude was one of
decided hostility, though they affected to laugh at the suggestion--the
roads were too crooked and narrow and the grades too steep for
“automobeels”--no, sir, you’d never see them in Yosemite. Besides, the
horses in the park had never seen these pesky machines; they would
simply go crazy and dump the coaches over the cliffs. All of which
seemed reasonable enough at the time and nothing was farther from my
mind than the idea of piloting a car through the devious trails that
serve for roads in this sylvan wonderland.
But “tempora mutantur,” indeed. Motor cars in California increased in
geometrical ratio and the owners banded themselves together in the live
and efficient organization known as the Automobile Club of Southern
California. This club contended that no good reason could be urged
against admitting motor cars to Yosemite and after a dint of effort
succeeded in bringing the Secretary of the Interior to the same point
of view. True, the decree was issued with apparent fear and hesitation
and the venturesome motorist who wished to explore the park was hedged
about with restrictions and hampered with endless red tape regulations.
The cars came, nevertheless, though probably as many were deterred by
the stringent rules as by the forbidding roads.
The dire results so freely predicted by the stage men did not
materialize in any great degree. There were few serious accidents and
the motors, as a rule, met with little difficulty in negotiating the
roads to and within the park. As a consequence, the rules were relaxed
with each succeeding year and many of the most annoying regulations
abandoned or reduced to mere formalities. We made our trip in September
of the Panama-Pacific year, and during the previous months of the
season nearly two thousand cars had preceded us into the park. We did
not have to demonstrate that “either set of brakes would lock the
wheels to a skid;” in fact, I am very dubious on this point. We did
not have to get up at an unearthly hour to enter or leave the park and
the time schedule imposed on us was so reasonable that none but the
speed maniac would care to exceed it, even had no severe penalty been
attached. It was all simple enough and our trials in doing Yosemite by
motor lay in a different direction than the rules and regulations, as
will appear in due course of my narrative.
There are several routes by which one may enter and leave the park
pending the happy day longed for by the Auto Club when a broad, smooth
road--“no grades exceeding five per cent”--shall convey the joyful
motorist to this Earthly Paradise of the Sierras. You can go from
Fresno via Coarse Gold, from Merced via Coulterville, from Stockton
via Chinese Camp, or from Madera via Raymond. You can now even reach
the park from the east by the new Tioga road, branching off the Sierra
Highway at Mono Lake, should you be seeking the wildest and most
difficult route of all.
We decided, for reasons which may become apparent as I proceed, to make
our entrance by the Madera route and to leave the park with Stockton
as our objective. We still have reason to believe that as things stood
at the time--or even now--these routes were the most satisfactory
and we are quite sure that whatever improvement may be made, the
tourist interested in pioneer days of California and fond of wild and
impressive scenery should choose the Stockton road at least one way.
We did not get away from Fresno, where we passed the night preceding
our start for Wawona, until late in the afternoon. A swift run over
the splendid new highway brought us to Madera about four in the
evening, but there remained little hope of covering sixty miles of
unknown mountain road to Wawona before nightfall. A glance at our maps
revealed Raymond, about twenty-five miles farther on--the terminal of a
branch railroad from Madera. We decided that Raymond would make a good
stopping-point for the night; an early start would easily enable us to
reach Yosemite the next day. So we set out over a choppy and very dusty
dirt road which was conducive to anything but speed and comfort, but
which nevertheless brought us to our objective in the course of an hour.
We found a forlorn-looking hamlet in the edge of the foothills and a
glance at the ramshackle wooden hotel was anything but reassuring.
A short conversation with the proprietor of a little shack labeled
“garage” was not more encouraging. He was very noncommittal about the
merits of the hotel and finally said,
“It’s only thirty miles to Miami Lodge--mighty comfortable place; you
ought to reach there before it gets dark. Shall I telephone them to
hold dinner for you?”
All of which sounded good to us as we contemplated prospective
accommodations in Raymond, and with a speedy acquiescence we were away
for Miami Lodge. Ten miles per hour, said the garage man, would be
a good average for a greenhorn over the road we were to traverse--a
ridiculously low estimate, we thought, but we had not proceeded far
before we agreed with his conservatism. A narrow and exceedingly
tortuous road plunged into the hills, threading its way among giant
pines or creeping precariously along steep hillsides and around abrupt
corners deep with dust and at times laboriously steep. Now and then it
emerged into pleasant little glades and on entering one of these we
saw a young mountain lion trotting leisurely toward the thicket. Of
course our small rifle was under a pile of baggage, unloaded, and the
cartridges in a grip, but we consoled ourselves with remarks about the
extreme improbability of hitting him even if we had the gun.
It was sunset by the time we had covered little more than half the
distance and while we regarded the approaching darkness with some
apprehension, for the road showed no signs of improvement, we forgot
it all in our admiration for the enchanting scene. Many were the
magnificent vistas opening through the pines skirting our road along
the mountainside. Purple hills topped with dark forests stretched
away to a crimson sky; shadowy canyons sloped far beneath us, their
mysterious deeps shrouded in a soft blue haze. It was a constantly
changing yet always entrancing picture until the color faded from the
skies and the canyons were blotted out by the gathering blackness. Then
the road demanded our undivided attention, for we covered the last ten
miles in pitch darkness and our neglected headlights proved in very
poor condition.
About dusk we passed a little store and postoffice bearing the poetic
name of Grub Gulch and later came to a comfortable-looking roadside
inn, the Ahwahnee Tavern, where we should doubtless have stopped
had our accommodations not been ordered at Miami Lodge. We learned,
however, that this was only six miles farther and we crept cautiously
onward over the stiff grades and around the abrupt turns. We were glad
indeed when the lights of the Lodge twinkled through the pines and,
leaving the old car to shift for herself under the stars, made a hasty
toilet and attacked the substantial meal we found ready for us.
The Lodge is a comfortable rustic inn set in the pines on a hillside
which slopes down to a clear creek dammed at one point into a small
lake. The little valley forms a natural amphitheater surrounded
by the forest-clad hills and is altogether a pleasant and restful
spot well away from noise and disturbance of any kind. The creek is
stocked with rainbow trout and big game is fairly common--attractions
which bring many sportsmen to the Lodge. It is easy of access by the
Madera-Yosemite auto stages which run daily during the season.
Beyond Miami Lodge we found the road even more trying than it was
southward. Heavy grades and sharp turns continued, and deep dust and
rough stretches caused much discomfort. We met many motor trucks and
several heavy wagons drawn by six or eight horses, which made ticklish
work in passing on the narrow grades and which stirred up clouds of
yellow dust. As the sun mounted, the day became intolerably hot, making
it necessary to elevate our cape top which combined with the dust to
interfere with our view of the scenery.
The famous Mariposa Grove of giant redwoods lies a short distance off
the main road to Wawona and though we had visited this before, we could
not resist the temptation to do the big trees by motor. An attendant
at the entrance gate demanded a fee of one dollar and admitted us to a
narrow, winding road which steadily climbed a stiff grade for about
three miles before we came to the trees. We renewed our acquaintance
with the Grizzly Giant, reputed the oldest of living things on this
mundane sphere. We found him protected by a high wire fence to ward off
fiends suffering from the name-carving mania or souvenir seekers who
sought to rob him of a chip or twig. He had not aged perceptibly since
our previous visit and looked good for many more centuries, though the
late John Muir once declared his belief that the Grizzly Giant had
passed his zenith of growth and is now in his decline, a point not yet
reached by any other redwood. But the hoar old monarch stands a second
visit well indeed, though one may not experience quite the feeling of
awe always inspired by the first sight of these mighty trees. It quite
overwhelms one to reflect that here is a living thing older than the
oldest records of the human race--a life that was in its infancy at
the beginnings of Egyptian civilization. So impressive to us was the
Giant and the reveries he excited that we hardly gave due attention
to his three hundred and sixty-four companions in this grove, the
least of which, taken by itself, might well excite the astonishment
of anyone who had never before seen a redwood. Of course we had the
novel experience of piloting a motor car through the living arch of the
Wawona while completing the circle through the grove which brought us
again into the road by which we entered.
Wawona is only four miles from the big-tree road, a rough, dusty, and
very winding four miles with a good many steep grades, and it was
an interesting comparison to recall the trip we made over it in a
coach-and-four on our previous visit to the grove. Making due allowance
for all the discomforts one experiences in an automobile during a hot,
dusty day on difficult mountain roads, our present method of travel
made the memory of the snail’s pace and suffocating dust and heat of
our former trip to the grove seem more than ever like a nightmare.
We reached Wawona in time for the noonday luncheon at the pleasant
old inn which has been the haven of sightseers for nearly half a
century. It is delightfully situated in a little vale amidst a group
of towering pines and all about it green meadows stretch away to the
forest-clad hills that surround it on every hand. Through the valley
runs the South Merced, famous for its mountain trout, a delicacy which
guests at the inn sometimes enjoy. About the main hotel building are
scattered several isolated cottages for the accommodation of guests
who may be particular about privacy and plenty of light and air. There
are numerous beautiful drives in the vicinity aside from the Mariposa
Grove trip. One of these follows the river for some distance and
another makes a circuit of the valley.
We had no time for these, as we were intent upon reaching Yosemite
for the night and the regulation is that you check in at the final
station by six o’clock. About a mile from Wawona we found the cabin of
the ranger who issues tickets for the south entrance to the park. The
formalities detained us but a few moments, since with the great influx
of motor tourists during the exposition year, much of the original
red tape was dispensed with. A copy of the rules and regulations was
given us and the time of our entrance was stamped upon the ticket to
be delivered to the superintendent at Yosemite village. The action of
our small rifle was sealed and, with a friendly caution that it would
be unwise to exceed the limit, we were ordered to proceed. Knowing
something of the trip from previous experience we felt no uneasiness
about exceeding the two hours and twenty-seven minutes minimum time
allowed for covering the twenty-eight and nine-tenths miles between the
station and Yosemite garage. No one but a confirmed speed maniac would
care to exceed this very reasonable limit and anyone wise enough to
admire the scenery along the road as it deserves to be admired might
well consume twice the minimum time.
For some miles after entering the park we climbed the long, steady
grade following the South Merced Canyon, always at a considerable
distance above the stream, which we could see at intervals through
the pines, flashing over its rock-strewn bed. There was scarcely a
downward dip in the road for the first half-dozen miles, and we could
not but recall the distressing effort of the horses as they toiled
painfully upward on our former trip while we sat disconsolately
enveloped in smothering clouds of dust. What a contrast we found in
the steady, cheerful hum of our engine as it drove our car onward at
not less than the permitted speed of fifteen miles, leaving the dust
behind us and affording unhindered views of the endless panoramas of
canyons and hills. Despite the heat and some murmurs from the back seat
about the effect of the too ardent caresses of California sunshine on
the complexion, we had lowered the cape top, for no one can get the
full effect of the towering pines that skirt this road unless he has
the open heavens above him. One will not often come across--even in
California--finer individual cedars, sugar pines, and yellow pines
than he will see here--splendid arrow-straight shafts several feet in
circumference, often rising to a height of two or even three hundred
feet. It is, indeed, pleasant to think that they are immune from the
lumberman’s ax and guarded carefully against devastating fires. We
paused at times in the shade of these forest titans and contemplated
the wide range of hills and valleys beyond the canyon--particularly at
Lookout Point, some seven or eight miles from Wawona. Here we beheld a
seemingly endless panorama of forest-clad hills stretching away until
lost in the infinite distance of the lucent afternoon. Once before we
had beheld the same scene--at sunset, the hills shrouded in an amethyst
haze, the valleys dim with purple shadows, and the sky resplendent
with crimson and gold. Nothing could have shown more impressively the
wonderful variations of the same landscape at different hours of the
day, or proven more completely that one must come many times to see the
beauty of Yosemite.
Three or four miles beyond Lookout Point the road branches, the left
fork leading to Glacier Point, a distance of fourteen miles. This is a
magnificent drive through virgin forests and should not be missed by
anyone who has not made the trip. There is an old-fashioned hotel at
Glacier Point where one may be fairly comfortable for the night and it
is worth while to remain for the night to witness the sunrise over the
mountain ramparts of the Valley. We did not undertake this trip, having
made it a few years before by stage, but for all that we are sorry now
that we let slip an opportunity to view the wonderful Glacier Point
panorama a second time and some day, shall have to go back again.
Continuing a few miles farther, we came to the top of the grade
leading down into the valley. We recalled it as a stiff, strenuous
road, winding around sharp curves and often along the edge of sheer
precipices which gave us a great many thrills from our high perch
beside the driver of our four-in-hand. We had traversed mountain roads
so much worse in the meanwhile that Wawona grade really seemed quite
tame from a motor car and even the ladies took only languid interest in
its twists and turns. We paused again for the third time at the famous
Inspiration Point, and, indeed, we can not help envying those who are
fortunate to come into the Yosemite by this road and thus get their
first glimpse of the valley from Inspiration Point. Perhaps the view
from Glacier Point is as glorious but one is not likely to come upon it
so suddenly and is somehow expecting stupendous things, but Inspiration
Point bursts on the wayfarer from the Wawona all unaware and he sees
unfold before him almost in an instant all the marvelous sights that
have made Yosemite a world’s wonder. I have tried elsewhere--in
a previous book--to tell something of my impressions when I first
viewed this unmatched scene and perhaps I may be pardoned for a short
repetition of my words, since I do not know that I can do any better in
describing it.
“Inspiration Point! Well named, indeed, for it must surely be a prosaic
imagination that does not kindle with enthusiasm at the prospect.
‘It comes up to the brag,’ is what Ralph Waldo Emerson said after
contemplating it long in silence--or at least that is what the guide
books and railroad literature credit him with having said. It sounds
strangely unlike our staid and gentle philosopher, whose language
we are wont to admire as the finality in polished English. But it
expresses one’s feelings more strongly, perhaps, than fine words.
We have been led to expect much; they have assured us and we have
often read, that the view from Inspiration Point is surpassed by few
panoramas in the world--if, indeed, by any--for grandeur of mountain,
cliff, and peak and for beauty of contour and color, and all of these
are enhanced by the magic of the hour when we are so fortunate as to
see it.