shadows, and its encompassing walls and towers are kindled with
the purple and golden hues of the sunset. As one contemplates the
glittering peaks and domes and the ranges of glowing mountains out
beyond, he can realize John Muir’s characterization of the Sierras
as the ‘Mountains of Light.’ The grandeur of Inspiration Point seems
more of cliffs and spires, of towering walls and mountain peaks, while
from Glacier Point one is perhaps more interested in the details of
the valley itself. But from either point one may witness a scene that
will possess his soul and whose beauty will linger through the years.
We regret the necessity which hurries us from the scene, for the pause
of the stage coach is but momentary. We have had but a glimpse of a
landscape that might well hold one’s rapt attention for hours.”
It is the third time we have viewed this wonderful scene and we have
been fortunate in coming each time at a different period of the
day--morning and evening and early afternoon. Each has shown us a
different phase of the beauty of Yosemite, for the variation of light
and consequent changes of coloring have everything to do with the view
from Inspiration Point.
We proceeded slowly and cautiously down the steep switchbacks leading
to the floor of the Valley, a long, low-gear grind, for regulations
forbid disengaging gears on roads in the park. The descent did not
seem nearly so precarious as when we first made it in the regulation
coach-and-four--the road appeared to have been widened at the turns;
maybe this was only in our imagination, due to greater familiarity
with mountain roads. We were enough at our ease to enjoy the splendid
vistas of the valley and mountains which were presented from a hundred
viewpoints as we slowly descended, something that we hardly did the
first time. Nor did the time seem so long, though I really doubt if we
went down so quickly as our dashing driver piloted his coach-and-four
over this three-mile grade on our first trip. We soon found ourselves
on the floor of the valley with Bridal Veil Falls waving like a
gossamer thread above us--it was in September and the waterfalls were
all at lowest ebb. The four miles along the floor to Yosemite was a
joy ride indeed and we felt no desire to infringe the low speed limit
imposed on motor cars. What though we had seen this wondrous array of
stupendous cliffs, domes, pinnacles, and towers many times before,
familiarity does not detract from their overpowering majesty and weird
changeful beauty.
When we left Wawona we were somewhat fearful that we would be in danger
of exceeding the seemingly absurdly low minimum time allowed--two hours
and twenty-seven minutes for the twenty-six miles. It seemed as if
we couldn’t help beating it without loafing on the way. However, on
consulting our timepieces on nearing Yosemite station--there is a heavy
fine for coming in ahead of schedule--we found that we had consumed
over three hours and had stopped only a few minutes on the way. At the
checking station we paid the five dollar fee required of motorists who
enter Yosemite and took the car to the official garage forthwith, for
absolutely no motoring is permitted in the park except for ingress and
egress.
The old Sentinel Hotel had not changed in appearance since our last
visit, nor had it improved in service; however, it was comfortable
enough for a short stop in warm weather. We had heard many rumors
of a new modern hotel to be erected on the site of the Sentinel and
one declared that it was to be built and managed by that prince of
innkeepers, Frank Miller of the Glenwood Mission Inn--all of which
we fondly hoped might prove true. We learned, however, that although
Mr. Miller had negotiated with the authorities in regard to building
a hotel in Yosemite, he abandoned the scheme when he found that the
government would not grant a lease for a period of more than ten
years. Later a corporation, the Desmond Company, secured control of
the concessions of the park and among their plans, we were told, is
the erection of a first-class hotel, though at this writing the work
has not begun. The company already has a new hotel at Glacier Point--a
great improvement over the barn-like structure with which Yosemite
tourists have so long been familiar.
Our excuse for a third trip to Yosemite was chiefly that we wanted to
visit it by motor car; we had seen most of the sights and made most of
the trail trips and drives, so there was little to do but lounge about
in the hotel and vicinity for the rest of the afternoon. I visited
the garage, which was merely a huge tent with open sides, where the
cars were parked in care of an attendant. There was apparently a very
good machine shop which seemed to have plenty of work, for break-downs
are exceedingly common. The manager asked us if we would favor him by
carrying a new axle to a motorist who was laid up at Crane Flat, near
the entrance to the park on the road by which we expected to leave the
next morning.
The regulations require that motor cars leave by the Big Oak
Flat road between 6:00 A. M. and 4:00 P. M. and the first-named
hour found us ready for departure, as we had been warned that an
exceedingly strenuous day’s work lay before us. It is only one
hundred and twenty-three miles to Stockton; hence we concluded that
the strenuousness must be due to something besides long distance--a
surmise which we did not have to wait long to verify. About two miles
from the hotel, following the main valley road we came to a sign, “Big
Oak Flat Route” and turned sharply to the right, crossing the Merced
River. Immediately we began a sharp ascent over a dusty trail through
thickly standing pines. Coming out of the trees we find ourselves on a
narrow road cut in the side of the almost perpendicular cliff. It is
fair at first, screened from the precipitous drop alongside by a row
of massive boulders which have the psychological effect of making us
feel much more at ease, though I doubt if they would be of much use
in stopping a runaway car. Nevertheless, they are a decided factor in
enabling us to enjoy the wonderful views of mountain and valley that
present themselves to our eager eyes as we slowly climb the steep
ascent. We are sure that we see many vistas quite equal to the view
from the much vaunted Inspiration Point--but they are not so famous
because far less accessible.
The road grows rougher and dustier as we climb slowly upward; the
boulder balustrade disappears and we find ourselves on a narrow shelf,
with infrequent passing places, running along the edge of a cliff that
falls almost sheer beneath us. We pause occasionally to contemplate the
marvelous scene beneath. The whole floor of the valley is now visible;
its giant trees seem mere shrubs and the Merced dwindles to a silver
thread; across the narrow chasm we now look down on the Cathedral
Spires, the Three Sisters, and Sentinel Rock; we see Bridal Veil Fall
swaying like a gossamer against the mighty cliff, and beyond we have
an endless vista of forest-clad mountains. Three thousand feet above
the valley we enter a forest of mighty pines; the road winds among them
in sharp turns and the grades are very steep and deep with dust. We
are not very familiar with our car--which we leased from a Los Angeles
dealer, and as we near the summit the motor loses power and can not
be cajoled into propelling the car over the last steep, dusty pitch.
After an hour of fruitless effort, we appealed to the foreman of a road
gang which, fortunately for us, was at work close by, and he helped the
balky engine out with a stout team of horses.
“What’s the damage?” we gratefully asked of our rescuer.
“Just a bottle of whiskey, stranger, if you happen to have one along.”
We expressed regret at our inability to meet the very modest request
and our friend had to be content with coin of the realm instead. Later
on an auto expert told us that the particular make of carburetor on
this car will not work satisfactorily at an elevation of more than
seven thousand feet.
We were still several miles from Crane Flat and the descent proved
quite as steep and rough as the climb, but there was no precipice
skirting the road to add nervous disquiet to bodily discomfort.
Crane Flat is nothing more than the ranger station on the road and
the official took up our “time card”--we came by a safe margin of
two or three hours--and removed the seals from our “game getter.” We
delivered the axle entrusted to our care, but found that the owner of
the broken-down car had accepted the situation philosophically and
gone fishing--his third day of this pleasant pastime while waiting for
repairs.
Out of the park we hoped for better things in the way of roads, but
we soon found the dividing line imaginary in more ways than one. The
road speedily became rougher, dustier and steeper than that we had
traversed, but, fortunately, it was down hill.
Two or three miles from Crane Flat we came to the Tuolumne Grove of
Big Trees, where there are numerous giant redwoods, though not so many
or so huge as those of Mariposa. A short detour from the main route
took us to the Dead Giant, the most remarkable tree of this grove. It
is tunneled like the Wawona tree in Mariposa and we had the sensation
a second time of driving through a redwood. The remains of the Dead
Giant are one hundred feet high and one hundred and five feet in
circumference; scientists estimate that the tree must have been at
least forty feet in diameter and perhaps four hundred feet high--larger
and higher than any redwood now living. It was destroyed perhaps three
hundred years ago by fire or lightning. The General Lawton of this
grove is one of the most beautiful redwoods in existence and there is
also a Fallen Giant still growing greenly although lying prone, its
roots not being entirely severed.
Near the grove is the Tioga road which has recently been completed
across the Sierras to Mono Lake on the Sierra Highway so that Yosemite
may be reached from the east, although the entrance must be made at the
west end of the valley. We met a party that had just made this trip and
who declared the road next to impassable at that time.
A few miles beyond Tuolumne Grove one may reach the Hetch Hetchy Valley
by a short side trip--a valley which has been styled a miniature
Yosemite. It attained a nation-wide celebrity by the fight made
to prevent the city of San Francisco from using it as a source of
water supply, but San Francisco finally won and an act of congress
permits the city to retain the water of the valley by a dam across the
entrance. The engineers, however, claim that the work will not destroy
the beauty of the valley nor prevent the public from visiting it.
Beyond Tuolumne Grove we still continue to plunge downward over the
rough, stony trail which tried every rivet in the car and worked havoc
with tires. At one point we had the unpleasant experience of meeting
a car coming at high speed around a corner--the road was very narrow
and as the newcomer was right upon us a collision seemed inevitable.
The wild man at the wheel of the scrambling Ford, however, took long
chances, for he ran upon the sidling bank when we had given him the
last inch we could squeeze from the outer side of the road. It seemed
that he must inevitably turn over on top of us, but the luck that
sometimes is said to shield infants and fools--he was certainly no
infant--favored him and he rolled back into the road right side up
and went plunging along on the narrow grade. My friend, after drawing
a deep breath, referred to the crazy driver as the “wild Irishman”
and though I protested against the reflection on my remote ancestry,
we still identify the road hog who gave us such a scare, by this
appellation.
It was lunch time when we reached Sequoia, though we were only
twenty-nine miles from Yosemite--a pretty insignificant showing for a
half day’s run, from a mileage point of view, but it had been strenuous
enough to make us tired and ravenously hungry. And hunger proved a very
good sauce for the meal which we got at Crocker’s Hotel, which is about
all there is of Sequoia. And I am not complaining of Crocker’s Hotel,
either. I think they did very well when one considers that all their
supplies must be hauled eighty miles by wagon road--naturally canned
stuff and condensed milk prevailed. Another outstanding recollection
is that it cost us forty cents per gallon to replenish our gasoline
and we could not complain of that under the circumstances. The young
fellow who kept the store near the hotel said he “had been the rounds
in California,” but Crocker’s Ranch suited him best of any place he had
seen. It was interesting to know that anyone could be satisfied in this
remote and lonely place; it certainly had the advantage of being near
to nature, if that was what our friend was seeking.
Beyond Crocker’s the characteristics of the country were about the
same. A rough, dusty trail, winding through pine-clad hills with
occasional heavy grades, carried us along for a good many miles. We
occasionally passed a remote little station with a general store and
“garage” bearing evidence of its origin in an old-time blacksmith
shop. Colfax Gate, Smith’s, Garrett, and Big Oak Flat--which showed
little reason for the distinction of giving its name to the road--were
all of the same type, with nothing to invite even a casual glance from
the tourist unless he needed gasoline or oil.
At Priest’s there is a country hotel, a haunt of hunters and ranchmen;
but we recall Priest’s chiefly because it gives its name to one of
the most beautiful bits of road engineering in California. The old
road through this section had some of the steepest grades to be found
in a country of steep grades; in fact, it was all but impassable to
automobiles as bits of it still to be seen from the new highway will
amply prove. The new grade extends for eight miles from Priest’s to
Jacksonville, in which distance it descends fifteen hundred feet, but
in no place does the gradient exceed five per cent. It follows the very
crest of a giant hill range overlooking a beautiful valley some two or
three thousand feet below. Alongside there is nothing to break the full
sweep of one’s vision--not a tree or even a shrub intervenes between
the roadbed and the precipitous slope beneath. Although the road is
wide enough for easy passing at any point, the very baldness of its
outer edge is enough to give a decided thrill to nervously inclined
people and our driver received more advice and caution from the
rear seat than had been offered him on far more dangerous roads with
occasional rocks or trees alongside.
At Jacksonville the road comes down almost to the level of the Tuolumne
River and we found ourselves on the border of the old gold-mining
region made famous by the tales of Bret Harte. There are still several
placer mines in operation along the river--the road passes a very
large one at the foot of Chinese Camp grade, and the river is sullied
for miles by the muddy washings from the mill. Chinese Camp grade
is one of the worst encountered on our entire trip; it is steep and
terribly rough, and dust a foot deep hides the ruts and chuck-holes,
so we were compelled to “go it blind.” It was a four-mile plunge and
scramble around sharp curves, half smothered and blinded by dense dust
clouds which rose before we could get away from them, we made such
slow progress over the dreadful road. At the hilltop, however, we were
rewarded for our strenuous scramble by a magnificent view of the river
canyon and a wide panorama of forest-clad hills with the emerald thread
of the Tuolumne winding through them. Contemplation of the magnificent
scene and a draught of cold water from our thermos bottle revived our
spirits, which had drooped somewhat in the hot, dusty climb to the
summit of the grade.
A short distance over a stony trail brought us into the main street of
Chinese Camp, if we may so designate the wide, dusty section of road
lined with wooden shacks of which every other one seemed a saloon.
The appearance of the buildings warranted the guess on our part that
there has been little change in this primitive hamlet since Bret Harte
visited it, nearly a half century ago. Not far from here are many other
camps and villages which found enduring fame in the stories of this
most representative of all earlier California writers. Sonora, Angel’s
Camp, Tuttletown, San Andreas, Mokelumne, and other places familiar
in Harte’s pages may all be reached in a detour of fifty miles or so
from the Big Oak Flat road. Most of these towns, like Chinese Camp,
have made little progress since they were mirrored in the tales which
appeared in the old Overland and Argonaut of San Francisco.
Beyond Chinese Camp we encountered the worst stretch of road of the
entire day--a mere trail winding through a rough, boulder-strewn
country seemingly having no end or object in view except to avoid
the rocks too large to run over. No effort had been made to remove
the smaller stones from the way and we had an unmerciful jolting,
although we crawled along at a dozen miles per hour. Fortunately, there
are no steep grades, and occasionally smoother stretches afforded
a little respite. It would be hard to use language, however, that
would exaggerate the relief which we felt when, on ascending a sharp
little rise, we came upon a splendid paved highway which the road-book
declared would continue all the way to Stockton. I think that the last
forty miles into the city consumed less time than any ten miles we had
covered since leaving Yosemite that morning.
We certainly presented a somewhat disreputable appearance when we
came into the town. The car and everything about it, including the
occupants, was dirty gray with dust, which I noted was two inches deep
on the running boards and perhaps a little less on our faces, while
it saturated our clothing and covered our baggage. California hotels,
however, are used to such arrivals and we were well taken care of
at the Stockton, despite our unprepossessing appearance. A thorough
cleaning up, a change of raiment and a good dinner put us at peace with
the world and we were soon exchanging felicitations over the fact that
we had done Yosemite by motor car.
The route which we had taken, though strenuous enough, as my narrative
indicates, is the one used by the majority of motorists going into the
park. Of course, earlier in the season this road is not so rough and
is freer from dust; one may make the trip to best advantage in July or
early August. The time of opening the road varies, but the passes are
usually clear of snow by the middle of June, though one is likely to
find mud in places for some time after the snow has disappeared.
There are two other roads into the valley besides the Tioga road from
the east. One of these leaves Fresno and joins the Madera road a few
miles west of Wawona. One may start from either Modesto or Merced for
the Coulterville road, which joins the valley road a little beyond El
Portal. This road has the steeper grades, some as high as thirty per
cent, but it takes one through some magnificent scenery and also passes
the Merced Grove of big trees.
When the new route proposed and surveyed by the Automobile Club
of Southern California is finally completed, the routes which I
have described will probably be obsolete except for the occasional
tourist who prefers the strenuous. The new route proceeds from Merced
to Mariposa, a distance of forty miles, and is already partially
completed. From Mariposa a new route has been surveyed by the club
engineers to El Portal, following Bear Creek Canyon, a distance
of thirty-three miles. Including the fifteen miles from El Portal,
the total distance from the main highway is eighty-eight miles, or
considerably less than any existing route. Better still, no grade
on the new road will exceed five per cent and it will make Yosemite
accessible by motor a much greater part of the year than at present.
The completion of this proposed road is brought measureably nearer by
the fifteen million dollar bond issue voted in 1916, as the Highway
Commission has made the new Yosemite route a part of its pledged
program.
A Run to the Roosevelt
Dam and to the
Petrified Forest
[Illustration: SOLITUDE--THE ARIZONA NATIONAL FORESTS
From painting by Thos. Moran]
A Run to the Roosevelt Dam and the Petrified Forest
Possibly this chapter is out of place in a book of motor travel on the
Pacific Coast, for it has somewhat to do with journeyings by railway
train and shifts the scene of action to the barren hills and green
valleys of Arizona--the land of mystery and contrast without peer among
its sister states. In our goings back and forth to California over
the Santa Fe Trail, we had often laid plans to stop at the Petrified
Forests near Adamana and to visit Phoenix and the great Roosevelt Dam,
which waters the green and fruitful Salt River Valley. It is hard,
however, to wrench oneself from a Pullman car before the journey’s end
when one has become comfortably located, and so our plans were usually
deferred until some indefinite “next time.” Had we taken trouble to
ascertain how easily and quickly such plans can be realized, we should
no doubt have carried them out much sooner.
Leaving Los Angeles in the afternoon in a through sleeper, we awoke the
following morning to see the vivid green of the Salt River alfalfa
fields all about us, reaching Phoenix in time for a late breakfast. We
were not posted on the hotels of the town, but went to the Jefferson
because it was nearest, finding it a modern, fireproof building with
well-appointed, comfortable rooms. There was no meal service, however,
and we were directed to a restaurant farther down the street. We also
inquired about hiring a car to take us to the Roosevelt Dam and the
clerk replied that he would have a driver connected with the hotel
call on us shortly. This party appeared while we were at breakfast and
expressed his willingness to serve us.
“Of course you mean to spend the night at the dam,” he said, “returning
tomorrow.”
We assured him that we didn’t mean anything of the sort--that our
time in Phoenix was limited to two days and that only one of them
could be devoted to the Roosevelt Dam. “They tell us that it is only
seventy-five miles distant,” I asserted. “Surely one hundred and fifty
miles isn’t much of a drive if we get away by 9:30.”
“You may think differently after you’ve made the trip,” he replied,
“but I reckon it can be done if you feel that you can stand it.”
We thought we knew something of bad roads and rough going and
felt sure that the trip couldn’t be much worse than many other
one-hundred-and-fifty-mile jaunts we had done in a day, and, to get
down to business, asked, “What kind of a car have you, and what will
you charge us for the drive?”
“I’ve a Dodge,” he replied, “and the regular price for the trip is
forty dollars.”
The lady of the expedition had not said much so far but the latter part
of the remark aroused her interest and slightly excited her ire. “Forty
dollars for one hundred and fifty miles--a six or seven-hour trip!” she
exclaimed. “We don’t wish to buy your car, thank you.”
We declined to negotiate farther with a party who was such a palpable
would-be robber and on coming out into the street I approached a
jovial-looking old fellow in a Ford labeled “for hire,” thinking
more of getting a little information than of any likelihood of doing
business with him.
“Yes, I can take you to the dam,” he said. “Drive you up to-day and
bring you back tomorrow; forty dollars for the round trip.”
“But we want to get back this evening,” we replied, ignoring the
unpleasant confirmation of the Dodge driver’s “regular fare.”
“Waal, couldn’t do it in the Ford, but my son has a new Buick six and
he can make it all right--but he’d have to charge you fifty dollars.”
We had gotten over the first shock given us by auto rates to Roosevelt
Dam and heard this with fairly steady nerves--we were bound to make
the trip and a few dollars one way or the other were not to deter us.
The young man was hunted up and after some dickering he consented to
pilot the new Buick six, the pride of his heart, on her maiden trip to
the dam for the regular price, but declared it would be well after dark
before he could get us back.
“Do you mean to tell me,” I exclaimed, “that a machine like that will
require twelve hours to do one hundred and fifty miles?”
“You’ll know more about it,” he replied, “when you’ve been over the
road; besides, we’ll have to stop for lunch and of course you’ll want
a little time at the dam.” To all of which we assented--and I may
anticipate here enough to say that I do know more about it since I have
been over the road and that while forty dollars seems pretty high auto
hire for a one-hundred and-fifty-mile trip, I am convinced that it
would have taken all of that out of my own car and tires had we made
the run in it.