Oakland Ferry-house and Pier.--The Russian Church.--Off Eastward.--
Crossing the Mountains.--Hydraulic Mining.--Stop at Reno.--Nevada
Deserts.--Ogden.--The Playing Indian.
As we turned our backs on San Jose, we began to feel that we were
heading for home, and were descending from romance and flowers, to the
more commonplace conditions of existence. I question if it would be
good for us to lead too long, the ideal and refined Bohemian life, such
as a well-appointed car, and no care, affords.
It was with a sort of shock, that, after hours of travel, through
smiling plain and upland, we found ourselves in the prosaic environment
of Oakland.
Our car was run out to the end of a pier, which stretched for miles, it
seemed, into the bay. The vast expanse of water about us, the great
city away off across the bay, and the frail-looking, but yet perfectly
safe, piling on which our car had place, gave a tone of empty
loneliness to everything, and we could not but feel gloomy.
We were becoming fastidious. We wanted "roses, roses all the way," and
absolutely were oblivious to the energy which had created this huge
pier, crowned with the really splendid ferry-house, and a ferry-house
is no uninteresting thing. How little do we think that the whole ferry
business in the United States, especially in great centres such as New
York, presents the most distinctively American thing we have; the very
triumph of common sense and directness of means to the proposed end.
We availed ourselves of the splendid ferry here at Oakland, for a
little run once more in San Francisco. My errand was to try and hunt up
the Russo-Greek church, and see something of it. I got to the place,
and saw the exterior of what was once a magnificent residence, but now
a decayed mansion in an unfashionable part of the city. It was given an
ecclesiastical effect by being topped with several melon-shaped domes
of zinc, brightly painted; these, and the pale blue on walls and doors
and windows, gave quite the effect of Russia. My visit, however, was
fruitless. The fathers were all out, and a servitor in attendance
opened the door, only a few inches, for a cautious parley. That glimpse
showed me some rather rich paintings in the interior of the dwelling,
but I had to rush back to our car without waiting for the return of the
fathers, or the view of the church, which, I am sure, they would be
glad to show me.
Once off from Oakland, we were indeed on the home-stretch, but we had
the mountains to climb, and much more to see.
We passed through Sacramento, the capital of the State, merely giving
it a glance, as we journeyed on into the glory of the mountains.
But of these mountains, how shall we speak! It was all a grand
crescendo of magnificence, until the snowsheds, erected over the
tracks, shut out the splendor of the scenery from our view. But even
the glimpses through the chinks were worth looking at. We saw far
beneath us the silver shield of a lonely and lovely lake, where in
spirit we went. We saw, too, the glory of sunset tints upon the frozen
peaks of distant heights. We saw, too, the great lines of the
mountain-sides, in successive sweeps, pine-clad and lovely, but
gigantic in their vast and repeated lines. The whole ride through those
sheds was tantalizing and yet interesting. It certainly was a daring
thing to conceive a protection from the winter's snow, of such extent;
and to keep it all in repair, ever watched, and tended, must be an
enormous task. It was a splendid sensation to climb those mountains on
our iron horse, but yet one would fain see them better, and loiter a
little among the camps and mining towns, and know more of the life.
My attention was aroused to the fearful effects of hydraulic mining as
we journeyed on ever upward. Here and there, one could see the fearful
work which ensued from such methods. The whole face of a mountain would
be torn off bare, and the valley beneath filled in with refuse, to the
depth of three hundred feet. It all looked like a great wound on the
venerable mountains, while the river-beds in the valleys were choked,
and distorted from their channels.
A brakeman who was showing me a pocketful of nuggets and specimens,
laughed me to scorn when I bemoaned the scarred and tortured look of
the hills in sight. "What," said he, "are mountains good for but to get
such stuff as that out of them?" as he tossed up a fragment of gold in
the air, and caught it on his open and greedy hand. But, after all, how
much more important mountains are as mountains, than mere gold-bearing
protuberances, and how much more precious rivers are as life-givers to
man and beast, rather than gold-bearers in their shifting sands.
We were glad to know that legislative enactments have been made upon
such mining processes, and that certain restrictions and limitations
are in force, to protect nature against wasteful greed, and the
reckless spoliation and destruction of mountain-side and valley stream.
After our climb up the mountain, towards evening we found ourselves at
Reno. A wait for supper is made here (we were, of course, independent
of such wayside places), during which we stretched our legs on the
platform, looking at the many odd-looking people in view.
A freakish notion got into me to be odd also, so, just to astonish the
natives, I donned my Japanese kimino, made of camel's-hair cloth of
light buff hue, reaching down to my heels. With this on, I dared one of
our ladies to walk with me, offering her my arm. This she did, with a
good grace, and we certainly were the observed, if not the admired, of
all observers.
Some of our party followed us at a little distance to gather up the
remarks. "Here comes Brigham Young, I guess," was one of them; another
was, "That's Pope Leo, ain't it?" and yet another was, "No, it's Bishop
Sommers." But in the midst of the fun, of which of course I seemed to
be oblivious, my eye caught the grave face of a simon-pure Jap, in
American dress, standing by, with eyes, as wide open as he could get
them, evidently mystified at my appearance. He could vouch certainly
for the genuineness of the kimino, but the _tout ensemble_ was too
much for him. I felt really sorry for the poor little Japanese, he
looked so lonesome, all alone in the crowd. Possibly he might have felt
badly that his possible brother countryman did not stop and speak with
him!
After leaving Reno, our way took us through Nevada, which we passed in
the night. When day dawned upon us we found ourselves in desolate
places, more lonely desert than anything we had yet seen. The following
poem by Charlotte Perkins Stetson most vividly describes the death-like
aspect of the place. It is called--