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[Illustration: Lincoln Highway near Soda Springs, Cal.]
ACROSS THE CONTINENT
BY
THE LINCOLN HIGHWAY
[Illustration]
_By_
EFFIE PRICE GLADDING
_ILLUSTRATED BY PHOTOGRAPHS_
NEW YORK
BRENTANO'S
1915
_Copyright_, 1915,
BY
EFFIE PRICE GLADDING
Manufactured by
Rowland & Ives
225 Fifth Avenue
New York
_Dedicated to
Lovers of the open road and the flying wheel._
"My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing."
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 7
CHAPTER I 11
CHAPTER II 22
CHAPTER III 37
CHAPTER IV 57
CHAPTER V 76
CHAPTER VI 92
CHAPTER VII 111
CHAPTER VIII 142
CHAPTER IX 169
CHAPTER X 191
CHAPTER XI 210
CHAPTER XII 227
CHAPTER XIII 257
INTRODUCTION
A FOREWORD THAT IS A RETROSPECT
From the Pacific to the Atlantic by the Lincoln Highway, with California
and the Virginias and Maryland thrown in for good measure! What a tour
it has been! As we think back over its miles we recall the noble pines
and the towering Sequoias of the high Sierras of California; the
flashing water-falls of the Yosemite, so green as to be called Vernal,
so white as to be called Bridal Veil; the orchards of the prune, the
cherry, the walnut, the olive, the almond, the fig, the orange, and the
lemon, tilled like a garden, watered by the hoarded and guarded streams
from the everlasting hills; and the rich valleys of grain, running up to
the hillsides and dotted by live oak trees. We recall miles of vineyard
under perfect cultivation. We see again the blue of the Pacific and the
green of the forest cedars and cypresses. High Lake Tahoe spreads
before us, with its southern fringe of emerald meadows and forest pines,
and its encircling guardians, lofty and snow-capped. The high,
grey-green deserts of Nevada, Utah, and Wyoming stretch before us once
more, and we can smell the clean, pungent sage brush. We are not lonely,
for life is all about us. The California quail and blue-jay, the eagle,
the ground squirrel, the gopher, the coyote, the antelope, the
rattlesnake, the big ring snake, the wild horse of the plains, the jack
rabbit, the meadow lark, the killdeer, the red-winged blackbird, the
sparrow hawk, the thrush, the redheaded wood-pecker, the grey dove, all
have been our friends and companions as we have gone along. We have seen
them in their native plains and forests and from the safe vantage point
of the front seat of our motor car.
The lofty peaks of the Rockies have towered before us in a long,
unbroken chain as we have looked at them from the alfalfa fields of
Colorado.
We have seen the bread and the cornbread of a nation growing on the
rolling prairies of Nebraska, Iowa, and Illinois. We have crossed the
green, pastoral stretches of Indiana and Ohio and Pennsylvania. The red
roads of Virginia, winding among her laden orchards of apples and
peaches and pears and her lush forests of oak and pine; the yellow roads
of Maryland, passing through her fertile fields and winding in and out
among the thousand water ways of her coast line, all come before us.
These are precious possessions of experience and memory, the choice,
intimate knowledge to which the motorist alone can attain.
The Friends of the Open Road are ours; the homesteader in his white
canopied prairie schooner, the cattleman on his pony, the passing fellow
motorist, the ranchman at his farmhouse door, the country inn-keeper
hospitably speeding us on our way.
We have a new conception of our great country; her vastness, her varied
scenery, her prosperity, her happiness, her boundless resources, her
immense possibilities, her kindness and hopefulness. We are bound to her
by a thousand new ties of acquaintance, of association, and of pride.
The Lincoln Highway is already what it is intended to be, a golden road
of pleasure and usefulness, fitly dedicated, and destined to inspire a
great patriotism and to honour a great patriot.
OCTOBER, 1914.
ACROSS THE CONTINENT BY THE LINCOLN HIGHWAY
CHAPTER I
With what a strange thrill I look out from my stateroom window, early
one April morning, and catch a glimpse of the flashing light on one of
the green promontories of the Golden Gate! I dress hurriedly and run out
to find that a light is flaming on the other promontory, and that we are
entering the great Bay of San Francisco. It has taken a long preparation
to give me the feeling of pride and joy and wonder with which I come
through the Golden Gate to be in my own country once more. A year of
touring in Europe, nearly a year of travel in the Orient, six months in
Australia and New Zealand, and after that three months in Honolulu; all
this has given me the background for the unique sensation with which I
see the two lights on the long green promontories of the Golden Gate
stretching out into the Pacific. Our ship moves steadily on, past
Alcatraz Island with its long building on its rocky height, making it
look like a big Atlantic liner built high amidships. There are the green
heights of the Presidio and the suburbs of the city of San Francisco. On
the left in the distance is Yerba Buena Island. Far ahead of us, across
the width of the Bay, are the distant outlines of Oakland and Berkeley.
Later I am to stand on the hilly campus of the University of California
and look straight across the Bay through the Golden Gate which we have
just entered. The tall buildings of San Francisco begin to arise and we
are landed in the streets of the new city. What a marvel it is! In the
ten days that we were there I must say that still the wonder grew that a
city could have risen in nine short years from shock, and flood, and
fire, to be the solid, imposing structure of stone and brick, with wide
bright streets and impressive plazas, that San Francisco now is. In the
placing of its statues at dramatic points on the streets and cross
streets, it reminds one of a French city. The new city has fine open
spaces, with streets stretching in all directions from these plazas.
There are many striking groups of statuary; among them one whose
inscriptions reads:
DEDICATED TO MECHANICS
BY
JAMES MERVYN DONAHUE IN MEMORY OF HIS
FATHER, PETER DONAHUE
The most striking figure in this group, one of five workmen cutting a
hole through a sheet of steel, is the figure of the old man who
superintends the driving of the bolt through the sheet, while four
stalwart young men throw their weight upon the lever. Here is not only
stalwart youth and brawn, but also the judgment and steadiness of mature
age. The older man has a good head, and adds a moral balance to the
whole group. It is a fine memorial, not only to the man whose memory it
honours, but also to a host of mechanics and working men who do their
plain duty every day.
The most attractive thing about the San Francisco residences is the fine
view of the Bay that many of them have. It is the business portion of
the city that makes the striking impression upon the stranger. The new
Masonic Building, with its massive cornice, reminding one of the Town
Hall in the old fighting town of Perugia, Italy; the towering buttresses
of the Hotel St. Francis; the noble masses of the business blocks; the
green rectangle of the civic center where the city's functions are held
in the open air;--all are impressive. In all of the California cities,
one finds no better dressed people and no more cosmopolitan people in
appearance than are to be seen on the San Francisco streets. It is more
nearly a great city in its spirit and atmosphere than any other
metropolis of the State.
The drive through the Golden Gate Park is interesting because of the
blooming shrubs, and the lovely foliage. I have never before seen my
favorite golden broom blooming in any part of the United States. Here it
grows luxuriantly. The Presidio, the site of the military post, is a
very beautiful park, and is well worth seeing.
A memorable excursion is one across the Bay to Berkeley, the seat of the
State University. In the past fifteen or twenty years the University has
grown from a somewhat motley collection of old brick buildings into a
noble assemblage of harmonious stone buildings with long lines of much
architectural impressiveness. No one can see the University of
California without feeling that here is a great institution against the
background of a great State. Two buildings which I particularly like are
the School of Mines, built by Mrs. Phoebe Hearst as a memorial to her
husband, and the beautiful library. While the two buildings are very
different in type, each is noble and appropriate for its particular
uses. There are still a few of the original buildings standing,
old-fashioned and lonely. Doubtless they will be removed in time and
more fitting structures will take their place. The situation of the
campus is superb. It lies on a group of green foothills, the buildings
rising from various knolls. You literally go up to the halls of
learning. The whole campus and the little university city at its feet
are dominated by an enormous white C outlined on the green hills far
above. It is a stiff climb to that C, but it is a favorite walk for
ambitious students. They tell me that occasionally students come up from
Leland Stanford University and in teasing rivalry paint over the C at
the dead hour of night. The University is rich in beautiful situations
on the campus for out-of-door functions. Nothing could be lovelier than
Strawberry Canyon, a green valley with immemorial live oaks scattered
here and there; and with clumps of shrubbery behind whose greenness
musicians can conceal themselves. We saw the annual masque given by four
hundred University women in honour of Mrs. Phoebe Hearst. I carry in
memory a lovely vision of dancing wood nymphs, of living flowers, of
soft twilight colors, streaming across the greensward; and of a
particular wood nymph, the very spirit of the Spring, who played about
in irresponsible happiness, all in soft wood browns and pinks and
greens. The Greek Theatre is a noble monument to Mr. Randolph Hearst,
its donor. A great audience there is a fine sight; so symmetrical is the
amphitheatre that it is hard to realize how many thousands of people are
sitting in the circle of its stone tiers. Behind the topmost tier runs a
wall covered with blooming roses, while back of this wall hang the
drooping tassels of tall eucalyptus trees. Nothing could be more fitting
as a theatre for music and for all the noblest and most dignified
functions of a great institution.
We did not start on our long journey, which was to mount up to 8,600
miles in distance, until the 21st of April. Before that we had a
delightful northern trip of one hundred and twenty miles in a friend's
motor car; crossing the ferry and driving through Petaluma, Sonoma
Valley, and Santa Rosa, on to Ukiah. Coming through Petaluma our host
told us that we were in "Henville." I had supposed that chickens would
do well anywhere in sunny California, but not so. There are districts
where the fog gets into the throats of the fowls and kills them. Sonoma
County is particularly adapted for chicken raising and there are
hundreds of successful chicken growers in this region.
As we came through Santa Rosa, we saw the modest home and the office and
gardens of Luther Burbank.
Beyond Santa Rosa we entered what our host called the Switzerland of
California. The roads are only ordinary country roads and very hilly at
that, but the rolling green fields and glimpses of distant hills, with
heavy forests here and there, are very beautiful. I saw for the first
time in all its spring glory the glowing California poppy. Great masses
of bright orange yellow were painted against the lush green of the thick
hillside grass; masses that fairly radiated light. Alongside these
patches of flaming yellow were other patches of the deep blue lupine.
Some great painter should immortalize the spring fields of California.
The wonderful greenness of the grass, the glowing masses of yellow, and
the deep gentian blue of the lupine would rank with the coloring of
McWhirter's "Tyrol in Springtime." California in the spring is an ideal
State in which to motor. We were sorry that we could not accept our
host's invitation to motor still farther north into Lake County, a
county of rough roads but fine scenery.
Northern California has not yet been developed or exploited for tourists
as has the southern part of the State, but there is beautiful scenery in
all the counties north of San Francisco. As we drove through Sonoma
(Half Moon) Valley, we saw the green slopes of Jack London's ranch, not
many miles away. Jack London's recent book, "The Valley of the Half
Moon," describes the scenery of this region.
Back of Vallejo, reached by ferry from San Francisco, lies the lovely
Napa Valley, filled with fruit ranches. Its southern end is narrow, but
as one drives farther north it widens out into a broad green expanse of
orderly fruit farms and pleasant homes, dominated by green hills on
either side. Sonoma Valley and Napa Valley were the first of many
enchanting valleys which we saw in California. As I look back on our
long drive, it seems to me now that in California you are always either
climbing a mountain slope or descending into a green valley flanked by
ranges of hills. Calistoga, at the northern end of Napa Valley, has
interesting literary associations. It was on the slope of Calistoga
Mountain that Robert Louis Stevenson spent his honeymoon and had the
experience of which we read to-day in "The Silverado Squatters."
San Francisco is a pleasure-loving town. When its people are not eating
in public places to the sound of music, they are likely to be amusing
themselves in public places. The moving picture, the theatre, the
vaudeville, all flourish in this big, gay, rushing city. The merchants
of San Francisco have shown great courage and daring in the erection of
their big buildings almost immediately on the stones and ashes of the
old ones. They have done all this on borrowed money and loaded
themselves with heavy mortgages, trusting to the future and to fat years
to pay off their indebtedness. They have done an heroic work in a
solid, impressive way, and deserve all the business that can possibly
come to them.
In San Francisco I saw for the first time that great California
institution, the cafeteria. They pronounce this word in California with
the accent on the "i." To a traveler it seems as if all San Francisco
must take its meals in these well equipped and perfectly ordered
restaurants. You enter at one side of the room, taking up napkin, tray,
knife, fork, and spoons from carefully arranged piles as you pass along
a narrow aisle outlined by a railing. Next comes a counter steaming with
trays of hot food, and a second counter follows with rows of salads and
fruits on ice. After one's choice is made, the tray is inspected and the
pay-check estimated and placed on the tray by a cashier. You are then
free to choose your table in the big room and to turn over your tray to
one of the few waiters in attendance. You leave on the opposite side of
the room, passing a second cashier and paying the amount of your check.
It is a great game, this of choosing one's food by looking it over as it
stands piping hot or ice cold, in its appointed place. The attendants
are evidently accustomed to the weakness of human nature, bewildered by
so overwhelming an array of viands. They keep calling out the merits of
various dishes as the slow procession passes. "Have some broiled ham?
It's very nice this morning." "Try the bacon. It's specially good
to-day."
California people are much given to light housekeeping and to taking
their meals in cafeterias and other restaurants. Doubtless this fashion
may have been inaugurated by the fact that an ever increasing tourist
population, living in hotels and lodgings, must be taken care of. But
many of the Californians themselves are accustomed to reduce the cares
of housekeeping to the minimum, and to take almost all their meals away
from their own homes. The servant question is a serious one in
California; and this type of co-operative housekeeping seems to commend
itself to hosts of people. We enjoyed it as pilgrims and travelers, but
one would scarcely wish to have so large a part of the family life
habitually lived in public places.