It was an easy drive from Corona to Riverside, which we reached in the
late afternoon in time for a sunset drive up and around the corkscrew
road leading to the top of Mt. Rubidoux. No one should miss the view
from the top of Rubidoux Mountain. While its summit is not at a great
height, yet the mountain is so isolated and the whole surrounding
country is so level a valley that the view is very extensive. One looks
down upon the town of Riverside, with its pleasant homes and church
steeples; and upon miles of lemon and orange orchards groomed to the
last degree of fertility and perfection. It is an immense garden.
Orchards, towns, grassy spaces with a silver river winding through them,
all give one that sense, ever present in California, of happiness, of
genial climate, of unfailing beauty of surrounding.
At Riverside one stays of course, even if but for a night, at the famous
Mission Inn, known as the Glenwood. Here is the creation of a man who
has brought together in unique and pleasing combination the features of
an inn, of a great curio shop, of a cathedral, of a happy lounging
place. You may study for hours antique pieces of furniture; old
tapestries, old bells, old bits of stained glass. You may spend an
evening in the great music hall with its cathedral seats and listen to
the organ played by a finished and yet popular artist. You may lounge in
an easy chair on a cloistered porch. All these and many other things you
may do at the wonderful Mission Inn. But the open road called us and we
had time for only one night in Riverside. We drove from Riverside to
Redlands, a particularly charming town. It has a better situation than
Riverside, being on a slope instead of upon a level plain. It has
beautiful streets and hosts of lovely winter homes of most attractive
architecture. The drive up to Smiley Heights, where one runs through
exquisite gardens along a narrow ridge, looking down upon a green
cultivated valley on the one side, and a polished winter city on the
other side, is a delightful experience.
From Redlands we drove on to San Bernardino and thence to Pomona and
Claremont. The San Bernardino Valley has miles of grapes, the vineyards
being on an immense scale. In California the grapes are not trained upon
arbors. The stalks are kept low, and in looking over a vineyard one sees
long rows of low growing, stocky vines, and masses of green foliage. In
San Bernardino they have a fashion of planting windbreaks of evergreens
around their gardens and smaller vineyards; but there are also immense
stretches of open country planted with vines. One vineyard of three
thousand acres has a sign announcing that it is the largest vineyard in
the world. Pomona and Claremont are pleasant towns, Pomona being the
seat of a college. From Claremont we drove on to Pasadena. There are
lovely drives about Pasadena, and one should not neglect to go up along
the foothills and from that point of vantage look down upon the town
spread out on the slopes below. There is now a motor drive up Mt.
Wilson, from which one has extremely grand views, but the Mt. Wilson
drive is to be recommended only to people with small, light machines
which have a short turning base. The mountain road is by no means the
equal of the roads one finds in the Alps. It is too narrow and too
hazardous for any but small machines. For most tourists the nine miles
of the Mt. Wilson road would better be traversed on donkey-back. For
those who love to climb, the winding road is a delightful walk with
views of changing grandeur. The hotel at the top is a very pleasant
place to stay, and one may have there the glories of the sunset and the
sunrise.
The most lovely avenue in Pasadena, up and down which one should drive
several times, is Orange Grove Avenue. Along the street the feathery
pepper tree and the palm alternate. The strikingly handsome electric
lamp standards are of bronze. Open lawns are characteristic settings for
the beautiful houses which line the avenue. There are many houses of
white or yellow stucco, some of them set off by delicate iron balconies.
Leaving the finished beauty of Orange Avenue we drove over a great
canyon across which is flung a very ornamental bridge. The canyon has
been turned into a park, and fine houses stand on its banks, commanding
from their heights wonderful views.
We came on through Burbank and once more into the San Fernando Valley,
just being opened up. Here and there were tiny houses and sometimes
tents, the first shelters of settlers who were cultivating their newly
acquired patches of land. We saw people cleaning and plowing their land.
Off to the right were beautiful mountains with houses and ranches
nestled in the foothills. We drove through the new town of San Fernando
and over the fine highway of the Newhall grade, passing through a tunnel
and going on to Saugus by a splendid road running all the way from
Pasadena. Just after leaving San Fernando we came through Sylmar, where
a big sign told us that we were passing "the largest olive orchard in
the world." This is the property of the Los Angeles Olive Growers'
Association. We drove for more than a mile past the ranks of grey-green
trees which stretched away back to the foothills.
From Saugus we turned toward Mint Canyon. We were now about to cross the
great backbone of California, running north and south and dividing the
valleys of the coast from the valleys of the interior. We could have
crossed by the Tehachapi Pass, but preferred for this time to drive
through Mint Canyon and over the Tejon Pass. All along the Canyon we
saw little homesteads planted in pocket valleys. Here and there were
green spots; orchards newly set out, patches of grain beginning to grow.
Little wooden shacks showed where the homesteaders had first sheltered
their household goods. The settlers themselves were working in their
fields and orchards. There were long stretches, too, of rough country
where tall yuccas, sometimes ten feet high, were blooming. At Palmdale
we came out into a great plain, the mountains in the distance. A high
wind was blowing, filling our eyes with dust. Somewhere on the plain the
searching wind whipped my lightweight motor coat out of the tonneau
where I had stowed it and I saw it no more. It was literally blown out
of sight and knowledge. We had seen all along advertisements of
"Palmdale Acres," and we now came to the little town itself, a tiny
settlement with flamboyant signs advertising its high hopes. We read,
"Keep your eye on Palmdale, 10,000 people in 1925." Close to the sign
was the irrigation ditch with a thick stream of water rushing through.
We realized that all the hopes of Palmdale and all the possibilities of
future population were centered in that stream, which was to carry life
and fertility to the great dusty plains before us.
We had taken luncheon at Acton, a sordid little place with an extremely
unattractive wooden hotel, poor and bare. The luncheon, cooked and
served by a hard working landlady, had been better than appearances
promised. We had had hot beefsteak, a good boiled potato, some crisp
lettuce, and fair tea. Western people are addicted to green tea, a great
affliction to one accustomed to black tea. Western hotel keepers would
do well to use black tea for their tourists, as the use of green tea is,
so far as I know, almost unknown in the East.
Our road was rising now and we were approaching Neenach. We were driving
along the foothills on the high side of another great valley. As we came
near Neenach we passed an orchard to our right, the trees loaded with
beautiful, velvety green almonds. To the left was another orchard,
filled with neglected, dying almond trees. We had not known whether we
would find at Neenach a little town or a corner grocery store. It turned
out to be simply a post office in the home of a young settler who with
his wife was just making his start at ranching. He was a delightful
young fellow with shining white teeth, clear eyes, and an enthusiasm
that was pleasant to see. A big St. Bernard dog protected his wife, who
looked very picturesque in her riding costume. Although the ranchman had
been brought up in a city, he had come out to these foothills, bought
one hundred and sixty acres at $17.50 an acre, driven his well forty
feet, got his water, and planted his cottonwood trees for his first
shade. He was soon to plant his orchard and start his garden. He told us
that he would have plenty of water, as the mountains on whose
foot-slopes the farm lay were nine miles deep and fifteen miles long. I
asked him about the orchards which we had just passed, so fruitful on
the right, so sad and neglected on the left. He said that the almond
orchards on the left had been planted years ago by a little colony of
people who had three bad years following their planting. They became
discouraged and moved away, abandoning their orchards and houses. The
orchards which we had seen full of fruit were of a later planting.
We asked why it was that the great spaces of Antelope Valley which
stretched below the hills and off to the mountains beyond had not been
taken by settlers. Our young ranchman explained that the valley which
looked to be about eight miles across was really thirty miles wide, and
that it was too far from water for people to settle there. I looked over
the immense stretches of the valley and at the masses of tall, spiky
tree-yuccas, and wished that some way might be found to irrigate those
thousands of acres. If some modern Moses could strike water from a rock,
which would flow through Antelope Valley, our young settler would
someday look down upon hundreds of houses and white tents instead of
upon lonely forests of yucca.
We drove on from Neenach to the top of the grade, some 4230 feet. Huge
round-shouldered hills, bare and lonely, rose on each side of us. Coming
to the Lebec ranch house, we asked shelter for the night. These ranch
houses are very hospitable and are willing to take the place of a hotel
so far as they are able. We found the head of the house in some
confusion and anxiety. His cook had left that morning and the settlement
school ma'am had offered to help with the cooking in the emergency. One
of the ranchmen volunteered to make the bed in our sleeping room,
although he confessed that he had never made a bed in all his life
before. We ate our supper with the ranchmen, sitting at an
oil-cloth-covered table. We had hunks of cold meat, noodle soup with
very thick, hearty noodles, stewed dried peaches, sliced onions, stewed
tomatoes, and good bread and coffee. After a talk before a blazing open
fire with two young electric engineers who, like ourselves, had sought
shelter for the night, we had a dreamless night's slumber.
In the morning we had a most interesting breakfast with a long table
full of hungry ranchmen. Next us sat a big fellow who was in a rather
pessimistic mood. He spoke sadly of California and its resources and
very warmly of Virginia. "That's the place to live!" he said. "You can
drive for a hundred miles here and not see a ranch house or a
schoolhouse or a church worth looking at. In Virginia it's just like, as
a fellow says, 'every drink you take, things look different.' You drive
up on a knoll, and you see before you a lovely farm with a nice
farmhouse, and a well-built barn and outhouses. Then you drive over
another knoll, and you see another nice farmhouse. Virginia and the East
for me! In this country you can walk through foxtail grass until you're
ruined, and you see no buildings worth looking at." This started
animated discussion as to the merits of California compared with the
merits of Eastern farming country, the young school ma'am vibrating
between the little kitchen and the dining room and taking her part in
the conversation. She was from Indiana, and told me that while she liked
California she did not approve of California's neglect of history in the
public schools. She felt that the children were given no knowledge of
ancient or of modern history in the teaching scheme. She assured me that
her own pupils were taught history very faithfully.
We were sorry to leave the ranch with its low houses and its pretty lake
in the foreground. We drove on down the Pass, coming over rather
precipitous roads to a last steep slope from whose height we looked off
to an immense level valley which seemed to stretch away forever. Violet
morning lights hung over it and it looked like an enchanted country.
This was our first view of the San Joaquin Valley, through which we were
to drive for many miles.
[Illustration: 1., 2. and 3. Cowboy Games at Bakersfield.]
As we began to cross the valley, coming first through rather dull,
scrubby stretches, I saw acres of a delicate pink and white bell-shaped
flower, somewhat like a morning glory, growing close to the ground,
blooming luxuriantly in the midst of a whorl of green leaves. I later
asked a country woman the name of the flower, but she could only tell me
that they called the lovely delicate things sand flowers. As we
approached Bakersfield the land grew richer and the grass was thicker
and greener. Meadow larks were flying about in great numbers, singing
their sweet, clear song. At Bakersfield we stopped at the New Southern
Hotel, which is, like most Western hotels, European in plan. We found a
delightful cafeteria known as the Clock Tower Cafeteria, kept by two
women, and with most appetizing home cooking. Bakersfield is one of the
most Western of California towns. Something in the swing of its citizens
as they walk along, something in the wide sombreros and high boots which
the visiting cowboys wear imparts a general breeziness and Western
atmosphere. It is a little town with the clothes of a big town. It has
very wide streets and is laid out on a generous scale. Its fine
Courthouse, its beautiful new schoolhouse, its pretty homes, its
residence streets with their rows of blooming oleanders, pink and white,
make it an attractive town. But it must be confessed that it is very hot
in Bakersfield, as it is in most towns of the San Joaquin and Sacramento
Valleys. The most interesting thing to me in Bakersfield was a leather
shop, where I saw handsome Mexican saddles, very intricately and
ornately stamped. These are made to order and have any amount of
beautiful work upon them. At the same shop I saw handsome stamped belts
and leather coin cases, long leather cuffs which cowboys affect, and
tall riding boots with ornate stitching. When we left Bakersfield we saw
just outside the town a perfect forest of oil derricks towering into the
air, some of the wells being new ones, others having been abandoned.
Bakersfield is the center of a rich oil territory, from which much
wealth has flowed.
In leaving the town we turned by mistake to the right instead of to the
left, and found ourselves traveling toward a Grand Canyon on a miniature
scale. We were driving over lonely country where the water had worn the
hills into fantastic shapes and where the whole country was a series of
terraces. Sometimes small tablelands stood up boldly before us,
sometimes cone-shaped pieces of plateau, like small volcanoes, appeared
in long rows beyond us. Beautiful purple mists and shadows hung over
these carvings of nature as the sun began to decline. The country grew
lonelier and wilder, and we decided that we must retrace our journey
and find out where we were. As we came near to Bakersfield again we saw
the camp of an engineer who was making some borings for oil. He told us
that we had taken the wrong turn and directed us on our way, past the
tall derricks and northeast to Tulare.
So we turned our backs on the browns, yellows, and slate colors, the
pinks and the lavenders of the lonely tableland country and struck north
along a very fair road. We drove for twenty miles through rather level,
brown, desert country, coming then into a grain country. All along there
were pump houses on the ranches, connected with the electric current by
heavy wires which ran from the main lines along the road to the little
houses in the fields. I liked to think that the magic current streamed
down those side wires from the main river of electricity, worked the
pumps and brought up the water that made the whole country the fertile,
grain-growing region it evidently was. We ate supper at the McFarland
Hotel some twenty-five miles from Bakersfield. Our Wisconsin hostess who
talked with us while her Japanese cook prepared our supper told us that
three years ago there were only a few people living in tents in this
region. Now the wells are down and there is a prosperous little town,
the water being found only thirty feet below the surface. We came on
through more fields of ripe wheat and green alfalfa. We saw one
settler's tent pitched in the midst of a beautiful almond orchard, with
great stacks of alfalfa near by. His wellhouse was near, and some day in
the golden future he will undoubtedly build his dwelling.
Eleven miles from Tulare a tall country boy came out from the shadows as
we passed through a little village and asked if he might ride to Tulare
with us. We tucked away his bulky newspaper bundle in the machine and
gave him permission to sit on the tool box, which was fastened on the
running-board. He thanked us warmly when we reached the quiet streets of
Tulare and offered to pay us, but of course we assured him that we were
glad to have given him a lift. We did not often do this as we were
always afraid some one would be hurt in riding on the running-board. We
had a comfortable room at the Hotel St. Maxon, and drove on the next day
through the fertile valley to Fresno. Now we were in the region of rich
vineyards and luxuriant fig trees. For the first time, as we approached
Fresno, I saw whole orchards of fig trees. Fresno is a pretty town with
the wide, bright streets and look of prosperity of so many California
towns. It is the home of several thousand Armenian and Greek workers.
Only that morning the Young Women's Christian Association had welcomed
to Fresno a little woman who had come all the way from Constantinople to
meet her husband. The town pays the price for being the seat of the
raisin industry by being very hot in summer.
[Illustration: 1. Old Grizzly, Mariposa Big Trees. 2. Old Sunset,
Mariposa Big Trees.]
From Fresno we drove across somewhat uninteresting country, rolling and
solitary, diversified only by grain fields and stacks of alfalfa, to
Madera. At Madera we turned our faces toward the high Sierras, going on
to Raymond with a view to driving over the mountain road to Wawona, one
of the gates of the Yosemite and very near to the famous Mariposa Grove
of Big Trees.