all the year round, there being only about six degrees’ difference in
the temperature of the water, winter and summer. When the ocean is too
rough, or the tide unfavorable, the bay affords a safe bathing-ground,
as at Fire Island. That the ocean is rough sometimes is evinced by
the sad havoc it has made with the plank walks between the hotel and
the water, and, as at Coney Island, it seems to be encroaching on the
hotel premises, and will soon thunder against its very foundations. It
is interesting to walk along the beach towards Point Loma, on which
a lighthouse is picturesquely situated. Entertainment is afforded on
the way by the water-fowl, which stand inside of the breakers waiting
for a big foaming wave, into which they plunge headlong, emerging
calmly swimming on the other side, with a fish struggling in the beak.
Twenty miles at sea, to the southwest, are the Coronado Islands, the
haunt of seals, occasionally visited by yachting parties. There is
always something that appeals to the imagination in the meeting of two
countries, and the fact that these islands belong to Mexico makes them
doubly interesting.
Twice a week or oftener opportunity is given the guests at the Coronado
to put foot on Mexican soil. A steam-dummy, with open cars, starts from
the hotel, goes down the peninsula and up on the other side of the bay,
as far as National City, and then branches off, first to the great
Sweet Water Reservoir, and then to Tia Juana. It would be difficult
to imagine a more delightful excursion than this seventy-mile round
trip in open cars. The cool, fragrant air is free from dust, and the
country is so picturesque that one keeps on choosing one place after
another as an ideal site for a cottage and an orange grove. On reaching
the Sweet Water Reservoir, which covers seven hundred acres, it is
difficult to believe that it is not a natural lake, so prettily and
cosily does it rest at the foot of the surrounding hills. Yet here,
where now the wild ducks disport themselves, stood several farmhouses
a few years ago, surrounded by green fields. The dam which created
this lake is about four hundred feet long at the top and forty-six
feet thick at the base, built of solid rock; and the reservoir holds
six billion gallons, sufficient to supply National City and San Diego
with water for consumption and irrigation for three years, though not
another drop of rain should add to its volume. A flume seven miles in
length carries the water to the two cities, which now, with abundant
and cheap water, can amend their arid, treeless appearance, which at
present is their least attractive feature.
After visiting Sweet Water Lake, the train faces about and turns
towards old “Aunt Jane,” or Tia Juana, in Mexico, passing through the
town of Chula Vista, a characteristic Southern California enterprise.
A tract of five thousand acres has been subdivided by a land company
into five-acre lots, with avenues and wide streets through which the
steam-motor passes, and ornamented with thousands of evergreen trees.
These lots are sold only to purchasers who will agree to build on them
houses costing not less than two thousand dollars within six months
from date of purchase; and by way of providing models and starting the
ball, the company itself has erected a number of cottages. Such an
attempt to force a town by hot-house methods would fail anywhere else:
here it will probably succeed. Every time the train stops, a handful of
real-estate circulars is thrown into each car, setting forth the unique
advantages of that particular locality; while the fine appearance of
the residences, with their lovely gardens and orchards, contributes
its share towards advertising the region. For the convenience of the
scattered settlers, the train-boy throws the daily papers into the
yards from the flying train. Near the boundary line are some yellow
pools, in one of which a water-snake darted out its angry tongue at a
whole carload of tourists and then dived out of sight. A few minutes
more and we were on Mexican soil; and though sufficient of the Mexican
element lingers in Southern California to form a gradual transition,
the change is distinctly perceptible. Characteristically enough, the
first thing I saw after leaving the train was a young burro, with silky
hair and no larger than a Newfoundland dog. In Spanish countries,
where the railroad ceases the donkey begins. One side of Tia Juana is
American; the other, Mexican. The dividing line, where the Estados
Unidos meet Mexico, is occupied by a restaurant which bears the
modest title of “Delmonico.” Opposite is a cigar-store which has the
suggestive sign of “The last chance.” There are more saloons in Tia
Juana than buildings. This may seem a paradoxical statement, but it
is true; for some of the saloons are in tents, open in front, with a
counter in the centre and empty beer-barrels for seats. The sight of
the town is the Custom-House, with its polite but pistolled officials,
and the rooms filled with rifles which parties crossing the line had
to leave behind to await their return. There are also a few curiosity
stores, conducted with a truly Spanish lack of enterprise. Almost
every tourist wants to buy a memento of his hour in Mexico, but there
is nothing to be had except some very crude pottery and a few tiny,
hideous clay gods. Nor does the proprietor’s knowledge of English go
beyond the ability to say twenty cents or thirty cents.
Looking beyond Tia Juana, nothing is to be seen but lone, low
mountains,—not a house or hut anywhere,—and we gladly return to
civilization with the train. On the way back, the conductor pointed
out to me the place where the famous Bonnie Brae lemons are grown.
I had previously eaten some at San Diego, and found them large and
juicy, with fewer seeds and a much less thick and coarse skin than
other California lemons. This variety seems destined to retrieve the
reputation of the California lemon, which is not equal to that of the
orange, or of foreign lemons. But I doubt if any kind of lemon will
have much of a future in this country. At San Francisco lemons are not
valued nearly so highly as Mexican limes, which are gradually taking
their place. The lime has a tougher skin than the lemon, and does not
break so easily in the squeezer. In fact, it can be easily squeezed by
hand; and besides, there is more juice in a small lime than in a lemon
twice its size and twice or three times its cost. Its taste, after a
few trials, is more agreeable and piquant than that of any lemon, and I
believe that Eastern cities will soon follow the lead of San Francisco
in this matter. The lemonade of the future will be made of limes.
VI.
SANTA CATALINA ISLAND.
FROM SAN DIEGO TO LOS ANGELES—ALONG THE COAST—A ROMANTIC
SPOT—LOST IN A MUSTARD FIELD—SAN PEDRO—FLOATING
HIGHLANDS—SUN AND OCEAN BATHS IN WINTER—AVALON VILLAGE—THE
LUXURY OF EXISTENCE—FLOWERS, HUMMING-BIRDS, AND POISON
IVY—RATTLESNAKES—HUNTING WILD GOATS—INDIAN RELICS—ABALONE SHELLS
AND THEIR HUNTERS—SPORT FOR FISHERMEN—A SUBMARINE GARDEN—THE
SEALS AT HOME.
Eastern people have no idea how fast things grow in California.
Everybody, of course, has heard the story of the farmer who in the
morning planted watermelon seeds in his field, and in the evening found
that the vine had grown to his kitchen door and deposited a ripe melon
on the steps. But this is nothing compared with the way in which the
cities grow. Thus, on page 216 of Drs. Lindley and Widney’s valuable
work on “California of the South,” we read of “San Diego’s fifteen
thousand inhabitants,” while on page 218 (and it surely cannot have
taken more than a day or two to write these two pages) they say that
“San Diego is growing with most wonderful rapidity. Its population
is doubtless twenty-five thousand.” Most wonderful indeed! San Diego
did seem quite a lively place when I saw it, although this may have
been partly attributable to its being the headquarters of the miners
going to the Santa Clara mines in Lower California. ’Tis an ill wind,
etc.; and the losses of these duped miners were the gain of the San
Diego merchants, who sold almost a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of
victuals and tools to the gold-hunters. The temptation to follow the
latter and get a glimpse of a genuine California mining-camp was great;
but on hearing of the hardships to be endured, of the two hundred
dollars’ duty laid by the Mexican government on a single wagon and team
crossing the border, and the taxes on provisions equal to their full
value, which raised the cost of food in camp to figures considered
fabulous even by miners accustomed to starvation prices,—not to
mention the tropical rains just then prevalent, which made tenting an
invitation to catarrh, rheumatism, and pneumonia,—I concluded to move
northward sixty miles or so, and spend a few weeks instead on Catalina
Island.
Before leaving the Coronado I had an opportunity to note a curious
way of settling urban questions in California. It had long been in
dispute whether or not Coronado Beach belonged to San Diego, so it
was determined to settle the matter on election day. There being a
law that no liquor may be sold in San Diego on an election day, the
barkeeper at the Coronado hotel was instructed to keep open, for which
he was promptly arrested. This was to compel the courts to decide the
question at issue. What the decision was, I do not know, as I left
the next morning. Retracing my steps as far as Oceanside, I took the
California Central direct back to Los Angeles. This road continues to
skirt the ocean as far as San-Juan-by-the-Sea (a few miles from the
famous San Juan Capistrano Mission), where the tourist bids good-by to
the Pacific, not to see it again till he reaches San Francisco, unless
he takes a branch road to one of the numerous seaside resorts of Los
Angeles or to Santa Barbara.
San-Juan-by-the-Sea was called by Dana, in his “Two Years before the
Mast,” “the only romantic spot in California,” which is probably the
most absurd statement regarding California that has ever got into
print. But it certainly is one of the most charming points on the
coast for those who love solitude, and all tourists ought to stop over
at least between two trains and see it. If they decide to spend the
night at the “hotel,” I wish them better luck than befell me. Early
in the morning, having paid the (really) big sum of one dollar for
supper, lodging, and breakfast, I went down to the beach, about half
a mile from the station, across an immense field of wild mustard,
buried completely in a sea of fragrant yellow flowers waving over my
head, and then had to cross a lively little creek on a narrow plank,—a
creek which enjoys the satisfaction, rare in this region, of reaching
the ocean without being tapped, or absorbed by the thirsty sun. The
view from its mouth contrasts delightfully with the uninterrupted,
flat sandy beach all the way up from San Diego. A high, precipitous
rocky shore rises abruptly, and presents itself as a bulwark against
the restless waves. It leads up to hills from which fine views may be
enjoyed, and which give room for daily varied rambles which one misses
so much at a flat place like Coronado Beach. As there is a fine beach
a short distance below, it would be a splendid place for a hotel, and
is already much frequented in midsummer by campers. When I was there,
a deserted hut was the only visible evidence of human agency, and the
solitude was emphasized by four monstrous pelicans sitting motionless
and majestic on an isolated rock half a mile at sea. Below the
precipice, where the waves in low water tumble gently over the rocky
débris jutting far out into the sea, may be found quantities of shells,
not dead and deserted specimens lying bleaching on the beach, but
shells and cockles alive and wide awake, and moving about like little
pagodas with wheels and clockwork.
On the way back to the station I cut off one of the tallest mustard
plants,—bushes they might well be called, so thick and tough are the
stems at the base,—and asked the station master how high he thought
it was. He measured it and found it eleven feet in height! Then for
the first time I felt convinced that the narrative of an Anaheimer,
who told me how thirty years ago he once got lost _on horseback_ in a
wild-mustard field on the fertile soil near where Fullerton now stands,
was not a “California story.” To-day many of these fields of wild
mustard are mowed down, yielding a crop which is the more profitable
as there are no expenses for ploughing and sowing. I cannot see why
there should not also be money in the castor bean, which, elsewhere
cultivated in gardens as an ornamental shrub, is here a weedy nuisance
hard to exterminate when it once gains a foothold. I have seen it grow
as high as a second-story window in Los Angeles, side by side with a
fuchsia _tree_, so to speak, still higher; while roses often cover a
whole house, roof and all, and would aspire to the moon if there was a
connecting link.
To reach Catalina Island we take the train at Los Angeles for its old
harbor town, San Pedro, whence a steamer makes trips to the island
three times a week. San Pedro is considered good fishing-ground, has
numerous duck-ponds in the vicinity, and appears to be the headquarters
of all the sea-gulls on the Pacific, the beach being completely fringed
by them at times. The chief article of import seems to be timber,
the wharves being covered with acres of boards and planks, brought
from Humboldt County and from Oregon and Puget Sound. A part of the
town lies in a hollow which forms a complete kettle, and must be an
ideal breeding-place for typhoid fever. Hotel accommodations are very
primitive, but the Southern Pacific is completing a hotel near the
lighthouse, where the sea-breezes can never fail. The little steamer
_Hermosa_, specially built for the traffic between San Pedro and
Catalina, is new and comfortable, but has the great fault of rolling on
the slightest provocation. However, the distance is but twenty miles,
so that even those inclined to sea-sickness need not dread the passage.
Santa Catalina Island is the second in size and the most interesting of
the large number of islands which lie along the coast of California,
beginning with the Coronado group, just below San Diego, and ending
with Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa, off Santa Barbara. As it is the only
one which has steam connection with the mainland, it has for many
years been visited every summer by thousands of campers, and the hotel
erected there lately has added to its popularity, although for sanitary
and scenic reasons the site chosen for it is not the best that could
have been found. The island is visible from the mainland all along Los
Angeles County, even far in the interior, as it has mountains which
rise to a height of about three thousand feet. Indeed, as the boat
approaches, we see that it consists entirely of mountains, being a
sort of floating highlands, like a section of the Coast Range rising
abruptly out of the ocean, without any gradual slopes or foothills;
presenting a solid front of perpendicular rocks except in a few places
where the wall is broken by a little cove or harbor, with a pebbly
beach, as at Avalon, where the hotel stands. A study of the map of
Southern California leaves no doubt in the mind that these islands at
one time actually did form a part of the Coast Range, being connected
with each other and constituting a peninsula extending from Point
Conception to below Coronado, with a wide channel or sound between
(like that which now extends for about a thousand miles from Olympia
to Sitka), and navigated by the Pineugnas Indians, who in the time of
the early Spanish voyagers inhabited Catalina Island, and were noted
for their fine physique and skill in shipbuilding. Though they are
now widely separated and scattered, these Channel Islands continue to
affect the climate of Southern California by breaking the force of the
wild Pacific waves and winds.
This fact can be vividly realized by climbing the hills on Catalina
till the Pacific is sighted, dashing its huge billows against the naked
rocks that rise perpendicularly to two thousand feet or more above
it, the home of eagles that build their nests in these inaccessible
heights,—monstrous birds, measuring sometimes twelve feet from wing
to wing. In striking contrast to this turbulence on the west side is
the calm of the eastern side, which is hardly ever disturbed, even in
stormy weather. Here the campers and hotel guests bathe in the bay
every day in the year, the temperature of the sea-water in August being
about 66°, and only four degrees lower in midwinter; while in Rhode
Island, for example, the difference between midwinter and midsummer
temperature is about 35°! The Kuro Siwo, or Japan current, three to
four hundred miles in width, which is deflected by the Aleutian Islands
southward along the coast of Washington and Oregon, becomes so far
cooled off by the time it reaches San Francisco as to make sea-bathing
in that neighborhood unpleasant even in summer. But this current is
deflected again by Point Conception; and between the Channel Islands
and the mainland south of this cape there is a return ocean current
from the south, which partly accounts for the higher temperature of
the water at Catalina, as well as along the main shore of Southern
California.
The temperature of the air on Catalina Island hardly ever rises above
85°, and, thanks to the twenty miles of water which separate it from
the mainland, it is never visited by the hot, parching desert winds.
Yet, though thus surrounded by a vaporous sea, fog is almost unknown,
being shut out by the mountains, and, what is stranger still, the
air is said to be drier than on shore. With such conditions and with
constant sea-breezes and an immunity from dust as complete as on
shipboard, it is no wonder that Catalina is beginning to be looked upon
as standing to Southern California in the same relation as Southern
California does towards other States. I met several invalids afflicted
with rheumatic or lung troubles who had failed to find relief at Los
Angeles or Santa Barbara, but found it at once on Catalina Island; and
convalescents make more rapid recovery there than elsewhere. He must
be fastidious indeed who is not satisfied with the climatic conditions
of this island, and notwithstanding its mountainous structure, I am
convinced that before the end of another decade it will be covered with
hundreds of handsome cottages and several hotels and supply villages.
There is room for a considerable number of health and pleasure seekers;
for the island is about twenty-three miles long, and from one to seven
wide.
A few miles from its northern end, Catalina presents a curious contrast
to its usual appearance. Here the mountains terminate abruptly, and the
island becomes reduced to a narrow isthmus, about half a mile wide, on
one side of which are the turbulent Pacific breakers, on the other the
calm sound. Here are the ruins of government barracks, erected during
the Civil War and now deserted, but no other signs of human habitation,
though a hotel will doubtless be erected before long. The only way of
reaching this interesting point is by an occasional excursion on a
little tug-boat stationed at Avalon, the only village on the island at
present. It consists of the Hotel Metropole (what a name for a hotel
in such a position!) and a row of shanties, half wood and half canvas,
in which bread and provisions and shells can be obtained. The hotel
is built on the site of an old Indian burial ground, which is not a
pleasant thought to those who know that invisible ghosts in the shape
of typhoid-fever germs have been exhumed from European graveyards
which had been undisturbed for several hundred years. For this and
other reasons the hotel ought to be removed part way up the hill, just
south of Avalon, whence a fine view of the island and the sound can be
obtained.
But do not fancy that from the top of this hill, or the higher one to
which it leads, you will catch sight of the illimitable Pacific. The
higher you climb, the higher do the mountains, that were previously
hidden from sight by the lower intervening crests, loom up and shut
out the view westward. But these curved ridges, rising one behind the
other, like seats in a cyclopean amphitheatre, are in themselves a
fascinating sight, especially in spring, when the hill-sides are green
with high grass and abundant shrubbery. Looking down from this hill, we
can see the large fish swimming about in the crystalline water, several
hundred feet below us. To lie here on the grass, in the balmy sunshine,
taking in the view and inhaling the ocean breeze, mingled with the
floral perfumes that rise around you, is the very luxury of existence,
and every deep draught of this air is a day added to one’s life. Thanks
to the breeze, no shade is needed, and thus all the healing virtues of
the sun’s rays can be utilized.
Should the labor of climbing this steep hill be dreaded, equally
romantic spots may be found by following up the cañon or gulch which
leads from the hotel into the midst of the hills by a gradual but
steady ascent. The road follows a dry brook-bed, which probably once
in a while becomes a torrent, though heavy rains are rare here, even
during the “rainy season.” An endless variety of shrubs and flowers
lines this road, becoming more rarely beautiful in color and shape the
higher we rise. Climbing up one of the side gulches, I was frequently
obliged to cut my way with my cane through bowers most gracefully built
by the poison ivy (or oak), which is so abundant throughout California,
afflicting some people, if they only pass near it, with a painful
swelling of the face, while to others it is as harmless as is real
oak or ivy. From one of these lovely bowers a humming-bird arose and
darted up into the air as fast and straight as a rocket, till almost
out of sight; then down again like a lump of lead; then circling in a
wide curve about me, humming all the time like a spinning-wheel. To an
observer who stands perfectly motionless, these birds afford no end of
amusement by their wonderful swiftness and curious caprices. Often,
when I watered my flowers during the winter, one of them would hover
over the stream from the hose, take a foot-bath for a minute, then
alight on an orange-tree for a second, and return to the sport again
and again. They are very abundant in California, these butterflies
among birds, as if to atone for the rarity of real butterflies, which
is one of the most curious defects of this State; for one would think
that a country so crowded with wild flowers would be the very paradise
of butterflies. Another kind of bird very abundant on Catalina Island
is the quail, which, even without the advantage of color, vies with the
humming-bird in beauty. Being seldom hunted, the quail are much tamer
than on the mainland. One couple had a nest in a cactus bush not more
than a hundred yards behind the hotel, where they remained undisturbed
till a heartless young idiot from Los Angeles killed them with his
shotgun. Walking up the cañon, one or two pairs repeatedly ran along
leisurely in the middle of the roadbed, not a hundred feet ahead of me.
At other times I came within a few yards of them before they saw me,
for the ground in many places is covered with a velvety kind of grass,
noiseless and delightful to walk upon. Far up the gradually narrowing
gulches we come upon patches of lovely maiden-hair and other ferns,
guiding us to tiny brooklets of clear cool water. Water is not abundant
on the island so far as explored, and last summer only one of the
springs near Avalon—that which supplies the village pipes—was alive.
But it would be easy to secure all the water desired by damming up one
of the gulches.