darkness, so that the saline breeze alone gave evidence that for
almost two hours the train skirts the ocean. In returning, we take
the morning train, to connect at Saugus with the north-bound Los
Angeles train for Yosemite, and thus get a chance to enjoy this ride
along the ocean, which is very different from the stretch between San
Diego and Oceanside,—there, a level, sandy beach, and the mountains
at a distance; here, a mountain chain with its foot in the breakers,
leaving hardly room enough for the train to wind along, the piles
occasionally lapped by the waves. Between Saugus and Mojave numerous
large bee ranches can be seen from the train, though there seems no
superabundance of flowers.
As we enter the Mojave Desert,—which is a real desert, by reason
of its sandy soil, and not simply in appearance, owing to the lack
of irrigation,—the most conspicuous objects are the large _yucca_
cactus-trees, rising to a height of forty feet and more, with large,
thick branches, which furnish fibre for paper. On all sides isolated,
naked hills, and clusters of hills with curious vertical water-furrows,
rise as abruptly out of the level, sandy floor as Catalina does from
the Pacific. By and by darkness closes in, and we miss the experience
of passing through the seventeen tunnels and seeing the famous “Loop,”
where the train crosses its own track about eighty feet above. All that
we remember of this region is the dismal howling of the desert wind,
which is cold enough to make blankets comfortable even in a Pullman
sleeper, though in the daytime the temperature in this region may have
been anywhere between 100° and 120°.
At 3.30 the porter wakes us, and at 4.10 we are dropped in the midst
of a prairie, a quarter of a mile beyond the Berenda station, whence
a branch road is to take us in the direction of the Yosemite Valley.
The short ride to Raymond, the terminus of the branch railway, is over
a level region densely inhabited by jack-rabbits, who are used as
targets by pistolled tourists in the freight car. Perhaps it is hardly
correct to say that this region is level; for there are thousands of
curious little round hills several feet high and fifteen or twenty in
diameter. They are locally known as “hog-wallows,” but their origin is
unknown. At Raymond, those of the passengers who had been wise enough
to telegraph a week in advance for outside or box seats on the stages
take possession of them with a feeling of proud superiority over their
less prudent fellow-travellers. But there are stages and stages, and
an inside seat in a new stage, with good springs, is preferable to an
outside seat on an old rickety stage, at least for those who would
rather lose some of the scenery _en route_ than be “seasick” all the
way, as not a few ladies are; for the road is rough and the pace rapid,
regardless of holes and bumps. Four horses are attached to the stage,
which are changed seven times before we reach the Valley, next day at
noon. In the height of the season this company employs three hundred
horses. The ascent begins at once; mountain air and scenery surround
us, and become more inspiriting and inspiring in a gradual _crescendo_,
till the climax is reached at Inspiration Point, just above the Valley.
The vegetation changes every few hours and becomes constantly more
fascinating. Large, stately oak-trees are everywhere, adorned with
pendent branches of mistletoe as large as beehives. The stage passes
under some of these, which leads a passenger to remark that it is lucky
for young ladies that this route is not open during Christmas week.
Grub Gulch is the suggestive name of a small place we stop at for a few
minutes; and further on, while the horses are being changed, passengers
have a chance to inspect the reducing works of the Gambetta gold mine,
the flume of which, conducting water from an enormous distance, runs
along the stage road for hours. We stop for lunch at Grant’s Sulphur
Springs, a wild, romantic mountain resort, the proprietor of which
built a stretch of road costing twelve thousand dollars, on condition
that the stages should pass his way and stop for lunch. Supper is
served at the Wawona Hotel, where we spend the night. This place has
its own attractions in the shape of a fine water-fall, a lake, a
trout-stream, Hill’s picture gallery, and an Alaskan bear in a cage
near the river.
It may seem strange that a bear should be imported from Alaska to
the Sierra, which has plenty of its own. But they are less easily
caught here, and avoid the haunts of men. We saw none on the way, nor
any other animals except squirrels and a few birds, among which the
pretty but unmusical bluejays predominated. One passenger said that
he caught a glimpse of two deer, but could not prove his assertion.
Scenery similar to that of the preceding day, only grander and more
of it. There may be mountains in other parts of America to match
these, but nowhere such a bewildering profusion and unique beauty of
flowers, shrubs, and trees. The driver showed no disposition to stop
and give us a chance to pick these floral novelties; and wisely, for we
should have never reached the Valley if he had. An amateur botanist,
on foot or on horseback, would require a week to get there. It is
not only those fringing the road that can be enjoyed from the stage,
but those at a distance, too; for they grow in large blue, yellow,
white, or red patches, looking like irregular garden beds, resting
cosily under a shade tree, or exposed on a sunny ledge or hill-side,
where they sometimes present the appearance of gayly colored rocks.
Even Southern California has nothing to match this; for although
there may be a still greater profusion of flowers, there are not so
many varieties as here. Bleeding hearts, larkspurs, and lupins in all
colors, yellow and white violets, snapdragons, fragrant California
lilac, honeysuckles, tiger-lilies, etc., etc., carpet the ground with
the luxuriance of weeds. Fortunately those that are most peculiar
to the region are also the most abundant; namely, the Indian pinks
(with fringed scarlet petals, looking like groups of tiny Japanese
parasols), Indian paint-brushes, Mariposa lilies, and snow-plants. The
long-stemmed, tulip-shaped, white and yellowish Mariposa lilies are
especially numerous; and when one of the passengers jumped out as the
stage climbed up a hill and brought back a handful, two of the ladies
exclaimed simultaneously, after glancing at the curiously marked downy
inside, “Why, they look just like butterflies!”—which shows that they
are well named; for mariposa is Spanish for butterfly.
But the gem of the collection is the Sierra snow-plant, which is
of such striking and unique appearance, that even those who do not
ordinarily care much for flowers cannot repress an exclamation of
rapturous admiration when they first see one. It is called snow-plant
because it grows only at an elevation of from four to eight thousand
feet, while the last snow-patches are melting: but the name is
misleading, as one expects from it a white flower; whereas, the small,
bell-shaped flowers, as well as the scaly, brittle, thick stems around
which they cluster irregularly, in great profusion, are all one red
blush of blood color. They push themselves like mushrooms out of the
ground, displacing the layer of dry needles under the fir-trees; and
the mode of their growth and origin is, I believe, still something of
a mystery to botanists. Of the shrubs I will mention only the dogwood,
whose blossoms are as pure white and as large as in Oregon; the tough
leather-plant, with yellow flowers, similar to those of the dogwood;
and the manzanita, so called from its berries, which look like little
apples. On account of its beautiful, smooth, brown rind, marked like
alligator skin, it is much coveted for canes, and every young man hunts
a few hours for a good specimen; but though the bush is over-abundant,
straight sticks are so rare that they are sold for five dollars on the
spot.
After spending a winter in treeless Southern California, the sight
of the dense and stately Sierra forests is as agreeable as that of
the rare mountain shrubs and flowers. As we ascend higher and higher,
the change in the forest trees is similar to that which we encounter
in going northward towards Oregon and Washington. At a place where
the oaks are still abundant, we notice two isolated pine-trees on a
hill-side; these become more and more abundant, till, in the higher
regions, they become replaced by firs, often prettily draped with
yellow moss (which completely hides the branches, and makes the whole
tree yellow), many of them dotted with innumerable holes in which
woodpeckers insert their acorns,—so tightly that neither squirrel
nor bluejay can get them out. The resemblance to Oregon scenery is
heightened by the numerous burnt stumps, the mosses, and the ferns.
Higher and higher we creep, and more and more magnificent becomes the
scenic outlook over the mountain crests rising behind each other in
endless succession like the waves of a stormy sea, with an occasional
glimpse far down into the yellow, sunburnt San Joaquin Valley, and the
Coast Range, one hundred and fifty miles away, like a faint silhouette.
In this howling wilderness of desolate forests and mountains, which
it takes the stage almost two days to traverse on a smooth road, the
thought occurs again and again how in the world any one ever discovered
this Yosemite Valley, hidden away in the heart of the Sierras, to which
no arteries led them. Had it not been for the pursuit of that band of
Indians by Captain Boling, in 1851, under the guidance of two Indian
chiefs, it is possible that this gigantic gorge of the Merced River
might still answer to the description given of it at that time by one
of the friendly chiefs: “In this deep valley one Indian is more than
ten white men. The hiding-places are many. They will throw rocks down
on the white men if any should come near them. The other tribes dare
not make war upon them; for they are lawless like the grizzlies, and as
strong. We are afraid to go to this valley, for there are many witches
there.”
Once discovered by white men, the Valley was sure to become world-famed
ere long, though the soldiers and gold-hunters who first saw it did
not realize that they had come across the most wonderful collection
of water-falls, precipitous cliffs, fantastic peaks, and other scenic
features, to be found in a similar compass anywhere in the world. In
approaching a spot which, although discovered less than forty years
ago, is already as well known the world over as Niagara or Mont Blanc,
expectation is of course at fever heat. What adds to the excitement, is
the knowledge that the first bird’s-eye-view of the whole Valley which
we get on this route is also the finest. It is at Inspiration Point,
where the driver gave us just two minutes to take in the most famous
scene in California. But these stage-drivers have sad experiences.
Ours told me how some time previously he had stopped his stage at this
point, and how every one was seemingly wrapped in admiration too deep
for speech, when a lady on the back seat suddenly broke the silence by
exclaiming, “Oh, my! I wonder why they have no lace curtains at the
Wawona Hotel!”
It is of the Valley as a whole only that one gets the finest impression
from this point; the individual features, the giant precipitous wall
of smooth granite, known as El Capitan, and especially the water-falls,
do not reveal their full grandeur till we are directly beneath them.
As the stage winds down into the Valley, such a bewildering variety of
scenic surprises crowd each other that one should have as many eyes
as an insect to take them all in; and it is amusing to see all the
passengers pointing at once in different directions to call attention
to something that particularly strikes their fancy, while each one
is too busy to heed the others. The stage traverses almost the whole
Valley, which is over six miles in length, landing the majority of
the tourists at the State-built Stoneman House, although some stop at
Barnard’s, a mile less distant, directly opposite the triple Yosemite
Falls, which are what a reporter would call a “three-decker.” These
falls, as well as the Bridal Veil, and others less famous, are seen
from the stage as it traverses the Valley; but of course they want a
whole afternoon at the very least for proper inspection; so, after
washing off the abundant Yosemite dust, and partaking of lunch, we hire
a carriage or saddle-horse, and retrace our steps through the Valley,
making our first stop at the Yosemite Falls. In coming up the Valley
the driver had asked us how wide we thought the Yosemite creek was at
the height where it falls over the edge. It looks about a foot wide,
and the guesses ranged from two to ten feet. “Sixty feet wide,” he
replied. Our new driver made it forty feet, and on consulting Professor
Whitney’s “Yosemite Guide-Book” (which still remains by far the most
graphic and reliable account of the Valley ever written, but of which
it is absolutely impossible to find a copy in the book-market, though
for years there has been a great demand for it—a rare instance of
publishers’ stupidity) we found that he makes it only twenty feet in
width and two deep, but still sufficient to furnish from half a million
to a million and a half cubic feet of water in an hour to form the
falls. Yet it is not so much by its volume that the Yosemite Falls
imposes as by its unequalled height. The upper fall has a descent of
fifteen hundred feet; the middle, of six hundred and twenty-six; and
the lower, of four hundred; making together a water-fall (for they are
almost in a vertical line) of over twenty-six hundred feet, or more
than half a mile—sixteen times as high as Niagara.
With an umbrella or rubber coat one can get quite near the foot of the
lower falls, and enjoy the spectacle of the spray, and of the rainbow
which forever hovers over it, like a circle of humming-birds. To the
left of the falls is a sort of Cave of the Winds, whence a strong blast
is forced on the upper part of the descending water, swaying it to and
fro several feet, and producing the occasional effect of a lateral
curve. Indeed, the aspect of the falls changes as constantly as the
expression on a human face, and one might visit it scores of times
without seeing it exactly as it was before.
Having given as much time as possible to these falls, we continue
our trip down the same side of the Valley, to the right of the
clear and rapid Merced River, till we come under the shadow of El
Capitan, the summit of which is thirty-three hundred feet straight
overhead—almost seven times as high as the highest European cathedral.
A single perpendicular wall of this height would make this rock one
of the wonders of the world; but here are two such walls, half a mile
in length, smooth as marble, meeting at a right angle, which makes
“The Captain” an absolutely unique sight: “Sublimity materialized
in granite,” as Hutchinson puts it. Vast as this rock seemed from
Inspiration Point, one must walk or drive along its base fully to
realize its grandeur and sublimity. “The whole of New York,” exclaimed
an enthusiastic companion, “might have been quarried out of that rock
without making a damaging impression on it!” The smooth surface is in
one place darkened by what seems a young fir-tree a few feet high,
but which is said to be an old tree over a hundred feet high. How it
ever got a foothold and nourishment half-way up this naked rock, is a
mystery. Even a tree, one would think, should become dizzy and lose its
balance in such a situation.
Below El Capitan the Valley gradually contracts into a cañon, “not
having the U shape of the Yosemite, but the usual V shape of California
valleys.” The descent is extraordinarily abrupt, and the Merced River
rushes and tumbles along in a continuous headlong current almost as
wild and impetuous as the Niagara Rapids. High up on the steep right
wall of the cañon we see the Milton road winding upwards like a white
thread. Our downward road continues as far as the Cascade Falls, which,
though they would elsewhere be regarded as stupendous, here seem
something of an anticlimax after the Yosemite Falls.
Not so with the Bridal Veil Fall, which we next visit, after returning
as far as El Capitan and crossing the river to the other side of the
valley. Although only about one-third as high as the Yosemite Falls,
the Bridal Veil has features which make it fully their equal in charm.
The proper time to visit it is at five o’clock in the afternoon, on
account of the beautiful rainbows which then form in it; and it should
be approached from the lower part of the Valley to see them to the best
advantage. At first the rainbow hovers over the fall about two-thirds
up towards its top; but as we draw near, it gradually sinks down, till
at last it seems to be dashed to pieces on the cascades at the foot of
the falls, where it covers everything with a mass of iridescent spray,
including the neighboring rocks and grass and bushes, to which it is
wafted by the wind. Like the Yosemite, this fall is constantly swayed
to and fro by the wind, as much as twenty feet from its perpendicular
course, and to this fluttering in the wind of its spray-like mass it
owes its name. The wind constantly changes, so that at one moment the
inverted water-rockets descend on the right, and the loose spray on
the left, and the next moment _vice versa_. Sometimes there are _two_
water-falls,—one upward and one downward; for when the wind blows
towards the fall, a dense spray rises up to the very top of the fall,
where it is blown over the ledge like a cloud. And what still more
heightens the beauty of the scene is, that beyond the ledge nothing is
visible, so that the water seems to tumble right out of the blue sky
into the deep Valley.
More than any rivals, the falls of the Yosemite Valley are constantly
altered by changes in the wind, moon, and sunlight; and it is this
great variety of aspect, together with the unparalleled height, that
constitutes their unique fascination and makes them superior to all
other water-falls, except of course Niagara, which is so utterly
different in character as to be incomparable. Over the magnificent fall
of the Yellowstone they have the advantage that they can be seen from
below as well as from above.
On the other hand, there is more charm of color in the Yellowstone
cañon, the few spots and stains on the Yosemite walls being
insignificant in comparison with the brilliant mosaic which covers
the sides of the other cañon. Nor are the peaks and pinnacles which
tower over the lower walls of the Yosemite quite as fantastic and
architecturally suggestive as those of the Yellowstone, or those that
may be seen on approaching the Engadine from Chur, or leaving it for
Como. And yet they are so superb that the Yosemite would be hardly
less frequented were all its water-falls blotted out of existence—as
they practically are late in summer, when there are no more snows to
melt and replenish them. When Horace Greeley visited the Valley, the
Yosemite Falls were momentarily so insignificant that he pronounced
them “a humbug”; yet his admiration of the Valley was none the less
superlative. Cathedral Rock, the Three Brothers, The Sentinel, Sentinel
Dome, Cloud’s Rest, El Capitan, and North and South Domes form an
assemblage of peaks sufficiently imposing to compensate the late
summer tourist for the disappointment caused by the fickle water.
Yet, if possible, Yosemite should be visited in May, not only because
the water-falls are then at their best and the surrounding peaks
still snow-capped, but because there may be, and often is, a belated
snow-storm of a few days’ duration, which gives an opportunity of
seeing the Valley both in its summer and its winter aspects, in rapid
succession.
On the way back to the hotel a dispute arose in our carriage as to the
origin of the Valley. Clarence King states in his “Mountaineering in
the Sierra Nevada” that various markings which he noted had convinced
him that at one time a glacier no less than a thousand feet deep had
flowed through the Valley, occupying its entire bottom. The eminent
Californian geologist, Mr. Muir, also has advocated the theory that the
Valley was eroded by glaciers; whereas, Professor Whitney emphatically
declares that a more absurd theory was never advanced, and gives
his reasons why he believes neither in the erosive action of ice,
nor of aqueous erosion, as being the cause of the formation of the
Valley, nor in its origin through a mountain fissure. He advances the
startling theory that Yosemite Valley was formed by the sinking down
of its bottom to an unknown depth during a convulsive moment of the
surrounding mountains. We tried to find reasons for or against these
various theories in the aspect of the opposing walls, to see if they
would fit into each other, or show signs of erosion; but of course
where doctors differ it was not to be supposed that amateurs could come
to an agreement, so the question remains an open one. But there is a
certain fascination in Professor Whitney’s theory, with the corollary
that at one time the cavity thus formed “was, undoubtedly, occupied by
water, forming a lake of unsurpassed beauty and grandeur, until quite
a recent epoch.” Beautiful as the present floor of the Valley is, with
its great variety of grasses, flowers, shrubs, and trees, one cannot
help fancying that a _Lake Yosemite_, on which one might approach the
foot of the water-falls in a boat by moonlight, would be more romantic
still; and such a lake could be made by damming the Merced River below
El Capitan. But it would cost many millions.
Too much for one afternoon are all these scenes and speculations, and
we reach the hotel thoroughly exhausted and hungry. The bill of fare
at the Stoneman House is a considerable improvement on that of the
original inhabitants of the Yosemite, who used to live on acorns,
scorched wild oats and grass seeds, dried caterpillars, roasted
grasshoppers, and similar delicacies; but in other respects the
arrangements are somewhat primitive, and the lady who missed the lace
curtains at the Wawona Hotel probably was equally disappointed at the
Stoneman House, where the guests have to sleep with blue spectacles on
unless they wish the sun to wake them at six, by shining straight into
their faces through the bare windows. However, there is good reason for
getting up early; for Mirror Lake must be visited before the breeze,
which is apt to blow soon after sunrise, has had time to disturb the
surface of the “Sleeping Water,” as the Indians used to call this
shallow little lake situated a few miles up the Tenaya cañon.
Mirror Lake deserves attention, not only because in it are reflected
some of the finest mountain forms in America, but because it indirectly
helped to give the Valley its present name. The Indian name for it was
Ahwahnee. One morning, according to the Indian legend, a chief went to
the Sleeping Water, where he ran across a monstrous grizzly bear. After
a terrific combat, in which his only weapon was the limb of a tree, he
despatched him, and henceforth his followers called him Yo Semite, or
Big Grizzly, which name was handed down to his children, and ultimately
to the whole tribe; and at the first white men’s camp-fire in the
Valley it was thus named at the suggestion of Dr. L. H. Bunnell.