water, but its grand surroundings and the absolute stillness of its
surface make it perhaps the most perfect aqueous mirror in the world.
The bunches of grass in the middle of the lake, the trees lining
its borders, and the bold mountains in the background are reflected
so clearly and so vividly that in a photograph it is difficult to
tell which is the real picture or which the image, the water itself
appearing like a thin sheet separating the two antipodal views. It
is under the guidance of Mr. Galen Clark, the superintendent of the
Valley, that the lake is seen to best advantage, as he knows all the
best points of view, and is armed with a slightly concave looking-glass
which makes the scene doubly a mirror-lake. No painting could equal
in beauty the miniature views of subaquatic landscape shown in this
glass, in all the natural colors—the blue sky resting on the gray and
white rocks, and the dark green trees showing every branch and every
needle with perfect distinctness. The climax comes when the sun begins
to peep from behind the mountain summits, which here hide it an hour
longer than in the lower Valley. In Mr. Clark’s mirror it looks like
a large electric light whose dazzle throws the mirrored views of sky,
mountain, and forest into a gloomy shade, making the scene like a dream
of the lower world. We had to keep on the move constantly to keep the
sun in view, yet not too high, and I never before realized how quickly
the sun does travel, or how the conformation of the mountain ridges
can make it seemingly go now to the left, and now to the right. When
it had climbed too high to be looked at comfortably even in a mirror,
a breeze suddenly arose and obliterated the scenery painted on the
lake’s surface. Just at that moment two wagon-loads of tourists arrived
from the hotel. They had known as well as we that Mirror Lake after
sunrise is nothing but an ordinary pond, but had lingered too long
over their breakfast or between their sheets. Such is the average
tourist—travelling hundreds of miles, and enduring the fatigues of
staging to see a world-famous scene, and then missing all for the sake
of a few more bites of tough beefsteak!
The whole day still lies before us, and it is part of the regular
programme to spend it in seeing the Vernal and Nevada Falls. The
carriage takes us across a bridge, where saddle-horses are in
waiting for those who dread the climb. Make the driver stop a few
minutes on the middle of the bridge, because thence you get one of
the finest views of one of those unique mountain formations of the
Sierra Nevada,—the North Dome, as true to its name and as absolutely
symmetrical and regular as any capitol or religious edifice ever
constructed. The falls we have seen so far are formed by creeks which
fall over the Yosemite walls and then join the river below; but those
we are to see now are formed by the Merced itself, and therefore
promise to be more imposing in volume, even if inferior in height.
A wide bridle-path leads up the steep gorge, perfectly safe for the
most nervous, though much blasting was necessary to make it so. Superb
views of the Valley beneath, of the precipitous cliffs on all sides,
and from them a water-fall or two which would make the reputation of
any ordinary mountain region, but which here are hardly noticed amid
the abundance of first-class cataracts. A deserted log cabin near the
foot of the Vernal Fall marks the place where we can either follow the
horses up to the top of the fall or climb up by a steep footpath by
the side of the fall. By all means this path should be taken, either
going or descending, the latter being preferable not only as being much
easier, but because our descending from the top to the base of the fall
makes it seem higher, grander, and louder every moment.
The Vernal Fall is about four hundred feet high and eighty feet
wide—considerably lower than those in the Valley, but much wider and
more voluminous, and therefore stands midway between the kind of falls
which impose through their massiveness, of which Niagara is the type,
and those whose principal charm lies in their height and eternal
variation of aspect, as is the case with the Yellowstone, Bridal Veil,
and Yosemite Falls. Few hear of the Vernal Fall before coming to the
Yosemite; yet if it were situated amid the mountains of Switzerland, it
would be surrounded by a dozen hotels and seen by a hundred thousand
visitors every summer. Approaching it by the footpath, we are soon
enveloped in a drenching spray, the haunt of a superb rainbow, which
at first forms a complete circle, but as we get up higher is gradually
reduced to the semi-circular form of ordinary rainbows (another reason
for taking this path on returning, since a scenic _crescendo_ is
preferable to a _decrescendo_). The last part of the ascent is made on
a series of stairs, dizzy but safe, built through a sort of cavern in
the rock, where we can get a peep right into the home of rare ferns
and mosses, kept green by the spray, and fortunately just out of reach
of amateur botanists. At the summit, the guide steps out on the smooth
granite to the edge of the fall, and holds out his hand for those
who wish to approach and see its foot. The upper part can be seen by
leaning over a curious granite parapet, about three feet high,
looking, as Professor Whitney remarks, “as if made on purpose to afford
the visitor a secure position from which to enjoy the scene.” It is
only a foot or two wide, and looks as if it were rent off the rest of
the rock to some distance below, and as if it might be easily kicked
over; but this feeling of insecurity, where you know you are perfectly
safe, only adds to the grandeur of the scene.
[Illustration: NORTH DOME—YOSEMITE VALLEY.]
It would be impossible to find a more romantic and commanding spot than
this. At your feet is the Vernal Fall and the turbulent Merced tumbling
down the mammoth gorge; in the other direction, less than a mile
upwards, is another water-fall, world famed,—the Nevada,—and between
these two falls are endless combinations of wild rocks and shooting
waters. Only a few yards above the Vernal is an eddying hollow known as
the Emerald Pool; and immediately above this is “the flume, where the
stream glides noiselessly but with lightning speed over its polished
granite bed, making a preparatory run for its plunge over the Vernal
Fall,” as the first white man who ever saw this spot, J. H. Lawrence,
happily described it. The guide here tells the story of an Englishman
who wanted to “take a bawth, don’t you know,” in this flume, and who
was carried down by the swift and powerful current into the Emerald
Pool, where he caught on to a bush just in time to avoid being swept
over the falls.
In low water the thin layer of swiftly moving water gives the flume a
silvery appearance, whence it has received the name of Silver Apron;
but if the Indians had any name for it, it must have been the more
poetic designation of Arrow Water, or something similar. It is not
safe to go near its edge; for it is sometimes suddenly widened by one
of those curious irregular pulsations and reinforcements noticed in
many cascades. We now cross a bridge over the raging torrent, and stop
at the Casa Nevada, where Mr. Snow and his wife always are ready to
provide a bountiful lunch at short notice. I believe that the principal
reason why this lunch is so bountiful is because Mrs. Snow wants to
get off her favorite joke at least once a day. Some one is sure to ask
where she gets all these victuals, whereupon she replies, “We raise
them,” adding, after a pause and a look at the incredulous faces, “on
mules.” Mr. Snow is known as Perpetual Snow, from having lived here
almost twenty years, and he sometimes facetiously offers to show summer
visitors “six feet of Snow” right in his house. He has albums for sale
containing fine collections of Yosemite ferns—thirty-six different
kinds; and shows with pride his old registers in which many famous
visitors have signed their names.
Only a few steps from the house, the Nevada Fall comes thundering down
its six hundred feet or more, according to the season. To the left is
Liberty Cap, almost as precipitous as El Capitan, yet often ascended.
A path leads up to the summit of the Nevada Fall, which, however,
cannot be approached near enough to get a downward glimpse; but this
is compensated for by the fine side views one gets of it coming up.
Further on is the mountain called Cloud’s Rest, from which superb
views of the valley and surroundings, as well as the high Sierras, are
obtainable, but which can rarely be visited with comfort before the
middle of May, on account of the deep snow-patches under which the path
is buried. There is also a trail leading from the Casa Nevada over to
one of the most famous parts of the Yosemite walls,—Glacier Point;
but there is so much to see there that one ought to devote a whole day
to it. Therefore we return to the Valley the same way we came, and the
next morning are again in the saddle, bound for Glacier Point, directly
over the hotel. Everybody has seen pictures of Glacier Point, and the
huge boulder which projects at one place several feet over the edge
of the wall. On this boulder many persons have had their photographs
taken, with nothing between them and the bottom of the Valley, more
than half a mile beneath, than a bit of projecting rock, and nothing
to hold on by. On the ledge to the right, however, an iron railing has
been securely fastened, so that the most timorous can now look down
with perfect safety.
At this point a flag is floating, and in the evening it is customary to
build a fire, and afterwards throw the brands and coals over the brink.
To the hotel guests directly below, who have been watching for them,
these brands present the appearance of a golden water-fall, thus adding
one more to the Yosemite’s incomparable collection.
Looking up from this Valley, shut in on all sides by perpendicular
walls, and lofty peaks from twenty-five hundred to seven thousand feet
in height, it seems impossible that a way to the summit should have
been found except by climbing up the cañon as we did yesterday; but
there is a more direct path straight up the wall, to which the guide
conducts us, after passing the village and the seldom-used, solitary
chapel. The ascent is very steep in some places, and hard on man and
beast; but so well planned as to be without risk or danger, even
though the horse does occasionally poke his nose over a yawning abyss.
Fortunately for the nervous, the most “ticklish” places are concealed
by the dense brush clinging to the rocks, else the stubborn habit of
the animals, of always walking as near the brink of the precipice as
possible, would cause many a heart to stop beating momentarily. The
air is wonderfully exhilarating and clear, and nothing could be finer
than the aspect of the receding Valley, and the triple Yosemite Falls
directly opposite, which are almost always in sight.
Half-way up, on our side, is the Agassiz Rock,—a huge boulder, in a
state, apparently, of dangerously unstable equilibrium, and looking
like some of the fantastic pinnacles of the Yellowstone cañon, as if
it might be kicked over with one foot; but appearances are deceptive.
There is a good hotel at the summit, where the horses are left with
the guide, while we proceed a few hundred yards farther, to Glacier
Point. Imagine how the Valley would look from a balloon, and you have
some conception of the gruesome charms of Glacier Point, whence the
outlook or downward look into the Valley is more perpendicular and
awe-inspiring than from Inspiration Point, which affords the more
picturesque view of the whole length of the Valley, its depth being a
subordinate feature. But the advantage of Glacier Point lies in this,
that by walking a few steps to the right, an entirely different scene
is commanded,—a scene which includes both the Vernal and Nevada Falls,
and beyond them an imposing array of snow-clad Sierra summits. It is
here that every visitor must feel the impotence and barrenness of words
to paint the images treasured in his memory; and were every word a
photograph, a description would convey but a faint impression of the
original. But we are to go up higher yet, where a still wider circle
of mountains, cliffs, domes, cañons, and snow-fields will come within
the field of vision. The Sentinel Dome is our goal now, although the
guide is not quite certain whether the path is sufficiently free from
snow for the horses: we do come upon many large snow-patches, a foot
or two deep, but we always manage to get through or around them. Fresh
snow of this depth sometimes falls as late as the end of May, even in
the Valley below.
At last we emerge from the forest, tie our horses to the last trees,
and clamber up the bald pate of the Dome. Hence the billowy crests of
the Sierra Nevada, including peaks of thirteen thousand feet and over,
show themselves in something approaching their real height and sublime
grandeur. The scene is not unlike that of the Spanish Sierra Nevada,
as seen from Granada, thus presenting one of the numerous resemblances
between Spain and California. The surface of the Sentinel Dome is full
of curious small holes, probably the product of innumerable expansions
and contractions of the rock under the influence of alternating
heat and cold. The very top is occupied by a stunted, gnarled, and
broken pine, presenting the appearance of a veteran warrior and storm
wrestler, covered with wounds, upon which it exudes the soothing balm
of a remarkably fragrant kind of pitch. Beware of touching it! a
second’s contact will ruin a suit. Had Heine ever been in California,
we might feel certain that this tree must have suggested to him that
fine poem of the pine-tree dreaming amidst its winter snows of the
palm-tree bathed in sunshine,—say in the Mojave Desert, but a hundred
miles away.
Returning toward the Valley, we soon come to a place known as Washburn
Point, where the view of the falls and mountains is similar to that
obtained from the Sentinel Dome, and perhaps even more impressive
because of its being nearer. From here the scenery of the high Sierras
can be seen even by those who are unable to walk or ride on such
arduous paths; for there is a good wagon road leading hence to the
Wawona Hotel, and striking the road to the Valley some miles above. For
pedestrians, by far the best way to see the Valley would be to take
this road from the Wawona, spending the night at the Glacier Point
Hotel, devoting the next day to this place and the Sentinel Dome, and
descending to the Valley on the day following by way of the Nevada and
Vernal Falls. Thus the Valley may be visited without any uphill work at
all.
It is well to make all one’s plans in advance, so as to be able to
reserve a good return seat on the stage as soon as you arrive at the
Stoneman. The stage leaves early in the morning, and returns as far
as the Wawona Hotel, where we arrive in time for lunch. After lunch
uncovered stages drive up to the hotel, and everybody gets aboard for
a visit to the Big Trees in the Mariposa Grove. The round trip covers
seventeen miles only, thus leaving plenty of time to see the arboreal
giants at leisure. The road takes us more deeply into the virgin forest
than we have penetrated yet, and there are many superb trees which
attract the attention long before the Mariposa Grove is reached. Some
of the passengers begin to comment on a few big sugar pines, and even
express a desire to stop and measure them; but the driver scornfully
refuses to waste any time on such pigmies. So on and up we go, and at
last come to a few scattered specimens which the driver admits belong
to the real Big Tree family; but he does not stop till we reach the
world-renowned Grizzly Giant, the thickest, though not the highest, of
all the Sequoias. With the exception of some specimens of the African
Baobab, this is the thickest tree in the world, so far as known, though
by no means the highest. In one of the other nine Big Tree groves
found in California (and only in California)—the Calaveras—there is a
tree fifty-three feet higher than any one in the Mariposa Grove, and
Professor Whitney refers to an Australian eucalyptus four hundred and
eighty feet in height, overtopping the tallest Sequoia by one hundred
and fifty-five feet. But for height and thickness combined, the Sequoia
excels all other trees; and as the Mariposa Grove contains the thickest
trees, it is the most impressive of all, since in the height of a
three-hundred foot tree a difference of ten or twenty feet is hardly
noticeable, while in the circumference every foot tells.
Ten of our party clasped hands to encircle the Grizzly Giant, but the
endmen could not begin to even see each other on the other side. I
walked around it and counted fifty-three steps. The exact, measurement
is ninety-three feet seven inches, without allowing for that portion
of the bark which has been destroyed by fire. The best idea of its
enormous girth is conveyed by one of Taber’s excellent photographs,
in which a horse stands alongside of the tree, at full length, while
a dozen men are scattered at intervals along the bark, without nearly
filling up so much of the tree as is included in the view. Though
blackened and cruelly hollowed out by fire, the Grizzly Giant is still
alive, but its upper part is as dilapidated and time-worn as the lower;
and no wonder, for it must have first stuck its roots into Sierra soil
perhaps three or four centuries after the advent of Christ, by the
most conservative estimate. The lowest branch of this tree is fully six
feet in diameter—large enough to set up as a Big Tree by itself,—“as
large as the trunks of the largest elms of the Connecticut valley.”
Most of the tourists cut off little slices of the bark, which in this
case is hardly a reprehensible practice, for it would take decades
of such petty vandalism to make any impression on this monster. Yet
there are other mementos that might as well be taken, such as the
mosses clinging to it and the cones found under it. These cones are
surprisingly small,—only about two inches in length,—especially when
compared with other cones found in this region and offered for sale at
the hotels, put up in wooden frames and covered with moss—some of them
a foot and a half or more in length. But the Grizzly Giant must not
detain us too long; for there are several hundred more Sequoias to be
seen, and, as a punster suggested, a Big-treatise might be written on
the Mariposa Grove alone.
As we pass from the Lower to the Upper Grove, these trees become more
and more numerous among the pines and firs, until at last we come to a
genuine grove of _Sequoia giganteas_,—a real forest cathedral. There
is a flutter of excitement as we approach the Tunnel Tree, or Wawona
(which is Indian for big tree), through which the stage drives as it
stands, with horses, passengers, and all. The diameter of this tree at
the ground is twenty-seven feet, or three feet less than the Grizzly
Giant; the “tunnel” by which we go through it is ten feet high and from
six to ten feet wide. Just as we drive into it, a poetic youth exclaims
to his fair companion, “Now look out for spiders!” and others of the
same class must have passed through before, for names are written
on the inside, and even visiting-cards tacked on. The wood chopped
out here was of course made into relics and sold years ago, yet paper
knives and other things made of it are still to be had in the grove in
quantities to suit.
[Illustration: BIG TREE—YOSEMITE VALLEY.]
At a little log cabin, occupied by the guardians of the grove, the
stage stops again, and the venturesome climb up the prostrate trunk of
a fallen monarch, on a rickety ladder. The upper part of the trunk is
rotten, and resembles the hull of a wrecked ocean steamer. It once took
five men three weeks to fell one of these giants; and even after the
connection of the trunk with the stump had been severed, it took three
days of wedge-driving before the tree could be made to fall. Imagine,
therefore, the force of wind required to throw over such a tree, and
the nerve of Andrew Jackson Smith, who once remained in the hollow of
one of them, known as Smith’s Cabin (in the South Grove), during a
Sierra storm which threw down “Old Goliath”!
The guardians of the grove have for sale packages of seeds of the Big
Trees, though they frankly tell purchasers that not one in a hundred
will grow. They have a nursery near the cabin, and often send young
trees away. The _Sequoia gigantea_, although found nowhere except in
the Sierra Nevada of California, grows readily elsewhere, and vast
numbers have been planted in this country and abroad. The climate of
England is said to be specially favorable to it, and from seeds planted
there in 1853 have grown trees which are already over sixty feet in
height and ten in girth. A thousand years hence England will have
her Big Tree Groves, and they will be more beautiful than those of
California, because better guarded against forest fires. But they will
lack the majestic mountain surroundings.
It would almost seem as if the existence of these giant trees in
the Sierra Nevada were intended by nature as a striking artistic
contrast and compensation for the utter absence of forests in Southern
California,—a contrast heightened by the numerous other fine species of
evergreen trees, especially the famous redwood groves, which Professor
Whitney has described so poetically. Outside of Ceylon and other
tropical countries there is, perhaps, no region which has so fine and
varied an assortment of valuable woods as the Yosemite neighborhood.
No visitor should fail to see the admirable collection of ornamental
objects prepared by J. Starke, some of them inlaid with several dozen
kinds of Sierra woods, making a mosaic as elegant as mother-of-pearl.
And I must once more refer to another thing in which the Yosemite
region is unexcelled,—the flowers.
After seeing the unrivalled Valley, in which Nature, as in a final
operatic chorus, has grouped in an overwhelming _ensemble_ all her
motives—snow-peaks, domes, spires, precipices, lakes, rivers, and
water-falls—all in the small compass of six or seven miles, the scenery
on the way back to the San Joaquin Valley, fine as it is, and seemed
on coming, cannot but have the effect of an anticlimax. Not so with
the flowers, which have only gained in beauty, variety, and abundance
during our week’s stay in the Valley. Once I got off the stage, while
it was climbing a hill, and in the space of half a mile gathered
twenty-two kinds, which excited many “ohs” and “ahs” from the other
passengers. California poppy patches, nestling under trees, formed such
indescribably lovely groups that sometimes every hand in the stage
was pointed at them by a unanimous impulse. In some places the flowers
stand so dense that a botanist, in measuring off a square yard, found
over three thousand plants on it. Here a flower-painter might spend his
life making perfect pictures which he need only copy from nature; and
he could not fail of at least one of the attributes of genius,—he need
never repeat himself.
VIII.
SAN FRANCISCO AND CHINATOWN.
MOUNTAINOUS CHARACTER OF THE PACIFIC COAST—THE HILLS OF SAN
FRANCISCO—CABLE-CAR TOBOGGANING—THE GOLDEN GATE AND CLIFF
HOUSE—SCENES IN THE CHINESE QUARTER—JOHN’S TABLE DELICACIES—LUNCH
IN A CHINESE RESTAURANT—AN HONEST BOOKSELLER—CHINESE WOMEN—OPIUM
DENS—BEHIND THE SCENES IN A CHINESE THEATRE—THE ASIATIC
TRADE—CALIFORNIA HOTELS, RESTAURANTS, AND WINES—BERKELEY AND THE
UNIVERSITY—THE CLIMATE OF SAN FRANCISCO.
A glance at a relief map of the United States shows a most striking
contrast between the Atlantic and the Pacific slopes, especially within
a few hundred miles of the coast. In the east, the mountains are few
and low; whereas in the whole of California, Oregon, and Washington
there is hardly a spot whence the view does not include a mountain
range with a few snow-peaks. And this hilly structure characterizes
also the three leading cities of the coast, and many of the smaller
ones. Los Angeles, near one end, has recently built cable-cars to climb
the hills which shut it in; Portland, near the other end, is beginning
to build hers; and San Francisco, in the centre, has long had the most
complete cable-car system in the world. Rome may have been built on
seven hills, but San Francisco, as its inhabitants love to claim, is
a city of a hundred hills. There is Californian exaggeration in this;
for the greater part of the present city stands on about a dozen hills,
with the intervening valleys and the level lots created by digging
twenty million cubic yards of earth out of the hill-sides, and filling
up the hollows; but beyond these there are scores of suburban hills, so
to speak, waiting to be annexed; and when the city shall have grown to
the size of London,—which, of course, is only a question of time,—it
will probably cover a hundred hills: _q.e.d._