By a Crooked Route to California
After passing a month in this magnificent island, and finding that my
health was not improving, I made up my mind to push on to South America
while my stock of strength, such as it was, lasted. But fortunately I
could not find passage for any South American port. I had long wished
to visit the Orinoco basin and in particular the basin of the Amazon.
My plan was to get ashore anywhere on the north end of the continent,
push on southward through the wilderness around the headwaters of the
Orinoco, until I reached a tributary of the Amazon, and float down on a
raft or skiff the whole length of the great river to its mouth. It
seems strange that such a trip should ever have entered the dreams of
any person, however enthusiastic and full of youthful daring,
particularly under the disadvantages of poor health, of funds less than
a hundred dollars, and of the insalubrity of the Amazon Valley.
Fortunately, as I said, after visiting all the shipping agencies, I
could not find a vessel of any sort bound for South America, and so
made up a plan to go North, to the longed-for cold weather of New York,
and thence to the forests and mountains of California. There, I
thought, I shall find health and new plants and mountains, and after a
year spent in that interesting country I can carry out my Amazon plans.
It seemed hard to leave Cuba thus unseen and unwalked, but illness
forbade my stay and I had to comfort myself with the hope of returning
to its waiting treasures in full health. In the mean time I prepared
for immediate departure. When I was resting in one of the Havana
gardens, I noticed in a New York paper an advertisement of cheap fares
to California. I consulted Captain Parsons concerning a passage to New
York, where I could find a ship for California. At this time none of
the California ships touched at Cuba.
“Well,” said he, pointing toward the middle of the harbor, “there is a
trim little schooner loaded with oranges for New York, and these little
fruiters are fast sailers. You had better see her captain about a
passage, for she must be about ready to sail.” So I jumped into the
dinghy and a sailor rowed me over to the fruiter. Going aboard, I
inquired for the captain, who soon appeared on deck and readily agreed
to carry me to New York for twenty-five dollars. Inquiring when he
would sail, “To-morrow morning at daylight,” he replied, “if this
norther slacks a little; but my papers are made out, and you will have
to see the American consul to get permission to leave on my ship.”
I immediately went to the city, but was unable to find the consul,
whereupon I determined to sail for New York without any formal leave.
Early next morning, after leaving the Island Belle and bidding Captain
Parsons good-bye, I was rowed to the fruiter and got aboard.
Notwithstanding the north wind was still as boisterous as ever, our
Dutch captain was resolved to face it, confident in the strength of his
all-oak little schooner.
Vessels leaving the harbor are stopped at the Morro Castle to have
their clearance papers examined; in particular, to see that no runaway
slaves were being carried away. The officials came alongside our little
ship, but did not come aboard. They were satisfied by a glance at the
consul’s clearance paper, and with the declaration of the captain, when
asked whether he had any negroes, that he had “not a d——d one.” “All
right, then,” shouted the officials, “farewell! A pleasant voyage to
you!” As my name was not on the ship’s papers, I stayed below, out of
sight, until I felt the heaving of the waves and knew that we were
fairly out on the open sea. The Castle towers, the hills, the palms,
and the wave-white strand, all faded in the distance, and our mimic
sea-bird was at home in the open stormy gulf, curtsying to every wave
and facing bravely to the wind.
Two thousand years ago our Saviour told Nicodemus that he did not know
where the winds came from, nor where they were going. And now in this
Golden Age, though we Gentiles know the birthplace of many a wind and
also “whither it is going,” yet we know about as little of winds in
general as those Palestinian Jews, and our ignorance, despite the
powers of science, can never be much less profound than it is at
present.
The substance of the winds is too thin for human eyes, their written
language is too difficult for human minds, and their spoken language
mostly too faint for the ears. A mechanism is said to have been
invented whereby the human organs of speech are made to write their own
utterances. But without any extra mechanical contrivance, every speaker
also writes as he speaks. All things in the creation of God register
their own acts. The poet was mistaken when he said, “From the wing no
scar the sky sustains.” His eyes were simply too dim to see the scar.
In sailing past Cuba I could see a fringe of foam along the coast, but
could hear no sound of waves, simply because my ears could not hear
wave-dashing at that distance. Yet every bit of spray was sounding in
my ears.
The subject brings to mind a few recollections of the winds I heard in
my late journey. In my walk from Indiana to the Gulf, earth and sky,
plants and people, and all things changeable were constantly changing.
Even in Kentucky nature and art have many a characteristic shibboleth.
The people differ in language and in customs. Their architecture is
generically different from that of their immediate neighbors on the
north, not only in planters’ mansions, but in barns and granaries and
the cabins of the poor. But thousands of familiar flower faces looked
from every hill and valley. I noted no difference in the sky, and the
winds spoke the same things. I did not feel myself in a strange land.
In Tennessee my eyes rested upon the first mountain scenery I ever
beheld. I was rising higher than ever before; strange trees were
beginning to appear; alpine flowers and shrubs were meeting me at every
step. But these Cumberland Mountains were timbered with oak, and were
not unlike Wisconsin hills piled upon each other, and the strange
plants were like those that were not strange. The sky was changed only
a little, and the winds not by a single detectible note. Therefore,
neither was Tennessee a strange land.
But soon came changes thick and fast. After passing the mountainous
corner of North Carolina and a little way into Georgia, I beheld from
one of the last ridge-summits of the Alleghanies that vast, smooth,
sandy slope that reaches from the mountains to the sea. It is wooded
with dark, branchy pines which were all strangers to me. Here the
grasses, which are an earth-covering at the North, grow wide apart in
tall clumps and tufts like saplings. My known flower companions were
leaving me now, not one by one as in Kentucky and Tennessee, but in
whole tribes and genera, and companies of shining strangers came
trooping upon me in countless ranks. The sky, too, was changed, and I
could detect strange sounds in the winds. Now I began to feel myself “a
stranger in a strange land.”
But in Florida came the greatest change of all, for here grows the
palmetto, and here blow the winds so strangely toned by them. These
palms and these winds severed the last strands of the cord that united
me with home. Now I was a stranger, indeed. I was delighted,
astonished, confounded, and gazed in wonderment blank and overwhelming
as if I had fallen upon another star. But in all of this long, complex
series of changes, one of the greatest, and the last of all, was the
change I found in the tone and language of the winds. They no longer
came with the old home music gathered from open prairies and waving
fields of oak, but they passed over many a strange string. The leaves
of magnolia, smooth like polished steel, the immense inverted forests
of tillandsia banks, and the princely crowns of palms—upon these the
winds made strange music, and at the coming-on of night had
overwhelming power to present the distance from friends and home, and
the completeness of my isolation from all things familiar.
Elsewhere I have already noted that when I was a day’s journey from the
Gulf, a wind blew upon me from the sea—the first sea breeze that had
touched me in twenty years. I was plodding alone with my satchel and
plants, leaning wearily forward, a little sore from approaching fever,
when suddenly I felt the salt air, and before I had time to think, a
whole flood of long-dormant associations rolled in upon me. The Firth
of Forth, the Bass Rock, Dunbar Castle, and the winds and rocks and
hills came upon the wings of that wind, and stood in as clear and
sudden light as a landscape flashed upon the view by a blaze of
lightning in a dark night.
I like to cling to a small chip of a ship like ours when the sea is
rough, and long, comet-tailed streamers are blowing from the curled top
of every wave. A big vessel responds awkwardly with mixed gestures to
several waves at once, lumbering along like a loose floating island.
But our little schooner, buoyant as a gull, glides up one side and down
the other of each wave hill in delightful rhythm. As we advanced the
scenery increased in grandeur and beauty. The waves heaved higher and
grew wider, with corresponding motion. It was delightful to ride over
this unsullied country of ever-changing water, and when looking upward
from the shallow vales, or abroad over the round expanse from the tops
of the wave hills, I almost forgot at times that the glassy, treeless
country was forbidden to walkers. How delightful it would be to ramble
over it on foot, enjoying the transparent crystal ground, and the music
of its rising and falling hillocks, unmarred by the ropes and spars of
a ship; to study the plants of these waving plains and their
stream-currents; to sleep in wild weather in a bed of phosphorescent
wave-foam, or briny scented seaweeds; to see the fishes by night in
pathways of phosphorescent light; to walk the glassy plain in calm,
with birds and flocks of glittering flying fishes here and there, or by
night with every star pictured in its bosom!
But even of the land only a small portion is free to man, and if he,
among other journeys on forbidden paths, ventures among the ice lands
and hot lands, or up in the air in balloon bubbles, or on the ocean in
ships, or down into it a little way in smothering diving-bells—in all
such small adventures man is admonished and often punished in ways
which clearly show him that he is in places for which, to use an
approved phrase, he was never designed. However, in view of the rapid
advancement of our time, no one can tell how far our star may finally
be subdued to man’s will. At all events I enjoyed this drifting
locomotion to some extent.
The tar-scented community of a ship is a study in itself—a despotism on
the small territory of a few drifting planks pinned together. But as
our crew consisted only of four sailors, a mate, and the captain, there
were no signs of despotism. We all dined at one table, enjoying our
fine store of salt mackerel and plum duff, with endless abundance of
oranges. Not only was the hold of our little ship filled with loose,
unboxed oranges, but the deck also was filled up level with the rails,
and we had to walk over the top of the golden fruit on boards.
Flocks of flying fishes often flew across the ship, one or two
occasionally falling among the oranges. These the sailors were glad to
capture to sell in New York as curiosities, or to give away to friends.
But the captain had a large Newfoundland dog who got the largest share
of these unfortunate fishes. He used to jump from a dozing sleep as
soon as he heard the fluttering of their wings, then pounce and feast
leisurely on them before the sailors could reach the spot where they
fell.
In passing through the Straits of Florida the winds died away and the
sea was smoothed to unruffled calm. The water here is very transparent
and of delightfully pure pale-blue color, as different from ordinary
dull-colored water as town smoke from mountain air. I could see the
bottom as distinctly as one sees the ground when riding over it. It
seemed strange that our ship should be upborne in such an ethereal
liquid as this, and that we did not run aground where the bottom seemed
so near.
One morning, while among the Bahama dots of islands, we had calm sky
and calm sea. The sun had risen in cloudless glory, when I observed a
large flock of flying fish, a short distance from us, closely pursued
by a dolphin. These fish-swallows rose in pretty good order, skimmed
swiftly ahead for fifty or a hundred yards in a low arc, then dipped
below the surface. Dripping and sparkling, they rose again in a few
seconds and glanced back into the lucid brine with wonderful speed, but
without apparent terror.
At length the dolphin, gaining on the flock, dashed into the midst of
them, and now all order was at an end. They rose in scattering
disorder, in all directions, like a flock of birds charged by a hawk.
The pursuing dolphin also leaped into the air, showing his splendid
colors and wonderful speed. After the first scattering flight all
steady pursuit was useless, and the dolphin had but to pounce about in
the broken mob of its weary prey until satisfied with his meal.
We are apt to look out on the great ocean and regard it as but a
half-blank part of our globe—a sort of desert, “a waste of water.” But,
land animals though we be, land is about as unknown to us as the sea,
for the turbid glances we gain of the ocean in general through
commercial eyes are comparatively worthless. Now that science is making
comprehensive surveys of the life of the sea, and the forms of its
basins, and similar surveys are being made into the land deserts, hot
and cold, we may at length discover that the sea is as full of life as
the land. None can tell how far man’s knowledge may yet reach.
After passing the Straits and sailing up the coast, when about opposite
the south end of the Carolina coast, we had stiff head winds all the
way to New York and our able little vessel was drenched all day long.
Of course our load of oranges suffered, and since they were boarded
over level with the rail, we had difficulty in walking and had many
chances of being washed overboard. The flying fishes off Cape Hatteras
appeared to take pleasure in shooting across from wave-top to wave-top.
They avoided the ship during the day, but frequently fell among the
oranges at night. The sailors caught many, but our big Newfoundland dog
jumped for them faster than the sailors, and so almost monopolized the
game.
When dark night fell on the stormy sea, the breaking waves of
phosphorescent light were a glorious sight. On such nights I stood on
the bowsprit holding on by a rope for hours in order to enjoy this
phenomenon. How wonderful this light is! Developed in the sea by
myriads of organized beings, it gloriously illuminates the pathways of
the fishes, and every breaking wave, and in some places glows over
large areas like sheet lightning. We sailed through large fields of
seaweed, of which I procured specimens. I thoroughly enjoyed life in
this novel little tar-and-oakum home, and, as the end of our voyage
drew nigh, I was sorry at the thought of leaving it.
We were now, on the twelfth day, approaching New York, the big ship
metropolis. We were in sight of the coast all day. The leafless trees
and the snow appeared wonderfully strange. It was now about the end of
February and snow covered the ground nearly to the water’s edge.
Arriving, as we did, in this rough winter weather from the intense heat
and general tropical luxuriance of Cuba, the leafless, snow-white woods
of New York struck us with all the novelty and impressiveness of a new
world. A frosty blast was sweeping seaward from Sandy Hook. The sailors
explored their wardrobes for their long-cast-off woolens, and pulled
the ropes and managed the sails while muffled in clothing to the
rotundity of Eskimos. For myself, long burdened with fever, the frosty
wind, as it sifted through my loosened bones, was more delicious and
grateful than ever was a spring-scented breeze.
We now had plenty of company; fleets of vessels were on the wing from
all countries. Our taut little racer outwinded without exception all
who, like her, were going to the port. Toward evening we were grinding
and wedging our way through the ice-field of the river delta, which we
passed with difficulty. Arrived in port at nine o’clock. The ship was
deposited, like a cart at market, in a proper slip, and next morning we
and our load of oranges, one third rotten, were landed. Thus all the
purposes of our voyage were accomplished.
On our arrival the captain, knowing something of the lightness of my
purse, told me that I could continue to occupy my bed on the ship until
I sailed for California, getting my meals at a near-by restaurant.
“This is the way we are all doing,” he said. Consulting the newspapers,
I found that the first ship, the Nebraska, sailed for Aspinwall in
about ten days, and that the steerage passage to San Francisco by way
of the Isthmus was only forty dollars.
In the mean time I wandered about the city without knowing a single
person in it. My walks extended but little beyond sight of my little
schooner home. I saw the name Central Park on some of the street-cars
and thought I would like to visit it, but, fearing that I might not be
able to find my way back, I dared not make the adventure. I felt
completely lost in the vast throngs of people, the noise of the
streets, and the immense size of the buildings. Often I thought I would
like to explore the city if, like a lot of wild hills and valleys, it
was clear of inhabitants.
The day before the sailing of the Panama ship I bought a pocket map of
California and allowed myself to be persuaded to buy a dozen large
maps, mounted on rollers, with a map of the world on one side and the
United States on the other. In vain I said I had no use for them. “But
surely you want to make money in California, don’t you? Everything out
there is very dear. We’ll sell you a dozen of these fine maps for two
dollars each and you can easily sell them in California for ten dollars
apiece.” I foolishly allowed myself to be persuaded. The maps made a
very large, awkward bundle, but fortunately it was the only baggage I
had except my little plant press and a small bag. I laid them in my
berth in the steerage, for they were too large to be stolen and
concealed.
There was a savage contrast between life in the steerage and my fine
home on the little ship fruiter. Never before had I seen such a
barbarous mob, especially at meals. Arrived at Aspinwall-Colon, we had
half a day to ramble about before starting across the Isthmus. Never
shall I forget the glorious flora, especially for the first fifteen or
twenty miles along the Chagres River. The riotous exuberance of great
forest trees, glowing in purple, red, and yellow flowers, far surpassed
anything I had ever seen, especially of flowering trees, either in
Florida or Cuba. I gazed from the car-platform enchanted. I fairly
cried for joy and hoped that sometime I should be able to return and
enjoy and study this most glorious of forests to my heart’s content. We
reached San Francisco about the first of April, and I remained there
only one day, before starting for Yosemite Valley[10].
[10] At this point the journal ends. The remainder of this chapter is
taken from a letter written to Mrs. Ezra S. Carr from the neighborhood
of Twenty Hill Hollow in July, 1868.
I followed the Diablo foothills along the San José Valley to Gilroy,
thence over the Diablo Mountains to the valley of the San Joaquin by
the Pacheco Pass, thence down the valley opposite the mouth of the
Merced River, thence across the San Joaquin, and up into the Sierra
Nevada to the mammoth trees of Mariposa, and the glorious Yosemite, and
thence down the Merced to this place.[11] The goodness of the weather
as I journeyed toward Pacheco was beyond all praise and
description—fragrant, mellow, and bright. The sky was perfectly
delicious, sweet enough for the breath of angels; every draught of it
gave a separate and distinct piece of pleasure. I do not believe that
Adam and Eve ever tasted better in their balmiest nook.
[11] Near Snelling, Merced County, California.
The last of the Coast Range foothills were in near view all the way to
Gilroy. Their union with the valley is by curves and slopes of
inimitable beauty. They were robed with the greenest grass and richest
light I ever beheld, and were colored and shaded with myriads of
flowers of every hue, chiefly of purple and golden yellow. Hundreds of
crystal rills joined song with the larks, filling all the valley with
music like a sea, making it Eden from end to end.
The scenery, too, and all of nature in the Pass is fairly enchanting.
Strange and beautiful mountain ferns are there, low in the dark cañons
and high upon the rocky sunlit peaks; banks of blooming shrubs, and
sprinklings and gatherings of garment flowers, precious and pure as
ever enjoyed the sweets of a mountain home. And oh! what streams are
there! beaming, glancing, each with music of its own, singing as they
go, in shadow and light, onward upon their lovely, changing pathways to
the sea. And hills rise over hills, and mountains over mountains,
heaving, waving, swelling, in most glorious, overpowering, unreadable
majesty.
When at last, stricken and faint like a crushed insect, you hope to
escape from all the terrible grandeur of these mountain powers, other
fountains, other oceans break forth before you; for there, in clear
view, over heaps and rows of foothills, is laid a grand, smooth,
outspread plain, watered by a river, and another range of peaky,
snow-capped mountains a hundred miles in the distance. That plain is
the valley of the San Joaquin, and those mountains are the great Sierra
Nevada. The valley of the San Joaquin is the floweriest piece of world
I ever walked, one vast, level, even flower-bed, a sheet of flowers, a
smooth sea, ruffled a little in the middle by the tree fringing of the
river and of smaller cross-streams here and there, from the mountains.
Florida is indeed a “land of flowers,” but for every flower creature
that dwells in its most delightsome places more than a hundred are
living here. Here, here is Florida! Here they are not sprinkled apart
with grass between as on our prairies, but grasses are sprinkled among
the flowers; not as in Cuba, flowers piled upon flowers, heaped and
gathered into deep, glowing masses, but side by side, flower to flower,
petal to petal, touching but not entwined, branches weaving past and
past each other, yet free and separate—one smooth garment, mosses next
the ground, grasses above, petaled flowers between.
Before studying the flowers of this valley and their sky, and all of
the furniture and sounds and adornments of their home, one can scarce
believe that their vast assemblies are permanent; but rather that,
actuated by some plant purpose, they had convened from every plain and
mountain and meadow of their kingdom, and that the different coloring
of patches, acres, and miles marks the bounds of the various tribes and
family encampments.