THE WINTER ON THE COAST.
But the distinction of this coast, and that which will forever make it
attractive at the season when the North Atlantic is forbidding, is that
the ocean-side is as equable, as delightful, in winter as in summer. Its
sea-side places are truly all-the-year-round resorts. In subsequent
chapters I shall speak in detail of different places as to climate and
development and peculiarities of production. I will now only give a
general idea of Southern California as a wintering place. Even as far
north as Monterey, in the central part of the State, the famous Hotel
del Monte, with its magnificent park of pines and live-oaks, and
exquisite flower-gardens underneath the trees, is remarkable for its
steadiness of temperature. I could see little difference between the
temperature of June and of February. The difference is of course
greatest at night. The maximum the year through ranges from about 65° to
about 80°, and the minimum from about 35° to about 58°, though there are
days when the thermometer goes above 90°, and nights when it falls below
30°.
[Illustration: ROSE-BUSH, SANTA BARBARA.]
To those who prefer the immediate ocean air to that air as modified by
such valleys as the San Gabriel and the Santa Ana, the coast offers a
variety of choice in different combinations of sea and mountain climate
all along the southern sunny exposure from Santa Barbara to San Diego.
In Santa Barbara County the Santa Inez range of mountains runs westward
to meet the Pacific at Point Conception. South of this noble range are a
number of little valleys opening to the sea, and in one of these, with a
harbor and sloping upland and cañon of its own, lies Santa Barbara,
looking southward towards the sunny islands of Santa Rosa and Santa
Cruz. Above it is the Mission Cañon, at the entrance of which is the
best-preserved of the old Franciscan missions. There is a superb drive
eastward along the long and curving sea-beach of four miles to the cañon
of Monticito, which is rather a series of nooks and terraces, of lovely
places and gardens, of plantations of oranges and figs, rising up to the
base of the gray mountains. The long line of the Santa Inez suggests the
promontory of Sorrento, and a view from the opposite rocky point, which
encloses the harbor on the west, by the help of cypresses which look
like stone-pines, recalls many an Italian coast scene, and in situation
the Bay of Naples. The whole aspect is foreign, enchanting, and the
semi-tropical fruits and vines and flowers, with a golden atmosphere
poured over all, irresistibly take the mind to scenes of Italian
romance. There is still a little Spanish flavor left in the town, in a
few old houses, in names and families historic, and in the life without
hurry or apprehension. There is a delightful commingling here of sea and
mountain air, and in a hundred fertile nooks in the hills one in the
most delicate health may be sheltered from every harsh wind. I think no
one ever leaves Santa Barbara without a desire to return to it.
Farther down the coast, only eighteen miles from Los Angeles, and a sort
of Coney Island resort of that thriving city, is Santa Monica. Its hotel
stands on a high bluff in a lovely bend of the coast. It is popular in
summer as well as winter, as the number of cottages attest, and it was
chosen by the directors of the National Soldiers' Home as the site of
the Home on the Pacific coast. There the veterans, in a commodious
building, dream away their lives most contentedly, and can fancy that
they hear the distant thunder of guns in the pounding of the surf.
At about the same distance from Los Angeles, southward, above Point
Vincent, is Redondo Beach, a new resort, which, from its natural beauty
and extensive improvements, promises to be a delightful place of sojourn
at any time of the year. The mountainous, embracing arms of the bay are
exquisite in contour and color, and the beach is very fine. The hotel is
perfectly comfortable--indeed, uncommonly attractive--and the extensive
planting of trees, palms, and shrubs, and the cultivation of flowers,
will change the place in a year or two into a scene of green and floral
loveliness; in this region two years, such is the rapid growth, suffices
to transform a desert into a park or garden. On the hills, at a little
distance from the beach and pier, are the buildings of the Chautauqua,
which holds a local summer session here. The Chautauqua people, the
country over, seem to have, in selecting sightly and agreeable sites for
their temples of education and amusement, as good judgment as the old
monks had in planting their monasteries and missions.
[Illustration: AT AVALON, SANTA CATALINA ISLAND.]
If one desires a thoroughly insular climate, he may cross to the
picturesque island of Santa Catalina. All along the coast flowers bloom
in the winter months, and the ornamental semi-tropical plants thrive;
and there are many striking headlands and pretty bays and gentle seaward
slopes which are already occupied by villages, and attract visitors who
would practise economy. The hills frequently come close to the shore,
forming those valleys in which the Californians of the pastoral period
placed their ranch houses. At San Juan Capristrano the fathers had one
of their most flourishing missions, the ruins of which are the most
picturesque the traveller will find. It is altogether a genial,
attractive coast, and if the tourist does not prefer an inland
situation, like the Hotel Raymond (which scarcely has a rival anywhere
in its lovely surroundings), he will keep on down the coast to San
Diego.
The transition from the well-planted counties of Los Angeles and Orange
is not altogether agreeable to the eye. One misses the trees. The
general aspect of the coast about San Diego is bare in comparison. This
simply means that the southern county is behind the others in
development. Nestled among the hills there are live-oaks and sycamores;
and of course at National City and below, in El Cajon and the valley of
the Sweetwater, there are extensive plantations of oranges, lemons,
olives, and vines, but the San Diego region generally lies in the sun
shadeless. I have a personal theory that much vegetation is inconsistent
with the best atmosphere for the human being. The air is nowhere else so
agreeable to me as it is in a barren New Mexican or Arizona desert at
the proper elevation. I do not know whether the San Diego climate would
be injured if the hills were covered with forest and the valleys were
all in the highest and most luxuriant vegetation. The theory is that the
interaction of the desert and ocean winds will always keep it as it is,
whatever man may do. I can only say that, as it is, I doubt if it has
its equal the year round for agreeableness and healthfulness in our
Union; and it is the testimony of those whose experience of the best
Mediterranean climate is more extended and much longer continued than
mine, that it is superior to any on that enclosed sea. About this great
harbor, whose outer beach has an extent of twenty-five miles, whose
inland circuit of mountains must be over fifty miles, there are great
varieties of temperature, of shelter and exposure, minute subdivisions
of climate, whose personal fitness can only be attested by experience.
There is a great difference, for instance, between the quality of the
climate at the elevation of the Florence Hotel, San Diego, and the
University Heights on the mesa above the town, and that on the long
Coronado Beach which protects the inner harbor from the ocean surf. The
latter, practically surrounded by water, has a true marine climate, but
a peculiar and dry marine climate, as tonic in its effect as that of
Capri, and, I believe, with fewer harsh days in the winter season. I
wish to speak with entire frankness about this situation, for I am sure
that what so much pleases me will suit a great number of people, who
will thank me for not being reserved. Doubtless it will not suit
hundreds of people as well as some other localities in Southern
California, but I found no other place where I had the feeling of
absolute content and willingness to stay on indefinitely. There is a
geniality about it for which the thermometer does not account, a charm
which it is difficult to explain. Much of the agreeability is due to
artificial conditions, but the climate man has not made nor marred.
The Coronado Beach is about twelve miles long. A narrow sand promontory,
running northward from the main-land, rises to the Heights, then
broadens into a table-land, which seems to be an island, and measures
about a mile and a half each way; this is called South Beach, and is
connected by another spit of sand with a like area called North Beach,
which forms, with Point Loma, the entrance to the harbor. The North
Beach, covered partly with chaparral and broad fields of barley, is
alive with quail, and is a favorite coursing-ground for rabbits. The
soil, which appears uninviting, is with water uncommonly fertile, being
a mixture of loam, disintegrated granite, and decomposed shells, and
especially adapted to flowers, rare tropical trees, fruits, and
flowering shrubs of all countries.
The development is on the South Beach, which was in January, 1887,
nothing but a waste of sand and chaparral. I doubt if the world can show
a like transformation in so short a time. I saw it in February of that
year, when all the beauty, except that of ocean, sky, and atmosphere,
was still to be imagined. It is now as if the wand of the magician had
touched it. In the first place, abundance of water was brought over by a
submarine conduit, and later from the extraordinary Coronado Springs
(excellent soft water for drinking and bathing, and with a recognized
medicinal value), and with these streams the beach began to bloom like a
tropical garden. Tens of thousands of trees have attained a remarkable
growth in three years. The nursery is one of the most interesting
botanical and flower gardens in the country; palms and hedges of
Monterey cypress and marguerites line the avenues. There are parks and
gardens of rarest flowers and shrubs, whose brilliant color produces the
same excitement in the mind as strains of martial music. A railway
traverses the beach for a mile from the ferry to the hotel. There are
hundreds of cottages with their gardens scattered over the surface;
there is a race-track, a museum, an ostrich farm, a labyrinth, good
roads for driving, and a dozen other attractions for the idle or the
inquisitive.
[Illustration: HOTEL DEL CORONADO.]
The hotel stands upon the south front of the beach and near the sea,
above which it is sufficiently elevated to give a fine prospect. The
sound of the beating surf is perpetual there. At low tide there is a
splendid driving beach miles in extent, and though the slope is abrupt,
the opportunity for bathing is good, with a little care in regard to the
undertow. But there is a safe natatorium on the harbor side close to the
hotel. The stranger, when he first comes upon this novel hotel and this
marvellous scene of natural and created beauty, is apt to exhaust his
superlatives. I hesitate to attempt to describe this hotel--this airy
and picturesque and half-bizarre wooden creation of the architect.
Taking it and its situation together, I know nothing else in the world
with which to compare it, and I have never seen any other which so
surprised at first, that so improved on a two weeks' acquaintance, and
that has left in the mind an impression so entirely agreeable. It covers
about four and a half acres of ground, including an inner court of about
an acre, the rich made soil of which is raised to the level of the main
floor. The house surrounds this, in the Spanish mode of building, with a
series of galleries, so that most of the suites of rooms have a double
outlook--one upon this lovely garden, the other upon the ocean or the
harbor. The effect of this interior court or _patio_ is to give gayety
and an air of friendliness to the place, brilliant as it is with flowers
and climbing vines; and when the royal and date palms that are
vigorously thriving in it attain their growth it will be magnificent.
Big hotels and caravansaries are usually tiresome, unfriendly places;
and if I should lay too much stress upon the vast dining-room (which has
a floor area of ten thousand feet without post or pillar), or the
beautiful breakfast-room, or the circular ballroom (which has an area of
eleven thousand feet, with its timber roof open to the lofty
observatory), or the music-room, billiard-rooms for ladies, the
reading-rooms and parlors, the pretty gallery overlooking the spacious
office rotunda, and then say that the whole is illuminated with electric
lights, and capable of being heated to any temperature desired--I might
convey a false impression as to the actual comfort and home-likeness of
this charming place. On the sea side the broad galleries of each story
are shut in by glass, which can be opened to admit or shut to exclude
the fresh ocean breeze. Whatever the temperature outside, those great
galleries are always agreeable for lounging or promenading. For me, I
never tire of the sea and its changing color and movement. If this great
house were filled with guests, so spacious are its lounging places I
should think it would never appear to be crowded; and if it were nearly
empty, so admirably are the rooms contrived for family life it will not
seem lonesome. I shall add that the management is of the sort that makes
the guest feel at home and at ease. Flowers, brought in from the gardens
and nurseries, are every where in profusion--on the dining-tables, in
the rooms, all about the house. So abundantly are they produced that no
amount of culling seems to make an impression upon their mass.
[Illustration: OSTRICH YARD, CORONADO BEACH.]
But any description would fail to give the secret of the charm of
existence here. Restlessness disappears, for one thing, but there is no
languor or depression. I cannot tell why, when the thermometer is at 60°
or 63°, the air seems genial and has no sense of chilliness, or why it
is not oppressive at 80° or 85°. I am sure the place will not suit those
whose highest idea of winter enjoyment is tobogganing and an ice palace,
nor those who revel in the steam and languor of a tropical island; but
for a person whose desires are moderate, whose tastes are temperate, who
is willing for once to be good-humored and content in equable
conditions, I should commend Coronado Beach and the Hotel del Coronado,
if I had not long ago learned that it is unsafe to commend to any human
being a climate or a doctor.
But you can take your choice. It lies there, our Mediterranean region,
on a blue ocean, protected by barriers of granite from the Northern
influences, an infinite variety of plain, cañon, hills, valleys,
sea-coast; our New Italy without malaria, and with every sort of fruit
which we desire (except the tropical), which will be grown in perfection
when our knowledge equals our ambition; and if you cannot find a winter
home there or pass some contented weeks in the months of Northern
inclemency, you are weighing social advantages against those of the
least objectionable climate within the Union. It is not yet proved that
this equability and the daily out-door life possible there will change
character, but they are likely to improve the disposition and soften the
asperities of common life. At any rate, there is a land where from
November to April one has not to make a continual fight with the
elements to keep alive.
It has been said that this land of the sun and of the equable climate
will have the effect that other lands of a southern aspect have upon
temperament and habits. It is feared that Northern-bred people, who are
guided by the necessity of making hay while the sun shines, will not
make hay at all in a land where the sun always shines. It is thought
that unless people are spurred on incessantly by the exigencies of the
changing seasons they will lose energy, and fall into an idle floating
along with gracious nature. Will not one sink into a comfortable and
easy procrastination if he has a whole year in which to perform the
labor of three months? Will Southern California be an exception to those
lands of equable climate and extraordinary fertility where every effort
is postponed till "to-morrow?"
I wish there might be something solid in this expectation; that this may
be a region where the restless American will lose something of his hurry
and petty, feverish ambition. Partially it may be so. He will take, he
is already taking, something of the tone of the climate and of the old
Spanish occupation. But the race instinct of thrift and of "getting on"
will not wear out in many generations. Besides, the condition of living
at all in Southern California in comfort, and with the social life
indispensable to our people, demands labor, not exhausting and killing,
but still incessant--demands industry. A land that will not yield
satisfactorily without irrigation, and whose best paying produce
requires intelligent as well as careful husbandry, will never be an idle
land. Egypt, with all its _dolce far niente_, was never an idle land for
the laborer.
It may be expected, however, that no more energy will be developed or
encouraged than is needed for the daily tasks, and these tasks being
lighter than elsewhere, and capable of being postponed, that there will
be less stress and strain in the daily life. Although the climate of
Southern California is not enervating, in fact is stimulating to the
new-comer, it is doubtless true that the monotony of good weather, of
the sight of perpetual bloom and color in orchards and gardens, will
take away nervousness and produce a certain placidity, which might be
taken for laziness by a Northern observer. It may be that engagements
will not be kept with desired punctuality, under the impression that the
enjoyment of life does not depend upon exact response to the second-hand
of a watch; and it is not unpleasant to think that there is a corner of
the Union where there will be a little more leisure, a little more of
serene waiting on Providence, an abatement of the restless rush and
haste of our usual life. The waves of population have been rolling
westward for a long time, and now, breaking over the mountains, they
flow over Pacific slopes and along the warm and inviting seas. Is it
altogether an unpleasing thought that the conditions of life will be
somewhat easier there, that there will be some physical repose, the race
having reached the sunset of the continent, comparable to the desirable
placidity of life called the sunset of old age? This may be altogether
fanciful, but I have sometimes felt, in the sunny moderation of nature
there, that this land might offer for thousands at least a winter of
content.