WE drove off from the Springs Hotel about three in the afternoon. The
sun warmed me to the heart. A broad, cool wind streamed pauselessly down
the valley, laden with perfume. Up at the top stood Mount Saint Helena,
a bulk of mountain, bare atop, with tree-fringed spurs, and radiating
warmth. Once we saw it framed in a grove of tall and exquisitely
graceful white oaks, in line and colour a finished composition. We
passed a cow stretched by the roadside, her bell slowly beating time to
the movement of her ruminating jaws, her big red face crawled over by
half a dozen flies, a monument of content.
A little farther, and we struck to the left up a mountain road, and for
two hours threaded one valley after another, green, tangled, full of
noble timber, giving us every now and again a sight of Mount Saint Helena
and the blue hilly distance, and crossed by many streams, through which
we splashed to the carriage-step. To the right or the left, there was
scarce any trace of man but the road we followed; I think we passed but
one ranchero’s house in the whole distance, and that was closed and
smokeless. But we had the society of these bright streams—dazzlingly
clear, as is their wont, splashing from the wheels in diamonds, and
striking a lively coolness through the sunshine. And what with the
innumerable variety of greens, the masses of foliage tossing in the
breeze, the glimpses of distance, the descents into seemingly
impenetrable thickets, the continual dodging of the road which made haste
to plunge again into the covert, we had a fine sense of woods, and
spring-time, and the open air.
Our driver gave me a lecture by the way on Californian trees—a thing I
was much in need of, having fallen among painters who know the name of
nothing, and Mexicans who know the name of nothing in English. He taught
me the madrona, the manzanita, the buck-eye, the maple; he showed me the
crested mountain quail; he showed me where some young redwoods were
already spiring heavenwards from the ruins of the old; for in this
district all had already perished: redwoods and redskins, the two noblest
indigenous living things, alike condemned.
At length, in a lonely dell, we came on a huge wooden gate with a sign
upon it like an inn. “The Petrified Forest. Proprietor: C. Evans,” ran
the legend. Within, on a knoll of sward, was the house of the
proprietor, and another smaller house hard by to serve as a museum, where
photographs and petrifactions were retailed. It was a pure little isle
of touristry among these solitary hills.
The proprietor was a brave old white-faced Swede. He had wandered this
way, Heaven knows how, and taken up his acres—I forget how many years
ago—all alone, bent double with sciatica, and with six bits in his pocket
and an axe upon his shoulder. Long, useless years of seafaring had thus
discharged him at the end, penniless and sick. Without doubt he had
tried his luck at the diggings, and got no good from that; without doubt
he had loved the bottle, and lived the life of Jack ashore. But at the
end of these adventures, here he came; and, the place hitting his fancy,
down he sat to make a new life of it, far from crimps and the salt sea.
And the very sight of his ranche had done him good. It was “the
handsomest spot in the Californy mountains.” “Isn’t it handsome, now?”
he said. Every penny he makes goes into that ranche to make it
handsomer. Then the climate, with the sea-breeze every afternoon in the
hottest summer weather, had gradually cured the sciatica; and his sister
and niece were now domesticated with him for company—or, rather, the
niece came only once in the two days, teaching music the meanwhile in the
valley. And then, for a last piece of luck, “the handsomest spot in the
Californy mountains” had produced a petrified forest, which Mr. Evans now
shows at the modest figure of half a dollar a head, or two-thirds of his
capital when he first came there with an axe and a sciatica.
This tardy favourite of fortune—hobbling a little, I think, as if in
memory of the sciatica, but with not a trace that I can remember of the
sea—thoroughly ruralized from head to foot, proceeded to escort us up the
hill behind his house.
“Who first found the forest?” asked my wife.
“The first? I was that man,” said he. “I was cleaning up the pasture
for my beasts, when I found _this_”—kicking a great redwood seven feet in
diameter, that lay there on its side, hollow heart, clinging lumps of
bark, all changed into gray stone, with veins of quartz between what had
been the layers of the wood.
“Were you surprised?”
“Surprised? No! What would I be surprised about? What did I know about
petrifactions—following the sea? Petrifaction! There was no such word
in my language! I knew about putrifaction, though! I thought it was a
stone; so would you, if you was cleaning up pasture.”
And now he had a theory of his own, which I did not quite grasp, except
that the trees had not “grewed” there. But he mentioned, with evident
pride, that he differed from all the scientific people who had visited
the spot; and he flung about such words as “tufa” and “scilica” with
careless freedom.
When I mentioned I was from Scotland, “My old country,” he said; “my old
country”—with a smiling look and a tone of real affection in his voice.
I was mightily surprised, for he was obviously Scandinavian, and begged
him to explain. It seemed he had learned his English and done nearly all
his sailing in Scotch ships. “Out of Glasgow,” said he, “or Greenock;
but that’s all the same—they all hail from Glasgow.” And he was so
pleased with me for being a Scotsman, and his adopted compatriot, that he
made me a present of a very beautiful piece of petrifaction—I believe the
most beautiful and portable he had.
Here was a man, at least, who was a Swede, a Scot, and an American,
acknowledging some kind allegiance to three lands. Mr. Wallace’s
Scoto-Circassian will not fail to come before the reader. I have myself
met and spoken with a Fifeshire German, whose combination of abominable
accents struck me dumb. But, indeed, I think we all belong to many
countries. And perhaps this habit of much travel, and the engendering of
scattered friendships, may prepare the euthanasia of ancient nations.
And the forest itself? Well, on a tangled, briery hillside—for the
pasture would bear a little further cleaning up, to my eyes—there lie
scattered thickly various lengths of petrified trunk, such as the one
already mentioned. It is very curious, of course, and ancient enough, if
that were all. Doubtless, the heart of the geologist beats quicker at
the sight; but, for my part, I was mightily unmoved. Sight-seeing is the
art of disappointment.
“There’s nothing under heaven so blue,
That’s fairly worth the travelling to.”
But, fortunately, Heaven rewards us with many agreeable prospects and
adventures by the way; and sometimes, when we go out to see a petrified
forest, prepares a far more delightful curiosity, in the form of Mr.
Evans, whom may all prosperity attend throughout a long and green old
age.