Were I musically inclined, I could very appropriately sing, "Darling, I
Am Growing Old." The realization of this fact, as unwelcome as it is, is
from time to time forced upon me.
On Friday, November 10, 1911, I went to the Westminster Gun Club, in an
open machine, through wind and storm. Got up the next morning at 5
o'clock, had a duck shoot, drove back thirty miles to Los Angeles,
arriving there at 11:30 a. m. At 1 o'clock I drove to my home, and at 2
o'clock was off for Ferris Valley on a quail shoot. Had a good outing,
with much hard labor. The next day I got home at half past five,
completely done up.
As I went to retire, I had a good, stiff, nervous chill. So you can well
see that I can no longer stand punishment, and am "growing old." As I
lay there and shook, I said to myself, "Old fellow, you will soon be a
'has-been.' Your gun and fishing rod will soon decorate your shooting
case as ornaments, rather than as things of utility." Ah, well, let it
be so! The memory of pleasant days when youth and strength were mine;
days when the creel was full, and game limits came my way, will be with
me still. I would not exchange the experience I have had with rod and
gun for all the money any millionaire in the world possesses.
On my trip to the grounds of the Quail Valley Land Company, some thirty
miles below Riverside, two members of the club and my wife accompanied
me. We were in one of my good, old reliable Franklin cars, and from
Ontario to Riverside we bucked a strong head wind that was cold and
pitiless. It necessarily impeded our progress, as we had on a glass
front, and the top was up, and yet we made the run of seventy-six miles
in three hours and a quarter without ever touching the machine. In fact,
none of the party got out of the machine, from start to finish.
The big, open fireplace at Newport's home, and the bountiful,
well-cooked supper with which we were greeted, were well calculated to
make us happy and contented. The long drive in the wind rendered all of
us sleepy, and by 9 o'clock we had retired. I never woke up until 6
o'clock next morning.
Shooting Grounds.
After breakfast we proceeded in our machine to the shooting ground. The
sky was heavily overcast with watery, wicked looking clouds. Rifts in
the sky, here and there, let some frozen looking sunbeams through, but
there was no warmth in their rays. We had our first shoot on the edge of
a grain field, but the birds quickly flew to some high hills to the
west.
Rounding the pass through these hills, I never saw the Perris Valley
more weirdly beautiful. The clouds were high. On the north Mt. San
Bernardino loomed up, grim, snow-capped and forbidding. To the east old
Tahquitz, guardian of the passes to the desert, reared his snow-capped
head, far above the surrounding country. To the south Mt. Palomar
stretched his long, lazy looking form, with his rounded back and
indented outline, from east to west. His distance from us made him look
like a line of low, outlying hills, instead of the sturdy old mountain
that he is. All of these mountains bore most exquisite purple hues. The
same coloring was assumed by those groups of lesser hills that,
cone-like, are scattered over the easterly edge of the Perris Valley,
and which separate the Hemet and the San Jacinto country from the rest
of the valley. The coloring of the floor of the valley itself was
particularly exquisite. There was just enough light, just enough of
sunbeams struggling through the sodden clouds to illuminate, here and
there, an alfalfa field, or here and there a grove of trees, so as to
bring them out in startling contrast to the somber colors of the shaded
portions of the valley. But with it were signs of the dying year, a
premonition of storms to come, storms unpleasant while they last, but
revivifying in their effects.
Many Quail--Too Cold.
In the fifteen years during which I have shot upon these grounds, I
never got up more or larger bands of quail than we did that morning. The
day was too cold for good shooting. Give me the good old summer time,
with the thermometer about 80 degrees, for good quail shooting. In the
cool days the birds run or get up and fly a half mile at a time. They
will not scatter out and lie close, so that you can get them up one by
one and fill your bags. On the cold days they also break cover at very
long range. They led us a merry chase up the steepest hills and down the
most abrupt declivities. All of the time we were slowly making good.
Lloyd Newport was there on his buckskin horse. Now you could see him way
up on a hillside, then again down in some deep valley, running like mad
to check the flight, or turn the running march of some band of birds
that was leading those of us on foot a double-quick run. Shooting as he
rode, now to the right, now to the left, then straight ahead, he got his
share of the birds.
Little Fred Newport, only 14 years old, was shooting like a veteran, and
long before the rest of us had scored, he proudly announced that he had
the limit. The final round-up found us with 109 birds for seven guns--a
good shoot, under very adverse circumstances. We had the satisfaction of
knowing that we left plenty of birds on the ground for next year.
The quail shooting of 1911 is at an end. Only the memory of it remains.
I shall cherish the memory deeply in my affections, and let it stir my
enthusiasm for the out-of-door life when the world seems all balled up,
and things are going wrong.
The Rattlesnake.
While proceeding along an unfrequented road, with sage brush on each
side of it, we ran across a rattlesnake, about four feet long, and of
good circumference, twisted up into a most peculiar position.
Investigation found that, notwithstanding the coolness of the day, he
was foraging for game, and was engaged in swallowing a good-sized
kangaroo rat. The tail of the rat protruded several inches from his
mouth. The snake glared at us, but made no effort to escape or fight. He
seemed dazed, probably half choked by his efforts to swallow the rat. We
straightened him out on the ground and blew his head off with a shotgun.
We then disgorged the rat, which was at least four or five inches long,
and an inch and a half in diameter. The snake was then quickly skinned.
He had eleven rattles and a button.
Snakes eat the eggs and the young of the quail. In view of the ravages
by snakes, hawks, weasles, skunks, wildcats and coyotes I do not see how
there are any quail left for the sportsmen. The fight of these marauders
is constantly going on, while the sportsmen's efforts are at present
limited to a very short period.
At a quarter after two we left Newport's for home. We took in a little
gasoline at Riverside. This was the only stop made on the home run,
which was accomplished in three hours and a quarter (seventy-six miles)
with a perfect score so far as the machine was concerned.
Nature at Her Loveliest.
We did not encounter the cruel wind in returning that buffeted us on the
outward trip. I never saw the San Gabriel Valley more beautiful than it
was that afternoon. As we bowled along the road this side of San Dimas,
the entire valley lay before us. To the west were the rugged Sierra
Madre Mountains; on the east, the San Jose Hills. They connected with
the Puente Hills to the south. West of these came the hills of the
Rancho La Merced, running from the San Gabriel River westerly, and
still west of them come the hills, which run east from the Arroyo Seco,
north of the Bairdstown country. From our position these hills all
seemed to connect without any breaks or passes in them. Thus the valley
before us was one mountain-and-hill-bound amphitheater. The sky was
overcast by grayish clouds. The sun hung low in the west, directly in
front of us. How gorgeous was the coloring of the sky and valley! How
the orchards and vineyards were illuminated! How the colors lingered and
seemed to fondle every growing thing, and paint each rock and point of
hill as no artist could! The sun hung in one position for quite a time
before taking its final dip below the horizon. The clouds assumed a
golden tinge, turning to burnished copper. Through breaks or irregular
rifts therein, we got glimpses of the sky beyond of an opalescent blue
in strong contrast with the crimson coloring of the clouds, all of which
were intensely illuminated by the setting sun. Underneath this vast sea
of riotous coloring there was a subdued, intense light, which I can not
describe or account for. It brought every object in the valley plainly
into view, lifted it into space, and illuminated it. After we had passed
Azusa we chanced to look back at "Old Baldy" and the Cucamonga peaks.
They were in a blaze of glorious light, purple, pink, crimson, fiery
red, all mingled indiscriminately, yet all preserved in their individual
intensity.
Oh, land so rare, where such visions of delight are provided by the
unseen powers for our delectation! As I surveyed this vast acreage,
evidencing the highest cultivation, with princely homes, vast systems of
irrigation, with orange orchards and lemon groves in, every stage of
development, from the plants in the seed beds to trees of maturity and
full production, I congratulated myself on living in such an age, and
amid such environments.
Let us appreciate, enjoy and defend until our dying day, this glorious
land, unswept by blizzards, untouched by winter's cruel frosts,
unscathed by the torrid breath of sultry summer, a land of perpetual
sunshine, where roses, carnations, heliotrope, and a thousand rare,
choice and delicate flowers bloom in the open air continually, where in
the spring time the senses are oppressed by the odor of orange and lemon
blossoms, and where the orchards yield a harvest so fabulous in returns
as to be almost beyond human comprehension.
An Auto Trip Through the Sierras.
Tule River and Yosemite.
I have been in California fifty-four years. During all of this time I
had never visited the Yosemite. Before it was too late I determined to
go there. We started in June, 1911.
Accompanied by Mrs. Graves, my son Francis and a friend, Dr. A. C.
Macleish, we left Alhambra, June seventh of this year at seven o'clock
a. m. We passed through Garvanza, Glendale and Tropico, and were soon on
the San Fernando road. The run through the town of that name and through
the tunnel, recently constructed to avoid the Newhall grade, was made in
good time and without incident.
Newhall.
At Newhall we procured and carried with us a five-gallon can of
gasoline. A short distance out of Saugus, we turned into the San
Francisquito Canyon road. Shortly afterwards a brand new inner tube on
the right rear wheel went completely to pieces. It had been too highly
cured and could not stand the heat. We replaced it with another one, and
were soon crossing and recrossing the stream which meanders down the
canyon. Constantly climbing the grade, we were whirling from sunshine to
shadow alternately as the road was overhung with or free from trees.
Old Memories Aroused.
I could not help recalling my trip over the same road with my old
friend, Mr. A. C. Chauvin, on the third day of October, 1876. The road
was fairly good. Our machine was working nicely, the day a pleasant one,
and the trip enjoyable. In a few hours we reached Elizabeth Lake. I
pointed out the very spot at which Chauvin and myself camped thirty-five
years before.
Ah, the fleeting years! How quickly they have sped! What experiences we
have had! What pleasures we have enjoyed! What sorrows endured in
thirty-five years! Well it is, that then the future was not unfolded to
me, and that all the enthusiasm and hope and ambition of youth led me on
to the goal, which has brought me so much joy, as well as much sorrow.
Momentous events have affected not only my own life, but the life of
nations in these thirty-five years.
Crossing Antelope Valley.
We passed the lake, turning down the grade into Antelope Valley. After
several miles of very rolling country, we halted under some almond trees
in a deserted orchard for lunch. The grasshoppers were thicker than
people on a hot Sunday at Venice or Ocean Park in the "good old summer
time." We managed to eat our lunch without eating any of the hoppers,
but there wasn't much margin in our favor in the performance. Before
starting we emptied our can of gasoline into the tank. Soon we
intercepted the road leading from Palmdale to Fairmont and Neenach. We
passed both of these places, then Quail Lake and Bailey Hotel. We were
soon at Lebec. Then came the beautiful ride past Castac Lake, and down
the canyon, under the noble white oak trees, which are the pride of
Tejon Ranch. We passed through Ft. Tejon with its adobe buildings
already fallen or rapidly falling into ruinous decay. Still descending
through the lower reaches of the canyon, we took the final dip down the
big grade and rolled out into the valley. A pleasant stream of water
followed the road out into the plains, at which sleek, fat cattle drank,
or along whose banks they lolled listlessly, having already slaked their
thirst. We whirled past the dilapidated ranch buildings put down in the
guide books as Rose Station. From this point, since my trip over this
country a year ago, much of the road to Bakersfield has been fenced.
Cloud Effects.
While crossing Antelope Valley during the afternoon, I observed a most
wonderful cloud effect. A perfectly white cloud hung over Frazier
Mountain. Its base was miles long and as straight as if it had been
sheared off by machinery. Its top was as irregular as its base was
finished. It extended into the sky farther than the blue old mountain
did above the surrounding country. Irregular in shape, it assumed the
form of mountains, valleys, forests, streams, castles and turrets. I
watched it for hours, apparently it never moved. It hung there as
immovable as the mountain beneath it. It was at once an emblem of purity
and apparent stability. After we had passed Fairmont, my attention was
diverted from it for a short time, not over ten minutes, and when again
looking for my cloud, it was gone. Every vestige of it had vanished
completely, and in its place was the blue sky, its color intensified by
reason of its recent meager obscuration.
Bakersfield.
We reached Bakersfield early in the evening, having made the run of one
hundred and forty-six miles, over a heavy mountain range, on fifteen
gallons of gasoline. This I call a good performance for any six-cylinder
car. Coming down the Tejon Canyon, we passed the only Joe Desmond of
Aqueduct fame, with some companions, taking lunch by the roadside. He
had come from Mojave. He was bound for Bakersfield to buy hay.
Off for Porterville.
We left Bakersfield at seven a. m. next morning, over an excellent road,
for Porterville. Fifty miles after starting we picked up a nail and had
a flat tire. Porterville was reached at eleven o'clock. As a side trip
we were going to a camp of the San Joaquin Light & Power Company, way up
on the Tule River, for the purpose of visiting a grove of big trees
located in that vicinity. As we had many miles of uphill work ahead of
us, we concluded not to delay at Porterville for lunch. We replenished
our lunch basket of the day before from a grocery store, filled our tank
with gasoline and sped on. At twelve o'clock, a few miles beyond the
small village of Springville, which will shortly be connected with the
outside world by a railroad now in process of construction, we halted
for lunch in a shady spot on one of the forks of the Tule River.
For many miles before reaching Porterville, we saw quite extensive
evidence of the orange industry. There were many groves in full bearing
and miles and miles of young groves but a few years planted or just set
out.
Tule River Canyon.
From Porterville to Springville, the canyon of the Tule River is quite
wide. The course of the river itself is marked by a heavy growth of
timber, some quarter of a mile in width. Orange and lemon groves have
been planted in favored localities on the bench lands, here and there,
but not continuously. There is much hilly land back of the canyon
proper, covered with wild oats and evidently devoted entirely to
pasture. Shortly after our noon halt we came to the power plant of the
Mount Whitney Power Company. Here they told us our journey would end
twelve miles further up the stream. From this point the canyon narrowed
rapidly until it became a mere gorge. While precipitously steep, the
roadbed was good. It ran along the left side of the canyon, going up. At
all times we had the right hand side of the canyon in plain view. Far
above us on our side, now in plain sight, now hidden by a projecting
point or tall timber, was the flume of the Mount Whitney Power Company,
which carried water from the river to the powerhouse we had passed. As
we ascended, we continually got nearer to this flume, which was run on a
grade, and at last we passed under it. We saw it shortly afterwards
terminate at an intake in the canyon below our road. From here on I
never enjoyed a more beautiful ride. To my mind there is nothing more
attractive than a California mountain canyon and its thickly-wooded
sides. Below us, foam-covered, white, radiant with light and beauty, ran
the Tule River. In its rapid descent, confined to the bottom of the
canyon, it hurtled along over water-worn boulders of great size, its
swollen masses of surging waters forming here and there cascades,
immense pools and miniature falls. It kept up a loud and constant roar,
not too loud, but with just enough energy to be grateful to the ear.
The Canyon--A Bower of Beauty.
We had left behind us the scattering timber of the lower foothills. The
sides of the canyon were clothed and garlanded in various shades of
green from top to bottom. Black oak trees in their fresh, new garbs of
early summer, intermingled with stately pines. All space between these
trees was filled with a rich growth of all the flowering shrubs known to
our California mountains. In the damper places a wild tangle of ferns
and vines and bracken entirely hid the earth from view. Lilacs, white
and purple, in full bloom emitted a fragrance which rendered the air
intoxicating and nearly overpowered one's senses. Mingled with these
bushes were the Cascara Segrada, bright-leafed maples, and the
brilliantly colored stems and vividly green leaves of the Manzanitas,
some in full bloom, some in berries set. The graceful red bud, found in
luxuriant growth in Lake County, was also here. Likewise the elders,
with their heavy clusters of yellow blossoms. The buckeye, with its
long, graceful blossoms, reached far up above the undergrowth. The
mountain sage, differing materially from the valley sage and bearing a
yellow flower, was also here. The mountain balm, with its long purple
blossoms, mingled its colors with its neighbors. Occasionally an humble
thistle, with its blossom of purple base and intense pink center, thrust
up its head through some leafy bower. Crowding all of these was the
grease wood with its yellow bloom, the snow-bush or buckthorn, with a
blossom resembling white lilac and fully as sweet, and all the other
shrubs of our mountain chaparrals, all, however, blended into one
beautiful and fragrant bouquet, so exquisitely formed that man's
ingenuity could never equal it in arranging floral decorations. Then
again a turn in the road would bring us great masses of tall dogwood
with its shining leaves and beautiful white blossoms with yellow
centers. They also, like the ferns, sought the cooler, darker spots.
Never before have I seen the California slippery elm or leatherwood tree
in such perfect form. It makes a stately branching tree. Its great
yellow blossoms almost cover the limbs. The shade of the flower is a
deep golden yellow. When mingled with the dogwood, the intense green of
the foliage of the two trees, coupled with the white and yellow
decorations, made a bouquet of rarest beauty. Thimble-berry bushes, rich
in color, bright of leaf and rank of growth, sported their great white
blossoms with much grace and dignity. Yellow buttercups, carnations,
violets of three colors, white, yellow and purple, half hid their
graceful heads under the tangled growth of various grasses by the
wayside. The wild iris moved their varicolored flowers with each passing
breath of air.
Hyacinths, lupins and hollyhocks were freely interspersed with the
glistening foliage of the shrubbery. The tiger and yellow mountain
lilies were not yet in flower, although we frequently saw their tall
stems bearing undeveloped blossoms. The columbine and white and yellow
clematis were much in evidence, and presented a charming picture as they
wound in and out, and over and around the green leaves of the shrubs,
displaying their creamy blossoms with a dainty air and self-conscious
superiority. In open places beneath the forest trees, where no large
underbrush grew, a fern-like, low shrub, locally known as bear clover,
completely hid the earth. It bore a white blossom with yellow center,
for all the world like that of a strawberry. To my surprise, the Spanish
bayonets in full bloom reared their heads above the lower growing
evergreens. We saw them no further north than the Tule River canyon.
What a picture the sunlight made on the mountain tops and the sloping
sides of the lateral valleys of the canyon! Ah, that river, how
beautiful it was! There it ran below us, in the very bottom of the
canyon, ever moving, ever turbulent, ever flashing in the sunlight, ever
tossing its foamy spray far up into the air, a thing of life, of joy and
ecstatic force. It sang and laughed and gurgled aloud in the happiness
of its life and freedom. Above was the sky, pure and radiantly blue. Its
exquisite coloring was intensified by the wild riot of color beneath it.
We still ascended. Each breath of air we drew was rich with the odor of
pine and fir, mint and balsam. The line of survey on the opposite side
of the canyon from us, marking the course of the tunnel now being
constructed by the San Joaquin Light & Power Company, which terminates
at a point on the mountain side at the junction of a side canyon sixteen
hundred feet above the stream, was now on a level with us. We could see
ahead of us where it, like the flume earlier in the day, reached the
river level. At this point we knew our journey ended. We were pulling
slowly up a stiff, nasty grade, when all at once a loud crash announced
the demolition of some of the internal machinery of our car. We stopped
from necessity.
"Auto" Breaks Down.
Our "auto" was a helpless thing. When the clutch was thrown in, it could
only respond with a loud, discordant whirring. It made no forward
movement. We all thought our differential had gone to smash. One of our
party went on ahead, and at a nearby camp we telephoned Mr. Hill,
superintendent of the power company, of our predicament. He directed a
man who was working a pair of heavy horses on a road near by, to hitch
onto us and haul us up to his place, a mile or so distant. All of us,
except Mrs. Graves, and our chauffeur, who had to steer the car and work
the brakes, walked. It was slow going, but the journey finally ended. We
found a good, clean camp, clean beds and a good supper awaiting us. That
night we reaped the sweet repose which comes from exertion in the open
air.
Early next morning we blocked up our car and took off the rear axle,
uncoupled the differential case and found everything there intact. We
then removed the caps from the wheel hubs and took out the floating
axles, or drive shafts. One of them was broken into two pieces. It
either had a flaw in it when made or had crystallized, no one could
determine which. We got Los Angeles by phone, ordered the necessary
parts by express to Porterville, and, think of it, we had these parts
delivered to us at two o'clock the next afternoon!
The Soda Spring.
We spent the rest of Friday, June ninth, in visiting a magnificent soda
and iron spring, a mile above camp, which is for all the world like the
spring of the same quality in Runkle's Meadows, above the lake on Kern
River, some ninety miles above Kernville. The waters of the spring were
deliciously cool and refreshing.
A Tramp Up A Mountain.
Next morning the male members of our party started up a steep mountain
trail to see some sequoias I had heard about. Unused as we were to
excessive exercise and the altitude, the climb was a hard one. We
ascended from four thousand feet elevation to over seven thousand feet.
Most of the way the trail was through heavy fir and sugar-pine. Going up
we ran into two beautiful full-grown deer, a buck and a doe. They fled
to security with easy, graceful jumps, into the thick underbrush. We
heard grouse drumming loudly, in two or three different localities and
saw one bird make a long dive from one pine tree to another. We found
wild flowers in profusion, of the same variety, fragrance and coloring
as encountered in the canyon the day before. Just as we reached the
summit, we found, standing on the backbone of the ridge--so located
that rain falling on it would flow from one side of it into one
water-shed, and from the other side into another water-shed--a great,
stately sequoia gigantea fully three hundred feet high and of immense
circumference. There wasn't a branch on it within one hundred feet of
the ground. It was in good leaf, except at the top, which was gnarled
and weather-beaten. Its base had been cruelly burned. This tree bears a
striking resemblance to the grizzly giant which we saw later in the
Mariposa big tree grove near Wawona. Not far from this fine old guardian
of the pass, were groups of noble trees, fully as tall, but not as large
as the one described, but perfect trees, erect, stately, and imposing.
The bark of all of these trees was very smooth and very red, much more
highly colored than the trees in the Wawona grove.
I was too much fatigued to make another mile down the west side of the
mountain (we had come up from the east) to inspect a much larger grove
of still larger trees. Two of the younger members of our party, my son
Francis and Harry Graves, our chauffeur, made the trip while Dr.
Macleish and I awaited their return on the summit. They came back
enthusiastic over the lower groves, the trees there being much more
numerous in number and much larger in size than the ones we first ran
into. We sat around resting a while, straining our necks looking for,
the tops of those trees, all of which were way up there in the blue sky.
We wondered how many years they had been there, and what revolutions in
climate and topographical appearance of the country they had witnessed.
Finally, having satiated ourselves with their beauty, we started on the
return journey, which was made without incident, except that we
disturbed a hen grouse with a fine brood of little ones about the size
of a valley quail.
A Mother Grouse.
The mother bird flew into a scrub oak. She there asserted the privilege
of her sex and scolded us in no uncertain tones. When all her young had
flitted away to cover, still scolding, she took one of those long dives
down to a deep dark canyon, flying with incredible rapidity, and
apparently not moving a feather. No other bird I ever saw can do the
trick as a grouse does it. We saw but few other birds on this excursion.
An occasional blue-jay, a vagrant bee-bird, now and then a robin, and
once in a while a most brilliantly colored oriole made up the list.
Fluffy-tailed gray squirrels chattered at us noisily from the wayside
trees. They seemed bubbling over with life and motion. We stopped at the
Soda Springs for a life-giving draught of its refreshing waters, and
were back to camp in time for lunch.
Flight of Lady-Bugs.
When we reached the Soda Springs, we met the most remarkable migration
of red lady-bugs that I ever saw. They were coming in myriads from down
the main canyon and each side canyon. They extended in a swarm from the
ground to a distance above it of from ten to twelve feet. Huge rocks
would be covered six or eight inches deep with them. Occasionally they
would light upon a tree, and in a few moments the tree or bush would be
absolutely covered, every speck of foliage hidden. It was difficult to
breathe without inhaling them, and we were kept busy brushing them from
our faces and clothes. They were all traveling in one direction--down
stream. I believe that they had been into the canyons laying their eggs,
and were returning to the valleys. All afternoon the flight continued,
but by nightfall there wasn't a lady-bug in sight.
We tried fishing, but the water was too high and too turbulent for
success in the sport.
Auto Repairs Arrive.
About two o'clock that afternoon our new floating axle and fittings had
arrived, and in another hour the car was set up and ready for business.
The following morning (Sunday) we bade Mr. Hill and his men good-bye and
started for Crane Valley. The drive out of the canyon was a beautiful
one. We did not go all the way to Porterville, but went several miles
beyond Springville, turned into Frazier Valley, and went to Visalia by
way of Lindsay and half a dozen small villages, and from there on to
Fresno, which place we reached at about two o'clock. The ride was a hot
one. We drove through miles and miles of orange orchards, some in full
bearing, but mostly recently planted.
Fresno.
We left Fresno at about four-thirty o'clock over the same road we
traveled a year before. However, before crossing the river, we turned to
the right and went up through a town, Pulaski, where we crossed on a
splendid cement bridge. The road was pretty badly cut up from heavy
teaming, but we got to Crane Valley about ten o'clock p. m. We had
considerable trouble with our carburetor during the afternoon, and lost
much time trying to locate the trouble, but without avail.
The younger members of the party, although the hour was late, went to
prowling around the camp for something to eat. They raided the cook's
pie counter in the dark. We had had a splendid lunch at Fresno at two
o'clock, and Mrs. Graves and I were too tired to want anything to eat,
and retired on our arrival.
Crane Valley.
Since our visit to Crane Valley a year ago, we found that the then
uncompleted dam was finished. Instead of a small reservoir of water, we
found a vast inland sea, with water one hundred and ten feet deep at its
deepest part. It is six miles long, by from half to one mile in width.
It is twenty-five miles in circumference. The dam proper is nearly two
thousand feet long, and at one part is one hundred and fifty-four feet
high on its lower side. It is built with a cement core, with rock and
earth fill, above and below; that is, on each side of the cement work.
The inner and outer surface of the dam are rock-covered. To give you an
idea, of its capacity, if emptied on a level plain, its waters would
cover forty-two thousand acres of land one foot deep. When we were there
a discharge gate had been open two weeks, discharging a stream of water
two and one-half feet deep, over a weir thirty-eight feet wide, and the
surface of the reservoir had been lowered but two inches. I say, "All
hail to the San Joaquin Light & Power Company and its enterprising
officials, for the great work completed by them." It is a public
benefactor in storing up, for gradual discharge, at a time of the year
when it could do no good, this vast body of water which would otherwise
run to the sea.
What a place for rest are these mountain valleys! After inspecting the
dam, catching some bass and killing a 'rattlesnake, we were all
contented to sit around for the remainder of the day. A certain languor
takes possession of the human frame when one has come from a lower to a
higher altitude. One ceases to think, his mentality goes to sleep, he
can doze and dream and be happy in doing so.
Again on the Road.
Tuesday morning, leaving Mr. Dougherty, the Superintendent, and his good
wife, we started for Wawona. We traveled up the left side of the lake,
over a good road, above the water level, to its extreme western end.
Here we climbed a mountain to an elevation of five thousand five hundred
feet, over a cattle trail which was badly washed out, to a road leading
to Fresno Flats. This place we soon reached over a good but steep
roadbed.
Then, winding in and out of the canyon through a foothill country, we
made steady progress until we reached the main road from Raymond to
Wawona. The grade was uphill all the time. We left the lumbering camp
known as Sugar Pine to our right. The lumber interests have made a sad
spectacle of miles and miles of country, recently heavily forested.
There seems to be no idea in the lumberman's mind of saving the young
growth when cutting the larger timber. All the young growth is broken
down and destroyed, and finally burned up with the brush and wreckage of
the larger trees, leaving the mountain side scarred and blackened, and
so lye-soaked that immediate growth of even brush or chaparral is
impossible. We passed through Fish Camp, and in a short time came to the
toll-gate at which point the road to the Mariposa Grove of big trees
branches off.
Wawona.
The rest of the run to Wawona was all downhill, through heavy timber,
over a good but dusty road. We reached the hotel in time for lunch. That
afternoon, with Mr. Washburn, we took a drive of some miles around the
Big Meadows, near the hotel, went up the river and took in all points of
interest in the neighborhood. Wawona Hotel is pleasantly located. It is
an ideal place to rest. There inertia creeps into the system. You avoid
all unnecessary exercise. You are ever ready to drop into a chair, to
listen to the wind sighing through the trees, to hear the river singing
its never ending song, to watch the robins and the black birds and the
orioles come and go, and observe the never-ending coming and going of
guests. Some are just arriving from the San Joaquin valley, some are
departing to it, or coming home or going to the Yosemite, or starting
off or coming from the Big Trees or Signal Peak. You eat and sleep and
forget the cares of life, forget its troubles, and smelling the incense
of the pines, sleep comes to you the moment your head touches your
pillow and lasts unbrokenly until breakfast-time the next day.
Los Angeles People Known Everywhere.
We took passage on a stage-coach next morning for the Wawona big trees.
The trip is one ever to be remembered. The road winds around over the
mountains, always ascending, for about eight miles. The great trees are
scattered over quite an expanse of territory. A technical description of
them would be out of place here. To realize their size and majesty you
must see them. Many are named after prominent men of the nations, and
after various cities and states of the Union. I was glad to see the
names of Los Angeles and Pasadena on two magnificent specimens. We drove
through the trunk of a standing tree, and present herewith a picture of
the feat. The gentleman on the left on the rear seat is a Mr. Isham, and
the lady and gentleman on the same seat are a Mr. and Mrs. Risley, just
returned from a trip around the world. They are from the same city in
the east as Dr. and Mrs. W. Jarvis Barlow, and Mrs. Alfred Solano of
this city, to whom they desired to be warmly remembered. Go where you
will, you meet someone who knows someone in Los Angeles.
We lunched in the open air at the big trees, and made the return trip in
a reverent mood, almost in silence, each of the party given over to his
or her reflections. I realize that there is in my mind an ineffaceable
mental picture of those gigantic trees, which are so tall, so large, so
impressive and massive that they overpower the understanding.
During our stay at Wawona we tried fishing in the main river, which was
swollen to a raging torrent by the melting snows. We found it so
discolored and so turbulent that fishing was not a success. We also
visited the cascades. An immense body of water comes down a rocky gorge
very precipitously. From one rock to another the water dashes with an
awful roar. Mist and spray ascend and fall over a considerable area,
keeping the trees and brush and grass and ferns dripping wet, and it
would soon render one's clothing exceedingly uncomfortable.
We Go To Yosemite By Stage.
It is twenty-six miles from Wawona to Yosemite Valley. The stages leave
Wawona at eleven thirty a. m. to make the trip. On June sixteenth we
took our places with some other victims of this piece of transportation
idiocy, on an open four-horse stage for Yosemite. The going was very
slow. It was hot and dusty, and we soon got irritable and uncomfortable.
Why the traveling public should be subjected to this outrage is beyond
me. We ground our weary way over the dusty road, oblivious to the
scenery, until six o'clock, when we suddenly came to Inspiration Point,
our first view of the great Valley.
Yosemite Valley.
The beauty of the scene to some extent compensated us for a beastly
ride. Beyond us lay the great gorge known as the Yosemite. Below us the
Merced River. On the left were Ribbon Falls, and just beyond them El
Capitan. On our right, but well in front of us, were the Bridal Veil
Falls. We were just in time to see that wonderful rainbow effect for
which they are celebrated. Surely no more beautiful sheet of water could
be found anywhere. A wonderful volume of water dashes over the cliff,
unbroken by intercepting rocks, and drops a straight distance of six
hundred feet. Then it drops three hundred feet more in dancing cascades
to the floor of the valley and divides up into three good-sized streams
which empty into the Merced River. When once started on its downward
course, the water seems all spray. At the bottom of the first
six-hundred-foot descent it made a mighty shower of mist like escaping
steam from a giant rift in some titanic boiler, and soon reached the
floor of the valley. The road from El Portal comes up on the north side
of the river. We passed El Capitan, which rears its massive head three
thousand three hundred feet in the distance, perpendicularly above the
river. We were shown the pine tree, one hundred and fifty feet high,
growing out of a rift in the rocks on its perpendicular face, more than
two-thirds of the distance from its base. The tree looked to us like a
rose bush, not two feet high, in a garden.
As we proceeded up the Valley there were pointed out to us the Three
Brothers, a triple group of rocks, three thousand eight hundred feet
high. Cathedral Spire, Sentinel Rock, Yosemite and Lost Arrow Falls, and
all the other points of interest that can be seen on entering the
Valley.
The river was abnormally high--higher we were told, than it had been in
many years. It flowed with great rapidity, as if hurrying out of the
valley to join the flood waters which had already submerged many acres
of land in the San Joaquin valley, miles below. It looked dark and
wicked, as if it carried certain death in its cold embrace. Half of the
Yosemite valley was flooded. Meadows, rich in natural grasses, were knee
deep with back water.
We reached the Sentinel Hotel, and sloughing off the most of the fine
emery-like mountain dust with which we were enveloped, we got our first
good look at the Yosemite Falls. They were at their best. Imagine a
large river, coming over a cliff, a seething, foaming mass of spray, and
dropping, in two descents, two thousand six hundred and thirty-four
feet, sending heavenward great clouds of mist! I took one look, then
looked up the Valley to the great Half Dome, to Glacier Point, from
there to Sentinel Peak and the Cathedral Spires, and I concluded that
the Yosemite is too beautiful for description, too sublime for
comprehension and too magnificent for immediate human understanding. In
the presence of those awful cliffs, towering, with an average height of
over three thousand feet, above the floor of the valley; those immense
waterfalls, as they thundered over the canyon walls; that mad river,
gathering their united flow into one embrace, scurrying away with an
irresistible energy that almost sweeps you off your feet as you look at
it, all things human seem to shrink into the infinitesimal. You do not
ask yourself, "How did all this get here?" You accept the situation as
you find it. You leave it to the scientists to dispute whether the
valley was formed wholly by glacial action or by some gigantic
convulsion of nature, which tore its frowning cliffs apart, leaving the
Valley rough, unfinished and uncouth to the gentle, molding hand of Time
to smooth it up and beautify its floor with its present growth of oaks
and pines and shrub and bush and ferns and vines, and laughing, running
waters.
You are four thousand feet above sea-level. All around you cliffs and
walls tower three thousand feet and upwards above you. Back of these are
still higher peaks, whole mountain ranges, clothed in their snowy
mantles, this season far beyond their usual time. The air is delightful,
pure as the waters of the Yosemite Falls, soft as a carpet of pine
needles to the foot-fall, balmy as the breath of spring, and cool and
invigorating.
The Valley Overflowing With Visitors.
The valley is full of people; the hotels crowded, the camps overflowing.
From early dawn until the setting summer sun has cast long shadows over
meadow and stream alike, there is a moving mass of restless people,
either mounted on horseback, in vehicles or on foot, going out or coming
in from the trails and side excursions. The walker seemed to get the
most fun out of life. Man and woman are alike khaki clad and sunburned
to a berry-brown. They walk with the easy grace of perfect strength and
long practice, and think nothing of "hiking" to the top of Yosemite
Falls or Sentinel Peak and back. One of the favorite trips is to Glacier
Point by the Illilouette, Vernal and Nevada Falls, a distance of eleven
miles, remaining there all night at a comfortable inn and returning by a
shorter route by Sentinel Peak.
Looking up between the rocky walls of the valley, how far away the stars
all looked at night! In that pure atmosphere, how beautiful the sky! How
perfect each constellation! Each star with peculiar brightness shone.
One's view of the sky is circumscribed by the height of the cliffs.
Instead of the great arched vault of heaven one usually looks up to, one
sees only that part of the sky immediately above the valley. It was like
looking at the heavens from the bottom of a deep, narrow shaft. I looked
in vain for well known beacon lights. They were not in sight. The
towering cliffs shut them out. The sky looked strange to me, yet how
beautiful it was! Through the gathering darkness we took one more look
at the Yosemite Falls and betook ourselves to bed, to sleep the sleep
once enjoyed in the long ago, when as children we returned, tired but
happy, from some long outing in the woods.
We Visit the Floor of the Valley.
On the following morning we took in the sights of the floor of the
valley. We rode to Mirror Lake, which, however, did not come up to its
reputation. This summer the entrance to the lake has changed its channel
from its west to its east side, and a long sand bar has been deposited
in the lake proper, all of which our guide told us marred the
reflections usually visible therein.
We passed hundreds of people of all ages walking through the valley. In
visiting the Yosemite you do not realize that the valley is several
miles long, and has an average width of about one-half a mile. The great
height of the surrounding walls dwarfs your idea of distance. Even the
trees, many of which are of great size, look small and puny.
The Happy Isles.
We drove to the Happy Isles, small islands covered with trees, around
which the river surges in foaming masses. Standing at the upper end of
the one of the Happy Isles, one gets a splendid impression of the
cascade effect of the waters, rushing madly down a steep rocky channel,
with an irresistible, terrifying force. The descent of the bed of the
stream is very marked. The waters come over submerged, rocky masses.
Just as you think that maddened torrent must sweep over the island,
engulfing you in its course, the stream divides, half of it passing to
the right, and half to the left. These divided waters unite again
farther down the valley.
On our return from this short excursion, Francis, Dr. Macleish and
Harry, taking their lunch with them, walked up to the top of the
Yosemite Falls. They stood beneath the flag at Yosemite Point and got a
comprehensive view of the entire valley. They reported the trip a
heart-breaking one.
Military Government.
The valley has a military government. What Major Forsyth says goes.
There are no saloons in the Yosemite, nor are there any cats. The Major
saw a cat catch a young gray squirrel. He issued an edict that the cats
must go or be killed. They went.
Excursion to Glacier Point.
The next day all of our party, except Mrs. Graves, who had made the
journey some years before, went to the top of Glacier Point. We took a
stage to the Happy Isles and there mounted mules for the trail. The
climb is a steady one. Soon we got our first view of the Vernal Falls.
To my mind they are the most perfect waterfalls in the Valley. The water
flows over the cliffs an unbroken mass, one hundred feet wide. The
initial drop is three hundred and fifty feet. The effect can not be
imagined by one who has not seen the actual descent of this great mass
of water. The emerald pond above the falls, in which the waters assume
an emerald hue, and appear to seek a momentary rest before taking the
final plunge over the cliffs, is one of the Valley's beauty spots. The
roar of the falling waters, striking the rocks below, is loud and
reverberating. Great clouds of spray and mist float off in falling
masses, appearing more like smoke than water.
After passing Vernal Falls you come to the Diamond Cascades. They are
below the Nevada Falls. The long flowing waters from the Nevada Falls
have cut a channel deep into the bed rock. You cross this channel on a
bridge. Under and below the bridge the water flows with such velocity
that great volumes of it are hurled into the air in long strings, one
succeeding the other. The sunlight on these strings of water makes them
flash like diamonds. The effect is as if some one were sowing diamonds
by the bushel above the water. A similar effect is noticed, though not
so pronounced, just above the Nevada Falls. The latter are something
like a mile above Vernal Falls. They are six hundred feet high. They
seem to come over the cliff like the Yosemite Falls, through a broken or
distorted lip, and the water is lashed to foam and looks for all the
world like the smoke of some mighty conflagration, upon which a score of
modern fire engines are playing. Near the top of the Nevada Falls is a
fir tree more than ten feet in diameter, said to be the largest tree in
the Yosemite Valley. Just above the falls we again crossed the river on
a bridge. Near the bridge, on the rocks is plain evidence of glacial
scourings. A glacial deposit is left in patches on the rocks which is
today as smooth as plate glass.
Abandoned Eagle's Nest.
Above Vernal Falls we skirted the base and climbed partly around the
side of Liberty Cap, one of the great granite domes of the valley, until
we reached the top of the cliff over which the Nevada Falls plunge. Well
up on the side of this cliff, in an inaccessible retreat, our guide, who
had traversed this route for twenty-two years, showed me an ancient but
now abandoned eagle's nest. The noble birds, in late years, not liking
the coming of the thousands of excursionists who passed that way daily,
forsook their home for some other locality.
The trail now winds around the mountainsides, finally crossing the
canyon above the Illiouette Falls. In a short time we are at Glacier
Point. As you go out to the iron railing erected on the outer edge of a
flat rock on the extreme edge of the cliff, and look down into the
valley below you, you can not help a shrinking feeling, and you are only
too glad soon to move back and get a view from safer quarters.
Overhanging Rock.
The celebrated overhanging rock is at this point. It is a piece of
granite, say four or five feet wide, flat on top, but with rounding
edges. It sticks out from the cliff several feet. Foolhardy people walk
out to the edge of it and make their bow to imaginary audiences over
three thousand feet below. One of the guides with our party, wearing
heavy "chaps" (bear-skin overalls) walked out upon this rock, took off
his hat, waved it over his head, posed for his photograph, even took a
jig step or two, stood on one foot and peered into the abyss below with
apparent unconcern. Earlier in life I might have taken a similar chance,
but it would be a physical impossibility for me to do it now. We feasted
our eyes on the magnificent view.
We were now nearly level with the Half Dome (our elevation was seven
thousand one hundred feet), below us the beautiful valley with its
winding river, bright meadows and stately forests. Horses staked out on
the meadow looked like dogs; people, like ants. The Yosemite, Vernal,
Nevada and Illilouette Falls, Mirror Lake, the roaring cascades above,
the Happy Isles, all the peaks of the upper end of the Valley, and
mountains for miles and miles beyond, snowcapped and storm-swept, were
in plain sight.
After an appetizing lunch at the hotel, we took the short trail for the
valley. It is three and a half miles long, almost straight up and down,
and is hard riding or walking. But the journey was soon ended, and that
night we again slept the sleep of the joyously tired.
Morning came too soon, ushering in another perfect mountain day. We
simply loafed around, never tiring of looking at the river or falls in
sight, or the everlasting cliffs above us. We put in an hour or two
watching a moving-picture outfit photographing imitation Indians.