CAMPING ON MOUNT WILSON.
"On every height there lies repose."
At Pasadena the mountain wall which guards the California of the South
stands very near and looks down with pride upon the blooming garden
below. The mountains which belong especially to Pasadena are but three
miles away. Their average height exceeds slightly that of the Mt.
Washington range in New Hampshire. The Sierra Madre system, of which
they form a part, contains some peaks considerably higher.
Farther to the East, "Old Baldy"--Mt. San Antonio--raises its snowy
summit to a height just close enough to ten thousand feet to test the
veracity of its admirers. It is about ten miles from Pasadena by the
eyes, but would be twenty by the feet, if they could walk an air line.
To the south and east of "Old Baldy" is Mt. San Jacinto, 12,000 feet
above the Pacific, upon which it looks, in the far distance.
The majestic mountain wall, almost bending over the homes of Pasadena,
with their vines and fig trees, their roses and lilies, their orchards
of orange and lemon, and the distant snow-clad peaks glittering in the
gentle sunshine, combine to form a perfect picture. There are detailed
descriptions from the pens of those who feel an unctuous joy in painting
the lily, kalsomining the calla, and adding perfumes to the violet, the
rose, and the orange.
The "Pasadena Alps" are so smeared with oleaginous gush that I had
conceived against them a sort of antipathy, which was not diminished by
their barren, treeless appearance.
As Nature reasserted herself, this artificial nausea wore away. I took a
drive to Millard's Canon, and was surprised at finding a charming wooded
road winding up through the canon along a mountain stream. From the end
of the carriage-road we walked half a mile to a picturesque waterfall
having a sheer descent of perhaps forty feet.
This revelation inspired a drive to Eaton's Canon, where I found similar
attractions, and which led me to the new Mt. Wilson trail, or "Toll
Road." I made inquiries, inspected the small but substantial mules which
do the pedestrian part of the trip, went up the trail a short distance,
and, after many assurances, arranged to make the ascent.
In fact, this trail is remarkably well built. It winds up the mountain
by a gradual and even ascent of nine miles, the grade nowhere exceeding
ten per cent. There are two camps near the summit, open all the year.
You may return the same day or stay for the remainder of your life.
Take little luggage, of course: a heavy overcoat or wrap, and a small
grip. In the winter the nights are cold, and clouds and rain are not
unlikely to present the compliments of the season.
The mountains of California are as topsy-turvy as its rivers. We used
to learn in our physical geographies that as the traveller ascends a
mountain the large trees continually give place to smaller--shrinking at
last to stunted shrubs, with a summit of barren rock.
As our mules plod up Mt. Wilson, the trail at first is sandy, and the
mountain's flanks a barren waste, with thin covering of cactus and
chaparral. Half a mile from the starting-point appear small bushes,
which grow larger as we move upward. The trail turns into a canon, and
becomes a hard, cool pathway leading up through small live-oaks and high
growth of bushes. We begin to see slender pines and larger oaks. Now the
trail leaves the canon and winds out upon the open mountain-side. Here
the chaparral is green and flourishing.
We wind abruptly into a canon. Bushes of wild lilac overhang the path.
The manzanita reminds one of lilies of the valley transplanted to
California and growing on a bush. Down to the torrent at the bottom of
the canon, and up its steep side, are large pines and live-oaks,
mountain mahogany and cedar. Near the summit we wind along a precipice
where the trail is blasted from the solid rock. Even here, any one who
is disposed to "look aloft" will see pine trees hanging over his head
hundreds of feet above.
The summit is a forest of towering trees. On the topmost ridges are the
monarchs of the mountains--oaks three and four feet, and pines four and
five feet in diameter. Of course this increase in the size of timber is
noticeably uniform, only where the soil and natural features of the
mountains favor it. But the summit of Mt. Wilson, at least, resembles a
picnic ground raised nearly six thousand feet above the sea. The air is
light, dry, and exhilarating. The ground is carpeted with pine needles.
Delicate wild-flowers are seen in their season. In April I found wild
peas in blossom, harebells, morning-glories, poppies, and many varieties
of yellow flowers. I also saw hummingbirds, butterflies, swallows, and
squirrels, and here and there patches of plain white old-fashioned snow.
It is a novel spectacle to see a small boy snowballing a butterfly. In
the spring even dead trees are glorified with a mantle of golden green
moss. It covers the trunks of some of the living pines, making an
artistic background for the deep green of their boughs.
From this upside-down mountain we look down upon rivers flowing bottom
side up. And that is California.
As to the safety of the ascent, no one need hesitate who is free from
settled prejudice against a side-hill. You will soon let the reins hang
from the pommel of the saddle. One who chooses may jump off and walk for
a change. Only, if you are at the end of the procession, be careful to
keep between your mule and the foot of the mountain; otherwise he will
wheel around and wend his way homeward. If toiling along near the
summit, absorbed in the beauties of the prospect, it might be awkward to
feel the halter jerked from your hand and to see the mule galloping
around a sharp bend with your satchel, hung loosely over the pommel,
bobbing violently up and down, and perhaps hurled off into space as the
intelligent animal rounds the corner.
Yes, it is safe, but there is a spice of excitement about it. I was
nervous at first, and seeing that the mule wished to nibble such herbage
as offered itself, I had thought it well to humor him. At a narrow space
with sharp declivity below, the beast fixed his jaws upon a small tough
bush on the upper bank. As he warmed up to the work, his hind feet
worked around toward the edge of the chasm. The bush began to come out
by the roots, which seemed to be without end. As the weight of the mule
was thrown heavily backward, I looked forward with some apprehension to
the time when the root should finally give way: I saw now that the mule
had fixed his stubborn jaws upon the entrails of the mountain, and
expected every instant to see other vital organs brought to light. I
dared not and could not move. The root gave way, allowing the mule to
fall backward, and startling him with a rattling down of stones and
gravel. One foot slipped over the edge, but three stuck to the path, and
the majority prevailed. After that I saw it was safer to let my faithful
beast graze on the outer edge. All went well until he became absorbed in
following downward the foliage of a bush which grew up from below. As
he stretched his neck farther and farther down, I saw that he was
bending his forelegs. His shoulders sank more and more. There was
nothing between me and the sea-level except the mule's ears. By frantic
exertions I worked myself backward, and was sliding down behind--too
late. The bush broke, causing the mule to fall back forcibly against the
inner bank, with myself sandwiched between the adamantine wall of the
mountain and the well-shod heels of the mule. The animal, being as much
scared as myself, started up the trail at a gallop. I had saved my life
but lost my mule. I have no taste for overtaking runaway mules on a
steep and interminable up-grade. It is a taste which must be acquired.
But then, of course, the mule would turn after his first alarm and tear
down to the stable. I resolved to push on in the hope of finding a wider
portion of the path, or at least of meeting the animal before he had
acquired uncontrollable momentum.
At the very first turn a boy appeared hurrying back with my palfry. The
mule had galloped on until he overtook the rest of the party, who had
sent him back in haste, while they followed on as quickly as possible.
It flashed upon my mind that the mule understands his business. We
imagine, egotistically, that the mule is all the time thinking about us,
and that he may take umbrage at some fancied slight and leap with us
down the abyss. Now the mule does not care to make the descent in that
way. He is thinking about himself just like the rest of us. We are only
so much freight packed upon his back.
The foregoing narrative may be exaggerated in some details, but the
essential facts remain, that the mule has a healthy appetite and that he
looks out for himself.
A little further on I had an opportunity to judge how a passenger would
conduct himself if he should be thrown from the trail. At the point
where the slope of the mountains is most abrupt, certain repairs had
lately been made upon the trail, and a man was now prying large stones
over the edge. They rolled and tumbled down, taking wild leaps into the
air and plunging from rock to rock. After they disappeared in the woods
we could hear them crashing and clattering down the canon. A small
avalanche of broken fragments followed in their wake.
It must have been a fine sight when the blasting was first done in the
side of the rocky precipice: when huge masses of rock, half as big as a
house, were rent from the side of the mountain and thundered down with
frightful crash, cutting off huge trees and shaking the very mountains.
And now I will say again that the trail is wide and safe; the slopes on
the side are seldom very steep, and the mules could not be pushed over
by any available power.
Some people, in fact, prefer the old trail because it is more wild and
romantic and not so well kept. The new road has enough picturesque
features to satisfy me.
I remember when the valley came in sight again, after half an hour's
climbing, the first objects to catch my eye were the storage reservoirs,
which dot the valley and are used in irrigation. Their regular shapes
and the margins of masonry about them give them, from the mountains,
the appearance of mirrors. One seemed almost directly below. Probably it
was at least a hundred feet in length. In the form of a rectangle with
rounded corners, it was the exact counterpart of a framed mirror. The
surface was like polished glass, and trees upon the bank were reflected
with beautiful distinctness.
After another half-hour's ride comes a glimpse in the other direction.
Through a gap in the mountains we look for a moment behind the hills of
Pasadena into the heart of the Sierra Madre. Vistas of mountain-sides
are seen on either hand, one beyond the other, the long slope of one
slightly overlapping that of its nearer neighbor, offering for our
inspection a succession of blue tints, becoming more and more delicate
in the distance till they melt into the sky.
The mules care less for visible azure than for edible verdure, and soon
carried us by this picture. Far up the trail is a pretty scene upon our
own mountain. Suddenly we came out of the cool, wild forest upon a
little level spot, by the spring of the mountain stream. Here is an old
camp with green grass growing up about the deserted building. After a
final winding journey around the steep southerly side of the mountain,
came the first full view of the wild chaos of broken ranges toward the
desert. Then follows a gradual shaded ascent to the camp. The world has
varied panoramas of mountain scenery "set off" by the glitter of snowy
peaks. In California there are many accessible summits rising from
half-tropical valleys. Mountains which overlook the sea are without
number. There may be in America other points from which one may look
down upon a "city of homes," and a "business centre" with sixty thousand
busy inhabitants. I do not know any spot apart from the mountains of
Pasadena where you may put all of these in combination. From the
northerly peak of Mt. Wilson to the southerly peak of Mt. Harvard is a
distance by trail along the ridge of perhaps three miles, offering a
variety of points of view. To the north and east you may look down into
a gorge two thousand feet beneath, from which rises on the gentle breeze
the mingled voice of brawling brook and murmuring pines. Beyond is a
confusion of green mountains, from which a range of white summits rises
in the calm distance. Toward the south are solitary peaks with halos of
fleecy cloud.
As for the prospect in the other direction, it shows at once that the
way to print upon the mind a map of California's physical formation is
to see it _a la_ bird's-eye--as the short path to acquaintance with a
great city is a vertical one--to the tower of the City Hall.
One would require but a few more well-selected stations to map out all
of Southern California.
The several valleys of which Los Angeles is the commercial capital are
stretched out before us like perfectly level plains, divided by ranges
of hills. In the distance lies the glistening Pacific, with the blue
outlines of Catalina and more distant islands etched upon the western
sky. This picture is sometimes so distinct that you find yourself
trying to recognize acquaintances on the streets of Pasadena. Again
everything is dreamy with haze. Another morning you may stumble out
trying to rub yesterday's sunburn from your eyes, and find everything
below curtained by a bank of snowy fog. As for myself, I enjoy the
prospect most when I cannot see it at all--that is, at night.
There is a varied interchange of signals between the mountains and the
valley. At noon the people here talk with their Pasadena friends by
gleaming flashlight. Then there are the reservoirs scattered over the
valley. In certain lights they are not seen at all, but in line with the
sun they send up great flash signals themselves, and just after sunset
they are always seen reflecting the calm twilight. An hour after sunset
our camp-fire is lighted. As we stand by it, the horizon seems to have
retired for the night. There is continuous sky, shading without a break
into the shadows below. Gazing dreamily down, I am startled by the
flashing forth of a hundred brilliant stars from what was the valley
below. They disappear for a moment and then blaze out and become a
permanent constellation. These stars are too numerous to resemble any
known constellation. I concluded after a little that the mighty Orion
had drawn his sword and slain the Great Bear; that the lion had rashly
interfered and his carcass had been dragged to that of the bear, and
that the exhausted Orion had thrown himself wearily upon them to rest.
And there are the Pleiades close by; with feminine curiosity they have
come as near as they dared, to see what it is all about.
Those wishing a scientific explanation of these phenomena must consult
the Pasadena Electric Lighting Company, except as to the stray Pleiades,
which seem to have some connection with the lights of the Raymond Hotel.
But what is that dim and curious meteor slowly moving toward the spot
where Los Angeles used to be? Perhaps it is the headlight which heralds
the coming of the belated overland train. Suddenly I see out of the
darkness beyond Pasadena the blazing forth of a majestic cross, of
wavering, uneven outline, but made up of crowded multitudes of
sparkling, glittering, scintillating stars. Los Angeles has
substantially the same system of street illumination as Pasadena.
You will note that I have abstained from hauling the sun above the
eastern Sierras in the morning, and from tucking it under the Pacific at
night. This rearrangement of ponderous constellations is all that my
strength and my other engagements will permit. Those who want to know
the glories of the sunset and moonlight must climb Mt. Wilson
themselves.