We are on our way up the valley. The train left San Francisco in the
morning. We have crossed the bay and rounded the Contra Costa Mountains,
and Mount Diablo, with its majestic twin peaks, lies already behind us.
We have just crossed the San Joaquin river not far from its mouth; the
west side of the valley is on our right; on the left looms up the Sierra
Nevada, far away it is true, but grand and imposing, gradually
decreasing, as it were, towards the south, finally to disappear among
the clouds at the farther end of the valley. It is in the middle of
August; the day is warm, but there has been a shower in the mountains,
as is usual at this season of the year, a sprinkling of rain has
purified the atmosphere in the foothills, which stand out clear and
bright, a contrast to the dusty road in the center of the valley, over
which the smoking train carries us at a rapid speed. On both sides of us
stretch apparently endless plains, thirty miles wide,--to the Coast
Range on one side, to the Sierra Nevada on the other,--plains dry and
yellow, parched in the brilliant sun, shaded by no clouds, but cooled by
a steady breeze from the northwest following us up the valley. Up, we
say, but it is hardly any more up than down, the ascent being about one
foot to the mile; it is rather a journey over one of the most level
plains on the continent, but still the popular usage insists upon saying
“up the valley.” Acres and acres of already harvested grainfields are
seen on both sides, crossed by roads at right angles; here and there are
stacks of grain which have not yet been threshed, or heaps of straw,
where the threshing engine has done its work; on almost every section of
land we see a farmhouse and barn, a few gum-trees or cottonwoods, and
many a windmill and elevated tank informs us where the farmer gets his
water for his house and his scanty trees. All this we see under a
blazing sun and a quivering air.
This is the great San Joaquin valley, the fertile center of California.
Of the much spoken of irrigation of California, we see almost nothing;
the land is dry and thirsty, the soil is loose, and the engine forces
the dust in a cloud before us. Nothing green is seen anywhere except a
few scattered trees far, far apart. Here and there we pass a little town
with wooden houses and dusty streets, with wooden churches whose spires
do not pierce the sky. We cross many streams, several of which are dry,
or have sluggish waters, while some wind their way down the valley
between banks covered with willows and cottonwoods. Yet there is
something grand in this immense stretch of open, level country, with its
frame of snowy mountains, with its fertile fields waiting for the
winter’s rain or irrigating ditch to produce abundantly of almost
anything that can be grown in any temperate country in the world. The
numerous grain stacks speak of the fertility of the soil and of abundant
harvests, while the vegetation along the rivers indicates that water is
all that is needed to make this large valley like a fruitful garden.
We have passed Lathrop and Modesto and numerous smaller stations
between; the picture is everywhere the same. At Atwater we met the first
signs of irrigation, and saw young vineyards and orchards on either
side, and as we approach Merced we pass large irrigating ditches flowing
with water, and in the distance many houses and farms. The country is
getting greener, and the deep color of the soil is a sign that it is
rich and fertile. At Merced there is a Yosemite air. The large El
Capitan Hotel stands out like a landmark, and the garden with its
flowers and shade trees, and the marble fountain with its rippling
waters, speak loudly of beauty and refinement.
Close to Merced are situated some of the new promising colonies which
are making raisin-growing one of their specialties, and in whatever
direction we look we see signs of such new enterprises, all young, of
course, as irrigation has only lately been brought in here, where no
dense settlements could exist without it. Much of the land is yet held
in very large tracts, but they are being rapidly subdivided and sold out
to actual settlers as fast as there is any demand for them. To our right
lies a splendid body of perfectly level land occupied by the Yosemite
Colony with many settlers already on the land, whose new and cosy
cottages mark their future homes.
In the distance, on the slope of the low hills, stand out prominently a
number of houses, some of them quite pretentious, white and gleaming in
their new dress. This is the Rotterdam Colony, a settlement of
Hollanders who have only lately arrived here. There is not a colony
anywhere which promises to be more interesting, and which is likely to
prove a greater success. The Dutch as a people had succeeded with
colonization long before any other nation began a similar work, and, as
immigrants to this State, they are most desirable. Industrious, saving,
intelligent and persevering, with good land, plenty of water at all
times of the year, and with a good location which insures health and
comfort, there is no reason why they should not succeed. The colony is
most beautifully situated on high sloping ground,--a veritable mesa land
overlooking the vast Merced plains, and only four or five miles distant
from the city. These Hollander colonists are the very best kind of
settlers the State can get,--not the ignorant peasantry of Europe, but
intelligent and well-educated people, which any community can be proud
of. There is great activity in the colony just now. Thousands of acres
are covered with magnificent grain, which, without any more rain, would
give a profit of from twenty to twenty-five dollars per acre, and thus
materially help to pay for the land. A hundred or more horses and mules
with their drivers are plowing and harrowing the soil; and such a
plowing is not often seen anywhere. The plows are set about a foot deep,
and the work is done by the canal company just to help the settlers
along and give them a good start. What more can they expect? Good
treatment is in Merced dealt out to everybody,--a good policy which
should be followed in every new colony in the land. We stop at the
newly-built house of Mr. Canne, a gentleman of middle age with a large
family, and hearty and pleasing, as is so characteristic of the Dutch.
His house is large, very comfortable and airy, with large verandas
overlooking the country far and wide. Inside everything is cosy and
neat, with lots of mementoes from quaint old Holland, with colored china
on the walls and odd tables and odder bric-a-brac, family heirlooms from
generations back. The old grandma, with her eighty-one years, has come
along with the younger folks, happy as they, and, as they, meeting
bravely and with confidence new times and experiences in the new country
which they have chosen as their home. Our wishes for good luck are not
needed; it is sure to come when such people are settled upon such land,
and when everybody enjoys everybody else’s good-will. The land which is
now being broken is to be planted to olives, almonds, oranges, peaches
and vines,--a very good selection indeed, and one which cannot fail to
prove profitable. The deep red soil on the mesa will grow almost
anything, and with proper care and management this colony must in the
near future become one of the most attractive and prosperous in the
State.
The Rotterdam Colony is bounded on one side by the now famous and often
described Crocker and Huffman reservoir. Those who believe that a
reservoir in the foothills is not the proper thing should come and take
a look at this one, and be convinced that it is. The location is a most
favorable one, being ninety feet above the town of Merced, and elevated
sufficiently to irrigate the whole of the level surrounding district,
containing two hundred and sixty thousand acres. The water covers now
about six hundred and forty acres which were formerly a real and natural
valley, across the mouth of which the dam checking the water was thrown.
The average depth of water is about thirty feet, while in some places it
is fifty odd feet deep. The statistics of this reservoir and dam have
been given often enough, but more or less correctly. The dam checking
the water is four thousand feet long, two hundred and seventy-five feet
wide at the base, twenty feet on the top and sixty feet high in the
center. It took four hundred mules and two hundred and fifty men two
years to build it. The reservoir and canal tapping Merced river cost
together two million dollars to build, and the work was constructed in
such a substantial and scientifically correct manner, that it will be
likely to last for ages. There is no other irrigation system in the
State that is as well planned and carried out. This can and must be said
to the honor of the constructors. The canal which taps the river is
twenty-seven miles long, from sixty to seventy feet wide on the bottom,
one hundred feet on the top, and has fall enough to carry four thousand
cubic feet of water per second.
We have already remarked that the country between the dam and the city
of Merced is a magnificent and level body of land, all eminently suited
for irrigation. From the water tower in the reservoir, we overlook all
this land, now in its spring dress a very beautiful sight indeed. The
vast sheet of water, like a placid lake, in which the Sierra Nevada
reflects its snowy peaks, the prairie extending far and wide, divided
between luxuriant grainfields and unbroken lands now covered with their
spring carpet of flowers in the colors of the rainbow,--yellow, white,
blue, violet, red and shades of each, and dotted over with the new
settlers’ homes, freshly built and freshly painted,--what more lovely
view could we wish, a sight of beauty and of plenty. As we drive back to
town, we are more than at first impressed with the lay of the land. The
surface is level and without hills or knolls, but is cut through by many
natural channels or creeks from fifteen to twenty feet deep, insuring a
natural drainage, invaluable in a country where irrigation is required.
The soil in this part of Merced county appears to be made up entirely of
alluvial deposits from the various creeks which in winter irrigate the
plains with their natural overflow. The largest of these creeks is Bear
creek, its deep channel resembling rather an irrigation ditch
constructed on the latest engineering principles than a natural stream.
Its banks are even and slanting, while its bed is deep below the
surface.
But our time to stay was short. We have left Merced and many smaller
towns behind us, crossed many more dry streams, and passed the large
vineyards at Minturn, where sherry and port of excellent quality are
made. We have again crossed the main channel of the upper San Joaquin,
not far from where it emerges from the Sierra Nevada, its silvery waters
winding their way over the thirsty plains between steep and barren
banks. We have crossed a few irrigating ditches full to overflowing with
water, and see a few orchards and vineyards with their bright green
scattered about on the yellow plains. There is suddenly a general stir
in the cars, hats and bundles are taken down from the racks, most of the
passengers prepare to move, the locomotive whistles, houses and trees
are seen on both sides through the car windows, the train comes to a
standstill, there is a hum of voices, a waiting crowd swarms around the
cars, a throng of people pushes in, and another throng pushes out. We
are among the latter, as we are now in Fresno, the largest raisin center
on the continent.
Fresno, as seen from the railroad station, is not as inviting as it
might be, and the thousands of travelers who pass by on the cars, headed
farther south, can judge but little of the town and the district behind
it. The country is so level, that the only way to get a good view of the
country is to ascend some elevated building, the courthouse being the
highest, and through its location the best suited building for the
purpose. The early forenoon, before the noonday sun has acquired its
full power, is the best time for this. Once up there, the view is
decidedly magnificent, and more extensive than we had ever expected
while below. Under us lies a lovely park of trees,--umbrella, elm,
locust and fan palms, covering about four blocks. From it stretch the
regular streets in all directions, lined by cottages as well as with
costly dwelling-houses, shaded with stately trees of various kinds. The
business portion of the town presents itself particularly well,--large
and costly hotels, with comforts that the tired travelers enjoy so much,
imposing bank blocks of brick and stone, with towers and ornamental
roofs, solid structures with continuous lines of stores, etc., mark this
part of town. For a mile in every direction the town stretches out, the
center thickly built, the outskirts with sparsely scattered houses.
Adjoining these the country begins,--vineyards as far as we can trace,
groups of houses shaded by trees in different tints of green, while
broken rows of endless poplars traverse the verdant plains and lose
themselves in the distant horizon. The Sierra Nevada, with their
snowclad summits, and the Coast Range in the west, cloudy and less
distinct, form the frame for two sides of this attractive picture, while
to the north and the south the open horizon, where sky and plains meet,
limits the extensive view.
The street-car lines of Fresno do not run very far out in the country,
and to see the latter we must procure a team. The colonies or
settlements of small farms immediately join the town limits; we are thus
with one step out in the country. On either side we see continuous rows
of vineyards,--the leaves green and brilliant, the vines planted in
squares and pruned low, with the branches trailing on the ground. To
begin with, the houses stand closely, almost as in a village. As we get
farther out there is a house on every twenty-acre farm, or every
one-eighth of a mile. The cottages are neat and tasty, surrounded by
shade trees, while rose-trees and shrubbery adorn the yard, and climbers
shelter the verandas from the sun. At every step, almost, we pass teams
going in various directions,--teams loaded with raisin boxes, teams with
raisin trays, teams crowded with raisin pickers hurrying out to the
vineyards, teams driven by raisin-growers or colonists generally, who
rush to and from town to transact business connected with their one
great industry. Everywhere is bustle and life; every one is in a hurry,
as the grape-picking has begun, and the weather is favorable; no one has
any time to lose. Some of the avenues are lined with elm-trees, others
with fig-trees, with their luscious, drooping fruit, others again are
bordered with evergreen and towering gums, with weeping branches and
silvery bark. Every acre is carefully cultivated; there is room for only
a few weeds. As far as we drive the same scene is everywhere, a scene
like that in the outskirts of a populous city, where villas and pleasure
grounds alternate with the cultivated acres, here those of the
raisin-grower, and where every foot of ground is guarded with zealous
care and made to produce to its utmost capacity. It is a pretty sight, a
sight of thrift and intelligence, of enterprise and of success, of
wealth and of refinement, found nowhere else outside of the
fruit-growing and raisin-producing districts of California.
The raisin harvest has just begun; the vineyards are full of workers,
grape-pickers are stooping by every vine, and are arranging the grapes
on small square or oblong trays, large enough to be easily handled;
teams with trucks are passing between the vines distributing the trays
or piling them up in small, square stacks at every row. Some trays with
their amber grapes lie flat on the ground in long continuous rows
between the vines, others again are slightly raised so as to catch as
much of the sun as possible. In some vineyards the laborers are turning
the partially cured and dried raisins by placing one tray on top of
another, and then turning them quickly over. In other places, again, the
trays with the raisins already cured are stacked in low piles, so as to
exclude the sun and air, and at other stacks a couple of men at each
are busy assorting the grapes, and placing the various grades in
different sweatboxes, large enough to hold one hundred pounds each. In
every vineyard, large and small, we find the hands at work, and every
one able and willing to do a day’s work is engaged to harvest the large
crop. The most of the pickers are Chinese, at least in the larger
vineyards, while in the smaller vineyards, where large gangs of men are
not absolutely necessary, white men and boys are generally employed. The
fame of the raisin section and the harvest has spread far and wide, and
at picking time laborers gather from all parts of the State to take part
in the work, and find remunerative wages at from $1.25 to $1.50 per day.
The country now swarms with pickers of all nationalities,--Germans,
Armenians, Chinese, Americans, Scandinavians, etc., and as the schools
have closed in order to allow the children to take part in the work,
boys of all sizes are frequently seen kneeling at the vines.
The crop this year is very heavy, many vines yielding two trays or even
three, containing twenty pounds each, and, as the trays are generally
placed in alternate rows between the vines, we see, as we pass,
continuous lines of them filled with grapes in various stages of curing,
from the green to the amber-colored and the dark of the fully-cured
raisin. The aroma from the drying berries is noticeable, and the breeze
is laden with the spicy and pronounced odor of the Muscatel raisins.
The average size of a colony lot is twenty acres. Many settlers own two
or three lots, a few owning four or five. But it must not be understood
that the whole of these lots are planted to raisin grapes. While most of
the larger tracts are almost exclusively planted to raisin grapes, the
smaller farms of twenty acres contain as a rule only a few acres of
vines, the balance being occupied by alfalfa, berries, garden, fruit
trees, and yard for houses and barns. From three to fifteen acres of
raisin-vines are found on every twenty-acre farm; none is without its
patch of raisin-vines. We step off and inspect many of the places, large
as well as small. Magnificent vineyards are owned by T. C. White, one of
the oldest and most successful vineyardists, and by other parties, only
second in importance to his. The vineyard of the late Miss Austin is yet
in its prime, the evergreen trees and hedges being as inviting as in
days of old. New vineyards which have not yet come into bearing are seen
on every side, while in places whole orchards or single rows of trees
have yielded to the axe to be replaced by the better-paying
raisin-vines.
Some of the best-paying and largest vineyards are found east of Fresno
City. From the very outskirts of the city we pass through raisin
vineyards, very few fields being planted with anything else. Near the
town some vineyards have given place to town lots, and whole villages
are growing up in the old vineyards. We pass by the large vineyard of
Frank Ball, containing about 120 acres, all in vines except a small
reserve for house, barn and alfalfa field. Adjoining on the same road is
the Bretzner vineyard of forty odd acres, the vines loaded with grapes.
We turn to the left and, passing the vineyards of Merriam and Reed, see
on our left the magnificent Cory vineyard of eighty acres, bordered by
a wonderfully beautiful row of umbrella trees, with crowns as even as
veritable gigantic umbrellas, and through the foliage of which not a ray
of light can penetrate. A little farther on, also to the left, is the
Gordon vineyard, lined by fan palms and fig trees. A large sign across
the main road announces that we now enter the Butler vineyard, the
largest and most famous vineyard in the State, with its six hundred
acres nearly all in vines,--the largest vineyard in one body and owned
by one man in the world. Magnificent avenues of poplars, magnolias and
fan palms stretch in various directions leading to the outbuildings, of
which the packing and drying houses appear most prominently. Mr.
Butler’s home is one of the most attractive, shaded by umbrella trees
and fantastic fan palms, and surrounded by flowers and evergreens. From
his vineyard alone over five hundred carloads of raisins have been
shipped, the yearly product being over one hundred thousand boxes of
raisins,--a thousand tons. The vineyard now swarms with laborers; the
teams wait in long lines to load the ready raisin-boxes, while the
spaces between the vines, as far as we can see, are almost covered with
continuous rows of trays, all loaded with Muscat grapes in all stages of
drying.
We travel constantly eastward; on both sides are raisin vineyards, large
and small. The four hundred acres owned by the Fresno Vineyard Company
are devoted to wine grapes, and large wineries and cellars built of
adobe show the wealth and extensive business of the place. No vacant
land anywhere, nothing but vineyards, the only breaks being groves of
trees shading the homes, wine cellars or packing-houses of the
proprietor. Farther to the north lies in an unbroken row the well-known
Eisen vineyard, where the first raisins were made in this district, but
where now principally wine is produced; the Nevada and Temperance
Colonies, devoted mostly to raisins; the Pew, the Kennedy, the Forsyth,
Woodworth’s, Duncan’s, Goodman’s and Backman’s raisin vineyards, all
splendidly cared for and lined by fig trees. Of these the Forsyth
vineyard deserves more than a passing notice, as it is more inviting to
an hour’s rest than any other. Containing 160 acres, nearly all in
vines, it is one of the best properties of the county. The place shows
an uncommon taste and refinement, and is beautified by avenues of
poplars and magnolias, by groves of acacia and umbrella trees, by palms
and flowers, and by roses and climbing plants. A pond with its lilies,
overhung by weeping willows and shaded by stately elms, is an unusual
sight even in this county of abundant irrigation. The packing-houses and
dryer all display a taste and practical arrangement hardly seen
elsewhere. A climb to the top of the tank-house is well worth the
trouble. The view becomes wonderfully enlarged; we overlook the level
plains, all in vines, with houses and groves scattered about like
islands in a sea,--no wild, unbroken country anywhere. In the distance
is Fresno City, to the north the view is hemmed in by new vineyards and
colonies,--a mass of trees and vines in straight and regular rows. The
courteous owner conducts us through his packing-house and shows us how
the bunches are placed in layers and carefully made to fit every corner
in the box, how the boxes are covered with papers and artistic labels
and finally made ready for the market. As we pass out we get a glimpse
of the equalizing room, crowded to the ceiling with sweatboxes, in which
the raisins assume an even and uniform moisture. And what luscious
bunches they are, large, sweet, thin skinned and highly flavored. Malaga
produces nothing better, and much not as good. And, when we are all
through tasting and admiring, we are invited into the cosy and
artistically furnished dwelling, where in the cool shade the lunch and
the rest are as welcome and interesting as the vineyards and
packing-houses outside.
As we turn again towards town, we pass the well-kept Goodman vineyard,
after which we enter the large Barton vineyard, now partly owned by an
English syndicate. The old 640 acres are nearly all in wine grapes,
while several hundred acres of young raisin grapes have lately been
added. One of the most extensive wine cellars in the State is found
here, all kept in splendid shape,--hardly a speck of dirt, not a foot of
waste land seen anywhere. The mansion is stately, situated on a small
hill surrounded by fine groves of gum-trees, evergreen hedges and
ornamental grounds. Should we care to go farther east, we might visit
the Eisen vineyard, where the first Muscats were planted in the county.
The famous avenue is half a mile long, and one of the most beautiful in
the State, lined on both sides with blooming and beautiful oleanders
alternating with poplars over a hundred feet high. We might also visit
the Locan vineyard and orchard, and admire the orange-trees, which speak
of what the country can produce in this line. But the time is too short;
we might travel a week over this level but beautiful country, and every
day, every minute, see something new and interesting among all these
vineyards, with their packing-houses, and raisins exposed on trays to
dry.
When we return to town, a visit to the packing-houses is one of the most
interesting that can be made. Of these packing establishments Fresno has
four or five, besides several in the colonies or in the larger
vineyards. Three of these packing-houses are the largest in the State.
The building of each one of them, though large, is full and overcrowded.
Women at long tables pack the raisins in boxes, at other tables men
weigh and assort raisins and take them out of the large sweatboxes in
which they left the field. At some tables fancy packing is done, and
women “face” the boxes by placing large selected raisins in rows on the
top layers. At another table the raisin-boxes are covered with fine
colored labels, then nailed and made ready for shipment. Some four
hundred men and women are busy with this work under one roof, all
earning wages of from one to two dollars a day each. We catch a glimpse
of the equalizing room, where fifty tons of raisins are stored at one
time for a week or more in order to become of even moisture, the floor
being sometimes sprinkled with water to make the air sufficiently moist.
As we go out we see the raisin-boxes already packed being loaded on cars
and shipped east by the train-load, from four to six such raisin trains
leaving every week, each train of from ten to twenty cars. On the other
side of the packing-house is a continuous row of teams from the country,
all loaded with raisins, brought by the country growers to the packers
in town. It takes a gang of men to receive, weigh and unload them. In
another department we see the large stemmer and grader, which runs by
steam, and stems and assorts from thirty to forty tons per day, the
clean and uniform raisins running out in a continuous stream, each grade
in separate boxes. There is a restless activity on every side. The large
raisin crop this year is very large; it must be handled in a few months,
and every grower and packer is pushing the work to his utmost ability.
When we consider that most of the crop, which this year will reach five
hundred thousand boxes, comes from the country immediately surrounding
Fresno City, and that the San Joaquin valley is 250 miles long by 75
miles wide, almost all the land capable of being highly cultivated and
of producing abundant crops of one thing or another, then alone can we
realize what the future has in store for this wonderful valley, an
agricultural empire in the very center of California.