A winding drive along the crest for a mile or two brought us_On Sunset Highways: A Book of Motor Rambles in California

Inn—a rustic lodge named from Frank Stockton's story—the property of a

San Bernardino club. Through the courtesy of a friend we had luncheon

here and admired the fine situation at our leisure. The lodge, built

of logs and stones, is surrounded by pines and firs, and near it are

vantage points for wide views over the valley. Among the mementos

of the inn is an autograph letter from Mr. Stockton, expressing his

appreciation of the compliment offered in the name. In the vicinity are

a number of cottages which are in great demand by local people during

the heated season, for the summer is hot in the valley, sometimes

reaching one hundred or even one hundred and ten degrees in the daytime,

though invariably cool nights greatly relieve the situation.

The Arrowhead Road, which Californians are fond of designating as "The

Rim of the World Drive" continues from Squirrel Inn to Big Bear Lake,

a distance of about twenty miles. It winds through magnificent pines,

which fortunately escaped the conflagration, and just beyond Strawberry

Flats a detour of a few miles takes us to Arrowhead Lake, an artificial

reservoir about a mile in diameter, surrounded by pines which crowd

almost to the water's edge. The road winds through these around the

pretty little lake, which gives slight hint of its artificiality. It is

famous for its trout and being some twelve hundred feet lower than Big

Bear, is usually accessible much earlier in the season. Returning to the

main road, we pursue our way along the mountain crests, soon crossing

Strawberry Peak, the hoary patriarch of the range. We pass out of the

pine forest into a denuded section where the ravages of the axe are

sadly apparent, with every evidence of the wanton waste that destroys

with no thought of the future. At Green Valley the road begins to rise

rapidly and passes some of the finest scenery of the trip. There are

points where one's vision reaches over the orange-grove studded plain

to the ocean, a hundred miles away, or turning eastward sweeps over the

dun stretches of the Mohave Desert.

Coming in sight of the lake, we realize that though in common parlance

it is only a dam, it is none the less a beautiful and very respectable

body of water. In contemplating its rugged natural surroundings and

the splendid groves of pines that line its shores, we quite forget

that it is man-made; it seems almost as much a child of the ages

as Klamath or Tahoe. It is six or seven miles long, with an average

width of almost a mile and in places it attains considerable depth.

It is usually snowbound from December to May, though of course this

varies considerably. The road executes a sharp turn around the eastern

extremity of the lake and just beyond the bend are located the various

camps and cabins that furnish quarters for the tourists, vacationists

and fishermen who visit Bear Lake in great force during the summer

season. There are also numerous privately owned summer cottages,

belonging principally to Los Angeles business men. The lake is well

stocked with fish and record catches are often reported early in the

season.

The return trip of the "Rim of the World Drive" is made by the way of

Santa Ana and Mill Creek Canyons over a road which has been greatly

improved in the last few years but which still furnishes plenty of

thrills for any but the most seasoned mountain driver. The highest point

attained, 7950 feet, is opposite the western extremity of the lake and

an inspiring panorama spreads out beneath Lookout Point, near the summit

of the range. The road descends rapidly from this point in a series of

"switch-backs" which require extreme vigilance on part of the driver.

From Clark's Ranch the descent is easier, ending in the long smooth

stretches of Mill Creek Canyon road. It was on this road, as mentioned

elsewhere, that we made our record "coast" of seven and one-half miles.

Big Bear Valley may also be reached from Victorville, crossing the range

over the El Cajon Pass. This road is open practically the year round and

affords access to the lake when the Arrowhead route is closed by snow.

Stages make the "Rim of the World" trip regularly during the summer and

if one does not care to pilot his own car he can still make the journey

easily and comfortably as a passenger in one of these vehicles.

Riverside is one of the Meccas of California which every tourist must

visit, and if he does not care to pay the price at the Glenwood Mission

Inn, he is bound to find some excuse for dropping into this unique and

delightful hotel, just to say he has been there. One visit will not

suffice for many people; in the course of our three springtime sojourns

in California we gravitated to Riverside a dozen times or more, often

going out of our way to pass the night at the Glenwood. On our first

trip we followed the Crest road from Redlands and enjoyed another fine

view of the valley with its towns and encircling mountains from the

grade which crosses the hills northeast of Highgrove.

Riverside we found a clean, handsome town with wide, well-paved streets

bordered with trees, and lawns and gardens bright with flowers and

palms. Within its limits are one hundred and sixty miles of graded

streets, a large part of which is paved or macadamized, while out

of the town are two of the most famous drives in California—Magnolia

and Victoria Avenues. The former, bordered with double rows of pepper

trees—there are a few magnolias among them—under which were mammoth rose

bushes in full bloom, was lovely beyond description. It passes Sherman

Institute, a government Indian school, where the rising generation of

red men—and ladies, for that matter—are being trained in the ways of

civilization. Surely, the location and surroundings are nearly ideal,

and the whole institution seemed like a far echo of mission days, for

the buildings are mainly of mission type and the students—neophytes?—are

educated in arts and crafts; but the padres are supplanted by Uncle

Sam's trained teachers.

There are many other drives about the town, which is almost completely

surrounded by orange groves, and one may see all phases of the

orange-producing industry if he has the time and inclination. The first

naval oranges were developed here and the parent tree still flourishes,

hale and green, in the court of the Mission Inn.

But whatever the visiting motorist at Riverside may elect to do, he will

probably place first on his program the ascent of Rubidoux Mountain.

This is a rugged hill to the west of the town which commands a wide

view of the surrounding valley and whose summit may be reached by one

of the easiest mountain roads in California. It ascends in long loops,

following the edge of the hill, and a separate road provides for the

descent, thus avoiding the annoyance and danger of passing on the

grades. So easy is the ascent that a powerful car can jog upward most

of the way on "high," though care must be taken in rounding the frequent

loops.

From the boulder-strewn summit the view of the semi-tropical valley

beneath will hardly be surpassed, even in California. The dominant note

is the shimmering bronze-green of the orange groves, which surround the

mountain on every hand. It is broken here and there by emerald-green

alfalfa fields and by frequent towns and villages. Around the valley

sweeps a wide circle of snow-capped peaks whose rugged outlines are

softened by the blue haze of distance. Just below lies Riverside, half

hidden in palms and pepper trees, with here and there a dash of color

from the masses of flowers; San Bernardino is plain in the distance,

while a little to the right, Redlands nestles at the foot of the

mountains. Through the center of the valley runs the wide sandy bed of

the Santa Ana River, with a gleaming thread of water coursing through

it.

It was the conservation of this river and other mountain streams that

has had everything to do with the beautiful and prosperous scene beneath

us. It is indeed difficult to conceive that fifty years ago this green,

thriving plain was an arid desert, but such has been the history of

more than one prosperous locality in California, and in the future many

other seeming deserts will burst into bloom under the magical touch of

water. Much of the water in the valley comes from artesian wells and

when these began to fail from increasing demands, it occurred to some

resourceful mind to divert water from the river during the flood time to

the vicinity of the wells. Sinking into the earth, it greatly augmented

the subterranean supply and it is hoped in the future to conserve the

surplus water in this way.

On the highest point of the mountain stands a tall cross with a tablet

to the memory of Father Serra, and a huge bell has been erected on one

of the boulders as a memento of California mission days. On Easter

morning a large part of the population of Riverside repairs to the

summit of the mountain to join in an open-air song-service as the sun

rises. On this occasion the winding drive, as well as the parking-place,

is lined with hundreds of cars, showing how completely the automobile

has become the accepted means of transportation in Sunset-land.

More recently, however, the crowds have so increased—fifteen to

twenty thousand people attending the services—that parking on the

road or mountaintop is prohibited. The cars must quickly discharge

their passengers at the summit and immediately descend. Many people,

therefore, make the ascent on foot.

The time has slipped away rapidly while we have been admiring the

prospect from Mount Rubidoux or clambering over the huge boulders to

get vantage points for our camera. Luncheon hour is at hand and with

pleasant anticipations we glide down the winding descent and through the

broad streets to Frank Miller's Mission Inn, of which we have heard so

much and—I may say—expect so much. After this and many subsequent visits

to this unique hotel we can frankly say that our expectations have been

more than fulfilled; it would be hard from any description that one

might read or hear to get any true conception of this charming retreat

for the discriminating tourist. Standing as it does in the business part

of the city and being confined to a single block, one can not conceive

of the air of quiet and restfulness with which Mr. Miller has invested

his delightful inn. Once past its arched portals it seems as if we have

entered some secluded retreat miles and miles away from the turmoil of

the workaday world. Our car is left in the court with a dozen others

and we are welcomed as though we were expected guests.

Our rooms are on the second floor, for the Glenwood is no sky-scraper.

Everything is plain but substantial and homelike, a basket of California

fruit stands invitingly on the table. The lattice windows open upon

a little balcony above the court, with its flowers, climbing vines,

palms and orange trees; in the center is the quaint adobe tea-house,

and around it run corridors reminiscent of mission cloisters. It

is a cool, pleasant retreat, quite atoning for the absence of large

grounds surrounding the hotel. Luncheon is served by young women in

spotless attire; I like the girl waiters of the California resort

hotels—Coronado, Del Mar, Del Monte, Santa Barbara, and Riverside—they

are more attentive, prompter, and pleasanter to look upon than their

brothers of the greasy tuxedo in evidence in so many hotel dining-rooms.

One does not find the time hanging heavily upon his hands at the Mission

Inn. It will be long ere he has explored the interior of the great

rambling building to his satisfaction, from the curious collection

of bells on the roof to the dim mysteries of the cloistered chapel.

A building so redolent of the ancient missions would of course be

incomplete and unsatisfying without its chapel, and most fittingly

has Frank Miller supplied this need. A large, dimly lighted apartment

with heavily beamed ceiling, high oaken pews, and antique chairs; with

stained-glass windows and figures of saints and prophets and supplied

with a magnificent organ, is certainly an ideal chapel for the Mission

Inn. Its principal window, "St. Cecilia," is a Tiffany masterpiece, but

even more appropriate seem the huge sepia-brown photo-graven negatives

of western wonders of forest, mountain and stream. Here we delighted

to linger, listening to the musical recitals which occupy a good part

of the afternoon and inspecting the costly furniture, rugs and curios

which form a part of a collection from all over the world. Some of these

were "For Sale," at figures well beyond the reach of common persons

like ourselves; but there is a little shop just off the chapel with a

stock of books, pictures, and Indian work, in basketry, and trinkets

of silver and bronze, where a modest purse has a fair show. From this

one can wander away into subterranean apartments furnished like a dream

of old Spain and lighted with the subdued glow of many-colored lamps.

Altogether, it is strangely romantic and effective; it has an oriental

savor as well as the atmosphere of mission days.

The collection of bells in a nook on the roof always interests the

guests and you can hear the mellow notes at all times of the day.

There are bells from California missions, bells from old England, bells

from Spain, bells from China and Japan—and Heaven only knows from what

other corners of the earth. There are antique bells, hundreds of years

old, and bells with queer histories. Altogether, it is a remarkable

collection and in keeping with the characteristics of the inn.

If one grows weary of indoors, the court invites him to muse amidst its

semi-tropical trees and flowers, to lounge in the vine-laden pergolas,

or to wander through the long vistas of arched arcades, listening to

the murmuring of fountains and warbling of the birds. He will catch

glimpses of Moorish towers against the blue sky and with the chiming of

the vesper bells one might indeed imagine himself in one of the old-time

missions—Santa Barbara, San Juan Bautista, San Antonio—a hundred years

ago.

A notable new addition was completed in 1915, containing many de luxe

suites and a remarkable picture gallery, a replica of a hall from a

grand old Spanish palace. The ceiling is unique, being formed by loosely

hung folds of cloth of gold. The walls are decorated with notable

paintings, ancient and modern, and many interesting objects of art are

scattered about. It is a notable apartment in which one might spend

hours and yet wish to come again. This addition is constructed of steel

and concrete, making it absolutely fire-proof.

On one of our later visits I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance

of Mr. Frank Miller, the Master of the famous Inn, and to learn from

him personally something of the founding and progress of this unique

institution. His father came to Riverside when the surrounding country

was a cactus-studded desert and was a pioneer in shaping the marvelous

development which we see to-day. The Millers, among other enterprises,

kept a small tavern, the Glenwood Inn, which was the precursor of the

great establishment of to-day. No one who knows Frank Miller will wonder

that he has achieved such great success; he is a perfect dynamo—full

of energy, keen, alert, with a remarkable quickness of decision which

enables him to rapidly dispose of the multitude of details that come

to his attention daily and he seldom makes an error in such cases. He

has been most fortunate in choice of his aides, it is true, but that

only exhibits another side of his genius. Elbert Hubbard's dictum that

"every great institution is the lengthened shadow of some man" is surely

exemplified in the instance of Frank Miller and his Riverside Mission

Inn.

We find enough to detain us for several days in the vicinity of

Riverside. One should not miss the charming town of Redlands, over

towards the mountains, and it may be viewed from Smiley Heights,

overlooking the low foothills on which the town stands. These gardens

are ornamented with all manner of flowers and semi-tropical trees

and intersected by a splendid drive which wends its sinuous course

along the hill-crest on which they are situated. They are lovingly and

scrupulously cared for by the owners, and thrown open to visitors as

freely as a public park. Not only the gardens are worth a visit, but

the view from the heights is an inspiring one. Just below lies the

beautiful town with green foothills beyond, dotted here and there with

cultivated fields. Above these, seemingly very near, the mightiest of

the southern Sierras fling their gleaming summits into the deep azure

of the heavens. Indeed, it seems as if I may have already wearied my

reader with mountain-top views—though my book is only begun. But, after

all, the best part of a motor tour of California is the series of wide

visions from hills and mountains, glorious and inspiring beyond any

description; if my random notes shall induce others, even though but

few, to a like pilgrimage, it is enough!

Redlands is the home of many wealthy people and there are several

pretentious residences near the entrance to Smiley Heights. In this

regard it easily surpasses the better-known Riverside—and Riverside may

thank the Mission Inn for its wider fame. On a hill near the Heights

is an unfinished residence—begun on an immense scale by a copper

magnate—which was to surpass in size and glory everything else in the

whole section. The ambitious builder failed in business when the work

was about half done. It stands in pathetic ruin and neglect and no one

else has cared to undertake the completion of the pretentious structure.

Near Redlands is the village of Highlands, where a famous brand of

oranges is packed, and through the courtesy of a mutual friend we were

admitted to the establishment, which handles several carloads of fruit

daily. Here we saw the operations of grading and sorting the oranges,

which is done mainly by automatic machinery. The baskets are emptied

into hoppers and the oranges forced along a channel with holes of

different size through which the fruit falls according to bulk. In this

way boxes are filled with nearly uniform sizes. The boxes are made by

a wonderful machine which assembles the boards and drives the nails at

a single operation. We found the highest grade of oranges remarkably

cheap at the packing house—less than half the price we paid at home for

a poorer quality.

The most direct inland route from Los Angeles to San Diego is by the way

of Pomona, Corona and Elsinore, but those who do not care to drive the

two hundred or more miles in a day will break the journey at Riverside,

and it was from Riverside that we started on this glorious mountain

trip. A few miles southeast of the town—following Eighth Street—the

smooth white road swings over the easy stretches of Box Springs grade

through undulating hills to Perris, and from thence through the wide

valley to Elsinore, in all, a distance of about thirty miles. This

is the route of the state highway and by now the road is doubtless

near perfection—though much of it was rough and stony when we first

traversed it. But what an inspiring jaunt we found it on that bright

May day! Far away rose the silvery summits—among them San Gorgonio and

San Jacinto, the highest peaks in Southern California—and nearer at

hand the undulating outlines of the green foothills. Green is only the

prevailing tone, however, for the hills and valley are splotched and

spangled with every color of the rainbow. In yonder low-lying meadow

are lakes of living blue and white; on yonder hillside flame acres of

the burning gold of the California poppies and beneath them a wide belt

of primrose yellow. What an entrancing view there was from some of the

hill-crests!—wonderful vistas that will linger with us so long as life

shall last. Out beyond the vivid belts of color that dash the green

hills lies an indefinite ocean of mountain ranges, fading gradually

away into a deep purple haze. Here and there some glittering peak rises

like a fairy island in this ill-defined sea, crowning and dominating

everything. Not less entrancing is the scene near at hand. Along the

road gleam many strange blooms which I wish I were botanist enough to

name. We knew the brilliant red Indian paint-brush and the orange-gold

poppy, but that was about all. A hundred other varieties of blossoms

smiled on us from the roadside, but though the impression of their

beauty still lingers, they must remain unnamed. In all this country

there is but little cultivated land and habitations are few and far

between. Probably the short water supply and the fact that it is often

quite cold in winter will preclude profitable farming to any extent.

Elsinore is a quiet little town deep in the hills, situated on

Lake Elsinore—the only natural lake of any consequence in Southern

California. This is an exceedingly variable body of water, a difference

of sixteen feet being recorded in its levels, and at the time of our

visit a prolonged drouth had reduced it to the minimum. There are

numerous hot springs in the vicinity and these are doubtless responsible

for the several hotels—the Elsinore, Bundy and Lakeview—which advertise

the advantages of the locality as a health resort. Duck shooting on the

lake also brings wayfarers during the hunting season.

On our first visit to the town we stopped there for luncheon and have

no very pleasant recollections of our repast; the next time we ran

through Elsinore we brought our lunch from Riverside and ate it in a

shady nook by the roadside, making comparisons to the disadvantage of

hotels in general. In fact, we became more and more partial to such

open-air luncheons while knocking about the highroads of California. It

saved time and money and had such a delightful flavor from the great

glorious out-of-doors in this favored clime. We never failed to find

a pleasant spot—by a clear stream or under a great oak or sycamore—and

we can heartily commend the practice of carrying a lunch basket and a

couple of thermos bottles filled with hot coffee while touring.

On another occasion we followed the road which leads around the lake

and found the side opposite the town by far the most beautiful. Here

is a fine tract of farm land with many olive groves and peach orchards,

some of which run down to the rippling water which gleamed through the

serried trunks as we coursed along. A large olive-oil mill indicated

one of the chief industries of the community. The road is level and

well improved and the run will delight anyone who has the opportunity

of making it.

Out of Elsinore the San Diego road strikes straight away to the

southeast for a good many miles. Here we are reminded that we are in the

Ramona country, for the little village of Temecula figures in the book.

Here is supposed to have been the home of the Indian hero, Alessandro,

who returns after his elopement with Ramona to find his people driven

out and his own humble cottage occupied by a drunken American and his

family.

There is little now in Temecula but a general store, whose proprietor is

an expert on Indian baskets, of which he had a really fine collection.

We especially admired some examples of the work of the Pala Indians,

but the prices asked by the shopkeeper were not so much to our liking.

We would go to Pala and perchance get baskets at first hand at figures

A winding drive along the crest for a mile or two brought us to Squirrel