California, the land of sunshine and roses, with its genial climate,
its skies as blue as the far-famed skies of Venice, and its pure
life-giving air, invites the lover of nature to take long tramps over
hill and dale, mountain and valley, and to search out new trails in
the rugged mountains.
It is a common sight to see parties of men and women meet at the ferry
building, dressed in khaki suits, with knapsacks strapped on their
backs, waiting to take the boat across the bay to some of the numerous
places of interest. There are plenty to choose from, but most of them
go to the same places over and over, instead of searching out
unfrequented nooks that give one a feeling of proprietorship when
discovered. It is an old saying, and a trite one, that "Familiarity
breeds contempt." It is certainly true, however, that we often pass
over the familiar and commonplace to go into raptures over some lofty
mountain peak, ignoring the gems that lie hidden away at its very
base.
There is a quiet beauty in the broad sweep of the valley, a stately
majesty in the towering mountains, a restful grandeur in the rounded
domes of the tree-clad hills, and an element of strength in the broad
sweep of the ocean. One never tires of watching the constant change of
light and shade, for they never appear twice alike. But we are in
search of unfrequented nooks, the byways that others pass unnoticed,
so we leave the prominent to seek out the obscure.
To enjoy the out-of-doors at its best one needs a congenial companion;
one who does not tire on the trail nor find fault with the little
annoying things that are bound to occur on a long journey, but who, in
the silent contemplation of God's handiwork, best expresses his
appreciation of its wonderful beauty in silence; for there are times
when silent enjoyment of a landscape produces a subtle interchange of
thought that speaks louder than words.
Such a one is Hal, more like a brother than a son, and in winding over
tortuous trails and climbing the rugged sides of mountains we have
become good comrades; bound together by the invisible tie of "Nature
Lovers" and the "Call of the Wild," as well as the greater bond of
kinship.
One could not begin to tell of the pleasure derived from these rambles
over valley and mountain, not to speak of the health-giving exercise
in the open air. They are far better than doctors' prescriptions, for
they drive the cobwebs from the brain, bring refreshing slumber, a new
light to the eye, elasticity to the step, and keep one young in
spirit, if not in years.
[Illustration: THE LAUGHTER OF THE BROOK]
It was a bright June morning when Hal and I took the ferryboat for
Sausalito, then by train to Mill Valley. It was just cool enough to
make walking a pleasure, and after the clamor of the city the somber
shadows of the forest, with its solitude, seemed like a benediction.
On every side the giant redwoods tower hundreds of feet in air,
straight and imposing, while the ground, on which the pine needles and
crumbling bark have formed a brown mold, is as soft and springy to the
tread as a velvet carpet.
The resinous, aromatic odor of the pines, combined with the fresh
woodsy fragrance, is like a tonic. Just ahead of us we see a growth of
manzanitas, with their smooth purple-brown bark and pinkish white
flowers in crowded clusters, standing out vividly against the
background of oaks and firs, and we sink knee-deep amid the ferns and
blue and yellow lupine. It seems almost sacrilegious to trample these
exquisite violet-hooded flowers beneath our feet.
Close to the trail a little mountain brook sings merrily over its
pebbly bed, dodging in and out among the rocks, or chuckling in glee
as it dashes in mimic fury over some unseen obstacle, as if it were
playing hide and seek with the shadows along the bank. And we stop to
rest and listen with pleasure to the music of its woodland melody. A
song sparrow joins in the chorus with his quaint sweet lullaby, like
the tinkling of Venetian glass, his notes as clear and delicate as a
silver bell. He evidently believes that singing lightens his labors,
for he is industriously gathering material for the new home he is
building close at hand aided by his demure mate, who, in reality, does
most of the work.
[Illustration: BROOK AND WATERFALL]
The trail grows steeper and harder to climb as we ascend. We hear the
sound of falling water ahead of us, and around a bend in the path, and
through an opening in the trees, we come upon a beautiful waterfall
pouring over the rocks like a bridal veil.
We drop our cameras and scramble down the rocks, drinking cup in hand,
and slake our thirst at this crystal fountain. Was ever a more
delightful draught for thirsty mortals than from this little pool
hidden away here in this mountain fastness? It is a place in which
druids and wood-nymphs might revel, surrounded on all sides by stately
trees and moss-grown rocks, fringed with ferns of all kinds, from the
delicate maidenhair to the wide-spreading shield variety, bordered
with blue and gold lupine (California's colors), and close to the
falls, a bush thickly covered with white flowering dogwood blossoms,
standing out like a rare painting against the green-and-brown
background--a spot to thrill the soul of an artist. Yet how many had
ever found this sylvan retreat, hidden away, as it is, from the main
highway?
[Illustration]