It was on February 22, Washington's Birthday, that Hal and I started
in the early morning from Berkeley, for a trip to Wild-cat Cañon. The
birds are singing their _Te Deum_ to the morning sun. The California
partridges run along the path ahead of us, their waving crests bobbing
up and down as they scurry out of sight under the bushes, seldom
taking wing, but depending on their sturdy little legs to take them
out of harm's way. A cotton-tail, disturbed in his hiding, darts away,
bounding from side to side like a rubber ball, as if expecting a shot
to overtake him before he can get safely to cover He need not fear, as
we have no more deadly weapon than a camera, though we should
certainly train that upon him if he but gave us a chance. High
overhead we hear the clarion honk, honk of wild geese, cleaving the
air in drag-shaped column, while the dew on the grass dances and
sparkles in the sunshine like glittering diamonds.
After a hard climb we reach the top of the hill, and look down at the
town just awakening into life, and out across the waters of the bay
partly hidden by the blanket of fog rolling in from the ocean.
Did you ever stand on the top of a high hill in the early morning,
when the eastern sky is beginning to put on its morning robe of
variegated colors, with all the blended shades of an artist's palette,
and watch the town, nestling in the valley at your feet, wake up after
its night of slumber? Here a chimney sends its spiral of blue smoke
straight in air; then another, and another, like the smoke of Indian
scouts signaling to their tribes. The lights in the windows go out,
one by one; the sharp blast of a whistle cuts the air, the clang of a
bell peals out, the rumble of a wagon is heard, and the street cars
begin their clatter and clang. All this comes floating up to you on
the still morning air, until an ever-increasing crescendo of sounds is
borne in upon you, telling that the town has awakened from its nap,
stretched itself like a drowsy giant, and is ready once more to
grapple with its various problems.
We pass a grove of tall eucalyptus trees on our left, their rugged
trunks like an army of tattered, unkempt giants. From the brink of the
old stone quarry, we gaze down into its prisonlike depths, the
perpendicular walls looking as if they had been carved out of solid
rock to hold some primeval malefactor; then we descend the hill on the
other side to the cañon.
[Illustration: THE BOTTOM OF THE CAÑON]
The view on every side is magnificent. Rising out of the cañon, on the
farther side, the rounded domes of the hills, clothed in velvet green,
roll from one to another like huge waves of the ocean, while far to
the right old Grizzly stands majestically above the others, its top
crowned with waving verdure, like the gaudy headdress of some mighty
warrior.
We descend into the cañon by a well-marked trail, and the shade of the
trees is most grateful after our walk in the sun. We follow
downstream, where the speckled trout lie hid in the deep pools, and
the song sparrows sing their sweetest, and at last find ourselves at
the object of our quest, opposite the caves.
There are three or four of these, large and small, which were used in
former times by the Indians. We had fully intended to climb the face
of this almost perpendicular cliff, to explore the caves, and
photograph the interiors with the aid of flashlights, but decided that
the climb was too hard, and the ground too wet and slippery for
safety. As a false step or an insecure foothold would send us to the
bottom with broken bones, if not broken necks, we contented ourselves
with photographing the face of the cliff from a safe distance.
Retracing our steps, crossing the stream, and making a long detour, we
tried to reach the caves from above. It was a hard, tedious climb,
over rough and jagged rocks, but after nearly an hour's struggle,
slipping and sliding, holding on to every shrub that offered the
semblance of a grip, we reached the top. Then by a more tedious and
dangerous descent, we reached a large flat rock just above the caves.
Crawling out upon the rock, and venturing as near the edge as we
dared, we found it almost as impossible to reach the caves from above
as from below, and finally gave up the attempt.
[Illustration: WILD-CAT CAÑON]
But we were well repaid for our rough climb, for a more magnificent
panorama could hardly be found. We looked for miles up and down the
cañon, in either direction, so far below us that the head grew dizzy.
The trees followed the tortuous course of the cañon, and two men that
we saw far below us looked like pigmies.
Far above us a sparrow hawk circled above the trees, and we were told
that an owl had a nest somewhere among the rocks. We did not look for
it, but certainly nothing but an owl, or some other bird, could ever
hope to scale the rocks successfully. We rested a long time on the top
of the rock, enjoying the view, and regaining our wind for the climb
to the top. This we accomplished without accident, save for the few
scratches incident to such work. It was the season when the flowering
currant puts on its gala dress of pink blossoms, and the banks of the
creek for a long distance were like a flower garden. On the higher
ground the beautiful Zygadene plant, with its pompon of white
star-shaped flowers, and long graceful leaves, grew in profusion.
Maidenhair ferns, the only variety we saw, sent forth their delicate
streamers from every nook and cranny, forming a carpet of exquisite
texture.
When we reached the top of the hill on our return, and looked down
upon Berkeley, the sun was obscured by a high fog, and a cold wind
came up to us from the bay, making us step lively to keep the blood
circulating. We reached home late in the afternoon, worn, and
leg-weary, but well satisfied with our holiday in Wild-cat Cañon and
the beautiful Berkeley hills.
[Illustration]