Chapter XVII

Oakland Ferry-house and Pier.--The Russian Church.--Off Eastward.-- Crossing the Mountains.--Hydraulic Mining.--Stop at Reno.--Nevada Deserts.--Ogden.--The Playing Indian.

As we turned our backs on San Jose, we began to feel that we were heading for home, and were descending from romance and flowers, to the more commonplace conditions of existence. I question if it would be good for us to lead too long, the ideal and refined Bohemian life, such as a well-appointed car, and no care, affords.

It was with a sort of shock, that, after hours of travel, through smiling plain and upland, we found ourselves in the prosaic environment of Oakland.

Our car was run out to the end of a pier, which stretched for miles, it seemed, into the bay. The vast expanse of water about us, the great city away off across the bay, and the frail-looking, but yet perfectly safe, piling on which our car had place, gave a tone of empty loneliness to everything, and we could not but feel gloomy.

We were becoming fastidious. We wanted "roses, roses all the way," and absolutely were oblivious to the energy which had created this huge pier, crowned with the really splendid ferry-house, and a ferry-house is no uninteresting thing. How little do we think that the whole ferry business in the United States, especially in great centres such as New York, presents the most distinctively American thing we have; the very triumph of common sense and directness of means to the proposed end.

We availed ourselves of the splendid ferry here at Oakland, for a little run once more in San Francisco. My errand was to try and hunt up the Russo-Greek church, and see something of it. I got to the place, and saw the exterior of what was once a magnificent residence, but now a decayed mansion in an unfashionable part of the city. It was given an ecclesiastical effect by being topped with several melon-shaped domes of zinc, brightly painted; these, and the pale blue on walls and doors and windows, gave quite the effect of Russia. My visit, however, was fruitless. The fathers were all out, and a servitor in attendance opened the door, only a few inches, for a cautious parley. That glimpse showed me some rather rich paintings in the interior of the dwelling, but I had to rush back to our car without waiting for the return of the fathers, or the view of the church, which, I am sure, they would be glad to show me.

Once off from Oakland, we were indeed on the home-stretch, but we had the mountains to climb, and much more to see.

We passed through Sacramento, the capital of the State, merely giving it a glance, as we journeyed on into the glory of the mountains.

But of these mountains, how shall we speak! It was all a grand crescendo of magnificence, until the snowsheds, erected over the tracks, shut out the splendor of the scenery from our view. But even the glimpses through the chinks were worth looking at. We saw far beneath us the silver shield of a lonely and lovely lake, where in spirit we went. We saw, too, the glory of sunset tints upon the frozen peaks of distant heights. We saw, too, the great lines of the mountain-sides, in successive sweeps, pine-clad and lovely, but gigantic in their vast and repeated lines. The whole ride through those sheds was tantalizing and yet interesting. It certainly was a daring thing to conceive a protection from the winter's snow, of such extent; and to keep it all in repair, ever watched, and tended, must be an enormous task. It was a splendid sensation to climb those mountains on our iron horse, but yet one would fain see them better, and loiter a little among the camps and mining towns, and know more of the life.

My attention was aroused to the fearful effects of hydraulic mining as we journeyed on ever upward. Here and there, one could see the fearful work which ensued from such methods. The whole face of a mountain would be torn off bare, and the valley beneath filled in with refuse, to the depth of three hundred feet. It all looked like a great wound on the venerable mountains, while the river-beds in the valleys were choked, and distorted from their channels.

A brakeman who was showing me a pocketful of nuggets and specimens, laughed me to scorn when I bemoaned the scarred and tortured look of the hills in sight. "What," said he, "are mountains good for but to get such stuff as that out of them?" as he tossed up a fragment of gold in the air, and caught it on his open and greedy hand. But, after all, how much more important mountains are as mountains, than mere gold-bearing protuberances, and how much more precious rivers are as life-givers to man and beast, rather than gold-bearers in their shifting sands.

We were glad to know that legislative enactments have been made upon such mining processes, and that certain restrictions and limitations are in force, to protect nature against wasteful greed, and the reckless spoliation and destruction of mountain-side and valley stream.

After our climb up the mountain, towards evening we found ourselves at Reno. A wait for supper is made here (we were, of course, independent of such wayside places), during which we stretched our legs on the platform, looking at the many odd-looking people in view.

A freakish notion got into me to be odd also, so, just to astonish the natives, I donned my Japanese kimino, made of camel's-hair cloth of light buff hue, reaching down to my heels. With this on, I dared one of our ladies to walk with me, offering her my arm. This she did, with a good grace, and we certainly were the observed, if not the admired, of all observers.

Some of our party followed us at a little distance to gather up the remarks. "Here comes Brigham Young, I guess," was one of them; another was, "That's Pope Leo, ain't it?" and yet another was, "No, it's Bishop Sommers." But in the midst of the fun, of which of course I seemed to be oblivious, my eye caught the grave face of a simon-pure Jap, in American dress, standing by, with eyes, as wide open as he could get them, evidently mystified at my appearance. He could vouch certainly for the genuineness of the kimino, but the _tout ensemble_ was too much for him. I felt really sorry for the poor little Japanese, he looked so lonesome, all alone in the crowd. Possibly he might have felt badly that his possible brother countryman did not stop and speak with him!

After leaving Reno, our way took us through Nevada, which we passed in the night. When day dawned upon us we found ourselves in desolate places, more lonely desert than anything we had yet seen. The following poem by Charlotte Perkins Stetson most vividly describes the death-like aspect of the place. It is called--

A NEVADA DESERT

"An aching, blinding, barren, endless plain;
Corpse-colored with white mould of alkali,
Hairy with sage-brush, shiny after rain,
Burnt with the sky's hot scorn, and still again
Sullenly burning back against the sky.

"Dull green, dull brown, dull purple, and dull gray,
The hard earth white with ages of despair,
Slow-crawling, turbid streams where dead reeds sway,
Low wall of sombre mountains far away,
And sickly steam of geysers on the air."

In due time we reached Ogden, a busy-looking place. We did not leave our car, however, for any inspection, waiting for the short run to Salt Lake City, where we were to spend the night and the next day.

In the midst of all the car-tracks, and the many signs of commercial activity, a capering Indian, with a blanket flung round his shoulders, amused us by his childish glee and activity. He was in the exuberance of his wild freedom, among all the business and anxieties which civilization brings. What did he care for it all! He was having a good run, and, for the fun of it, was racing with a young fellow on horseback, and was making rather good time, too. I was interested in this child of the past, this offspring of wild life, as without thought or heed for anything but the present moment, he lived out his day.

In a short time we were at the city of the Mormons, seeing in the distance, as we approached it, the spectral waters of the Great Salt Lake.