Chapter VI

ACROSS THE CACTUS DESERT INTO CALIFORNIA’S GOLDEN LAND.

Leaving Santa Fe, we continued our journey westward over the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad, and striking the Rio Grande a short distance south of White Rock Cañon, followed the bank of that stream through some very handsome scenery until we reached Atlantic and Pacific Junction. Thence for a while the route was through an arid section, where alkali and musquite abounded; an unchangeable waste of black sterility; a country so level that the laying of a railroad track was attended by no difficulties, but keeping it clear of sand is a work of great perverseness. We were now on the line of the Atlantic and Pacific, which crosses a branch of the Rio Grande at Rio Puerco, and soon after follows the valley of that stream for about sixty miles. Laguna is on the way, and north and south are mesas, dry lakes and lava beds, but there is no picturesqueness of landscape. South of Fort Wingate, just east of the Arizona border, is the Zuni Plateau, in which several old ruins are still to be seen; but if we except the Indians, who exist in the most miserable condition, and old ruins and craters of extinct volcanoes, the region is without interest, and has few features worthy of the photographer’s art.

After reaching Arizona, the road passes through a corner of the Perco and Zuni reservations, and follows the old trail leading to Prescott. Immediately south of Flagstaff, and in sight of that place, are more ruins of cliff dwellings, built in the banks of Walnut Creek, but so faded as to be scarcely distinguishable now. We are now in the Cactus plain, where immense stalks of that curious vegetable growth rise to the dignity of branchless trees, prickly and often grotesque.

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THE NEEDLES ALONG THE RIO GRANDE.—The Needles are a part of the Rocky
Mountain chain, and they derive the name from their sharp-pointed
and splintered pinnacles, in which respect they differ from all
other mountains in America. Their peaks tower into the regions of
perpetual snow, which cools and tempers what would otherwise be an
almost intolerable climate. The Needles first come into view after
emerging from the western extremity of Animas Cañon, and their white
turrets are then visible for many leagues as the train glides along
parallel with them.
]

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These are two interesting buildings photographed on this page. The Palace, so called, has no very palatial appearance, but it has a record as a government building which many a palace might well be proud of. It has domiciled a long line of governors, both under Spanish and American rule, and is still occupied for this purpose. It fronts the plaza or public park, a portion of which is shown in the picture, and a brilliant scene is witnessed here on a summer’s afternoon when the officers of the garrison stationed here, with their families and visiting friends, gather under the shade of the trees to listen to the excellent music of the military band. The old adobe church is probably older by at least two centuries than any other church house in America, and a few years ago, when the writer was there, it was still used for religious purposes.

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At a little station called Peach Springs, the road draws very near the Hualpai reservation, and is within less than a score of miles of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado; but, though short, the way is a difficult one, over parched sands and an eye-wearying desolation, until within four or five miles of the cañon, when the approach to water is indicated by a gradual increase of vegetation, which, however, never becomes rank, even along the river-shore. A stage-line is now running from Flagstaff, which, though not so near as Peach Springs, offers a much easier route to the cañon. The trip from Flagstaff is made in twelve hours, and, by comfortable stages, the traveler is taken to one of the most imposing points in the cañon (Marble Cañon), where the descent is sheer 6,000 feet, and a panorama is afforded of frightful chasm, curiously chaotic walls, strange formations, and mountains breaking one behind the other, like waves on the ocean, until sight fades into the perspective of distance. Here terror and sublimity, in a marvel of natural extremes, have formed perpetual alliance to excite amazement in the mind of every visitor.

We cross the Colorado at Powell, where, to the south, are Red Rock buttes, and to the north are the Needles, the latter being hills that run up into sharp peaks, and then fall away to join a long stretch of plain. Black Mountains run parallel with the river on the north, near the foot of which, but on the river-shore, is a Mohave village, a settlement of that miserable remnant, who from a powerful people have degenerated, through oppression and decimation, until they are scarcely a degree removed from the Digger Indians. The reservation proper of this tribe is, however, near the Navajoes, in the northeastern part of the territory.

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Immediately before blooming, the century plant puts out a long stem or shoot, as seen in the photograph, upon which the flowers appear in due course of time. The event is such a rare one as to be quite a curiosity, and as comparatively few of the readers of this book will probably ever be so fortunate as to see the real plant in bloom, they will all the more appreciate this beautiful photograph.—In many parts of Arizona, New Mexico and Mexico the cactus plant is made to do service as a fence around gardens and small fields. The variety generally used for this purpose has a broad, thin blade, resembling an ancient broadsword, and these grow so close together, with sharp needle-pointed thorns shooting out in every direction, that no living thing can pass through or between them.

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Crossing the Colorado, we strike the desert district of California, which extends through the counties of San Bernardino and Kern, a distance of nearly three hundred miles. Adjoining these two counties on the north is Inyo county, into which the Carson and Colorado Railroad extends southward as far as Owen’s Lake. This county is remarkable for embracing a region of extraordinary wonders, greater, indeed, in several respects, than any other district in the world. In the northern part is a marvelous depression, 159 feet below sea level, and nearly 150 miles in circumference, known as Death Valley. It is distinctly a volcanic region, in which, however, the fires are long since burned out, leaving the desert a vast field of cinders, so parched that no drop of water exists within its borders, though rivers of lava ramify it in every direction. Many have perished in an effort to cross this fiery plain; and looking across it from the margin, the observer sees a shimmer in the air, as if a furnace were in active blast beneath. Here the temperature rises to 122 degrees, and the air hangs in a hot envelope, lazily swinging to and fro, rising and falling in waves of heat, and making the sands blaze with an almost blinding light. Scorched, burned- out and furnace-like though the region be, it is, nevertheless, the abode of life, but no less curious than is the valley itself. The centipede, scorpion and horned-toad find here a congenial habitation; and, strange to say, a species of kangaroo-rat is peculiar to this cursed spot, burrowing in the hot sand and feeding on insects.

Thunder-storms beat around the valley, but no drop of rain ever moistens its burning lips. The dryness of the air is such a preserver of dead bodies that decay is impossible, and the animals that die within its borders are mummified until they become like parchment. This cursed spot, sown as it is with dragon’s teeth, is not entirely without its attractions, though they are as dangerous as were the soft, lute-like voices of the Sirens. It is the field of wonderful illusion, from which spring into the quivering air the most astounding and alluring mirages: rippling brooks, waving palms, floral meadows, ships under sail, banks of thyme, and travelers moving in procession across a landscape more beautiful than an oriental vision.

Continuing our journey westward, we passed through a large arid district, in which dry lakes with beds white with soda, and shining in the blazing sun, were plentiful on both sides, but seeing no more interesting features until we arrived at Los Angeles. Here we found much to amuse, and often to instruct. It is an old town, settled by the Spaniards, in 1780, and although now a beautiful city, it has not entirely put aside the garments of antiquity with which the ancient church fathers invested it. Many old adobe buildings still remain, and there are not wanting the ruins of quaint and curious monasteries, moss- covered, and with broken walls and dilapidated belfries, in which the ghosts of long ago seem to have their haunt.

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WITHIN THE JAWS OF GRAND CAÑON OF THE COLORADO.—The Grand Cañon of the
Colorado is such a stupendous wonder that we never grow tired of
contemplating it. From every point of view we see some new marvel to
admire. The variegated and many-hued cliffs are as remarkable for
their bewildering beauty as for the grandeur of their lofty heights.
Everything is on the most colossal scale, except the little river
itself, which goes dashing along in playfulness and glee with no
intimation that it is the master workman by whose hands this
stupendous wonder was wrought.
]

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The river, which washes the eastern limits of the city, is a sluggish stream, but it imparts refreshment to one of the most fertile valleys to be found anywhere in California. Here we find a succession of orange- groves and vineyards, bending low with golden and purple fruitage, while beyond the city’s skirts are orchards of walnut, olive and almond, from which profitable crops are annually gathered.

San Diego, 147 miles south of Los Angeles, is another beautiful place, the center of a delightful region, but its interest lies very largely in the fact that it was at this place the first white settler in California pitched his tent, as early as 1769. This great Spanish pioneer, Father Junipero Serra by name, became the founder of twenty-one missions in California, some of which still remain in a fair state of preservation, but a majority exist as mere reminders of the olden time when the Franciscan friars dominated that portion of the Spanish territory. In this southern region the landscape is monotonous, and the air is usually hot, from which fact, no doubt, came the name “California,” which, in the Spanish, signifies “hot furnace,” and was bestowed by the discoverer, in 1534.

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MAGNOLIA AVENUE, RIVERSIDE, CAL.—The climate in Southern California is
almost tropical, and the fruits, flowers and general vegetation are
similar to those found in equatorial regions. In the Spanish
language “California” signifies “hot furnace,” and this name was
bestowed upon that country by the discoverer in 1534. It is
therefore no matter of surprise that we should see reproduced in
this photograph a scene that carries us in imagination to the
central regions of Florida. Here the palm and the magnolia, the
orange and the lemon, grow and bloom side by side.
]

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Proceeding northward, the scenery becomes more varied and pleasing, for above Los Angeles a mountainous district is passed, with the San Bernardino and Sierra de San Rafael ranges on the right, and the Monica and Santa Inez ranges on the left. Still further north are the San Benito Mountains, paralleling the San Juan River, along whose magnificent valley the railroad runs until it reaches Castroville on the coast, just above Monterey. This latter place is one of very great attractiveness, not only for its historical associations, as the seat of Spanish Government in California until 1847, but also because it is the best specimen of the old-time adobe cities which now remains, as well as the location of one of the most exquisite gardens and charming hotels that is to be found either in or out of America. The Hotel del Monte is a building of much beauty in itself, but the very large grounds which surround it have been cultivated until they are a veritable paradise of noble oaks, rich green lawns, and bewildering flower-beds, dimpled with every hue that nature is capable of painting. The old town is a ghost of antiquity, the skeleton of a remote past, whose bony fingers point backward, as if beckoning beseechingly to the long ago. There is the mission house, rickety and tattered, raising its palsied head barely above the adobe walls which once served so well to defend it against enemies. But the wall, very thick though it was, has been badly breached by the catapults of time, and having done faithful guard-duty in the early days, it is now like the grave of a hero, which has become a shrine, to which many are drawn by curiosity as well as by respect.

From Monterey northward the road runs through the incomparably beautiful and fertile Santa Clara Valley, a region where nature is always in good humor, and so fat that every time she laughs she shakes out a harvest. Towards the left spreads away a waving plain in richest cultivation, while on the right towers the Coast range of mountains, whose summits, bathed perpetually in a clear atmosphere, look in the distance like a vast ridge of sapphires supporting the sky.

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AN OLD MISSION HOUSE IN CALIFORNIA.—The great Spanish pioneer and
priest, Father Junipero Serra, went to California in 1769, and
pitched his tent near the modern city of San Diego. He was the first
white man to settle within the limits of the territory now embraced
by the great State of the Pacific coast. His object in going there
was to serve as a missionary among the Indians, and so earnest and
faithful was he that he lived to become the founder of twenty-one
missions. Some of these still remain in a fair state of
preservation, like the one photographed on this page, but most of
them have fallen into decay.
]

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At San Jose, a lovely city embowered with oaks, vines, roses and palms, the stage is taken for Mount Hamilton, upon the peak of which is located the Lick Observatory, enclosing the great Lick telescope. The road cost $80,000 to make; and though the ascent, which is begun fifteen miles from San Jose, is great, yet so admirably constructed is the way that two horses easily drag the stage to the summit. I never had a more delightful ride than this trip afforded, for while the air was bracing, the view was at all times indescribably picturesque. At places where sharp turns are made, passengers can look out of the coach windows down into abysses which seem to be bottomless, and which never fail to elicit the question: “If a wheel should run off the edge, where would the passengers land?”

The altitude of the observatory is 4,250 feet above the valley, and from this lofty point, it is claimed, with an appearance of truth, that a greater area is visible than from any other in the world. Not only is the whole of Santa Clara Valley viewable, but on very clear days the highest peaks of the Yosemite are discernible, and even Mount Shasta, 200 miles distant, can be distinguished. The telescope is a 36-inch reflector, the largest ever made, and so massive that it is controlled by hydraulic power, which is most ingeniously applied, the adjustment being so perfect that its many tons of weight can be moved by a single finger. The public have free access to the observatory, but unfortunately, and very unwisely, visitors are not permitted to use the telescope except on Saturday nights. As favorable evenings are comparatively few, this rule prevents a very great majority of persons from realizing what they have traveled thousands of miles to see, and much complaint against the astronomers in charge is accordingly made.

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LICK OBSERVATORY, ON THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT HAMILTON, CAL.—The
observatory buildings occupy the summit of the mountains, at an
altitude of 4250 feet above the valley. The place is reached by
stage from San Jose, over a road which is said to have cost $80,000
in its construction. The scenery along the road is wonderfully
picturesque and beautiful, embracing a number and variety of views
that are unsurpassed anywhere in the world. From the observatory
nearly the whole of Santa Clara Valley can be seen, and on clear
days the peaks of Yosemite, and even the hoary head of Mount Shasta,
200 miles distant, are discernible.
]

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From San Jose to San Francisco the distance is about fifty miles, through forests of redwood, past charming villas skirting San Francisco Bay, and many beauties peculiar to this perpetual summer land. The city is one of exceedingly great interest, possessing as it does features of a unique as well as of a magnificent character. Some of its best streets are reclamations from the bay, where, in 1849, the largest ships rode at anchor; and what were once bare mountains of sand were made accessible by the adoption of a cable system of street railroads, and on these peaks are now several of the finest residences in America.

The Palace Hotel is the largest in the world, nine stories high, occupying 275 by 350 feet of ground, and cost, with furnishings, the enormous sum of $7,000,000. The public buildings, and many of the business blocks as well, attest the great wealth of the place, which flowed in with the gold discoveries. Lone Mountain, distinguished by a large wooden cross on its summit, affords a view which embraces not only the entire city and bay, but likewise of the ocean, Mount Diabolo and the long Coast Range that shimmers in the sun like polished metal.

But the most delightful point of interest is the Cliff House, near the entrance to the Golden Gate, reached by a beautiful drive through Golden Gate Park, and also by cable and steam cars. The prospect from the hotel piazza, reaching far above and over the ocean, is both grand and charming. Immediately in front, and only three or four hundred yards away, three rocks rise out of the sea to a height of one hundred feet, and on these hundreds of sea-lions gather of sunny days to bask and display themselves before amused spectators. At times, their barking is almost distracting, especially when some ugly-dispositioned pater familias of the great herd sets about clearing the rocks, when there follows a noise like ten thousand big dogs in conflict, and a scrambling, sprawling and tumbling that is wonderful as well as amusing.

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GARDEN OF PALMS AT INDIO, NEAR SAN DIEGO, CAL.—No wonder the people of
California love their State and its “glorious climate” when they are
able to produce such ideal homes as the one reproduced in this
superb photograph. It is one of many others like it in the same
region, and shows what may be accomplished in a short time with a
combination of natural advantages and industry. The picture is so
perfect that we can almost imagine we see the waving of the palm
leaves and smell the perfume of the flowers.
]

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San Francisco is a center from which many interesting itineraries may be conveniently made, several of which we performed, with the particular view of photographing the most attractive features. Chief of these excursions is to the Yosemite Valley, which is 267 miles from San Francisco, the last sixty-seven miles being journeyed by stage. Leaving that city at 4 P. M., we reached Raymond at 6 A. M. the following day, at which point the stage is taken to Wawona, which is only six miles from the Mariposa Grove of Big Trees. These giants of the primeval forest are in a Government reservation two miles square, and compose two distinct groves some half a mile apart. In the upper grove there are 365—one for each day in the year—trees, 154 of which exceed fifteen feet in diameter, and several are more than 300 feet in height. The largest, known as the Grizzly Giant, in the lower grove, is thirty-one feet in diameter, and the first limb which makes out from the trunk, 200 feet above the earth, is six feet in diameter. There is a prostrate tree in this grove which originally measured forty feet in diameter, and was 400 feet in height. The body is hollow, and is large enough to admit three horsemen abreast a distance of seventy feet.

A few miles beyond Wawona is a stage-station called Fresno, which is within the limits of another grove of mammoth trees, the largest of which is thirty-two feet in diameter at the butt, and there are probably 100 or more that measure as much as twenty feet through. Just beyond Fresno, we enter the far-famed and truly marvelous region of the Yosemite (which, in the Indian tongue, signifies a “grizzly bear”), that great heart of the Sierras which beats in mountain and breaks in waterfall. This wondrous valley, running along the western base of the Sierra Nevada range, is a comparatively level area, but it lies fully 4,000 feet above sea level, and is nine miles long, by an average of one mile wide. The remarkable feature of this valley, aside from its special curiosities and mammoth configurations, is the fact that it is enclosed by granite walls of almost unbroken continuity, which present perpendicular faces ranging from 3,000 to 6,000 feet in height. The valley was discovered May 6, 1851, by the Mariposa battalion, in command of Major James D. Savage, which had been sent against the Yosemite Indians, to punish them for outrages perpetrated against the miners in the counties of Mariposa, Fresno, Tuolumne and Inyo. Up to this time the valley was known to whites only through Indian traditions, which represented the region as one of great beauty, but the abode of witches and evil spirits. Upon the discovery, however, it was found to be a place of refuge for the Indians; and within its boundaries, therefore, some desperate fighting took place between the California rangers and the Yosemite Indian marauders, in which there were heavy losses on both sides, and many acts of shocking cruelty.

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SEAL ROCKS AND CLIFF HOUSE AT THE GOLDEN GATE, SAN FRANCISCO.—This is
one of the many popular resorts near the city of San Francisco. It
affords a fine view of the Golden Gate entrance to the harbor, and
the coming and going of the ships. The rocks in front of the hotel
are nearly always covered with seals, or sea-lions, whose barking
and plunging in the water add variety and interest to the scene.
]

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The stage-road leading from Wawona is particularly romantic and delightfully picturesque, with views of mountains, laughing streams and beflowered valleys, that break in pleasing variety upon the expectant vision of the visitor, and give intimation of the grander glories that lie beyond. After crossing Alder Creek, a beautiful stream that washes a pebbled bed, the route mounts Alder Hill, and rises rapidly until from its apex there is afforded an amazing sight, which never fails to throw the beholder into raptures. Northward, like a thread of silver running through a labyrinth of mountains, is the South Fork, while southward the same stream speeds away to join the Merced River, which dashes through a stupendous gorge aflame with colors. Descending Alder Hill on the east, by way of a tortuous route, we at last reach Merced Valley, beautiful as a poet’s inspiration, and crossing this low-lying strip of meadow land, climb another hill, where wonder compels us to pause upon its crest. Away yonder in the misty west, where the horizon drops down like a curtain on the world to hide the mysteries behind, are the dim outlines of the Coast Range, nearly 200 miles distant. But more bewildering sights are near at hand, for there to the left a little way are noisy cascades playing leap-frog over giant stones; Table Rock is close by, and El Capitan, that grizzled old captain of the Yosemite, exposes his shoulder, which seems to be a prop for the clouds. A few miles further and we reach Inspiration Point, where a glorious vision of Yosemite Valley and its Titanic walls break upon us with a startling suddenness, revealing a section of nature that is incomparably grand and awesomely magnificent. El Capitan forges upward 3,300 feet; the Three Brothers keep him company to a yet greater altitude, while in the background, frowzled, yet sublime, loom up against the cerulean sky the gray Cathedral Rocks, lying within the deep shadows of Sentinel Rock. Look around, for on every side appear evidences of mightiness, the awfulness of those powers which sometimes escape from internal reservoirs, or break away from the fastnesses where they were born; the bursting of lava beds, the tearing down of glacier, the down-sweeping of avalanche, and the steady flow of gnawing waters.

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BIG TREES IN MARIPOSA FOREST, CAL.—The big trees of California are
celebrated all over the world, and visitors to the World’s Fair at
Chicago had the pleasure of beholding a number of very fine samples,
the largest having been exhibited in the Government department. In
this photograph the picturesque cabin, standing near the roots of
the gigantic tree, affords a good object of comparison, by which one
may readily determine the enormous size of the forest giant.
]

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A trip through the Yosemite Valley is one of profound amazement, a succession of astounding surprises, where the most amazing prodigies of nature stand before you in review. Why, throw a glance up yonder, so far that though the atmosphere is wondrously clear, yet the trees on the crest are not distinguishable, only a white ribbon that appears to have been flung down over the narrow edge of that appalling summit to attract attention. What we see is the first leap of Yosemite Falls, dashing through a notch that is nearly half a mile wide, and which has a fall from three ledges of 2,548 feet, or sixteen times greater than that of Niagara. There, not far away, is Glacier Point, which is 3,000 feet high, and from which a view of the entire valley can be had. Standing on that pinnacle, we gather in a glorious panorama of extraordinary splendor. The great domes of the Yosemite are plainly discernible; so is Liberty Cap, Clouds’ Rest, Vernal Falls, Nevada Falls, placid lakes, and the swift-rolling Merced River, that collects and bears away the waters that plunge down from a dozen dizzy heights.

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MIRROR LAKE, REFLECTING EL CAPITAN, IN YOSEMITE PARK, CAL.—Among the
myriad attractions of Yosemite Park, none are more popular than
Mirror Lake. The water is so transparent as to give a perfect and
beautiful reflection of all surrounding objects. The photograph on
this page is a fine example of this attractive feature, the
reflection being so perfect that it is difficult to determine which
is the right side of the picture. If this lake had been located in
the Garden of Eden, we could not blame our grandmother Eve for
admiring her counterpart in its pellucid depths.
]

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But besides these, as we turn to sweep the other points, we catch views no less grand, of Ribbon Fall, with its leap of 3,350 feet, Indian Cañon, Royal Arches, Bridal Veil Fall, Washington’s Tower, Columbia Rock, and pearl-gray granite walls that rise in places to a vertical height of 6,000 feet. More beautiful, in some respects, than any of these, as many believe, are Mirror Lake, which seems to reflect nearly the whole valley, and Cascade Falls, which are indescribably lovely. The meadows draw our admiration likewise, for they are so covered with flowers as to appear like a carpet of the most gorgeous patterns, done in the liveliest combination of brilliant colors. Other points of great interest are the Giant’s Thumb, Eagle Peak, Valley Ford, the Gnome of the Yosemite, Mount Watkins, 4,000 feet high, and Tis-sa-ack (Half Dome), 5,000 feet in height, which was regarded by the Indians as the Guardian Angel of the valley, for upon the south side of it are the distinct outlines of a human face, declared in a legend to be those of Tu-tock-ah-nu-lah, ancient father of the Yosemites. And there are the Three Brothers, called by the Indians Pom-pom-pa-sa, which signifies “three mountains playing leap-frog,” a name no doubt bestowed because of the popularity of that game with the original natives, and also because the mountains, from a distance, bear a strong resemblance to three giant frogs sitting side by side, upon the point of leaping into the valley, nearly 4,000 feet below.

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Both of the illustrations on this page belong to Yosemite Park scenery. The one on the right, representing Sentinel Rock wrapped in a cloud, is specially beautiful and interesting. Our photographers were fortunate in having so good an opportunity for reproducing a scene that occurs only at rare intervals, and they have done the work so well that every one will be delighted with the results.

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There are several great falls in this wonderful reservation, which, in point of beauty, exceed those in any other part of the world. Yosemite Falls is incomparably the greatest in height, and in the months of May, June and July, the volume of water which it pours down is second only to Niagara and Shoshone. Its first vertical leap is 1,500 feet, where it strikes a series of ledges which break the water into cascades for another fall of 626 feet, after which it takes a sheer plunge of 400 feet, and flows away into the Merced, making a roaring noise in its impetuous descent that can be heard for miles.

Bridal Veil Fall is the termination of a creek bearing the same name, where it plunges over a precipice 900 feet high, and the stream is so thin that it becomes a very mist before reaching the valley. Directly opposite is Virgin Tears Creek, which likewise dashes over a lofty ledge through a notch in El Capitan, 1,000 feet high, and falls in a spray, though during a greater part of the year the creek is nearly dry.

The first fall reached in ascending the cañon of the Merced is Vernal Fall, which has a vertical height of 400 feet and a very considerable volume. But as we proceed further up the cañon, passing a number of cascades, the eye suddenly catches what the ear has anticipated, and rapture succeeds expectation, for there bursts into view Nevada Falls, which, as Professor Whitney says, “is in every respect one of the grandest waterfalls in the world, whether we consider its vertical height, the purity and volume of the river which forms it, or the stupendous scenery by which it is environed. The fall is not quite perpendicular, as there is near the summit a ledge of rock which receives a portion of the water and throws it off with a peculiar twist, adding considerably to the general picturesque effect.”

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YOSEMITE VALLEY AS SEEN FROM ARTIST’S POINT.—This is an exceedingly
fine view of Yosemite Valley with its surrounding mountains and a
glimpse of the falls on the right. The photograph was taken at
Artist’s Point, so named for its favorable location in viewing the
valley and the majestic scenery by which it is surrounded. No
painter could imagine a grander scene, and nothing but the camera
could transfer it so accurately to the printed page.
]

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The fall is about 600 feet, the stream being clearly defined throughout its descent, and the volume of water is very great, giving to the falls the very ideal of beauty, power and truly extraordinary grandeur. In the Cañon of the South Fork, there is another fall of equal height, and it is one, too, of much attractiveness, but brought into comparison with that of Nevada, of which it is a close brother, though difficult to reach, it appears so inconsequential as to scarcely deserve a name, though it is occasionally known as Illillouette Falls.

But everywhere, up and down that magic valley, whether viewed from the gorges that have their bottoms in dark and mystic abysses, or from amazing heights of walls thrust far into the skies, there is wonder piled upon wonder, grandeur overtopping rapture, dumfounded admiration riding at furious pace in the lead of inspiration, glorious realization gilding the visions of imagination. As the gifted Benjamin F. Taylor wrote of his visit to this wonderland: “Yosemite awaited us without warning. Spectral white in the glancing of the sun, the first thought was that the granite ledges of all the mountains had come to resurrection, and were standing pale and dumb before the Lord. I turned to it again, and began to see the towers, the domes, the spires, the battlements, the arches and the white clouds of solid granite, surging up into the air and come to everlasting anchor until the mountains shall be moved! You hasten on; you hear the winds intoning in the choral galleries a mile above your head; you hear the crash of waters as of cataracts in the sky; you trample upon broad shadows that have fallen thousands of feet down, like the cast-off garments of descending night.”

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HALF DOME AND CLOUD’S REST, YOSEMITE VALLEY.—This is equally as grand
a view of portions of the Yosemite scenery as the one given on page
177, though perhaps less beautiful from an artistic standard. The
half dome on the left is one of the most striking features of this
photograph. It is so smooth and regular in its outlines that we can
hardly regard it as an accident of nature, but rather a work of
design. But, after all, do we not find design, and law, and
regularity of purpose in all the works of nature?
]

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Instead of returning direct to San Francisco, by way of the route we had taken to the Yosemite, we went northward, over a very good road, through Tuolumne and into Calaveras county, near the eastern edge of which is the very celebrated grove of giant trees. The grove is confined within a valley some 3,000 feet long by 800 feet wide, and embraces ninety-three mammoth trees, some of which are prostrate. The tallest now standing is 325 feet high, and measures fifteen feet in diameter. There are others which, though less lofty, exceed the tallest in girth measurement by as much as twenty feet in circumference, while the thickness of the bark on these grizzly giants is as much as eighteen inches. Five miles southeast of the Calaveras forest is the Stanislaus Grove, of about 800 trees, which in any other country than California would be considered as veritable monsters for size; but they do not equal the better specimens in either the Calaveras or Mariposa Groves, though several have a height of 250 feet, and a trunk circumference of thirty feet.

Having inspected and photographed the groves, we proceeded to Murphy’s Hotel, sixteen miles from the Calaveras Grove, thence twenty-five miles by stage to Valley Springs, a station on a narrow-gauge railroad that runs to Lodi, where connection is made for San Francisco.

It was not possible, without occupying years of time, to make trips over all the picturesque rail-routes of America, and the transportation of our material in a photograph car, which was in almost constant use, made it necessary that our three photographers travel together, except when it was desirable to cover in quick time short detours from main lines. For this reason the overland trip from Denver was made by way of the southern route, without dividing our party; but to provide against what would otherwise have been a serious omission, the photographer of the Southern Pacific Railroad was brought into service to supply views of scenery along that road between Ogden and San Francisco, over which the writer has traveled so frequently as to be thoroughly familiar with all the points of interest. It was this route, formerly known as the Central Pacific, joining the Union Pacific at Ogden, that constituted the first all-rail overland road from Omaha to San Francisco, and it continues to hold rank as the most picturesque, though the scenery alternates with many dreary patches.

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THE SENTINEL IN YOSEMITE PARK.—Every one who visits Yosemite is amazed
at the grandeur and magnitude of the scenery. In the language of the
author of this work, “Everywhere, up and down that magic valley,
whether viewed from the gorges that have their bottoms in dark and
mystic abysses, or from amazing heights of walls thrust far into the
skies, there is wonder piled upon wonder.” Each advancing step
brings a new revelation, until the vision is lost in a maze of
marvelous views. One of the most striking features of this
photograph is the outline of the falls in Merced River, as seen to
the right of the grizzly Sentinel.
]

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After leaving Ogden, the Southern Pacific passes in a half-circle around the northern shores of Salt Lake, and then darts into the Nevada, or Great American Desert, a vast sea of alkali rippled with dry sage-brush; a furnace in summer and a Siberian tundra in winter. Nature has denied to this wretched region any compensation of flower, stream, bird, or even curiosity. It is the very nakedness of bleak desolation, and stretches its cursed length through a distance of 600 miles. The Humboldt River has tried to force a way through this parched waste; but however great its volume of water, gathered from the mountains in spring freshets, the desert drinks it up at a place known as the Humboldt Sink, where the thirst of the sands is so great that the river is arrested and stands still in a shallow lake, the resort of myriads of water-fowls.

But though the land is a wind-swept waste of alkali, scorched, denuded and cursed, yet men have planted their hopes even there, and are wrestling with the harshest and most unpromising disadvantages. Indian camps are frequent, and villages are occasional, where a few brave men, inured to all difficulties, scratch the parched earth and seek a precarious sustenance, though nearly all are traders, furnishing supplies to miners in the mountains miles away.

The dreary, lifeless monotony is relieved, however, just before reaching Humboldt Lake, by the bold but rugged contour of sky-piercing pinnacles, which rise to the south of the road in curious forms and extraordinary magnitude, marking the line of Humboldt River. These interesting formations are known as the Humboldt Palisades, in which the Devil’s Peak is conspicuous, viewed from the car window. After so many hours passed in crossing a wretched desert, the scenery of meandering river and lofty bluffs is extremely invigorating, and preparation to enjoy the sight is complete. But the palisades are singularly beautiful, viewed under any conditions, and situated near the edge of an alkali wilderness, as they are, they break upon the vision of a west-bound passenger with a delight that arouses rapture.

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CATHEDRAL ROCKS, 2300 FEET HIGH, IN YOSEMITE PARK, CAL.—These majestic
and towering rocks are so striking a feature of Yosemite scenery
that they have attracted great attention from artists and
photographers, and many copies have been made both in paintings and
photographs. But we have seen none that are so beautiful or accurate
as the one on this page. It is a perfect picture in all respects,
even to the reflection in the lake.
]

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At Wadsworth, Truckee Valley is entered, green with the joy of exuberant nature, which we follow until Truckee City, a gem of the Sierras, is gained, and realize that we have now to climb over the second ridge of the continent, the ragged ribs that flank the great water-shed of the three Americas. Truckee is not only a pretty village, nestling on the snowy bosom of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, but it is the center of a lake region, wherein abound some of the most remarkable bodies of water to be found on the globe. Fourteen miles towards the south is California’s favorite resort, Lake Tahoe, a really marvelous sheet of crystalline water that, from the mountain peaks which enclose it, looks like a colossal beryl that through some disturbment has been rolled out of the sky and found lodgment in the great lap of the Sierras. The environs of the lake are wondrously grand, and the air a very enchantment, so great is its exhilaration. The lake is twenty-two miles long, ten miles wide, and 1,700 feet deep, while the surface is 6,247 feet above sea level, and it is, as Mark Twain eloquently describes it, “a sea in the clouds; a sea that has character, and asserts it at times in solemn calms, and again in savage storms; a sea whose royal seclusion is guarded by a cordon of sentinel peaks that lift their frosty fronts 9,000 feet above the level world; a sea whose every aspect is impressive, whose belongings are beautiful, whose lonely majesty types the Deity.” Tahoe’s waters abound with trout and other fish, whose bodies flash the sunlight from a depth of thirty feet. The waters are so cold that decomposition is arrested below the surface. Many persons have been drowned in the lake, but not one has ever been recovered, when the accident occurred in deep water. So pellucid are its waters that a boat gliding along the surface appears to be passing through the air, and from the prows of swift-moving crafts, sheets of clearest glass seem to be rolling away. Many beautiful cottages are built along the shore, the summer homes of wealthy Californians, and in season the lake is animate with boats and the beach alive with pleasure parties.

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THE BROW OF EL CAPITAN GIRDLED WITH CLOUDS.—This is one of the
grandest and most beautiful views of Yosemite scenery that we have
ever had the pleasure of beholding. El Capitan, or, as we should say
in plain English, and certainly much more expressively, “The
Captain,” lifts his haughty head 3300 feet above the valley, and
calmly surveys the surrounding landscape as if he had a right to
command it. Our photographers were fortunate in being able to
procure such a splendid representation of cloud effects as are shown
along the brow of the mountain in this picture.
]

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CARRIAGE ROAD THROUGH THE HEART OF MARIPOSA’S BIG TREE.—This splendid
photograph will give a better idea of the immense size of
California’s big trees than any other comparison or illustration
could. After cutting a roadway through the tree large enough to
admit of the passage of a carriage or an omnibus, it still has left
sufficient strength of root to support its trunk and branches and
stand firm against the assaults of the storms and earthquakes which
frequently bring down other monarchs of the forest less firmly
anchored in the heart of the earth.
]

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Yosemite is beautiful and grand in all seasons of the year, in winter as well as in the summer-time. But it is not often visited by tourists except in the balmy season of summer, and thus some of its greatest wonders would go unobserved except for the efforts of the energetic photographer. On this page we have a combination of winter and summer views, and are thereby enabled to enjoy both seasons at the same time.

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A little way west of Truckee, and three miles from the road, is Donner Lake, a beautiful body, but chiefly famous for the tragic history which is connected with it. The story, in brief, is this: In the winter of 1846-47, a party of eighty-two emigrants, while on their way to California, were overtaken by a snow-storm while encamped on the shore of the lake, and of the number thirty-six perished of starvation. A ghastly tale of cannibalism is told of the survivors, and the whole tragedy is embalmed in Bret Harte’s novel of “Gabriel Conroy.” Besides these two more celebrated bodies of water near Truckee, there are Pyramid, Angeline, Silver, and Palisade lakes, all near by, and are more or less popular resorts, particularly with fishing parties.

As we proceed up the Sierras the cold increases, until when the town of Summit is reached snow lies upon the ground throughout the year, and it is perpetual winter there, 7,000 feet above the sea. The route is for many miles enclosed by snow-sheds, but the snow-plow has plenty of work to do in keeping the intervals clear. Formerly this work was performed by three or four engines pushing a big machine, somewhat resembling a shovel-board plow, through the heavy banks of snow, but it is now more speedily and effectively accomplished by a rotary snow-plow, as shown in one of our illustrations. The machine is, in fact, a giant auger, which is run by steam supplied by the engines behind it, and being set in motion, rapidly bores its way through the drifts, throwing the snow at an angle of forty-five degrees, and with a force sufficient to deposit it fifty feet from the track.

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The cliffs at Cape Horn, so beautifully represented on this page, are over 2000 feet high, and so precipitous that, when work was commenced in making a bed for the railroad tracks, men had to be lowered by ropes from the top and held in position until, with picks and crowbars, they could cut for themselves a footing in the rock walls. As the cars roll round the jagged point they are on a level with the clouds, while below for nearly 2000 feet appear the forests of pine trees, so reduced in size by distance that they appear like ordinary whisk brooms.—Agassiz Column is one of the prominent features of Yosemite scenery, and it is splendidly reproduced in the fine photograph on this page.

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The road begins to descend rapidly after leaving Summit, but the most wonderful scenery in all California is passed in the next 150 miles. Donner’s Peak comes into view as the first suggestion of a dreadfully tumultuous condition of nature, wrought by the great glaciers that in the early centuries came grinding their way over the mountains. There is Emigrant Gap, through which the first gold-seekers found their way into the Golden Valley, and American Cañon, along the dizzy edge of which the train runs at a free and almost reckless pace. The way is broken with quarreling cascades, fast-dashing creeks and beautiful blue cañons, in which an autumn haze perpetually lingers. Giant’s Gap, in the American Cañon, is a vast rent in an opposing mountain, that looks like it might have been torn out by the hand of the Thunder God to make a way for the trolls. Chasm after chasm comes into view with grandeur and awfulness as a background until presently the train runs out on a ledge that appears to passengers inside the coaches to have no more substantial support than a bank of clouds. We are away up high on the breast of a mountain that shoots upward 2,000 feet perpendicularly, and looking out of the car windows there is nothing but clouds bowling along on the same level, and below forests of pine, stunted by distance, until the trees are no bigger than whisk-brooms, and American River is a white thread not too large to run through the eye of a darning-needle. This is Cape Horn, where the ledge is so precipitous that in making the road-bed it was necessary to lower the first workmen by means of ropes, which were held fast at the summit while the suspended men plied their picks and crow- bars until a footing was made.

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Yosemite Falls in winter, with the lace-like sheet of water gently pouring down between the columns of ice on either side, present a scene of indescribable loveliness. It is a scene, also, not often witnessed, for Yosemite has a dearth of visitors during the winter.—The companion photograph affords a fine view of scenery in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, made famous by Mark Twain in one of his jokes, wherein he stated that the changes of climate in that region were so sudden and extreme that, while hunting in the mountains one day, his dog’s head was sun-struck by the intense heat, while at the same time his tail was frozen by the severe cold prevailing at his other extremity. The point of the joke will be appreciated after reading the splendid description of this locality by the author of GLIMPSES OF AMERICA on page 192.

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After leaving Cape Horn, and passing many relics of early mining days: holes in the ground, decaying sluice-boxes, long flumes, tumble-down shanties, and a few hydraulic works, the road gains the Sacramento Valley, where the passengers are met by a burst of sunshine that makes the land laugh with plenty, and fills every heart with gladness. The air is fragrant with the almond and orange, and where husbandry has not covered the broad-spreading acres with grain or vineyards, there are flowers of a thousand hues, and butterflies of corresponding colors. The early emigrants from the East, who sought fortune on the Pacific slope after the gold discoveries of 1848-49, found a paradise in the fragrant and prolific valley of the Sacramento, which, beautiful at all times, was to them, after a journey of almost unbearable hardships across the burning sands of the American Desert, a region of incomparable delight. There is, indeed, no contrast in all nature so sudden and so great as that afforded between Nevada and California, the line of separation being the Sierras. Out of the arid plains, a very ocean of verdureless desolation, the road rises rapidly to altitudes of perpetual snow and into forests of pine that cover the sides of fearful precipices, the peaks of towering mountains and the jaws of yawning chasms; then it swoops down again into a land of perennial bloom, the antithesis of that of the eastern desert, where, instead of parching, the sun revivifies and forces into fruitage orchards, vineyards, groves, gardens, and fields, making the land one of teeming plenty, and joyful with song of bird, flash of stream, gleam of golden grain, and resonant with the laughing chorus of exuberant nature. More fortunes have been won by aid of the hoe and sickle wielded in this charming valley than were ever gained by means of pick, flame and rocker on the harsh mountain sides, where the gold-seekers have toiled so hopefully for forty years, and in a great majority of cases spent their strength without reward.

The first time that I crossed the Sierras was in early autumn, before the crisp air had begun to clip the leaves, and when Nevada appeared to be swept with a stifling atmosphere; hot, dusty and dreary was the pale sands, and the gray sage-brush was withered as by a simoom’s breath; I wondered why tourists, on pleasure bent, should make such a journey. Then out of the plain of dearth, and up the mountains we sped; suddenly, as it were, the atmosphere grew chill, flakes of snow began to descend; the way led out of hot summer into severe winter, and the landscape became a picture of tumult, mighty, wonderful and picturesque. Then we rolled down the Sierras into a land of indescribable beauty, into a garden as lovely as that of Hesperides—and the answer was plain.

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