Chapter XVII: Lake Tahoe 358 (9)

Out of the city we ran straight away on Santa Clara Street for a distance of five or six miles to Junction House, where the mountain road begins. It was built nearly forty years ago by Santa Clara County at a cost of eighty thousand dollars, the work being authorized to secure the location of the Lick Observatory on the mountain. It is a smooth, well-engineered road, with grades not exceeding ten per cent excepting a few steep pitches near the summit. It swings upwards in wide arcs or narrow loops as the topography of the mountain demands. It is broad enough for vehicles to pass easily, presenting no difficulty to a moderate-powered motor, though in places a sheer precipice falls away from its side and there are abrupt turns around blind corners which call for extreme care.

The winding course of the road up the mountainside affords vantage for endless panoramas of the surrounding country. Indeed, were there no observatory on Mount Hamilton the views alone would well repay the ascent and we paused frequently to contemplate the scene that spread out beneath us. The day was not perfectly clear, yet through the shimmering air we could see the hazy waters of San Francisco Bay some twenty miles to the northwest, and beyond the valley to the southwest, the blue Santa Cruz Range which we crossed the previous day. Just beneath us lay the wide vale of the Santa Clara—surely one of the most beautiful and prosperous of the famous valleys of the Golden State—diversified by orchards and endless wheatfields, with here and there an isolated ranch-house or village. The foothills nearer at hand were studded with oaks and sycamores, with an occasional small farm or fruit orchard set down among them. It was a beautiful day—the partial cloudiness being atoned for by many striking cloud effects and the play of light and color over the landscape.

Midway of the ascent is a little settlement in a pleasant grassy dell, where a plain though comfortable-looking hotel—the Halfway House—offers the wayfarer an opportunity for refreshments, which can not be obtained at the summit. Here we arranged for a lunch on our return, but we had no idea of eating it in the hotel with the delightful nooks we had passed still fresh in mind. The last three or four miles of the climb are by far the most difficult, reminding us not a little of the Mount Wilson ascent; but we experienced no trouble and soon came to the open summit with the vast dome of the observatory crowning it. Around this clusters a village of about fifty people who live here permanently—the families and assistants of the men who devote their lives to the study of the stars. One of the ladies whom we met in the observatory office said, when we asked her of life on the mountain,

"We get used to it, though it is cold and lonely at times and we feel a kind of desperation to get back to the world. But we do not complain; the views from the mountain under varying conditions of night and day are enough to atone for our isolation. You can not even imagine the glories of the sunrise and sunset; the weird effects of the sea of clouds that lie beneath us at times, glowing in the sun or ghostly white in the moonlight; the vast wilderness of mountain peaks losing themselves in the haze of distance or mantled in the glaring whiteness of the winter snows. All these and many other strange moods of the weather bring infinite variety, even to this lonely spot." And yet, for all this, she confessed to an intense longing to make a trip to "the earth" whenever occasion presented itself.

The obliging janitor shows visitors about the observatory, telling of its work and explaining the instruments with an intelligence and detail that might lead you to think him one of the astronomers—if he had not confessed at the outset to being an Englishman in the humble position of caretaker. And we might have known that he was an Englishman, even if he had not told us so, by his thoroughness and pride in his job. Among the instruments which interested us most was the seismograph, which records earthquakes from the faintest tremor hundreds of miles away to the most violent shock—or perhaps this is not strictly correct, for the great quake of 1906 threw the needle from the recording disk and left the record incomplete.

"There is seldom a day," said our guide, "that a quake is not registered and so long as they occur regularly we have little to fear, but an entire absence of tremors for several days is likely to precede a violent shock."

The great refracting telescope is the prime "object of interest" to the visitor and we were shown in minute detail how this is operated. It stands on a granite pedestal—underneath which rests the body of the donor, James Lick—in the center of the great dome which one sees for many miles from the valley and which revolves bodily on a huge platform to bring the opening to the proper point. This, at the time of its construction, was the largest telescope in the world, the great lens, the masterpiece of Alvan Clark & Sons, being thirty-six inches in diameter. It is equipped with the latest apparatus for photographing the heavens and some of the most remarkable astronomical photographs in existence have been taken by the observatory. The telescope and dome are operated by electric motors and our guide gave exhibitions of the perfect control by the operator. Besides this there is a large reflecting telescope housed in a separate building and several smaller instruments. Visitors are allowed to look through the great telescope on Saturday night only, but are shown about the observatory on any afternoon of the week. No other great observatory is so accommodating to the public in this regard; and the annual number of visitors exceeds five thousand. The official handbook states that "while the observatory has no financial gain in the coming of visitors, no pains are spared to make the time spent here interesting and profitable to them." The same book gives a list of the important achievements of the Lick Observatory, with other information concerning the institution and may be had upon application to the managing director.

James Lick, who devoted three quarters of a million dollars to found the observatory, was a California pioneer who left his whole fortune of more than three millions to public benefactions. He was born in Fredericksburg, Pa., in 1796 and died in San Francisco in 1876. He came to California in 1847 and engaged in his trade of piano-making, but his great wealth came from real estate investment. He was a silent and somewhat eccentric man—a pronounced freethinker in religious matters. The observatory is now under the control of the University of California, which supplies the greater part of the finances for its maintenance.

Returning to the city, we found there was still time to visit the mission, about fifteen miles due north on the Oakland road. This is a macadam boulevard through a level and prosperous-looking country skirting San Francisco Bay and the run was a delightful one. Mission San Jose is a tiny village of a dozen houses and a few shops, bearing little resemblance to its bustling namesake to the southward. The dilapidated monastery is all that is left of the old-time buildings and the rude timber arcade stands directly by the roadside. We found a young fellow working on the place who gladly undertook to act as guide. He proved an ardent Catholic and an enthusiast for the restoration of the mission. This work, he said, had been undertaken by the Native Sons of California and they were organizing a carnival to raise funds. The building through which he led us is a series of dungeonlike adobe cells, with earthen floors and cracked and crumbling walls; it is roofed with willows tied to the roughly hewn rafters with rawhide. The tiles from the ruined church are carefully piled away to be used in the restoration and our guide declared that a wealthy Spanish family of the vicinity had a quantity of these which they would gladly return when needed. The church was destroyed by the earthquake of 1868 and has been replaced by a modern structure. This suffered but little in the great quake of 1906, but we were shown the curious spectacle in the cemetery of several marble shafts broken squarely in two by the shock. To the rear of the church and leading up to the orphanage conducted by the Dominican sisters, is a beautiful avenue bordered by olive trees planted by the padres in mission days. This is crossed by a second avenue running at right angles and no doubt these served as a passageway for many a solemn procession in days of old.

The location is charming indeed; one can stand in the rude portico of the dilapidated building and look over as pleasant a rural scene as can be found in California. The green meadows slope toward the bay, which gleams like molten silver in the late afternoon sun. Beyond it is a dark line of forest trees, the rounded contour of the green foothills, and, last of all, the rugged outlines of the Santa Cruz Mountains shrouded in the amethyst haze of evening. To the rear, rolling hills rise above the little hamlet and southward stands the sturdy bulk of Mission Peak.

No wonder, with such beautiful, fertile surroundings, San Jose Mission prospered in its palmy days. Founded in 1797—the fruitful year of Padre Lasuen's activity—it reached its zenith in 1820, when its Indian population numbered seventeen hundred and fifty-four. Its property at secularization exceeded one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in value and it even seemed to prosper for a while under the Mexican regime. Its decline began in 1840 and five years later less than two hundred and fifty natives were to be found in its precincts. Of the wreck and rebuilding of the church we have already told; in the new structure may be seen two of the original bells, nearly a century old. The baptismal font of hammered copper is still in use. It is about three feet in diameter and is surmounted by a small iron cross.

A few miles out of San Jose on the San Francisco road, at the pretty town of Santa Clara, was formerly the mission of that name. It has totally disappeared and on its site stands the new church and the buildings of Santa Clara College, the principal Catholic university of California. We drove into the large plaza in front of the church and walked in at the open door. The interior is that of a modern Catholic church, with an unusual number of paintings and images, among the latter a gorgeously painted Santa Clara with her bare foot on a writhing snake. The paintings are of little artistic merit and the effect of the interior is rather tawdry. The slightly unfavorable impression speedily fades from mind when through an open side door one gets a glimpse into the garden around which run the college cloisters. It is a beautiful green spot, with olives planted in mission days, palms, and masses of flowers. About it are slight remains of the old cloisters; hewn beams still form the roof, and portions of the walls some three feet thick still stand.

Santa Clara College, the oldest on the coast, was founded in 1855, and is now the largest Catholic school west of the Rockies. The buildings are quite extensive and the mission style of architecture appropriately prevails. In its museum is a good collection of relics once belonging to the ancient mission; furniture, candlesticks in silver and brass, vessels in gold and silver, crucifixes, bells, the mighty key to the oaken door, embroidered vestments, and a very remarkable book. This is an old choral on heavy vellum, hand-written in brilliant red and black; the covers are heavy leather over solid wood, and the corners and back are protected with ornamental bronze. It originally came from Spain and is supposed to be five hundred years old.

Santa Clara Mission, the tenth in order, was founded in 1777, twenty years earlier than its neighbor, San Jose, and the close proximity caused heart-burnings among the padres of Santa Clara when its rival was first projected. They declared that there was no necessity for it; that it was not on the beaten route of El Camino Real, and that it encroached on Santa Clara's lands and revenues. The dispute assumed such proportions that a special survey was made in 1801 to prevent further controversy. Despite the contention of Santa Clara that there was no room for its rival, it did not lack for prosperity, since in 1827 its population numbered fourteen hundred and twenty-four—about the same as San Jose, so there seems to have been ample room for both. At secularization, in 1835, there were less than half as many and after that the decline was rapid. This is only another instance showing that the regime of the padres had begun to decay before the interference of the Mexican Government. The mission fell into ruin after the American conquest and the debris was gradually removed to make way for the college buildings.

Santa Clara is a quiet, beautiful town of about five thousand—really a suburb of San Jose, since they are separated by only a mile or two. Its streets are broad and bordered with trees and its residences have the trim neatness and beautiful semi-tropical surroundings so characteristic of the better California towns.

Northward out of Santa Clara a fine macadam road follows the shore of the bay at a distance of a mile or two. In the days of the padres this country was a vast swamp, but it is now a prosperous fruit and gardening section which supplies the San Francisco markets. At Palo Alto we turned aside into the grounds of Leland Stanford Jr. University, which sprang into existence like Minerva of old—full armed and ready for business—with nearly thirty millions of endowment behind it. It immediately took high rank among American universities, but as its attendance is limited by its charter to about two thousand, it can not equal its rivals in this regard.

Everyone knows its pathetic story—how Senator Stanford, the man of many millions, lost his only son, a boy of sixteen, and determined to leave the fortune to "the boys and girls of California" as a memorial to the idolized youth. A little strain of selfishness in the project, one may think, since if Leland Stanford Jr. had lived it is unlikely that his father would have remembered the boys and girls of his state, but you forget all about this when you enter the precincts of this magnificent institution. It is free from the antiquated buildings and equipment of the schools of slow growth, and full scope was given to architects to produce a group of buildings harmonious in design and perfectly adapted to the purposes which they serve. The mission design properly prevails, carried out in brown stone and red tiles. The main buildings are ranged round a quadrangle 586 x 246 feet, upon which the arches of the cloisters open and in the center of this was a bronze group of the donor, his wife, and son, since removed to the University Museum.

The earthquake of 1906 dealt severely with Stanford University, destroying the library building, the great memorial arch, and wrecking the memorial chapel, said to be the finest in America. The latter was being restored at the time of our visit, a timber roof replacing the former stone-vaulted ceiling. The structure both inside and out bears many richly colored mosaics representing historic and scriptural subjects; in this particular it is more like St. Mark's of Venice than any other church that I know of. It is said that a large part of the destruction done by the earthquake was due to flimsy work on the part of the builders. Fortunately, the low, solid structures around the quadrangle were practically unharmed, and the damage done is being repaired as rapidly as possible. The grounds occupied by the University were formerly Senator Stanford's Palo Alto estate and comprised about nine thousand acres. From the campus there are views of the bay, of the Coast Range, including Mount Hamilton with the Lick Observatory, and of the rolling foothills and magnificent redwood forests toward Santa Cruz. The university is open to students from everywhere and owing to its vast endowment, instruction is absolutely free.

Palo Alto is a handsome town of about six thousand people. Its climate is said to be much pleasanter the year round than that of San Francisco. A local advertising prospectus gives this pleasing description of the climatic conditions:

"There is no extreme cold, and there are no severe storms. Even the rainy season, between December and March, averages about fifteen bright warm days in each month; and flowers blossoming on every hand make the winter season a delightful part of the year. The acacia trees begin blooming in January, the almonds in February, and the prunes, peaches, and cherries are all in bloom by the last of March or the first of April, when the blossom festival for the whole valley is held in the foothills at Saratoga, a few miles by electric line from Palo Alto."

From Palo Alto we followed the main highway—El Camino Real—to San Francisco. It is a broad macadam road, but at the time in sad disrepair, unmercifully rough and full of chuck-holes. It was being rebuilt in places, compelling us to take a roundabout route, which, with much tire trouble, delayed our arrival in San Francisco until late in the afternoon, though the distance is but fifty-two miles from San Jose.

It looked as if our troubles were going to have a still more painful climax when, as we entered the city, a policeman dashed at us, bawling,

"What on earth do you mean by driving at that crazy rate? Do you want to kill all these children?"

As we were not exceeding twenty miles and were quite free from any homicidal designs against the children—of whom not a single one was in sight on the street—we mildly disclaimed any such cruel intention as the guardian of the law imputed to us. We had learned the futility of any altercation with a policeman and by exceeding humility we gained permission to proceed. A little back-talk in self-defense would doubtless have resulted in a trip to the station house, where we should have been at every disadvantage. I attribute in some degree our lucky escape from arrest to the fact that we always adopted an exceedingly conciliatory attitude towards any policeman who approached us, even if we sometimes thought him over-officious or even impudent. A soft answer we found more efficient in turning away his wrath and gaining our point than any attempt at self-justification could possibly have been—even though we knew we were right.

XIII

TO BEAUTIFUL CLEAR LAKE VALLEY

A splendid view of the Golden Gate, through which, between opposing headlands, the tides of the Pacific pour into the waters of San Francisco's great inland bay, may be had from the ferry between the city and Sausalito. The facilities for carrying motor cars were good and charges reasonable. We were speedily set down on the northern side and, without entering the little town, took to the road forthwith, closely following the shores of the bay.

A dozen miles of rough going brought us to San Rafael, where in 1817 the padres from Mission Dolores in San Francisco founded the twentieth, and last but one, of the California missions. George Wharton James declares that this mission was really intended as a health resort for neophytes from San Francisco who had fallen ill of consumption, which had become a terrible scourge among the Indians around the bay. During the first three years after the founding of San Rafael, nearly six hundred neophytes were transferred to the new establishment, and in 1828 its population had reached eleven hundred and forty. Its buildings were never very substantial and the total value of all property at secularization was reckoned at only fifteen thousand dollars. Fremont took possession of the town in 1846 without opposition. After his departure the mission buildings were unoccupied and speedily fell into ruin.

In response to our inquiries, a citizen directed us to the Catholic parsonage. The priest greeted us courteously and told us that not a trace of the mission now remained. In his garden he pointed out some old pear trees planted by the padres of San Rafael Mission in early days—almost the sole existing relics. The church near by is modern and of no especial interest. The site was an ideal one and the sheltered valley, with the green wooded hills that encircle it, was a fit place of rest for the invalid neophytes. San Rafael is now a substantially built, prosperous-looking town of about six thousand people and a favorite suburban residence place for San Francisco business men.

A well-improved highway leads through rolling hills from San Rafael to Petaluma, whence a detour of a dozen miles eastward takes us to historic Sonoma—the farthest outpost of Spanish civilization in California. Here the twenty-first and last mission of the chain was founded in 1823, with a view of checking the influence of the Russians, who were filling the country to the north. It never attained great importance, though during the short period of its existence its population reached about seven hundred. In 1834 the presidio or military establishment of San Francisco was transferred here to counteract Russian and American encroachments. The governor, Vallejo, took command of the post in person and, it is recorded, supported the enterprise at his own expense. He appears to have been a fine type of the old-time Spanish grandee, and his hacienda or residence still stands, though now deserted, about five miles northwest of the town. This is of the usual Spanish type, but on a much grander scale than any other of the early California homes still standing. Its facade is three hundred feet in length and two wings extend to the rear, enclosing a spacious patio which overlooks the valley from its open side. Double balconies supported by heavy timbers run around the entire outside. The house is solidly built; its walls, no less than six feet in thickness, are constructed of adobe. Its hewn beams are bound together with rawhide thongs and the lighter timbers are fastened with wooden pegs, not a nail being used. Stout iron grilles and heavy wooden shutters protect the windows and the doors are provided with wickets so that the house could easily be converted into a defensive fortress.

Vallejo also had a town house in Sonoma, but this has nearly disappeared. There are still many old adobes surrounding the spacious plaza—for the village was laid out on regal scale; many date from mission days, though none of them has any especial historic importance.

The mission church stands at the northeast angle of the plaza; it was in use until about twenty-five years ago, when it was wrecked by an earthquake, and since then neglect and winter rains nearly completed the work of ruin. The property was acquired by the Landmarks Club, which, having no funds for restoration, offered it to the state as an historic monument. It was accepted by a special act of the legislature and a small fund provided to restore and maintain the buildings. At the time of our visit work was in progress and was being carried out on original lines as nearly as possible. The old tiles had been restored to the roof and the rents in the walls repaired with sun-dried adobes. But there was no one to show us about or to preserve the relics and traditions of the mission. In this regard there will always be an advantage in having the original owner—the Catholic church—in charge, for it means that "open house" to visitors will be kept at all times. We were gratified to learn, however, that historic Sonoma will not be allowed to fall into ruin, as we had been led to expect from descriptions by recent visitors.

In the plaza just opposite the mission is the pole upon which the American insurgents hoisted the California bear flag in 1846. This party, under Ezekiel Merritt, started from Captain Fremont's camp near Sutter's Fort (Sacramento) and halted some distance from the town until midnight. At daybreak they marched hurriedly down the valley and took General Vallejo and his scanty garrison prisoners of war.

"A man named Todd," according to an eye-witness, "proceeded to make a flag for the occasion by painting a red star on a piece of cotton cloth, when he was reminded that Texas had already adopted this emblem. The grizzly bear was then substituted and the words, 'Republic of California,' added in common writing ink. The flag was hoisted amidst cheers from the entire company and remained afloat for several weeks until Lieutenant Revere of the Portsmouth came to raise the stars and stripes over it after the capture of Monterey."

This event is commemorated by a huge granite boulder near the flagstaff in the plaza of Sonoma. It bears a reproduction of the original flag in bronze and a tablet of the same metal with the inscription, "Bear flag, raised June 14, 1846—erected July 4, 1907. S. O. W. C." It serves to impress on the infrequent visitor that the modest little village has an historic past that its more pretentious neighbors well might envy.

The homestead which General Vallejo occupied after these events and until the time of his death still stands but a short distance from the town, and is approached through a beautiful avenue of ancient palms.

It is quite as he left it, in a garden overgrown with roses and geraniums and shaded by lemon and orange trees intermingled with magnolias and palms. This house is now occupied by General Vallejo's youngest daughter, who still treasures many mementos of her father and of mission days.

A well-improved road leads from Sonoma to Santa Rosa. The latter is a thriving town of ten thousand people and to all appearances has completely recovered from the severe damage inflicted upon it by the earthquake of 1906. It is the home of a man whose fame is wider than that of the town, for no doubt thousands have heard of Luther Burbank who do not know that he lives in Santa Rosa. We passed his experiment station at Sevastopol, seven miles from his home town. We wished we might see the wizard and his work, but he is too busy to be troubled by tourists and can be seen only by special introduction. Santa Rosa is the county seat of Sonoma County—succeeding the village of Sonoma in 1856—and a new court house, just completed, would do credit to any city in size and architectural design—another example of the far-sightedness of California communities. The Baptist Church is pointed out as an unique curiosity, for it was built of a single redwood tree—and it is a good-sized church, too.

Out of Santa Rosa we came into the Russian River Valley,—which, with many other names in this vicinity, reminded us that at one time Russia had designs upon our Golden West—certainly one of the loveliest and most fertile of California vales. Here and in Napa Valley just over the range to the east are the Italian colonies, which produce vast quantities of wine. The well-improved road follows the center of the narrow green valley, shut in by blue hill ranges on either hand and covered with great vineyards. In places these ascend the steep hillsides—recalling the valley of the Rhine—and they show everywhere the perfect care and cultivation characteristic of old-world vineyards.

A little beyond Healdsburg, state highway construction barred the main road west of the river and we were forced to cross a rickety bridge into a rather forbidding-looking byroad on the eastern side. At the moment this seemed a small calamity, for we were already late and the road appeared favorable for anything but speed. But we had not gone far until the entrancing beauty of the scenery made us rejoice that chance had led us into this route, which my notes declare "one of the most picturesque on our entire tour." The sinuous, undulating road closely follows the course of the stream, which lay quietly in deep emerald-green pools, or dashed in incredibly swift foaming cascades over its rocky bed. The fine trees—oaks, sycamores, madronas, pines, redwoods, and many other varieties—crowd closely up to the narrow road and climb to the very top of the rugged slopes on either hand. In places there are bold cliffs overhanging the river, one great rock, a vast expanse of tawny brown, spangled with moss and lichens, rising to a height of several hundred feet. Just off this road is Geyserville, in the vicinity of which are geysers and hot springs similar to those of the Yellowstone Park.

At Cloverdale we came into the main highway, which here begins a steady climb up the mountains at the head of the valley, the grades ranging six to ten per cent. The road follows the river canyon and there were many picturesque glimpses of the dashing stream through the trees on our left. At Pieta Station—the railroad runs on the western side of the river—we made a sharp turn to the right, following Pieta grade, which cuts squarely across the mountain range. The road is exceedingly tortuous, climbing the giant hills in long loops and, though none of the grades are heavy, caution was very necessary. Here we ran through the "forest primeval;" nature was in its pristine beauty, unspoiled by the hand of man. No human habitation was in sight for miles and wild life abounded. Rabbits, snakes, and quails scurried across the road and birds flitted through the trees. Wild flowers bloomed in profusion in the glades and flowering shrubs such as the wild lilac and dogwood gave a delightful variation from the prevailing green of the trees. This is a toll road and at the summit of the grade, eight miles from Pieta, a gate barred our way and we were required to pay a dollar to proceed. We found ourselves in no hurry, however, despite the fact that the sun was just setting, for from this spot we had our first view of Clear Lake Valley. Beyond a long vista of wooded hills, set like a great gem in the green plain, the lake shimmered in the subdued light. In the far distance other mountain ranges faded away into the violet haze of the gathering twilight.

The descending road is steeper and rougher than the climb to the summit, though the distance is not so great. At the foot of the grade is Highland Springs, with a summer resort hotel not yet open, and after this a straight, level road runs directly northward to Lakeport. It is a little, isolated town of a thousand people—there is no railroad in Clear Lake Valley—and its hotel is a typical country-town inn. There is another hotel which keeps open only during the summer season, for a small number of discerning people come to Clear Lake for their summer vacation. At the Garrett, however, we were made as comfortable as circumstances permitted, the greatest desideratum being private bathrooms. While rambling about the town after supper I fell into conversation with a druggist and I unwittingly touched a sore spot—which we learned was common to every citizen of Lakeport—when I remarked that it was strange that a town of its size, so favorably situated, should be without a railroad.

"It's a burning shame," he exclaimed, "and we have the Southern Pacific to thank for it. We have made every effort to secure a railway here and in this fertile valley it would surely pay. Besides, the lake, with its fine fishing and beautiful surroundings, would soon become one of the most noted resorts in California—if people could only get here. But for some reason the Southern Pacific has not only refused to build, but has throttled any effort on part of the people to finance a road into the valley. I guess the railroad people figure that as it is they get all the traffic and the people have to bear the heavy expense of transportation by wagon to the main line. If this is so, it's a short-sighted policy, for the development of the country would be so rapid that the branch would be a paying proposition from the start." And he added much more in the same strain, all of it highly uncomplimentary to the "Sunset Route."

I was not familiar enough with the situation to dispute any of his assertions, even had I been so inclined, and let him assume that I assented to all his animadversions against the Southern Pacific. The question whether or not Lakeport and Clear Lake Valley would be benefited by a railroad—the nearest station is Pieta, twenty miles away—was clearly too one-sided to admit of discussion. Besides, railroads interest us only in an academic way. Who would want a railroad to visit Clear Lake Valley if he were free to come by motor car?

From our window in the third story of the hotel we could see the lake and the mountains beyond and I remarked that sunrise would surely be a spectacle worth seeing. Though some doubt was expressed as to my ability to rise early enough, I managed to do it and a scene of surpassing beauty rewarded the effort—it really was an effort after the strenuous run of the preceding day. A rosy sky brought out the rugged contour of the hills and tinged the dense blue shadows with amethyst and gold. As the sky brightened, the lake glowed with the changeful fires of an opal, which merged into a sheet of flame when the sun climbed the mountains and flung his rays directly across the still surface. There was an indescribable glory of color and light, passing through endless mutations ere the scene came out distinctly in the daylight.

We were away early in the morning with a long run over many mountain grades confronting us. As we left the valley we had a better opportunity of noting its singular beauty than on the preceding evening. It is a wide green plain of several hundred square miles, surrounded by mountain ranges. These presented a peculiar contrast in the low morning sun, standing sharp and clear against the sky on the eastern side and half hidden in a soft blue haze on the west. In the center of the plain lay Clear Lake—rightly named, for it is a crystal clear body of water about thirty miles long and eight miles in extreme width. It is fed by mountain streams and empties its waters into the Russian River. For boating and fishing it is unsurpassed, a catch of bass or cat being assured under almost any conditions. The valley was studded with hundreds of oaks, the finest and most symmetrical we had seen in a country famous for magnificent oaks, and one of these, near the Lakeport road, is declared to be the largest and most perfect oak tree in California. Whether it is so or not, a few figures will give some idea of its mammoth proportions. The circumference of its trunk is twenty-four feet and six inches, its height one hundred and twenty feet, and the spread of its branches one hundred and fifty-six feet. And this is only one of hundreds of majestic trees which dotted the plain. Underneath them—for they stand usually far apart—lay the wide green meadows and wheatfields, spangled with multi-colored wild flowers. It would be hard to imagine a more beautiful vista than the one which stretched away beneath these giant trees to the still waters of the lake. Here and there the orange flame of poppies prevailed and again a field of buttercups or daisies, or a blue belt of lupine. The sky above was clear save for a few silvery clouds which floated lazily over the mountains, and, altogether, it was a scene of quiet beauty that made us wonder if there was another spot in all the world like this mountain vale. What a place it would be for a resort like Del Monte or Coronado! If in Southern California it would be one of the most noted beauty spots on earth. A railroad would, of course, do much to make it known to the world in general, though the thought of a railroad in that scene of quiet, out-of-the-world loveliness seemed almost like sacrilege. The climate is mild—orange trees and palms being common—and the rainfall, averaging about thirty inches, is twice as great as in the southern part of the state. This accounts for the unusual greenness of the country and might be an unpleasant feature in winter.

Lakeport marked the northern end of our tour and we resolved to cross the mountains and return by the Napa Valley. At Kelseyville, a few miles south of Lakeport, we inquired of a garage man as to the best road out of the valley and he carefully directed us to take the left-hand fork two or three miles south of the town.

"It takes you over Bottle Glass Mountain," he said, "but it's the shortest road to Middletown."

When we came to the fork we saw that the main traveled road continued to the right and a narrow, forbidding-looking lane started up the big hill to our left. We took it with some misgiving; the directions had been explicit, but we did not like its looks. When we had proceeded a few miles on the increasingly heavy grade we began to realize the significance of the name, "Bottle Glass Mountain," for the road had been blasted through masses of obsidian or volcanic glass and was strewn with numberless razor-sharp fragments which speedily cut our tires to shreds. There was absolutely no place to turn about and so we laboriously toiled up the heavy grades—some of them surely as much as twenty-five per cent—the engine steaming like a tea-kettle until at last we reached the summit. Here we paused to cool the engine and investigate the sorry work of the glass which had strewn the road for some miles. The usefulness of a new set of tires was clearly at its end—no one of them lasted more than a few hundred miles after this experience. We carried away a bit of the glass as a memento and found it identical with that of Obsidian Cliff in the Yellowstone, a material used by the Indians for arrow heads.

The descent was quite free from glass and led us down some pretty steep grades into a beautifully wooded canyon. Here we met a mail carrier who gave us the cheerful information that two or three miles farther over a good road would have avoided the horrors of Bottle Glass Mountain. For several miles we followed the course of a clear stream, the road dropping continuously down grade and winding between splendid trees, until we came to the little village of Middletown.

Beyond this we began the ascent of Mount St. Helena, famed in Stevenson's stories of the "Silverado Squatters." Of it he wrote,

"There was something satisfactory in the sight of the great mountain enclosing us on the north; whether it stood robed in sunshine, quaking to its topmost pinnacle in the heat and lightness of the day or whether it set itself to weaving vapors, wisp after wisp, growing, trembling, fleeting, and fading in the blue."

It overtops everything else in the vicinity; its great bold summit, rising to a height of forty-five hundred feet, is a cairn of quartz and cinnabar. Its slopes, now so quiet and sylvan, were alive in an early day with mining camps and villages. But the mines failed long ago and the army of miners departed, leaving deserted towns and empty houses behind them. These fell into decay and their debris has been hidden by the rank growth of young trees. On St. Helena, Stevenson and his wife spent some time in a deserted mining camp in the summer of 1880 in hopes of benefiting his health and while here he planned and partly completed the story of Silverado. There are many descriptions of the scenery and his step-daughter declares that the passage describing the morning fog rolling into the valley as seen from his camp is one of the very finest in all of Stevenson's writings.

Out of Middletown the road begins a steady ascent over rolling grades ranging up to fifteen per cent and winding through the splendid forests which so charmed the Scotch writer. Redwoods, oaks, firs, cedars and magnificent sugar pines crowd up to the roadside. Star-white dogwood blossoms stand against the foliage, the pale lavender spikes of the mountain lilac, the giant thistle with its carmine blooms, the crimson gleam of the redbud, the brilliant azalea, and, above all, the madrona, a great tree loaded with clusters of odorous pale pink blossoms. Its red trunk, gleaming beneath its glistening green foliage and gay flowers, inspired the oft-quoted fancy of Bret Harte:

"Captain of the western wood,
Thou that apest Robin Hood,
Green above thy scarlet hose
How thy velvet mantle shows.
Never tree like thee arrayed,
Oh, thou gallant of the glade."

From the highest point of the road—it does not cross the summit of the mountain—was a glorious prospect of wooded hills and a long vista down the canyon which we followed to the valley. The descent was a strenuous one—winding downward in long loops, turning sharply around blind corners, and running underneath mighty cliffs, with precipices falling away beneath. It presented a series of magnificent views—a new one at almost every turn—and finally we came out into the open where we had full sweep down the vine-clad valley. At its head, just at the end of the mountain grade, was Calistoga, a quiet village of a thousand people, where Stevenson stopped while outfitting for his Silverado expedition. It was entirely surrounded by vineyards, which skirted the road for the eight miles to St. Helena and spread out over the narrow valley to the green hills on either hand. At intervals wheatfields studded with great solitary oaks varied the monotony of the scene and here and there a vineyard dotted the steep slopes of the hills.

Here, as well as in the valley just west of the St. Helena Range, are the properties of the Swiss-Italian and Asti Colonies, and the principal winery, a vast stone structure that reminds one of a Rheinish castle, is situated on this road. Its capacity is three million gallons annually and besides its storage vats there is one great cement cistern which holds a half million gallons. In this capacious cavern a merrymaking party of a hundred couples is said to have held a dance on one occasion. But Italian methods have been abandoned in these big wineries—it would be something of a job to crush grapes for three million gallons of wine with the bare feet, the implements mostly in use in Italy. Instead, there is a mammoth crusher in a tower of the structure and the grapes are dumped upon an endless chain that hoists them to this machine, which grinds and stems them at a single operation. The pulp is then conducted through pipes to the fermenting vats below. The founder of the Asti Colony has a beautiful home in the hills, modeled after a Pompeian villa and surrounded by elaborate gardens and groves, an altogether artistic and charming place, it is said. He is now reckoned as a very wealthy man, though he came here about thirty years ago with little or nothing.

The colony has its own general store, its smithy, its bakery, its dairy, its cooperage, its schools and post office, and a quaint little wooden church—La Madonna del Carmine—where Italian services are conducted on Sundays. While the Asti Colony is the largest and most distinctly Italian, there are several other similar communities in this section and also in the San Joaquin Valley. The greatest danger threatening them is, no doubt, the growing prohibition sentiment in California. We found prohibition already in force in Lake County, though there are many vineyards within its borders. To our request for a bottle of Lake County wine at one of the small inns, our landlord declared that he could not sell, but obligingly made up the deficiency by a donation.

All of the foregoing—interesting as it may be—has been relegated to the realm of ancient history by the enactment of the prohibition amendment. The results so far as the grape growers are concerned, and as I have previously noted in this book, were quite the opposite of those expected. Never was the industry so prosperous and never before did the "fruit of the vine" bring rich returns with so little labor. It is only necessary to dry the grapes in the sun or in specially constructed kilns to realize twice what they would have brought in the palmiest days of the abandoned wineries.

We were surprised to find a splendid boulevard extending for many miles on either side of St. Helena; it emphasized on our minds a fact not generally known, that in the vicinity of San Francisco there is almost as much improved road as about Los Angeles. Its condition, however, does not average nearly so good, and a large part of it is in great need of repairs. The work has been done mainly by the counties, San Joaquin County having just completed a two-million-dollar system of boulevards.

From St. Helena we continued southward to Napa, a town of seven thousand people with many fine residences and a substantial business center. From Napa the road runs through a less interesting country to Vallejo, a distance of fourteen miles, where we thought to cross by ferry to Port Costa. We found, however, to our disgust, that these boats would not carry cars and we were directed to proceed to Benicia, seven miles farther up the coast. Here we ran on to a large railroad ferry-boat, which, after a tedious delay, carried us to the desired point on the western shore of the Sacramento River, which here is really an arm of the bay.

Port Costa is a poor-looking hamlet, principally inhabited by Mexicans, several of whom gathered about us to watch our struggles with a refractory tire. Our objective for the night was Stockton, nearly a hundred miles away by the roundabout route which we must pursue. The long wait at the ferry and the puncture—sure to occur under such conditions—put us behind at least two hours and the sun was already declining. We recognized that we should have to speed up a little and probably finish after dark. Our road out of Port Costa, however, was favorable to anything but speed; after climbing a long grade we came out on the edge of the hills overlooking the river. The road runs along the side of the hills, which fall away for several hundred feet almost sheer to the water beneath, and it twists and turns around the cliffs in a manner anything but soothing to nervous people. It affords, however, some magnificent views of the broad estuary, with green hills and distant mountains beyond.

From Martinez, another decadent little town six miles from Port Costa, we proceeded over fairly good roads to Concord and Antioch, where we turned southward into the wide plain of the San Joaquin River. It was necessary to make a long detour around the San Joaquin Delta, which has no roads. The highway angles towards Byron Hot Springs in long straight stretches. It was improved as a general thing, though we met with rough spots and sandy places occasionally. We struck one of the latter unexpectedly while bowling along at a forty-mile gait and gave a farmer who was coming towards us in a cart the scare of his life, for the car became unmanageable in the sand and started straight for him. Visions of impending disaster flashed through our minds as well, when the obstreperous machine took a tack in the opposite direction. We did not stop to discuss the occurrence with him, seeing plainly that he was in no mood for a calm consideration of the matter—but we had learned something.

A little beyond Byron Hot Springs we entered San Joaquin County and from this point we followed a splendid new boulevard as smooth and level as a floor—part of the county's new two-million road system. We coursed through the center of a wide plain, shut in by ill-defined mountains, and one of these, standing in solitary majesty against the evening sky, seemed to dominate the valley. It is Mount Diabolus, which no doubt received its appellation from some ancient padre who thought it safest to give his Satanic Majesty a habitation on this lonely peak, then so remote from the haunts of the white men.

XIV

THE NETHERLANDS OF CALIFORNIA

Stockton has a population of over forty thousand according to the 1920 census—a gain of nearly one hundred per cent in ten years. You would be likely to guess even a larger figure when you note the metropolitan appearance of the town—the broad, well-paved streets, the handsome stores, and the imposing public buildings—or when you enter Hotel Stockton, a huge, modern, concrete structure that it would be hard to match in most eastern cities of a hundred thousand. The town is situated at the gateway of a vast, fertile plain, rich in grainfields, orchards, vineyards, and garden and dairy products. It is a sightly city, with eleven public parks and numerous fine homes and churches; many streets are bordered with shade trees, the elm, maple, acacia, and umbrella tree being most common. Orange trees and palms are also plentiful, reminding one that a mild winter climate prevails in the valley.

The town was incorporated in 1850 and was named in honor of Commodore Stockton of the United States Navy, who raised the first American flag in California. It had previously existed as a mining supply camp and the site belonged to Captain Weber, who received it as a grant from the Mexican Government in 1843. It has been a quiet, steadily growing commercial center and its history has never been greatly varied by sensational incidents. Its first railroad came in 1869, its commerce having been carried previously on the San Joaquin River. To-day a canal connects the river with the heart of the city and good-sized steamers arrive and depart daily. It is also served by main lines of three great transcontinental railways, an advantage not enjoyed by many California towns.

Stockton is seldom the goal of the tourist and most travelers get their impressions of the town from a car window while enroute to or from San Francisco. Not one in a thousand of these, nor one in ten thousand who only hear of the town, knows that in its immediate vicinity, almost adjoining its borders, is the greatest and most remarkable enterprise of the kind in America. I refer to the land reclamation projects of the San Joaquin Delta, comprising the marvelously fertile tracts already under cultivation, and the efficient methods employed to ultimately reclaim a million acres of peat swamps still untilled. Thirty years ago this land was supposed to be absolutely worthless—a vast tract of upwards of a million and a half acres, covered with scrub willows and "tule"—a species of rank reed—and overflowed at times to a depth of several feet by flood and ocean tides. The soil in the main is black peat, made up of decomposed tule and sand washed in by the floods—a composition of untold fertility if properly drained and farmed.

I was especially interested in this enterprise since a pioneer in reclamation work and president of one of the largest concerns operating in the delta was an old-time college-mate who came to California some twenty-five years ago. He had little then save indomitable energy and unusual business aptitude, and with characteristic foresight he recognized the possibilities of the San Joaquin swamps when once reclaimed and properly tilled. He succeeded in interesting capitalists in the project, which has steadily grown until it has merged into the California Delta Farms Association, a ten-million-dollar corporation which owns and controls more than forty thousand acres, mostly under cultivation. The company also owns a fleet of a dozen great steam dredging plants, principally engaged in reclaiming new tracts on their own properties, though occasionally doing work for other concerns.

Besides the Delta Farms Association, there are several other large companies and individual owners operating in the delta, which now has upwards of three hundred thousand reclaimed acres, and it is said that a million more will be brought under cultivation within five or six years. The aggregate value of the land at that time will not be less than two hundred millions, figures which speak most eloquently of the almost inconceivable possibilities of the Netherlands of California, and any tourist whose convenience will permit will find himself well repaid should he stop at Stockton for the especial purpose of seeing this unique wonder of America.