Chapter XVII: Lake Tahoe 358 (10)

We found no difficulty in arranging for a good-sized motor-boat capable of twelve to fifteen miles per hour, in charge of a man familiar with every part of the delta and well posted upon the details of farming and reclamation work. The harbor is at the foot of Washington Street, well within the confines of the city and a canal about two miles long connects with the main channel of the San Joaquin. There are no roads in the delta, the river and canals serving as highways; each tract in cultivation is surrounded by water held back by a substantial levee usually about twenty-five feet high and one hundred and fifty feet thick at the base. The tracts range from one thousand to thirteen thousand acres in size and are usually spoken of as islands. It is hard for a novice to get a clear idea of the lay of the land—the waterways twist and turn and interweave in such a baffling manner. Nor can one see over the high levees from an ordinary launch; the top of the pilot house on our boat, however, afforded views of most of the tracts. The main stream is several hundred feet wide and the canals average about twenty-four feet, with a depth of ten to fifteen feet.

The first step towards reclaiming a tract of land is to surround it by a large levee or bank of soil scooped from the swamp by great floating dredges, the resulting depression serving as a canal. When the levee is completed, the island is cleared of tule and brush and the water pumped out. It is then ready for cultivation, but breaking up the tough, fibrous peat is laborious and tedious work, which the average white man seems unwilling to do, and Oriental labor has played a big part in reclaiming the delta.

Should the peat become too dry, it is liable to take fire and smoulder indefinitely, though this can be controlled by flooding from the river. Its fibrous composition makes it an excellent material for levees; when thoroughly packed it is quite impervious to water and little affected by floods.

Our guide informed us that the actual cost of reclaiming the land averages about one hundred and sixteen dollars per acre and that its value when in cultivation is from two to three hundred dollars. Irrigation, when necessary, is accomplished by elevating water from river or canal at high tide over the levee by means of huge siphons. The tide rises three or four feet, though salt water does not come in so far. Thus the water supply is never failing and a crop is always assured. Disastrous floods are now so guarded against as to be of rare occurrence, though in earlier times they frequently wrought great havoc; even then they were not an unmixed evil, a layer of rich fertilizer being deposited in their wake.

It is not strange that the owners of the San Joaquin Delta lands are opposed to the anti-Japanese legislation now the fashion in California. The work of reclamation has been done mostly by Orientals—Japanese, Chinese, and a few Hindus—and farming operations are largely carried on by laborers of these nationalities. In the earlier days white men suffered severely from ague and malaria, though conditions in this regard are better now. The Jap seems perfectly at home in the San Joaquin swamps; hot sun and drudgery have no serious effect on him and he has the industry and infinite patience necessary to succeed under such conditions. He requires less supervision than the white laborer and in this regard the Chinaman is still better. Altogether, the Oriental is the ideal laborer for the delta; and he is at his best when employed by a fellow-countryman.

This fact partially accounts for the phenomenal success of George Shima, who is probably the most extensive farmer in the whole region. He not only owns considerable land, but leases great tracts which he farms in a thorough and scientific manner. His problem is not to secure a big yield—he is sure of that—but to get a favorable market. The flood danger, which wiped out his possessions in 1907, is said to be well guarded against now, but the danger of a glutted market remains. On the other hand, there is the gamble of a shortage of potatoes in the rest of the world—a thing which happened in 1910, when Shima is said to have cleared over half a million dollars on this crop alone. The wily Jap held his crop until the demand was keenest and let it go at two or three dollars per hundredweight. He has learned to depend on other products besides potatoes, both to avoid danger of a glut and to provide for proper rotation of crops. Rich as is the delta soil, several successive crops of potatoes will impoverish it. Alternating with barley, beans, asparagus, alfalfa, or onions, all of which thrive in an incredible manner, serves to stave off the evil day of soil exhaustion. It is Shima's boast that he farms scientifically and employs experts on soil chemistry, and the results he gets seem to bear out his claim. He lives on a fashionable street in Berkeley and has done much to overcome prejudice against his nationality by intelligent and liberal donations to public and charitable causes.

Besides Shima there are several smaller Japanese operators and two or three Chinamen who lease land on a large scale. Shima markets as well as raises his product, but the others sell mainly through brokers and commission men. There are several white ranchers who farm their own land and who have demonstrated that success can be achieved in this way. The millennium of the delta is expected to be attained by wholesale subdivision into farms of one hundred acres or more, operated by the owners. Indeed, the Delta Farms Company is already planning to dispose of a part of its holdings in this manner and there is certain prosperity for the farmer who buys a small tract and tills it himself. A good yield is always sure and by proper rotation and division of crops a market for the majority of products is equally certain. It has also been proved that hog-raising and dairying can be profitably engaged in. The time will come, say many, when this Holland of America will support a large population of thrifty American farmers and the bugaboo of Oriental labor will have faded away. Schools, roads, and bridges will come, and there is already a daily mail delivery by water and an elaborate telephone system in the delta. The splendid system of water highways upon which every farm will front, will afford quick and cheap access to markets. Every farmer will have his motor-boat instead of automobile, and this will put him in easy touch with towns, cities, and schools. This ideal state is still in the indefinite future; most of the land is held by absentee landlords who are more than satisfied with the returns from the present system and whose holdings are not for sale. The reclamation of new tracts and the increasing scarcity of Japanese and Chinese labor may, however, change conditions more rapidly than now seems probable.

Our skipper landed us at several of the islands and it gave us a queer sensation to walk over ground that quaked and quivered to our step as though it rested on a subterranean lake. The improvements were generally of the flimsiest type—clapboard houses resting on piles afforded quarters for the laborers. Near the superintendent's home on one of the tracts was a field of carmine sweet peas in full bloom—a pleasing patch of color upon the general drab monotone of the landscape, suggesting the possibility of flower-farming on a large scale. The quarters for the help make it clear why Chinamen and Japanese can be so profitably employed—they demand little in the way of comforts and are satisfied with the cheapest and plainest fare. Wages, even of this class of labor, are not low, the average Oriental earning forty to sixty dollars per month besides his keep. Chinese and Japanese do not readily affiliate and men in adjoining camps may scarcely speak to each other during the entire working season. A good many Chinese live in house boats on the river and we saw the curious sight of a house-boat saloon, for the difficulty in getting in a supply of opium has driven the Chinaman to the white man's tipples and he has learned to carry a comfortable load of gin without losing his head. There were also camps of Chinese fishermen who take quantities of bass, shad, and catfish, which we were told were shipped to China. The smells from these camps frequently announced their proximity before we came in sight of them.

Asparagus is one of the large and profitable crops and on our return trip we saw a thousand-acre tract of this staple and a big factory which turns out many hundreds of carloads of the canned article. The Delta brand is famous as the largest, tenderest, and best-flavored variety known. Celery is also raised in large quantities and here is the only spot in the west where chicory thrives.

During our round, which covered eighty miles of river and canal, we had the opportunity of observing reclamation in progress, as well as many phases of farming. The huge steel dredges were slowly eating their way through the waste of reeds and willows, their long black arms delving deep into the muck and piling levees alongside the canal, which served as a pathway for the monster's advance. A little farther we saw a tract around which the levee had been completed and which was being cleared of tule and brushwood, fire being freely used, as the peat was still too wet to burn. Beyond this a field was being brought under the plough and desperately hard, heavy work it was, breaking up the matted fibrous soil that had been forming for ages. In another place a break in the levee had permitted an inflow of water and this was being thrown out with a mighty floating pump capable of handling some seventy thousand gallons per minute. Farming operations require a fleet of barges, for horses and heavy farm machinery must be carried and the products transported from the markets.

Altogether, the San Joaquin Delta was very interesting and surprising; well worth seeing aside from the personal element, which was the prime motive in our case. It is only because this wonderful region is so little known that visitors are comparatively few, but the tourist tide will surely come before long and many will find profitable investments in the lands. Of course the ordinary tourist will be able to see only a small section of this vast tract until the age of airship touring comes, but that small section will be so typical as to afford a fair idea of the whole. The story of the delta makes a unique chapter in American agriculture and it is bound to prove a fertile field for research and experiment, which will result in still greater production and a wider variety of crops. Its vast extent and endless resources make it a notable asset, even in a state so famed for big things as California, and some day it may be comparable in population and thrift to the Dutch Netherlands.

It was late when our skipper turned the launch homeward and there was something exhilarating and inspiring in swirling through the long sunset stretches of still water between the high green banks. We agreed that the boat ride alone as a variation from weeks of dusty motor travel would have been worth while, even if we had not seen and learned so much of the wonderland of the San Joaquin Delta.

On our second visit to Stockton a year later we passed through without delay on our way to the state capital. We came from Oakland—where we passed the night at the magnificent new Hotel Oakland, unsurpassed by any of California's famous hotels—by the way of Haywards, Niles, Pleasanton, and Altamont. The direct road by way of Dublin was closed and we were saved a useless twenty-mile jaunt by an obliging garage man at Haywards, who hailed us as he saw us turning into the obstructed route.

"You'll have to take a round-about road," he declared on learning of our destination. "A car which tried the Dublin road just returned, having found it completely closed. The county board is cutting down the big hill near Dublin—commenced a year ago and was held up by a lawsuit. They had to condemn a piece of land—so steep a goat couldn't stand on it—for which an Eastern owner wanted seven thousand dollars. The jury awarded the owner seventeen dollars, and now the work can go on."

"Our Eastern friend must have thought he saw a chance to get rich quick," we ventured.

"No, the funny part of it was that he wanted just what he paid for the land, which he had never seen. Some real estate agent had sold it to him for seven thousand dollars and he only wanted his money back. I reckon that any man who buys land in California on someone's representations is a sucker,"—a proposition that we did not feel called upon to dispute.

We had no reason to regret our enforced change of route, for we passed through some beautiful country—quite different from what we had previously seen in this vicinity. Following the railroad southward to Niles, we turned sharply to the left, entering the low green hills along which we had been coursing. Crossing a moderate grade, we came into a narrow valley lying between rounded hills, which showed evidence of having been in cultivation for many years. The roads, bridges, farm houses, and other improvements indicated a prosperous and well-established community and the towns of Pleasanton, Livermore, and Altamont must have sprung into existence as far back as the "days of gold." These were quiet, pretty villages connected by a fine macadam road, evidently a temptation to the "scorcher," for placards in the garages warned motorists against the despised motorcycle "cop."

It was a glorious day and the well-groomed valley showed a wonderful display of color, the prevailing green being dashed with the brilliant hues of wild flowers. The low hills on either hand were covered with lawnlike verdure and dotted with ancient oaks, while an occasional cultivated field redeemed them from monotony. Beyond Livermore we came into the San Joaquin Valley, which at this time was reveling in the promise of an unprecedented harvest. The wide level plain was an expanse of waving green varied with an occasional fringe of trees, and a low-lying, dark-blue haze quite obscured the distant mountains.

Beyond Stockton the characteristics of the country were much the same, though it seemed to us as if the valley of the Sacramento were even greener and more prosperous. The vast wheatfields were showing the slightest tinge of yellow and the great vineyards were in bloom. Some of the latter covered hundreds of acres and must have been planted many years ago. The luxuriant, flower-spangled meadows were dotted with herds of sleek cattle and it would be hard to imagine a more ideal agricultural paradise than the Sacramento Valley at this particular time. On either hand the rich plain stretched away to blue mountains, so distant that only their dim outlines were discernible, and at times they were entirely obscured by low-hung clouds or sudden summer showers.

The road between the two cities is a recently completed link of the state highway and the smooth asphalted surface offers unlimited speed possibilities if one cares to take the chances. In the spring and early summer Sacramento is surrounded by vast swamps and we crossed over a long stretch of wooden bridges before entering the city. Our original plan was to come from Napa, but we learned that the roads north and west of the city were usually impassable until late in the summer. The entire city lies below high-water level of the Sacramento and American Rivers and in its early days suffered from disastrous floods. It is now protected by an extensive system of dikes, which have successfully withstood the freshets for half a century.

A handsome city greeted us as we coursed down the wide shady street leading past the capitol to the Hotel Sacramento. Palms and flowers were much in evidence in the outskirts and many imposing modern buildings ornamented the business section. There were, however, many indications of the city's age, for Sacramento is the oldest settlement of white men in the interior of California and was a town of ten thousand people in 1849, though probably there were many transient gold-seekers among them. It was the objective of the early "Argonauts" who crossed the plains long before the discovery of gold. Here in 1839 Colonel John H. Sutter established a colony of Swiss settlers which he called New Helvetia, and the old adobe fort which he built still stands, having being converted into a museum of pioneer relics. Sutter employed Marshall, who was sent into the mountains to build a mill at Coloma, and who picked up in the mill race the original nugget that turned the tide towards California in the forties. The first railroad in the state ran from Sacramento to Folsom, and the experimental section of the state highway system was built between these two towns.

There were many productive gold mines about the town in an early day, and though these are largely worked out, Sacramento has to-day a greater and more permanent source of wealth in the rich country surrounding it. It was made the capital of the state in 1854 and the handsome capitol building was erected a few years later. This is of pure classic design in white stone and though small as compared with most other state capitols, it is surpassed architecturally by none of them. It stands in a forty-acre park intersected by winding drives and beautified with the semi-tropical trees and plants which flourish in this almost frostless climate. Among these is the Memorial Grove, composed of trees collected from the battlefields of the Civil War. The state insectary, which breeds and distributes millions of fruit-protecting insects every year, may also be seen on the capitol grounds.

Our hotel, the Sacramento, a modern concrete structure, proved fairly satisfactory, but so far as we could judge, the hotels of Sacramento were hardly up to the California standard for a city of sixty thousand. The city is visited by comparatively few tourists at present, though the motor car and the new state highway are likely to change things in this regard. The fine old town has much of real interest and the run through the prosperous valley is an experience worth while to any one who wishes to know the beauties and resources of the Golden State.

XV

A CHAPTER OF ODDS AND ENDS

Before beginning our homeward trek to Los Angeles, we decided to return to San Francisco and once there it occurred to us that we must visit old Fort Ross to familiarize ourselves with another colorful chapter of Golden State history. This tiny hamlet is on the sea coast about one hundred miles (by wagon road) north of the metropolis and may be reached by either of two routes, so we determined to go by one and return by the other. The briefest possible outlines of the story of Fort Ross may serve to illustrate the motives of our "little journey" into the northern hills:

The settlement was founded in 1812 by Russian traders. The fact that it was a military post whose crude fortifications were defended by forty cannons lends color to the supposition that the Czar may have entertained dreams of conquest in the weakly defended Spanish territory on the Pacific Coast. The Spaniards themselves thought so, for in 1818 the Governor at Monterey received orders to organize an expedition to capture Fort Ross—a mandate which he declared he was unable to carry out "for lack of men, transport and equipment." The Russians spread from Fort Ross into the surrounding territory and many names such as Sebastopol, Bodega, Mt. St. Helena and Russian River persist to-day as reminders of the Muscovite occupation.

Their traders came from time to time and carried on more or less traffic with the Spaniards despite their deep distrust of the Czar's intentions. There were many romantic incidents with this intercourse. The pathetic story of Rezanov, the noble commander of the Russian fleet, and Donna Concepcion, daughter of the Spanish governor, will always survive as one of the famous romances of early California. It was made the subject of Gertrude Atherton's novel of "Rezanov"—a colorful picture of the times, a story really savoring more of history than fiction. The Russian colonies never prospered sufficiently to become a menace even to the weak dominion of Spain, and when Mexico threw off the yoke of the mother country, Russia formally pledged herself against the acquisition of any territory in California. Seventeen years later the settlement had so declined that the Russians were glad to sell their property to Col. John A. Sutter, founder of Sacramento, and to retire permanently from California.

It seemed to us that a memorial of events that might have changed the course of history on our Pacific Coast was worthy of a pilgrimage, and our knowledge of the beauty of the hills of Marin and Sonoma was an additional lure. And so we crossed by the Sausalito Ferry and were soon away on the fine highway to Santa Rosa—now familiar ground to us. It was late in May and by all the weather man's rules the rainy season was past, but the unusual (as usual in California) happened; a sharp little shower caught us as we left Sausalito and fitfully followed us as we coursed swiftly over the fine road. It had its compensations, however, in the wonderful effects of cloud and mist on the Marin hills—a perfect symphony of blues, grays and purples. At Petaluma we recalled that the town was the prototype of Rosewater in Mrs. Atherton's "Ancestors"—the home of her very unconventional heroine who, naturally enough, owned a poultry ranch, the poultry industry being the outstanding occupation of the inhabitants.

The rain had ceased by the time we reached Santa Rosa, where we paused for lunch. Here we branched from the main highway, coursing through a lovely green valley to Forestville, where we entered the wooded hill range. We covered several miles of easy mountain road before reaching Guerneville, winding through groves of redwood and many other varieties of conifers and deciduous trees. At Guerneville we dropped down into the Russian River Valley, famous as a summer playground for San Francisco. We crossed the river over a high, spider-web bridge which afforded a vantage point for extensive views up and down the wooded valley. The emerald-green river lay far beneath us in deep, still reaches, for there is little fall to the valley here. Beyond the river we began the ascent of a long, winding grade over the second range. The road climbed through a dense forest and there were many sharp turns and steep pitches, somewhat the worse for the lately fallen showers, but the magnificent panoramas that occasionally burst on our vision as we continued the ascent made the effort well worth while. The valley was diversified with well-groomed fruit ranches and scattered grain fields; groups of oaks with velvety glades beneath, straggled over the rounded foothills, all combining to make a scene of wonderful sylvan charm. As we approached Cazadero we had an enchanting view of the deep valley and the village far below. But distance lent enchantment to the view of Cazadero, for we found it a rather mean-looking little place—a station for the motor busses that run over this road, its principal sign of life being the huge repair shops.

Beyond Cazadero there was still more climbing through the "forest primeval," whose increasing greenness and luxuriance called forth more than one exclamation of delight. The madrona, horse-chestnut, dogwood and locust were in full bloom and huge ferns grew riotously everywhere underneath the trees. The road was wet and dangerous in places, making our progress slow, but at last we came out on the clifflike headland above Fort Ross and the ocean, silver-white in the declining sun, flashed into view. Far beneath, directly on the shore, we could see the little hamlet, the object of our pilgrimage, nestling among the green hillocks. A very steep, narrow road, wet from the recent rain, plunged down the almost precipitous bank and we narrowly escaped disastrous collision with a tree from a vicious "skid" in the descent, which has several pitches of twenty-five per cent.

We found only a scene of desolation at our goal; there were two or three families living in the place, but most of the houses were abandoned. The huge, windowless hotel covered with creepers, testified mutely to the one-time importance of the town. Relics of the old fort or blockhouse were in evidence, but only two fragments of the walls, built of huge squared logs, were still standing. The quaint little church had just been restored—a tiny whitewashed structure perhaps twelve by fifteen feet, with an odd domelike cupola and square tower in front. It had been rebuilt at public expense and the fort was also to be restored from the same legislative appropriation.

There was nothing to detain us in the lonely village and after a mad scramble up the wet slope, slipping backward dangerously at one point, we paused again on the headland to contemplate the glorious panorama of rugged coast and shining sea. Rain was still threatening, however, and it seemed best not to stop, as we had planned, at Sea View Inn, near by, but to return to Guerneville for the night. The vistas seemed even more wonderful in the gathering twilight than on our outward trip—the great hills with their fringe of forest loomed against the rich sunset sky and purple shadows filled the vast canyons with mysterious gloom.

The hotel at Guerneville was primitive in the extreme, but the landlord was very considerate and we were too cold and hungry to be over-critical. Leaving the town on the following morning, we pursued the northward road along the Russian River, passing Bohemian Grove, famous for the antics of a San Francisco club, to Monte Rio, a much frequented summer resort town. The road climbed a forest-fringed grade with endless vistas of river and valley as well as vast stretches of wooded hills. Wild flowers bloomed in profusion and the air was redolent with the invigorating fragrance of the balsam pines. At the summit we paused to admire the endless panorama of hills, merging from green into deep solid blue in the far distance. Leaving Monte Rio we followed a tortuous, undulating road along a clear little river. The trees and undergrowth crowded up to the edge of the road and overarched it most of the dozen or so miles—a perfect wall of greenery on either hand.

Beyond Freestone we came again into the open hills, green and rolling and sloping to the sea a little to our right. Here our admiration was again excited by the marvel of the wild flowers, which bloomed in richest profusion; vast dashes of yellow, blue and white spangled the meadows and hills through which the fine road courses. At Tomales, an antique-looking little town, we came to the head of Tomales Bay, a "shoestring" of water some twenty miles long but nowhere more than two miles wide. The road runs alongside, up and down the low hills, affording fugitive glimpses of the bay, as inconstant in coloring as an opal. From Olema we pursued the coast road—or shall I say trail?—to Bolinas and thence to the Sausalito Ferry.

Despite the rough and difficult going, we had reason to congratulate ourselves upon our choice of route, for we saw much wild and picturesque coast and had many clear-cut views—not common in the land of frequent cloud and fog—of the coastward side of San Francisco. We climbed the winding ascent to Forts Baker and Barry, where one of the most comprehensive views of the whole district, the bay, the cities and the hills, may be had. So clear was the air that the Farralones, fifteen miles distant, stood out distinctly against the evening sky; and in the city the long green strip of Golden Gate Park and even the outlines of the streets and notable buildings were plainly observable. It was a wonderful scene and we had the day of a thousand to view it. Good fortune still attended us when we crossed the ferry, for we saw a perfect sunset directly through the Golden Gate. No language could exaggerate the splendor of the scene; no picture could do justice to its ethereal beauty of coloring. Fully as enchanting was the afterglow with its reflections of the crimson and gold cloud banks in the still waters. Behind us the windows and lights of Oakland and Berkeley flashed like a million gems set in the dark background of the hills, and eastward the lavender-tinted sky bent down to the still blue waters of the bay. We are quite ready for the spacious comfort of the Fairmont; it has not been an easy jaunt by any means. But we all agree that it would be hard to find even in California a more delightful tour than the little journey to old Fort Ross, granted weather as propitious as that which favored us.

It was always a difficult matter for us to shake off the lure of Del Monte whenever we made the run between Los Angeles and San Francisco and even though considerably out of our way, we nearly always put the old capital on our itinerary. What were a hundred or so miles additional as weighed against the delights of the famous inn?—and, besides, there was one road from San Francisco to Del Monte which we had not yet traversed. We have a decided fondness for trails directly along the ocean, though usually they are of the worst, and the little-used road along the coast running southward from Golden Gate Park to Half Moon Bay and Santa Cruz proved no exception to the rule. In fact, if it was an exception in any way it was in the degree of badness—but there is no need anticipating an unpleasant subject. I may say right here, however, that I think that nearly all of this wonderful run is now over paved roads and deserves to be far more popular than it is.

Following Ocean Drive southward from the Cliff House in Golden Gate Park, a few miles down the coast the highway swings landward to Sloat Avenue, which we pursued to Colma. Here the road turns to the left and closely follows the ocean through a number of small fisher villages and beach resorts. There are some long and rather heavy grades in places, but they are atoned for by inspiring views of rugged coast and shining sea, particularly at San Pedro Point, just below Salada, where we enjoyed a far-reaching vista from an elevation of several hundred feet above the sea. Beyond Montara grade the road drops down into the fertile plains about Half Moon Bay. Here is the famous artichoke section of California and we saw hundreds upon hundreds of acres of the succulent vegetable in the vicinity of the village. There is also a delightful alternate route to Half Moon Bay which we took on another occasion, following the main highway to San Mateo, where a well-improved macadam road swings to the left and plunges into the hill range between the bay and the ocean. It winds in graceful curves and easy grades among the giant hills, passing several of the huge fresh-water lakes of the San Francisco water supply system. This route is the easier one, but hardly the equal of the coast in scenic grandeur.

Half Moon Bay is a forlorn-looking little town with a decidedly un-American appearance—which is not so strange since the inhabitants, who engage in fishing or in cultivating the endless artichoke fields about the place, are mostly Portuguese and Italians. Thinking that Half Moon Bay, notwithstanding its unprepossessing looks, was about our only chance for luncheon before we should reach Santa Cruz, we inquired of the bank cashier, who responded rather dubiously, it seemed to us, that the French Hotel was the "best to be had in town." We found it a second-class country inn whose main business was evidently done in the bar-room, which occupied the most prominent place in the building. The lunch hour was past but the proprietor went to considerable trouble to prepare a hot meal, which, we agreed in Yorkshire parlance, "might have been worse." Outside there was a little garden with some wonderful roses and, altogether, the inn was neater and cleaner than appearances had led us to expect.

Our real troubles began when we left the town, for a rougher, meaner and more uncomfortable fifty miles we hardly found in all our wanderings in the Golden State. A new macadam road was being built to Pescadero, twenty miles south, and was just at the stage calculated to most distress the motorist. We wallowed through miles of loose, sharp stones, made long detours through the rough, steep hills, crept over shaky bridges, plunged down and out of huge gulches and crawled through miles of rough, stony trails, deep with dust. Pescadero, which marks the end of the railroad, is as lonely and wretched a little hamlet as one will find in California; in fact, it took quite a mental effort to assure ourselves that we really were in California—it reminded us so strongly of some of the old-world villages we had seen. We took on "gas" at a dilapidated smithy recently decorated with a huge "garage" sign, though I doubt if a sizable car could have gotten inside. Beyond Pescadero the road was still rough, dusty and steep in places, but it was free from construction work and we made better time. Beyond Swanton the road steadily improved. When we came into Santa Cruz the sun was still high and by grace of the long evening we were able to reach Del Monte by way of Watsonville and Salinas shortly after dark. It is superfluous to remark on the satisfaction we experienced in reaching such a haven of rest after an unusually strenuous and uncomfortable run.

We lingered in the pleasant surroundings until afternoon of the following day, making an easy and eventless run to Stockton for the night. We had seen enough of forced schedules and long hours to determine us to make the run to Los Angeles by easier stages. Leaving Stockton in the late forenoon, we soon reached the little city of Modesto, which hopes some day to be the official gateway of Yosemite. Perhaps it was in anticipation of this distinction that two immense hotels, the Modesto and the Hughson, seemingly out of all proportion to any possible need, were being built. The former was practically completed, a seven-story concrete structure with all modern hotel improvements and conveniences, including ballroom, roof garden, and swimming pool. The Hughson was even larger and we could not help wondering if the hotel business in Modesto were not in danger of being slightly overdone.

At Merced we found another handsome new hotel, the Capitan, which would be a credit to a city with several times Merced's four or five thousand people, but perhaps the Yosemite traffic justifies the enterprise of the builders. We paused here for lunch and I was greatly amused at a conversation which I overheard in the lobby, illustrating the effect of the California microbe upon so many visiting Easterners. A gentleman wearing a light summer suit, a white hat and white shoes, and carrying a camera and golf bag—the very personification of a man who was enjoying life to the limit—was just leaving for the train.

"Well," queried a friend who met him, "are you about ready to go back to Peoria?"

"Go back to Peoria!—go back to Peoria!! I'm never going back to Peoria if I live a hundred years. Say, do you know that I wouldn't take all the Eastern States as a gift if I had to live in 'em, after having lived in California?"

A straight, level road runs from Merced to Fresno on the south, one of the finest links of the inland route of the new state highway. We found much of it under construction at the time and in passing around through the wheatfields we struck some of the deepest dust and roughest running that we found anywhere. We made up for it when we came back into the finished portion, which extended for several miles north of Fresno. It is a perfect road—concrete with a "carpet" of crushed stone and asphaltum rolled as smooth and hard as polished slate. It runs for miles through wheatfields, whose magnitude may be judged from the fact that we saw a dozen ten-mule teams ploughing one tract. Near Fresno we ran into the endless vineyards which surround the raisin town and which looked green and prosperous, despite the drouth which had nearly ruined the wheat. The raisin crop is one of Fresno County's greatest sources of wealth, netting the growers over five million dollars yearly. The abundant sunshine makes the grapes too sweet for light wines, though there were several wineries producing the heavier quality, which was mostly shipped to Europe, where it was blended with lighter wine and sent back strictly an "imported product." This practice, of course, became obsolete with the advent of prohibition, but the Fresno growers, as is the case everywhere, are now reaping the greatest profits in their history.

Fresno, with a population of nearly fifty thousand, has quadrupled in size in the last twenty years. It is thoroughly metropolitan in appearance and in public and private improvements. The Hotel Fresno is an immense fireproof structure of marble and concrete that will compare favorably with the best hotels in many cities ten times as large as Fresno, and here on our first visit we proposed to stop for the night, but changed our plan when we found that a road out of the town crosses the mountain ranges to the sea. We had not forgotten our failure to see San Antonio and La Purisima on our upward trek—and determined to seize the opportunity to get back to the coast. Paso Robles seemed the only satisfactory stopping place for the following night, but if we stayed in Fresno we could hardly hope to reach the "Pass of the Oaks" the next day. The road cuts squarely across the desert to Coalinga and we found ourselves wondering what kind of accommodations we should find at Coalinga. A garage man said he had been there once—a place of five hundred people, he guessed, and there was a pretty good boarding-house down by the depot. Not a very attractive prospect, to be sure, but Coalinga was the only town between Fresno and the mountains. It was some sixty miles distant, and by hitting a lively pace we could reach it by dark—if we had no ill luck.

For ten miles out of Fresno we followed Palm Drive—a splendid boulevard between rows of stately palms, the largest we had seen in California. At the end of the drive we turned sharply to the left following an unimproved road into the desert. This road is as level as a floor—a perfect boulevard in dry weather—though abandoned ruts indicated pretty heavy work after the infrequent rains. For the entire distance there was little variation; about midway we came to a green belt of pastures and trees along Kings River, and a new railroad was being built through this section. A native at a little wayside store—the only station on the way—told us that this desert land, counted worthless a few years ago, was now worth as much as twenty-five dollars per acre and that it was all capable of being farmed. It certainly did not look so; a white, alkali-frosted plain tufted with greasewood and teeming with jack-rabbits stretched away to distant hills on either side. The road meandered onward at its own sweet will and when it became too rough or dusty in spots it was only necessary to take another tack to have an entirely new boulevard. We did some lively going over the hard, smooth surface, which made forty miles seem a fairly moderate pace, but we were at a sore loss when we came to a branch road in the middle of the plain, with nothing to indicate which led to our destination. We had just decided to take the wrong one when an auto hove into sight and we paused to inquire.

"Straight ahead on the road, my brother; you can't miss it now and when you get to Coalinga go to Smith's garage, and God bless you."

We concluded that we must have run across a peripatetic evangelist, but when we went to Smith's garage—only it wasn't Smith's—after dinner to get an article from the car, we found our pious friend manager of the place.

As we came near the range of brown hills beneath which the town lies, we saw a row of oil-derricks running for miles along the side of the valley, for here is the greatest oil-producing section of California. The oil fields have made Coalinga, which we were surprised and pleased to find a live-looking town of several thousand people, with an excellent modern hotel quite the equal of the best country town hostelries.

Coalinga is full of California "boost;" our friend at the garage endeavored to enlist our sympathy in a movement to put the town on the state highway map—though I failed to see how we could be of much use to the enterprise.

"O, a word from tourists always helps, my brother. You can write a letter to the commissioners and tell them that we need the road and I reckon you'll know that we need it if you cross the hills to King City, as you propose. You'll find it something fierce, I can promise you; crooked, rough, stony, steep—lucky if you get through without a breakdown. There are one hundred and fifty fords in the sixty miles—no, I don't mean Ford automobiles, but creeks and rivers. It's shoot down a steep bank and jump out, and the sharp stones won't help your tires any, either. There are some grades, too, I want to tell you, but your rig looks as if they wouldn't worry her much. But when you get across, write a line to the Highway Commission and tell them something about it. So long! God bless you all."

When we waved our pious monitor adios and resumed our journey, it was still early morning. Of course we took the one hundred and fifty fords as a pleasant bit of exaggeration—we couldn't use a stronger term in view of our friend's evident piety; but we found, in slang parlance, that his statement was literally "no joke." We kept count of the times we crossed streams of running water and there were just one hundred and eighteen, and enough had dried up to make full measure for Mr. Smith's estimate, with a few to spare. And fearfully rough going it was—sharp plunges down steep banks, splashing through shallow streams, over stones and sand, and wild scrambles up the opposite side, an experience repeated every few minutes. At times the trail followed the bed of a stream or meandered closely along the shores, never getting very far away for the first dozen miles. Then we entered a hill range, barren at first, but gradually becoming wooded and overlooking long valleys studded with groups of oak and sycamore, with green vistas underneath. There was some strenuous work over the main mountain range, where the road was a narrow shelf cut in solid rock, with a precipice above and below. It had many heavy grades and sharp, dangerous turns; we all breathed a sigh of relief when we found ourselves in the valley on the western side of the range. Here were more streams to be forded—one of them a sizable river, which we crossed several times.

At last we came out into the King City highway and paused a moment to look ourselves over. The car was plastered with sand and mire from stem to stern; tires had suffered sadly from the rocky bottoms of the streams, and a front spring was broken. We agreed that crossing from Coalinga to King City was an experience one would hardly care to repeat except under stringent necessity.

The run to King City, after we had left the hills, was easy, enabling us to make up somewhat for the time consumed in crossing the range. A flock of more than two thousand sheep, driven along the highway, impeded our progress for half an hour and served to remind us of one of the great industries of the Salinas Valley.

A little foraging about King City provided a passable luncheon, which we ate under one of the mighty oaks at the foot of Jolon grade. In repassing this road, we were more than ever impressed with the beauty of the trees; thousands of ancient oaks dotted the landscape on either hand, some standing in solitary majesty and others clustered in picturesque groups. Dutton's Hotel at Jolon is nearly a century old, portions of it dating from mission days, and the proprietor is an enthusiast on historic California, having collected a goodly number of old-time relics in a little museum just across the road from the inn. Most of these came from San Antonio and the inn-keeper is anxiously looking forward to the day when he can return these treasures to the restored mission—though this, alas, does not appear to be in the near future.

It was to visit this ruin, which we missed on our northward trip, that we crossed the desert and mountains from Fresno to King City. It is one of the remotest and loneliest of the chain, the nearest railway station being King City, forty miles away. It stands six miles west of Jolon and we followed a rutty trail, deep with fine, yellow dust which rolled in strangling clouds from our wheels. But a lovely country on either hand glimmered through the dust haze, and in the pleasantest spot at the head of the wide valley stood the brown old ruin of San Antonio Mission. Behind it towered the high blue peaks of the Santa Lucias, the only barrier remaining between the valley and the sea, while the windowless, burnt-brick fachada fronted upon a wide meadowland, dotted with glorious oaks and gnarled old willows, stretching away to the dim outlines of the distant hills.

It was one of the most delightful sites we had yet seen, and the ruin had a certain melancholy picturesqueness peculiar to it alone. Like so many of its contemporaries, it suffered severely from earthquakes; about twenty-five years ago the roof fell and the shattered walls would soon have followed had not an enthusiastic lover of the old order of things—a gentleman of Spanish descent residing near Jolon—undertaken at his own time and expense to clear away the debris and protect the ruin against farther onslaught of the weather. A shingle roof was built covering the entire church and the original tiles were piled inside. The fachada, built of burnt brick, with three entrances and three belfries, is one of the most charming bits of mission architecture still remaining and is happily almost intact. Portions of the long cloisters are still standing—enough to furnish the motif for a complete restoration, and with adequate funds it would not be a difficult matter to restore San Antonio Mission Church to its former state.

Inside, the church was quite denuded; birds and squirrels had found a convenient home and flitted or scampered about as we entered. A huge gray owl flapped heavily out of an empty window and everything combined to impress upon us the loneliness and isolation of this once rich and prosperous mission. In one corner we descried the huge cast-iron community pot which might hold a hundred or two gallons and which once contained food for the unmarried folk among the Indians—the married had to do their own cooking. Inside the dismantled chancel were the graves of the first four missionaries of San Antonio, still the objects of reverent remembrance by the only Indian family of the vicinity.

Out of the church we came into the ancient patio, marked by crumbling arches and shapeless piles of adobe. Here a few scraggly rose bushes—descendants of those which once ornamented the garden of the padres—bloomed in neglected corners, and two old olives still defied time and weather. It was a quiet spot; its silence and loneliness were almost oppressive; but we soon heard sounds from beyond the wall and found two Mexicans digging a grave, for burials are still made in the old cemetery. A little way to the rear San Antonio Creek—now a trickling thread of water—winds through a fringe of ancient willows, and cattle were pasturing quietly in the shade. One can not escape the spell of the ruin and its surroundings. It is no wonder that an appreciative historian of the California missions declares that San Antonio appeals to him as do none of its rivals, that—"There is a pathetic dignity about the ruin, an unexpressed claim for sympathy in the perfect solitude of the place that is almost overpowering. It stands out in the fields alone, deserted, forgotten." True, he wrote before the coming of the motor, which is doing something to rescue San Antonio Mission from complete oblivion; but the Mexican grave-digger said that even motor visitors were not frequent. Evidently many of the wayfarers on El Camino Real do not consider the twelve-mile detour worth while; but we would count ourselves well repaid had it consumed an entire day instead of an hour or two. If San Gabriel and Dolores may be compared as tourist shrines to Melrose and Dryburgh, surely San Antonio may vie in sentiment and charm with some of the out-of-the-way and lesser-known abbeys of Britain such as Glenluce or Calder. In this quiet and isolated spot there is hardly field for it as a church institution and restoration will have to be done by individuals or by the state. It would be a pity to allow this delightful example of early mission architecture to fall into the hopeless ruin of Soledad or La Purisima.

San Antonio has the added charm of being one of the oldest of the California missions. It was the third of the series, its foundation closely following that of Monterey. Serra himself, assisted by Pieras and Sitjar, conducted the ceremonies of consecration which took place July 14, 1771. One lone Indian was present on the occasion, but others were brought in before the day closed and the relations of priest and natives were harmonious from the start. San Antonio throughout its career was remarkably free from strife and trouble; the natives were industrious and peaceful and gladly joined in the work of building, and tilling the soil. The first church was completed two years after the foundation, and as late as 1787 was regarded as the best in California. The present church was begun in 1810 and dedicated a few years later. It is of adobe excepting the fachada of burnt brick, whose perfect condition makes us regret that the whole mission could not have been built of the same enduring material. The greatest Indian population was thirteen hundred and nine in 1805, which had declined to two hundred and seventy in 1834, the year of secularization. In 1843 the mission was restored to the church and nominally occupied until about forty years ago. At that time the buildings were in a fair state and the present ruin was wrought chiefly by earthquake.

Pausing a moment for one more survey of the lovely valley and with a lingering look at the romantic old ruin over which the shadows of evening were beginning to lower, we were away for Paso Robles, which we reached before nightfall.

We retraced our way over El Camino Real the following morning as far as Santa Margarita, from whence we diverged to the coast road. For on our outward journey we had missed another of the missions—La Purisima, situated a few miles from Lompoc. The road which we followed out of Santa Margarita was unmercifully rough, and a fierce wind from the sea blinded us with clouds of dust and sand. We were glad when we reached the shelter of the giant hills, just beyond which lay the object of our pilgrimage. The ascent seemed almost interminable; the yellow road swept along the hillsides, rising steadily in long loops which we could see winding downward as we looked back from the summit. The grade was not heavy, but continuous; the descent was shorter and steeper and we dropped quickly into the pleasant valley of the Santa Ynez, where stands the isolated village of Lompoc.