Chapter II: Part 2

Tahoe Tavern, with its myriad lights, was a welcome sight, none the less, after an exceedingly strenuous trip, the personal details of which I have forborne to inflict upon the reader. We were given rooms in the new annex, a frame-and-shingle building, and were delighted to find that our windows opened upon the moonlit lake. The mountain tops on the opposite shore were shrouded in heavy clouds through which the moon struggled at intervals, transmuting the clear, still surface of the lake from a dark, dull mirror to a softly lighted sheet of water with a path of gleaming silver running across it. Directly a thunder storm broke over the eastern shore--very uncommon in summer, we were told--and we had the spectacle of clouds and lake lighted weirdly by flashes of lightning. The thunder rolling among the peaks and across the water brought vividly to our minds Byron’s description of a thunderstorm on Lake Geneva in the Alps. For a short time it seemed as if “every mountain peak had found a tongue,” but the storm died away without crossing the lake.

We may as well admit that we failed to carry out our resolution to see sunrise on the lake, for we did not waken until the sun was shining broadly into our window, to which we hastened for a first impression of Tahoe by daylight. We beheld a smooth, steel-blue sheet of water with a sharply defined mountain range in the distance--no suggestion of the color miracle we had heard so much about; we learned that you must see Tahoe from many viewpoints and at many periods of the day to know a few of the myriad phases of its beauty.

Tahoe Tavern, a huge, brown, rambling building in a fine grove of pines, fronts directly on a little bay and commands a glorious outlook of lake and distant mountains. It is a delightfully retired and quiet place, ideal for rest and recuperation, while the surrounding country is unmatched in scenic attractions for those inclined to exploration, whether by steamer, motor, on horseback, or afoot. We found the service and the cuisine equal to the best resort hotels in California--and that is saying a great deal, since California in this particular leads the world. The Tavern’s popularity is evidenced by the fact that the main building, capable of accommodating several hundred guests, has been supplemented by the large annex and even then in season it is well to engage rooms in advance of arrival. Here we found a quiet yet exhilarating spot, the toil and tumult of the busy world shut out by impregnable mountain barriers, where one may repose and commune with nature in her grandest and most enchanting aspects.

After making the acquaintance of the friendly chipmunks about the inn--which have so far overcome their natural timidity as to take morsels from your fingers or even to rifle your pockets in search of peanuts--and laughing at the antics of the blue jays, almost as fearless, we decided to board the excursion steamer, which makes a daily round of the lake. Once out from the shore and well started on our southward journey, we began to realize something of the wonderful colorings that no one who has seen Tahoe can ever forget. About us the water was of the deepest, clearest, ultra-marine blue, shading by many gradations into emerald green near the shores. The colors were more intense than we had ever seen before in any body of water and cannot be entirely due to great depth, for though the bottom of Tahoe in places is nearly two thousand feet below the surface, the hue is deeper than that of the ocean. It is more like liquid, transparent lapis-lazuli, if we may imagine such a thing, than anything else I can think of. No doubt the depth of the water and the deep azure of the skies are the chief elements in producing this glorious effect. Yet, for all its blueness, we could see the bottom of the lake as we steamed along--indeed, they told us that only in the deepest places is the bottom invisible on clear, still days.

We followed the coast at a little distance, stopping at the different stations, chiefly camps and resorts of various degrees. Most of these are along the west side of the lake between Tahoe and Tallac, and scattered between them are many summer villas, chiefly of San Francisco people. This part of the shore is the most picturesque, being well wooded, while much of the eastern side is lined with barren and rocky mountains. At Rubicon Point, mighty cliffs rise high above the lake and their sheer walls extend far beneath the water that laves their base. Here is the deepest, bluest water that we cross, and they tell us one of the best fishing spots. Passing from the ultramarine deeps of the Rubicon Point, we round a sharply jutting promontory and glide into the jade-green waters of Emerald Bay, a long, oval-shaped inlet at the southern end of the lake. Surely, it is rightly named, for here green predominates, from the steep sides of the encircling hills to the very center of the shallow bay. At the upper end of the bay, rising almost sheer from the green water, is a rocky, scantily-wooded island where for many years an eccentric Englishman made his home. Nearly opposite on the shore is Emerald Bay Camp, perhaps the most popular of the many permanent camps around the lake. At Tallac the steamer stops for an hour to give opportunity for luncheon at the huge wooden hotel built many years ago by the late “Lucky” Baldwin. It stands in a grove of splendid pines and on a site in some ways superior to that of the tavern. Certainly the surrounding country is more picturesque and has more to interest the tourist. Just over the hills is the beautiful Fallen Leaf Lake and there are several other jewel-like tarns set in the hills a little to the west, while Cascade Lake and Emerald Bay are within walking distance. During luncheon one of our party expressed disappointment that the coloring of the lake hardly measured up to expectations formed from the enthusiastic descriptions of guidebooks and railroad literature.

“You can never see the color beauties of a lake at their best from a boat,” I declared. “We once had the opportunity of making the Great Glen trip by steamer and a year later of following these splendid Scotch lakes with our car; the effects of color and light which we saw on the latter trip were indescribably the more glorious.”

“Then let’s abandon the boat and hire a car for the return trip to the Tavern,”--a proposition to which all agreed. The car, a good one, was easily secured and we were soon away on what has been described as the most beautiful twenty-five mile drive in the world--a true claim so far as we know; the Columbia River Boulevard or Crater Lake road may rival it for scenic beauty, though these are perhaps too different for fair comparison.

The day was perfect, crystal clear except for a few white clouds drifting lazily across the sky or resting on the summits of the mountains beyond the lake; a day which our driver, an agreeable and intelligent young fellow, declared ideal for seeing Tahoe at its best. For a few miles out of Tallac we ran through a pine forest, catching fugitive glimpses of the blue water through the stately trunks. As we ascended the ridge overlooking Emerald Bay, exclamations of delight were frequent and enthusiastic as the magnificent panorama gradually unfolded to our view. The climax was reached when our driver paused at the summit of the ridge, where the whole of Tahoe spread out before us. Just beneath on one hand lay Emerald Bay; on the other gleamed Cascade Lake--a perfect gem in glorious setting of rock and tree. And the glory of color that greeted our eyes! Exaggerated in descriptions? No mortal language ever conveyed a tithe of its iridescent beauty and never will. One of the ladies exclaimed, “It is like a great black opal,” and knowing her passion for that gem, we recognized the sincerity of her tribute. And, indeed, the comparison was not inapt. There were the elusive, changeful greens and blues, the dark purples, and the strange, uncertain play of light and color that characterizes that mysterious gem. Near the shore line the greens predominated, reaching the deepest intensity in Emerald Bay, just below. Passing through many variations of color, the greens merged into the deep blues and farther out in the lake purple hues seemed to prevail. Along the opposite shore ran the rugged mountain range, the summits touched by cloud-masses which held forth the slightest threat of a summer shower--and, indeed, it came just before we reached the tavern. Overhead the sky was of the deepest azure and clear save for a few tiny white clouds mirrored in the gloriously tinted water. Altogether, the scene was a combination of transcendent color with a setting of rugged yet beautiful country that we have never seen equalled elsewhere and which we have no words to fittingly describe. Even the master artist fails here, since he can but express one mood of the lake--while it has a thousand every day. We have seen the Scotch, Italian and English lakes; we sailed the length of George and Champlain; we admired the mountain glories of Yellowstone Lake; we viewed Klamath and Crater Lakes from mountain heights, but none of them matched the wonderful color variations of Tahoe.

But we are on our way again, descending and climbing long grades which pass through pine forests and come out on headlands from which we gain new and entrancing views of lake and mountains. The road was completed only recently, but it is good in the main, though there are steep pitches and some rough and dusty stretches. At times it takes us out of sight of the lake, but we are compensated by wild and rugged scenery--towering crags and massive walls of gray stone--rising above us on every hand. The road must have presented considerable engineering difficulties; our driver points out a place where a mighty rock of a thousand tons or more was blasted to fragments to clear the way. Far above us on the mountain crests we see gleaming patches of snow which the late summer sun has not been able to dispel. We cross clear mountain streams and wind through groves of pine and spruce. Often as we climb or descend the long grades we come upon new vistas of the lake and mountains and occasionally we ask for a moment’s delay to admire some especially beautiful scene. Then we descend almost to the level of the water, which we see flashing through stately trunks or rippling upon clear, pebbly beaches. We pass various resorts, each surrounded by pines and commanding a beautiful view of the lake. As we approach the Tavern the summer shower that has been threatening begins and to the color glories of sky and lake are added the diamond-like brilliance of the big drops, for the sun is unobscured by the clouds. Beyond a stretch of smooth water, dimmed to dull silver by the blue-gray vapor hanging over it, a rainbow hovers in front of the dim outlines of the distant hills. It was a fitting climax to the most inspiring drive in the many thousands of miles covered by our wanderings.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon and the evening about the Tavern. Especially we admired the casino with its arcade fronting directly on the lake; here amusements of every description tempt the guest who finds time heavy on his hands, but we found more enjoyment in the beautiful scenes from the wide arches. Near by we found a photograph shop in charge of our friend, Valentine of Los Angeles, some of whose splendid pictures adorn this book. He had come to Tahoe before the roads were clear and told us of some desperate work in getting through, spending the night in his car while stuck in a snowdrift.

Circumstances made it impracticable that we remain longer at the Tavern and we left the next morning for Sacramento with the mental resolution that we would come again at our earliest opportunity. That opportunity came a little more than a year later. We again found ourselves in Sacramento on the beginning of the northern tour covered by this book. We had discarded our trouble-making hired car for our own machine, long, low, and heavy, so solidly built that not a single part gave way under the terribly severe conditions of the tour.

Out of Sacramento we followed the new state highway, then almost completed to Placerville. On the way to Folsom we saw much of gold mining under modern conditions. Monstrous floating steam dredges were eating their way through the fields and for miles had thrown up great ridges of stones and gravel from which the gold had been extracted by a process of washing. Something less than two million dollars annually is produced in Sacramento County, mainly by this process, and the cobblestones, after being crushed by powerful machinery, serve the very useful purpose of road-building. Beyond Folsom the highway winds through uninteresting hills covered with short brown grass and diversified with occasional oak trees. We kept a pretty steady upward trend as we sped toward the blue hill ranges, but there were no grades worth mentioning west of Placerville. Before we reached the town we entered the splendid pine forest which continues all the way to Tahoe.

Placerville has little to recall its old-time sobriquet of Hangtown, the name by which it figures in Bret Harte’s stories. Here, indeed, was the very storm center of the early gold furor--but five miles to the north is Coloma, where Marshall picked up the nugget that turned the eyes of the world to California in ’49. Over the very road which we were to pursue out of the town poured the living tide of gold seekers which spread out through all the surrounding country. To-day, however, Placerville depends little on mining; its narrow, crooked main street and a few ancient buildings are the only reminders of its old-time rough-and-tumble existence. It is a prosperous town of three thousand people and handsome homes, with well-kept lawns, are not uncommon. We also noted a splendid new courthouse of Spanish colonial design wrought in white marble, a fine example of the public spirit that prevails in even the more retired California communities. The site of the town is its greatest drawback. Wedged as it is in the bottom of a vast canyon, there is little possibility of regularity in streets and much work has been necessary to prepare sites for homes and public buildings. A certain picturesqueness and delightful informality compensates for all this and the visitor is sure to be pleased with the Placerville of to-day aside from its romantic history. Two fairly comfortable hotels invite the traveler to stop and make more intimate acquaintance with the town, which a recent writer declares is noted for its charming women--an attraction which it lacked in its romantic mining days.

Beyond Placerville the road climbs steadily, winding through the giant hills and finally crossing the American River, which we followed for many miles--now far above with the green stream gleaming through the pines and again coursing along its very banks. There are many deciduous trees among the evergreens on these hills and the autumn coloring lent a striking variation to the somber green of the pines. We had never before realized that there were so many species besides conifers on the California mountains. Maples and aspens were turning yellow and crimson and many species of vines and creepers lent brilliant color dashes to the scene. There was much indeed to compensate for the absence of the flowers which bloom in profusion earlier in the season. We passed several comfortable-looking inns and resorts whose names--Sportsman’s Hall, for instance--indicated retreats for hunters and fishermen.

Georgetown, some forty miles above Placerville, is the only town worthy of the name between the latter place and Tahoe. Beyond here we began the final ascent to the summit of the divide over a road that winds upwards in long loops with grades as high as twenty-five per cent. There were many fine vistas of hill and valley, rich in autumn colorings that brightened the green of the pines and blended into the pale lavender haze that shrouded the distant hills. From the summit, at an altitude of seventy-four hundred feet, we had a vast panorama of lake, forest, and mountain--but I might be accused of monotonous repetition were I to endeavor to describe even a few of the scenes that enchanted us. Every hilltop, every bend in the road, and every opening through the forests that lined our way presented views which, taken alone, might well delight the beholder for hours--only their frequent recurrence tended to make them almost commonplace to us.

From photo by Putnam & Valentine, Los Angeles, Cal.]

The descent to the lake is somewhat steeper than the western slope, but the road is wide with broad turns and we had no trouble in passing a big yellow car that was rushing the grade with wide-open “cut-out” in a crazy endeavor to get as far as possible on “high.” Coming down to Myers, a little supply station at the foot of the grade, we learned that the Tavern and many other resorts were already closed and decided to pass the night at Glenbrook, about midway on the eastern shore of the lake. For a dozen miles after leaving Myers, our road ran alternately through forests and green meadows--the meadows about Tahoe remain green the summer through--finally coming to the lake shore, which we followed closely for the twenty miles to Glenbrook. Most of the way the road runs only a few feet above the water level and we had many glorious vistas differing from anything we had yet seen. In the low afternoon sun the color had largely vanished and we saw only a sheet of gleaming silver edged with clearest crystal, which made the pebbly bottom plainly visible for some distance from the shore. Here an emerald meadow with sleek-looking cattle--there are many cattle in the Tahoe region--lay between us and the shining water; again it gleamed through the trunks of stately pines. For a little while it was lost to view as we turned into the forest which crowded closely to the roadside, only to come back in a moment to a new view--each one different and seemingly more entrancing than the last, culminating in the wonderful spectacle from Cave Rock. This is a bold promontory, pierced beneath by the caves that give its name, rising perhaps one hundred feet above the water and affording a view of almost the entire lake and the encircling mountains. On the western side the mountains throw their serrated peaks against the sky, while to the far north they showed dimly through a thin blue haze. The lake seemed like a great sapphire shot with gold from the declining sun--altogether a different aspect in color, light and shadow from anything we had witnessed before. We paused awhile to admire the scene along with several other wayfarers--pedestrians, cyclists, and motorists who were alike attracted by the glorious spectacle.

Two or three miles farther brought us to Glenbrook, a quiet nook at the foot of mighty hills, pine-clad to the very summits. The hotel is a large but unpretentious structure directly by the roadside and fronting on the lake. In connection with the inn is a group of rustic cottages, one of which was assigned to us. It had a new bathroom adjoining and there was a little sheet-iron stove with fuel all laid for a fire--which almost proved a “life-saver” in the sharp, frosty air of the following morning. The cottage stood directly on the lake shore and afforded a magnificent view of the sunset, which I wish I were able to adequately describe. A sea of fire glowed before us as the sun went down behind the mountains, which were dimmed by the twilight shadows. Soon the shadows gave place to a thin amethyst haze which brought out sharply against the western sky the contour of every peak and pinnacle. The amethyst deepened to purple, followed by a crimson afterglow which, with momentary color variations, continued for nearly an hour; then the light gradually faded from the sky and the lake took on an almost ebony hue--a dark, splendid mirror for the starlit heavens.

The excellent dinner menu of the inn was a surprise; we hardly expected it in such a remote place. They told us that the inn maintains its own gardens and dairy, and the steamer brings supplies daily. The inn keeps open only during the season, which usually extends from May to October, but there is some one in charge the year round and no one who comes seeking accommodations is ever turned away. Though completely isolated by deep snows from all land communication, the steamer never fails, since the lake does not freeze, even in the periods of below-zero weather. We found the big lounging room, with its huge chimney and crackling log fire, a very comfortable and cheery place to pass the evening and could easily see how anyone seeking rest and quiet might elect to sojourn many days at Glenbrook. But Glenbrook was not always so delightfully quiet and rural. Years ago, back in the early eighties, it was a good-sized town with a huge saw mill that converted much of the forest about the lake into lumber. There are still hundreds of old piles that once supported the wharves, projecting out of the water of the little bay in front of the hotel--detracting much from the beauty of the scene.

We were astir in the morning, wondering what the aspect of our changeful lake might be in the dawning light; and sure enough, the change was there--a cold, steel blue sheet of water, rippling into silver in places. Near the shore all was quiet, not a wave lapping the beach as on the previous night. The mountains beyond the lake were silhouetted with startling distinctness against a silvery sky, and on many of the summits were flecks of snow that had outlasted the summer.

We had thought to go on to Reno by the way of Carson City, but we could not bring ourselves to leave the lake and so we decided to go by way of Truckee, even though we had previously covered the road. It proved a fortunate decision, for we saw another shifting of the wonderful Tahoe scenery--the morning coloring was different from that of the afternoon and evening. We had the good fortune to pick up an old inhabitant of Tahoe City whose car had broken down on one of the heavy grades and who told us much about the lake and the country around it. He had lived near Tahoe for more than thirty-five years and could remember the days of the prospectors and saw mills. Nearly all the timber about the lake is of new growth since the lumbering days. This accounts for the absence of large trees except in a few spots which escaped the lumberman’s ax. Yellow pines, firs, and cedars prevail, with occasional sugar pines and some deciduous varieties. It is, indeed, a pity that Tahoe and the surrounding hills were not set aside as a national park before so much of the country had passed into private hands.

A fairly good road has been constructed for nearly three quarters of the distance around the lake and a very indifferent wagon road from Tahoe City to Glenbrook completes the circuit. The latter we did not cover, being assured that it was very difficult if not impassable for motors. Plans are under way for a new road around the northern end of the lake, which will enable the motorist to encircle this wonderful body of water--a trip of about eighty miles--and will afford endless viewpoints covering scenes of unparalleled beauty. The whole of the road about the lake ought to be improved--widened and surfaced and some of the steeper grades and more dangerous turns eliminated. It might then be the “boulevard” that one enthusiastic writer characterizes it, even in its present condition, but in our own humble opinion it has a long way to go before it deserves such a title.

At the Tavern we reluctantly turned away from the lake--it seemed to us as if we could never weary of its changeful beauty--and for the next dozen miles we followed the course of the Truckee River, at no time being more than a few rods distant from it. It is a clear, swift stream with greenish color tones and was still of fair size, though at its lowest ebb. Our road at times ran directly alongside within a few feet of its banks; again a sharp pitch carried us some distance above it and afforded fine views of valley and river. None of the grades were long, but one or two are steep, exceeding twenty per cent. The railroad, a flimsy, narrow-gauge affair, closely parallels the river and wagon road, but it is kept running the year round and keeps the scanty winter population about Tahoe in touch with the world.

Truckee is a typical wild western village with rather more than its share of saloons. These are well patronized, for there is a large working population in and about the town. It is a railroad division; a saw mill near by employs eight hundred men and a large paper pulp factory nearly as many. All of which contribute to make it a lively place and its Chamber of Commerce has organized a winter Ice Carnival for the purpose of giving those Californians who live on the coast and in the great central valleys an opportunity of seeing what real winter is like and enjoying its sports. The carnival opens on Christmas Day and continues until the middle of March. A huge ice palace is devoted to skating and dancing, while tobogganing, skiing and sleighing are the outdoor amusements. They told us that so far the festival has proven a great success, attracting people from every part of the state.

Out of Truckee we ran for fifteen or twenty miles through a barren sagebrush country with only an occasional tumble-down abandoned ranch house to break the monotony of the scene. The road was fine, but it took a sudden turn for the worse when we entered the straggling yellow pine forest that covers the hill range between Truckee and Reno. It was rough and stony in spots and we climbed steadily for several miles. We saw some pretty scenery, however, for the mighty forest rose to the very summits of the rugged hills above us and followed the dark canyon below downward to the river’s edge. Beyond the summit we began the descent of Dog Canyon--whence its poetical designation we did not learn--the longest and steepest straight grade we encountered in several thousand miles of mountaineering. For seven miles or more it drops down the side of the canyon without a single turn, the grades ranging from six to twenty per cent, deep with dust and very rough in places, a trying descent on brakes and driver. We met a few cars scrambling wearily up with steaming radiators and growling gears, but what more excited our sympathies were several canvas-covered wagons drawn by reeking horses that seemed ready to drop in their tracks from exhaustion. At the foot of the grade just beyond the Nevada line, we came into the village of Verdi, directly on the river and evidently the destination of many of the pine logs we had seen along our road, for here was a large saw mill. Beyond Verdi we followed the Truckee, bordered by emerald green alfalfa fields just being mown. The yield was immense, indicating a rich, well-watered soil, but in the main the ranch houses were small and poor, with squalid surroundings. Nearer Reno, however, we noted some improvement and occasionally we passed a neat and prosperous-looking ranch house. Coming into the town we sought the Riverside Hotel, which is rightly named, for it stands directly on the banks of the Truckee. We had difficulty in getting satisfactory accommodations--court was in session and it was opening day of the races, with a consequent influx of litigants and sports. We learned later that Reno is always a busy town and advance hotel arrangements should not be neglected by prospective guests.

III

RENO TO KLAMATH FALLS

Reno has acquired a nation-wide fame for its “wide open” proclivities and we fear that much of the prosperity we saw on every hand may be due to its liberal though generally deprecated practices. The 1910 census gave the town a population of about ten thousand and if we allow a gain of as much as fifty per cent since then, it is still no more than a good-sized village so far as people are concerned. However this may be, its buildings, public and private, its streets and residences, its shops and hotels, would do credit to the average eastern town of from thirty to fifty thousand. One bank building we especially noted would not be out of place on Fifth Avenue and the courthouse, postoffice, the Y. M. C. A. building, and the theaters are all out of the small-town class. On the ridge east of the river, surrounded by beautiful grounds, are numerous handsome residences built by old-time mining magnates, most of whom are now dead.

Mining was the foundation of Reno’s prosperity and it cuts considerable figure in the commerce of the town at present. The greater part of its business activity, however, is due to the rich farming country that surrounds the city, to the railroad machine shops, which employ over two thousand men, and to several minor manufacturing establishments which in the aggregate employ a considerable number of people. These are resources that may be common to many other live towns, but Reno has several sources of income quite peculiar to itself that an indulgent state legislature, largely composed of Renoans, has made possible by shrewd enactments. Here it is still lawful to race horses as in the good old days with everything wide open and bookmakers galore. A solid month each year is devoted to the speed track, during which time the sportively inclined congregate in Reno from all parts of the West and squander much ready cash in the town. Prize fighting is also permitted and here it was that Robert Fitzsimmons plucked the laurel wreath from the classic brow of Jim Corbet before an appreciative audience of fifty thousand devotees of the manly art from every corner of the country.

But Reno’s great specialty has been the loosening of the matrimonial tie--for a consideration--and many well-known and wealthy people became guests of the town for the six months’ period necessary to secure a divorce. Yielding to outside public sentiment after awhile, the legislature extended the period of residence to one year, hoping, no doubt, to get credit for righteousness--and more cash from seekers after matrimonial freedom. It killed the infant industry, however; evidently the idle rich preferred to endure the tortures of unhappy married life rather than spend a year in Reno, and they quit coming. The legislature hastened to restore the six-month clause in the statute and as a consequence the divorce mills are turning out fair grist again. Our waitress at the hotel pointed out one or two bejeweled females who were “doing time” in Reno to get rid of their incompatible mates, and declared that there was a considerable colony of both sexes in the town waiting for their papers. Some authorities intimate that two thousand dollars is the minimum sum necessary for an outsider to secure a decree in a Nevada court, but doubtless many of the multi-millionaires leave several times that sum behind them, for the citizens do their full duty in providing entertainment that will separate their guests from their cash.

It would hardly be expected that the prohibition wave now sweeping the west coast would be at all likely to cross the Nevada line--in fact, at this writing Nevada is the only state to contest with New Jersey for the doubtful honor of being all wet, where even local option has not succeeded in getting a footing. The saloons of Reno are numerous and palatial and doubtless contribute not a little to the comfort of those of the sporting fraternity who make the town their Mecca. The only attempt at sumptuary legislation is an “anti-treat” law which insists that everyone must drink at his own expense. As to gambling, I was told that this pleasant pastime has been little interfered with since the old mining days, though it is not now conducted so openly except in connection with the races.

As the metropolis and center of population of the state, Reno should logically be the capital, but this honor is held by Carson, a village of five thousand people about twenty miles to the south. Within a radius of fifty miles is grouped perhaps half the population of the state, which, with all its vast area of seventy-five thousand square miles, had but seventy-five thousand people according to the last census. No other state in the Union has such vast areas of uninhabited desert, but the natives will strive to impress upon you that a great future is assured--all that is necessary to make this sagebrush country bloom like the rose is water, and water can be had from artesian wells almost anywhere in the Nevada valleys.

However, it is quite outside my province to write a disquisition on the resources of Nevada, and I have been dwelling on Reno only because it seemed of unusual interest to me and was a stopping-place on our tour. Our hotel, the Riverside, is a huge red-brick structure standing directly on the banks of the Truckee so that its windows overlook the swift stream, which moves so rapidly that it does not lose its clearness even in the town limits. We found the Riverside fairly comfortable--it would have been still more so had we made reservations in advance--and its rates were very moderate as compared with the average Western hotel of its class. Reno occupies an important position in the motor world as a stopping-place on the Lincoln Highway and an outfitting station for much of the surrounding country. It has excellent garages with good repair facilities and its streets were thronged with cars of all degrees.

The next morning we took the road to the north out of the town roughly following the recently completed Northern California & Oregon Railroad, which gives Northeastern California and Southern Oregon an outlet to the Southern Pacific at Reno. The twenty miles in Nevada before reaching the California line gave us an opportunity to see first-hand some of the state’s resources of which they talked at Reno. The road was unexpectedly good, smooth and free from dust, with gently rolling grades. The view was quite unobstructed and permitted speed ad libitum, keeping a sharp lookout, of course, for an occasional rough spot or sandy stretch. A more desolate country than that which stretched away on either hand would be hard to imagine. A wide valley, without even sagebrush or cactus to relieve its barrenness, was guarded on both sides by ranges of bleak, rugged hills which, near at hand, seemed more like vast cinder heaps than anything else. Only the far distance was able to transform the scene and to lend something of “enchantment to the view,” softening the rough outlines with a violet haze and tinging the desert sands with hues of mauve and lavender. Trees and shrubs there were none and there were scant indications of vegetation at any time of the year. At long intervals we passed little deserted ranch houses which indicated that some hopeful soul had once endeavored to develop the “resources” of the country, but had given up in despair and “of his name and race had left no token and no trace.” At one point we crossed Dry Lake, a vast, level saline deposit as hard and white and nearly as smooth as polished marble--an ideal auto race course.

Our first town was Doyle, a lonely little place of half a dozen buildings forty-eight miles north of Reno. Beyond here we entered Long Creek Valley, our road climbing short, sharp pitches and winding about sandstone bluffs with stretches of heavy sand here and there. However, the country soon showed much improvement; there were well-tilled fields and frequent ranch houses, some of them surrounded by green lawns, beautified with flowers. Orchards were common and we saw many apple and pear trees loaded with luscious-looking fruit. The road through this section was fair, though little had been done in the way of permanent improvement. There is only one long grade and when we reached the summit of the hills which it surmounts, we saw a circular valley before us with an irregular hazy-blue sheet of water in the center. Somehow we had pictured the northeastern lakes in our minds as rivals of Tahoe in beauty and color, but never was greater delusion than in the case of Honey Lake, which lay before us. It is a shallow, characterless expanse of shimmering water set in the midst of a great basin surrounded on all sides by naked hills. The shores are flat and marshy and entirely devoid of trees. It is redeemed from complete unattractiveness by a narrow ring of fertile and highly cultivated land from one to three miles wide that completely surrounds it, sloping upwards from the shore line to the hillsides. Fronting the lake at frequent intervals are fairly prosperous-looking farmhouses in the midst of poplar and walnut groves. Cattle raising appeared to be the chief industry, for we saw many herds grazing in the green meadows around the lake. The name, they told us, came from the honey-dew which gathers on the grasses in the vicinity. The lake was alive with wild fowl--ducks, mud hens, herons, and pelicans--but the frequent “No Hunting” signs apprised the sportsman that he was not welcome here. The road runs entirely around the lake, but we chose the west side through Milford, which was fair though very dusty; in wet weather it must be practically impassable for motor cars. In winter there is much snow here, the temperature going sometimes as low as fifteen or twenty degrees below zero, and the lake usually freezes quite solid. Like all the lakes of this section, it is said to be gradually receding, due to the drain of numerous artesian irrigating wells.

Fifteen miles beyond Honey Lake we came into Susanville, where we planned to stop for the night. We had no very pleasant anticipations, to be sure, for the town was rated at one thousand people and we were resigned to put up with primitive accommodations without complaint. We experienced a pleasant surprise on entering the St. Francis, a well-kept hotel where we found all modern conveniences. We narrowly missed being shut out because we failed to make reservations and we saw other would-be guests turned away later in the day.

Susanville is the capital and metropolis of Lassen, a county of vast extent but scant population. Here and in Modoc, the county to the north, the soil is of volcanic origin and Mt. Lassen, the only active volcano in the United States, is just beyond the hills to the west. Serving as a center for such a wide tract of country, the town naturally outclasses places of a thousand people in more populous sections. It has better stores, theaters, garages, and hotels than are usually found in places of its size. The most pretentious residence stands at the head of the main street, a large, crotchety building which they told us was the home of the chief saloonkeeper, who runs a palatial bar down the street. North and west of the town the hills are covered with a magnificent pine forest--a favorite haunt, a local sportsman informed us, of deer and other game. He also told us that we would find a good road through the forest to Eagle Lake, some fifteen miles to the northwest, which he declared the equal of Tahoe for scenic beauty. We had arrived in the town shortly after noon; there was still time to drive to Eagle Lake and the car was ordered forthwith.

We had proceeded but a little way when we came upon a force of men working upon the new state road which is to connect Susanville with the Pacific Highway at Red Bluff, a distance of about one hundred miles, making this country far more accessible to the motorist than at the time of our visit. Three or four miles out of the town we turned from the highway into the forest, following an excellent mountain road which climbs a steady but moderate grade for a distance of twelve miles. On either hand towered gigantic yellow pines, many of which were devoid of branches for a height of nearly one hundred feet. It was clear that a fire had swept through them not so very long ago, destroying the smaller trees and shrubbery and giving the forest a wonderfully cleaned-up appearance. It had apparently done little damage to the big trees, though some of the trunks were charred to a considerable height. Some distance beyond the summit we saw the lake far below us, gleaming in the low afternoon sun and reminding us of a great gem set in the dark pines that crowd up to its shores. It was too late in the day to get much in color effects, but we agreed that Eagle Lake, lovely as it is, has no claim for comparison with Tahoe. The shores of the lake abound with curious caves extending for miles underground, some filled with perpetual ice and others through which icy winds continually roar. Many have never been fully explored and some of the strange phenomena have never been satisfactorily accounted for. The lake teems with trout and bass, affording far better sport for fishermen than the more frequented waters and its shores, still in their native wildness, offer ideal camping sites. Returning to the town, we saw a wonderful sunset through the pines and from occasional points of vantage caught long vistas of wooded hills stretching away to the crimson sky.

The northbound road out of Susanville climbs a barren hill range with grades up to fifteen per cent and there is scarcely a downward dip for over seven miles. Not a tree or shrub obstructs the view from the long switchbacks and we had a magnificent panorama of the town and Honey Lake Valley and the far-reaching wooded hills to the south and west. The road, though unimproved, was excellent and as volcanic rock is the base, it is probably good the year round except when snow prevails. It was not so good beyond the hillcrest; boulders began to crop out, making the descent to Merrillville pretty rough. At the summit we ran into a fine forest of yellow pine, which continued for several miles. We then crossed stony, desolate hill ranges--one after another--alternating with basin-shaped valleys. In one of these valleys, thirty miles from Susanville, is Horse Lake, an ugly, shallow sheet of water three or four miles long with barren, alkali-encrusted shores. A notice was posted by the roadside warning passersby that the water of the lake is poisonous and it certainly looked like it. The soil of some of the valleys looked as if it might be fertile if well watered, but the greater part of it was strewn with ragged volcanic rocks. There were occasional miserable little huts, apparently long deserted, which indicated that at some time a settler had endeavored to wring an existence from the inhospitable earth, and had given up in despair. A few of the more persistent were still engaged in the struggle, but there was little indication of prosperity.

Beyond Horse Lake we climbed a second mighty hill range and from the summit beheld the Madeline Plains, a valley far larger than the ones we had passed. This wide level tract, comprising over one hundred square miles, is encircled by volcanic hills which, despite their ugliness and barrenness when viewed near at hand, faded away in the distance in a wild riot of coloring. Lavender merged into purple and purple deepened to dark blue, which finally shrouded the hills from our view. Farming in this valley appeared to be conducted more successfully, though there is as yet much unimproved land and none of the ranch houses or their surroundings showed signs of prosperity. Madeline, on the edge of the plain, is a dilapidated village of a few dozen people and the big yellow wooden hotel seemed out of all proportion to any business it could hope for. Beyond this for many miles the characteristics of the country continued much the same, hills and valleys alternating until we entered the Pitt River Valley, a dozen miles from Alturas. Here the country began to show considerable improvement, which gradually increased until we came into the town.

Alturas, with about a thousand inhabitants, the capital of Modoc County, is a good-looking town with a handsome courthouse of classic design and a modern high school building. It is the only place in the huge county that can be dignified by being called a town--for Modoc, with its four thousand square miles of area, can muster only six thousand people, most of whom live in the narrow valleys between the volcanic hills or on the plain around the shores of Goose Lake. This section is at present quite inaccessible to motorists, but the new highway to be constructed from Redding will do much to put the county in touch with the rest of the state.

Out of Alturas we followed a level and very good dirt road through a fair-looking farming section to Davis Creek at the lower end of Goose Lake, a distance of twenty-two miles. Goose Lake is the largest of the numerous lakes in this section--about thirty-five miles in extreme length by ten at its greatest width. The road closely follows its shores and beyond Davis Creek ascends a steep grade leading up the mountainside overlooking the lake and affording a glorious view of the fine sheet of water. We saw it from many angles and altitudes as we mounted up, each with its peculiar lighting and coloring--all beautiful and inspiring. We paused to contemplate the scene at a point from which nearly the whole lake was visible. It lay beneath us in the low afternoon sun, glistening blue and silver, the hill range running along the opposite shore wrapped in an indigo haze. The waters of Goose Lake have not the dark, changeful blue of Tahoe, but seem more like the azure monotone of the sky, save where the sunlight threw its white beams across it from the west. Its monotony of color is doubtless due to the fact that it is quite shallow, its depth in no place exceeding eighteen or twenty feet, while the average is probably not more than five or six feet. Around it runs a belt of fertile farm land, broadest on the eastern side. There are many prosperous ranch houses at intervals and great numbers of thrifty-looking sheep and cattle grazed in the meadows which run down to the shore. The water for irrigating is largely drawn from the lake or artesian wells near by. This has caused a steady shrinkage in the lake and, indeed, may cause it to ultimately disappear, an event which the lover of the beautiful in natural scenery must earnestly deplore. For we all agreed that Goose Lake and its setting were very beautiful despite its unprepossessing name--and we recalled how narrowly Tahoe escaped being stigmatized as Lake Bigler. A rose by any other name might smell as sweet, perhaps, but it does seem that Tahoe would lose some of its glory if it bore the unmusical cognomen of the disloyal ante bellum governor.

From the summit of the grade we descended gradually through a fine pine forest to Willow Ranch and from there continued through the level farm lands skirting the shore to the village of New Pine Creek just across the Oregon border. Perhaps if we had been able to anticipate the fate awaiting us at Lakeview we should have paused at the rather unattractive wooden hotel in this diminutive burg. In blissful ignorance, however, we dashed mile after mile over a fairly level but dusty road, expecting every moment to come in sight of Lakeview. We had--I hardly know why--a preconceived notion of a picturesque little town overlooking the lake from a pine-covered bluff and a hotel in keeping with these imaginary surroundings, equipped with everything to bring peace and joy to the soul of the motorist after a rough, dusty run. The road left the lake and the lake gradually receded from view, and still no town; not until we had left the northernmost mud-puddle of Goose Lake six or seven miles behind us did we enter the unattractive, straggling village whose name had so excited our anticipations. We entered the principal hotel with serious misgivings and came out of it with the determination to pass the night in the car rather than to occupy the beds that the unkempt attendant offered us. I forbear farther comment because conditions change so rapidly in these western towns; before my book can be published a new management may turn a dirty, shabby-looking place into a clean, comfortable hotel. It has happened in several instances to my own knowledge and it may happen in Lakeview, Oregon.

A friendly native who appreciated our predicament told us that his people would take us in at their ranch house, some distance in the country, if we couldn’t find decent accommodations in the town. He directed us to another hotel, which was full, but the landlady bestirred herself and secured rooms in a private home where we were comfortably taken care of. Our host was an old resident of the section--a local politician, ranch owner, and an enthusiastic hunter and fisherman. He informed us that the principal resource of the surrounding country was cattle and sheep raising, largely on government land, for which the owner of the stock pays a small annual fee. He declared that there was a fine chance for energetic young fellows to do well in this line and cited an Irish boy of his acquaintance who had cleared six thousand dollars on sheep in the two years just past. The recent extension of the railway to Lakeview, giving direct connection with the main line at Reno, two hundred and forty-four miles distant, had given a great impetus to both farming and stock-raising in this section.

“Why Lakeview for a town from which it is impossible even to see the lake?” we asked.

“Because the lake originally came up to the town,” he replied, “but it has been steadily receding until it is now six miles away.”

There is good fishing in the lake, which is stocked with rainbow trout, though our host declared he much preferred the sport afforded by the streams of the vicinity and some of the stories he told of his catches would certainly stir the blood of anyone addicted to the gentle art of Ike Walton. Quite as good fortune awaits the hunter in the vicinity; deer, bear, and smaller game abound within easy distance of the town. The game laws of both California and Oregon are so very stringent, he declared, that an outsider will do well to post himself thoroughly before undertaking a hunting expedition in either of these states.

Leaving Lakeview early in the morning, we thanked our hosts for their kindness in taking the strangers in--for their exceedingly modest charge showed that it was not done altogether for profit.

“Only a little more than one hundred miles to Klamath Falls,” we were told, “but a rough, heavy road much of the way and a hard day’s run for any car”--all of which we speedily verified by personal experience. The hardest work came in the latter half of the run; for many miles out of Lakeview we bowled along through a sagebrush country with widely scattered habitations and no sign of fellow-motorists. We followed a huge irrigation aqueduct, evidently nearing completion, for some distance and in one place, where it is carried on a high trestle across a valley, the road passes beneath it. The land looked fertile enough and no doubt if the water supply is adequate this irrigation project will change the appearance of things in this section before many years. We passed a pine-covered hill range with heavy and stony grades before reaching Bly, the first village, nearly fifty miles from Lakeview.