Chapter VI: Part 6

A clear, green river spanned by a high iron bridge served to enhance the charm of the scene. We paused to drink of the ice-cold waters of a little roadside waterfall and to felicitate ourselves that we had not been dissuaded from the Crescent City road. It is a rough, steep, and dangerous road, we may admit, but this glorious forest repays one a thousand times. The accumulation of leaves and pine needles deposited through the centuries had made the soil beneath the trees a deep, soft mould, and to make the road passable it had been “corduroyed” for several miles with redwood slabs, which slowed the car down to a snail’s pace. This was no hardship, however--surely one who does not expect to pass over the road again would never wish to hasten through such delightful scenery.

From painting by Martella Lane]

It was still four miles to Crescent City when we came out of the great forest and for this distance we ran through rather poorly improved farm lands. The ocean, which flashed into view as we approached the town, was indeed a welcome sight after our long exile in the hills. For many miles as we approached the town the trees at frequent intervals had borne signs calling attention to the merits of the Bay View Annex, with the constant reiteration of “hot and cold water” as the chief attraction. So we sought the Bay View, a rambling, wooden building looking out on the harbor and were forthwith assigned to rooms in the “Annex” at the rear. While our quarters were far from elaborate, they were clean and comfortable, though the much-vaunted hot and cold water proved principally cold.

We had leisure to look about the town before supper and while there was little in the plain, straggling, wooden village to excite our interest, we learned that Crescent City has big ambitions and high hopes for the future.

“We have one of the best harbors on the whole western coast, about equally distant from San Francisco and Portland,” said a shopkeeper from whom we made a few purchases. “It is deep enough for ocean-going vessels, so that little dredging will be necessary, and only needs protection of a sea wall to offer safe shelter for a whole fleet of ships. Congress has been interested in the project and only last year a committee of several of the leading members came here to investigate. All agreed that the government could well afford to spend five million dollars to improve the harbor and that the resources of the country about here warrant an appropriation. If this is done and the railroad carried through from Grants Pass, Crescent City will become a city, indeed. There are two hundred billion feet of standing timber within a radius of two hundred miles from Crescent City, most of which would be converted into lumber and find an outlet through Crescent City Harbor. The rich Rogue River Valley, now at the mercy of the Southern Pacific Railroad, will gladly seek a cheaper outlet for its products and though it may not be apparent to a stranger, the agricultural products of Del Norte County are very considerable. Our butter, for instance, is considered the finest in the country and the Palace Hotel at San Francisco will not serve any other. Its excellence is due to the splendid grazing lands watered by an annual rainfall of sixty-eight inches. This also gives you the secret of the wonderful greenness of the great redwood forest which you so admired when coming to our city. Salmon and other fishing and packing are already very extensive and can be increased indefinitely. There are immense deposits of copper and iron ore between here and Grants Pass--particularly in the neighborhood of Waldo. Marble and other building stone are to be found within easy shipping distance. We have the finest summer climate on the Pacific Coast and splendid beaches, so that Crescent City is bound to become more and more of a summer resort--in fact, a great many people come here now in the summer time. Do you think our hopes for Crescent City’s future are ill-founded? Isn’t it reasonable to believe that when this harbor is improved and a railroad completed to both Grants Pass and Eureka that we may fairly expect a city of fifty thousand people or more?”

We did not take issue with our enthusiastic informant, though, indeed, it was hard to imagine a teeming city on the site of the lonely little village; but perhaps the same thing might have been said of Portland or Seattle fifty years ago. A start has really been made toward improving the harbor, for an initial appropriation of three hundred and ninety thousand dollars has been made by the War Department, to which Del Norte County has added the proceeds of a one-hundred-thousand-dollar bond issue. The chief industry of the town at present is lumbering, one company employing five hundred men, but the output is limited by the indifferent shipping facilities.

Crescent City has another ambition which is well worthy of realization--to have a large section of the magnificent forests near the town set aside as a national park. It would, indeed, be a calamity to our whole people to have all of this great grove wiped out by ax and fire, as has occurred near Eureka. The redwood groves already reserved do not and can not match the Del Norte forests in beauty and suitability as a natural playground. Here one can camp under the giants trees and live near to nature indeed, nor will he be troubled by such pests as flies, mosquitoes, scorpions, rattlesnakes, and the like, for they are almost unknown in this section. From our own observation we can heartily second the declaration of a local writer to the effect that--

“The importance of this proposed Redwood Park to Humboldt and Del Norte Counties, the State of California, and to the whole of North America, even to the whole world, can scarcely be estimated. Within comparatively a few generations the giant redwood forests of California will be a thing of the past; the woodsman’s ax and the ravenous sawmills will have swept them away, even as the great pine and hardwood forests of Michigan and Wisconsin have been wiped out of existence.

“A billion or more feet of these giant forests preserved and protected for all time from destruction will form a priceless heritage for future generations--one of the greatest attractions California will then have, for it will bring pilgrims from all over the world. It will not be many generations before all the virgin forests on the North American Continent, save those protected in national and other forest reserves will be wiped out of existence.”

It would be hard to express the chagrin which we felt on looking from the window of the Bay View Annex on the morning following our arrival to find a heavy fog, almost bordering on a drizzle, enveloping everything and even shrouding the near-by ocean from view. We were told that such fogs often lasted a week or more, so it did not seem worth while to wait another day at the Bay View in hope of clear weather. We set out with the forlorn hope that the fog might clear away as the sun rose higher.

For the first four or five miles out of the town we skimmed along over the most perfect boulevard of our tour--a wide, perfectly level, hard, smooth, dust-free surface, yet a road which cost nothing per mile and never had an hour’s work expended upon it by any man. It was the hard, firm, ocean beach which we traversed, so close to the sullen gray water that it lapped our wheels as we glided onward. And lo, we beheld, skipping joyously along on this same beach our unwelcome passenger of the previous day. He had evidently begged or bought transportation from Patrick’s Creek to Crescent City and was now away on a hundred-mile hike to Eureka, unless he could work his nerve on some passing car as he did on us. Nothing daunted by his rebuff at our parting, he cheerfully signified his desire to continue with us for the day, but we bade him hail and farewell without slackening the car’s sharp pace.

Our fine beach road ended all too soon in a wild plunge through the soft deep sand to the mainland, where we almost immediately began the ascent of a stiff, long grade, winding with many sharp turns through the closely standing pines. About midway a large car was parked with a broken axle, leaving barely room to squeeze past. Time and again as we ascended the mighty slope we came out upon bold headlands which on clear days afford endless views of the ocean a thousand feet or more below. We could hear the angry swish of the sea among the broken rocks at the base of the cliff, but the gray mist hid it from our eager eyes. It was, indeed, a disappointment, but we found some compensation as we climbed still higher on the fern-banked road. Near the summit we again entered the mighty redwoods which towered hundreds of feet above us. We were rising above the fog and the weirdly glorious effect of the sun’s rays as they shot through the thin vapor among the hoary trees was as fascinating as it is indescribable. The forest monarchs seemed literally ablaze with pale fire. The dull gray fog merged into a silvery vapor which floated among the titanic trunks and branches and long shafts of light radiated from their tops like a mighty halo. As we continued to ascend the air gradually cleared and a sky of the intensest blue shone above the trees--but it was only due to the altitude, for, coming out on a headland, we beheld the envious fog still shrouding the ocean far below. The sullen booming of the surf and the screams of sea birds came weirdly mingled from the unseen deeps, giving a strange sensation of mystery.

Back into the mighty forest we turned and for many miles followed the winding road, closely bordered by the giant trees. The corduroy on this road was in much better repair, some of it being new and made of closely laid square slabs. Here, again the riotous greenery beneath the trees delighted and amazed us. Fern fronds six feet long were common and moss, shrubbery, and vines flourished in wild profusion everywhere. We emerged on an open headland covered with bronzed fern and scattered shrubs, and strained our eyes for a glimpse of the silver sea through the lightening mass of vapor and we were rewarded with a faint shimmer here and there. Then came more miles of redwoods crowding the road so closely that we found difficulty in passing another car which met us here. The forest was strangely silent; we saw nothing of bird or animal life and only the boom of the ocean when we happened to come near the coast broke upon the uncanny stillness.

Again we came abruptly into the open and a long, sinuous descent brought us to Requa, a forlorn-looking little hamlet on the broad inlet of the Klamath River. They told us that half the people of the village were Indians and those whom we saw wore white man’s clothes and had the appearance of modest prosperity. Salmon fishing and two canneries employ the population during the fishing season. The wide, still river is crossed by ferry, a rude barge propelled by a gasoline launch, lashed alongside and capable of carrying three or four cars.

During our crossing our interest was centered on the ferryman’s daughter, a little miss of seven or eight summers, who swung on the chain at the bow of the boat. Utterly unconscious of her picturesque beauty or that she was being observed, she made one of the most delightful studies we had seen in many a day and made us long for the skill to execute a rapid sketch. Her dark olive, oval face was regular and pleasing in features and her cheeks were tinged with red roses from the fresh sea air. Her heavy black hair was woven in a long braid and coiled about her head. She wore a plain slip of a dress and her deft little fingers were working on a head-dress of red and green cambric, which at times she fitted over her raven tresses with the air of a Fifth Avenue belle judging the merits of the latest Parisian creation in millinery. Then she removed it and eyed it critically; evidently it did not meet her artistic ideals, for she ripped it to pieces and began rearranging the brightly colored scraps.

We were so much interested in her beauty and unconscious antics that we forgot all about the broad, green river we were crossing and therefore paused when we had scrambled up the opposite bank to gaze up the valley. We saw a noble stream, gleaming through the thin vapor that hovered above it and sweeping far up the canyon until it vanished in the densely wooded hills. The picturesque valley is included in the proposed Redwood National Park, which the citizens of Northern California hope to see established before the wholesale slaughter of these forests is begun.

We ran for a good many miles through a flat, swampy country dotted with reedy lagoons, re-entering the redwoods near the Humboldt County line. We encountered a long, steady ascent with grades up to twenty per cent, which ultimately brought us to the ocean, which we had left for a time. The road, with occasional bends to the inland, followed the shore for the remainder of our day’s run and presented a continual panorama of delightful scenery. The sun was still tempered by the soft white mists and the ocean shone like burnished silver in the subdued light. The shore is exceedingly rugged and in many places out in the ocean were mighty detached rocks upon which the incoming waves broke into white, foaming masses.

The redwoods continued for many miles--mighty, symmetrical trees whose dimensions were hard to realize, but many were twenty feet in diameter and upwards of two hundred and fifty feet in height. It was only by comparison with some small object that their colossal size could be realized; we had grown so used to the gigantic that it palled upon our senses. Often they grew in groups, two, three, or more stems from a single base whose dimensions were simply staggering. We could not contemplate the majesty and beauty of these forest giants without a tinge of sadness--we know that the railroad is daily creeping nearer and that unless prompt measures are taken to protect them the time is not far away when only burned and blackened stumps will show where they stood, as we saw nearer Eureka. We parted company with them as one who leaves a very old and wise friend whom he feels that he may never see again, breathing meanwhile the prayer:

“O, forest Titans, may it be
Long, long, ere man with steel and fire
Comes hither on his errand dire
To end your centuried reverie.”

There were gayer colors on our road than the dull browns and dark greens of the redwoods, for along the creeks the maples flamed in autumnal scarlet or glowed with yellow gold in the dark forest aisles. We passed through occasional open spaces, where we found belated wild flowers in full bloom--the purple foxglove, daisies, asters, and, more rarely, wild roses or azaleas smiled on us from the roadside. Not all the trees were redwoods, for we passed through closely standing groves where spruce, hemlock, and other varieties predominated.

The road came close to the shore just before we reached Orick, a small village whose inn is a famous resort for hunters and fishermen, and from a considerable eminence we looked down on Freshwater Lagoon, a fine body of water a mile long, literally alive with wild fowl. It is famous for its fishing, as are Big Lagoon and Stone Lagoon, a few miles farther on. Here the sportsman may take cut-throat and steel-head trout to the law’s limit, often in an hour or two, and all kinds of water fowl are plentiful in season. In this vicinity also, they told us, is the best quail shooting on the Pacific Coast--quite enough to distress a devotee of rod and gun whom circumstances forced to hurry onward. There are splendid camping sites galore along this road, sites which appealed even to ourselves, who were never strongly predisposed to camp life.

Trinidad, the next hamlet, dates from Spanish days, when it had the prefix of Puerto--for it is located on a small but deep harbor, where the early seafarers occasionally took shelter. Remains of the old landing-place may still be seen, but no ships disturb the quietude of Trinidad to-day. There is a rustic resort inn here which caters to summer visitors and sportsmen.

So far the road has been natural dirt, ranging from fair to good, and the grades, though often considerable, have not been at all troublesome to the big car. At Trinidad we caught up with the stage which left Crescent City some time ahead of us, and were interested to find that the cars which make this trip nearly every day in the year were of the same manufacture as our own.

Beyond Trinidad the road had mostly been surfaced and some of it was really excellent. The country, however, for some miles was dismal, indeed. Here was every evidence of a great forest fire of comparatively recent occurrence. Great blackened trunks were still standing, interspersed with stumps which showed that the country had been at least partially lumbered before the fire. The effect was melancholy and depressing, indeed, and brought to mind passages of Dante’s Inferno. A few poor little houses, many of them deserted, were scattered at intervals among the blackened stumps, and there were occasional cultivated patches of ground. No doubt the soil is excellent, but it will be many years before the giant stumps can be cleared away and the great holes left when they are burned or dynamited, filled up. We noted on our maps that we were to cross Mad River and imagined a dashing cataract in keeping with the name. We found the most prosaic of tide-water streams, level and almost stagnant, and the name, we were told, only referred to a quarrel between some early settlers in the section.

As we approached Arcata, fourteen miles by road from Eureka, though only half that distance directly across the bay, the country took on a much more prosperous look. The farm houses were neat with carefully kept lawns, and the well-cultivated fields ran down to the seashore. Arcata is a clean, bright-looking town, due to free application of paint to the wooden buildings, for wooden buildings are almost universal. A new eighty-thousand-dollar hotel was pointed to with due pride and one might do quite as well to stop here as in Eureka.

Beyond Arcata fine, level, dairy land prevails, fit for grazing the greater part of the year, and Humboldt County butter is quite as famous as that of Del Norte. Much of this land was originally forested with redwoods, and its splendid state of reclamation at present indicates that the forlorn, fire-blackened section we passed some miles back may have a future before it, after all. Huge redwood stumps remained along the road, each of them bearing a little garden of greenery flourishing upon the decay. The heavy rainfall of winter and the continual fogs of summer keep vegetation thrifty and green almost the entire year.

The road from Arcata skirts the shores of Humboldt Bay, which is nearly land-locked by a slender spit of sand. It is a good-sized body of water, some fourteen miles long and deep enough for ocean-going vessels, but an exceedingly treacherous coast in the vicinity militates against it as a harbor. A few days before our arrival a large steamer had gone to pieces on the rocks near by and a few months later a submarine and the cruiser Milwaukee, which undertook to rescue it, were both destroyed in this neighborhood.

Our first impression on coming into the business part of Eureka was of surprise to see a city of its size and importance almost wholly constructed of wood. The business blocks were nearly all of redwood, sometimes painted and carved to resemble stone, and the hotels, including the Vance, where we stopped, were of the same material. Of course, this is not so strange when one considers that redwood is by far the cheapest and most accessible building stuff in this region, but it is hard to associate permanence and substantial construction with huge wooden blocks in the business section of the city.

We reached our hotel about four o’clock, having been just eight hours in covering the ninety-four miles from Crescent City, including the half-hour we stopped for lunch--practically the same time occupied by the stages in making the trip. This may seem pretty slow, but it is all one should expect on this road if he adheres to sane and conservative driving.

The Vance, despite the rather unfavorable impression made by its wooden exterior, proved well-appointed and comfortable inside. A large, cozily furnished, steam-heated room proved a pleasant haven after a chilly ride--for the wind had blown strongly all day from the sea, and when out of the shelter of the forest, it brought our whole supply of wraps and robes into use. The Vance was the only commercial hotel which we found operating on the “American plan” since leaving San Francisco, and its service throughout was very satisfactory, though its rates could not be classed as cheap. We should say, however, that a thoroughly modern hotel of approved construction would find a fine opening in Eureka.

We found time before dinner to look about the city, which was gaily decorated in bunting and evergreens for an Elks’ Convention to begin the next day. In fact, we had been warned that our lease on our room at the hotel could continue only for the night and our plan of taking a full day’s lay-off at Eureka was thus frustrated. As usual in isolated California towns of any size, the shops and mercantile establishments generally seemed entirely to outclass the population figures, which in case of Eureka are not claimed to exceed fifteen thousand. Like our hotel, the interior of the business buildings was usually much more attractive than the exterior, and it was apparent that the merchants of the town were prepared to take care of all reasonable needs of the inhabitants as well as of transitory visitors. The necessity of this is easily apparent when we recall that San Francisco, the nearest city larger than Eureka, is two hundred and eighty-five miles distant--twelve hours’ ride over the recently completed railway. For Eureka at last has a railway, after having for many years enjoyed--or rather endured--the undesirable distinction of being the largest town in the United States without railroad service. The Northwest Pacific “Scenic Route” reached the town in 1915 and has the distinction, it is said, of being by far the costliest railroad of its length in America, an average of one hundred and thirty thousand dollars per mile having been expended in its construction. For nearly half its length it threads its way through the gigantic canyon of the Eel River, following the stream so closely that it is seldom out of sight. The scenery along this road, a local authority insists, is hardly to be surpassed in the whole country.

“As the train passes over the Eel River Divide, the Pacific, thirty miles distant, is seen, shimmering in the sunlight across a stretch of mighty wooded hills. As the descent along the upper Eel River Valley begins, the views become more and more entrancing. No mountain scenery in the foothills of the Swiss Alps is more beautiful than that which greets the traveler’s eyes along the Eel River.”

Perhaps such a digression on the scenery from a railroad train is out of place in a motor-travel book, but it may be permitted, possibly, in view of the fact that a far greater number of people go to Eureka by train than motor. And those who come by motor, if they pursue the Bell Springs route, will see the same Eel River scenery from even grander viewpoints, since in places the wagon road rises thousands of feet above the railway.

Greater numbers of motor cars will come to Eureka when the new state highway is completed, since the two old roads from the south are as difficult and dangerous as any in California and are considered quite impassable, even for horse-drawn vehicles, when the rains set in. Hence, before the completion of the railroad Eureka was quite cut off from communication with the rest of the world except by the sea and often violent storms rendered even that route precarious. Under such conditions it is marvelous that such an energetic, thriving city could have sprung up. One of the present roads closely follows the coast through Fort Bragg and Garberville, a poorly-kept and little used trail, and the other, farther inland, roughly follows the railroad, crossing the famous Bell Springs grade, which the state highway commission describes as “long the terror of motorists.” The new highway avoids this and will afford a year-round access to the city over safe and easy grades. It will also continue to Crescent City, placing the Humboldt and Del Norte redwoods within easy reach of motorists, all of whom should exert their influence to secure the proposed national park in this section.

Eureka was founded in 1850 by American settlers. The Spaniards appear to have overlooked this harbor and so far as known no ship entered it prior to 1806, when Captain Winship, a fur trader, who learned of the existence of the bay from the Indians, anchored his ship in its sheltered waters. The career of the town has been a quiet one, not even the customary Indian wars disturbing its serenity. There are memories, however, of two distinguished Americans, for Lieut. Ulysses S. Grant was at one time stationed at old Fort Humboldt, slight remains of which may still be seen. It was also in Eureka where the youthful Bret Harte began his career as a journalist--officiating as compositor, printer’s devil, and assistant editor of the “Northern California,” then published in the town. Here he had a rather thrilling experience which might have cost the world one of its rarest literary geniuses--and actually cost him his job on the paper.

During the absence of the editor, he was left in charge of the paper--like Mark Twain under similar circumstances--and, like Mark, he at once proceeded to break over conventions. Outrages of the Whites against the Indians of the surrounding country were then common and were usually winked at by the editor, who thought more of the support of the citizens than the rights of the red man. A particularly cowardly massacre was perpetrated while Harte was in charge of the paper. Just how cowardly may be judged from a letter of one of the offenders, who declared, “We have been searching the mountains, destroying villages, killing all males we could find, and capturing the women and children. We have killed about thirty altogether and now have twenty-eight captives in camp.” No one hated injustice and cruelty more than Bret Harte and in an editorial he scathingly condemned the murderers. This roused the anger of the community and a mob gathered with the avowed purpose of wrecking the newspaper plant and hanging the youthful scribe. Harte showed himself game to the last degree and held the mob at bay with two cocked pistols during probably the longest evening of his life. The timely arrival of a few cavalrymen from the fort probably saved his life, but his love of justice brought him a quick dismissal on the return of the owner of the paper. Perhaps this experience, after all, was a God-send to Harte’s budding genius. Had things gone too smoothly in his first essay at journalism he might have missed the rich experience that came of his nomadic career among the pioneer mining camps and settled down into the quiet ways of a backwoods editor.

IX

EUREKA TO CLOVERDALE

A very dull morning with streets and walks wet from a light, drizzling rain greeted our dismayed vision as we hastily glanced from the hotel windows on rising. The hotel people had duly warned us that they hadn’t a corner left for us for the coming night and we counted it very likely that every hotel and lodging house in Eureka was just as “full up,” as the English say. Furthermore, there was no assurance if it once began to rain that it would let up for a week, for week-long rains are to be expected in Humboldt County in season. And from all we could learn, a long-continued rain meant no thoroughfare for heavy cars through the mountains to the south.

From painting by N. Hagerup]

We had a little official information concerning the road over which we must pass, for a bulletin of the California Highway Commission declared, “Eureka can be reached during the summer months only under the most strenuous conditions by means of the road from San Francisco over the summit of the Bell Springs Mountain, elevation 4100 feet above the sea level. After the first rains the road is impassable for motors and even horse-drawn vehicles, traffic on the route being limited to saddle and pack animals. At Dyerville an ascent of 3937 feet begins up and down grades as high as thirty per cent to the summit, a distance of forty-six miles. The descent, up and down grades exceeding twenty per cent, occupies a distance of twelve miles and ends at the foot of ‘Rattlesnake Grade,’ 2686 feet below. The high altitudes on the route afford magnificent views of the surrounding country in all directions, though the average tourist would no doubt gladly forego the scenic advantages of the Bell Springs Mountain to travel a less strenuous route. The terror of the Bell Springs Mountain, however, in the near future will exist only in memory; the pioneer road of Northern California will be superseded by the Coast Line of the new highway system.”

But all this cheerful prospect for the future could not shorten the Bell Springs road one foot or reduce its frightful grades a single inch so far as we were concerned. It lay before us with all its terror and mystery and it was an even gamble whether the heavy clouds would break away or the drizzle settle down into a steady rain. We tried to realize what a thirty per cent grade was really like; we had passed twenty and possibly twenty-five per cent slopes on our trip. “But a thirty per cent grade,” said the dismayed lady member of the expedition, “that’s one third of straight up. Will any car do that?” She was assured that most cars could accomplish this feat if working well and under favorable conditions, but in a rain--the possible consequences were not pleasant to contemplate.

We descended to breakfast in a mood of gloomy indecision. It seemed imperative for us to leave Eureka in any event. We had instructed our driver to be ready at eight o’clock and he was on hand with his usual promptness.

“Will she do a thirty per cent grade?” I asked jokingly, knowing his unwavering faith in the Pierce.

“She’ll do anything she can get traction on,” he said, “but in the mud--” So his thought was the same as our own, but what was the use pursuing an unpleasant subject?

“We’ve four wheel chains, in any event,” I said and the big car glided forth as calmly as if an unbroken boulevard stretched to the metropolis.

As I look back at it now, I must admit that we committed an act of egregious folly in setting out on this trip in face of what looked like an all-day rain. If it had been an all-day rain we might have been marooned many days in these mighty hills, if, indeed, we had not met with deadly disaster of some sort. Even as it was, we had occasion for real anxiety more than once, as will appear in due course of my story. We felt that if the outlook grew more threatening we could stop at Fortuna, another small wooden town twenty miles distant, where fair accommodations may be had.

The twenty miles proved over the best of roads through a level, well-improved country, and when we drove down the main street of the village we were rejoiced to see that the sky had lightened somewhat and the rain almost ceased. A garage man still farther reassured us. “Going to clear off,” he declared in response to our query on weather probabilities as our gasoline tank was being filled to the limit. “O, yes, it would be an ugly job if it should rain, but it ain’t going to rain,” which cheerful assurance we accepted and following his directions proceeded on a road which, besides its real danger in wet weather, proved to afford no decent accommodations for over fifty miles.

Just beyond Fortuna we passed a large, deep pool in the Eel River which is said to afford unequalled sport for fishermen, King Solomon, steel-head, and mountain trout being taken in large numbers even by inexperienced anglers. A number of summer cottages have been built here and the place shows increasing popularity as a summer resort.

We found the new state highway usable between Alton, four miles farther on, and Dyerville, thus enabling us to avoid the hills via Rio Dell and Pepperwood, which have some heavy grades ranging up to twenty-five per cent. The new road was pretty rough and soft in places, as no surfacing had yet been done. A fine new bridge across the Eel was building near Alton, but it was not yet open and a very tortuous detour through deep sand was necessary. Beyond the river we continued for many miles through closely standing redwoods--great columnar trees which would have excited our wonder and admiration to a greater degree had we not seen the more imposing forests of the north.

At Dyerville, a wretched-looking little hamlet of half a dozen buildings, we bade farewell to the new highway. It had been completed some distance beyond this point, but a gap of thirty miles remained to be bridged before it could supersede the Bell Springs road. The new highway follows the south fork of the Eel River and gradually rises until it joins the present road at Cummings, elevation 1414 feet, sixty-nine miles from Dyerville. This will entirely avoid the Bell Springs Mountain and eliminate a climb and descent of nearly three thousand feet. Construction was in progress at the time of our visit and the new bond issue insures the completion of the work, which may be accomplished before my book sees the light. Tourists of the future, with rarest exceptions, will speed over the new boulevard and the Bell Springs road will fall into disuse. We shall always be glad, however--now that it is safely over--that circumstances forced us to climb the rugged mountain, since from its slopes and summit we beheld some of the wildest and most beautiful panoramas to be seen in all California.

Heavy work began immediately after we crossed the river at Dyerville. A long grade zigzagged up the slope of the mountain, closely following the Eel for several miles and affording many magnificent panoramas of the river and rugged ranges of wooded hills that guard it on either hand. Splendid pines crowded closely up to the narrow road and did much to lessen the nervous effects of the long, sharp slope at our side. At the turns of the road, however, there were frequent open spaces which allowed views of ever-increasing grandeur as we ascended; the river, far below, lay in still, green pools or dashed in foaming rapids among the lichen-covered boulders. Beyond were endless hill ranges, cloud-swept here and there, for, though the rain had ceased, the sky was still threatening.

A long descent brought us to the railroad; then the road swung away from the river and followed the crest of the ridge between the Eel and South Fork for the remainder of the day. Another long, heavy grade confronted us with two sharp “hairpin” turns which some facetious wayfarer has dubbed “The Devil’s Elbow,” and we recalled that we had passed a hill in the Scotch Highlands where a like honor had been paid to His Satanic Majesty. We thought the latter bad enough at the time, but it was tame when compared with the twists and grades of this far western trail. The long wheel base of our car made it necessary to back up at several of the turns, an operation which excited lively anxiety on part of our lady passenger. It was disquieting, indeed, to see the rear wheel of the car approach within a foot or two of the high bank at the side of the turn with a twenty per cent slope looming ahead, but the car responded so beautifully to the skill of the driver that she gradually became reassured.

The forest gradually dwindled and beyond Fruitland--there was little except the name on the map to indicate the existence of such a place--we came into a barren, desolate-looking region with little vegetation except scrub trees and shrubs, through which the road kept a general ascent, though there were occasional downward dips. At the foot of one of these we ran on to a most disconsolate party in a Ford which had been stalled for some hours for lack of gasoline. Only one car had passed and the occupants had declined assistance on the ground that they feared a shortage of the very necessary fluid themselves.

“Then I hired a horse,” said the driver, “of the man on the hill yonder and one of our ladies visited the three other houses in this little valley, but couldn’t scare up a pint of gas at any of them. I’ll pay you any price you ask for a gallon or two.”

We freely confessed that price wasn’t the consideration--we feared a shortage ourselves on some of the hills before us. Our car was gravity-fed and it might fail on a steep grade with several gallons in the tank. Still, the obligations of the Golden Rule weighed heavily upon us in such a case and we granted our friend in distress the two gallons he so earnestly prayed for. We declined the dollar he tried to force upon us on the ground that we were not helping him out for worldly gain--we only hoped we wouldn’t run short ourselves.

He assured us that it was only ten miles over a level road to Harris, where he had carelessly neglected to replenish his supply, but I fear that his predicament warped his judgment of distance. It proved a full twenty miles with many steep pitches which caused us no little anxiety and which continually increased, for Harris seemed constantly to recede as we cautiously proceeded over a road that varied from fair to very bad. There were many stony stretches where the car scrambled over good-sized boulders still wet from the mists that at intervals swept across the mountains. It was a wild and lonely road, with no sign of human habitation for many miles; only the long views across the rugged hills redeemed it from dreary monotony.

At one point four fine does contemplated us curiously and with little sign of fear, at a distance of perhaps sixty yards; they, too, seemed to realize that woman’s rights in California are even extended to deer--there is a heavy fine for killing a doe. We were told that these hills are alive with deer, but the exceedingly rugged nature of the country makes hunting very difficult. The road constantly grew more tortuous and arduous and we made many remarks about the tendency of Harris to recede as we advanced--we even began to wonder if we might not have passed it unaware. It was, therefore, with no small relief that we beheld Harris finally heave in sight, but our reviving spirits dropped when we saw a sign posted on the hotel, which is all there is of Harris, “Positively closed for the season,” and could detect no sign of life about the place. Was our expected gasoline supply to fail here with the Bell Springs Mountain now directly before us? A reconnoissance of the place, however, discovered the man in charge, who gleefully filled our tank with forty-cent gas and our apprehensions vanished into thin air.

While we were engaged in this transaction, a Ford car paused and began to disgorge its contents under a group of trees near by--said contents consisting of six people and two dogs, and an endless array of camping and other impedimenta was strapped to the machine at every available projection, almost concealing it from view. An old-fashioned, tin-covered trunk was fastened at the rear and several grips were piled about the engine hood. The wonder of it was that the flimsy-looking car could stand up under it all, even though two of the passengers were rather small children and the dogs not very large. The party proceeded at once to build a fire; a warm dinner and hot coffee were evidently on the program--which reminded us that we had neglected to provide ourselves with our usual lunch on leaving Eureka. The man who supplied gasoline assured us that we would find an excellent hotel still open at Bell Springs, twelve miles farther on; we ought to reach it in an hour, he thought.

“O, yes, some pretty stiff going, to be sure, but nothing to worry that wagon of yours, I guess,” he said.

It proved a steep, stony, winding, wicked dozen miles with one thirty per cent pitch, according to our road maps, all of which drawbacks were mightily accentuated in our minds when the rain commenced again shortly after we left Harris. Tire chains were brought into requisition and after a steady grind of an hour and a quarter, enlivened by no end of nervous thrills, we paused with steaming radiator in front of the attractive-looking Bell Springs Inn. It was about two o’clock and twenty-three miles from Laytonville, where we proposed, rather dubiously, to stop for the night.

“Here’s our only chance for luncheon,” I announced--a matter which a very early and very light breakfast at Eureka no doubt served to keep in my mind.

“I don’t want any lunch,” came from the rear seat. “I want to get out of these terrible hills just as quickly as we possibly can. Whatever induced you to choose this awful road? You always seem to find the worst possible.” To all of which no adequate answer came to my mind.

With a lingering look at the hotel, I gave the word to proceed, not without considerable misgiving, for it was still raining and the information which we had of the road was far from reassuring. True, it was down hill most of the way, but my experience was that it is easier to climb a muddy grade than to descend one. The descent began shortly after leaving the hotel and for some miles we proceeded with extreme caution down narrow switchbacks with sharp turns, some of which required backing. The scenery was magnificent, rugged slopes covered with gigantic pines which often came up to the roadside--but I confess that we did not pay enough attention to the scenery to warrant much descriptive writing. The road grew muddier with the incessant rain and as we came to the steep pitches of Rattlesnake Grade, the car showed an unmistakable tendency to skid, despite the chains on the rear wheels. Few things are so likely to make one’s heart sink as the feeling that a heavy car is not entirely under control on a steep grade, barely wider than the wheels, with a sharp turn on the verge of a precipice every few rods. We stopped and applied chains to the front wheels as well, but even then a tendency to slide on the grades was still noticeable and extreme caution was necessary. And yet the showers had only “greased” the road; I do not believe any car could negotiate these grades in a heavy rain.

Fortune, however, favored us for once, since the rain ceased just as we were wondering if we might not have to spend a supperless night on the road--which we certainly should have been compelled to do had conditions grown much worse. There was a rustic hotel at Cummings, at the foot of Rattlesnake Grade, but in order to carry out our plans for the following day, we felt it advisable to push on to Laytonville, though we realized that night would overtake us before we arrived. We had consumed nearly three hours in covering the twelve miles from Bell Springs, but we hoped to make better time over the thirteen miles still remaining--which we did, as the road was quite dry, though excruciatingly stony and rough. There was one heavy grade, but in the main we followed a canyon with a gradual descent. The road was so narrow that we found great difficulty in passing a belated car which we met, and so rough that a snail’s pace was enforced much of the way.

The canyon was heavily wooded; vines and shrubbery, rich with autumn colorings, grew in rank profusion. Despite the lateness of the season, there were occasional blooms. We saw dogwood and wild rosebushes bearing both blossoms and bright red berries. Huckleberries were common, as were also the pale red clusters of the honeysuckle, and manzanitas. The air was fragrant with the odor of balsam pine and we felt that it would be a delightful run had we not been tired, cold, and hungry. But very tired, cold, and hungry we were and the last few miles done in the dark before we reached Laytonville were long ones, indeed. It was a time when a truly comfortable inn would be as welcome as ever in our wanderings, but we did not hope for such a blessing in Laytonville, an isolated little village of about a hundred people.

The hotel proved a large, wooden building, much larger than the size of the place would lead one to expect, but comforts and conveniences, besides bed and board, were not to be found in its brown, clapboarded walls. No private bath was to be had and no heat in the rooms, though the night was frosty cold. There was a big wood-stove in the public room which was surrounded three or four deep by a crowd made up, I should judge, of village loafers, though there were a few commercial men among them. It was certainly not very inviting for a lady guest and the moving-picture show with which we usually beguiled away dull evenings, was non-existent in Laytonville. Evidently the best program for us was to eat our supper and go to bed. The evening meal, served at a common table in country style, proved far better than we expected. In fact, the pastry was so excellent that our lady manager must needs have the recipe, which the flattered cook was delighted to supply.

After supper I stumbled along the unlighted street to a little general store, hoping to find a hot-water bottle to mitigate the rigors of the climate a little, but the queer old backwoodsman storekeeper declared,

“I’ve heern of them things, but I never had no call for one.”

The store was the queerest jumble I ever saw, groceries, clothing, dry goods, hardware, patent medicines--just a little of each--and endless odds and ends that looked as if they had been twenty-five years accumulating, were piled in hopeless confusion--there seemed a chance of finding anything but what you wanted.

“Yaas,” the old fellow admitted, “thar’s another store in the town, just down the street--just down the street.”

The other store was closed, but the next day we found it a large, well-stocked mercantile concern which evidently did a big volume of business.

Returning to the hotel, I lounged half an hour about the lobby, listening to the conversation, which I soon found was almost wholly made up of humorous anecdotes of the old storekeeper whom I had just visited and who appeared to be a character of considerable local notoriety--an honest, simple-minded old fellow fitter for almost anything than managing a business.

If it was hard to get into the chilly bed at the Laytonville, it was still harder to get up by twilight in the frosty air of the room and wash in ice-cold water--for there was no call bell and we neglected to leave orders for hot water. We rushed through with the process, however, thinking we would hurry down and thaw out by the big wood-stove, but we found it stone cold and the room deserted--and it is safe to say that thousands of cords of wood were rotting within a mile of the inn. The lady indignantly marched into the kitchen, somewhat to the consternation of the powers that presided there--but it was not long until a big fire was roaring in the lobby stove.

A sign above the counter admonished the wayfarer thirsting for information to “Ask Dad--he knows,” referring to the portly landlord, whom we found very jovial and accommodating. He apologized for lack of fire in the morning with some remark about the unreasonable “stumpage” charge of the people who owned the forest about the place and he also deprecated the unwillingness of the owner of the building to do a number of things that would conduce to the comfort of the guests.

When we asked “Dad” about the road to Westport and from thence along the coast, we found he did “know,” all right, for he assured us that it was far better than the main highway to the south. And so we resolved to get back to the sea, for the morning had cleared beautifully and gave promise of a day full of light and color. It is twenty miles to Westport and the road runs through a fine forest all the way, though the redwoods, which are quite common, are only saplings five or six feet in diameter. There is only one grade of consequence--the long descent to the coast, which affords many glorious views of the ocean through occasional openings in the trees.

Westport is a small, bleak-looking lumber town, evidently in a state of decline; there was nothing to detain us there and we were quickly away on the road to the south, which keeps in sight of the ocean for more than one hundred miles, though we were told that it was not then practicable for motors for more than half that distance. The excellence of the road for perhaps thirty miles was an agreeable surprise, a smooth, well graded natural dirt surface very much like a well-dragged Iowa road at its very best--fine in dry weather, but to be avoided when it rains.

We skimmed merrily along, enjoying the salt tang of the breeze and the beauty of Old Ocean in one of his happiest moods. We ran along rather barren-looking headlands, which at times carried us to wonderful vantage-points from which we beheld indescribably glorious views of the sea, resplendent under the pale blue sky of a perfect day. The breeze had swept away the lingering ghosts of yesterday’s fog, revealing a shimmering expanse of water, jade-green near the shore and running through all the shades of green and blue into a deep violet in the far distance. Looking toward the sun it shimmered and coruscated like a sea of molten silver, while along the whole irregular shoreline around the detached rocks and beneath the bold, rugged headlands it rippled in long white breakers or dashed into wind-swept spray. The air was redolent with the fresh, pungent smell of the sea--how we enjoy it when on land and detest it when on shipboard!--and everything conspired to make us glad that we had made the necessary detour to catch this glorious stretch of Mendocino coast.

Fort Bragg, of some three thousand people, seventeen miles from Westport, is the largest and best-appearing town, with handsome public buildings and good-looking shops--clearly the chief business and trading center of this section. It is the terminus of a branch of the Northern Pacific Railroad leading to the main line at Willits, which is doubtless the secret of its superiority to the other coast towns we passed through. It is larger than Ukiah, the county seat, which probably holds the distinction because of its more central situation.