Chapter VII: Part 7

Beyond Fort Bragg we crossed several shallow, emerald-green inlets at the mouth of creek or river, both the descent and the climb a sharp scramble. Three or four of the larger inlets were dammed to a considerable depth and logs were floated from the interior to a busy sawmill near the sea. The coast, however, with the exception of a few picturesque little groves near the sea, is quite denuded of timber. There are a good many farm-houses, some of very comfortable appearance, but the agricultural resources of the country did not impress us as very great. The reddish brown soil did not give any special indication of fertility and live stock was not much in evidence. Directly on the coast in places there is a wide belt of sand dunes which are slowly shifting landward and encroaching on the farms a little each year.

From painting by N. Hagerup]

Mendocino City, the next place of any size, is a rather bleak, un-American-looking village of a thousand people. Here we paused for lunch at a large, rambling, wooden hotel which must have been a lively place in the old lumbering and stage-coach days. Now it seemed almost deserted and the well-worn floor of its dismantled bar-room told of the loss of a goodly number of patrons who were formerly wont to come here to assuage their thirst. It was with some misgivings that we entered the place, but the sight of the cleanly, kindly-faced landlady reassured us; and we fared far better than we hoped for in the scrupulously clean dining-room--which led us to again remark on the extremely rare instances where we have found slovenly service or niggardly meals in even the lesser California hotels. The young man who acted as clerk, when he heard that we expected to reach Cloverdale for the night, advised us not to go as far on the coast road as Greenwood, which we planned, but to turn inland at Navarro, six miles north--a change which he declared would save us some bad road.

We had not gotten far from Mendocino when we agreed that it was not especially desirable to pursue the coast road any farther than necessary, for we found it quite unimproved, dusty, and rough, with very steep grades--especially the one leading out of the deep canyon just south of the town. After that, every few miles we met with sharp plunges into deep, narrow canyons, and steep, dusty scrambles out of them, with some very rough going between.

At Little River and Albion, large sawmills were in operation. The former village is a pretty little place, with rose-embowered cottages and apple orchards laden with red and golden globes. The schoolhouse is situated in a group of fragrant pines and everything combined to give the village an air of Arcadian quiet and contentment. Perhaps much of this was only in our imagination, but we did not disturb our pleasant impressions by making useless inquiries.

The coast beyond the village was exceedingly rugged but beautiful and inspiring. Bold, wooded headlands rose above us, a deep violet sea lay in quiet beauty beneath, and we even had to admit that the inlets, with their steep plunges and rattle-trap bridges, were beautiful. Here is, indeed, a country for our artists to discover; they will find the color and rugged beauty of Monterey on a wilder and vaster scale. In fact, we often remarked that the whole coast from Greenwood to Crescent City, with its colorful ocean, its rugged, rock-bound shoreline, its giant forests, and a thousand other sights of beauty and grandeur, offers a field for the landscape painter such as scarcely exists elsewhere in the world.

Albion seems the busiest place we have yet discovered. Its excuse for being is a great sawmill which employs several hundred men and which is supplied with logs by the river and a railroad extending twenty miles into the hills. The shriek of the saws, the hiss of steam, and the rumble of the locomotive, reached us before we descended the steep slope to the inlet upon which the mill is located, and gave us an intimation of the principal activity of the town. There is a pretty little bay into which the river flows and a substantial wharf from which the finished lumber is shipped by schooner. In crossing the river we passed directly through the sawmill yards and had a near view of its giant band-saws traveling through the mighty logs at an astonishing rate.

Two or three miles beyond Albion we came to Navarro, which we found a “deserted village,” indeed, for not a human being could be found about the few gray, weatherbeaten shacks to give us the information we desired about the road. A little farther on, however, a friendly signboard made it clear that this was the point where the hotel clerk had advised us to turn inland. The coast road had been growing continually more wretched and the deep canyon before us did not look very inviting. Besides, it was getting late and to go on to Greenwood would bring us to Cloverdale after dark. We therefore bade a reluctant farewell to the glorious ocean--it seemed as if we could never tire of it--and struck the sandy trail that led sharply into a jungle of small trees and shrubbery. The deep sand and the apparent disuse of the road caused us some apprehension. The road, however, gradually improved as it descended to the Navarro River, passing several poor-looking fruit ranches on the way.

The grade out of the canyon is one of the longest and heaviest that we covered during our entire tour. It has few turns, climbing the canyon side in a straight slope several miles long, at places the rise exceeding twenty-five per cent. It seemed as if it would never end and we grew very apprehensive of our gasoline supply, which we expected to replenish at Greenwood, now eliminated from our route. I confidently looked for the engine to stall for lack of fuel on some of these appalling grades, and whiled the time in imagining what course we should pursue if this happened. I did not reach any satisfactory conclusion, nor have I yet, for we did not meet another car on this road and the nearest gas station was twenty miles away. But it didn’t happen and we replenished our supply at one of the little towns. There were three or four villages on the fifty-mile stretch between the coast and Cloverdale, all of them rather dilapidated and forlorn, though there was much activity at Boonville, where a huge sawmill was in operation. None of the numerous ranches along the road looked very prosperous and perhaps half of the houses were deserted and falling into ruin. This, we were told, did not necessarily mean that the owner had starved out. A great many of them, after “proving up” their claims, had sold out to the large ranchers, who were buying immense tracts in this country.

There was much pretty scenery along the way, rich with autumnal colorings which we might have admired more had we been more comfortable ourselves. But the road was rough and dusty and the wind had risen to a perfect gale which chilled us for all our wraps and blankets. A car was ahead of us for the last several miles and almost strangled us with dust clouds so dense that even trying to pass was out of the question.

We rejoiced with exceeding joy when eight miles from Cloverdale we came into the new state highway, smooth and dust-free. Our chance friend at Crater Lake Lodge had especially admonished us to stop at McCray’s when we reached Cloverdale, and had noted on our maps, “Very comfortable country inn two miles out of Cloverdale.” So we kept a sharp lookout, for a “very comfortable inn” seemed about the acme of our earthly desires at that particular time. We had no difficulty in finding our proposed haven, for a huge, rambling frame building bearing the legend, “McCray’s,” loomed up directly by the roadside and we were received more like expected guests of the family than commercial patrons.

There was a decided atmosphere of home about the rambling old place--originally the McCray Homestead--and one very quickly falls in with the mood of good fellowship that rules everybody connected with the inn. We were ushered into the family sitting-room with its roaring, open fireplace--welcome, indeed, after our ride in the piercing wind--and were cordially greeted by Father McCray, a six-foot-two giant whom the younger generation designated as “Pap.” He introduced us to the other guests, mainly members and close friends of the family, for the season was over, though the inn is kept open the year round. They all proved very pleasant, jovial people and we soon learned how very different are the relations between the McCray’s and their guests from those between the ordinary hotel and its patrons. The inn, we learned, is conducted on quite an extensive scale during the summer, when two hundred people can be entertained in the main building and adjacent cottages. There is a large, well-appointed club-house just across the road, where the guests may pursue dancing and other amusements to their hearts’ content, and there is usually enough going on to thoroughly dispel ennui on part of anyone.

But the crowning feature of McCray’s is the meal service; verily, it brought back recollections of mother at her best in boyhood days on the farm. The delicious conserves, never found in any mere hotel, are made from California fruit right on the premises and nearly everything used is grown on the farm under Pap’s watchful supervision. A few words with Pap are all that is necessary to convince you that no detail of service or entertainment escapes him and that he has more pride in earning the approval of his guests than a mere desire to get their money. We liked McCrays of all degrees and already have plans for a trip in that vicinity again, with the inn as one of our stopping-places. Our only suggestion for improvement is that a locked garage will make the average motorist feel easier than the open shed in which our car was stored during our visit.

The next morning we were away on an easy run to the metropolis through the famous Santa Rosa Valley, with its endless vineyards now laden with their purple harvest. Everywhere were signs of activity on part of the vineyard people and we met many loaded wagons and motor trucks carrying the grapes to the numerous wineries in this vicinity. But I will not write in detail of our last day’s run, since I have covered this country fully in my previous book, “On Sunset Highways.” We reached San Francisco in the early afternoon, having been absent from the golden gate city for nearly a month and our strenuous but delightful and inspiring pilgrimage through the mighty hills and lovely vales of Northern California and the Oregon country was at an end.

Into Yosemite

by Motor

From painting by H. H. Bagg]

Into Yosemite by Motor

When the writer of this book first visited Yosemite a few years ago, no motor car was allowed to intrude in its sylvan solitudes and it was freely alleged by the stage drivers that the time would never come when this noisy, dust-raising demon would be permitted to frighten their horses and disturb their equanimity. Their attitude was one of decided hostility, though they affected to laugh at the suggestion--the roads were too crooked and narrow and the grades too steep for “automobeels”--no, sir, you’d never see them in Yosemite. Besides, the horses in the park had never seen these pesky machines; they would simply go crazy and dump the coaches over the cliffs. All of which seemed reasonable enough at the time and nothing was farther from my mind than the idea of piloting a car through the devious trails that serve for roads in this sylvan wonderland.

But “tempora mutantur,” indeed. Motor cars in California increased in geometrical ratio and the owners banded themselves together in the live and efficient organization known as the Automobile Club of Southern California. This club contended that no good reason could be urged against admitting motor cars to Yosemite and after a dint of effort succeeded in bringing the Secretary of the Interior to the same point of view. True, the decree was issued with apparent fear and hesitation and the venturesome motorist who wished to explore the park was hedged about with restrictions and hampered with endless red tape regulations. The cars came, nevertheless, though probably as many were deterred by the stringent rules as by the forbidding roads.

The dire results so freely predicted by the stage men did not materialize in any great degree. There were few serious accidents and the motors, as a rule, met with little difficulty in negotiating the roads to and within the park. As a consequence, the rules were relaxed with each succeeding year and many of the most annoying regulations abandoned or reduced to mere formalities. We made our trip in September of the Panama-Pacific year, and during the previous months of the season nearly two thousand cars had preceded us into the park. We did not have to demonstrate that “either set of brakes would lock the wheels to a skid;” in fact, I am very dubious on this point. We did not have to get up at an unearthly hour to enter or leave the park and the time schedule imposed on us was so reasonable that none but the speed maniac would care to exceed it, even had no severe penalty been attached. It was all simple enough and our trials in doing Yosemite by motor lay in a different direction than the rules and regulations, as will appear in due course of my narrative.

There are several routes by which one may enter and leave the park pending the happy day longed for by the Auto Club when a broad, smooth road--“no grades exceeding five per cent”--shall convey the joyful motorist to this Earthly Paradise of the Sierras. You can go from Fresno via Coarse Gold, from Merced via Coulterville, from Stockton via Chinese Camp, or from Madera via Raymond. You can now even reach the park from the east by the new Tioga road, branching off the Sierra Highway at Mono Lake, should you be seeking the wildest and most difficult route of all.

We decided, for reasons which may become apparent as I proceed, to make our entrance by the Madera route and to leave the park with Stockton as our objective. We still have reason to believe that as things stood at the time--or even now--these routes were the most satisfactory and we are quite sure that whatever improvement may be made, the tourist interested in pioneer days of California and fond of wild and impressive scenery should choose the Stockton road at least one way.

We did not get away from Fresno, where we passed the night preceding our start for Wawona, until late in the afternoon. A swift run over the splendid new highway brought us to Madera about four in the evening, but there remained little hope of covering sixty miles of unknown mountain road to Wawona before nightfall. A glance at our maps revealed Raymond, about twenty-five miles farther on--the terminal of a branch railroad from Madera. We decided that Raymond would make a good stopping-point for the night; an early start would easily enable us to reach Yosemite the next day. So we set out over a choppy and very dusty dirt road which was conducive to anything but speed and comfort, but which nevertheless brought us to our objective in the course of an hour.

We found a forlorn-looking hamlet in the edge of the foothills and a glance at the ramshackle wooden hotel was anything but reassuring. A short conversation with the proprietor of a little shack labeled “garage” was not more encouraging. He was very noncommittal about the merits of the hotel and finally said,

“It’s only thirty miles to Miami Lodge--mighty comfortable place; you ought to reach there before it gets dark. Shall I telephone them to hold dinner for you?”

All of which sounded good to us as we contemplated prospective accommodations in Raymond, and with a speedy acquiescence we were away for Miami Lodge. Ten miles per hour, said the garage man, would be a good average for a greenhorn over the road we were to traverse--a ridiculously low estimate, we thought, but we had not proceeded far before we agreed with his conservatism. A narrow and exceedingly tortuous road plunged into the hills, threading its way among giant pines or creeping precariously along steep hillsides and around abrupt corners deep with dust and at times laboriously steep. Now and then it emerged into pleasant little glades and on entering one of these we saw a young mountain lion trotting leisurely toward the thicket. Of course our small rifle was under a pile of baggage, unloaded, and the cartridges in a grip, but we consoled ourselves with remarks about the extreme improbability of hitting him even if we had the gun.

It was sunset by the time we had covered little more than half the distance and while we regarded the approaching darkness with some apprehension, for the road showed no signs of improvement, we forgot it all in our admiration for the enchanting scene. Many were the magnificent vistas opening through the pines skirting our road along the mountainside. Purple hills topped with dark forests stretched away to a crimson sky; shadowy canyons sloped far beneath us, their mysterious deeps shrouded in a soft blue haze. It was a constantly changing yet always entrancing picture until the color faded from the skies and the canyons were blotted out by the gathering blackness. Then the road demanded our undivided attention, for we covered the last ten miles in pitch darkness and our neglected headlights proved in very poor condition.

About dusk we passed a little store and postoffice bearing the poetic name of Grub Gulch and later came to a comfortable-looking roadside inn, the Ahwahnee Tavern, where we should doubtless have stopped had our accommodations not been ordered at Miami Lodge. We learned, however, that this was only six miles farther and we crept cautiously onward over the stiff grades and around the abrupt turns. We were glad indeed when the lights of the Lodge twinkled through the pines and, leaving the old car to shift for herself under the stars, made a hasty toilet and attacked the substantial meal we found ready for us.

The Lodge is a comfortable rustic inn set in the pines on a hillside which slopes down to a clear creek dammed at one point into a small lake. The little valley forms a natural amphitheater surrounded by the forest-clad hills and is altogether a pleasant and restful spot well away from noise and disturbance of any kind. The creek is stocked with rainbow trout and big game is fairly common--attractions which bring many sportsmen to the Lodge. It is easy of access by the Madera-Yosemite auto stages which run daily during the season.

Beyond Miami Lodge we found the road even more trying than it was southward. Heavy grades and sharp turns continued, and deep dust and rough stretches caused much discomfort. We met many motor trucks and several heavy wagons drawn by six or eight horses, which made ticklish work in passing on the narrow grades and which stirred up clouds of yellow dust. As the sun mounted, the day became intolerably hot, making it necessary to elevate our cape top which combined with the dust to interfere with our view of the scenery.

The famous Mariposa Grove of giant redwoods lies a short distance off the main road to Wawona and though we had visited this before, we could not resist the temptation to do the big trees by motor. An attendant at the entrance gate demanded a fee of one dollar and admitted us to a narrow, winding road which steadily climbed a stiff grade for about three miles before we came to the trees. We renewed our acquaintance with the Grizzly Giant, reputed the oldest of living things on this mundane sphere. We found him protected by a high wire fence to ward off fiends suffering from the name-carving mania or souvenir seekers who sought to rob him of a chip or twig. He had not aged perceptibly since our previous visit and looked good for many more centuries, though the late John Muir once declared his belief that the Grizzly Giant had passed his zenith of growth and is now in his decline, a point not yet reached by any other redwood. But the hoar old monarch stands a second visit well indeed, though one may not experience quite the feeling of awe always inspired by the first sight of these mighty trees. It quite overwhelms one to reflect that here is a living thing older than the oldest records of the human race--a life that was in its infancy at the beginnings of Egyptian civilization. So impressive to us was the Giant and the reveries he excited that we hardly gave due attention to his three hundred and sixty-four companions in this grove, the least of which, taken by itself, might well excite the astonishment of anyone who had never before seen a redwood. Of course we had the novel experience of piloting a motor car through the living arch of the Wawona while completing the circle through the grove which brought us again into the road by which we entered.

Wawona is only four miles from the big-tree road, a rough, dusty, and very winding four miles with a good many steep grades, and it was an interesting comparison to recall the trip we made over it in a coach-and-four on our previous visit to the grove. Making due allowance for all the discomforts one experiences in an automobile during a hot, dusty day on difficult mountain roads, our present method of travel made the memory of the snail’s pace and suffocating dust and heat of our former trip to the grove seem more than ever like a nightmare.

We reached Wawona in time for the noonday luncheon at the pleasant old inn which has been the haven of sightseers for nearly half a century. It is delightfully situated in a little vale amidst a group of towering pines and all about it green meadows stretch away to the forest-clad hills that surround it on every hand. Through the valley runs the South Merced, famous for its mountain trout, a delicacy which guests at the inn sometimes enjoy. About the main hotel building are scattered several isolated cottages for the accommodation of guests who may be particular about privacy and plenty of light and air. There are numerous beautiful drives in the vicinity aside from the Mariposa Grove trip. One of these follows the river for some distance and another makes a circuit of the valley.

We had no time for these, as we were intent upon reaching Yosemite for the night and the regulation is that you check in at the final station by six o’clock. About a mile from Wawona we found the cabin of the ranger who issues tickets for the south entrance to the park. The formalities detained us but a few moments, since with the great influx of motor tourists during the exposition year, much of the original red tape was dispensed with. A copy of the rules and regulations was given us and the time of our entrance was stamped upon the ticket to be delivered to the superintendent at Yosemite village. The action of our small rifle was sealed and, with a friendly caution that it would be unwise to exceed the limit, we were ordered to proceed. Knowing something of the trip from previous experience we felt no uneasiness about exceeding the two hours and twenty-seven minutes minimum time allowed for covering the twenty-eight and nine-tenths miles between the station and Yosemite garage. No one but a confirmed speed maniac would care to exceed this very reasonable limit and anyone wise enough to admire the scenery along the road as it deserves to be admired might well consume twice the minimum time.

For some miles after entering the park we climbed the long, steady grade following the South Merced Canyon, always at a considerable distance above the stream, which we could see at intervals through the pines, flashing over its rock-strewn bed. There was scarcely a downward dip in the road for the first half-dozen miles, and we could not but recall the distressing effort of the horses as they toiled painfully upward on our former trip while we sat disconsolately enveloped in smothering clouds of dust. What a contrast we found in the steady, cheerful hum of our engine as it drove our car onward at not less than the permitted speed of fifteen miles, leaving the dust behind us and affording unhindered views of the endless panoramas of canyons and hills. Despite the heat and some murmurs from the back seat about the effect of the too ardent caresses of California sunshine on the complexion, we had lowered the cape top, for no one can get the full effect of the towering pines that skirt this road unless he has the open heavens above him. One will not often come across--even in California--finer individual cedars, sugar pines, and yellow pines than he will see here--splendid arrow-straight shafts several feet in circumference, often rising to a height of two or even three hundred feet. It is, indeed, pleasant to think that they are immune from the lumberman’s ax and guarded carefully against devastating fires. We paused at times in the shade of these forest titans and contemplated the wide range of hills and valleys beyond the canyon--particularly at Lookout Point, some seven or eight miles from Wawona. Here we beheld a seemingly endless panorama of forest-clad hills stretching away until lost in the infinite distance of the lucent afternoon. Once before we had beheld the same scene--at sunset, the hills shrouded in an amethyst haze, the valleys dim with purple shadows, and the sky resplendent with crimson and gold. Nothing could have shown more impressively the wonderful variations of the same landscape at different hours of the day, or proven more completely that one must come many times to see the beauty of Yosemite.

Three or four miles beyond Lookout Point the road branches, the left fork leading to Glacier Point, a distance of fourteen miles. This is a magnificent drive through virgin forests and should not be missed by anyone who has not made the trip. There is an old-fashioned hotel at Glacier Point where one may be fairly comfortable for the night and it is worth while to remain for the night to witness the sunrise over the mountain ramparts of the Valley. We did not undertake this trip, having made it a few years before by stage, but for all that we are sorry now that we let slip an opportunity to view the wonderful Glacier Point panorama a second time and some day, shall have to go back again.

Continuing a few miles farther, we came to the top of the grade leading down into the valley. We recalled it as a stiff, strenuous road, winding around sharp curves and often along the edge of sheer precipices which gave us a great many thrills from our high perch beside the driver of our four-in-hand. We had traversed mountain roads so much worse in the meanwhile that Wawona grade really seemed quite tame from a motor car and even the ladies took only languid interest in its twists and turns. We paused again for the third time at the famous Inspiration Point, and, indeed, we can not help envying those who are fortunate to come into the Yosemite by this road and thus get their first glimpse of the valley from Inspiration Point. Perhaps the view from Glacier Point is as glorious but one is not likely to come upon it so suddenly and is somehow expecting stupendous things, but Inspiration Point bursts on the wayfarer from the Wawona all unaware and he sees unfold before him almost in an instant all the marvelous sights that have made Yosemite a world’s wonder. I have tried elsewhere--in a previous book--to tell something of my impressions when I first viewed this unmatched scene and perhaps I may be pardoned for a short repetition of my words, since I do not know that I can do any better in describing it.

“Inspiration Point! Well named, indeed, for it must surely be a prosaic imagination that does not kindle with enthusiasm at the prospect. ‘It comes up to the brag,’ is what Ralph Waldo Emerson said after contemplating it long in silence--or at least that is what the guide books and railroad literature credit him with having said. It sounds strangely unlike our staid and gentle philosopher, whose language we are wont to admire as the finality in polished English. But it expresses one’s feelings more strongly, perhaps, than fine words. We have been led to expect much; they have assured us and we have often read, that the view from Inspiration Point is surpassed by few panoramas in the world--if, indeed, by any--for grandeur of mountain, cliff, and peak and for beauty of contour and color, and all of these are enhanced by the magic of the hour when we are so fortunate as to see it.

“The valley lies before us in the soft blue haze of the evening shadows, and its encompassing walls and towers are kindled with the purple and golden hues of the sunset. As one contemplates the glittering peaks and domes and the ranges of glowing mountains out beyond, he can realize John Muir’s characterization of the Sierras as the ‘Mountains of Light.’ The grandeur of Inspiration Point seems more of cliffs and spires, of towering walls and mountain peaks, while from Glacier Point one is perhaps more interested in the details of the valley itself. But from either point one may witness a scene that will possess his soul and whose beauty will linger through the years. We regret the necessity which hurries us from the scene, for the pause of the stage coach is but momentary. We have had but a glimpse of a landscape that might well hold one’s rapt attention for hours.”

It is the third time we have viewed this wonderful scene and we have been fortunate in coming each time at a different period of the day--morning and evening and early afternoon. Each has shown us a different phase of the beauty of Yosemite, for the variation of light and consequent changes of coloring have everything to do with the view from Inspiration Point.

We proceeded slowly and cautiously down the steep switchbacks leading to the floor of the Valley, a long, low-gear grind, for regulations forbid disengaging gears on roads in the park. The descent did not seem nearly so precarious as when we first made it in the regulation coach-and-four--the road appeared to have been widened at the turns; maybe this was only in our imagination, due to greater familiarity with mountain roads. We were enough at our ease to enjoy the splendid vistas of the valley and mountains which were presented from a hundred viewpoints as we slowly descended, something that we hardly did the first time. Nor did the time seem so long, though I really doubt if we went down so quickly as our dashing driver piloted his coach-and-four over this three-mile grade on our first trip. We soon found ourselves on the floor of the valley with Bridal Veil Falls waving like a gossamer thread above us--it was in September and the waterfalls were all at lowest ebb. The four miles along the floor to Yosemite was a joy ride indeed and we felt no desire to infringe the low speed limit imposed on motor cars. What though we had seen this wondrous array of stupendous cliffs, domes, pinnacles, and towers many times before, familiarity does not detract from their overpowering majesty and weird changeful beauty.

When we left Wawona we were somewhat fearful that we would be in danger of exceeding the seemingly absurdly low minimum time allowed--two hours and twenty-seven minutes for the twenty-six miles. It seemed as if we couldn’t help beating it without loafing on the way. However, on consulting our timepieces on nearing Yosemite station--there is a heavy fine for coming in ahead of schedule--we found that we had consumed over three hours and had stopped only a few minutes on the way. At the checking station we paid the five dollar fee required of motorists who enter Yosemite and took the car to the official garage forthwith, for absolutely no motoring is permitted in the park except for ingress and egress.

The old Sentinel Hotel had not changed in appearance since our last visit, nor had it improved in service; however, it was comfortable enough for a short stop in warm weather. We had heard many rumors of a new modern hotel to be erected on the site of the Sentinel and one declared that it was to be built and managed by that prince of innkeepers, Frank Miller of the Glenwood Mission Inn--all of which we fondly hoped might prove true. We learned, however, that although Mr. Miller had negotiated with the authorities in regard to building a hotel in Yosemite, he abandoned the scheme when he found that the government would not grant a lease for a period of more than ten years. Later a corporation, the Desmond Company, secured control of the concessions of the park and among their plans, we were told, is the erection of a first-class hotel, though at this writing the work has not begun. The company already has a new hotel at Glacier Point--a great improvement over the barn-like structure with which Yosemite tourists have so long been familiar.

Our excuse for a third trip to Yosemite was chiefly that we wanted to visit it by motor car; we had seen most of the sights and made most of the trail trips and drives, so there was little to do but lounge about in the hotel and vicinity for the rest of the afternoon. I visited the garage, which was merely a huge tent with open sides, where the cars were parked in care of an attendant. There was apparently a very good machine shop which seemed to have plenty of work, for break-downs are exceedingly common. The manager asked us if we would favor him by carrying a new axle to a motorist who was laid up at Crane Flat, near the entrance to the park on the road by which we expected to leave the next morning.

The regulations require that motor cars leave by the Big Oak Flat road between 6:00 A. M. and 4:00 P. M. and the first-named hour found us ready for departure, as we had been warned that an exceedingly strenuous day’s work lay before us. It is only one hundred and twenty-three miles to Stockton; hence we concluded that the strenuousness must be due to something besides long distance--a surmise which we did not have to wait long to verify. About two miles from the hotel, following the main valley road we came to a sign, “Big Oak Flat Route” and turned sharply to the right, crossing the Merced River. Immediately we began a sharp ascent over a dusty trail through thickly standing pines. Coming out of the trees we find ourselves on a narrow road cut in the side of the almost perpendicular cliff. It is fair at first, screened from the precipitous drop alongside by a row of massive boulders which have the psychological effect of making us feel much more at ease, though I doubt if they would be of much use in stopping a runaway car. Nevertheless, they are a decided factor in enabling us to enjoy the wonderful views of mountain and valley that present themselves to our eager eyes as we slowly climb the steep ascent. We are sure that we see many vistas quite equal to the view from the much vaunted Inspiration Point--but they are not so famous because far less accessible.

The road grows rougher and dustier as we climb slowly upward; the boulder balustrade disappears and we find ourselves on a narrow shelf, with infrequent passing places, running along the edge of a cliff that falls almost sheer beneath us. We pause occasionally to contemplate the marvelous scene beneath. The whole floor of the valley is now visible; its giant trees seem mere shrubs and the Merced dwindles to a silver thread; across the narrow chasm we now look down on the Cathedral Spires, the Three Sisters, and Sentinel Rock; we see Bridal Veil Fall swaying like a gossamer against the mighty cliff, and beyond we have an endless vista of forest-clad mountains. Three thousand feet above the valley we enter a forest of mighty pines; the road winds among them in sharp turns and the grades are very steep and deep with dust. We are not very familiar with our car--which we leased from a Los Angeles dealer, and as we near the summit the motor loses power and can not be cajoled into propelling the car over the last steep, dusty pitch. After an hour of fruitless effort, we appealed to the foreman of a road gang which, fortunately for us, was at work close by, and he helped the balky engine out with a stout team of horses.

“What’s the damage?” we gratefully asked of our rescuer.

“Just a bottle of whiskey, stranger, if you happen to have one along.”

We expressed regret at our inability to meet the very modest request and our friend had to be content with coin of the realm instead. Later on an auto expert told us that the particular make of carburetor on this car will not work satisfactorily at an elevation of more than seven thousand feet.

We were still several miles from Crane Flat and the descent proved quite as steep and rough as the climb, but there was no precipice skirting the road to add nervous disquiet to bodily discomfort.

Crane Flat is nothing more than the ranger station on the road and the official took up our “time card”--we came by a safe margin of two or three hours--and removed the seals from our “game getter.” We delivered the axle entrusted to our care, but found that the owner of the broken-down car had accepted the situation philosophically and gone fishing--his third day of this pleasant pastime while waiting for repairs.

Out of the park we hoped for better things in the way of roads, but we soon found the dividing line imaginary in more ways than one. The road speedily became rougher, dustier and steeper than that we had traversed, but, fortunately, it was down hill.

Two or three miles from Crane Flat we came to the Tuolumne Grove of Big Trees, where there are numerous giant redwoods, though not so many or so huge as those of Mariposa. A short detour from the main route took us to the Dead Giant, the most remarkable tree of this grove. It is tunneled like the Wawona tree in Mariposa and we had the sensation a second time of driving through a redwood. The remains of the Dead Giant are one hundred feet high and one hundred and five feet in circumference; scientists estimate that the tree must have been at least forty feet in diameter and perhaps four hundred feet high--larger and higher than any redwood now living. It was destroyed perhaps three hundred years ago by fire or lightning. The General Lawton of this grove is one of the most beautiful redwoods in existence and there is also a Fallen Giant still growing greenly although lying prone, its roots not being entirely severed.

Near the grove is the Tioga road which has recently been completed across the Sierras to Mono Lake on the Sierra Highway so that Yosemite may be reached from the east, although the entrance must be made at the west end of the valley. We met a party that had just made this trip and who declared the road next to impassable at that time.

A few miles beyond Tuolumne Grove one may reach the Hetch Hetchy Valley by a short side trip--a valley which has been styled a miniature Yosemite. It attained a nation-wide celebrity by the fight made to prevent the city of San Francisco from using it as a source of water supply, but San Francisco finally won and an act of congress permits the city to retain the water of the valley by a dam across the entrance. The engineers, however, claim that the work will not destroy the beauty of the valley nor prevent the public from visiting it.

Beyond Tuolumne Grove we still continue to plunge downward over the rough, stony trail which tried every rivet in the car and worked havoc with tires. At one point we had the unpleasant experience of meeting a car coming at high speed around a corner--the road was very narrow and as the newcomer was right upon us a collision seemed inevitable. The wild man at the wheel of the scrambling Ford, however, took long chances, for he ran upon the sidling bank when we had given him the last inch we could squeeze from the outer side of the road. It seemed that he must inevitably turn over on top of us, but the luck that sometimes is said to shield infants and fools--he was certainly no infant--favored him and he rolled back into the road right side up and went plunging along on the narrow grade. My friend, after drawing a deep breath, referred to the crazy driver as the “wild Irishman” and though I protested against the reflection on my remote ancestry, we still identify the road hog who gave us such a scare, by this appellation.

It was lunch time when we reached Sequoia, though we were only twenty-nine miles from Yosemite--a pretty insignificant showing for a half day’s run, from a mileage point of view, but it had been strenuous enough to make us tired and ravenously hungry. And hunger proved a very good sauce for the meal which we got at Crocker’s Hotel, which is about all there is of Sequoia. And I am not complaining of Crocker’s Hotel, either. I think they did very well when one considers that all their supplies must be hauled eighty miles by wagon road--naturally canned stuff and condensed milk prevailed. Another outstanding recollection is that it cost us forty cents per gallon to replenish our gasoline and we could not complain of that under the circumstances. The young fellow who kept the store near the hotel said he “had been the rounds in California,” but Crocker’s Ranch suited him best of any place he had seen. It was interesting to know that anyone could be satisfied in this remote and lonely place; it certainly had the advantage of being near to nature, if that was what our friend was seeking.

Beyond Crocker’s the characteristics of the country were about the same. A rough, dusty trail, winding through pine-clad hills with occasional heavy grades, carried us along for a good many miles. We occasionally passed a remote little station with a general store and “garage” bearing evidence of its origin in an old-time blacksmith shop. Colfax Gate, Smith’s, Garrett, and Big Oak Flat--which showed little reason for the distinction of giving its name to the road--were all of the same type, with nothing to invite even a casual glance from the tourist unless he needed gasoline or oil.

At Priest’s there is a country hotel, a haunt of hunters and ranchmen; but we recall Priest’s chiefly because it gives its name to one of the most beautiful bits of road engineering in California. The old road through this section had some of the steepest grades to be found in a country of steep grades; in fact, it was all but impassable to automobiles as bits of it still to be seen from the new highway will amply prove. The new grade extends for eight miles from Priest’s to Jacksonville, in which distance it descends fifteen hundred feet, but in no place does the gradient exceed five per cent. It follows the very crest of a giant hill range overlooking a beautiful valley some two or three thousand feet below. Alongside there is nothing to break the full sweep of one’s vision--not a tree or even a shrub intervenes between the roadbed and the precipitous slope beneath. Although the road is wide enough for easy passing at any point, the very baldness of its outer edge is enough to give a decided thrill to nervously inclined people and our driver received more advice and caution from the rear seat than had been offered him on far more dangerous roads with occasional rocks or trees alongside.

At Jacksonville the road comes down almost to the level of the Tuolumne River and we found ourselves on the border of the old gold-mining region made famous by the tales of Bret Harte. There are still several placer mines in operation along the river--the road passes a very large one at the foot of Chinese Camp grade, and the river is sullied for miles by the muddy washings from the mill. Chinese Camp grade is one of the worst encountered on our entire trip; it is steep and terribly rough, and dust a foot deep hides the ruts and chuck-holes, so we were compelled to “go it blind.” It was a four-mile plunge and scramble around sharp curves, half smothered and blinded by dense dust clouds which rose before we could get away from them, we made such slow progress over the dreadful road. At the hilltop, however, we were rewarded for our strenuous scramble by a magnificent view of the river canyon and a wide panorama of forest-clad hills with the emerald thread of the Tuolumne winding through them. Contemplation of the magnificent scene and a draught of cold water from our thermos bottle revived our spirits, which had drooped somewhat in the hot, dusty climb to the summit of the grade.

A short distance over a stony trail brought us into the main street of Chinese Camp, if we may so designate the wide, dusty section of road lined with wooden shacks of which every other one seemed a saloon. The appearance of the buildings warranted the guess on our part that there has been little change in this primitive hamlet since Bret Harte visited it, nearly a half century ago. Not far from here are many other camps and villages which found enduring fame in the stories of this most representative of all earlier California writers. Sonora, Angel’s Camp, Tuttletown, San Andreas, Mokelumne, and other places familiar in Harte’s pages may all be reached in a detour of fifty miles or so from the Big Oak Flat road. Most of these towns, like Chinese Camp, have made little progress since they were mirrored in the tales which appeared in the old Overland and Argonaut of San Francisco.

Beyond Chinese Camp we encountered the worst stretch of road of the entire day--a mere trail winding through a rough, boulder-strewn country seemingly having no end or object in view except to avoid the rocks too large to run over. No effort had been made to remove the smaller stones from the way and we had an unmerciful jolting, although we crawled along at a dozen miles per hour. Fortunately, there are no steep grades, and occasionally smoother stretches afforded a little respite. It would be hard to use language, however, that would exaggerate the relief which we felt when, on ascending a sharp little rise, we came upon a splendid paved highway which the road-book declared would continue all the way to Stockton. I think that the last forty miles into the city consumed less time than any ten miles we had covered since leaving Yosemite that morning.

We certainly presented a somewhat disreputable appearance when we came into the town. The car and everything about it, including the occupants, was dirty gray with dust, which I noted was two inches deep on the running boards and perhaps a little less on our faces, while it saturated our clothing and covered our baggage. California hotels, however, are used to such arrivals and we were well taken care of at the Stockton, despite our unprepossessing appearance. A thorough cleaning up, a change of raiment and a good dinner put us at peace with the world and we were soon exchanging felicitations over the fact that we had done Yosemite by motor car.

The route which we had taken, though strenuous enough, as my narrative indicates, is the one used by the majority of motorists going into the park. Of course, earlier in the season this road is not so rough and is freer from dust; one may make the trip to best advantage in July or early August. The time of opening the road varies, but the passes are usually clear of snow by the middle of June, though one is likely to find mud in places for some time after the snow has disappeared.

There are two other roads into the valley besides the Tioga road from the east. One of these leaves Fresno and joins the Madera road a few miles west of Wawona. One may start from either Modesto or Merced for the Coulterville road, which joins the valley road a little beyond El Portal. This road has the steeper grades, some as high as thirty per cent, but it takes one through some magnificent scenery and also passes the Merced Grove of big trees.

When the new route proposed and surveyed by the Automobile Club of Southern California is finally completed, the routes which I have described will probably be obsolete except for the occasional tourist who prefers the strenuous. The new route proceeds from Merced to Mariposa, a distance of forty miles, and is already partially completed. From Mariposa a new route has been surveyed by the club engineers to El Portal, following Bear Creek Canyon, a distance of thirty-three miles. Including the fifteen miles from El Portal, the total distance from the main highway is eighty-eight miles, or considerably less than any existing route. Better still, no grade on the new road will exceed five per cent and it will make Yosemite accessible by motor a much greater part of the year than at present. The completion of this proposed road is brought measureably nearer by the fifteen million dollar bond issue voted in 1916, as the Highway Commission has made the new Yosemite route a part of its pledged program.

A Run to the Roosevelt

Dam and to the

Petrified Forest

From painting by Thos. Moran]

A Run to the Roosevelt Dam and the Petrified Forest

Possibly this chapter is out of place in a book of motor travel on the Pacific Coast, for it has somewhat to do with journeyings by railway train and shifts the scene of action to the barren hills and green valleys of Arizona--the land of mystery and contrast without peer among its sister states. In our goings back and forth to California over the Santa Fe Trail, we had often laid plans to stop at the Petrified Forests near Adamana and to visit Phoenix and the great Roosevelt Dam, which waters the green and fruitful Salt River Valley. It is hard, however, to wrench oneself from a Pullman car before the journey’s end when one has become comfortably located, and so our plans were usually deferred until some indefinite “next time.” Had we taken trouble to ascertain how easily and quickly such plans can be realized, we should no doubt have carried them out much sooner.

Leaving Los Angeles in the afternoon in a through sleeper, we awoke the following morning to see the vivid green of the Salt River alfalfa fields all about us, reaching Phoenix in time for a late breakfast. We were not posted on the hotels of the town, but went to the Jefferson because it was nearest, finding it a modern, fireproof building with well-appointed, comfortable rooms. There was no meal service, however, and we were directed to a restaurant farther down the street. We also inquired about hiring a car to take us to the Roosevelt Dam and the clerk replied that he would have a driver connected with the hotel call on us shortly. This party appeared while we were at breakfast and expressed his willingness to serve us.

“Of course you mean to spend the night at the dam,” he said, “returning tomorrow.”

We assured him that we didn’t mean anything of the sort--that our time in Phoenix was limited to two days and that only one of them could be devoted to the Roosevelt Dam. “They tell us that it is only seventy-five miles distant,” I asserted. “Surely one hundred and fifty miles isn’t much of a drive if we get away by 9:30.”

“You may think differently after you’ve made the trip,” he replied, “but I reckon it can be done if you feel that you can stand it.”