Chapter XVIII: The Grand Cañon of the Colorado (3)

But do not fancy that from the top of this hill, or the higher one to which it leads, you will catch sight of the illimitable Pacific. The higher you climb, the higher do the mountains, that were previously hidden from sight by the lower intervening crests, loom up and shut out the view westward. But these curved ridges, rising one behind the other, like seats in a cyclopean amphitheatre, are in themselves a fascinating sight, especially in spring, when the hill-sides are green with high grass and abundant shrubbery. Looking down from this hill, we can see the large fish swimming about in the crystalline water, several hundred feet below us. To lie here on the grass, in the balmy sunshine, taking in the view and inhaling the ocean breeze, mingled with the floral perfumes that rise around you, is the very luxury of existence, and every deep draught of this air is a day added to one’s life. Thanks to the breeze, no shade is needed, and thus all the healing virtues of the sun’s rays can be utilized.

Should the labor of climbing this steep hill be dreaded, equally romantic spots may be found by following up the cañon or gulch which leads from the hotel into the midst of the hills by a gradual but steady ascent. The road follows a dry brook-bed, which probably once in a while becomes a torrent, though heavy rains are rare here, even during the “rainy season.” An endless variety of shrubs and flowers lines this road, becoming more rarely beautiful in color and shape the higher we rise. Climbing up one of the side gulches, I was frequently obliged to cut my way with my cane through bowers most gracefully built by the poison ivy (or oak), which is so abundant throughout California, afflicting some people, if they only pass near it, with a painful swelling of the face, while to others it is as harmless as is real oak or ivy. From one of these lovely bowers a humming-bird arose and darted up into the air as fast and straight as a rocket, till almost out of sight; then down again like a lump of lead; then circling in a wide curve about me, humming all the time like a spinning-wheel. To an observer who stands perfectly motionless, these birds afford no end of amusement by their wonderful swiftness and curious caprices. Often, when I watered my flowers during the winter, one of them would hover over the stream from the hose, take a foot-bath for a minute, then alight on an orange-tree for a second, and return to the sport again and again. They are very abundant in California, these butterflies among birds, as if to atone for the rarity of real butterflies, which is one of the most curious defects of this State; for one would think that a country so crowded with wild flowers would be the very paradise of butterflies. Another kind of bird very abundant on Catalina Island is the quail, which, even without the advantage of color, vies with the humming-bird in beauty. Being seldom hunted, the quail are much tamer than on the mainland. One couple had a nest in a cactus bush not more than a hundred yards behind the hotel, where they remained undisturbed till a heartless young idiot from Los Angeles killed them with his shotgun. Walking up the cañon, one or two pairs repeatedly ran along leisurely in the middle of the roadbed, not a hundred feet ahead of me. At other times I came within a few yards of them before they saw me, for the ground in many places is covered with a velvety kind of grass, noiseless and delightful to walk upon. Far up the gradually narrowing gulches we come upon patches of lovely maiden-hair and other ferns, guiding us to tiny brooklets of clear cool water. Water is not abundant on the island so far as explored, and last summer only one of the springs near Avalon—that which supplies the village pipes—was alive. But it would be easy to secure all the water desired by damming up one of the gulches.

The most serious drawback to the delightful rambles on Catalina Island is that one always has to keep an eye on the possibility of running across a “rattler.” The first evening of my two weeks’ sojourn I was sitting on the hotel piazza, drinking in the salubrious night air, when the conversation of a group of men attracted my attention. Two of them were representatives of an English syndicate who were trying to buy the island, and have since succeeded, I believe, in bagging it for six hundred thousand dollars. The reason why one of these ubiquitous English syndicates (who seem to “want the earth” at present) coveted Catalina Island, is, according to the Los Angeles papers, to be found in the fact that it abounds in silver ore, which, though not rich enough to be worked in this country, where labor is so expensive, might be carried as ballast in vessels returning to England, and profitably reduced to metal there. The agents were interviewing a resident as to the advantages and disadvantages of the island, and one of them, _inter alia_, asked about snakes. “Not a snake on the island,” was the answer. This was such curious and interesting information that I jotted it down in my notebook. Next morning after breakfast I took a walk up one of the hills, and just after passing a little wooden building, I came across a young Englishman in a white flannel suit, who was cautiously prying along the road on both sides. “Lost anything?” I asked. “No,” was the reply; “I am looking for rattlesnakes. Killed one a few days ago right here, and don’t like them quite so near my house.” He was greatly amused when I told him how his countrymen had been “stuffed” at the hotel on the preceding evening. “The island swarms with snakes,” he said. “They have never been interfered with, and have been allowed to multiply for several centuries, until they have become as abundant as ground-squirrels. Only the other day a party moved their tent away from a spot over on that hill because a snake family had established a previous claim on the neighborhood. However, you need not be afraid of walking along the cañon or up the grassy sides of the hills, for they avoid the grass and haunt only the naked rocky hill-sides, exposed to the full glare of the sun, where they can be easily seen.”

I soon found that the simplest way to steer clear of rattlers is to hunt for them. I spent several hours looking for them in the most likely places, because I wanted to study the nature of the beast and get a few rattles, but not one did I see. There is no doubt, however, that they exist in large numbers, and the sooner they are exterminated, the better for the future prospects of the island as an all-the-year-round health resort. However, it must be said that there are few instances of men having been killed by snakes in California, while the dreaded scorpions, centipedes, and tarantulas are hardly more dangerous than hornets. According to Dr. Weir Mitchell, who has made a special study of this subject, a rattlesnake bite in the extremities rarely causes death in this country, and he has known of nine dogs being bitten by as many different snakes, and but two died. He considers them a much-maligned animal, and says they have always seemed to him averse to striking. This agrees with what the late T. S. Van Dyke says in his “Southern California”: “At least a dozen times I have either been about to step directly on one, or have stepped over it, or else have set my foot directly beside it. In no case have I been struck at by them, though I have made them strike very savagely at a stick.” “Hunters take no precautions against them, and children run bare-legged through the bush everywhere without thinking of them.” Still, the nervous might carry in their pocket some permanganate of potash, which Dr. Mitchell considers the most potent external antidote, that has saved many lives.

It might be worth while to introduce on Catalina Island some of the “road-runners” so common on the mainland,—a bird looking somewhat like a large pheasant, which runs along the roads, seldom rises on its wings, and is said to live on snakes, lizards, centipedes, and similar delicacies, and is nevertheless pronounced a good gastronomic morsel by those who have the courage to eat it. It might also be good business policy to import a few of the Arizona cowboys, who, after making the rattlers strike, catch them by the tail and swing them like a whip till the head flies off. But cowboys are objectionable neighbors on other grounds, and it would be better, all things considered, to give the freedom of the village to a dozen pigs, who would soon make rattlers scarce about camp, and who might be allowed to run wild and clean out the whole island.

There would be a precedent for this in the wild goats which were turned loose by Vancouver on this and other Pacific islands, a hundred years ago, and which have now multiplied to thousands. These wild goats form one of the most characteristic attractions of Catalina. They are hunted on horseback, and are often seen in large herds, feeding along the hill-sides. It is not very easy to get near enough for a shot, but still one or two are generally brought back as the result of a morning’s ride; and the next day there is always “venison with jelly” on the hotel bill of fare. If it were a little more juicy and less insipid in taste (the young ones only are eaten), it might deserve that name. Barring an occasional hunt, these wild goats lead an ideal life, which the happiest mortal must envy them,—no wild beasts to prey on them, and plenty of grass-grown hill-sides to climb and browse upon. They are more fortunate than their cousins, the wild goats and half-wild sheep on the neighboring island of San Clemente, which, though almost as large as Catalina, is more barren, and is said to have no water at all except the heavy morning dews which the animals sip in with their breakfast of wild clover. Imagine a goat living on dew-drops and clover leaves! What becomes of _Puck_ and the tomato-can theory?

To those who find goat-hunting on horseback too arduous and risky a sport, Catalina offers a variety of entertainments in its bathing facilities and the rare opportunities for botanic, mineralogic, and archæologic research, besides fishing, watching the pelicans and flying-fish, and visiting the seal rocks. Bathing in the placid bay lacks the excitement given by plunges into foaming breakers, and it must be admitted that small pebbles do not make as agreeable a beach as sand. Yet those who can swim will enjoy a bath here as much as anywhere. There is a drawback in the thought that only sixty miles to the south, at San Diego, a young man, while in bathing a few years ago, suddenly disappeared, being doubtless carried off by a shark. However, no shark has ever been known to eat more than one man at a time, so that if several go in together, each one has a fair chance of escape. Small sharks are occasionally seen in the bay of Avalon, but no accident has ever happened. Bathers are occasionally stung by a kind of animal called a stingaree, which causes a wound that must be cauterized, and is said to be almost as dangerous as a rattlesnake bite. But then we cannot expect to have everything arranged to suit us.

The charms of Catalina’s flowers to lovers of beauty and botany I have already referred to, but I must not forget to mention that the thrill of delight on coming across the first Mariposa lily will mark an epoch in their experience. Amateur mineralogists may go prospecting for silver ore. In some places they will find patches of coal-black soil, besides igneous rocks in abundance, and other evidences of former volcanic agency. But the greatest treat awaits the archæologist, who may dig in the site of the graveyards, or the former village, part way up the main cañon, for Indian relics. The objects most frequently found are the pestles and mortars of various sizes, in which the squaws ground their grain and acorns, and strings of shells. These shells were used by the Indians as money, and Catalina Island was the place where most of them were found. The Yankee, who has succeeded the Indian at Avalon, still makes money out of these shells. There are a number of varieties strewn along the beach; but the largest and most beautiful is the abalone shell, the inner surface of which is often equal to the finest mother-of-pearl, while the outer surface can be made equally attractive by persistent polishing. The professional abalone-hunters, who have their stores at Avalon and ship large quantities to the East, to be made into buttons, jealous of competition, will tell you unblushingly in spring that these animals are only caught in the winter; but after a low tide you may see them rowing in with a whole boat-load of them. It is interesting to watch these men at work. One of them plies the oars, and the other has a long pole to stick under the unsuspecting abalone, which he twists off the rock and hauls in; whereupon the search for another begins. The Californians seem to consider the abalone possibly useful as well as ornamental; for there is a tradition (probably manufactured by an ingenious Catalinian) that a Chinaman, one day while bathing, put his foot under one of these shells, and was held till miserably drowned by the returning tide. If this story becomes known at Sacramento, a law will probably be passed forbidding abalone-fishing. Besides serving as a trap for Mongolians, the abalone has also a gastronomic use; for it makes the finest soup I have ever eaten,—superior to the best terrapin.

Of the fish which abound here the best flavored are the large sardines, of which a whole boat-load is easily caught with one haul of the net. There are literally miles and millions of them along the coast, and it would doubtless be a profitable industry to can them, although the oil would have to be imported, for California olive oil is too much in demand and too expensive to be used for such a purpose. But there is a serious objection to these sardines,—they spoil the fishing; for the large fish have their sardinian breakfast so handy that they refuse to bite unless tempted by a special delicacy, such as a piece of lobster. In April even this ruse often fails; for then the water is filled with spawn, and when a fish has spawn to eat, he turns up his nose even at lobster. To one solely intent on catching the fish, it must be most provoking to see hundreds of them, of all sizes, swimming about his tempting crawfish bait without paying any more attention to it than if it were a pebble.

But the lover of nature can here enjoy scenes which make him oblivious of the ignoble excitement of catching fish. Catalina Island has one of the most enchanting salt-water aquariums in the world. Row out into the ocean a few hundred yards, and you will get a glimpse of a submarine garden more wonderful than anything to be seen on shore. The water is calm and as clear as crystal, showing objects fifty or seventy feet below as distinctly as if you could touch them. Kelp, anemones, and seaweeds, green, purple, and yellowish, and of various forms, wave about slowly in the current. Abalone shells cling to the rocks, and jelly-fish float along, expanding and contracting rhythmically. The waving seaweeds are covered everywhere with a bluish mass looking like jelly. It is the spawn, the favorite food of the hundreds of fish in sight, whose life, swimming calmly to and fro, seems to be a perpetual picnic, like that of the goats on the green hill-sides. But they have their enemies everywhere,—in the water, in the air, and on shore. When the spawn is gone and the sardines have migrated, the fisherman and the tourist cast their hooks and pull in dozens in a morning; although once or twice an hour they are surprised by a twenty or thirty pound monster who swallows the hook and simply walks away with it, heedless of the tiny line which seeks to hold him. The chief excitement of ocean fishing lies in this, that one never knows what kind of fish one is going to land next. More than twenty varieties are caught here, including rock-cod, sheepshead, whitefish, barracuda, mackerel, etc. The most fascinating of all is a bright red fish which haunts the rocks; as beautiful as the Chinese goldfishes kept in glass globes, but very much larger. It is almost too beautiful to kill, but it has an ugly mouth, and is good to eat, so up it comes _en route_ to the frying-pan.

The fisherman is the least formidable enemy of these fish. The pelican and the seal are wholesale butchers in comparison. The large pelicans, with their huge, ugly bills, with which they can scoop up a dozen sardines or smelts at one fell swoop, are very abundant at Catalina Island, but at the present rate of extermination by tourists they will soon be scarce. Their wing-bones make good and novel pipe-stems, and their skin, with the soft white and gray feathers, is ornamental; and that settles their fate. They are very stupid birds, and slow, and not a bit afraid of human beings, which makes them easy victims. Tourists kill them from the beach or on boats, and after skinning them, throw the carcass overboard, where it is immediately pounced upon and disputed by a dozen greedy gulls. The seals occasionally visit Avalon Bay on their fishing excursions, ingeniously swimming a dozen abreast in a semicircle, and driving the fish before them till they are cornered. Sometimes the terrified fish, in their eager flight, jump on the beach, where they may be picked up alive. No one should fail to pay a visit to the seal rocks and see these creatures “at home.” The rocks are at the southern extremity of the island, about six miles from Avalon, and can be reached by row-boat, or by the steam-tug which almost daily takes down a party. A row-boat is preferable, because the seals allow it to approach nearer than a puffing tug. On the way down observe the splendid precipitous rocks, to the sides of which some wild goats may occasionally be seen clinging like flies. The boat passes projecting rocks and rugged promontories, on which a few pelicans and seals are basking; and between them are several large curved beaches of smooth pebbles, three or four feet high, and fifty feet wide, to which every winter’s storms add a foot or two. As we approach the southern end of the island, the swell of the outer Pacific becomes perceptible, and at the same time the seal rocks rise up before us. The hundreds of sea-lions lying on them appear to be fast asleep; but suddenly a sentinel raises up his head, watches us a moment, and then utters a cry of alarm. Immediately the whole army are awake, and gradually assume an erect position, barking hoarsely as we approach them. Among them are some formidable monsters, large and heavy as oxen, and were they not known to be perfectly harmless, it would seem a most hazardous undertaking to row right up to them. With every stroke of the oars they become more excited and noisy, and finally, when we are within forty or fifty feet of the rock, they plunge headlong and pell-mell into the water. For a moment they are invisible, and then they are seen collecting in a body in a sort of pool between the rocks, sticking up their snake-like necks and heads, and barking louder than ever, the younger ones bleating just like sheep. But gradually, as we move away a little, and throw out our fishing-lines, they become convinced that our intentions are honorable, and then, with many a groan and snap at their neighbors, they climb back clumsily to the summit of the rocks, the biggest ones securing the best places. Seal rocks are always good fishing-ground; but why is it that the fish do not learn to avoid places where they hear the loud barking of their voracious enemies? In this respect their instincts appear to fail them.

VII.

SANTA BARBARA AND THE YOSEMITE.

A DAM UNDER A RIVER-BED—BEANS AND CULTURE—AN ÆSTHETIC
TOWN—BEAUTIFUL GARDENS—SPANISHTOWN AND CHINATOWN—THE MOJAVE
DESERT—ON THE WAY TO THE YOSEMITE—A FINE STAGE RIDE—FLORAL
WONDERS—THE SIERRA SNOW-PLANT AND MARIPOSA LILIES—RESEMBLANCE TO
OREGON SCENERY—DISCOVERY OF THE VALLEY—THE YOSEMITE AND BRIDAL
VEIL FALLS—RAINBOW SPRAY—EL CAPITAN AND MIRROR LAKE—ORIGIN OF THE
VALLEY—YOSEMITE AS A LAKE—GLACIER POINT AND OTHER EXCURSIONS—THE
BIG TREES IN THE MARIPOSA GROVE.

There are two ways of reaching Santa Barbara from Los Angeles (or San Francisco),—either on a coast steamer or by the new railway branch from Saugus, about twenty-five miles north of Los Angeles, which was completed two or three years ago. For scenic reasons the latter route is preferable, as it takes us in succession over the lovely San Fernando Valley, through a mountain cañon, and lastly, for almost thirty miles, along the edge of the ocean, thus exhibiting Nature in her three principal phases. Near San Fernando, which is a pretty and inviting place, may be seen one of the greatest curiosities in the State, showing what strange methods are sometimes resorted to in Southern California to secure water for irrigation. It is a granite dam, fifty feet deep, which brings to the surface the water of a subterranean river. Only three feet of the dam are above ground, the rest being sunk down to the bed-rock, so as to force up into the surface-pipes a stream of water fifteen feet deep and forty feet wide. Another curiosity of San Fernando is a small boy who, while the train stops, walks up and down with a basket on his arm, shouting incessantly, “Nice sweet oranges, five for a nickel, _eight_ for a dime!”

Soon after leaving San Fernando the train plunges into a cañon, where we get a near view of the foothills and mountains which had so often aroused our curiosity and a desire to make their acquaintance. They are of the most diverse forms and colors, now rugged, gray, and forbidding, and again femininely rounded, green, and handsome. At Newhall and beyond we greet the sight of beautiful oak groves on the foothills,—real, natural, unirrigated shade trees, with cows resting under them. The ocean is reached at Santa Buenaventura, which is getting to be a seaport doing a considerable export business in grain, oil, pork, flaxseed, honey, and, above all, beans. The region between this town and Santa Barbara, is remarkably favorable to the growth of beans, 113,700 sacks having been raised in 1887, as compared to only 35,000 sacks of corn, the next highest item; and we are not a bit surprised, therefore, to read in the guide-book that “Santa Barbara prides herself on being more æsthetic and cultured than her somewhat plebeian sisters, San Diego and Los Angeles.” Hereafter it will be impossible to doubt the Boston-baked-beans theory.

There is unquestionably an air of refinement and good taste about Santa Barbara which impresses one as favorably as the scenic and climatic attractions. It is a substantially built, most picturesquely situated town of four or five thousand inhabitants, traversed by a long, wide business street in which are many elegant stores which at once indicate it to be a great resort of tourists; and what predisposes one especially in favor of this place is the clean and noiseless asphalt paving of the streets, which promises rest and refreshing sleep to the victims of nervousness and insomnia,—a pavement which if introduced by legal enactment in every town and city in the country, would reduce the income of physicians twenty-five per cent. But as there are few but physicians who know this fact, we of course hear very little about it. The Arlington is one of the most comfortable and best managed hotels in California, and from its cupola a good view of the town and surroundings may be obtained. To the west is the Pacific, bounded by the semicircular harbor, which is invaded by a long pier,—the coolest place in town. Then, in a wider semicircle, comes the town, half buried amidst the Peruvian pepper and other fine shade trees, extending up to the foothills, behind which rise the green and gray snowless mountains.

Santa Barbara is not a commercial place, there being no large ships in the harbor, and its trade only local. More than any other place in Southern California it gives the impression of being merely a town of quiet homes and a pleasure and health resort for tourists and invalids. Though Indian remains must be scarce by this time, there are here, for the benefit of this class of visitors, a large number of curiosity stores, whose goods are probably manufactured in San Francisco, like the “Indian relics” and curios sold in Alaska. The old Mission, however, is genuine, and attracts many visitors. A pleasant resort is the free library, well stocked, and the reading-room, which is always cool, but has the objectionable feature of commanding so fine a view that it requires a special effort to prevent the eyes from constantly wandering away from the pages of the books.

The gardens of Santa Barbara are probably the finest and most varied in the State, and nowhere else did I find myself so frequently obliged to stand still and peep over fences at some new species or varieties of flowers or flowering shrubs and trees. Persia itself can hardly excel Santa Barbara in roses, three hundred varieties of which are found here. “At one of our annual rose fairs we have seen one hundred and fifty-six varieties of roses, all cut from one garden that morning,” says the Rev. A. W. Jackson; in “Barbariana”; and the wonderful cosmopolitanism of California soil and climate is indicated by the assertion that “trees native to Peru, Chili, Australia, China, Japan, New Zealand, North Africa, South Africa, Southern and Central Europe, Southern and Western Asia, and our own Southern and Northeastern States, are found growing in it side by side.”

There are years when the thermometer does not rise above 85° or sink below 35°, and for this climate Santa Barbara is partly indebted to the four mountainous islands (similar to Catalina) which lie twenty miles or more to the westward and shut out the cold trade winds. Fogs, however, are abundant in spring, and there is an occasional scorching day or two, or a dust-storm; but these blemishes, as Mr. Jackson cheerfully remarks, amount to no more than “the freckles on the face of a young lady, who is beautiful and delightful notwithstanding.” Like every other town of over two thousand in this part of the State, Santa Barbara has its Spanishtown and Chinatown, but with this difference, that there is said to be a remnant here of the better class of Spaniards who formerly owned the State and lived in large adobe houses, while in other towns little now remains but a handful of the poorer classes, aptly characterized as “Greasers.” Though poor, they are not always honest, according to report; and I have myself seen young girls enticing a neighbor’s chickens with a handful of wheat into their house, whence they never issued again; and sometimes they catch them with fish-hooks. The men make a precarious living by taking care of cattle and horses or doing some agricultural work. They speak a very corrupt Spanish, and live in a most primitive way in one-room shanties raised a foot or two above the ground. The children run about barefooted all the year round, and the women are ignorant of the uses of flannel, their dress consisting simply of a calico wrapper: hence it is not surprising that, as a prominent physician informed me, a large proportion of them succumb to the sudden changes of temperature, and die of consumption,—the very disease against which this climate, with proper precautions, is so potent.

It is a significant fact that although an American occasionally marries one of these Mexican women, it hardly ever happens that an American woman marries a Mexican. Thus disease, emigration to Mexico, and intermarriage are gradually decimating the Mexicans, and in two or three decades few will be left in Southern California. It is a sign of the times that at Santa Barbara the Chinese are gradually invading Spanishtown. Say what they will, the Californians at harvest-time are glad of all the Chinamen they can get; nor are there many who refuse to patronize the Chinese vegetable man, who is a feature of every place. Every morning he comes round with a wagon-load of assorted vegetables which he sells at such an absurdly low price that even farmers find it more economical to buy than to raise their vegetables. Five or ten cents will supply a family of three or four with choice vegetables for two meals; and the man always throws in a bunch of celery or some other thing which in the East would cost as much as is here paid for the whole. But John can afford it. All he asks of life is his daily ration of rice, a portion of a room to sleep in, and a brisk sea-breeze to fly his musical kite, which he watches and listens to by the hour with an expression of genuine enjoyment.

In coming to Santa Barbara, the last fifty miles were made in the darkness, so that the saline breeze alone gave evidence that for almost two hours the train skirts the ocean. In returning, we take the morning train, to connect at Saugus with the north-bound Los Angeles train for Yosemite, and thus get a chance to enjoy this ride along the ocean, which is very different from the stretch between San Diego and Oceanside,—there, a level, sandy beach, and the mountains at a distance; here, a mountain chain with its foot in the breakers, leaving hardly room enough for the train to wind along, the piles occasionally lapped by the waves. Between Saugus and Mojave numerous large bee ranches can be seen from the train, though there seems no superabundance of flowers.

As we enter the Mojave Desert,—which is a real desert, by reason of its sandy soil, and not simply in appearance, owing to the lack of irrigation,—the most conspicuous objects are the large _yucca_ cactus-trees, rising to a height of forty feet and more, with large, thick branches, which furnish fibre for paper. On all sides isolated, naked hills, and clusters of hills with curious vertical water-furrows, rise as abruptly out of the level, sandy floor as Catalina does from the Pacific. By and by darkness closes in, and we miss the experience of passing through the seventeen tunnels and seeing the famous “Loop,” where the train crosses its own track about eighty feet above. All that we remember of this region is the dismal howling of the desert wind, which is cold enough to make blankets comfortable even in a Pullman sleeper, though in the daytime the temperature in this region may have been anywhere between 100° and 120°.

At 3.30 the porter wakes us, and at 4.10 we are dropped in the midst of a prairie, a quarter of a mile beyond the Berenda station, whence a branch road is to take us in the direction of the Yosemite Valley. The short ride to Raymond, the terminus of the branch railway, is over a level region densely inhabited by jack-rabbits, who are used as targets by pistolled tourists in the freight car. Perhaps it is hardly correct to say that this region is level; for there are thousands of curious little round hills several feet high and fifteen or twenty in diameter. They are locally known as “hog-wallows,” but their origin is unknown. At Raymond, those of the passengers who had been wise enough to telegraph a week in advance for outside or box seats on the stages take possession of them with a feeling of proud superiority over their less prudent fellow-travellers. But there are stages and stages, and an inside seat in a new stage, with good springs, is preferable to an outside seat on an old rickety stage, at least for those who would rather lose some of the scenery _en route_ than be “seasick” all the way, as not a few ladies are; for the road is rough and the pace rapid, regardless of holes and bumps. Four horses are attached to the stage, which are changed seven times before we reach the Valley, next day at noon. In the height of the season this company employs three hundred horses. The ascent begins at once; mountain air and scenery surround us, and become more inspiriting and inspiring in a gradual _crescendo_, till the climax is reached at Inspiration Point, just above the Valley. The vegetation changes every few hours and becomes constantly more fascinating. Large, stately oak-trees are everywhere, adorned with pendent branches of mistletoe as large as beehives. The stage passes under some of these, which leads a passenger to remark that it is lucky for young ladies that this route is not open during Christmas week.

Grub Gulch is the suggestive name of a small place we stop at for a few minutes; and further on, while the horses are being changed, passengers have a chance to inspect the reducing works of the Gambetta gold mine, the flume of which, conducting water from an enormous distance, runs along the stage road for hours. We stop for lunch at Grant’s Sulphur Springs, a wild, romantic mountain resort, the proprietor of which built a stretch of road costing twelve thousand dollars, on condition that the stages should pass his way and stop for lunch. Supper is served at the Wawona Hotel, where we spend the night. This place has its own attractions in the shape of a fine water-fall, a lake, a trout-stream, Hill’s picture gallery, and an Alaskan bear in a cage near the river.

It may seem strange that a bear should be imported from Alaska to the Sierra, which has plenty of its own. But they are less easily caught here, and avoid the haunts of men. We saw none on the way, nor any other animals except squirrels and a few birds, among which the pretty but unmusical bluejays predominated. One passenger said that he caught a glimpse of two deer, but could not prove his assertion. Scenery similar to that of the preceding day, only grander and more of it. There may be mountains in other parts of America to match these, but nowhere such a bewildering profusion and unique beauty of flowers, shrubs, and trees. The driver showed no disposition to stop and give us a chance to pick these floral novelties; and wisely, for we should have never reached the Valley if he had. An amateur botanist, on foot or on horseback, would require a week to get there. It is not only those fringing the road that can be enjoyed from the stage, but those at a distance, too; for they grow in large blue, yellow, white, or red patches, looking like irregular garden beds, resting cosily under a shade tree, or exposed on a sunny ledge or hill-side, where they sometimes present the appearance of gayly colored rocks. Even Southern California has nothing to match this; for although there may be a still greater profusion of flowers, there are not so many varieties as here. Bleeding hearts, larkspurs, and lupins in all colors, yellow and white violets, snapdragons, fragrant California lilac, honeysuckles, tiger-lilies, etc., etc., carpet the ground with the luxuriance of weeds. Fortunately those that are most peculiar to the region are also the most abundant; namely, the Indian pinks (with fringed scarlet petals, looking like groups of tiny Japanese parasols), Indian paint-brushes, Mariposa lilies, and snow-plants. The long-stemmed, tulip-shaped, white and yellowish Mariposa lilies are especially numerous; and when one of the passengers jumped out as the stage climbed up a hill and brought back a handful, two of the ladies exclaimed simultaneously, after glancing at the curiously marked downy inside, “Why, they look just like butterflies!”—which shows that they are well named; for mariposa is Spanish for butterfly.

But the gem of the collection is the Sierra snow-plant, which is of such striking and unique appearance, that even those who do not ordinarily care much for flowers cannot repress an exclamation of rapturous admiration when they first see one. It is called snow-plant because it grows only at an elevation of from four to eight thousand feet, while the last snow-patches are melting: but the name is misleading, as one expects from it a white flower; whereas, the small, bell-shaped flowers, as well as the scaly, brittle, thick stems around which they cluster irregularly, in great profusion, are all one red blush of blood color. They push themselves like mushrooms out of the ground, displacing the layer of dry needles under the fir-trees; and the mode of their growth and origin is, I believe, still something of a mystery to botanists. Of the shrubs I will mention only the dogwood, whose blossoms are as pure white and as large as in Oregon; the tough leather-plant, with yellow flowers, similar to those of the dogwood; and the manzanita, so called from its berries, which look like little apples. On account of its beautiful, smooth, brown rind, marked like alligator skin, it is much coveted for canes, and every young man hunts a few hours for a good specimen; but though the bush is over-abundant, straight sticks are so rare that they are sold for five dollars on the spot.

After spending a winter in treeless Southern California, the sight of the dense and stately Sierra forests is as agreeable as that of the rare mountain shrubs and flowers. As we ascend higher and higher, the change in the forest trees is similar to that which we encounter in going northward towards Oregon and Washington. At a place where the oaks are still abundant, we notice two isolated pine-trees on a hill-side; these become more and more abundant, till, in the higher regions, they become replaced by firs, often prettily draped with yellow moss (which completely hides the branches, and makes the whole tree yellow), many of them dotted with innumerable holes in which woodpeckers insert their acorns,—so tightly that neither squirrel nor bluejay can get them out. The resemblance to Oregon scenery is heightened by the numerous burnt stumps, the mosses, and the ferns. Higher and higher we creep, and more and more magnificent becomes the scenic outlook over the mountain crests rising behind each other in endless succession like the waves of a stormy sea, with an occasional glimpse far down into the yellow, sunburnt San Joaquin Valley, and the Coast Range, one hundred and fifty miles away, like a faint silhouette. In this howling wilderness of desolate forests and mountains, which it takes the stage almost two days to traverse on a smooth road, the thought occurs again and again how in the world any one ever discovered this Yosemite Valley, hidden away in the heart of the Sierras, to which no arteries led them. Had it not been for the pursuit of that band of Indians by Captain Boling, in 1851, under the guidance of two Indian chiefs, it is possible that this gigantic gorge of the Merced River might still answer to the description given of it at that time by one of the friendly chiefs: “In this deep valley one Indian is more than ten white men. The hiding-places are many. They will throw rocks down on the white men if any should come near them. The other tribes dare not make war upon them; for they are lawless like the grizzlies, and as strong. We are afraid to go to this valley, for there are many witches there.”

Once discovered by white men, the Valley was sure to become world-famed ere long, though the soldiers and gold-hunters who first saw it did not realize that they had come across the most wonderful collection of water-falls, precipitous cliffs, fantastic peaks, and other scenic features, to be found in a similar compass anywhere in the world. In approaching a spot which, although discovered less than forty years ago, is already as well known the world over as Niagara or Mont Blanc, expectation is of course at fever heat. What adds to the excitement, is the knowledge that the first bird’s-eye-view of the whole Valley which we get on this route is also the finest. It is at Inspiration Point, where the driver gave us just two minutes to take in the most famous scene in California. But these stage-drivers have sad experiences. Ours told me how some time previously he had stopped his stage at this point, and how every one was seemingly wrapped in admiration too deep for speech, when a lady on the back seat suddenly broke the silence by exclaiming, “Oh, my! I wonder why they have no lace curtains at the Wawona Hotel!”

It is of the Valley as a whole only that one gets the finest impression from this point; the individual features, the giant precipitous wall of smooth granite, known as El Capitan, and especially the water-falls, do not reveal their full grandeur till we are directly beneath them. As the stage winds down into the Valley, such a bewildering variety of scenic surprises crowd each other that one should have as many eyes as an insect to take them all in; and it is amusing to see all the passengers pointing at once in different directions to call attention to something that particularly strikes their fancy, while each one is too busy to heed the others. The stage traverses almost the whole Valley, which is over six miles in length, landing the majority of the tourists at the State-built Stoneman House, although some stop at Barnard’s, a mile less distant, directly opposite the triple Yosemite Falls, which are what a reporter would call a “three-decker.” These falls, as well as the Bridal Veil, and others less famous, are seen from the stage as it traverses the Valley; but of course they want a whole afternoon at the very least for proper inspection; so, after washing off the abundant Yosemite dust, and partaking of lunch, we hire a carriage or saddle-horse, and retrace our steps through the Valley, making our first stop at the Yosemite Falls. In coming up the Valley the driver had asked us how wide we thought the Yosemite creek was at the height where it falls over the edge. It looks about a foot wide, and the guesses ranged from two to ten feet. “Sixty feet wide,” he replied. Our new driver made it forty feet, and on consulting Professor Whitney’s “Yosemite Guide-Book” (which still remains by far the most graphic and reliable account of the Valley ever written, but of which it is absolutely impossible to find a copy in the book-market, though for years there has been a great demand for it—a rare instance of publishers’ stupidity) we found that he makes it only twenty feet in width and two deep, but still sufficient to furnish from half a million to a million and a half cubic feet of water in an hour to form the falls. Yet it is not so much by its volume that the Yosemite Falls imposes as by its unequalled height. The upper fall has a descent of fifteen hundred feet; the middle, of six hundred and twenty-six; and the lower, of four hundred; making together a water-fall (for they are almost in a vertical line) of over twenty-six hundred feet, or more than half a mile—sixteen times as high as Niagara.

With an umbrella or rubber coat one can get quite near the foot of the lower falls, and enjoy the spectacle of the spray, and of the rainbow which forever hovers over it, like a circle of humming-birds. To the left of the falls is a sort of Cave of the Winds, whence a strong blast is forced on the upper part of the descending water, swaying it to and fro several feet, and producing the occasional effect of a lateral curve. Indeed, the aspect of the falls changes as constantly as the expression on a human face, and one might visit it scores of times without seeing it exactly as it was before.

Having given as much time as possible to these falls, we continue our trip down the same side of the Valley, to the right of the clear and rapid Merced River, till we come under the shadow of El Capitan, the summit of which is thirty-three hundred feet straight overhead—almost seven times as high as the highest European cathedral. A single perpendicular wall of this height would make this rock one of the wonders of the world; but here are two such walls, half a mile in length, smooth as marble, meeting at a right angle, which makes “The Captain” an absolutely unique sight: “Sublimity materialized in granite,” as Hutchinson puts it. Vast as this rock seemed from Inspiration Point, one must walk or drive along its base fully to realize its grandeur and sublimity. “The whole of New York,” exclaimed an enthusiastic companion, “might have been quarried out of that rock without making a damaging impression on it!” The smooth surface is in one place darkened by what seems a young fir-tree a few feet high, but which is said to be an old tree over a hundred feet high. How it ever got a foothold and nourishment half-way up this naked rock, is a mystery. Even a tree, one would think, should become dizzy and lose its balance in such a situation.

Below El Capitan the Valley gradually contracts into a cañon, “not having the U shape of the Yosemite, but the usual V shape of California valleys.” The descent is extraordinarily abrupt, and the Merced River rushes and tumbles along in a continuous headlong current almost as wild and impetuous as the Niagara Rapids. High up on the steep right wall of the cañon we see the Milton road winding upwards like a white thread. Our downward road continues as far as the Cascade Falls, which, though they would elsewhere be regarded as stupendous, here seem something of an anticlimax after the Yosemite Falls.

Not so with the Bridal Veil Fall, which we next visit, after returning as far as El Capitan and crossing the river to the other side of the valley. Although only about one-third as high as the Yosemite Falls, the Bridal Veil has features which make it fully their equal in charm. The proper time to visit it is at five o’clock in the afternoon, on account of the beautiful rainbows which then form in it; and it should be approached from the lower part of the Valley to see them to the best advantage. At first the rainbow hovers over the fall about two-thirds up towards its top; but as we draw near, it gradually sinks down, till at last it seems to be dashed to pieces on the cascades at the foot of the falls, where it covers everything with a mass of iridescent spray, including the neighboring rocks and grass and bushes, to which it is wafted by the wind. Like the Yosemite, this fall is constantly swayed to and fro by the wind, as much as twenty feet from its perpendicular course, and to this fluttering in the wind of its spray-like mass it owes its name. The wind constantly changes, so that at one moment the inverted water-rockets descend on the right, and the loose spray on the left, and the next moment _vice versa_. Sometimes there are _two_ water-falls,—one upward and one downward; for when the wind blows towards the fall, a dense spray rises up to the very top of the fall, where it is blown over the ledge like a cloud. And what still more heightens the beauty of the scene is, that beyond the ledge nothing is visible, so that the water seems to tumble right out of the blue sky into the deep Valley.

More than any rivals, the falls of the Yosemite Valley are constantly altered by changes in the wind, moon, and sunlight; and it is this great variety of aspect, together with the unparalleled height, that constitutes their unique fascination and makes them superior to all other water-falls, except of course Niagara, which is so utterly different in character as to be incomparable. Over the magnificent fall of the Yellowstone they have the advantage that they can be seen from below as well as from above.

On the other hand, there is more charm of color in the Yellowstone cañon, the few spots and stains on the Yosemite walls being insignificant in comparison with the brilliant mosaic which covers the sides of the other cañon. Nor are the peaks and pinnacles which tower over the lower walls of the Yosemite quite as fantastic and architecturally suggestive as those of the Yellowstone, or those that may be seen on approaching the Engadine from Chur, or leaving it for Como. And yet they are so superb that the Yosemite would be hardly less frequented were all its water-falls blotted out of existence—as they practically are late in summer, when there are no more snows to melt and replenish them. When Horace Greeley visited the Valley, the Yosemite Falls were momentarily so insignificant that he pronounced them “a humbug”; yet his admiration of the Valley was none the less superlative. Cathedral Rock, the Three Brothers, The Sentinel, Sentinel Dome, Cloud’s Rest, El Capitan, and North and South Domes form an assemblage of peaks sufficiently imposing to compensate the late summer tourist for the disappointment caused by the fickle water. Yet, if possible, Yosemite should be visited in May, not only because the water-falls are then at their best and the surrounding peaks still snow-capped, but because there may be, and often is, a belated snow-storm of a few days’ duration, which gives an opportunity of seeing the Valley both in its summer and its winter aspects, in rapid succession.

On the way back to the hotel a dispute arose in our carriage as to the origin of the Valley. Clarence King states in his “Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada” that various markings which he noted had convinced him that at one time a glacier no less than a thousand feet deep had flowed through the Valley, occupying its entire bottom. The eminent Californian geologist, Mr. Muir, also has advocated the theory that the Valley was eroded by glaciers; whereas, Professor Whitney emphatically declares that a more absurd theory was never advanced, and gives his reasons why he believes neither in the erosive action of ice, nor of aqueous erosion, as being the cause of the formation of the Valley, nor in its origin through a mountain fissure. He advances the startling theory that Yosemite Valley was formed by the sinking down of its bottom to an unknown depth during a convulsive moment of the surrounding mountains. We tried to find reasons for or against these various theories in the aspect of the opposing walls, to see if they would fit into each other, or show signs of erosion; but of course where doctors differ it was not to be supposed that amateurs could come to an agreement, so the question remains an open one. But there is a certain fascination in Professor Whitney’s theory, with the corollary that at one time the cavity thus formed “was, undoubtedly, occupied by water, forming a lake of unsurpassed beauty and grandeur, until quite a recent epoch.” Beautiful as the present floor of the Valley is, with its great variety of grasses, flowers, shrubs, and trees, one cannot help fancying that a _Lake Yosemite_, on which one might approach the foot of the water-falls in a boat by moonlight, would be more romantic still; and such a lake could be made by damming the Merced River below El Capitan. But it would cost many millions.