Part 2

Beyond the Barracks, at the base of a cliff, we spied some small, white buildings clustered on the rocks extending out into the water. This proved to be Lime Point, and the buildings we were approaching belong to the Government, constituting a lighthouse- and fog-signal station. We found it to be one of the many smaller stations that are distributed along the Coast. There is a diminutive white light, and a steam fog whistle is kept ever ready to send out its note of warning at the slightest approach of the milky vapor which is a terror to the seamen.

Lime Point is directly opposite Fort Point, the distance being but seven-eighths of a mile, and forms the Northern point of Golden Gate Strait. While the view from these rocks is expansive, still it could not be called commanding, as the Point is too near the sea level to give the height and majesty requisite for an enchanting ocean vista.

As a pass is required before one can go through the reservation we retraced our steps to the Barracks and upon receiving the passport from the Sergeant Major, proceeded on our way up the steep, winding road which leads out of the Valley. Reaching the summit, the road continues its circuitous route; now in sight of the Bay and City, and again in among the bare, rolling hills.

While descending into a little valley we were stopped by a number of heavily laden teams, lined up in the middle of the road. Before we could question as to the delay, a volley of shots rang out, resounding again and again in the silent canyons, and a flapping red flag near by plainly denoted that the soldiers were engaged in target practice.

In reply to our query as to the length of time we should be required to halt, a soldier on the team in front informed us that sometimes one had to wait an hour or an hour and a half. Other teams having lined up behind, a retreat was impossible, and the prospect of a long wait in the hot sun was not very agreeable. We learned that a new barracks was in the course of construction below, in the valley at the head of the Rodeo Lagoon, and these teams were laden with provisions for the men stationed there.

Just as we had composed ourselves for the inevitable, a brisk waving of red flags was seen in the Valley, followed by the moving of the cavalcade in front; and, much to our satisfaction, we soon left our pessimistic informer far in the rear.

On the most southerly point of Marin a narrow rocky neck of land extends some distance into the Ocean. At the base are jagged rocks over which the sea surges ceaselessly, cutting arches and miniature caves in the fissures of the cliffs. From this rocky headland, which formerly was a menace and terror to navigators, now streams a steady light, and the point erstwhile spelling destruction now proves a blessing to vessels which are guided safely into port by the aid of its welcome light. This is Point Bonita and the Bonita Light, which, as we approached, stood out clear in the afternoon sun.

Stopping at the lighthouse keeper's dwelling, we proceeded on foot to the Point, accompanied by the keeper. Pausing in the narrow pathway, he drew our attention to a small derrick-wharf for the tender, at the base of the steep cliff on which we stood. This he explained was where the boat, which touches here three times a week, lands provisions, oil, and fuel.

"But, how," I asked in astonishment as I gazed down the dizzy depth, "do you get them up here?"

"Oh, that is very simply done," he responded; "we start up the engine and they are hauled up the bluff on a tram."

Owing to the perilous windings of the path around an almost perpendicular cliff a small tunnel has been cut through the solid rock. As we emerged from this tunnel the Lighthouse confronted us only a few yards away.

The tower containing the light is a square, brick structure twenty-one feet in height, situated at the edge of the Point at an elevation of one hundred and twenty-four feet. The Bonita Light, although of second-class rating, is so advantageously situated that its fixed, white rays are visible seventeen miles at sea.

The first lighthouse was established here in 1855, the light being placed in the picturesque old tower still standing higher up on an adjoining promontory and now serving as a day signal. The location was unsurpassed, they say, in clear weather; but when the fog rolled in it was quickly seen that a great mistake had been made in elevating the lamp, for often when the light was entirely obscured by a fog bank, the bluff below would be quite clear, so in 1877 the light was removed to its present location.

An old gun, now rusty, lying beside its gun-carriage on the bluff, was the first fog signal established on the Pacific Coast by the government. In foggy weather it was discharged every hour and a half during day and night.

When we contrast the present steam sirens, blowing five blasts every thirty-five seconds, with the former primitive means, we realize a little what scientists and inventors have been doing these fifty years.

The genial keeper, who is a second cousin of the late Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll, showed us every nook and cranny in the place, from the boilers, the lamp, and its appurtenances down to the neat store-rooms and paint lockers.

Though I have visited many fog-stations before, this one surpassed all others in its perfect order and scrupulous cleanliness, reminding one of a well regulated ship. So exactly was every corner and space utilized, that, as Dickens once remarked of a steam-packet, "everything was something else than what it pretended to be."

All the appliances of the Station are in duplicate. Thus, if one siren becomes disabled, another immediately takes its place; so with the boilers, etc.

Retracing our steps to the mainland, we noted on the edge of the cliff near the keeper's dwelling the life-saving station whose crew do much effective work about these jagged headlands. Bidding good-bye to the keeper, we turned our backs on Bonita and started homeward. We had been so engrossed with the Point and its environs as to be unconscious of the flight of time, and, noting with surprise the waning afternoon, we urged our horses to a brisk pace and sped rapidly along the elevated roadway.

The sun was slowly approaching the edge of the horizon, and Bonita, still visible in the West, stood out a silhouette against a brilliant sky. At its feet lay outstretched the gorgeously illumined sea; some fleecy golden cloudlets, floating over the Gate, seemed a soft shower of petals from the State's fair emblem; while the mellow light of the departing day still rested lovingly on the loftiest hilltops, and over on the city side occasional windows reflected his glory, as with a spot of glistening gold. To the southward the blue misty tones of the Santa Cruz Mountains began to merge into their robes of approaching night.

Suddenly out upon the still air rang a deep boom! boom! Angel Island was rendering her last tribute to the god of day.

Then there came to me those beautiful lines of our own poet, Lowell Otus Reese:

A touch of night on the hill-tops gray; A dusky hush on the quivering Bay; A calm moon mounting the silent East-- White slave the day-god has released; Small, scattered clouds That seemed to wait Like sheets of fire O'er the Golden Gate. And under Bonita, growing dim, With a seeming pause on the ocean's rim, Like a weary lab'rer, sinks the sun To the booming crash of the sunset gun.

All over the long slopes grown with green, With the white tents scattering in between, The flickering camp-fires start to glow In the groves of the fair Presidio; While the solemn chord Of the evening hymn Rolls over the Bay Through the twilight dim As the flag comes down to an anthem grand, The brave, old song of our native land, And Angel Isle, when the song is done, Booms out "Amen!" with its sunset gun.

Although Marin County was first opened up by the advent of the North Pacific Coast Railroad in 1875, it was not until the transfer to the North Shore that the road was operated in its present modern system.

With the exception of the extreme North and East where the trains are run by steam, the County is traversed by well appointed electric trains which combine easy riding with quick transit.

This was the first electric line in California to be operated by the third rail system, and it has proved satisfactory in every detail. Owing to the danger of contact with the third rail, the road is fenced on both sides, and the rail is concealed at stations.

At the head of Richardson's Bay, and but a short distance from Mill Valley, is situated the North Shore Powerhouse. Here the power, which is transmitted from Colgate, over 150 miles away, is stored. Should there be any accident and stoppage to the power, electricity is generated at the Powerhouse by steam, which is always kept in readiness.

As I gazed at the three switches, each in its separate vault (in order to be kept fire-proof) it was difficult to realize that in the small wires I beheld were centered power to operate trains, illuminate and run machinery and countless other utilities.

As this, the greatest motive power in the world to-day, was long unknown except as an element of destruction, until the man came who harnessed the lightning and made it do man's work, so there are still undoubtedly other forces of nature which but await the master mind to discover their utility.

A short distance west of the Powerhouse, on a slightly elevated mound, is an old orchard whose gnarled trees have sheltered for a generation and more the yellow adobe walls of the first settler of Marin.

But the elements of nature with relentless fingers have played about this relic of the past, until but a small vestige is left to remind us of what has been.

When a grant to the Corte Madera del Presidio Rancho was given to John Read he began building his home, and in order to construct a large, commodious adobe, he erected a sawmill in the vicinity, and there the lumber for his home was whipsawed.

Thus, it is this mill, which is still standing in undisturbed repose these many years, which gave the surrounding valley its name.

Read had barely finished his adobe when he died, and the place subsequently passed into the hands of the boldest bandit of Marin.

The terror of the surrounding counties--whose very name sent a chill even to the bravest heart--was Barnardino Garcia, otherwise called "Three-fingered Jack." He possessed all the daring and bravery of a dauntless marauder, and the anecdotes of his bloody adventures form many a weird and ghostly tale when told by the flickering firelight of a winter's night, sending the listener to bed inwardly quaking, with eyes peering into dark corners.

The most widely known of his crimes was committed shortly after the raising of the Bear Flag at Sonoma, which proclaimed the Golden West to be the Republic of California.

The Bear Flag party being short of ammunition and a rumor gaining circulation to the effect that General Vallejo had a cache of powder stored on the Sotoyome Rancho near the present town of Healdsburg, it was decided to send men to procure some. Cowie and Fowler volunteered to go, although the journey was known to be a perilous one; but the need was great, and these pioneers considered it no risk.

They were warned, however, to avoid the way through Santa Rosa, and to confine their paths to the hills out of the ken of Garcia and his band.

Whether the Americans failed to heed the warning, or whether Garcia's men discovered them in the hills, will never be known. They were taken prisoners, under a pledge that their lives would be spared, but were finally murdered with great cruelty.

When Cowie and Fowler did not return to Sonoma within a reasonable time, great anxiety was felt in the little garrison.

Finally a searching party was sent out, but it soon returned with news of the murder.

The Bear Flag leaders swore revenge on the murderers, and eventually captured a number of Garcia's band, although he himself escaped. A fugitive from justice, he journeyed south, becoming lieutenant to the famous desperado, Joaquin Murietta, only to be subsequently shot in 1853 by Captain Harry Love's Rangers. His hand of three fingers was sent as a trophy to the commandant.

Thus ended the career of this bold adventurer.

Though there are many towns in Marin which command a more expansive vista, and offer by their marine situation greater diversity in out-door sports, still Mill Valley, nestling at the base of Tamalpais, has proved a delightful summer retreat and home center; for, dotted in the wooded canyons, beside the streams, or in some sunny exposure may be found many artistic dwellings which, while possessing the advantages of the country, are within easy access of the city.

The most notable among the attractive residences is the home of Mr. George T. Marsh.

Stepping within the odd wooden gate, which reminds one of the "Toriis," or sacred gates of Nikko, the stranger feels that he has indeed touched a fairy wand, and been transported to the heart of the Mikado's realm.

Liquid streams, spanned by fantastic miniature bridges on whose banks dwarf shrubs of various kind abound; fish ponds and islands; quaint metal lamps beside the roadway on their low posts, that are unique by daylight and when lit add all the witchery and charm of the floral isle; these and numerous other features of the Orient come unexpectedly upon the enchanted visitor, until he forgets the busy commercial activity of the outer world, and is in fancy again wandering in the grand old dreamy groves of Miyajima.

Another spot deserving the attention of the visitor is the quaint Club-House of the Out-Door Art Club. This Club has been organized by the ladies of Mill Valley for the purpose of preserving the natural beauties of the town and vicinity and staying, if possible, the hand of those primitive beings who, with ruthless vandalism, cut down and otherwise destroy the most prized of our rural possessions, our noble trees.

Much credit is due these energetic ladies in their worthy endeavor to teach those who have "eyes that see not" the wondrous beauties of Nature.

Besides its own unique features, the chief attraction which draws to this little burg tourists and travelers from all parts, as by a magnet, is the fact that it is the starting point of the Mill Valley and Mt. Tamalpais Scenic Railway.

Leaving the station, the mountain train winds through redwood groves, beside streams and pools, passing on its route the Hotel Blithedale, founded many years ago by Dr. Cushing as a sanitarium, so propitious to health is this sheltered, sunny exposure.

The train is operated by a steam-traction engine which combines the ordinary cog system with an additional contrivance appropriate for turning curves. As the train gradually climbs in its serpentine route, and chaparral takes the place of redwood, the country below begins to unfold; towns appear in miniature, and hills which on close approach have distinct characteristics now merge into one another, forming an unbroken mass which stretches west to the Pacific, on whose sapphire bosom may frequently be seen the dim outline of the Farallon Islands, while to the southward Point San Pedro and the City are visible, and San Francisco Bay with intricate windings can be seen to join San Pablo and Suisun bays on the east.

It requires many trips to fully appreciate and comprehend the marvelous diversity of views spread before one, while the variety of superb effects to be witnessed from this mountain cannot be found in a single visit.

To watch the wonderful radiance of sunrise when Apollo mounts in his chariot of fire above the Berkeley hills, or to see a billowy floor of fog, outspread before one, obscuring the lower world and leaving naught save this mountain peak unwrapped by the fog-mantle; and then to witness the pale light of the moon marking a silver pathway on the Bay, and casting grotesque shadows on the landscape; and these are but a few of the beauties garnered here.

The road which is known as "the crookedest in the world," turns innumerable sharp curves, finally twisting into a double bow-knot and, extricating itself, continues winding its way up, stopping a few moments at West Point, where passengers for Bolinas take the stage.

Arriving at the railroad's destination, the Tavern, the passengers alight to luncheon in its well-appointed dining-room, or lounge on the spacious veranda, enjoying at ease the superb views revealed below.

But if the traveller be something of a pedestrian he will take the zigzag, cleated steps which lead from the Tavern to the top.

Here the San Francisco Examiner's Marine Observatory is located, whose telescope is said to sight ships seventy miles at sea.

But this is not the only walk on the Mountain. Many trails wind about its sides disclosing shady nooks, a delightful cool spring and countless other surprises, which are easily reached owing to the guidance of artistic little signs which appear at short distances apart, while location rods are placed at intervals on the path circling the Mountain, enabling the visitor to find the various points of interest without any difficulty.

A few hundred feet from the Tavern is located a Government Weather Bureau, and in its proximity is to be placed the seismograph now being made in Strasburg, Germany, by order of the Weather Bureau Department in Washington. The instrument is said to be on a more elaborate plan than any in this country except the one in Washington, D. C., of which this will be a counterpart. Some time is required for its completion, so, presumably it will not be installed and ready to receive earthquakes until early next year.

Descending the mountain on the train to West Point, we alighted and after lunching at the Inn, mounted the stage which was bound for Bolinas.

The air on these mountain slopes is most exhilarating, and as we sped along down the gradually descending roadway, the breath of azaleas was wafted on the breeze from the canyons, while at each bend of the road the salt zephyrs from the Ocean became more perceptible.

Leaving the Monarch of Marin we soon came in sight of the white sand-spit with Dipsea, the new resort on the beach, and the glorious Pacific stretching thousands of miles beyond the horizon.

Alighting from the stage we embarked in a steam-launch which glided rapidly across the Bolinas Lagoon. Steep, massive hills encircle the Lagoon on the right, while on the left, becoming more apparent at each glide of the launch, lies Bolinas, the town, and our destination.

Owing to its small size and remote location we expected the usual hardships which accrue from a country hotel and its numerous incongruities; imagine our surprise therefore, when arriving at this little town, which is a stranger as yet to railroads, to find a cozy hostelry awaiting us.

Though unpretentious in appearance, the Flag Staff Inn proved as orderly and neat as any of its English prototypes. Whether it was due to the landlord's being a Briton or not, I can not say, but there was undoubtedly an English atmosphere about the place, and if honest Mrs. Lupin or Mark Tapley had issued from the porch to welcome us, I should not have been in the least surprised.

West of the little settlement of Bolinas a neck of land extends for a mile and a half out into the Ocean, the top forming a mesa. Owing to the fogs abounding in this region, it is green almost the entire year and makes splendid grazing, as in fact does all the land in the vicinity.

At the end of the mesa, some oil prospecting was being done, and at the time of our visit there was one shaft sunk. Although there are numerous deposits of oil to be found in and about these cliffs, the output thus far has not exceeded a barrel a day. Yet who can tell what rich veins may lie beneath this mesa.

On Duxbury Reef, a succession of small rocks extending farther out into the ocean, there is said to be found at low tide gas escaping from the rocks, which, being ignited occasionally by fishermen, does not become extinguished until the tide rises.

At the other extremity of the town is to me the most interesting section of Bolinas, for it was here that the first settlement was made. The name Bolinas--then spelled Baulinas--is believed by some to signify stormy and untamed, while others accredit it to be the name of an Indian girl.

Which is correct may never be ascertained. Either is probable; owing to its situation "stormy" may well apply, and as the Tamal Indians formerly inhabited this region, and in fact spread over the entire County, the last theory is equally feasible. To my mind they are both correct, for might it not have been named for an Indian maiden called Bolinas, whose nature was as stormy and untamed as the tempests which often surge about these headlands?

This Rancho Bolinas first belonged to Rafael Garcia, who disposed of the grant to his brother-in-law, Gregorio Briones, of whom tradition says there were few so honest, upright and brave as this dignified son of Spain, who died respected and beloved by all who knew him.

It was in the days before the "Gringo" came, when peace and plenty reigned throughout this land, and hospitality was proverbial to every household, that Gregorio Briones settled in Bolinas.

To be a skillful horseman and expert vaquero was all that was then required, for as cattle could live and thrive all the year round on the hills, there was no necessity for making hay for winter feed, or building stables for winter shelter; therefore, with little labor requisite, the natural consequence was the easy, careless life led by the Californians. Thus their spare energies were devoted to horse-racing, dancing, gambling, and kindred amusements.

Horses roamed the hills untethered and a caballero's first occupation in the morning was to catch a horse, saddle and bridle it, and either use or keep it tied up at his door during the day, ready for use at any moment, as both young and old rarely went from one house to another, no matter how short the distance, except on horseback.

As to the riders themselves, there were probably no better horsemen in the world than the native Californians.