Part 7

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.